This face I saw 
really surprised me, so I wondered
where in the dickens it came from?
No laugh lines were present
The only expression I saw was a scowl
an owl, that's what he reminded me of
a scrunched up neck, with shoulders that were
definitely stooped, and positively rounded
Looking at him closely, I wondered, if someone
had absconded with his ability to smile
or even laugh for that matter
The more I watched him, I realized
that I was getting madder
for we were in a Comedy Club
and a young comic was on stage
telling her jokes trying to make us laugh
while we all, except one, enjoyed her act
We guffawed and chortled and occasionally clapped
What was wrong with this man, was he born
with no sense of humor, or maybe a giant tumor 
diminished his ability to show the hint of a smile
Finishing her set, the young comic bowed
Then stepping off stage, she thanked the crowd
The room erupted in boisterous applause
The only one not clapping was this reticent jerk
whose actions demeaned the efforts, of a young comic
who simply love coming to work 


Author Bio:
Charles Scudder is an old Viet Nam vet, who writes poems, songs and short stories that fill his mind with strange, exotic and darn good feelings. The best place for him to escape today's problems is by creating things, which brings him great joy and satisfaction. God Bless America. 

I didn’t mean to make you mad;
the bruises will go away soon.
I didn’t mean to break the window, with the ball.
My arm will heal in about six weeks.
I didn’t mean to walk in on you and your boyfriend in the bedroom.
I thought you were alone.
The doctor said I would heal in a few weeks,
but he wanted to know who did this to me.
I wouldn’t tell him,
I love you unconditionally.

I didn’t mean to lie,
Why did you let him hurt me so bad?
Why did you let him just throw me away like 
a bag of trash over the side of the road?
My body is numb
My soul is no more.
I didn’t mean to,
My love was unconditionally for you.


Author Bio:
Tammy L. Carter is an Author/Poet from Woodlawn, Virginia. She has published three books since 2008. 2001 she started writing after the death of her mother. She found out it helped with her loss. After seven years she published her first book, a collection of poems. “Memories that are not forgotten” Then in 2012 she published her second book “My Friend Dinner” a children’s book that is dedicated to her father. 
Tammy’s third book came out in 2015, a collection of poems and two true stories. “A Time to Reflect” This book has a very special meaning for her, her son Clayton also has three poems included. 

​Tammy lives in Virginia with her son and their three cats and one dog.  She graduated from high school in 1981. Wytheville Community College in 1986 from CNA, attended Surry Community College in North Carolina in 96-98 for Business. Tammy is a member of JoyWriters of Galax, VA Member of All Poetry.com. Other than writing Tammy enjoys baking and making crafts. 

You sit there on the couch, bent shoulder slumped,
brow knit over a dim computer screen
judging the text you write with harsher tones
than the out-of-date junk piano blare
from the conductor play of kids next door.

Tonight, I made your favorite lemon pie,
potatoes in a butter mash, and steak
hoping to lift the lid of hunger enough
for you to see our skinny love, starving,
licked clean by the dreams at the door.


Author Bio:
Abigail Michelini is an English professor at Northampton Community College working on her doctorate in English at Indiana University of Pennsylvania. She has been a lover a poetry since she was 8-years-old, when she and her dad started memorizing poems together. It has remained a life force for her ever since. 

The perky, pretty little blond, blue-eyed first grader
charmed Miss Konkle with her quick answers 
and love of alphabet, stories, numbers. Charmed
too, Miss Brown, Mrs. Walter and Mrs. Horton.

I learned if you're needed
Caraboose, the bad fairy who put Princess Aurora
to sleep, along with the whole castle, was on the loose
doing a lazy fairy’s job: letting hormones destroy 
the charming little girls -- many of them, perhaps most.
At twelve, the feet grew huge, arms hung gangling,
blond hair turned dishwater dull and drab, and a bean
pole body was slow to round out like the bodies of Barbies. 
Myopia blurred the vision in the mirror; glasses were needed. 
“Boys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses.”

Oh, I knew, just when my brain matured enough to know
such things, that I was a mess. No dates for me, no boy 
friends, none of those delicious teenage delights 
in Seventeen. Teacher’s pet was a curse, excitement
about the Metropolitan Opera Saturday broadcasts instead
of Elvis or even Sinatra, part of the thorny hedge 
the ugly fairy erected around me. I knew no Prince 
would ever come to cut through the briars and kiss me 
ever so gently -- oh, god, how I wanted that magic kiss!

Princesses in fairy tales don’t get to go to college.
I wasn’t born a princess and only Disney believes in fairies.
The good old Greyhound bus and the shot-straight roads
of Indiana took me to cities beyond the corn fields. 
The mirror on the wall never did say I was “fairest of them all”
but I didn’t have to live with seven variously handicapped dwarfs.
I did have to wise up, forget about Princes and learn about Erica Jung
and Gloria Steinem. I looked down and saw those once gallumpy feet
were a very solid foundation for standing on.

Yes

My mother must have been the one
who offered my piano playing.
She’d been driving me to lessons
for four years. I practiced faithfully.
She didn’t know how incompetent
were teacher and pupil both.
I was twelve, talentless, unable
to handle key signatures with more
than two flats or sharps.

But Florence Rahe, the pianist,
was unwell, she could only play
the piano for the church service.
We need you, Floyd Busteed said.
I’ll give you a hymnal
tell you what to practice
Florence Rahe died. I played
At both services until I left
for college. No one else could.

I learned: if you’re need
perfection is not required,
mistakes are forgiven,
you'll stop shaking, you’ll be
praised by those who couldn’t 
or wouldn’t do the job.
I’ve said yes when I could have,
probably should have, said no,
in many unforeseeable situations.

My mother made me who she wanted
me to be. I learned responsibility.
Simple ignorance, lack of proficiency
doesn’t matter very much --
not really, not if no one else says yes.
I don’t regret my yeses.


Author Bio:
After a 30-year professional playwriting career in New York City with productions, readings, commissions and invitations to national conferences, June Calendar has retired to Cap Cod. She is now writing poetry, short stories and various kinds of prose. She also teaches writing skills to seniors at the Academy for Lifelong Learning housed at Cape Cod Community College.

The Voices Project is pleased to announce the publication of a new chapbook "Moods of the Dream Fog" (Finishing Line Press, 2016) by one of our esteemed contributors, Wendy Gist.

Reserve your copy here . Advance copy / pre-publication sales begin Feb. 22nd  and end Apr. 22nd.  Ships June 17, 2016. 

A neighbor's house has fallen into disrepair.
Windows are boarded up.
The door is padlocked.
Many of the shingles are missing.
And roof tiles are scattered across
the unmown yard.
 
The old man who lived in it passed away
and surviving relatives have been hard to come by.
Befuddled lawyers, indecisive local council,
just means more neglect, more ruin.
It could be years before anything's resolved.
 
Pigeons and sparrows find some use for it.
My mother's concerned that tramps
might take a liking to its shelter.
And as for rats - there doesn't even have to be any,
The threat is enough.
 
My father says
the longer no one moves into it
the less likely it will ever he restored
to what it was.
I don't even need him to tell me that.
I can see vividly,
on my daily trudge to school,
what it means to be abandoned.
 
I'm curious. empathetic,
and I take it as a warning.


Author Bio:
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Perceptions and the anthology, No Achilles with work upcoming in Big Muddy Review, Gargoyle, Main Street Rag and Spoon River Poetry Review. 

​Look, look! It is the month of December.
I am shivering, because of cold
The one silly thing I need is sweater.
Love is in the raindrops, now I have told!

The trees in the garden are covered with snow
The road to the college is blocked
Christmas time is close now
What to do, in this whether so cold?

I decorate the house for festival
Mummy makes cakes and pies
Waiting for father as we prepare
Wrapping gifts and waiting for friends and parties.

Santa! Please come to our house.
Award me with a wonderful life
Love from mummy and daddy
And shower my Christmas with your bliss!


Author Bio:
Ritu Tayal writes in her spare time.