Vox Populi

A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature. Over 400,000 monthly users. Over 6,000 archived posts.

Jim Daniels: My Security Question

The closet in her room
remains as she left it
clothes losing their dark
interest. Ghosts in the dust.

June 2, 2022 · 3 Comments

Kristofer Collins: Looking at the Lake

Where are your
wonderful ideas now? All ten thousand
of them, each one a tiny grain you
let loose in this world.

May 24, 2022 · 2 Comments

Barbara E. Young: About the Language. And Inevitable Death

alone could fill all the space 
between all the yellow cities on the map with a hollow 
more empty than the echo of the emptiest of moved-from homes

February 7, 2022 · 2 Comments

Jason Irwin: Ouija Board

I asked When? And How?
I was thirteen. My cousin, twelve.
It said I would be 41.
The same age my mother was that Christmas.
Elvis was 42 when he died. Jesus, 33.

December 23, 2021 · 3 Comments

Sally Bliumis-Dunn: Ode to Autumn

this is where I can
still see you
in these gray branches

November 24, 2021 · 1 Comment

George Drew: Drumming Armageddon

I, too, have friends dead from drugs,
guys I hung out with on my hometown streets
and in the war memorial park with wood railings
we kept falling off, too stoned to balance on.

November 4, 2021 · 2 Comments

Barbara E. Young: Blues for the Fisherman

Since the blues ought to be tall birds
wading and wailing 
when the sun dies—
let the blues fill its lungs now

July 12, 2021 · 3 Comments

Jo McDougall: This Morning

A woman laughs
and my daughter steps out of the radio.
Grief spreads in my throat like strep.

May 9, 2021 · 3 Comments

Denise Levertov: Clouds

as if death had lit a pale light
in your flesh, your flesh
was cold to my touch, or not cold
but cool, cooling

January 15, 2021 · 2 Comments

George Drew: I Know You’re in Detroit

Aretha, I apologize for having never written a poem
for or about you, not in all the Hit Parades of years
I’ve grooved to you…

November 7, 2020 · 1 Comment

Sandy Solomon: Ghazal

A night of ghazals comes to an end to fill with birds.
As the sky blues, their calls braid in New Jersey.

September 21, 2020 · 1 Comment

Philip Levine: Red Dust

I do not believe in sorrow;
it is not American.

August 9, 2020 · Leave a comment

Peter Schireson: Kindling

even years later,
I still feel
nothing

August 4, 2020 · 2 Comments

Jason Irwin: Cucumbers

“I still can’t bring myself to buy cucumbers. He loved them.” she says, but never mentions the car accident, or how she had blamed me for your drinking again…

July 21, 2020 · Leave a comment

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