Vox Populi

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

Michael T. Young: Two Poems

When you’re not the target
you can ignore the gun.

June 16, 2022 · 3 Comments

Michael T. Young: To Fly

Maybe it’s a vision so clear the dark can’t darken it,
and the mountainous range of roadblocks
and barricades can’t dim the image of it. It’s fixed
and steady. An unchanging map in our blood

March 15, 2022 · Leave a comment

Michael T. Young: Reflections on Richard Hugo’s Poetry

I believed the necessity
of that suffering world, hoping it would learn not to do
it again. But I was young. The world never learns.

November 19, 2021 · 9 Comments

Michael T. Young: Dutch Hex Signs

They spoke a language that smelled of horsehair
and tasted of apple butter and red beet eggs

June 4, 2021 · 6 Comments

Michael T. Young: Sitting in the Dark

On the day another black man is shot
I sit with my family watching sparrows
pick through soil warmed in sunlight.

April 20, 2021 · 7 Comments

Michael T. Young: Concession Speech

People don’t understand that the road
to concession is paved with denial.

November 17, 2020 · Leave a comment

Michael T. Young: Holding My Daughter as We Listen to the News

Because the radio repeats their name
my daughter asks what a Nazi is.

May 5, 2020 · Leave a comment

Corona's Jaws: An Anthology of Poetry

Poems by Cynthia Atkins, Jose Alcantara, Judith Alexander Brice, Michael T. Young, Sydney Lea, Charlie Brice, John Samuel Tieman, and Adrian Rice.

March 24, 2020 · Leave a comment

Michael T. Young: The Gift

I’m rocked into fields
of a lyrical witness, history rolls over
glittering in sunlight

December 24, 2019 · Leave a comment

Michael T. Young: The Monster Under My Daughter’s Bed

During bedtime my little spider monkey
asked what we’re doing about global warming

October 3, 2019 · Leave a comment

Michael T. Young: Mulch Baptism

The green folds of hillside
in the distance will open like arms to embrace you,
our soils enriched by the return,
the reminder of who we all are.

June 13, 2019 · Leave a comment

Michael T. Young: Cataract

Prayers and wonder in these arches flicker
into smoke and ash, a single, blind beating wing

April 23, 2019 · Leave a comment

Michael T. Young: Scrawl

He likes to repeat to himself a phrase from a Keats letter: I will clamber through the clouds and exist. It steadies him like leaning against trees, or brewing coffee … Continue reading

November 20, 2018 · Leave a comment

Michael T. Young: Gossip

Wind tore at trees outside the window. Shreds of leaves and bits of twig clicked at the glass all day. There was nothing to be done and little we could … Continue reading

August 23, 2018 · Leave a comment

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