vox poetica
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Annmarie Lockhart, editor of vox poetica, has been reading and writing poetry since she could read and write. A lifelong Bergen County resident, she lives two miles from the hospital where she was born.Find us on Facebook
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Contributor Series 4: Aspects of the Elephant, Hunger Strike
Contributor Series 4: Aspects of the Elephant
Hunger Strike
By Ivan Jenson
I am going
on a hungry
for love strike
where I will
refuse all
nourishment
until something
is finally done
about the rampant
loneliness that
plagues the earth
I want to
raise awareness
for the millions
who pang
needlessly
against the walls
of isolation
and bang
endlessly
on the shut
doors of intimacy
who hunt
fruitlessly
through want ads
only wanting
to be wanted
this silent
but deadly
scourge is
infiltrating
the cities
and yet the only
cure is for
others to come
into contact
with the infected
loners with
the only known
vaccine
the anti
body
is a
warm body
to hold onto
all through the night
Ivan Jenson's poem The Problem appeared at vox poetica in 2009.
Hunger Strike
By Ivan Jenson
I am going
on a hungry
for love strike
where I will
refuse all
nourishment
until something
is finally done
about the rampant
loneliness that
plagues the earth
I want to
raise awareness
for the millions
who pang
needlessly
against the walls
of isolation
and bang
endlessly
on the shut
doors of intimacy
who hunt
fruitlessly
through want ads
only wanting
to be wanted
this silent
but deadly
scourge is
infiltrating
the cities
and yet the only
cure is for
others to come
into contact
with the infected
loners with
the only known
vaccine
the anti
body
is a
warm body
to hold onto
all through the night
Ivan Jenson's poem The Problem appeared at vox poetica in 2009.
Contributor Series 4: Aspects of the Elephant, Love Continues
Contributor Series 4: Aspects of the Elephant
Love Continues
By James G Piatt
Boyish blond hair
Graying and thin
Once strong fingers
Now bony and frail
A heart crying out
To the child within
A soul trying to recall
A vanishing tale
A mind seeking
For answers to love
An old man searching
for reasons to be
Weary hands reaching
For his loving wife
Lean arms encircling
Her thin body
Sitting together
Her head on his chest
The best of life
Still in their grasp
His wife gives him
A loving embrace
Their aged love still an
Unbreakable clasp
James Piatt's poetry (Contributor Series 3: Resolutions and Resolve, My Uncertain Life and Adieu, My Love) appeared at vox poetica in 2009 and 2010.
Love Continues
By James G Piatt
Boyish blond hair
Graying and thin
Once strong fingers
Now bony and frail
A heart crying out
To the child within
A soul trying to recall
A vanishing tale
A mind seeking
For answers to love
An old man searching
for reasons to be
Weary hands reaching
For his loving wife
Lean arms encircling
Her thin body
Sitting together
Her head on his chest
The best of life
Still in their grasp
His wife gives him
A loving embrace
Their aged love still an
Unbreakable clasp
James Piatt's poetry (Contributor Series 3: Resolutions and Resolve, My Uncertain Life and Adieu, My Love) appeared at vox poetica in 2009 and 2010.
Contributor Series 4: Aspects of the Elephant, The Silence of You
Contributor Series 4: Aspects of the Elephant
The Silence of You
By Bobbie Troy
sometimes i wish
i could suck the silence
from the air
then wrap it around you
and hope that you
invite me in
Bobbie Troy's poetry (Dear Diane [Pushcart Prize nominee], Soldier, Merry Christmas, My Love, and Facing Self-Doubt) appeared at vox poetica in 2009 and 2010.
The Silence of You
By Bobbie Troy
sometimes i wish
i could suck the silence
from the air
then wrap it around you
and hope that you
invite me in
Bobbie Troy's poetry (Dear Diane [Pushcart Prize nominee], Soldier, Merry Christmas, My Love, and Facing Self-Doubt) appeared at vox poetica in 2009 and 2010.
Contributor Series 4: Aspects of the Elephant, Match
At long
last: Contributor Series 4: no longer unsubtitled! Aspects of the
Elephant, how apt is that? This series, all 26 poems of it, will
explore the many aspects of the elephant, not in all its forms, for
that would require an infinite number of poems, but in various forms.
Some of our writers are describing the leathery ear, some the bristled
tail, some the doleful eye, some the sated stomach, but they are all
putting words to some part of the massive beast that is the human
emotion of love. Read them, enjoy them, let yourself be inspired by
them!
Contributor Series 4: Aspects of the Elephant
Match
By Sarah Endo
In the blue corner, we have
the welter of countless regulations:
Younger daughter gets brown hairbrush
with the lighter writing on it
Older daughter gets brown hairbrush
with the darker writing on it
Hair shall only be cut in the bathroom
And then only over a towel
But in the red corner, the weight
of countless steps, around and round
dancing, covering up, tying and untying gloves
I could weigh 500 pounds on the moon
and be beautiful to you
gentle cutman, splinter man
Ding ding
It's a knockout
Sarah Endo's poems (Just Born; Flora, A Garden-Variety Poem; CS 1: 9/11, The tv is on at work; He's a keeper; CS 3:Resolution and Resolve, If I stop to pick up a leaf) appeared at vox poetica in 2009 and 2010.
Contributor Series 4: Aspects of the Elephant
Match
By Sarah Endo
In the blue corner, we have
the welter of countless regulations:
Younger daughter gets brown hairbrush
with the lighter writing on it
Older daughter gets brown hairbrush
with the darker writing on it
Hair shall only be cut in the bathroom
And then only over a towel
But in the red corner, the weight
of countless steps, around and round
dancing, covering up, tying and untying gloves
I could weigh 500 pounds on the moon
and be beautiful to you
gentle cutman, splinter man
Ding ding
It's a knockout
Sarah Endo's poems (Just Born; Flora, A Garden-Variety Poem; CS 1: 9/11, The tv is on at work; He's a keeper; CS 3:Resolution and Resolve, If I stop to pick up a leaf) appeared at vox poetica in 2009 and 2010.
At Work
Mariah
Boone's poetry is, at heart, about motherhood. Not the 1950s iconic
motherhood, but real-life, in-the-trenches,
the-good-the-bad-and-the-ugly motherhood (Cellaress at Thanksgiving, Night House, Packing for Day Care, Eclipse).
Women will laugh when they read this poem, men will cringe. Man up,
gentlemen. This is from whence you came. Run from it, fear it, respect
it. We women are going to laugh at it.
At Work
By Mariah Boone
There's dried breastmilk on my steering wheel
Dried breastmilk on my desk
Dried breastmilk on my keyboard and
Dried breastmilk on my dress
Which is black
And shows it.
At Work
By Mariah Boone
There's dried breastmilk on my steering wheel
Dried breastmilk on my desk
Dried breastmilk on my keyboard and
Dried breastmilk on my dress
Which is black
And shows it.
The Philosophy of Math
BR
Belletryst is a gay writer and poet based in central Ohio. He has been
writing professionally for several years and has been published in
several online literary journals. He is currently attending Ohio
University as a full-time student, working hard toward his degree in
business and accounting. You can read more of his work at his blog, Firefly Chronicles.
This funny and insightful poem reveals a deeper understanding of math
than BR would like us to know he possesses. It also could be the
grown-up student's version of a certain poem about math by a certain
young writer known to you as Gianluca D'Elia. Enjoy this and be happy
there's life after math class!
The Philosophy of Math
By BR Belletryst
Is it the hour? The lack of clock,
that damn black mirror, or pandora's box?
I'm home. I'm dead. I'm a reflection
bled into the snowscape into
a primate, some hack,
preaching confusion to voices that
lack definition and properties
of maths, who don't question or ask.
Their heads might as well SMACK
into the table, that is by all means
more stable than they,
whom he prays give him hope:
"Someone, anyone, please tell me the slope."
Silence, more stillness,
no eyes in the room.
He laughs to himself that we
do not swoon at his lover,
understanding and logic,
that we wrinkle our noses,
and find her quite caustic.
Nine forty-five, and class is dismissed,
and while we're elated, the professor is pissed.
Another class, two and a half hours,
are these the ones who will house
all the power? Youth of the nation
what a joke, what a rip,
where the shit are we headed
with minds ill-equipped?
Teach, not to test,
test, not to grade,
it's all lost in the end,
teacher and students dismayed.
"What happened," he asks,
"to the attitude of the time?"
Disaffected, too apathetic,
with no reason or rhyme.
"Where's the inspiration, the rebellion
the passion? Postmodern
philosophies, consumerism and fashion
are new gods, hailed in with haste,
but where are the old, the decayed
with no taste?"
He nods to himself, a calculated thought;
Apathy is medicinal to the masses,
overwrought with these concerns,
changes and unknowings.
Easier to give up, to relinquish
the growing stress of attention,
to withhold retention,
to submit to a world
no struggle of comprehension.
Easy is desired, but what would Kant
say to the hedonists, to whom
delay is death, and ends misconceived?
"Oh humanity, my love, my bereaved."
Where ends seek ends, with disregard
for dimension, just line segments, is all,
"moral" isn't mentioned in the slightest,
or brought up, or taught.
Are we here to learn, or will our
lessons be forgot with our ends seeking
ends, not solutions, caught up in the petty,
the immediate, the now,
Will we own up to our shortcomings,
or will we disavow?
Professor's door shuts slowly, lights off,
day done. He goes home to sleep.
He'll start the day the same.
No change, no progress,
no irony, no pun.
Just more days, and more questions.
The Philosophy of Math
By BR Belletryst
Is it the hour? The lack of clock,
that damn black mirror, or pandora's box?
I'm home. I'm dead. I'm a reflection
bled into the snowscape into
a primate, some hack,
preaching confusion to voices that
lack definition and properties
of maths, who don't question or ask.
Their heads might as well SMACK
into the table, that is by all means
more stable than they,
whom he prays give him hope:
"Someone, anyone, please tell me the slope."
Silence, more stillness,
no eyes in the room.
He laughs to himself that we
do not swoon at his lover,
understanding and logic,
that we wrinkle our noses,
and find her quite caustic.
Nine forty-five, and class is dismissed,
and while we're elated, the professor is pissed.
Another class, two and a half hours,
are these the ones who will house
all the power? Youth of the nation
what a joke, what a rip,
where the shit are we headed
with minds ill-equipped?
Teach, not to test,
test, not to grade,
it's all lost in the end,
teacher and students dismayed.
"What happened," he asks,
"to the attitude of the time?"
Disaffected, too apathetic,
with no reason or rhyme.
"Where's the inspiration, the rebellion
the passion? Postmodern
philosophies, consumerism and fashion
are new gods, hailed in with haste,
but where are the old, the decayed
with no taste?"
He nods to himself, a calculated thought;
Apathy is medicinal to the masses,
overwrought with these concerns,
changes and unknowings.
Easier to give up, to relinquish
the growing stress of attention,
to withhold retention,
to submit to a world
no struggle of comprehension.
Easy is desired, but what would Kant
say to the hedonists, to whom
delay is death, and ends misconceived?
"Oh humanity, my love, my bereaved."
Where ends seek ends, with disregard
for dimension, just line segments, is all,
"moral" isn't mentioned in the slightest,
or brought up, or taught.
Are we here to learn, or will our
lessons be forgot with our ends seeking
ends, not solutions, caught up in the petty,
the immediate, the now,
Will we own up to our shortcomings,
or will we disavow?
Professor's door shuts slowly, lights off,
day done. He goes home to sleep.
He'll start the day the same.
No change, no progress,
no irony, no pun.
Just more days, and more questions.
Oh February
Yeah,
that's right, it's Pick-on-a-Month week. Who's betting the warmer
months are more lovingly rendered than the cold dark months we trudge
through now? In answer to CW Sander's upbraiding of January, we have
the incomparable Jean Hendrickson lacerating February. No defense shall
be mounted from Jersey, readers. Jean has graced our pages with
stunning poetry (Escape; Older, Wiser; Armageddon 9/11; New Kid; Death; Community). Here she stuns again. Good luck February. You don't have a prayer.
Oh February
By Jean M. Hendrickson
You worn hag, wizened
and colder than stygian waters,
what man would look upon
your pallid visage,
what lust inspired
by your unkempt mien, your pinched soul,
each breath a fetid cloud
of twice-breathed air?
Rather than join a roundelay,
you fairly skittle the scabrous floor
like spiders in a web,
howsomever, without their grace or beauty.
Oh, February,
gather up crusts of moldy bread
from some musty corner
and keep thee from the gentler folk.
Oh February
By Jean M. Hendrickson
You worn hag, wizened
and colder than stygian waters,
what man would look upon
your pallid visage,
what lust inspired
by your unkempt mien, your pinched soul,
each breath a fetid cloud
of twice-breathed air?
Rather than join a roundelay,
you fairly skittle the scabrous floor
like spiders in a web,
howsomever, without their grace or beauty.
Oh, February,
gather up crusts of moldy bread
from some musty corner
and keep thee from the gentler folk.
O January
CW Sanders
is a retired attorney living in Oklahoma City OK, currently working as
a legal writer and litigation manager for a number of law firms. He
holds undergraduate degrees in English, history, geography, and
political science in addition to his JD. That's a lot of schooling,
readers! CW has played amateur baseball, softball, and hockey for most
of his life and has been a high school and college athletic official
since 1972. His writing has been published in College of William and Mary Law Review and
other trade publications. This poem is an unsparing look at the bleak
midwinter. It addresses the frivolities of a month given to
celebrations and frigidity. As you read it, count down with CW and me
the days til winter is but a faded memory.
O January
By CW Sanders
The optimism of alpha, annual rituals of numeric progression
and resolutions, promises to begin anew,
broken and forgotten like the debris of our material lust,
chattels viewed with ennui, strewn about the abode;
given to expect puerile happiness
until you arrive with regretful markers due and owing.
We celebrate your coming with bubbles in fluted glass,
anticipation, reverie, cheer,
with old acquaintances vowed not to be forgotten.
But your reality quickly tempers joy
with crooked smiles and anticlimax,
like red and green flora now wilting
and parched needles hidden, eager to inflict the unwary.
Your promises of time yet to live, to look ahead with resolve,
to look behind on memories fond is not to be trusted.
Your namesake, two-faced purveyor of hope,
does gaze upon us with derision, four eyes of mirth,
knowing their assurances illusory
as your insinuated thaw.
O January you betray us with a laugh
move on where Cupid's arrows give not passion, just the shaft.
O January
By CW Sanders
The optimism of alpha, annual rituals of numeric progression
and resolutions, promises to begin anew,
broken and forgotten like the debris of our material lust,
chattels viewed with ennui, strewn about the abode;
given to expect puerile happiness
until you arrive with regretful markers due and owing.
We celebrate your coming with bubbles in fluted glass,
anticipation, reverie, cheer,
with old acquaintances vowed not to be forgotten.
But your reality quickly tempers joy
with crooked smiles and anticlimax,
like red and green flora now wilting
and parched needles hidden, eager to inflict the unwary.
Your promises of time yet to live, to look ahead with resolve,
to look behind on memories fond is not to be trusted.
Your namesake, two-faced purveyor of hope,
does gaze upon us with derision, four eyes of mirth,
knowing their assurances illusory
as your insinuated thaw.
O January you betray us with a laugh
move on where Cupid's arrows give not passion, just the shaft.
Reach
Tim VanSant
is a technician and rogue poet in academician's clothing. He thinks too
much and sometimes he writes what he thinks. In his own words, he has
"a face made for radio, a voice made for print, and a blog
suitable for lining your NeoPet's cage." And apparently the
self-doubting ego of a writer! His poetry has been published at the
very cool POW Fast Flash Fiction.
This poem makes good reading. The cadence and rhythm suggest fast-typed
e-mails, the images draw a picture of people bathed in the light of
their laptops, the last two lines convey the mystery of modern life and
love.
Reach
By Tim Van Sant
You reach, this time it's three
Touch the key, that's touching me
The key, the type, the touch, the tone
We are sitting all alone
A thousand miles in between
Far too far to be seen
You are there, I am here
But we are closer than we appear
Reach
By Tim Van Sant
You reach, this time it's three
Touch the key, that's touching me
The key, the type, the touch, the tone
We are sitting all alone
A thousand miles in between
Far too far to be seen
You are there, I am here
But we are closer than we appear
Passing Time
Salvatore
Buttaci is an obsessive-compulsive writer who plies his craft many
hours a day. His writings have appeared widely in publications that
include The New York Times, USA Today, The Writer, Cats Magazine, and Christian Science Monitor. He was the recipient of the $500 Cyber-wit Poetry Award in 2007. His collection of short stories, Flashing My Shorts, has just been released (All Things That Matter Press).
Salvatore lives with his wife in West Virginia. His poem today
addresses a quandary we seem stuck with: how to make the clock stop.
Passing Time
By Salvatore Buttaci
he thought destroying clocks
could somehow take his mind
away from passing time
that he'd succeed in living life
entirely in the moment
without the tick-tock reminder
that nothing in life remains
not even life itself
so when he lay dying
the rhythm of his failing heart
reminded him how long
he had stopped wearing
the Bulova wristwatch
his long-gone granddad
gave him when he was twelve
Passing Time
By Salvatore Buttaci
he thought destroying clocks
could somehow take his mind
away from passing time
that he'd succeed in living life
entirely in the moment
without the tick-tock reminder
that nothing in life remains
not even life itself
so when he lay dying
the rhythm of his failing heart
reminded him how long
he had stopped wearing
the Bulova wristwatch
his long-gone granddad
gave him when he was twelve
