Vox Populi

A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature

Leslie Anne Mcilroy: Wake Up Love

Love sleeps nude and unashamed,
a glass of water near to quell the fires
we mistake for love, a blanket to wrap
the broken who come to her bed alone.

April 28, 2021 · 1 Comment

Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Clouds Heave

His cat mourned better than I, lying
on her side for weeks across his room’s threshold

April 12, 2021 · 2 Comments

Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Some evenings

Some evenings, he would hide his face in his hands
for a few seconds —

March 22, 2021 · 2 Comments

Kathleen O’Toole: First Street Shiva for RBG

Think of all the prayers rising
today with daughters and granddaughters held up
to see her uplifted catafalque, its red, white and blue
against the white marble

March 8, 2021 · 1 Comment

Deborah Bogen: Sisters

I’m the last sister standing — but tonight I mean to lie down, to practice being in the box

March 3, 2021 · 6 Comments

Kathleen O’Toole: On Grief, in a time of pandemic

What I’m learning about grief is that
it comes and goes, like the shadow in front of me
on the afternoon sidewalk.

February 22, 2021 · 4 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

Valerie Bacharach: Gratitude Journal

I was sure that I had failed my mother, unable to keep her in her home, as I had once promised.

December 29, 2020 · 6 Comments

Laure-Anne Bosselaar: The empty room I loved

I was free, I was twenty. I fell wholly &
forever in love every week. I was hungry for life

December 2, 2020 · 6 Comments

Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Arroyo Burro Beach

Look at me, writing circles around what I must face:
The man I love is dead.

October 26, 2020 · 6 Comments

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

David Fenza: For Liam was Many

For he was so curious about the shapes & pressures
of our American lives, he made each friend
feel like the genius-author of a great story.

August 18, 2020 · 6 Comments

Molly Fisk: She Lived to See

ate only bites but
always well: warm boysenberry pie,
bone broth matzoh ball soup

July 20, 2020 · Leave a comment

Miriam Levine: Invisible Kisses

And survivors with numbers tattooed on their arms, straight as a
bookkeeper’s sum,
the ink indelibly blue, unlike the blessedly changing ocean.

July 1, 2020 · 1 Comment

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