Blog Archives - The Voices Project

The Beautiful Ones Are Not Yet Born~ By Dennis Reed

12/31/2020

The roads are silent,
except for fools

I hear some scraping tires,
rubbing myself against ancient

shadows, I see the pestilence
of the modern world,

encroaching like a boxer,
stalking the opponent

what if the foe
was air?

Hamlet dealt with the
contagion of the spirit,

yet dreams wrap themselves
around discarded trees

corruption
shows its blond hair

again.
HELL IS …
I learn the meaning of
his all-hating world,

where music does not survive
lyrics are left

in the mind of the musician.
This is a disjointed time,

branches torn
off at the root,

like arms pulled
out of sockets,

there is no connection
people with masks

avoid each other,
choosing to cross

the street,
instead of passing

another human,
teasing danger

by breathing.

Author Bio:
Dennis Reed is a native New Yorker, proud father of two wonderful women and the super-grandad of two beautiful children. He is a National Endowment Winner; awards include Eminent Scholar from Norfolk University, Distinguished Teaching Award from Morehouse College, a UNCF Faculty Development Award and a travel study tour at the University of Ghana.

Reed's work has appeared in ESSENCE, STYLE, BLACK SCHOLAR, CLA, and many other journals.

Bittersweet~ By Ahmed Mehdi

12/30/2020

Musing on your love, it looks together
Akin to baking fire and cool rain,
Such that I feel undecided whether
To extol it or rather to disdain.
At times it’s almost a blazing furnace
Wherein my heart is uncaringly burned,
Like wood in your freezing winter coldness
Yet, nonchalantly remains unobserved.
But when there is no place where you belong,
And feel there’s in your heart an unclaimed space
Your love resonates like a soothing song
Or a rejuvenating spell of grace.
Yours is the oddest love I’ve ever seen
Now it is torrid, anon its serene.

Author Bio:
Ahmed Mehdi is an EFL (English as a foreign language) teacher and a poet. He has been writing rhymes on a regular basis for the last fifteen years and has written over a hundred poems so far, most of which are sonnets.

I Am Here to Grow, I Think~ By Sandra Kolankiewicz

12/25/2020

I’m here to grow, I think, the words a vague
promise told to keep children in line till
they learn a new fable. What have I made?
I ask, looking at the yard. How have I
progressed? What have I inflated into,
and if I’m amplifying, is the swell
intangible, the way a spirit increases?
Or am I over-multiplying and
refusing to die at the same time like
a tumor cell? I have raised two babies,
one of whom I’ll never fledge for his
injuries which I can’t discuss in public for,
well, I’m sure you know how people become
convinced by what’s in their portfolios,
especially when authority reassures them all
is fine. I have propagated flowers that
died as seedlings for reasons of weather,
ignorance, and neglect, and woven together
hundreds of thousands of words few have read,
creating scenes I alone enjoy on the back
screen of my mind, like living in one, two,
sometimes three worlds filtered over the
lady I greet at the corner, who’s walking
to the library, stops to confess she enjoys
when a man she envies stubs his toe.

Author Bio:
Sandra Kolankiewicz's poems have appeared widely, most recently in Galway Review, One, Otis Nebulae, Trampset, Concho River Review, London Magazine, New World Writing and Appalachian Heritage. Turning Inside Out was published by Black Lawrence. Finishing Line has released The Way You Will Go and Lost in Transition.

Hold On~ By Amanda Chandler

12/24/2020

The pandemic touched us all
Even when we could not touch one another
The news told stories of death and isolation
Yet the earth held a story of life and connection
Spring sprouted reaching out its verdant embrace
Comfort freely offered to all
A blossoming of possibility
Opposition to the catastrophizing of our anxious minds
Each petal a delicate delight to entice the senses
A gift of beauty
Transient like all life
Which made that moment all the more precious
As indefinite separation from our loved ones loomed over us
The steadfast sun brought warmth into our lives
Visiting a little bit longer each day
Caterpillars welcomed social distancing
Temporarily masked in their cocoons
They emerged triumphantly transformed
Prepared to fly to new heights
Still at times I felt the pull
Of humanity’s dread of dark times ahead
Many claimed life as we knew it was over
What would the future hold?
Searching for answers, I ventured into darkness
And marveled at the myriad of stars in the night sky
Points of brilliance we have only ever known from a distance
Their connections revealed a bigger picture
A heavenly map to help lost travelers find direction
That night I dreamed I carried the brilliance of a star
And so did you
In every person a point of light
Uniting to form divine constellations
Empowering humanity to navigate the dark times it dreads

The real question was not
What would the future hold?
Rather it was
What would we hold?
Lose ourselves in our darkness
Or hold onto the guidance of the light

Author Bio:
After years of working a humdrum job, in 2017 Amanda Chandler heard her higher muse calling her back to education and poetry. She recently graduated from NC State University with a MA in Education. Now her life’s mission is to live a truly inspired life guided by her core values and passions. Even when it makes her feel vulnerable, she writes with her authentic voice hoping others may have the courage to do the same.

Daughters~ By Kathy French

12/22/2020

Once upon a time, a mother groomed
her daughters to shine (hide):
her prettiest (dumbest)
her favorite (least trouble)
her smartest (least noticed)

From earliest years
the beautiful daughter
outshone her Mother,
so was branded trouble,
silenced, and made obese.

The plain one cultivated talents
to distinguish herself from the beauty--
her slippery charm was rewarded
as cleverness and cheer.

Third daughter chose twice.
She became quiet and smiley enough
to satisfy Mother and sisters alike,
perfect enough to spike A’s.

Sisters regret
that as they grow old,
dead Mother’s proclamations
keep a long-nailed hold.

Author Bio:
Kathy French has been a lover of words and rhythms all of her life, so reading and writing poetry comes naturally. Recently she retired after many years of teaching and raising children. She has traveled widely in a pre-lockdown life, most recently camping in the Western states where she has lived for 30 years. She finds great satisfaction in her adventures with people, animals, and the wilderness.

ABCs of My ED~ By Catherine Culver

12/15/2020

Acutely aware I could just drop
Beyond belief in grace or faith
Comfort, ever faint, appearing like a tyrant
Defiance defined as greater than risk
Existence a bleak chore, yet here I stand
Fierce and Focused and too frightened to fight

Gentle and gracious upon her birth and growth
Horrendous as harassment hits home
Incapable of empathy, my demon inside
Juxtaposition of safe home and battle
King of cruelty, kindred spirit of pain
Limiting my grasp on reality
Mindless and morose, my soul stands muted

No songs, no stillness, no speaking my mind
Only ever presentation of controlled strength
Pristine perfection and absolute dignity
Quiet the emotions, validity aside
Restrict with wild abandon, begrudge her none
Silence the cues, suffocated by apparent weakness
Trust the tales she tells through the night

Undeserving of any and everything, so she says
Vastly unwilling to commit, I fail her
Wishes to meet lofty expectations whispered on wind
X is my goal, I seek to shrink, maintain, earn
Yearning for acceptance, striving to please
Zealous adoration of my maladaptive disease

Author Bio:
Catherine is a new writer from Colorado Springs, Colorado. She has written silently through the tumultuous affair of mental illness. Recently, having gained the higher ground against an eating disorder, Catherine has decided to speak openly of her battles.

I would have to be Anne Sullivan…~ By Susan Rancourt

12/15/2020

* For Lynn

I would have to be Anne Sullivan
to coax from you a word
to trace a letter on your palm
and from your lips be heard

I would have to learn the code of Morse
and dash my way around
and quickly dot my every thought
for you to make a sound

Or from the Old Town Indians
learn to speak in smoke
and shield my eyes from blinding sun
to hear a word you spoke

Or maybe flash a lantern sign
or flags on Navy cruise
referencing the code book to decipher
words you’d use

Maybe we could sign our thoughts
with fingers fast adept
spin our thoughts into the air
where all your words were kept

But in the meantime you stay mute
a sphinx for all of time
you vex me so because I know
you’ve a dictionary in your mind.

Author Bio:
Susan Rancourt was born and raised in Maine and has a deep reverence for nature which is reflected in many of her poems. Her poetic themes are often about the natural world, animals, historical poems, and childhood experiences. Her style is entirely her own: “I try to write powerful images that cause the reader to be transported to a specific time, place, event. I want my poetry to elicit a visceral reaction.”

She began writing poetry after seeing the film, Rare Film Clips of The Poet Anne Sexton, 1971 during a High School English class. She remembers being riveted by Anne Sexton’s beautiful candor and saw the film as way to verbally navigate the fear and depth of mental illness. Something that her own mother struggled with throughout her life. Her work has been published by: Bay Windows (Boston, MA), Journal of Poetry Therapy (NYC), The Writers Exchange (Society Hills, SC), Albany Poetry Workshop, Up Against the Wall, Mother…(Alexandria, VA), The Plowman Anthology (Whitby Ontario, Canada).

Susan is also an accomplished jazz vocalist, photographer and horse handler. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her spouse of 43 years, Annette and their dog, Kip.

Palo Santo Wood~ By A.I. Ramos

12/15/2020

you must have an invitation, initiation
to get in and once you are in, it is not a lifetime warranty
but warrants your blood
what is this utopia you are searching for
in colonized lands
unroot their reach and reverse
and evolve
what are these utopias you are making
for yourselves,
for your descendants
blood and from water
that will look to you as an ancestor
and give thanks for a rebirthed path
that is not limited in its limitlessness
that the imperial construct
but do not orchestrate our wonder
and bruja magic.

Author Bio:
A.I. Ramos is an intersectional feminist, environmentalist, activist, and proud latinx. She has published two poetry books, Gritty and Moth Baby, and is passionate about using poetry to heal the heart, the body, the mind, and to invoke strength and passion in this literary form more than any other. She started writing fiction in middle school the developed a love for poetry in undergraduate school where she found her way to confront her demons and then find light in them.

Sounds of Silence~ By Jeanne Radigan

12/8/2020

The trees' limbs swayed overhead
Reaching and grabbing,
Anxious to share the day's events
Towering above like cackling skyscrapers as I rushed by.

Leaves whipped around my feet
Playing chase, darting in and out with hardly a notice that I existed,
While birds shared their favorite songs -
If only I understood the lyrics.

Flags flapped ferociously with a sudden gust of wind,
Their half-staff posture, a grim reminder of who sacrificed the most.
The sound they made?
Gloved hands clapping heartfelt praise.

The wind howled its stark warning,
I was the outcast here.

Time to go inside,
The outside belonged to them,

For now.

Author Bio:
Jeanne Radigan began storytelling and writing poetry as a young child, much to the annoyance of her older brother and sister. She grew up to find a more captive and eager audience as a teacher, which she has been for 25 years. She struggles with anxiety and depression among other issues and wishes to reach out to others with the same. Her goal is to shine light on mental health and let others know there is no shame in asking for help. Her poetry is an outlet for her emotional well-being. She is currently working on her memoir called Kiss Your Monster. It deals with raw, hard issues using wit and sass. She hopes to finish it before she dies.

My Mother's Funeral~ By Mary Ann Noe

12/8/2020

When you died,
            You led us—my daughter and me--
            To a shoe sale.
What else? You loved shoes so.
Hats too,
And sudden, deliberate, flamboyant language,
            Champ-og-nee, mune-i-sip-al,
            Mauled words giving permission to be said.
We wore our new shoes, picked out by you from beyond.
Deliberately, my daughter wore red lingerie.
            You smiled your approval,
            Whispered to us, “Linger-ee.”

Author Bio:
Mary Ann Noe has written poetry almost since she could pick up a pencil, though her early poetry should probably line birdcages. However, since then, she has published short stories and non-fiction, as well as poetry. Along the line, she taught high school English and psychology for, well, many years, but is now retired and free to write even more. She loves to pick up small details of life around her, and find meaning, thoughtfulness, and joy in them.