Vox Populi

A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature

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

Daniel Burston: John Prine, Working Class Poet (1947-2020)

John Prine was a national treasure, whose songs about love, loss and aging – many written while he was still a relatively young man! – reflect his working class roots. But even so, they have a universal and timeless relevance.

April 10, 2020 · 3 Comments

Chard deNiord: Last Goodbye in the Time of Corona

The darkness arrived without your voice
or touch, my love, and yet I heard
your voice and felt your hand in mine.

March 31, 2020 · 6 Comments

Molly Fisk: Elegy (for Leah)

her infinite soprano
and my street drawl voicing words that could
depress a saint

March 9, 2020 · 1 Comment

Connie Post: How to Sort the Living from the Dead

Forget all the nonsense
about eyes opened or closed
or breathing
or brain waves

February 20, 2020 · Leave a comment

Sharon Fagan McDermott: Orchid Room, Phipps Conservatory

Grandma lived to be ninety-three
and wore the fabric of that tale to a soft sheen
with her retelling. Where does the past lie?

February 6, 2020 · 3 Comments

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