Blog Posts - The Voices Project

Mere Fragments~ By James Kibby

3/29/2022

You are beautiful.

I wish I could express it well.
But there are no colors vibrant enough
And no words pure enough
To capture it fully.

I am left to offer mere fragments,
Pieces of a mosaic
That would take more than my life
To complete.

I wish there were something beyond, "I love you."
I wish there were a more delicate shape than a heart,
With its curves like the neck of two swans
Joined together in their Spring affair.

I wish there were a deeper red.
I wish there were something softer than rose petals.
To rest my hope on metaphor
Would be a betrayal.

I am broken by this inability to express
What is inexpressible in the crude nature
Of human communication,
But it's all I have.

So, like a man down on his luck
In a last-ditch game of poker, I play all of my cards.
Not to win a small sum; I want to lose everything,
That my love would be purely enraptured

In your tender embrace.

Author Bio:
James is an accomplished songwriter and aspiring poet whose love for creative writing began when he authored and illustrated his first comic book at age 11. James' poetry was featured recently in Calla Press, and he's currently working on publishing his first collection of poems. James is a devoted husband and father and works full time at his church, handling facility and media operations.

The Bachelor Seal~ By M.F. Nagel

3/28/2022

The bachelor seals come morning star and evening star
Alone and together one and another
Salt and tide
Wave upon wave sons of the daughters of the seven seas
Young and strong and
Reckless
Storming the shore from the black pebbled seas

Storming
They come
Wave upon wave salt and tide young and strong and reckless
Choking the sea-weeded shores rocky with blood and moon stones
Barking-; on the mad wind under
Heaven’s sky scarred hungry heavy with three legged dog stars

The old ones know
And wait fat and proud wait with their women fat and proud
Knowing
Knowing
The way of things
Hearing the roars mad roars wild howls on the winds the old ones fat and proud and knowing heave their chests over the rickety rookery fence
The rickety rookery fence rolling to black pebbled sea
Fat and proud they watch and wait and know
Know the way of things

The bachelor seals come alone and together
Salt and tide
Wave upon wave
Sons of the daughters of seven seas
Young and strong and
Reckless
Storming the shore
From the black pebbled sea walrus deep whale deep
The bachelor seals come
Sons of the daughters of the seven seas
Waiting for harvest

Author Bio:
M.F. Nagel was born in Alaska. Her Athabaskan and Eyak heritage has given her a love of poetry.
M.F. lives and writes near the banks of the Matanuska river in the Palmer Butte, among the moose, wild dog~ roses and cottonwood trees, drawing inspiration from her ancestors.

Emma At Five~ By Peter Venable

2/28/2022

She practices ninja training--
jumping front kicks, flying sidekicks,
back kicks ( Pa Pa holding her old crib mattress)
then charges Cobra Kung Fu fingers to rip it open

until I prop it on the top staircase;
face up she lays on it, clings for dear life,
and rides it to the bottom bouncing and squealing
and giggling over and over

as she does when clutching her unicorn’s
mane, streaming down a rainbow into candy land,
grabbing treats from Caramel Cottage, Peppermint Forest,
Lollipop Lane, Gummy Snake Ridge and of course
Snow Cone Palace, Uni’s chocolate hoofprints behind.

Then Emma’s afternoon tea party—daintily sipping
apricot juice with M&M’s melting on the bottom
and toasting her Barbies sitting on the couch.

Mom arrives, she grabs Elsa and
we watch their SUV depart out of sight.
The floor, ankle deep with Legos
(sharp as pop bottle shards), plastic animals,
mermaids, two velociraptors, stuffed animals,

I wear steel-soled boots
picking up this
Toy Story landfill . . .

cartwheels next year or the next.

Days of grace until age thirteen.

Author Bio:
Peter Venable began scrawling poems in high school, but in college, after taking an English Lit course and reading renowned poets, became ignited and composed many on a manuel typewriter and many more white-out correction strips. Over five decades he wrote free and metric, sacred and secular, serious and whimsical verse. He has been graced being published in numerous poetry journals. Visit him at petervenable.com. Since 1-26-15, he is a grandfather for Emma, and with his wife day-caring the second one, Ms. Madeline, 1-24-21—which prompted these offerings.

Of Astronomical Proportion~ By Subir Sen

2/24/2022

The spatial mass downward hurled
By friction lost, shed and rubbed
A glorious blaze trailed behind
Of fire and light sideways and hind
A meteoric rise, nay fall I find
Which match could none however it tried
‘Twas visible to apparatus astronomical and kind
Could scarce discern the naked eye n’mind
The majestic delight
The regal flight from celestial height
The leaden lump energized fright
From slumber awoke the wrong and right
To behold the spectacle burning bright
Silver and blue metallic might
Illumined streaked black night.

Author Bio:
Born one fine Indian midsummer in the walled city of Delhi, Subir Kumar Sen had spent his childhood, in awe of the splendid red sandstone fort, sprawling gardens, and lofty minarets in close proximity. There were bazaars of archaic ways boasting of all kind of antique wares which would carry one away to lands of fantasy. He was interested in poetry since childhood. He was inspired to write what went on within him, his mind and heart. He wanted to portray what all he went through, what all he had seen and could imagine. He had read poems written by the great masters, and was inspired to portray in his own small way. He holds a degree in English and has also studied Italian at the Italian Embassy and is a professional Italian translator. He is multilingual and is well versed in Hindi and Bengali, too. He currently stays on the outskirts of Delhi.

He tries to be very honest with his poems and writes what he sincerely feels. He loves to play with words because they are the ones which ultimately stir the senses.

An Infinite Puzzle~ By Phalguni Nandakumar

2/23/2022

If you leave now
I will spend the rest of my time searching for you
searching for fragments of you in other people
searching for anything that even comes close to recreating any of the memories I made with you
searching for flashes of the future we never got to have together
and when I finally collect all of these minuscule pieces of you
after I search every corner of every experience i've ever lived
for anything at all that even comes to resembling what I had with you
I will put them together and beg them to show your face.

Hug Me~ By Antonio Di Bianco

2/22/2022

Hug me.
Come and hug me
under the rain,
or in the summer sun.
Do it as often as you can.
Hold me again
Even when I tell you I don't need it
Even when it should be enough.
So when I see you again
you will hold me even tighter,
and I will do the same.
It may be so,
I will forget that this world
it's too cold for my love
from time to time it stings and I feel it
and I would like to forget
but only in those moments,
I release myself.
The magic returns to the heart
and I am reborn.
So,
I concentrate
And I only see pretty things
Hug me,
And let's stop the time
Hold me even when I don't need you anymore
and in the dark moments.
Let me enjoy you
in this ocean of loneliness
what is my life,
let me lose myself in your arms,
until I feel protected.
You just hold me
do it forever

Author Bio:
Antonio Di Bianco is an Italian, psychologist, speaks 4 languages and has been writing since the age of 16. He has been publishing since 2011 without stopping, and he writes poems but also, song lyrics, articles and short stories. To date he has published in Venezuela, Italy, Colombia, Mexico, Argentina, Chile, Peru, USA, Brazil, Republic of San Marino, Romania and Spain. He writes in Italian, English, Spanish, Portuguese and Romanian.

Balance Beam~ By Sally Wahl Constain

2/17/2022

How do we do it? How
do we keep our balance
in these trying times?
Nowadays, it seems everyone
is out of sorts, outside the norm.
We walk on eggshells, trying
not to offend or offer advice,
not to burst out
with withering
final farewells,
just because
we are so far apart.
On everything.
Politics intervenes
in every venue,
every decision
of our shaky existences.
How do we walk the balance
beam without prior practice
or professional guidance?
How?

Author Bio:
Sally Wahl Constain is a lifelong reader and writer. She was an elementary school teacher and librarian in New York City for over thirty years. She is the author of her debut novel, "The Keys to Fanny," a work of historical fiction. She has published several poetry chapbooks. She continues to create poetry when inspired by emotions and circumstances. She is a member of the Florida State Poets Association, and several of her poems have been featured in their publications.

Bird Song~ By Sam Barbee

2/16/2022

Beside tomato cages, near zucchini leaves,
the suet post entices all feathered stripes
and swaths. You have sown cinnamon
around it to daunt squirrels’ ravage.

In our raised beds, seed packets designate
sprouts burgeoning to a June pulse, green
whispers primed for the sprinkler’s dance.
Birdsongs testify hollow-bone glory.

Red cardinals prance garden timbers
and peer over grass. Blue-jays splash the birdbath.
Perched, wings flap atop the trellis full
of prickly vines lolling with squash and peppers.

We lament the season as morning hours pass.
Fledgling wrens nested in the gutter exalt
with jubilant song. Prepare us for their farewell,
and advise none will be lured to attend us.

Author Bio:
Sam Barbee has a new collection, Uncommon Book of Prayer (2021, Main Street Rag). His previous 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. His poems have appeared recently Poetry South, Literary Yard, Asheville Poetry Review, and Adelaide Literary Magazine, among others; plus on-line journals American Diversity Report, Exquisite Pandemic, Verse Virtual, The Voices Project, and Medusa’s Kitchen.

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 two-time Pushcart nominee.

Missing Words~ By Hoyt Rogers

2/15/2022

The thunderclaps, the jagged strokes of rage
were all interior. The movement above them now
will seem like immobility. The clouds upend
and peak. They are mountains as still as the light.

The afternoon has ebbed to the second line of trees:
because we watch within the shadows, we can see.
Noon shoots from the hip, savage and blind.
The slanting sun is also merciless, but truer
to the shape of things as they are.

It’s not too late for the lake, you say.
We slip from the dock. Our bodies drift
with the clouds on blackened glass,
reflections among reflections.

Summer circles down into the past, blank
as the sudden chill, the outcrops of rock.
The shore retreats. Our ripples sheer away,
like missing words the dead withhold.

But that is how we are loved.
Loved as a mirror, a night-wall.
Loved as an indifference.

Author Bio:
Hoyt Rogers is a writer and translator. He translates from the French, German, Italian, and Spanish. He has published many books; he has contributed poetry, fiction, essays, and translations to a wide variety of periodicals. His edition of Yves Bonnefoy's Rome, 1630 received the 2021 Translation Prize from the French-American Foundation. His forthcoming works include a poetry collection, Thresholds (MadHat Press), the novel Sailing to Noon (book one of The Caribbean Trilogy), and a translation of Bonnefoy’s The Wandering Life (Seagull Books). For more information, please visit his website, hoytrogers.com.

Gardening with the Aunts~ By Colleen Wells

2/14/2022

I was picking up sticks,
when I saw a northern map turtle lying near a tree;
I let it be.

Later I told my aunt Sue,
and she said she saw it too,
yesterday, and that she let it be.
I did the math realizing this meant it was very likely dead.

I soon afterward showed aunt Jane
who confirmed it was dead with a tap of her rake.
“That’s the part of nature I hate,” she said.
“I wonder what happened to it,” I mused. “Where did it go?”
“It died,” she said.
“But is the turtle still inside?” I asked.
“No. It’s just a shell,” she said, flipping it over,
exposing the pale-yellow underbelly of the carapace.
It shocked my eyes like neon.

I stood, puzzled,
then realized I’d had this exact conversation
with an older adult as a child.
“We’ll give it a proper burial later,” my aunt promised,
as if that would fix things.

We got busy,
and never did.

Author Bio:
Colleen Wells writes poetry, creative nonfiction and short stories. She writes to understand both herself and the world around her, and because writing grounds her. Her work has appeared in Ravensperch, The Gyroscope Review, and The Potomac Review among other publications. Her memoir Dinner with Doppelgangers - A True Story of Madness & Recovery was published in 2015.