Vox Populi

A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature

Judith A. Brice: Migraine

stabs of pain, pangs of panic, intrude,
even collude to knife my head

April 27, 2019 · 1 Comment

Judith A. Brice: Prolepsis of Emerald

On the calendar we see the bold square, marking the number 21 in March,  marking our hope, our deep breath— 21, our emerald prolepsis, our brain’s fast synapse between withdrawal … Continue reading

March 20, 2019 · 2 Comments

Judith A. Brice: Before the Terns

It’s always the waves I hear, the lapping of the lake at Walloon— perhaps the first sound my young memory held, before the kingfishers’, the terns’ bolting splash to grab … Continue reading

January 28, 2019 · Leave a comment

Judith A. Brice: Berries, Bittersweet

Before you know what kindness really is you must lose things… “Kindness” — Naomi Shihab Nye . After they’d split my brain, mended the artery that burst asunder and left … Continue reading

December 29, 2018 · 3 Comments

Judith A. Brice: I Want to Go Back

I want to go back to my youth again where all is in my realm, even good health, a new young boy and soccer games to watch— where I can … Continue reading

November 17, 2018 · 4 Comments

Judith A. Brice: Mourning Calls

From beyond the brume, beyond the horizon, she swims, the mallard’s mate, a wail for a call, brief before the wait for her next plaint, shortened and hoarse   From … Continue reading

September 26, 2018 · 2 Comments

Judith A. Brice: To Charlie, Beyond the Mist

Will the mist have vanished from the lake by the time you read this? — birthday note to Charlie from a good friend   What she couldn’t know was your eyes … Continue reading

August 22, 2018 · Leave a comment

Judith A. Brice: Collage

After the hurricane, the deluge of drops and days, we wondered if it might happen again, if the cerise and ocher blue would collage the sky taupe/black, could crack and … Continue reading

September 19, 2017 · Leave a comment

Judith A. Brice: Call Me Simple

A Poem in honor of Serge Kovaleski1 You may shoot me with your words… But still, like air, I’ll rise… — Maya Angelou . Call me simple, crippled, a gimp— … Continue reading

September 13, 2017 · 1 Comment

Judith A. Brice: No Moon Shadows

I can’t find your God in the graves of my pain, no moon shadows to pluck from evensong nor steel stillness in silhouettes of these sneaky weeks to come. I … Continue reading

April 1, 2017 · Leave a comment

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