Vox Populi

A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature

Arlene Weiner: After the Emergence of the Periodical Cicadas

bouquets of cicada brides whose courtship
made the sky sing so in May.
The wedding music stopped, these are left,
to be caught by maidens in seventeen years.

June 2, 2021 · 1 Comment

Alan Soldofsky: Entitled

You know it’s hard to concentrate
when pear trees across the street
burst out overnight, flaunting their 
astonishing plumes of white confetti.

March 30, 2021 · 2 Comments

Paul Christensen: We’re all waiting here

I smell the earth for the first time as I take a walk, my first in many months of being housebound.

March 28, 2021 · 8 Comments

John Clare: To John Clare

Well, honest John, how fare you now at home?

March 26, 2021 · Leave a comment

Peter Blair: Vernation

On the road by the arena,
puddles fill ditches
and flaxen rushes wave
in March rain.

March 18, 2021 · Leave a comment

M.A. Sinnhuber: In this Time

propel yourself forward—
as in airplane force
or Air Force or forceps
forcing a baby to be born

June 14, 2020 · 2 Comments

Paul Christensen: The Book of Eternity

The dark has stairs and doors that have never been opened. Who knows where they lead, or what impenetrable paradoxes await the person who turns a knob and presses against the infinite ignorance we cower from?

May 4, 2020 · 6 Comments

Jackie Robb: The Virus and the Bulb

The beginnings of a dark cloud of worry about the virus moved in to share space with the more festive anticipation of amaryllis blooms.

March 29, 2020 · 4 Comments

Paul Christensen: Timbrels in the Marsh

The sky is a stoic blue, hard as a marble, with little wimpy clouds that carry nothing more than a few regrets from a dying winter. We’re here, right on the precipice of a season.

March 22, 2020 · 8 Comments

Edna St. Vincent Millay: Spring

To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.

April 5, 2019 · Leave a 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

Paul Christensen: The Mystery

An unwilled force drives pale shoots into the air. Something powerful underneath it all, harder than a fist, keeps making things rise, until they burst out of nothing into a … Continue reading

April 12, 2017 · Leave a comment

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