Vox Populi

A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature: over 400,000 monthly users

Carolyn Miller: By the Time

By the time the light reaches us, empty
sunflower fields are pitted with more craters.

May 18, 2022 · 2 Comments

Jim Daniels: Strawberry

the final time I saw my mother
she was trying to find
the last strawberry on her plate

May 8, 2022 · 2 Comments

Valerie Bacharach: Passover

I lay a Haggadah by a chair,
unoccupied.
Unearth my Seder plate,
place upon it shank bone, egg, parsley,
bitter herbs. My bitter tears.

April 20, 2022 · 1 Comment

Jeffrey Harrison: Disconcerting

The word became the mantra of
her last few years, which were, in fact,
often disconcerting: her descent
into dementia, her cancer diagnosis,
her fall, her fractured hip.

April 5, 2022 · 3 Comments

Susan Kelly-DeWitt: The Moon Is Doing The Australian Crawl

my mother has worked her way up 
through the wave-rungs
of the spirit-corps’ fleshless ladder—
secretary of the afterworld

January 6, 2022 · 2 Comments

Al Ortolani: Paper Birds Don’t Fly

Sitting at the table with the paper birds,
she unfolded mine and began to read.
I couldn’t make out a word
she was saying.

December 7, 2021 · 1 Comment

Fred Everett Maus: Yellow

In the days after, we did not weep in each other’s
presence, nor hold each other, nor say much
about our feelings. It was how we had always been.

November 30, 2021 · 5 Comments

Kari Gunter-Seymour: Conflagration

I hoped returning
would spark memories, fill her with light,
the way the heat of day warms the bones.

November 12, 2021 · 7 Comments

Lisa Zimmerman: That Blue

When the poet said blue city of bees
I was reminded of the blue cotton robe
my husband gave me, a shade my mother loved

November 10, 2021 · 8 Comments

Kari Gunter-Seymour: That Spot where Raccoon Creek Meets Brush Fork

I wish I could say
I lay your body under the honeysuckle
the day you crossed over, let vine and wisp
hang nectar all around you.

October 18, 2021 · 6 Comments

Kari Gunter-Seymour: Heartland Hospice

When I was a kid, sick, he’d sing Hank William’s
Hey Good Lookin,’ call me his best girl.

September 27, 2021 · 8 Comments

Majid Naficy: The Engraver

You put on your eyeglasses
And read me your daughter’s will
Word by word.

June 17, 2021 · 1 Comment

Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Then, you stop

Then, you stop weeping. Lift your face from your hands.

May 24, 2021 · 3 Comments

James Crews: Tomatoes

He came back grinning, gripping
a bag of homegrown Beefsteaks so fat
they were already bursting their juices
through the brown paper

May 22, 2021 · 2 Comments

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