Blog Archives - The Voices Project

The Upturned Tree~ By Jacqueline Coleman-Fried

2/25/2021

A storm with the name of a man tore through here.
It clubbed the trees, swung them by the hair.
Broke their arms and legs.
Next to the lake, it yanked a big one from the ground.
The naked web of roots and crater it left
made me gasp.

I weep for the trees, I weep for us
that we concoct such mayhem
from the gas and chemicals we spew--
poisoning everything except for cockroaches.

I would like to know what a real forest looks like.
I would like to see one that has grown, undisturbed by saws and careless fires, for hundreds of years.
I picture it as so dense with giant trunks
a man can barely pass,
so thick with mighty branches and leaves
no wind gets through.

I think I like trees too much.
Was I one? Am I one now?

Author Bio:
Jacqueline Coleman-Fried is a poet and essayist living in Tuckahoe, NY. She wants to know: How much monstrous weather must we endure before we finally get serious about protecting the environment--and ourselves? Her work has appeared in The Voices Project and Home Planet News Online.

(After) The Revolution~ By Xanadu

2/24/2021

The revolution should be red
and tasty like a strawberry

Just like a cartoon
it shows two humans
one's lip hanging down
from his arms which touch each other by their thumbs on which they balance
a red front (like a strawberry)

Communicating with a precious smile to second figure
to the front who also
shows finger language
left hand pointer and middle
in V sign for peace
right hand pointer pointing
to horizon (instead of gravity up)

It adds up to post-revolutionary talk
but slow and peaceful like human rights.

(Thanks to Roberto Matta 1971 'La revolucion debe ser roja y sabrosa como una frutilla' Museo de Belles Artes Santiago de Chile and La Bruja)

Author Bio:
Xanadu lives in Iv, Space of Infinite Imagination, Public's Home 0.
It consists in publications, performances and exhibits in art, jazz and literary contexts.
气 is the Chinese sign qi (please, ask your local Traditional Chinese Medicine for its many senses).

Wet~ By Debbie Whitmore

2/23/2021

Keep it wet.
Keep it wet
where my footsteps were,
to wash away the melancholy
that draws you in
whenever times are hard
to make them harder,
sadder, and not true.

Let my shoes fall off
like those you see in the middle
of the highway;
so randomly placed.
Let me lose mine on the
Highway 101; for all to see.
Losing the dirt collected
and wrong roads taken. Never
again to remember where I was,
what I did,
who I was, back
then. Long ago
where it hurt to be.

now, I’m free.

I can’t see where I’m going
only that I am
going.

Author Bio:
Debbie Whitmore is a member of the Occaneechi Saponi Tribe and was born in a small town in North Carolina. She currently lives in Sonoma, California. She is a writer, poet, and author working to create a small patch of compassion and shed light on how we are more alike than different, connected than separate and loved than not. She holds a bachelor’s degree in political science and a master’s degree in business. She writes policies and training content for a software company.

A Visit to the National Zoo~ By Michael S. Walker

2/19/2021

Where are the animals?
I see a giant canvas hammock
Bed for the spectacled bear
I see beavers
On closed-circuit television,
Soaked and comfortable
Oblivious in their ersatz lodge.
I see mug shots of lion tamarinds
The legend says they never make a break for it
But they are nowhere chattering in the air
Above me.
All I see
Are people
Walking, pushing
Prides and packs
And plumage to attract.
All I see are people.
An Arabian woman in her dotage
Wandering the borders of her daughters
Veiled and robed
On this impossibly hot day.
And there are children
Standing under a sprinkler
Waiting for the wind to turn
And bring relief their way.
And there’s a beautiful black woman
Pushing her baby in a stroller
She has a tattoo
Little white raccoon tracks
Up one strong thigh.
So many couples and families
So many states and allegiances
Maryland Terrapins (CONT.)
Jersey Devils
The Bears.
And I always seem to be
Walking the wrong way
Pushing against their inexorable stream
Kneeling to write some gibberish
In a notebook.
“The bonobos will never go on strike.”
It doesn’t really matter that there
Are no animals.
This is what I came to see
My species
As far away from La Grande Jette
As they can be.
Ah look at the woeful sloth bear
Surrounded by paparazzi.

Author Bio:
Michael S. Walker is a writer living in Newark, Ohio. He is the author of two books: 7-22 and The Vampire Henry. He has also seen his stories and poems published in various magazines including PIF and Fiction Southeast.

family farm~ By James Thurgood

2/18/2021

in this hayfield’s corner, a pine grove
- site of our first house, first felled tree -

my mother names forefathers, brothers
and wives who step blackgowned from family Bibles
into summer - and seem with their men
from cool dark to watch mother and child
cross the glowing field but gone like Indians
when we enter their silent tangle of home

in the middle
a sag like an unmarked grave
sunk with loss - I search skunkweed, raspberries
for a sword, skull, piece-of-eight - find crockery shards
a blemished tin cup, bleached two-by-four

when I look back
from green and yellow hay, purple clover
the pines drawn together frown
like a knot of men annoyed outside church

names of wildflowers in my mother’s hand
- eggs-and-butter, black-eyed Susan -
I’ll know till petals wilt
- other names forgotten, I run after
her golden-brown thighs
swishing through summer hay

Author Bio:
James Thurgood was born in Nova Scotia, grew up in Windsor, Ontario, and now lives in Calgary, Alberta. He has been a labourer, musician, and teacher – not necessarily in that order. His poems have appeared in various journals (most recently, Umbrella Factory, Quatrain Fish, Spadina Literary Review) anthologies, and in a collection (Icemen/Stoneghosts, Penumbra Press). He is also the author of His Own Misfortune, a work-in-progress. (thurgoodwordsalad.blogspot.com/).

Revelations~ By Alan Berger

2/17/2021

I had a dream last night
Was way deep in the sack
The heavens beheld a sight
On live T.V.
Jesus Christ came back
And who was the first person
That he wanted to see?
It was none other than me

We went for coffee
That was our path
Elvis came in
And wanted an autograph

He talked about dying
And how great it was to be free
We talked about lying
I said it was my specialty
He said if I was a liar
I was preaching to the Choir

Then I met a girl
That made me feel alive
I was 80
She was 25
One or two things
Led to some others
I figured it was alright
Even if I was old enough
To be her good looking
Slightly older brother

Then I woke up
And realized
What was real
And like so many others
I found fantasy Elvis and religion
In jail

Author Bio:
Alan Berger is a writer and director with two films currently on Netflix.

The Bubble~ By Swati Rawal

2/11/2021

It was a mistake from the beginning
Some people live in bubbles
After three decades of living in a foreign land
One would not expect that
That was the trap we fell in
Some people live in their comfort zones only
Surrounded by people, mirror images of themselves
From the same country but different regions
Cannot get together as human beings
In a melting pot of cultures, castes divide them
Anything different frightens them
We fell into that trap
We, who have always lived outside our comfort zones
We fell into that trap
My child, live your life, live the way you want to
We are proud of you for your multiracial friends
Your compassion and empathy for human beings
You will never fall into that trap again
Your parents’ love is around you like a cloak
In the end it’s only family and good friends who matter
Enjoy your life my child, we are with you always
True love will knock at your door again one day
And your multiracial background will rejoice

Author Bio:
Swati Rawal is a dentist by profession who loves the arts and nature. She is an avid photographer and writes poetry and short stories. She was born and raised in India and then relocated to Trinidad and Tobago. She currently lives in Memphis, Tennessee with her husband, two boys, and two canine children.

Why do we need to end a Story?

2/10/2021

My body is a deep, dark ocean and I wait for waves to drown the memories of yesteryears. My heart is a wanderer, absorbed and solitary, wandering for ages, and looking for a place I can finally call home. My mind is a rebel telling people not to judge me for living my life on the edges. When the truth is, I have never lived and my prayers are never answered. They have always returned to me unfulfilled. Do I need to make another prayer? Write another story. The new story won’t have an ending. Does every story need to end? Why can’t we leave a story unfinished, unresolved? Will that make it a lesser story? Or will it help to create something new, something unique. In that new story, I won’t die in exile but will find my way home. To start afresh. To write a new story with a new ending.

Author Bio:
Marzia Rahman is a Bangladeshi fiction writer and translator. She has an MA in English Literature from the University of Dhaka. Her articles, translations, book reviews, short stories and flashes have appeared in several local papers, journals and online magazines. Her article Bringing Light into Darkness (2008) has won her CSF Journalist Fellowship Award for best report. In 2016, her translated story "Helal was on his Way to Meet Reshma" has been featured in the anthology, The Book of Dhaka co-published by Comma Press, UK and Bengal Lights, Dhaka. In 2017, she has participated in the International Literary Translation and Creative Writing Summer School at University of East Anglia in Norwich, UK. Her novella-in-flash Life on the Edges has been long-listed in the Bath Novella-in-Flash Award Competition 2018. Rahman’s debut novel The Price of Freedom is in the offing.

Blossom~ By Rachel Oshiro

2/9/2021

He told me that I was the most delicate flower,
my petals fragile to the harsh reality of society.
That I was something special to be cared for,
to be cultivated, but I didn’t realize
that being tended to was him caressing
my breasts in the most gentle way,
staining my body with his handprints.

He told me that I was his special flower,
that no one else would take care of me
the way that he would; that no one else
would love me as much as he would.
He fertilized my soil with lies, forced
me to be dependent on falsehoods as his
manipulations took root in my heart as truth.

He told me that I had blossomed well
despite the many distasteful weeds that
surrounded me on a daily basis, but
he was unaware that the way he tended me
left me mangled in the most ugly way,
unable to be fixed except with a gentle hand
that would only be repulsed by my heart of thorns.

Author Bio:
Rachel Oshiro is currently at student at Binghamton University majoring in English and Medieval Studies. She started writing poetry from a young age as a way for her voice to be heard in an environment where she felt she ignored. Now poetry is a way for her to share her story and her feelings in hopes to inspire other people to write about their life experiences when they might otherwise feel silent.

NASTY Woman~ By Kathleen Murphey

2/3/2021

Call me a NASTY Woman,
and I’ll wear it as a badge.
NASTY

No-Nonsense, Assertive, Smart, Truthful, Yearning,
Noteworthy, Articulate, Steadfast, Tenacious, Young-blood,
Noble, Accomplished, Sincere, Tested, Young-at-heart.

NASTY
Wear it proud. Wear it loud.
NASTY Woman!

Author Bio:
Kathleen Murphey is an associate professor of English at Community College of Philadelphia. Her poems have been published through Writing in a Woman's Voice, the Pennsylvania Literary Journal, among other platforms/publications. JMS Books will publish her collection of alternative, sex-positive, LGBTQ+ fairy tales, Rainbow Tales, in July. For more about her, visit her website at www.kathleenmurphey.com.