Vox Populi

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

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 · 2 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

Rachel Hadas: Fingernails

Vanessa Redgrave thought whatever
separates life and death
is tiny as the sliver of a fingernail.

May 19, 2021 · 2 Comments

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 · 4 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

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