The Voices Project
Follow us
  • POETRY LIBRARY
  • ABOUT
  • SUBMIT
  • RESOURCES

Sea Man~ By Linda M. Crate

7/14/2015

0 Comments

 
to you we're just 
vases
waiting to be
filled
with your flowers;
you don't consider that
we are anything
more than
that
we are just vessels
for your seeds--
there's no need for our passions,
our talents, or our souls
to be laid bare
only our bodies because
to you
that's all we are;
I wish you could see that you
are not the sun
the earth revolves around,
but rather 
a sailor to be drowned
in the fury of
the ocean whose daughters you've
spoiled and laid in ruin.



Author Bio:
Linda M. Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. Her poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. Recently her two chapbooks A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn (Fowlpox Press - June 2013) and Less Than A Man (The Camel Saloon - January 2014) were published. Her fantasy novel Blood & Magic was published in March 2015.
0 Comments

The Strife and Breath of Flowers~ By Gena LeBlanc

7/13/2015

0 Comments

 
By the front porch leaning left
lays a swamp of leaves
light green to glaucous
oval to cordate
little hearts swarmed with powdery bloom.
Lilac leaves from a lilac tree
arranged neatly in small clonal thickets
of twiggy growths on shoots
in whorls of three. 
I snipped some flowers with my shears
about a day ago
lilacs for my lilac vase
which sometimes substitutes
as a jar. Today my lilacs are lovely
dead. Even lovelier than before. 

It’s gotta be that awfully terrific
stench, you know,
that corpse flower stink
it must’ve slithered up their skinny ankles
while I slept
and curled around their necks
shimmying softly so as not to be heard
straight into their gaping mouths
dressing tongues in winter clothes
and curdling each and every tooth.
What a stink! Alarming! Jarring! 
Fresh and foul as a few hours
after final breath in the sun. 
Such pretty purple royalty
shouldn’t reek of funeral homes.
They’re supposed to smell
like sunlit spring
not rotten autumn eves.
But if you plug your nose

you’d never even know
that those pretty petals
aren’t perfumed like living flowers are, 
they’ve been deadheaded
but for a little while savor plump incorruptibility

my little purple saints! 
Heaven smashed in every silky fold 

brimstone breathing 
out of every pore.


Author Bio:
Gena LeBlanc is a recent graduate of Bennington College where she studied literature and religious history. Her senior thesis was a collection of short stories and biblical exegeses about the Judeo-Christian Devil. She first began reading poetry in high school, appreciating it for its archaic beauty and melancholic mood. Since high school, however, she has had the opportunity to study poetry more broadly and is continually astounded by all that it can do. It is an art form she hopes will never die out. Gena has been published in Microfiction Monday Magazine and ElectricCereal.
0 Comments

First Love~ By Maverick

7/9/2015

2 Comments

 
His love was unrequited
the purest form of love, some say

A hundred reasons to die, 
but hearing her say his name was just right

A thousand things to forget
one to be kept forever, her smile

Those lazy eyes
he often woke up and stared at

Couldn't believe
his inebriated story of their lives

If only he could go back in time,
and hold that hand just a bit stronger,
perhaps for a little while longer

Would she have believed ?

If only he could 
reach out, kiss those lazy eyes one last time,
and fill them with his dreams

Would she have seen?

If only he could
fight everything in the world,
and win a small piece of her heart

She needed a thousand reasons to stay
while he had one

She was his bright blue sky
she was his golden sun

So he lost every battle
he lost every fight

Though one day he would win the war
because the war lied inside

For his love was unrequited
that is the purest form of love, some say!


Author Bio:

Maverick resides in Mumbai, India.  
2 Comments

Pushing Away the Rain~ By Shubhangi Joshi

7/8/2015

0 Comments

 
I sit hidden
in paper thin concrete walls
when I hear your windy footsteps.

You gently nudge
the old, yellowed curtain
to its side
and I catch a glimpse of you.

I try to hide myself
in the faceless crowd
of cement-brick rooftops
and hope that you forget to remember. 

I even close my eyes
and pretend to sleep
but deep down inside
I know you're not fooled.

It's so easy
so very easy
for you to blow away my house of straw
and lay bare my raw, childish heart
in all its vulnerability.  
But you don't.

You pass over uneventfully
in rain drop silence
with just a gentle rumble
to let me know
you had stopped by
to say hello.


Author Bio:
No matter what she does as her day job, Shubhangi is a passionate poet, guitarist and singer-songwriter. An economics graduate with an MBA in Marketing, she has nurtured her poetry throughout her adolescence into adulthood. Her poems deal with various themes, ranging from nature, love, and the experience of being a woman in Indian society.

0 Comments

The Sailor's Travels~ By Emily Witt

7/7/2015

0 Comments

 
I can hear the angel’s voice
I see her face
she whispers to me in my dreams
as we sail together 
over the seas

When she leaves me
the curse grows
there is no worse sound
than silence 
on cold nights

When I feel alone 
the wind blows right 
and she lets me know 
she’s watching me travel
all over the ocean blue


*Author Note: Found lines are by Monica Birkenes and Tim Anderson

Author Bio:
Emily Witt is a junior at Miami Arts Charter School. She has received a silver key award from Scholastics poetry and has been published in an anthology titled, ImMACulate Conceptions. Emily has two brothers and three sisters. 


0 Comments

The Anointing~ By Wanda Jackson

7/6/2015

0 Comments

 
I poured sweet sake over Raymond’s head.
The amber spirit ran down his face, onto his shirt,
and made a pool of sticky sweet on the floor.

His eyes remained open, trance-like. I had taken 
the curl from his lip and arrested his smug smile 
identical to the one in the photo above his bed.

The mirror behind him revealed how the liquid 
matted the black circuitry of curls on his head and 
made an amoeba-shaped stain on his faux suede sofa.

The mood in the room went dark, 
like a reel in a silent film. His friends 
gasped and held their drinks tightly.

His sister grabbed a towel and rushed toward him.
Raymond raised his index finger as if to say
wait, be still; let’s just see how this plays out.

Elbow resting on his knee, Raymond’s slender fingers 
curled into a question mark on his forehead;
but meditation birthed no witty reply.

He offered no words in his own defense,
neither mendacious nor sincere.
His acerbic tongue refused to acknowledge 

the revelation of the moment the universe 
stood still because the hunter had been so 
triumphantly outmatched by his prey.


Author Bio:
Wanda Jackson writes, publishes, and recites poetry in San Diego, California, and has been featured in the nationally recognized San Diego Poetry Annual in 2009 and 2011. She began writing poetry, short stories and essays as a young girl in Chicago, the city that holds her heart and is often the subject of her writing. 
0 Comments

Not a White Knight~ By S. Arawn Lynden

7/2/2015

0 Comments

 
She is the most beautiful girl in school. I have spoken to her a few times, and it's obvious she is kind. She is too good for him.

He is waiting by her locker, which is across the hall from my own. He's short and chunky, and his face looks scrunched up, like a used tissue. Sometimes I hear him try to sing to her. She's too sweet to tell him how off-key he is. Yet it's him who always has his arm around her shoulders. It's him who gets to lean in and kiss her cheek.

He is yelling again. She never yells back, she just speaks quietly until he calms. He doesn't deserve her patience. I close my locker and look over. His face is beet red and spit flies out of his mouth as he shouts. She wipes it off her face and takes a step towards him, and he pushes her. She stumbles against the lockers. I can't allow this.

I stomp over, and shove him. He tumbles to the floor, expression bewildered. He starts to cry. Pathetic.

I turn to her. She looks angry. It doesn’t make sense. I saved her, she should be grateful.

“You don't have to put up with his abuse,” I tell her, “You deserve a better boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?!” she exclaims, “He's my brother- my mentally disabled brother. Maybe you should get a goddamn clue what's going on before shoving people around, you idiot.”


Author Bio:
S. Arawn Lynden is the pen-name of a Toronto woman with a passion for the written word. Having first sat down at a typewriter at the age of four, she fell hopelessly in love at first write. Currently involved with several short stories, she aspires to work her way up to novels. Typically a fantasy or science fiction writer, she's known to dabble across all genres. She has yet to meet an idea she doesn't like. Drawing from an eclectic set of life experiences including adoption and reunion, taking a stand for equality, and three near-death experiences; S. Arawn Lynden prefers to look at things from a different perspective. She hopes that through her work, she can help others take a fresh look at life.
0 Comments

Leave Your Socks On~ By Melissa Knox

7/1/2015

0 Comments

 
Leave your socks on throw your clothes off
Hop back in! Fifteen minutes ought to do us
Kiss and giggle we like the feeling
Of getting away with something
Old fatties in our black socks
Pool of sunlight roll right into it
Keep it quiet! The kids are down the hall.


Author Bio:
Melissa Knox writes and teaches in Germany, and has an essay forthcoming in Brain, Child.  
0 Comments
Forward>>

    Poet Search

    by last name

    Archives

    February 2022
    December 2021
    November 2021
    August 2021
    July 2021
    June 2021
    May 2021
    April 2021
    March 2021
    February 2021
    January 2021
    December 2020
    November 2020
    October 2020
    September 2020
    August 2020
    July 2020
    June 2020
    May 2020
    April 2020
    March 2020
    February 2020
    January 2020
    December 2019
    November 2019
    October 2019
    September 2019
    August 2019
    July 2019
    June 2019
    May 2019
    April 2019
    March 2019
    February 2019
    January 2019
    December 2018
    November 2018
    October 2018
    September 2018
    August 2018
    July 2018
    June 2018
    May 2018
    April 2018
    March 2018
    February 2018
    January 2018
    December 2017
    November 2017
    October 2017
    September 2017
    August 2017
    July 2017
    June 2017
    May 2017
    April 2017
    March 2017
    February 2017
    January 2017
    December 2016
    November 2016
    October 2016
    September 2016
    August 2016
    July 2016
    June 2016
    May 2016
    April 2016
    March 2016
    February 2016
    January 2016
    December 2015
    November 2015
    October 2015
    September 2015
    August 2015
    July 2015
    June 2015
    May 2015
    April 2015
    March 2015
    February 2015
    January 2015
    December 2014
    November 2014
    October 2014
    September 2014
    August 2014
    July 2014
    June 2014
    May 2014
    April 2014
    March 2014
    February 2014
    January 2014
    December 2013
    November 2013
    October 2013
    September 2013
    August 2013
    July 2013
    June 2013
    May 2013
    April 2013
    March 2013
    February 2013
    January 2013
    November 2012

    RSS Feed

Contact The Voices Project: editors@thevoicesproject.org