Blog Archives - The Voices Project

Good Girls Don’t Do That! ~ By Mira Martin-Parker

1/29/2015

She screams. She runs around. She pulls her dress up, exposing fluffy white
panties and chubby legs.

“Madeleine, no! Good girls don’t do that!”

“But I need to go potty, mommy!”

“Okay then, we’ll find a bathroom. But pull your dress down first!”

Author Bio:
Mira Martin-Parker earned an MFA in creative writing at San Francisco State University. Her work has appeared in various publications, including the Istanbul Literary Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Mythium, and Zyzzyva. Her collection of short stories, The Carpet Merchant’s Daughter, won the 2013 Five [Quarterly] e-chapbook competition.

Casualties of war~ By Anchee Lofton

1/28/2015

Casualties of war turn to prisoners of circumstance
For there’s no escaping one’s self
Blood in blood out
Becoming comfortable living la Vida loca
Beginning to believe the lies told by those who are ignorant of the truth
Accepting the darkness taking it for light
Going violently into that good night
Casualties of war turn to night crawlers

These lost sons and daughters cast into the sea of the unwanted
Nothing more than a byproduct of a woman and a man’s lust
Ashes to ashes dust to dust
A whole generation dead to the world
Little lost boy little lost girl

No trail of bread crumbs to help them find their ways
A lifetime of the darkest night with no signs of day
Loveless eyes of the abandoned iced grey

Suicide bombing all possibilities of success
Such a fear of failing why try
Surviving day to day and
Today’s a good day to die
For tomorrow doesn’t look any better than yesterday
And although it’s sad to say
With death comes freedom
Freedom from this purgatory of the forgotten
Escape from the battlefield for these casualties of war

So they stand on corners like targets
Hoping their bull’s eye gets hit
Hoping their time card gets punched
They stand on these corners
Waiting for freedom
Illegitimate child running wild lost in a world of darkness
Living this life of chaos by choice not just consequence
Yet he never knew the tenderness of a mother’s care
And she never knew the man whose eyes she shared
Her father MIA his mother AWOL

Forced to find love the best way she knew how
Little girl lost in this world of turned out women
Venting his anger on all who get in his way
Even himself
Little boy lost in this place with problems grown up men can’t handle

But their hearts are still tender
Like ripe plums ready for picking
And they will be harvested
Some by pedophiles wanting to exploit their innocence
Others will simply self destruct

Generation X is truly unknown
Unknown names and blank faces
Expressionless corpses
Lost souls

Casualties of war

Casualties of war turn to prisoners of circumstance
For there’s no escaping one’s self
Blood in blood out
Becoming comfortable living la Vida loca
Beginning to believe the lies told by those who are ignorant of the truth
Accepting the darkness taking it for light
Going violently into that good night
Casualties of war turn to night crawlers

These lost sons and daughters cast into the sea of the unwanted
Nothing more than a byproduct of a woman and a man’s lust
Ashes to ashes dust to dust
A whole generation dead to the world
Little lost boy little lost girl

No trail of bread crumbs to help them find their ways
A lifetime of the darkest night with no signs of day
Loveless eyes of the abandoned iced grey

Suicide bombing all possibilities of success
Such a fear of failing why try
Surviving day to day and
Today’s a good day to die
For tomorrow doesn’t look any better than yesterday
And although it’s sad to say
With death comes freedom
Freedom from this purgatory of the forgotten
Escape from the battlefield for these casualties of war

So they stand on corners like targets
Hoping their bull’s eye gets hit
Hoping their time card gets punched
They stand on these corners
Waiting for freedom

Author Bio:
I am the author of two books of poetry, Words of a Lifetime and Cry Spirit Cry: for my soul is thirsty. I hold a B.S. in Mass Communications and have won several Editors’ choice awards for poetry.

Blowback~ By Carolyn D. Elias

1/27/2015

I love only cloudy days.
My grandmother died
under a cornflower sky,
by a bomb,
cloaked, invisible,
just like her
when the rain fell.
What terror
did she strike?

Author Bio:
Carolyn D. Elias' poetry has appeared in Sassafras Literary Magazine and East Jasmine Review. Her poetry has also appeared online at Apeiron Review and www.beakfulblogspot.com. Read more about her atwww.carolyndeliasauthor.squarespace.com, or follow her on twitter: @CarolynDElias.

Standing in the Sun~ By Dawn Schout

1/26/2015

She dances for the first time
in six months.
Pretends she never
saw the engagement picture
of him smiling bigger than she
knew he could.
Remembers those eyes,
even bluer against
his uniform.
He’s halfway around the world
where it’s 120 degrees
in the shade,
but she’s standing in the sun.

Author Bio:
Dawn Schout’s poetry has appeared in more than 50 national and international publications, including Dagda Publishing, Poetry Quarterly, Red River Review, and Tipton Poetry Journal. She was nominated for Best of the Net in 2013. Her debut poetry collection, Wanderlust, will be published in January 2015 by WordTech Editions.

Cafe Talk~ By Carrie Knight

1/22/2015

I make the coffee and listen to the idle talk that floats above the din of the dishwasher, and the register, and the bell above the door.

I know I'm not invited.
Or seen.
"Would you like a large or a small?," I ask.

They sip their coffee and plan their day, and what they will say to their daughter, and "Do you want to go?," and "Why don't we do this more often?".

Anything is possible at this moment and the world is so simple. Just a cup of coffee in this cafe.

And then they drain their paper cups and gather the loose bits of trash scattered on the table. A guilty look passes between them. Chairs scrape the floor as they slowly rise and fish absently for their car keys. They have appointments to keep and places to go.

They throw it all into the rubbish basket. The cover swings closed with a bang.

The bell above the door jingles softly on their way out and the door closes behind them.

The silence is deafening. I make another pot of coffee and the dishwasher drones on.

Author Bio:
Carrie Knight is a born-again writer living in New York's Finger Lakes region where she can indulge her love of farms, fresh air, and good wine. She has published several trade articles in museum administration and policy, but prefers telling a good story.

you look far away~ By Kate LaDew

1/21/2015

past all the things you wanted
and never got
stacked like Christmas
when all that’s left is the hoping
you were somehow cheated
but good enough to deserve it

Author Bio:
Kate LaDew is a graduate from the University of North Carolina at Greensboro with a B.A. in Studio Art.

Love Child~ By Bernadette Perez

1/20/2015

No -
Those Days Are Gone
A most valuable asset
Yes -
My love
My Child
Tell Me Yes
It begins with the young
From a mother's womb sprung
Innocent one could do no wrong
Cords transformed a song
From deep within
A cry out
As if a bud in bloom
Flowers sprout
I have -No- patience
--The noise
LOUD
Can take out a crowd
Time goes by
One may whine
Some cherish by a shrine
Bundled in my arms
Caressed by one's charm
Be alarmed
A parent needs to decide
Make up their mind
Wether to agree or subside
An answer you will find
When asked the questions why
You simply cannot lie
One will want to cry
Do you want to take a guess
I did not do it
You knew it
What a mess
The Answer
No
From childhood to adolescence
The Answer remains the same
It is not a game
Imperative that you reply
No piece of mind is worth the shame
Society is to blame.
Plain and simple
A gift from God
Peace
Lifts my soul
This precious child made me whole

Author Bio:
Bernadette Perez writing since 1980. Poems of Love, heartache and life struggles. Wife, Mother and
Grandmother, join me in my journey of life transposed into words. In 1990 received Silver Poet Award from World of Poetry. Published in The Wishing Well; Musings in 2010. Small Canyons Anthology in 2013. Poems4Peace 2014. Chair of the Rio Grande Valencia Poets. Member of NMSPS.

Continuity~ By Donal Mahoney

1/19/2015

I'm just a dog barking,
I tell my wife who's upset
with my yakking on and on
at our weekly meeting
on a Saturday morning
stationed in our recliners
facing forward as if we were
in the same row on a plane
with the middle seat empty.

I tell her eventually
any dog will stop barking
if you give him a bowl of kibble
or let him in the house
or find his ball and play fetch.
Or do what my mother did
when I was an infant bawling
and woke my father who faced
work as a lineman the next day.

My mother would get out of bed,
grab her old bathrobe
and whisk me to the rocker.
Even to this day,
many decades removed,
it's the best solution:
Put a breast in my mouth
and silence will ensue.
Eventually I may even coo.

Author Bio:
Donal Mahoney, a native of Chicago, lives in St. Louis, Missouri. His poetry and fiction have appeared in print and online publications in the United States, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his earliest work can be found
here: http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/

Piece of Me~ By A.C. Fernandez

1/15/2015

Dare I touch this with my tendered heart?

I fear my words may reveal
a piece of me which I allow
no one to know exists.

The Grace
of my innocence
was seized.
So, so paralyzing.

It is my secret, mine alone.
It is my memory, I carry.

The violation of my being.

Sometimes, in my lifetime.

I have imagined caresses of love,
not driven by lust.
I have desired warm breath brushing my lips,
not driven by trespass.

Ethereal exchange of energy, when souls connect.
Absorbing, breathless, abandoned passion, divine.

I close my eyes and arch my body into my vision.
I gasp with sensuality, silent seduction, softly stunning.

When I dare glance into yours,
I see nothing and I see everything.

Somewhere, in my lifetime.

I know you exist.

And, I shall share with you

that silent piece of me.

© A.C. Fernandez, All rights reserved

Author Bio:
A.C. Fernandez resides in Texas, although she previously resided in numerous locations such as Spain, Germany, Illinois, and New Mexico. She has been fortunate to experience a wide variety of cultural dynamics and uses them in her writings. She creates her pieces out of the deepest respect for the experiences of female violation of any manner or form. It is vital for her to acknowledge domestic, sexual, psychological, and physical abuse in her prolific works. Her voice is strong and straightforward, withholding nothing to express what has been branded in her mind for many years. This approach may be startling to some, but know, it is real and well written. She researches crime and all it entails, and has done so thoughout her lifetime. She has worked as a counselor, case manager, and a psychiatric nursing assistant. More often than not, her clients were individuals who experienced or perpetuated sexual violence against women. Her life has been a blur of darkness... She finds a way back to solace through her writings... Privacy and peace are her primary needs far beyond food, shelter, and clothing...

I Refuse to Choose~ By Shipra Agarwal

1/14/2015

It will forever be a tussle
between the city and the beach,
the bricks and the sand,
the morning rush and the quiet sunrise,
the evening outings and the colors of the setting sun,
the feel of a work well done and the freedom of nothingness.

It will forever be a tussle
but it will never be a choice,
because I refuse to choose!

So I'll live in the city
with waves rolling and humming beneath
the sturdy curtain of my thoughts,
Or I'll live on the beach
with the city's exultation lurking behind
the peace of aimlessness.

Author Bio:
A thirst for life has taken me down many winding roads: Medicine, Marketing, Verse, Prose, Dance Schools, Book Stores, Yoga Camps, Theater Groups; still searching for the one that leads to me, still wandering!