POEMBLOG.VOXPOETICA.COM

anger

2012-05-20T05:30:08Z

Emily Ramser is a high school author living part time in North Carolina and California. She has had work published in a small school anthology and in online literary magazines such as The Crocodile Journal and Spinozablue. Emily works with Stage of Life as a featured blogger and on the team of a local magazine based at Living Word Church. She wishes to be published so that she might touch the world with her words. Visit her blog.

anger
By Emily Ramser

anger
bolting
rushing
slamming against the door,
rattling, rattling, doorknob
broken
dangling
dangling // one wire // hand // left holding on
circle in the wood // passage to the stars

the anger steals
thieving hands, thriving in a world
of deceit
our hands reaching
down
save us from anger
they beg

ICU

2012-05-19T04:34:01Z

Patty Cole's most recent poem to appear here was Meditation (March 2012).

ICU
By Patty Cole

Outside this room in ICU,
February's snow spits
at the window, swirls
around street lamps below.

You lie warm, unaware of time,
how it hovers over you like
a failed romance--neither partner
knowing when to leave.

I never realized you
are my every second
until this minute. I can't
guarantee the world
will remember you. I can
only testify you were here.

I lean, say Mamma,
it's ok to go as if I need
to set you free. You quiver,
rattle; your hand releases mine.

I shut my eyes, watch you
gather your black taffeta
scalloped skirt, float away,
light and whippy--a feather
I can't quite catch.

Bored Hearts

2012-05-18T05:15:10Z

Greg Wood is a retired English teacher and coach who has lived for 66 years in Delmar DE/MD on the Delmarva Peninsula. He has also worked in the construction industry in steel fabrication and home building. He earned a BA and an MEd from Salisbury University, Salisbury MD. Greg has 3 sons, 7 grandchildren, and one newly minted great grandchild. Visit his blog.

Bored Hearts
By Greg Wood

Shuffle and flip and shuffle again
I press my card at your side of
The table and look for a response
In diamonds so that I can dump
On you
A queen
You are most slick and grin
And shove a spade my way
Digging that having a long
Run I
Cannot escape
I wish I could club you

A Chance Will Tell

2012-05-17T04:08:22Z

John Swain lives in Louisville KY. His work has appeared recently at BluePrint Review, Red Fez, and Up the Staircase Quarterly.

A Chance Will Tell
By John Swain

Lace of white sycamores
stripped in passage
as rain took rust off nails
that boarded the old house
from staying
as the river rose to the hill
in a bliss of turbulence.
The stacks and tower held blue fire
like an acrid sky
of vertical water
as I then twisted my limbs
to let down
from the wooden fencing
where a chance will tell.
I looked to the abandoned
for the secret of escape.

Invocation

2012-05-17T03:48:16Z

William Ryan Hilary has had poems published in Junk, 40oz Bachelors, The Wilderness Review, and Aquirelle's print anthology, Poets Amongst Us III. His prose has been published in The Midway Review. Bless them all for having him. Ryan studied English at Vassar, where he was accepted into the competitive Senior Composition program. In other words, he was allowed to submit creative writing instead of a real thesis. Somehow this Ryan chap also earned an MA from Union Theological Seminary in philosophy and theology. Ryan will always feel uncomfortable writing about himself in the third person ... Mr. Torrance. He will use humor to distract from his madness.

Invocation
By William Ryan Hilary

Amuse me!

Nothing is as nothing was
Now emptiness is and blindness
And all the spaces
And all those "things" forgotten
Or unheard are
Suddenly important.

This will be the hour of something.
The clamorous grief of a dead slave's voice
Rising to an orchestral, bitter peak.

I was their familiar stranger
Sailing the poet's night tyreme
Drifting the surface of the salty universe
While waiting for the Son to come up.

As the ancients invoked their gods
I invoked the abandoned dead
Indians, slaves, martyred women.

In the distant clamor
I sang
Through an unanticipated storm.

Parallax

2012-05-16T03:11:47Z

Nicole Yurcaba's most recent poem to appear here was Midnight Thoughts (April 2012).

Parallax
By Nicole Yurcaba

... and I had imagined that,
hand in hand
we would walk
the gravel hill's incline,
cowering
from peering passers-by gazes.
threatening to assume
more than half of what they saw.

Go Through This

2012-05-15T04:45:00Z

John De Herrera is a writer/artist/activist who lives and works in Santa Barbara SC. Visit his website.

Go Through This
By John De Herrera

It's all about moving mountains;
crisp jabs when your arms are tired;
budging a boulder when it seems so set.

And then, you have a dream with a cat--
A Siamese, as a matter of fact.
You look up from this and see twins, with fins,
skating across ice chips of a galaxy
and think how much happier you'd be
if you didn't have to go through this,
fighting your way to a kiss.

[E]Motional Vacancies

2012-05-14T07:15:11Z

Amy Huffman's most recent poem to appear here was Diversity Rules (February 2011).

[E]Motional Vacancies
By Amy Huffman

I watch you in the mirror. Hoping
our eyes will meet. In reflection,
we appear nearer than
we actually are. Objects
and objections distorting. Until
we are scaled to fit neatly inside
each other['s lives]. A perception
of connection hovers at the edge
of distance. Is that really so far
to fall? I remember you
in a different frame: closer but still
closed. But which is rationality?
Conception is the final goal
of futility. Bursting [with] dreams,
I blink and the instant is gone. You are
intervisioned with another scape[goat].
I shepherd myself back to sanity. Tomorrow
will beget another chance at granting
intimacy. Though by image or imagery
still waits to be answered.

Joined

2012-05-14T07:03:34Z

Sandra Forte-Nickenig's most recent poem to appear here was Peaceably (April 2012).

Joined
By Sandra Forte-Nickenig

They arrive
safely bound

separate
yet as close
as raindrops

mother and
father now
bound for the
ocean edge

the children
slowly reach
the pier and
release the
inner shell

pouring their
freed ashes
to the waves

wind gusts join
swift swirling
particles

ashes to
ashes and
ashes to
water crest

together

Impractical Beauty

2012-05-13T07:26:40Z

William C Ross' most recent poem to appear here was Another View (April 2012).

Impractical Beauty
By William C Ross

On rare days in spring and fall,
when he was working in the fields,
she stole an hour away
from the washboard and churn,
and planted bulbs and seeds
in the unpromising ground.

Nothing would come of the effort
that could be eaten or sold,
nothing that the children could wear.
They were merely rows of impractical beauty.

Daffodils and daisies, snowdrops and snowflowers.
Neighbors envied the colors,
and soon planted flowers of their own.

Seed after seed, season after season,
bulbs surviving against all reason.
Withering heat and winter's snow
could not force death on the life below.

All the houses are gone now.
And the families that lived there.
Only a rough stone chimney stands,
a silent sentinel in the empty miles
where a strip mall lurks on the horizon,
and morning glory vines climb the sunflower stalks
along the old rows of impractical beauty.

Mirror's View

2012-05-12T06:08:51Z

Shelby "Mahogany" Wilson has been in Alaska for more than 20 years. She is the vice president of Black Feather POETS (blackfeatherpoets.org), a nonprofit organization built on bringing cultures together through the arts. As a performance poet, motivational speaker, and writer, Shelby has facilitated poetry and women's empowerment workshops for more than 4 years. She has self-published 2 books, Broken Wings, Mending Damaged Souls and Serenity (a chapbook). Her work has appeared online in Daily Love and Bent Alaska and she produced and appeared on Lyrical Finesse, a CD for Black Feather POETS.

Mirror's View
By Shelby "Mahogany" Wilson

As I looked into the mirror of life
I saw the woman of yesterday
I remembered the joys and the struggles
that brought her to this space and time

As I continued to view the mirror of life
I saw the woman of today
She is funny, excited about people and the world
Stunning, beautiful inside and out
Open about loving fully and being connected on a soul level
She's an optimist

As I looked into the mirror of life
I saw the woman of this moment
She is vibrant and very much in love with herself
Designing her world to display her talents

In the mirror I see fulfillment
in self-expression and discovery
of her true voice
In the mirror I see the true me
made manifest

Clammy Chops

2012-05-11T05:11:57Z

Daniel Wilcox' most recent poem to appear here was The Canine Trail Memorial (July 2010).

Clammy Chops
By Daniel Wilcox

I scooped in one huge mouthful of savory chowder
Swimming with succulent salmon reconnoitering
Wild from Alaska--my taste buds buzzed into singing,
But the stupid phone in the kitchen rang, yanking me.

I dropped my creamy spoon and rushed through the open door--
Wrong number! Frustrated, I slammed down the white thing,
Tended to nagging errands clanging for attention;
But then heard a loud slurp ... slurping 'round the den corner.

Oh, no! I rushed back into the aromatic room
And there crouched Fizzy, our calico, her cream-rootbeer
Mugged head raised, pleased, above the scent-wafted white bowl,
Just "fin-ished"--her pink tongue wiping those smiling chops.

Brilliant Blue Sky

2012-05-10T03:48:03Z

Carly Gove's most recent poem to appear here was Love Note (March 2012).

Brilliant Blue Sky
By Carly Gove

Sunlight streams through the window,
Falling pale yellow on the
Cool
Linoleum floor.
Air buzzes with conversation
Brisk teachers addressing surly students,
Vapid, giggling girls doing their damnedest
To remain so.
The sky is brilliant blue (the tired old adage),
Blemished not by cloud,
Blessed not by bee,
Nor bird, nor tree.
There's a subtle
Gentleness in the beauty of the land,
Blanketed by the warmth from above,
Radiant as the face I love most.

The Plot

2012-05-10T03:42:33Z

Brian Fanelli's most recent poem to appear here was Where Poetry Exists (April 2012).

The Plot
By Brian Fanelli

He says, honey, let's go, and she follows to Fred's,
the High St. bar where men bark at TVs like Romans
seated before a bread and circus show, howling and drooling
at blood sports. She sips her martini, then circles the rim
with her red fingernail while her husband sucks down shots
like a man 20 years younger, pounding the table for more.
She wonders if Roman women followed to stadiums or stayed home
scrubbing floors, and which was worse. She has been his habit for 10 years,
10 years he came home with booze breath, a cigarette
stench. She plots how best to leave him,
maybe slip a note under his pillow, or shout and stomp out,
though dressed in cymbals, leaving him to cook with clumsy
hands, to flip through recipes and beg
for an easy meal because she learned
there is more to life than this.

Sweet Deception

2012-05-09T03:48:12Z

L Austine has loved reading and writing poetry and short stories since she was a child. When she was 12 she wrote an epic novelette influenced by Go Ask Alice. Although she was a quiet child, she suddenly had groups of 6th graders clamoring for the next installment. Her writing has lain dormant for many years, but she is happy to be putting pen to paper once again.

Sweet Deception
By L Austine

my lie
is our electric security blanket
bathing you in the warm milk of denial
lulling you to sleep
stupid with joy
drunk on love
out cold
before you can begin to taste
or smell
or feel
the acrid
poison
that
i
would be
to you
if only
you
knew

Oh Billy goat, I remember you

2012-05-08T03:57:05Z

Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas is a 6-time Pushcart Prize nominee and Best of the Net nominee. She has authored 8 chapbooks and her latest full-length collection of poems: Epistemology of an Odd Girl, newly released from March Street Press. She is a recent winner of the Red Ochre Press chapbook competition for her manuscript Before I Go to Sleep. According to family lore, she is a direct descendent of Robert Louis Stevenson.

Oh Billy goat, I remember you
By Carol Lynn Grellas

Oh Billy goat, I remember you ...
when we were small, how we prayed
for summer's hillside in July
as baby's breath and earth's timer
served it overdone
to our unwavering delight,

and how this bequest formed
our finest pastime, as your leftovers
along with yellow star thistle,
strewn between feather top weeds,
pillowed the ride,
on the lid of a cardboard box ...

Old oaks stood full in their greenery
their ceremonial dress,
and I watched with delight as my
Siamese cat swaggered around
fending off slithering snakes
as if we were her beloved kittens ...

Thirty-five summers since,
and I yearn for the splendor
of yellow star thistle
on a hillside in July,
among the bramble of weeds,
with that old cat,
romping the trails behind.

Please Welcome Patrick Stevens

2012-05-07T06:17:58Z

... our new Series Editor! Some of you know him better as Patrick Shea, a name he has published under (and been nominated for a Pushcart Prize under, see Calamity Rani). For those of you that don't know him, he writes poetry, plays, screenplays, novels, short fiction, and press releases as needed. He also edits material in many genres (if you're looking for an editor, contact him about how he can help). His poetry has appeared at Assaracus, Ascent Aspirations, Instigatorzine, and vox poetica, and his first full-length collection is forthcoming from unbound CONTENT. Check out his indiegogo fundraiser page for his new project, Encantado: I Become You. In his role as Series Editor, Patrick will be editing the Contributor Series and Prompts series in their online and print versions.

As we approach the third birthday of vox poetica, and I consider the growth we are experiencing, I want to thank you for your writing, your readership, and your enthusiasm.

--Annmarie Lockhart, editor

Memo

2012-05-07T05:40:55Z

Gerald Solomon's most recent poem to appear here was Stranger (March 2012).

Memo
By Gerald Solomon

Now that we're coasting away from the sun
Autumn's motors twirl brown leaves down,
bits and pieces, daylight's nibbled away.

But still the persistence
of how (I assume) I'd arranged.

Time will not tell, its integrity
present only in passing by.

What you want
doesn't wait like a small child at your side,
raising its arms to be lifted.

The Preparation

2012-05-07T05:09:48Z

Jekwu Anyaegbuna's most recent poem to appear here was Bougainvillea (March 2012).

The Preparation
By Jekwu Anyaegbuna

It is evening in my eyes, although my skin
is a shimmery morning. A clock ticks
inside my pupils as my eyelids flutter
like the wings of a virgin bird.

I see my hen returning home. I see
she follows my pattern drawn with pieces of rice,
to solve her scratching ritual of homecoming.
Her children, the many variables of a simple formula,

talk and yell, their faces straight as justice.
They do this every dusk, the sun drowsy like laziness,
as the moon prepares for a wrestling match,
in the moonlight of the moon, glad as a butterfly.

I wonder whether they've eaten the darkness
of the enemies' foods, whether my hen has gone
to the enemies' houses with her children, to reveal
my new song, and expose my outing date. They heard

me composing the song the previous week, my legs outspread
on the boughs of my compound tree, my lips and gums
bloated as happiness, a gold flute in my hands. I cannot
say whether they've divulged my lines of ridicule

for the adulterous king, my lines of applause
for the sacrificial maid. If I hear this song before
its official release, I will not dispose my loquacious
hen to the most wicked butcher, my tears desiccated

like the powders of dry seasons. Instead I will compile
so many new songs that will keep her at home to listen
all day. Instead I will gag her stomach at home with
fresh corns and sorghum and rice.

Instead I will let
her contribute her
voice to my flute;
but I trust my hen.

Fallen, broken gravestones

2012-05-06T04:37:21Z

Michael Plesset's poetry, short fiction, and nonfiction has been published. He did undergraduate and graduate work in mathematics and philosophy, and he attended seminary at one time. He has worked in high technology, written extensive material for a stand-up comedian, and taught English to Chinese students.

Fallen, broken gravestones
By Michael Plesset

Fallen, broken gravestones
whisper together
about now distant days
mourning was new, sadness
deeply felt
grief that seemed eternal
but now forgotten
the sun warms broken stone
with no one there to feel
the loss of what was life
children play in the grass around
and cars drive quickly by
what happened to the memories
who mourns this emptiness
that those who used to care
so much
are gone.