Blog Archives - The Voices Project

Summer Midnight’s Dream~ By Sam Barbee

3/29/2021

romp at dusk devolves the day
old cairns direct the next step
gels of light for forgotten light.

medicate until the vanishing hour
water from a thirsting well
damp handkerchief for the brow.

key keeping doors closed
hinge that opens doors
last-ditch claims before departure.

lexicon empty of significance
blue ink slashes red eulogy
broom for words’ irate ash.

my body’s sudden rouge
knave’s heart reveals brave face
become the blushing extrovert.

goose-down dreaming
manna to cleanse all weeping
fables dance with trauma.

quick breath offsets suffering
claims will devolve by morning
cure-all for my unnamed ills.

pulse stills lilies-of-the-valley
velvet sleeve silences the bell
bright bouquets, and sleep’s veil.

Author Bio:
Sam Barbee's poems have appeared in Poetry South, The NC Literary Review, Crucible, Asheville Poetry Review, The Southern Poetry Anthology VII: North Carolina, Georgia Journal, Kakalak, and Pembroke Magazine, among others; plus on-line journals Vox Poetica, Sky Island Journal, Courtland Review and The New Verse News.

His second poetry collection, That Rain We Needed (2016, Press 53), was a nominee for the Roanoke-Chowan Award as one of North Carolina’s best poetry collections of 2016. He was awarded an "Emerging Artist's Grant" from the Winston-Salem Arts Council to publish his first collection Changes of Venue (Mount Olive Press); has been a featured poet on the North Carolina Public Radio Station WFDD; received the 59th Poet Laureate Award from the North Carolina Poetry Society for his poem "The Blood Watch"; and is a Pushcart nominee.

Prayer to Saint Anthony~ By Sonya Wohletz

3/25/2021

A silver splinter lodges itself into the membrane of a word where my mother waits
in the dark.
Saint Anthony sits in the far corner of the other dark window, sighing as he checks the time. One flash of starlight crosses centuries of lost items, but he can only think of hunger now.
His salvation is not our concern in this obsidian wind.
An architecture of desire blooms in towers across either side of a quiet realization, striking its many heads hard against a flint sky as if in answer to the question I want to ask
Even if it is a just punishment
A memory has gone missing in its thousand strands of silver,
Fine-tuned to match the weight of my mother’s hand across the surface of every moment
The opal of her palms her white metal fingers cold and thin
Set the broken bones of truth
clatter out demands on keyboard
Grip the bars of a hospital bed.
These same hands with which she selected every shining seed
And strung them all together around the throat of a rising moon,
Joining the thumb and pointer finger together in attitude of blessing
As she clasps the story shut. Now
A dense forgetting rushes out in rivers of dark ink
Somewhere in the valley between my spine and breast,
pooling in the left chamber of an obsidian heart
cloven from the lithic core of grief.
A prayer shudders with earth pulse and unfurls itself in
Seismic longing, lapping at the veins with its forked tongue.
I have tasted the thermal map of memory
Here in between the crease of the dry autumn leaf and the damp rot of older seasons
Where I dig myself into time with one long fingernail.
But there is still this question I must ask:
Tell me, Saint Anthony, where did it go
The holy blood relic --
the handing down --
is it mine?

Author Bio:
Sonya was born as a bat in a golden cave in the Southwest. After dreaming herself into human, she saw that she has opposable thumbs, and has enjoyed using them to write, paint, and make messes. Her work has appeared in Latin American Literary Review, Cholla Needles, La Piccioletta Barca, and others.

The stars are apart~ By Pinky Ho

3/24/2021

in my classroom i see students as stars
my stars sit far apart from each other
not just a social distancing measure
a gap is always here – the achievement gap
the pandemic just exacerbated it further
due to social and economic factors
the advantaged ones achieve a lot better
the disadvantaged ones risk falling behind
to close such a gap i must be a dreamer
at school they sort students into winners or
losers and unrecognized those in failure
isn’t it through failure they grow stronger?
like to the stars in darkness they shine brighter
for some reason the stars are apart up there
some are more recognized than the others
but all never cease to shine with their power
big or small i gaze and gaze my heart cheers
if i believe students are powerful stars
brightly they will shine like never before
bright in their way sparkling now and ever

Author Bio:
Pinky Ho lives and teaches English in Macau. She holds an MEd in Educational Psychology from the University of Macau. As a teacher, she applies the science of Psychology to enhance teaching and learning. Recently, she has started to incorporate ideas from Educational Psychology into poetry writing. Poetry writing is a pastime for her mind. Her poems have previously appeared in Voice and Verse Poetry Magazine.

The Fangs of Terror~ By Vincent Nwabueze

3/23/2021

The veiled young lady walked briskly towards the crowded mall.
Innocent she appeared, with a mien that seem not to hurt a fly.
But carefully hidden under her black gown
Are destructive IEDS powerful to destroy and annihilate a city out of existence.

Men, women, boys, girls, the elderly and infirm
Oblivious of the merchant of death lurking amongst them
Go about their business unperturbed

Suddenly a loud quake rent through the din.
Smoke, smoke here, smoke everywhere
Then yet another boom, loud enough to render someone deaf.
Death has come to dwell amongst the people.

People scattered in different directions.
Mothers, fathers to the east and children to the west
All in desperation to escape the Armageddon.
And live to tell the story of this despicable macabre.

Now as the dust begins to clear.
And the survivalists summon the courage.
To glee at the waste of destruction

Minced meat of human body parts
Abound the length and breadth of the scene of sorrow.
To tell the story of a mindless murder

Woe unto you the harbinger and agent of destruction.
You never created any soul; yes, not even a sigh.
But like a sadist, you derive joy in aborting.
What Orisha [The master of the universe], the heavenly one, has created.

Author Bio:
Vincent Nwabueze studied sociology at university of Abuja, Nigeria.He also holds an LLB degree in Law from Nigerian's National Open University. Vincent Nwabueze began writing while still a college student. He has written a collection of short stories and poems and has been published in The Society Voice Project. He participates in writing competitions. One of his short stories 'The Intelligent Thief' was short listed for the African Writers Awards 2020. Presently, he is working on his debut novel.

Sonnet of Dreams~ By Paweł Markiewicz

3/18/2021

Heavenly sailorling spy out the wan light-sheen of star.
Baffling unearthly time: weird having just thieved by elves.
One of pale mornings longs for some meek fulfillment of night.
Moony and nostalgic chums – comets are upon the skies.

Lonely dreamery – lying just blink-sea, weird above.
Endless nostalgia is being of pang. Hades is fay.
Heavenly moony lure, beings seem dark, Ethics fly off!
Poignant decease has become drab black, comet has picked rain.

The glow, which is deathless, at length in the sadness full bane.
Grim Reaper loves more than You dream – a bit lights of the worms.
Marvel of starlit night: I have found a little of my name.
Starry night – dreamy glow are only in the tender souls.

Sensing the moonlet, demise of cool-blue song will be free.
Your worm bawls after all certainly. Death blubbing like me.

Author Bio:
Paweł Markiewicz was born 1983 in Siemiatycze in Poland. He is poet who lives in Bielsk Podlaski and writes tender poems, haiku as well as long poems. Paweł has published his poetries in many magazines. He writes in English and German.

Some things are beyond control~ By Jasleen Saini

3/17/2021

my love for myself is a rain
that has departed from clouds but never reached ground to settle its torment.
/* rain isn’t to blame for; perhaps clouds pushed her away in an abusive manner
and she forgot her obedience.
perhaps, amidst between sky and land, she’s enchanted by the dark or
light memories of trapped consciousnesses.
rain isn’t to blame for.
pointing finger for too long does no good, creates hole( an invisible black hole) in the air,
don’t you wonder where’s the collective happiness? */
for how long could waves carry moon beams on their crowns?
their love for themselves is supernova-amusement,
yet their breaths are cradled by the unseen force.

Author Bio:
Jasleen Saini is an author of the book “In the Throat of Poppy” (a short collection of epigrams and poems), based in Chandigarh, India. She holds degree in BTECH and MBA. Writing is a breath of her soul. In her childhood, she used to write on the walls of her maternal grandparents’ house. The first poem she ever wrote in May 2019 was “Angel in the Age of Vice” inspired by a divine being on earth. She loves trying different forms of poetry. Her instagram account is @_j.s1111_ , where she posts poems everyday. For her, nature, traveling and animals are the doors to perpetual satiation. She’s fond of mysticism.

Broom~ By David Anthony Sam

3/16/2021

Her broom was a typical one for the time,
made from simple straw bent over itself
and bound with strong twine, tied to
the pine handle that was painted a dull red.
She used it to sweep the sorrow of him
from the empty room he had made for himself
in the dark corner of the dank basement.
Stalks of it broke away as she swept back
and forth–dust rising, dust of his shed skin
and his disavowed promises. Early moonlight
fell into the eastern window, like a cold sister
signaling the sympathy of pale reflection.

after Rimbaud’s “Le Balai”

Author Bio:
David Anthony Sam lives in Virginia with his wife and life partner, Linda. His poetry has appeared in over 90 journals and his poem, “First and Last,” won the 2018 Rebecca Lard Award. Six of his collections are in print including Final Inventory (Prolific Press 2018), Finite to Fail: Poems after Dickinson, 2016 Grand Prize winner of the GFT Press Chapbook Contest, and Dark Fathers (Kelsay Books 2019). He teaches creative writing at Germanna Community College, from where he retired as President in 2017 and serves as the Regional VP on the Board of the Virginia Poetry Society.

Workout~ By Dennis Reed

3/11/2021

When I leave to go to the gym
my wife has eyes of gleaming fear

that I am thinking about the
form of more than machines,

no need to worry
I am firming hers,

children circling me

on the street,
asking me for money

the woman
who stood in front

of me with her sign
while I was trying

to read the perfect
poetry of Mervyn Taylor

I have my Bible
hold yours upside down,

while military rocks
come down on

Black heads from
helicopters sent

by a weird uncle,
the world, his attic

a jokester
with the lives of others.

Author Bio:
Dennis Reed is a native New Yorker and member of the INFAMOUS Bud Jones poets. Former publications: ESSENCE, STYLE, BLACK CREATIONS, BLACK SCHOLAR, CLA and many other journals. Former Professor at Morehouse, William and Mary and Virginia Commonwealth University.

Untitled~ By Simon Perchik

3/10/2021

*

Just hours old and the Earth
already trying to find water
̶ it's how you learn

follow each other though the sun
was slower then, not yet damp
from funerals one by one

and the day to day search
the way you dead hear light
as shoreline asking for help

from whoever comes by
with tears picked clean
̶ you cup your hands

as if this dirt was once a sea
̶ so much dew still being sifted
with what it would be like to grieve.

*

No more than a clink, impatient
would surprise you though this wall
is used to stones that gather

where a tower should be
̶ what you dead heard was the cry
when another grave is born

and some three billion year old rock
makes a sound, has the faint voice
that left you to hollow out the Earth

the way all bells are made
from what it's like to grieve
for so long and in silence.

*

One cup kept empty and side by side
as if forgiveness is a service
due when you shake the dust off

and the other overflows with coffee
heats your mouth with lips
that blacken when one hand

is grasped by the other and the spill
towed to where the dead overflow
as evenings :an entitlement

that returns the darkness
before the sun comes back
brings the light that once was water

fills this small cup with a morning
you will clear with a soft rag
holding it close to the wooden table.

*

From behind the bird in the showcase
the boy looking out the picture is you
still counting each feather backwards

as if waiting for the zero would finish
with the pocket-size wings still pinned
warmed by the stuffed leather jacket

̶ it stopped raining though through glass
every drizzle becomes a shroud
made tighter by the slow, climbing turn

into your headstone, wet, wedged
as if sirens and smoke already pulled it
halfway out, is looking one by one.

*

You cup your hands around the rim
as if time no longer wants you
though the mountain spring that died

couldn't have weighed much more itself
still smells from side to side
and reaching out as waves ̶ you drink

over and over empty the water
so wherever it shows up it's cold
will hide you now that death

is so thirsty, fits into a glass
can be seen still gathering
has your eyes, owes you nothing.

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 Reflection in a Glass Eye published by Cholla Needles Arts & Literary Library, 2020. For more information including free e-books and his essay “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com.

To view one of his interviews please follow this link https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MSK774rtfx8

Dancers in the Trees~ By Robert L. Martin

3/9/2021

Swirling green skirts in view,
hidden dancers in the trees,
unseen but seen through the
eyes of the wind,
irrelevant but relevant
to the rustling of the leaves,
dancing to the
rhythm of the winds
in cadence with their
commanding pace,
looking out for ensuing storms,
moving to the fanfares of
the restless breezes,
of heralding trumpets
ushering in the tempest
with the music of their moods,
their demolition upon the earth,
their love affair with the gardens,
their heroic rains,
their ballads,
their fortissimo pounding,
their mad dissonance,
their gentle consonance,
dancing to the air of the mood,

lovely rustling of the leaves,
the beauty of their movement,
the swaying of their skirts,
the rhythm in their bones,
the passion in their eyes,
the music in their legs,
the story in their hands,
the poetry in their fingers,
the euphoria in their spirit,
the child in their hearts,
dancing to the
commanding winds,
the dancers in the trees.

Author Bio:
Robert L. Martin, Author of "Wings of Inspiration" book of poetry, appeared in many journals including Poets' Espresso, "Universal Oneness" anthology book from New Delhi, India, won two Faith & Hope" poetry awards.