Vox Populi

A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature

Emily Dickinson: I have no life but this

I have no Life but this —
To lead it here —

November 13, 2020 · 6 Comments

Doug Anderson: To Love Like This

To love like this…

October 31, 2020 · 1 Comment

Jason Irwin: Giuseppe the Shoe-Maker

Giuseppe, a simple shoe-maker,
who never learned English, stood
banging his head against the wall,
cursing God in his native tongue

October 27, 2020 · 1 Comment

S.B. Merrow: Craving

I’m talking about a night we spend
in the same body on the same smooth stones
on the bottom of the dry river
when a storm comes.

August 17, 2020 · 3 Comments

Doug Anderson: My mind is weighted toward sorrow

My mind is weighted toward sorrow
and I feel unbalanced when I walk.
There are old rooms there, certainly,
that I’ve now abandoned, with their coffee spills
and unmade beds…

July 30, 2020 · 3 Comments

Michelle Bitting: Ode to Sex with You

lips two wild pulsing fish
swift bubbles of nothing
moaned into the air’s
naked ear

July 8, 2020 · 1 Comment

Doug Anderson: How it happens

God help me, I don’t know where I’m going.
We hold each other’s hand like children
finding our way home among the closing wolves.

May 19, 2020 · 4 Comments

Edna St. Vincent Millay: I shall forget you presently, my dear (Sonnet IV)

I shall forget you presently, my dear,
So make the most of this, your little day

May 8, 2020 · Leave a comment

Emily Dickinson: Wild nights — Wild nights!

Wild nights – Wild nights!
Were I with thee
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!

May 8, 2020 · Leave a comment

Leslie Anne Mcilroy: Zoosk | The Pandemic

We stay put, apart,
constant in longing. And that is all
fine, my friends, except the dying
part. Death all around love’s
little sprouting head.

March 27, 2020 · Leave a comment

Doug Anderson: The Fool

At seventy-five I find myself in love.
Not the serene love of an old man
steeped in the wine and wisdom of years,
but one who would kill a dragon for her.

March 5, 2020 · 4 Comments

Lindsey Royce: Packing His Things

Now, I long for one of those shirts,
his scent of sweat and paint,
to cover the dent on his side of the bed

March 2, 2020 · 2 Comments

Danusha Laméris: Reading My Valentine’s Poem to Frank X. Gaspar

I am thirty-two, and in love, again, this time
with a man whose name rolls off my tongue
like water. I’m afraid of hope.

February 14, 2020 · 2 Comments

Judith Sanders: Late to Meet You at the Indian Restaurant

So I drove, and listened to the news, about
the demise of democracy and collapse of civilization
head-beams probing the dark like outstretched hands.

February 12, 2020 · 5 Comments

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