The Voices Project - POETRY LIBRARY

Untitled~ By Simon Perchik

12/2/2021

*
You walk clinging to streams
from when the Earth was shattered
still gathers up the rocks broken off

for light where a sky should be
help the lost find their way home
and though her grave was left behind

you come here to start a fire by naming it
slowly after the tree that widened, became a sea
and every night washes over this stone

guiding it back as a singing –each leaf
already the warm breeze that reaches up
no longer smoke from arms and distances.

*
You wash this shirt at night
letting its buttons loosen
though the sleeves harden when wet

smell from salt then stone
–you become a lighthouse
–waves could save you now

come with a sea as that darkness
you need to embrace it, let the waters
take in that afternoon as if you

are still drowning, arm over arm
in the sand left over from an old love song
come back as lips to warm you

and though this is a small sink
it’s always August, deeper and deeper
filled by an open wound.

*
You close your eyes the way this toast
blackens on its own –a second Spring
explodes, starts its journey as crumbs

and though nothing is moving outward
once near your mouth the crust begins to swell
soften, become those breasts you swallow

all morning in the darkness between the coffee
and this cracked cup catching fire
making room for love to happen

flood the Earth full steam ahead on time
as if your skin had opened to warm her
sip by sip gripped by oceans and teeth.

*
All that’s left is the rain
tossed overboard as the silence
now falling on her forehead

–you are sailing too close
to the ditch covered with dirt
filling this harbor and night after night

though there’s so little wind
–nothing moves in this sea
except as an armada :flowers

that steady each ship with the rocks
mourners leave as those voices
you hear coming to an end.

*
It’s the silence when this mirror
becomes a door –with a forward step
a bolt slams shut and your face

is cleared for the slow climb
into another’s where the sky
asks itself will anyone return

still waving goodbye :you shave
to find the way out, shine
from scalding water and the razor

clutched so those afternoons
stay warm by closing your eyes
when quieted and drowning.

Author Bio:
Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, Forge, Poetry, Osiris, The New Yorker and elsewhere. His most recent collection is The Family of Man Poems published by Cholla Needles Arts & Literary Library, 2021. For more information including free e-books and his essay “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” please visit his website at simonperchik.com. To view one of his interviews please follow this link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MSK774rtfx8

Moon Sliver~ By Stephen Mead

12/1/2021

Could that tilted silver curve
slice the night sky's silk to a perfect circle
and let the cosmos pour out?
Certainly it is laser-luminous, a saber's smile,
but sense a gentleness, a decorative rhinestone pin
against an endless breast of nostalgic black velvet
to place a head just beneath.
Rest to this lullaby in that softness forming warmth
covering dreams until morning.
Now, waking bird sings to bird,
let's see what the new blue sky brings.
Fight the dread and disquieting you who traverse to work.
Yes, wind licks the slickness of black ice,
burnishing the onyx to reflect the heavens as a face.
Yes, the wind's been an insistent precursor
of cabin fever's maddening claustrophobia
pushing in inner space so that the outer dark
drifts and deepens its whistling howls
that crack roofs, walls, ceilings,
that bangs and bangs tree limbs
to become the heaving ice mammoths
which fog windows
with their breath.
To remember the moon's silver then
would be a godsend new as a buried memory of survival
against stark-raving desolation.
Been through this, been through this
is the relieving chant of calm again
suddenly pure as a bright rope
reaching towards a well's bottom.
Take hold, climb, float for spring opens
from February's ambivalence,
the last sap snows falling every other day
to melt just as quickly as temperatures rise
from the morning ice to a longer lightening all around.
Twittering in bushes pushing slow buds towards tips,
the birds are signaling to each other
that yes they have made it, prepare for business,
the time for building jubilation, moon-full and fat,
is about to commence. Aching fingers ready yourselves.
Green thaw is at hand.

Author Bio:
Resident Artist & Curator for the online Chroma Museum, artistic representations of LGBTQI persons and organizations predominantly before Stonewall, Stephen Mead has been a published outsider artist/writer going on thirty years now. He is immensely grateful to the myriad publications who have presented his work over this time span, and given his need to create a voice of support. Recently he has had work published in The Pinecone Review and Neologism Poetry Journal.

Butterfly Board~ By Angelina Chartrand

11/30/2021

It seems cruel,
The old-fashioned art of pinning up butterflies on a board.
Perhaps it is still in fashion,
Though I wonder if it is not ironic,
For we people do the same.
We plaster others for their beauty on whichever things,
To immortalize them.
But often not for themselves, but for us –
To admire, desire, and above all, envy.
Creating a spectacle out of them.
To analyze, examine, to understand:
Why do we not look the same?
Ah yes, butterflies on a board and people are much the same,
Hung up, left to dust.
To wither away over what they were once valued for.

Author Bio:
Angelina Chartrand developed a passion for writing ever since she was young, finding a love and admiration of written form to convey and cultivate her creative ideas, which range anywhere from the surrealistic to the macabre.

HOVEL OF HEAVEN (library of Congress)~ By Dennis Reed

11/23/2021

I have found another sanctuary
amid Congress,

Democratic art
beautiful hips

Capital Hill women
walking to the subway

for walk,
their hands, at their sides,

waving goodbye.
there is a slight

breeze this morning
as I sit among

the great philosophers,
champions of imagination

and thought,
one wonders

what I am doing here
in this august hall?

writing tales
of those that died on the corner,

voluntary suicides,
shadows

that will not heal
or move away,

where else should I
be, again at the seat

of government
power,

scribbling poems while
Governors are pontificating

repeating words
under emblems,

He did not want to say
anything too authentic

correct but not the
speech I wrote for

Martin Luther King week, at Virginia Union University
“the speech was eloquent/and you are fired.”

endure America,
they take our little

droplets of blood
killing us

with what we do not know,
like the thousands of

death threats
for Lt. Governor Wilder

I saw them one day,
on a pristine mahgony table

stacked neatly
ungrammatical threats

of taking him “behind the tool shed
and doin to him what he did to white girls like Klugie.”

there is always
ugly underbelly,

stinking, threatening
destroy

the sweet scents
of progress,

from destroying
flowers, children

everything above
people need sanctuaries,

places where there
is nothing

thought and air,
allowing ideas

to somersault
replace Gothic images

of houses without doors,
hinges without foundations.

Author Bio:
In a few months, OLYMPIA press will publish SELL THE TEAM, a critique of the last twenty one years of the New York Knicks. Next year, OLMPIA press will publish GUERILLA WARFARE, a novel by Mr. Reed. His memoir, MIGRATION MEMORIES was awarded the NORTH STREET/BOOK OF THE YEAR/ Honorable Mention Award this year and has a semi-finalist in the NCTE/NORMAN MAILER High School Teachers' Non-Fiction Award. Born in Manhattan, New York, attended NYC Public Schools and was awarded the Jean S. Grossinger Award for the best English student in middle school. Graduate of Long Island University in Journalism, VCU, an M.A. in English/English Education and doctoral work in contemporary drama at Georgia State University.

Bullies~ By Wendy Gist

11/18/2021

Bastards of Battle-axe deal
Underhanded blows
Like a chorus of lyre snakes
Leering with sneers.
Irascible unclean spirits,
Elated by inflated egos:
Schemes belittle the besmirched.

Author Bio:
Wendy Gist's poems have appeared or are forthcoming in For Women Who Roar, Fourth River, Galway Review, Grey Sparrow Journal, New Plains Review, Oyez Review, Poetry Pacific, Rio Grande Review, Soundings Review, St. Austin Review and other fine journals. Gist has worked as a professional contributing writer for many leading publications. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee and the author of the chapbook Moods of the Dream Fog (Finishing Line Press, 2016). Gist was named semifinalist for The Best Small Fictions, 2017.

Warm Bread At Morning~ By Tom Squitieri

11/17/2021

Now I am greeted with secret skies
Bond of loyalty
Panoply of reflection
The blue egg

Only when into the torrid maelstrom outside
Is footing found
With the warmth of morning bread

Far off the gunfire still strikes
New faces grow old as they tell us the tales
That so many quickly forget

But beaten bodies often become stronger
Memories sharpen
As you pull her from the mob
And two days later
She walks through the hazy Haitian day
To kiss you in thanks
And within 24 hours
Names for future children

I see eyes that look to those new directions
capture me fully
you leave but linger in me
foundation gets stronger, wiser
languid now you wait
Knowing the ticktock of teasing
Of the telltale taste of trembling hearts

Long, strong legs purr as they yearn for receiving
Desires dream quietly and through a glance
They hear each other’s dares
And behest to what demands

Wrapped and opened, together and in want
All the mountains unite
Guiding the storm to open
providing the upstairs path

At dusk, it is warm bread
As Kabul quiets
Another day on the cusp closes
Dice waiting to be rolled again at sunrise

Shrapnel still smirks
Whenever it wishes
Reminds you
Who is boss

Author Bio:
Tom Squitieri, an award-winning war correspondent, is blessed to have his poetry appear in several publications, the book "Put Into Words My Love,” the art exhibition Color: Story2020, and the film “Fate’s Shadow: The Whole Story.” He writes mostly while parallel parking or walking his dogs, Topsie and Batman.

Away in the Country~ By Subir Kumar Sen

11/16/2021

When the child in him to the elder queried
What to him did pleasure mean
The last mentioned had for the reply
Brooks, rivers, daisies and hollyhocks
The mild mildews, the violets subdued
The deafening roar of the boulders loose
Which in heaps did pile up alongside
Nimble-footed frolic
Skipping in dales and vales wherein
The country inn which boasted of
Spicy, nut brown ale brought
In a carriage carted to a horse
Screeching to a halt besides a
Thicket embedding crickets aloud
Did dawn upon the man
The who did sit under the sun, bright aflame.

Author Bio:
Born one fine Indian midsummer in the walled city of Delhi, Subir Kumar Sen had spent his childhood, in awe of the splendid red sandstone fort, sprawling gardens, and lofty minarets in close proximity. There were bazaars of archaic ways boasting of all kind of antique wares which would carry one away to lands of fantasy. He was interested in poetry since childhood. He was inspired to write what went on within him, his mind and heart. He wanted to portray what all he went through, what all he had seen and could imagine. He had read poems written by the great masters, and was inspired to portray in his own small way. He holds a degree in English and has also studied Italian at the Italian Embassy and is a professional Italian translator. He is multilingual and is well versed in Hindi and Bengali, too. He currently stays on the outskirts of Delhi.

He tries to be very honest with his poems and writes what he sincerely feels. He loves to play with words because they are the ones which ultimately stir the senses.

Lost Soul Rising~ By Susan Surette

11/11/2021

years of dark storms
in between fragments of life
stalked by murky shadows
lost in a mire of mistakes
a weary pilgrim of the pavement
journey etched upon face in
scars the color of old teeth

home is unashamed alley
redolent of unforgiving refuse
whose tenants shun daylight
and well-meaning strangers

night settles under a dark blanket
filmy barred windows cast suspicious eyes
at one enfolded in pungent old flannel
skin layers marinated in cheap wine
experiencing sensations like shaken seltzer
dropping an emaciated frame heavily
upon stained unforgiving corrugated
life teetering between breath and heartbeat
with dreams awash in pulsating technicolor

morning pulls itself awake
sodden brain struggles through slow
series of jolts like a cranky engine
preparing to stall as life halfheartedly
stumbles to alive

one more start...

Author Bio:
Susan Surette is an avid traveler, bibliophile, grandmother, hand drummer, and yogi with work accepted in the U.S. and UK. Retired on Cape Cod, Massachusetts, she discovered an interest in poetry after attending a creative writing program. Later she founded the Not Yet Dead Poets Society. As a volunteer leader opening the door to poetry for senior citizens, she is gratified to discover the depths of emotion and human
nature that comes to the surface when tapped.

Her poetry has been published in The Curlew, Westward Quarterly, The Avocet, Nine Muses Poetry, Eskimo Pie-Ceremony Journal of Poetry and Cape Cod Times.

he’d trekked towards the drone~ By Elder Gideon

11/10/2021

he’d trekked towards the drone dead grasses iridesced
with cricket songs parted in the field where he lay

with his back to the dry ground beneath stars he awoke
to all of the reasons he loathed himself aligned in an influx

like lightning
is not a line but a suture

inside the dome skull of sky
broken open but snaps back shut
the instant it’s perceived

he bolted upright knowing
all in a moment why gays threaten men

egos without children
family names that end

for being oblivion
even alien

suddenly the crickets ceased

the ground quivered grasses broke
behind him another breathed

his hair jolted his pores gasped for air
tapered his heart beat his head

he turned to see a daunting silhouette blocking stars two horns
as long as the horizon the beast’s mass dense as adamantine stone

Wisdom told him breathe--

in the fear is focus

he did not move neither did the bull

his face turned inward in degrees

until fully forward unwavering in skin he fit

in his abode

he abode the presence of the bull
in night and time’s release

Author Bio:
Elder Gideon is the author of “Aegis of Waves” (Atmosphere, 2021) and co-author with Tau Malachi of “Gnosis of Guadalupe (EPS Press, 2017). He’s an alumnus of the 2021 Community of Writers, directed by Brenda Hillman and showing sculpture this fall with Verge Gallery’s Open Studio Tour in Sacramento. A veteran English teacher-activist and leader of a gnostic tradition, Gideon lives from metaphysical urgency. He is queer.

Eighth Month~ By Juanita Rey

11/9/2021

Eight months and, surprisingly,
nothing has been ruptured,
twisted into a knot, shredded.
The body has survived
even as the child takes over.

There’s been pain, cramping,
an overall strangeness
as if my insides and I
were no longer in synch.
But no hemorrhaging.
No overloaded heartbeat.

There’s been a kick or two
but nothing beyond that.
The baby makes no demands.
There’ll be time enough for that
from all I hear.

Yes, it does feel like a sickness.
But not a dying.
And no cure is necessary.
But I’ll take it when it comes.

Author Bio:
Juanita Rey is a Dominican poet who has been in this country five years. Her work has been published in Pennsylvania English, Opiate Journal, Petrichor Machine and Porter Gulch Review.