Peter Makuck: Tiger Swallowtails
clusters of fluttering wings
yellow with black stripes
in and out
of the white and orange lantana
Dawn Potter: Arcadia, 1939
warmth of bread baking, a cardinal alight in a branching
oak, white bed, linens floating in air, a table
laid in an arbor’s shade—
Peter Blair: After Image
In December, the shadows of tree trunks
stay long all day, dark compasses pointing
northwest to northeast by afternoon.
T.S. Eliot: Rhapsody on a Windy Night
The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things
Gary Fincke: A Murder of Crows
Driving home, I see all of them
By the highway, pecking at
Whatever is splayed out and torn
Alexis Rhone Fancher: Last Rites
The coyotes were here first! I tell my neighbors when they complain. Between the drought and gentrification the coyotes have turned brazen. Bold as fuck. Scrawny, hunger-crazed creatures. My pets are … Continue reading
Michael Simms: My Recent and Forthcoming Books
Vox Populi doesn’t usually include advertisements, but I hope you will indulge me when I let you know that my recently published books are available.
Wayne Karlin: Butch in Autumn
Run ahead again,
old friend,
I’ll catch up with you later.
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Earbug
Ah, it’s back. It hadn’t hummed in my head for years —
that achingly joyful accordion tango.
Arlene Weiner: Pinky
Last week I took a shovel from a prepared heap,
scooped earth easily, turned, threw it
onto your coffin, plain pine.
Uttara: Fire
As dawn was breaking,
wisdom rose in the east—
and set fire to the long dark night.
Andrew McFadyen-Ketchum: The Toddler
Almost anything will break
The toddler’s heart: His mommy’s keys
Singing from the bowl of loose ends
And change on her way out the door
For work.
Nancy Krygowski: “Here’s a Partial List of Mass Shootings in the United States So Far This Year”
Here’s the full list of the people the murdered have kissed.
Here’s a pair of slippers made of birds’ beaks, ear plugs made of screams.
Tony Gloeggler: Working Class Heroes
My father opened the trunk,
tossed me my glove with a worn
hardball tucked in its pocket, eased
into a catcher’s crouch as I paced
60 feet away.
