Blog Archives - The Voices Project

Short Piece About a Hawk~ By Holly Day

8/18/2021

There's this hawk that's been terrorizing the rabbits in our neighborhood all summer and fall and now. It eats everything but the head of the rabbit, which it just drops wherever the hell it wants. You can walk down my street at any given moment and find a dead rabbit's head just lying there in the middle of the sidewalk, or poking comically out of a snowbank as though it’s watching you.

Anyway, my neighbor, Carol, was saying that she usually find three or four of these heads in her yard almost every morning. She used to have trouble with students taking the parking spot in front of her house, but now that she has dead rabbit heads all over her yard, they're scared to park there. So something good's coming out of it.

Author Bio:
Holly Day (hollylday.blogspot.com) has been an instructor at the Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis since 2000. Her writing has recently appeared in Hubbub, Grain, and Third Wednesday, and her newest books are The Tooth is the Largest Organ in the Human Body (Anaphora Literary Press), Book of Beasts (Weasel Press), Bound in Ice (Shanti Arts), and Music Composition for Dummies (Wiley).

The Stars And I~ By John Grey

8/17/2021

I introduced you to the observable universe.
I did my best to point out constellations, planets and stars.
It was never case of wanting to fill vast gaps in your education.
But a line through Dubhe and Merak connects Polaris and Regulus.
An offshoot of it runs through me.

I wished for you to share that same experience,
to reach out for the Dipper’s handle,
embrace the Winter Triangle, go cruising with me
across Orion’s sparkling fields, hand in hand, eye to eye.

No point being with a guy in thrall to night sky,
if the city’s neon is galaxy enough,
the names of clubs and restaurants
are all that enables your imagination.

I stood out in the field near 10 P.M. staring up
at the cloudless heavens, waiting for you to join me,
Canis Major, Sirius, Betelgeuse and Procyon,
for an evening of wonderment and splendor.
You chose a night out drinking with friends instead.
I hope your get-together sparkled.
Mine can’t help itself.

Author Bio:
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Penumbra, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, “Leaves On Pages” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Lana Turner and Held.

Malleus Maleficarum~ By Diana Andrasi

8/12/2021

Prologue behind the curtains
(Faust’s prayers)

The holy figure simply heads to you,
while the book of saints cries out in
the shadows. My Lord, I’m between
pages and rages as anything before.

I’m begging you, I’m emptying you,
I’m standing like a light post on the
street. I’m humbling myself to grey
out all historical and hysterical time.

The knowledge went out of my skin,
while fairies pinch with deep pencils
the surface of white through the ink.
I grew out of silver to melt into gold.

Alchemy is my middle name scratched
with waxed fingers into the tree trunk.
Kabala is my stepmother married with
all my unknown fathers on an Irish hill.

Mephisto(pheles) to Faust
Last letter dated “September”

Dearest friend, I’m writing to you with
most pleasure and hopefulness, looking
forward to receiving from you an open
answer to my dark questions and marks.

I’m not yet alone, but sentenced to be in
a couple of weeks. Your holly buddy sat
with the book on his knees frowning to it
and scratching the sky with bony memory.

I’m set to sail to the vicious world of sin,
to tremble and to mumble here and there,
bound to eternally bridging the gap between
ever-lasting and ever-drastic. For the sake

of time: Latin is the language of the adverb
Quandoquidem, nequiquam, postremo, nunc
With Herodotus’ voice, verbs and adverbs of
a story plot to be truth’s guardians and ghosts.

Faust to his friend
a letter to be sent by the next post

I have red on my fingers and red on the page,
I have life-red words on every walk through
the ancient tale. Her name comes scarlet-y as
a hint in a social conversation. Little by little,

veil and hair blown by time, inflicted on the
wall-mirror, change in leaf, branch, smell or
road, winter and white lines. Same red on my
steps: I travel by boat, train or by thought to

reach the time of her whisper. She was a dark
present, you were a light messenger. Together
you built up the most amazing legend of love
and betrayal. I still have red on my fingernails.

Prologue in the forest

If your left and right hands are tied
to silence and despair, say out loud
the words of the song until they dip
into your mouth like wailing sirens.

When suddenly you receive a letter
with signs, finger prints, and sweat
on the paper, listen to it: a preacher
for your personal use in the shadow.

With glimmer, the past comes back
to haunt and to slaughter brows and
wrinkles, lips and smiles, tears and
pillows, nightmares and nightstands.

During the summer, the body moves
easily, faking a shape or a deep desire.
As for the winter, something gives up
to return later covered in smoky eyes.

Author Bio:
Diana Andrasi completed her studies in philology at the University of Bucharest, followed by a master’s degree and a PhD in Comparative Literature at the University of Montreal. As cohost of Struggling Academics videocast and book-reviews blog contributor, she addresses various topics ranging from contemporary literature to history and philosophy. She wrote articles, poems, and essays in both English and French. She lives in Montreal, Canada.

Umm... ~ By by Wendy Gist

8/11/2021

Unattractive utterances,
Maleficent mumble:
Mammon’s muse.

Author Bio:
Wendy Gist poems have appeared or are forthcoming in For Women Who Roar, Fourth River, Galway Review, Grand Little Things, Grey Sparrow Review, New Plains Review, Oyez Review, Rio Grande Review, Soundings Review, St. Austin Review and other fine journals. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee and the author of the chapbook Moods of the Dream Fog (Finishing Line Press, 2016). Gist was named semifinalist for The Best Small Fictions, 2017

Birthday~ By Jacqueline Coleman-Fried

8/10/2021

for Karen

Flimsy as a napkin,
potent as a missile shield.
A mask kept me alive all year--

that, and sharing air with no one
but my husband,
bumping from one wall to another
in our small apartment.

Spring 2021—
a miracle.
I enter your house, Karen, still masked,
to find you—a woman of science--
bare-cheeked, relaxed.

So I stuff the mask in my hip pocket.
and notice the clean, just-spring sun
elating your windows.

You pour champagne in two crystal glasses.
We, fizzing, light candles
on chocolate ganache.

Happy birthday to me.
Hugs and flowers appear
on my calendar.

And I, unlike my usual self,
who’s sure life’s better over there--
like Gatsby staring
at the orgasmic green light
at the tip of Daisy’s dock--

rejoice.

Author Bio:
Jacqueline Coleman-Fried, a poet and essayist living in Tuckahoe, NY, just had the best birthday ever, thanks to the COVID vaccine and a dear friend.

Night Sight~ By Tom Squitieri

8/5/2021

I like to talk to the sky when all others are sleeping
The time of far off fox cries
Trees rustling with sleeping birds
My old dog crooning in his sleep like a puppy
While those in far off parts of the universe
Smile at my enthusiasm and tranquility

Stars on a clear night,
hidden moonbeams frolic for me
Clouds merrily dance
The invitation of the rare meteor
It’s always a wonderful night

The sky has become my friend more
Each week, each year
Patiently waiting for me to acknowledge
Gifts it is giving and waited to give
Portals that await me still
Beauty of the unknown
My true home

Do not question why I am up
During these hours
Ask instead why you are not
The sky has room for many
Who know what
Train whistles at night mean

Author Bio:
Tom Squitieri is a three-time winner of the Overseas Press Club and White House Correspondents’ Association awards for work as a war correspondent; he currently covers the Pentagon, national defense, international relations, and politics. He was an adjunct professor at American University and Washington & Jefferson College and has been blessed to have his poetry appear in more than 30 publications, in the book "Put Into Words My Love,” the art exhibition Color: Story 2020/21, and in the film “Fate’s Shadow: The Whole Story.” He writes mostly while parallel parking or walking his dogs, Topsie and Batman.

How I Want To Dance~ By Jason Visconti

8/4/2021

When I see the crescent moon
I want to lay down my body
and dance stationary,
truly dance,
the way that water stills,
for my maneuvers are missing waterfalls,
each nimble turn a river's ancient sheen,
the perfect style of choreography.

Author Bio:
I first discovered my love for poetry after losing my mother at a young age and needing a way to express myself. Decades later, it remains my passion. More than anything else, I love the way words come out our mouths when we speak them. I am in love with cadences, and when these come with deep layers of meaning I am a happy audience. In my own writing, I am a watchdog for my usual pitfalls, my main self-criticism is "sounding good" at the expense of clarity. I sharpened my first tools as a writer when attending a poetry workshop at age twenty-five. Since then, I have been published in various journals and am still as always working on my craft.

My late father will always be an inspiration to me for two reasons: he was a poet himself, and he taught me to never give up.

Leo to Grace~ By Amber Nicole Kittrell

8/3/2021

I look in my drawer for today’s clothes.
Shirts of man things, and shorts that are supposed to have dirt stains on them.
What I want to wear is
a dress of pink with butterflies.
But boys are not supposed to wear that.
I put them on anyway.
I brush my hair and put on my baseball cap.
I look in the mirror.
What do I see?
Not my reflection
but hers.
Her hair in a bun, and dancing as a ballerina.
I head out.
When I feel the urge of
going to the restrooms.
I know which one I HAVE to use,
I don’t want to go in there!
The one with the man figure
That smells of sweat and dirt.
because of what I was born with.
Who makes these rules?
My heart,
my mind,
my soul,
belong to her.
Because of her
I know I belong in the bathroom with dresses and lilac perfume.
I feel like I am locked in a closet and
I can’t get out.
I just push the feelings
down,
down,
down,
Because it is not NORMAL.
That word “Normal”.
What is normal?
How come what I feel can’t be “normal.”
Who sets the normal?
Because my normal is her.
Grace.
Grace
wears dresses
likes pink
makeup
butterflies
the smell of lilac
and
freedom.

Author Bio:
Amber Nicole Kittrell is a student at King University studying English. Her hopes are to teach English one day. A mother to a daughter, named Grey, she lives just outside of Nashville-- a Tennessean born and raised.