Vox Populi

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

Jim Daniels: Strawberry

the final time I saw my mother
she was trying to find
the last strawberry on her plate

May 8, 2022 · 2 Comments

Valerie Bacharach: Passover

I lay a Haggadah by a chair,
unoccupied.
Unearth my Seder plate,
place upon it shank bone, egg, parsley,
bitter herbs. My bitter tears.

April 20, 2022 · 1 Comment

Megan Merchant / Luke Johnson: Origin Story (An Epistolary Dialogue)

From our window, grosbeaks
and buntings tangle into flight. The hours count
earlier now, because of the way they are lit.

April 15, 2022 · Leave a comment

Elizabeth Romero: Album

Here are my two sons in 1968
In their father’s arms.
He looks harmless.
They look doubtful and uneasy.

December 15, 2021 · 3 Comments

Fred Everett Maus: Yellow

In the days after, we did not weep in each other’s
presence, nor hold each other, nor say much
about our feelings. It was how we had always been.

November 30, 2021 · 5 Comments

Paul Christensen: The Leaden Hat of Fall

Once in a while the tufted sky would break open into dazzling radiance. I would often look up from my reading to behold a waterfall of fiery light, as if the Golden Fleece were hanging in a waterfall shedding all its precious minerals into the valley below.

November 28, 2021 · 10 Comments

Video: Nat’s Story | Their Love

Nat experiences oppression, xenophobia and misgendering from their own family. Their mother has a spiritual experience that reveals the importance of honoring their child’s nonbinary identity. The film parallels crossing the US-Mexico border and traversing the gender binary.

November 18, 2021 · 1 Comment

Kari Gunter-Seymour: Conflagration

I hoped returning
would spark memories, fill her with light,
the way the heat of day warms the bones.

November 12, 2021 · 7 Comments

Gary Fincke: The Double Negatives of the Living

I could talk
Two hours past midnight with
My father in the steelworker
Idiom of his city.

October 21, 2021 · Leave a comment

Paul Christensen: A Velvet Gloom Before It Rains

The rain isolates you the way not even silence can.

September 26, 2021 · 2 Comments

Dawn Potter: Mother to Son

Always with the video games when you’re sad,
as if the gunshots are manna, or music,
which isn’t to say I think you’re planning
to shoot up a grocery store—no, no

August 11, 2021 · 2 Comments

Paul Christensen: The Pandemic Blues

Everyone around here is sluggish. The young woman who checks my purchases off the conveyor belt dabs her eyes and stifles a yawn. She keeps shaking herself awake as the … Continue reading

July 25, 2021 · 7 Comments

Paul Christensen: My Mazda and I

The monks of Europe often planted their vines in cemeteries to ward off thieves, and believed you could taste the blood of ghosts when you drank. My mother would sip her wine and look away dreamily and then back at me as if I had come home from a long journey, with the Mazda parked in her driveway.

July 18, 2021 · 4 Comments

Paul Christensen: What the Rain Says

She would die soon but neither of us knew that. Right now, the precious hours were dissolving in the pale afternoon light, just as the rain began again.

May 9, 2021 · 8 Comments

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