http://voicemailpoems.org Tue, 27 Jan 2026 22:33:12 +0000 Tue, 27 Jan 2026 22:33:12 +0000 60 en All rights reserved feeds@soundcloud.com (SoundCloud Feeds) Poetry via voicemail. Missed calls you need to hear. Open submissions accepted. Guidelines at http://voicemailpoems.org poetry via voicemail / missed calls you need to hear VOICEMAIL POEMS no https://i1.sndcdn.com/avatars-eLxsxr2aHIK5qpay-WyPmyQ-original.jpg http://voicemailpoems.org poetry,poems,spoken,word,writingpoetry via voicemail / missed calls you need to hearvoicemailpoems@gmail.com tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2255385563 Wed, 04 Feb 2026 15:31:11 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/thirty-some-years-frozen-nix-carlson-14 00:01:34 VOICEMAIL POEMS no frostbitten hands snatch at the cigarette dangling from your lips and you stoop to meet my gaze with a hangdog expression. i want to be angry (god, i want to be so angry) because cigarettes will kill you in a lifetime, and – i have handwarmers in my fucking pocket. but love is a two-way street, so it doesn’t matter if my pockets are overflowing with iron powder and saltwater, or if my hands offer woolen mittens, or if i crank the heat in my bedroom to ninety degrees with just the friction of my hips on yours. love is a two-way street, and if your frostbitten hands won’t drop their carcinogens, you’ll freeze to death. i cannot exhale love onto your fingertips, bring feeling back into your bones, without you first reaching for me. and i want to be angry (god, i want to be furious) but how can i be, when the only thing your body knows is how to weather a midwest winter? ————————————– Nix Carlson called us from Lexington, KY. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems frostbitten hands snatch at the cigarette dangli… frostbitten hands snatch at the cigarette dangling from your lips and you stoop to meet my gaze with a hangdog expression. i want to be angry (god, i want to be so angry) because cigarettes will kill you in a lifetime, and – i have handwarmers in my fucking pocket. but love is a two-way street, so it doesn’t matter if my pockets are overflowing with iron powder and saltwater, or if my hands offer woolen mittens, or if i crank the heat in my bedroom to ninety degrees with just the friction of my hips on yours. love is a two-way street, and if your frostbitten hands won’t drop their carcinogens, you’ll freeze to death. i cannot exhale love onto your fingertips, bring feeling back into your bones, without you first reaching for me. and i want to be angry (god, i want to be furious) but how can i be, when the only thing your body knows is how to weather a midwest winter? ————————————– Nix Carlson called us from Lexington, KY. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2255385557 Wed, 04 Feb 2026 15:31:00 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/they-send-me-to-the-city-to-stay-with-my-auntie-bill-ratner-13 00:01:45 VOICEMAIL POEMS no I hang my jacket in the hallway her apartment is old made from shoestring potatoes it smells like a jelly factory. Against the wall a man’s face eyes folded laces around his neck. That’s your Uncle, dear. He barred her from doing much of anything when he was around then he died. She asked the doctors to keep his eyes and brain alive and put them in a fish tank. That night when she got home she put on a mambo record, poured herself a vodka, lit a cigarette, and blew smoke in his eyes. The tank is down the hall full of algae and bubbles. She has it hidden behind a curtain. On the wall are photos of President Gerald Ford, our family on vacation, and antique pictures of naked ladies. How many naked ladies do have to look at before I get something to eat? I ask. I’ll think about it, she says. Behind the curtain skirts are hung up, sponges tied together, a bag of teeth. My Auntie takes a photo of me so my parents will see the child they raised, buzz-cut, roadworthy. My Auntie tells me stories about my family, takes me shopping, for sweaters and sneakers. When she gets excited she makes the sound of a happy seagull and spins like a mooring buoy. ————————————– Bill Ratner called us from Los Angeles, CA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems I hang my jacket in the hallway her apartment is… I hang my jacket in the hallway her apartment is old made from shoestring potatoes it smells like a jelly factory. Against the wall a man’s face eyes folded laces around his neck. That’s your Uncle, dear. He barred her from doing much of anything when he was around then he died. She asked the doctors to keep his eyes and brain alive and put them in a fish tank. That night when she got home she put on a mambo record, poured herself a vodka, lit a cigarette, and blew smoke in his eyes. The tank is down the hall full of algae and bubbles. She has it hidden behind a curtain. On the wall are photos of President Gerald Ford, our family on vacation, and antique pictures of naked ladies. How many naked ladies do have to look at before I get something to eat? I ask. I’ll think about it, she says. Behind the curtain skirts are hung up, sponges tied together, a bag of teeth. My Auntie takes a photo of me so my parents will see the child they raised, buzz-cut, roadworthy. My Auntie tells me stories about my family, takes me shopping, for sweaters and sneakers. When she gets excited she makes the sound of a happy seagull and spins like a mooring buoy. ————————————– Bill Ratner called us from Los Angeles, CA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2255385572 Wed, 04 Feb 2026 15:30:52 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/orchard-grafts-tian-sanchez-ballado-12 00:01:57 VOICEMAIL POEMS no A fig in an orange grove— I pruned myself from the rotting branch, sawed through the only bark I knew. Now I stand among the citrus on the longest night, their branches strung with stars, garlands of dried slices glowing like tiny suns, the air thick with clove and cedar. I watch the easy way they intertwine, how a hand finds the back of a neck, how embraces happen without flinching. I ache in rooms full of warmth. Grafted here now, tethered to sap not my own, wrapped in evergreen and borrowed moss— the trees around me teaching what roots can do when the frost comes, how love moves through heartwood without asking permission. Then the gathering scatters. Everyone carries their candlelight home. My husband’s hand knows my bark. My in-laws wrap me in their shade. This grove has given me everything. And still— somewhere, two trees stand stubbornly rooted in place; they planted me and refuse to water; they’d lose me before submitting to pruning themselves. I am full of sap, of sweetness, of more love than I was built to hold, and still bleeding from a cut I made to save my life. ————————————– Tian Sanchez-Ballado called us from Tallahassee, FL. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems A fig in an orange grove— I pruned myself from t… A fig in an orange grove— I pruned myself from the rotting branch, sawed through the only bark I knew. Now I stand among the citrus on the longest night, their branches strung with stars, garlands of dried slices glowing like tiny suns, the air thick with clove and cedar. I watch the easy way they intertwine, how a hand finds the back of a neck, how embraces happen without flinching. I ache in rooms full of warmth. Grafted here now, tethered to sap not my own, wrapped in evergreen and borrowed moss— the trees around me teaching what roots can do when the frost comes, how love moves through heartwood without asking permission. Then the gathering scatters. Everyone carries their candlelight home. My husband’s hand knows my bark. My in-laws wrap me in their shade. This grove has given me everything. And still— somewhere, two trees stand stubbornly rooted in place; they planted me and refuse to water; they’d lose me before submitting to pruning themselves. I am full of sap, of sweetness, of more love than I was built to hold, and still bleeding from a cut I made to save my life. ————————————– Tian Sanchez-Ballado called us from Tallahassee, FL. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2255385578 Wed, 04 Feb 2026 15:30:44 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/nooduitgang-cole-pragides-11 00:01:35 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Once I visited my old roommate at a film festival on Scheveningen beach where the winning movie was something avant garde and vaguely religious we did not understand. Afterwards we danced to Madonna's “Like a Prayer” within the sand dunes all night, the wind transforming the blanket around my shoulders into wings, my roommate recounting how their friends in Atlanta held their newborn for the first time. We biked miles back into town and laid next to a canal. As we smoked weed, they confessed they might never be able to live in our home country again. I know, but tonight let’ s pretend we’re the loves of our lives, I retorted, swinging a stick to hit another out of the air. Murmuration began overhead, the birds changing phase according to the relative strengths of our anger, wonder, and fear. The sky moved without permission. We let the mosquitoes circle and bite our legs bloody until light. Small volumes of ourselves hung in the air around us as we ignored all the ways to start over. ————————————– Cole Pragides called us from San Francisco, CA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems Once I visited my old roommate at a film festival… Once I visited my old roommate at a film festival on Scheveningen beach where the winning movie was something avant garde and vaguely religious we did not understand. Afterwards we danced to Madonna's “Like a Prayer” within the sand dunes all night, the wind transforming the blanket around my shoulders into wings, my roommate recounting how their friends in Atlanta held their newborn for the first time. We biked miles back into town and laid next to a canal. As we smoked weed, they confessed they might never be able to live in our home country again. I know, but tonight let’ s pretend we’re the loves of our lives, I retorted, swinging a stick to hit another out of the air. Murmuration began overhead, the birds changing phase according to the relative strengths of our anger, wonder, and fear. The sky moved without permission. We let the mosquitoes circle and bite our legs bloody until light. Small volumes of ourselves hung in the air around us as we ignored all the ways to start over. ————————————– Cole Pragides called us from San Francisco, CA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2255385587 Wed, 04 Feb 2026 15:30:28 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/motion-or-teaching-my-best-friend-my-favorite-songs-at-the-top-of-our-lungs-ariana-brown-10 00:01:51 VOICEMAIL POEMS no for Hamze we are as dark inside as the night is, meaning, we are so beautiful most people choose not to see us, for fear of overwhelming themselves—& we are sitting in the front seat of your car, shifting toward music. we are going home, if home is the equation for to be left alone. I put my finger on the pulse of the nearest star & decide on Stevie or Kendrick. because we have so little time to reflect on the recklessness of our still being alive & underneath stars & singing, we just sing. I teach you the words to my oldest freedoms, or we scream skyfuls of threats & boasts, queued from our permissionless names, & for a moment, we watch depression unfold: our killed souls spinning their dust back into us, claiming the feet, the hands, the tender mouth. be careful what we tell ourselves— everyone I know will be dead soon, it will not end soon, it will not end—the myths we craft with hopelessness. & who ever said joy had no utility? if our homelands do not remember our names, we are both hated in this awful place, let us make crooks of our famed blood, let us refuse our bones their crackle, let us speak the silliness we inherited, let us open wide the blackest sky & release every shadow of the innocent caught in our throats, & let us revel, revel, revel in the thrilled motion of our excellent & working hearts. ————————————– Ariana Brown called us from Houston, TX. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems for Hamze we are as dark inside as the night is,… for Hamze we are as dark inside as the night is, meaning, we are so beautiful most people choose not to see us, for fear of overwhelming themselves—& we are sitting in the front seat of your car, shifting toward music. we are going home, if home is the equation for to be left alone. I put my finger on the pulse of the nearest star & decide on Stevie or Kendrick. because we have so little time to reflect on the recklessness of our still being alive & underneath stars & singing, we just sing. I teach you the words to my oldest freedoms, or we scream skyfuls of threats & boasts, queued from our permissionless names, & for a moment, we watch depression unfold: our killed souls spinning their dust back into us, claiming the feet, the hands, the tender mouth. be careful what we tell ourselves— everyone I know will be dead soon, it will not end soon, it will not end—the myths we craft with hopelessness. & who ever said joy had no utility? if our homelands do not remember our names, we are both hated in this awful place, let us make crooks of our famed blood, let us refuse our bones their crackle, let us speak the silliness we inherited, let us open wide the blackest sky & release every shadow of the innocent caught in our throats, & let us revel, revel, revel in the thrilled motion of our excellent & working hearts. ————————————– Ariana Brown called us from Houston, TX. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2255385566 Wed, 04 Feb 2026 15:30:19 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/lukewarm-iced-tea-erick-flores-diaz-9 00:03:04 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Our eyes meet on the rear-view mirror Scorched earth passes by Stretched by the mile, rolled windows for letting the poem breathe. Tainted. A light contour is drawn on your white tank top, above, fifty-three well-placed chest hairs are just enough. God, this drink is awful. Then why do you keep drinking it? He says, as he maintains a firm grip on my thigh with one hand as he drives with the other. Hollow teeth and all. I don't know (I do) I wanted to try something new, Feel something, be someone. We order Chinese takeout, you insist on paying and I let you grope my manhood, sheltered by a well fitting pair of washed Levi’s in return. Me gusta la coquetería, me gustas tú. Two solitary ice cubes cling, melting by the nightstand, Long gone are the excuses obscured by curtains. A card is drawn, our breaths equalize. We watch Ripley on a screen fashioned with a rosary on one of its corners. While he bounces, he looked at me with those blank eyes so enamoured, So lost At sea, Like the body of Dickie Greenleaf deep inside the Amalfi coast. His drowned gaze, Somewhere in between Lust And midnight, Penetrates me, to the point where I couldn’t distinguish who was penetrating who. So I find myself here, while your head lays on my chest. I know what you want to hear, but for you, it doesn’t. You play with my pubes and I kiss your forehead. Sometimes We laugh, comparing ourselves to the TV series that we barely acknowledge - Good thing we don’t have a tragedy of our own nor bizarre love triangles - Right. Inhale, exhale. He kisses my neck, mi amor, mi vergoncito, mi Bocanegra. I can’t say that I don’t feel the same, Showing restraint is of no use upon wretched land. Outside the Jacarandas bloom, The sunset has punched its card. This is something I cannot give you. Added weight forces my chest you arise even further, it knows where I am, This body of mine, For its going the extra mile, So there’s no honor among thieves, Fine, if you insist, I will go wherever you go, I will try the chicken tikka masala, I will reply to your “mi amores”, I will play your games, I will be the stud who steals you a kiss in public. I will love you the way you want to be loved. Solo no me pidas la noche. ————————————– Erick Flores Diaz called us from Morelia, Michoacán. México. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems Our eyes meet on the rear-view mirror Scorched ea… Our eyes meet on the rear-view mirror Scorched earth passes by Stretched by the mile, rolled windows for letting the poem breathe. Tainted. A light contour is drawn on your white tank top, above, fifty-three well-placed chest hairs are just enough. God, this drink is awful. Then why do you keep drinking it? He says, as he maintains a firm grip on my thigh with one hand as he drives with the other. Hollow teeth and all. I don't know (I do) I wanted to try something new, Feel something, be someone. We order Chinese takeout, you insist on paying and I let you grope my manhood, sheltered by a well fitting pair of washed Levi’s in return. Me gusta la coquetería, me gustas tú. Two solitary ice cubes cling, melting by the nightstand, Long gone are the excuses obscured by curtains. A card is drawn, our breaths equalize. We watch Ripley on a screen fashioned with a rosary on one of its corners. While he bounces, he looked at me with those blank eyes so enamoured, So lost At sea, Like the body of Dickie Greenleaf deep inside the Amalfi coast. His drowned gaze, Somewhere in between Lust And midnight, Penetrates me, to the point where I couldn’t distinguish who was penetrating who. So I find myself here, while your head lays on my chest. I know what you want to hear, but for you, it doesn’t. You play with my pubes and I kiss your forehead. Sometimes We laugh, comparing ourselves to the TV series that we barely acknowledge - Good thing we don’t have a tragedy of our own nor bizarre love triangles - Right. Inhale, exhale. He kisses my neck, mi amor, mi vergoncito, mi Bocanegra. I can’t say that I don’t feel the same, Showing restraint is of no use upon wretched land. Outside the Jacarandas bloom, The sunset has punched its card. This is something I cannot give you. Added weight forces my chest you arise even further, it knows where I am, This body of mine, For its going the extra mile, So there’s no honor among thieves, Fine, if you insist, I will go wherever you go, I will try the chicken tikka masala, I will reply to your “mi amores”, I will play your games, I will be the stud who steals you a kiss in public. I will love you the way you want to be loved. Solo no me pidas la noche. ————————————– Erick Flores Diaz called us from Morelia, Michoacán. México. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2255385575 Wed, 04 Feb 2026 15:30:11 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/grieving-with-bob-ross-trystan-popish-8 00:02:03 VOICEMAIL POEMS no The afternoon of my grandmother’s funeral, my sisters, mom, nephew, and I decide to paint with a Bob Ross episode, hoping to dull our grief with bright colors, to soothe our broken spirits with his bulbous brown hair, his velvet voice and reassurances. The painting seems simple enough: a cabin in the woods in the light of the moon, a peaceful scene easily accomplished in a half-hour episode. Later, thirty minutes stretches into three hours of pausing and painting, rewinding and repainting, until falling away one by one we give up the ghost, each departing the table with some distorted portrait of our grief. My cabin in the woods looks like an outhouse, my sky a lake upon the ground. Soon only my mother sits alone, striving for perfection on the day she’s buried her mother’s ashes, an interment doubly done, an ending soon to be etched in stone. I watch her paint and wonder what future afternoon I’ll cue an eternal episode, pick up my brush, and try to put pain to canvas, letting Bob lull me into thinking just for a moment that even the trees could be happy that day. ————————————– Trystan Popish called us from Denver, CO. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems The afternoon of my grandmother’s funeral, my si… The afternoon of my grandmother’s funeral, my sisters, mom, nephew, and I decide to paint with a Bob Ross episode, hoping to dull our grief with bright colors, to soothe our broken spirits with his bulbous brown hair, his velvet voice and reassurances. The painting seems simple enough: a cabin in the woods in the light of the moon, a peaceful scene easily accomplished in a half-hour episode. Later, thirty minutes stretches into three hours of pausing and painting, rewinding and repainting, until falling away one by one we give up the ghost, each departing the table with some distorted portrait of our grief. My cabin in the woods looks like an outhouse, my sky a lake upon the ground. Soon only my mother sits alone, striving for perfection on the day she’s buried her mother’s ashes, an interment doubly done, an ending soon to be etched in stone. I watch her paint and wonder what future afternoon I’ll cue an eternal episode, pick up my brush, and try to put pain to canvas, letting Bob lull me into thinking just for a moment that even the trees could be happy that day. ————————————– Trystan Popish called us from Denver, CO. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2255385584 Wed, 04 Feb 2026 15:29:59 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/gods-alternative-response-to-job-2025-version-jonathan-fletcher-7 00:01:41 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Where were you when Jeff Hiller won his first Emmy? Or when Taylor got engaged to Travis? Tell me, why hasn’t Ralph Fiennes won an Oscar? Why did Adam Lambert lose to Kris Allen? Yes, there are things that may not make sense, there are things that may not seem fair. Why did some of the vaccinated sicken, some of the anti-vaxxers not? It isn’t right that you lost your husband, Job. Or your ten-year-old twin girls. Or your Ramsey-earned investments. Or your health to Long COVID. There is no answer I can give you. This isn’t Family Feud. I am no Steve Harvey; I am just God. Even so, I can stay with you. Like a viral video, I can linger. But if you want to ghost me, feel free to. If you want to block me, go ahead. Give yourself permission. Do not apologize. As Demi says, “Sorry Not Sorry.” Grieve how you want to. Though you’ll have another family, it won’t replace the one you lost. It won’t undo your parents’ rejection. However loving, a chosen family isn’t quite the same. Remember Carl Winslow? Remember Philip Banks? Each a father that yours wasn’t. Each a father you wish you had. Each a father that was there for you. Unlike Blockbuster and Redbox, I, too, am here. And I’m watching you rebuild. Even though you can’t rewind, you can make another life worth watching to the credits. And I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. ————————————– Jonathan Fletcher called us from San Antonio, TX. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems Where were you when Jeff Hiller won his first Emm… Where were you when Jeff Hiller won his first Emmy? Or when Taylor got engaged to Travis? Tell me, why hasn’t Ralph Fiennes won an Oscar? Why did Adam Lambert lose to Kris Allen? Yes, there are things that may not make sense, there are things that may not seem fair. Why did some of the vaccinated sicken, some of the anti-vaxxers not? It isn’t right that you lost your husband, Job. Or your ten-year-old twin girls. Or your Ramsey-earned investments. Or your health to Long COVID. There is no answer I can give you. This isn’t Family Feud. I am no Steve Harvey; I am just God. Even so, I can stay with you. Like a viral video, I can linger. But if you want to ghost me, feel free to. If you want to block me, go ahead. Give yourself permission. Do not apologize. As Demi says, “Sorry Not Sorry.” Grieve how you want to. Though you’ll have another family, it won’t replace the one you lost. It won’t undo your parents’ rejection. However loving, a chosen family isn’t quite the same. Remember Carl Winslow? Remember Philip Banks? Each a father that yours wasn’t. Each a father you wish you had. Each a father that was there for you. Unlike Blockbuster and Redbox, I, too, am here. And I’m watching you rebuild. Even though you can’t rewind, you can make another life worth watching to the credits. And I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. ————————————– Jonathan Fletcher called us from San Antonio, TX. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2255385548 Wed, 04 Feb 2026 15:29:12 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/god-made-me-a-fag-oisin-rowe-6 00:00:52 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Rolled in gold leaf, cocooned in shreddings of ancient text. His words, a pathetic stream slurring out between pulls, Prophets lust but I beg you, beg. Lick the good soil off your lover’s hand. Taste what the tree roots know, Bend your back at lightning snaps. Submit to the murmurs of rabbit children. And God and I smoked until the vapors chased the heavens and nothing dared open the sky. ————————————– Oisín Rowe called us from Boston, MA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems Rolled in gold leaf, cocooned in shreddings of … Rolled in gold leaf, cocooned in shreddings of ancient text. His words, a pathetic stream slurring out between pulls, Prophets lust but I beg you, beg. Lick the good soil off your lover’s hand. Taste what the tree roots know, Bend your back at lightning snaps. Submit to the murmurs of rabbit children. And God and I smoked until the vapors chased the heavens and nothing dared open the sky. ————————————– Oisín Rowe called us from Boston, MA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2255385560 Wed, 04 Feb 2026 15:29:03 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/fuccboi-tim-lynch-5 00:02:07 VOICEMAIL POEMS no BATEMAN God... I guess... I was probably returning videotapes. American Psycho (2000), Mary Harron & Guinevere Turner and Bret Easton Ellis i never admitted fault / at confession either / the priest would / say whatever & i’d look down on / varnished rot-vein floorboards or / lie that i lied about / something i did not lie about what / did i have to be / sorry for everything / that happened happened / to me / i wasn’t penitent / i just felt / bad confession / i choke up every time / Boyz II Men surprises Will / for little Nicky’s christening / & memorized every way / they have to say i’m / sorry confession / when i was 11 / i downloaded torrents & a / trojan confession / at 25 i danced in the shower / to MJ’s performance of “Man / in the Mirror” & was / surprised when I slipped / as Michael’s palms swept the / stage confession / when i was 19 / a virus / wiped my computer / again confession / i think i’m the plum / my friend bit at 14 / beautiful skin & flies in the pit / bodies in the spit he / wretched confession / i had so many / secrets i thought i was / happy confession / i was never found / by a woman / to be what i am / i told her & left her / lonely confession / sure it was more but always / i made sure / i was / clean confession / my boy told me hey / but you’re still a good / dude confession / the devil speaks / to you in your own / voice he’s no / ventriloquist confession / at 27 i tore down drywall / strapped on a mask / & stripped out lath / i sawed wall studs & pocketed dust / sat fetal on the piled curb / & a guy said come on / man don’t do / that / i said thanks & went on / sobbing on / concrete between two cans boiling over with my / trash confession / i wiped my face i felt / better i did not / change ————————————– Tim Lynch called us from Wilmington, DE. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems BATEMAN God... I guess... I was probably returni… BATEMAN God... I guess... I was probably returning videotapes. American Psycho (2000), Mary Harron & Guinevere Turner and Bret Easton Ellis i never admitted fault / at confession either / the priest would / say whatever & i’d look down on / varnished rot-vein floorboards or / lie that i lied about / something i did not lie about what / did i have to be / sorry for everything / that happened happened / to me / i wasn’t penitent / i just felt / bad confession / i choke up every time / Boyz II Men surprises Will / for little Nicky’s christening / & memorized every way / they have to say i’m / sorry confession / when i was 11 / i downloaded torrents & a / trojan confession / at 25 i danced in the shower / to MJ’s performance of “Man / in the Mirror” & was / surprised when I slipped / as Michael’s palms swept the / stage confession / when i was 19 / a virus / wiped my computer / again confession / i think i’m the plum / my friend bit at 14 / beautiful skin & flies in the pit / bodies in the spit he / wretched confession / i had so many / secrets i thought i was / happy confession / i was never found / by a woman / to be what i am / i told her & left her / lonely confession / sure it was more but always / i made sure / i was / clean confession / my boy told me hey / but you’re still a good / dude confession / the devil speaks / to you in your own / voice he’s no / ventriloquist confession / at 27 i tore down drywall / strapped on a mask / & stripped out lath / i sawed wall studs & pocketed dust / sat fetal on the piled curb / & a guy said come on / man don’t do / that / i said thanks & went on / sobbing on / concrete between two cans boiling over with my / trash confession / i wiped my face i felt / better i did not / change ————————————– Tim Lynch called us from Wilmington, DE. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2255385569 Wed, 04 Feb 2026 15:28:53 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/do-you-know-carmen-barefield-4 00:02:27 VOICEMAIL POEMS no The human brain generates 20 watts of electricity. Or so the AI Overview tells me unprompted when I search how much a thought costs me, how much energy each flex of my fingers are required to press each of these keys. Do you know how much energy is wasted by the AI Overview being generated? I ask. It hesitates. I find an answer under the links to buy a novelty brain mug. Oh, just 6 bottles of water to cool the servers every ten seconds. And they promise to be eco-friendly. Did you know almost all their water filters are falsely advertising their efficiency? Yeah, there is no reliable way to remove all the shit to make it drinkable again. All the bacteria, the chemicals, the forever plastics dancing in your cells. Dear search, how much energy does plastic consume inside the body? The AI has no answer because we have no answer. Like a game of snake an ouroboros on an old Nokia. Those invincible bricks, where did they go? Other than swallowed up deep inside, of course. Bit by micro-bit. Did you know the human brain with a thought could light a small bulb? 40 Joules in 2 seconds. AI Overview pick-pocketed that info for me because it doesn’t actually think anything or know that the human brain is so efficient in ways we don’t even understand. Or maybe I’m too harsh. After all, we still don’t know what an appendix does, but we still carve it out when we need to. We know we can live without it if removed before it explodes on a random Tuesday. Well, depending on if your shit boss doesn’t hesitate to call the ambulance. And did you know that on the stretcher to the ER as you clutch your side and bile of bits and brick scratch your throat, you might use your last moments the 2 second spark of the brain electrified and dancing to ask the question through sweat and pain: “Do you know how much this will cost me?” ————————————– Carmen Barefield called us from Salem, MA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems The human brain generates 20 watts of electricity… The human brain generates 20 watts of electricity. Or so the AI Overview tells me unprompted when I search how much a thought costs me, how much energy each flex of my fingers are required to press each of these keys. Do you know how much energy is wasted by the AI Overview being generated? I ask. It hesitates. I find an answer under the links to buy a novelty brain mug. Oh, just 6 bottles of water to cool the servers every ten seconds. And they promise to be eco-friendly. Did you know almost all their water filters are falsely advertising their efficiency? Yeah, there is no reliable way to remove all the shit to make it drinkable again. All the bacteria, the chemicals, the forever plastics dancing in your cells. Dear search, how much energy does plastic consume inside the body? The AI has no answer because we have no answer. Like a game of snake an ouroboros on an old Nokia. Those invincible bricks, where did they go? Other than swallowed up deep inside, of course. Bit by micro-bit. Did you know the human brain with a thought could light a small bulb? 40 Joules in 2 seconds. AI Overview pick-pocketed that info for me because it doesn’t actually think anything or know that the human brain is so efficient in ways we don’t even understand. Or maybe I’m too harsh. After all, we still don’t know what an appendix does, but we still carve it out when we need to. We know we can live without it if removed before it explodes on a random Tuesday. Well, depending on if your shit boss doesn’t hesitate to call the ambulance. And did you know that on the stretcher to the ER as you clutch your side and bile of bits and brick scratch your throat, you might use your last moments the 2 second spark of the brain electrified and dancing to ask the question through sweat and pain: “Do you know how much this will cost me?” ————————————– Carmen Barefield called us from Salem, MA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2255385590 Wed, 04 Feb 2026 15:28:43 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/christmas-day-at-a-dive-bar-mikey-franz-3 00:01:09 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Christmas Day at a dive bar & God has blessed us all with holy days & spirits poured over this small glimpse at eternity blurring bright against the near-silent night naive nativities of promised tomorrows fester & foster today's futilities yet here we arrive from memories of everywhere we've ever been before now & suddenly this maybe in another world, all our dreams come true & every prayer is answered & all considered is well with peace & joy, et cetera but if this world is not that if heaven is hidden from sight do this as often as you do this in remembrance of... the warm embrace of another despite the nearness of life without ————————————– Mikey Franz called us from Philadelphia, PA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems Christmas Day at a dive bar & God has blessed us … Christmas Day at a dive bar & God has blessed us all with holy days & spirits poured over this small glimpse at eternity blurring bright against the near-silent night naive nativities of promised tomorrows fester & foster today's futilities yet here we arrive from memories of everywhere we've ever been before now & suddenly this maybe in another world, all our dreams come true & every prayer is answered & all considered is well with peace & joy, et cetera but if this world is not that if heaven is hidden from sight do this as often as you do this in remembrance of... the warm embrace of another despite the nearness of life without ————————————– Mikey Franz called us from Philadelphia, PA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2255385551 Wed, 04 Feb 2026 15:28:33 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/at-the-holiday-party-joshua-lillie-2 00:01:43 VOICEMAIL POEMS no my wife’s coworkers ask about my poetry and I tell them oh, it’s slice-of-life kind of stuff. Bird on a wire kind of stuff. They ask but what are they about? and I tell them so, they say that the only philosophical question worth asking is whether or not to commit suicide. I guess my poems are all questions that don’t have answers yet. and I made things awkward again. One of them asks if I’m active at the university poetry center and I say no, but I know a few local poets. We don’t really like each other much and everyone laughs. I tell them that all the modern poets have cut marks on their thighs. I tell them to look for the scars. That maybe the old ones had them too and it’s the skirts that got shorter. That the ones who survive today get tattoos over their wrists to hide the failure, how no one’s proud of their scars anymore. I tell them that an old poet friend once said that every artist is either overcooked or under-easy and that I always forget to turn the oven off. That I used to give my poetry books to all the girls I wanted to touch, like a preface for my hands, and when I first met the girl who’s now the woman I’m married to I gave her my poems and she came to my apartment and found me playing PlayStation, chainsmoking drunk, and she said I really thought you’d be more in touch with nature, then how I took her hand and dragged her fingers across the scars on my biggest organ and said do you think I got these hugging a tree? just in time before dinner arrived. ————————————– Joshua Lillie called us from Tucson, AZ. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems my wife’s coworkers ask about my poetry and I te… my wife’s coworkers ask about my poetry and I tell them oh, it’s slice-of-life kind of stuff. Bird on a wire kind of stuff. They ask but what are they about? and I tell them so, they say that the only philosophical question worth asking is whether or not to commit suicide. I guess my poems are all questions that don’t have answers yet. and I made things awkward again. One of them asks if I’m active at the university poetry center and I say no, but I know a few local poets. We don’t really like each other much and everyone laughs. I tell them that all the modern poets have cut marks on their thighs. I tell them to look for the scars. That maybe the old ones had them too and it’s the skirts that got shorter. That the ones who survive today get tattoos over their wrists to hide the failure, how no one’s proud of their scars anymore. I tell them that an old poet friend once said that every artist is either overcooked or under-easy and that I always forget to turn the oven off. That I used to give my poetry books to all the girls I wanted to touch, like a preface for my hands, and when I first met the girl who’s now the woman I’m married to I gave her my poems and she came to my apartment and found me playing PlayStation, chainsmoking drunk, and she said I really thought you’d be more in touch with nature, then how I took her hand and dragged her fingers across the scars on my biggest organ and said do you think I got these hugging a tree? just in time before dinner arrived. ————————————– Joshua Lillie called us from Tucson, AZ. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2255385554 Wed, 04 Feb 2026 15:28:25 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/a-tooth-of-mary-magdalene-rose-demaris-1 00:02:50 VOICEMAIL POEMS no "A Tooth of Mary Magdalene" suspended in rock crystal. So much we didn’t see, the last time. Some say she crossed the ocean to France in 33 AD and mourned him. Even there, he found and called to her disguised as a winged creature. Cupid’s bowl of spilled pleasure — we didn’t see it, or this dove, this gilded eucharistic dove with a hinged door in its back, a vacancy we didn’t see. We didn’t see this silver arm, reliquary for a part of Saint Valentine, or this erotic mithuna sculpted in thirteenth-century India, an aroused couple about to be one body. Here’s a pink-and-white dress for a baby girl from 1956. The last time the soldier’s mistress wore this byzantine gold chain, wet with blue gems, was in the year 1,000. We didn’t see it, or the housekeeper who became Rembrandt’s common-law bride. She never had such opulent jewels. In 1650 he painted her, a hearty archetype of wife, holding her robe closed. Can I ever be so placid, so sturdy in relationship? In the museum I think, Yes. But back out in the city I’m this purple orchid opening easily in the florist’s hand, humid with tears when the man in the bodega speaks to me sweetly, calls me honey. The last time I lived in tenderness was 2019, with you whose body was shelter and scent, who sang, knelt, took your time, and fed. Is the whole world just one crumb in the belly of that dove? I turn because he calls to me, this pigeon flecked as the firmament in storm. In 2025 he leads me to a statue of a naked girl outside an apartment, an angelic adolescent chained like Andromeda to the iron gate. Her last time was long ago. Such a sense of being behind glass when I look into her eyes. There was so much we didn’t see, but it saw us. We shone for it. The past recognizes its imminent relatives. It warms as it watches you and me becoming artifacts of love. ————————————– Rose DeMaris called us from Belgrade, MT. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems "A Tooth of Mary Magdalene" suspended in rock cr… "A Tooth of Mary Magdalene" suspended in rock crystal. So much we didn’t see, the last time. Some say she crossed the ocean to France in 33 AD and mourned him. Even there, he found and called to her disguised as a winged creature. Cupid’s bowl of spilled pleasure — we didn’t see it, or this dove, this gilded eucharistic dove with a hinged door in its back, a vacancy we didn’t see. We didn’t see this silver arm, reliquary for a part of Saint Valentine, or this erotic mithuna sculpted in thirteenth-century India, an aroused couple about to be one body. Here’s a pink-and-white dress for a baby girl from 1956. The last time the soldier’s mistress wore this byzantine gold chain, wet with blue gems, was in the year 1,000. We didn’t see it, or the housekeeper who became Rembrandt’s common-law bride. She never had such opulent jewels. In 1650 he painted her, a hearty archetype of wife, holding her robe closed. Can I ever be so placid, so sturdy in relationship? In the museum I think, Yes. But back out in the city I’m this purple orchid opening easily in the florist’s hand, humid with tears when the man in the bodega speaks to me sweetly, calls me honey. The last time I lived in tenderness was 2019, with you whose body was shelter and scent, who sang, knelt, took your time, and fed. Is the whole world just one crumb in the belly of that dove? I turn because he calls to me, this pigeon flecked as the firmament in storm. In 2025 he leads me to a statue of a naked girl outside an apartment, an angelic adolescent chained like Andromeda to the iron gate. Her last time was long ago. Such a sense of being behind glass when I look into her eyes. There was so much we didn’t see, but it saw us. We shone for it. The past recognizes its imminent relatives. It warms as it watches you and me becoming artifacts of love. ————————————– Rose DeMaris called us from Belgrade, MT. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2206627251 Fri, 07 Nov 2025 16:46:52 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/when-i-try-by-callie-jennings-16 00:02:20 VOICEMAIL POEMS no When I Try to Verify Why They Carpet Driveways After the Rain, Google Keeps Feeding Me Distressingly Hot Factoids About Hermaphroditic Earthworm Sex Until I thought to check, I thought I knew: worms emerge from dirt to tar on the run from drowning. Actually no one understands their reasons. Maybe worms emerge from dirt to tar when vibrations ape a predator. Or are their reasons maybe traveling fast on slicked slab? Reproducing? When vibrations ape a predator, or are mock applause when I drop a glass traveling fast on slicked slab, reproducing language is beyond me. My speech breaks with static snow, mock applause, when I drop a glass knife voice. Sticking to the surface language is beyond me. My speech breaks with static snow, turns trail. Trail: proof and proof of absence. Here’s my opened-by-a- knife voice sticking to the surface of the steel. Spill turns trail. Trail: proof and proof of absence. Here’s my opened-by-a- mouth mouth. I say of the steel spill that I can be allowed to want. I’m saying mouth: Mouth. I say all that I can be allowed to want. I’m saying I’m all mouth, I’m just open mouth, and I’m just-open. I feed and I’m equalizing pressure. I feed like falling and I fuck like falling, equalizing pressure, meant to shed a wreck of men like falling, and I fuck like falling was becoming of the nymph stage. I claim I was meant to shed a wreck of men, their aims. I knew what needy grubs, what writhing life I’d swallowed clean, was becoming. Of the nymph stage, I claim I was on the run from drowning. Actually no one understands their aims. I knew what needy grubs, what writhing life I’d swallowed clean until I thought to check. I thought I knew. ————————————– Callie Jennings called us from Boston, MA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems When I Try to Verify Why They Carpet Driveways Af… When I Try to Verify Why They Carpet Driveways After the Rain, Google Keeps Feeding Me Distressingly Hot Factoids About Hermaphroditic Earthworm Sex Until I thought to check, I thought I knew: worms emerge from dirt to tar on the run from drowning. Actually no one understands their reasons. Maybe worms emerge from dirt to tar when vibrations ape a predator. Or are their reasons maybe traveling fast on slicked slab? Reproducing? When vibrations ape a predator, or are mock applause when I drop a glass traveling fast on slicked slab, reproducing language is beyond me. My speech breaks with static snow, mock applause, when I drop a glass knife voice. Sticking to the surface language is beyond me. My speech breaks with static snow, turns trail. Trail: proof and proof of absence. Here’s my opened-by-a- knife voice sticking to the surface of the steel. Spill turns trail. Trail: proof and proof of absence. Here’s my opened-by-a- mouth mouth. I say of the steel spill that I can be allowed to want. I’m saying mouth: Mouth. I say all that I can be allowed to want. I’m saying I’m all mouth, I’m just open mouth, and I’m just-open. I feed and I’m equalizing pressure. I feed like falling and I fuck like falling, equalizing pressure, meant to shed a wreck of men like falling, and I fuck like falling was becoming of the nymph stage. I claim I was meant to shed a wreck of men, their aims. I knew what needy grubs, what writhing life I’d swallowed clean, was becoming. Of the nymph stage, I claim I was on the run from drowning. Actually no one understands their aims. I knew what needy grubs, what writhing life I’d swallowed clean until I thought to check. I thought I knew. ————————————– Callie Jennings called us from Boston, MA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2206627247 Fri, 07 Nov 2025 16:46:42 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/untitled-by-muhammad-rabih-15 00:02:21 VOICEMAIL POEMS no we did not hold hands often we clenched legs under the table hands were too public for two who did not know how feelings socailize we sat on a bench on the corniche watching the nile at noon it was full and calm we could hear the wind sing to the trees on its sides you held my hand and I looked as you took it towards you the wind stopped singing and my heart wanted to come out and taste the water I said look how my hand looks no matter how many times I wash it you said look how mine sweats and then asked if it bothered me I held your wrist and folded your hand and brushed it with mine again and again until it is my hand that is wet you smiled and looked down happy and shy like a bird folding into itself I asked you for a kiss I could not say it I wrote it in a notebook you once wrote your name in words were too intimate for two who did not know how love talks the notebook became a pigeon back and forth between us it held words our mouths dared not admit you wrote a falouka is where you get one you knew the nile had none that day no one teaches a girl how to want without bruising the family name so you swallowed it and it bloomed somewhere I could not reach and I loved before I had the language then it came in a dialect I had to translate for myself so I spat it out and kept the bitter ache I would go through your things and asked about them I claimed to get to know you better through the small and ordinary to break what ice may be left you said I know but I secretly hoped I would be mistaken for your watermelon lipstick and go home with you but you went home and I stayed I pass by the bench and ask it why are you still here it says nothing but I hear echoes of your laughter so I sit and watch the nile full and calm but the wind no longer sings it just blows and I get cold easily nowadays but I wait a falouka might pass ————————————– Muhammad Rabih called us from Egypt. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems we did not hold hands often we clenched legs unde… we did not hold hands often we clenched legs under the table hands were too public for two who did not know how feelings socailize we sat on a bench on the corniche watching the nile at noon it was full and calm we could hear the wind sing to the trees on its sides you held my hand and I looked as you took it towards you the wind stopped singing and my heart wanted to come out and taste the water I said look how my hand looks no matter how many times I wash it you said look how mine sweats and then asked if it bothered me I held your wrist and folded your hand and brushed it with mine again and again until it is my hand that is wet you smiled and looked down happy and shy like a bird folding into itself I asked you for a kiss I could not say it I wrote it in a notebook you once wrote your name in words were too intimate for two who did not know how love talks the notebook became a pigeon back and forth between us it held words our mouths dared not admit you wrote a falouka is where you get one you knew the nile had none that day no one teaches a girl how to want without bruising the family name so you swallowed it and it bloomed somewhere I could not reach and I loved before I had the language then it came in a dialect I had to translate for myself so I spat it out and kept the bitter ache I would go through your things and asked about them I claimed to get to know you better through the small and ordinary to break what ice may be left you said I know but I secretly hoped I would be mistaken for your watermelon lipstick and go home with you but you went home and I stayed I pass by the bench and ask it why are you still here it says nothing but I hear echoes of your laughter so I sit and watch the nile full and calm but the wind no longer sings it just blows and I get cold easily nowadays but I wait a falouka might pass ————————————– Muhammad Rabih called us from Egypt. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2206627243 Fri, 07 Nov 2025 16:46:34 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/unassigned-by-fiona-martinez-14 00:01:35 VOICEMAIL POEMS no after Ocean Vuong and why this want for permanence surround sound my life with backups sound out my name and it’s almost a library flower pressed screen dazed stillness a twinkie and her wrapper words she presses in the shape of a body I too will one day be glad I am no longer violet and instead fertilizer no mama’s memoir no mama to read my memoir will be ocean open ooooo like whale sounds I will linger forever in the aqua uh huh I used to be fern now I’m feather my body retreats for ever/y line I write I forget my hands can strangle recycle like madness like magic I immortalize the white I wrangle with pen body oh body earth will ground us whole ————————————– Fiona Martinez called us from San Diego, CA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems after Ocean Vuong and why this wan… after Ocean Vuong and why this want for permanence surround sound my life with backups sound out my name and it’s almost a library flower pressed screen dazed stillness a twinkie and her wrapper words she presses in the shape of a body I too will one day be glad I am no longer violet and instead fertilizer no mama’s memoir no mama to read my memoir will be ocean open ooooo like whale sounds I will linger forever in the aqua uh huh I used to be fern now I’m feather my body retreats for ever/y line I write I forget my hands can strangle recycle like madness like magic I immortalize the white I wrangle with pen body oh body earth will ground us whole ————————————– Fiona Martinez called us from San Diego, CA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2206627255 Fri, 07 Nov 2025 16:46:25 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/tonight-you-lay-on-your-own-couch-by-jeff-stumpo-13 00:00:56 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Tonight you lay on your own couch, trying to head off fixation. Your cigar is just a. You hold it oscillating between Cuban and. You are not. You tell yourself this. You flip through your notebook, and it is filled with pictures of you riding the night. The cigar is in your fingers, which place it to your lips. You take a luxurious puff. Wake up, you whimper, and linger, eyes glazing. Up, you manage. Up. The notebook falls from your other hand. Gravity is repression, you think and try to not. You know how you will feel when you awaken. You can already feel the cold sweat coming. ————————————– JeFF Stumpo called us from Litchfield, NH. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems Tonight you lay on your own couch, trying to head… Tonight you lay on your own couch, trying to head off fixation. Your cigar is just a. You hold it oscillating between Cuban and. You are not. You tell yourself this. You flip through your notebook, and it is filled with pictures of you riding the night. The cigar is in your fingers, which place it to your lips. You take a luxurious puff. Wake up, you whimper, and linger, eyes glazing. Up, you manage. Up. The notebook falls from your other hand. Gravity is repression, you think and try to not. You know how you will feel when you awaken. You can already feel the cold sweat coming. ————————————– JeFF Stumpo called us from Litchfield, NH. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2206627239 Fri, 07 Nov 2025 16:46:15 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/the-way-to-keep-going-in-your-twenties-by-charlotte-alexander-12 00:01:32 VOICEMAIL POEMS no do not be afraid of your own heart beating there must be chocolate maybe even daily I would recommend buying the better cheese drink orange juice in the morning it will help drink wine or whiskey and write things down it is always good to know your own handwriting remember how clean sheets feel and hot baths keep lip balm by your bed keep a tissue in your pocket buy a lamp so your room is warm and buy things so they are memories later and look at your hands they are beautiful! Once a week make a nice meal because you can and don’t be afraid to be alone that would be like throwing away perfectly good socks or bras keep them and buy new underwear it’s easy to forget but let your friends remind you and remember your friends and their favorite colors and kiss someone just to taste their lips love your apartment even when the microwave breaks love food even when it is toast from the toaster love your hands and your skin put rings on your fingers wear a designer lipstick and keep it in your pocket ————————————– Charlotte Alexander called us from Moscow, ID. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems do not be afraid of your own heart beating there … do not be afraid of your own heart beating there must be chocolate maybe even daily I would recommend buying the better cheese drink orange juice in the morning it will help drink wine or whiskey and write things down it is always good to know your own handwriting remember how clean sheets feel and hot baths keep lip balm by your bed keep a tissue in your pocket buy a lamp so your room is warm and buy things so they are memories later and look at your hands they are beautiful! Once a week make a nice meal because you can and don’t be afraid to be alone that would be like throwing away perfectly good socks or bras keep them and buy new underwear it’s easy to forget but let your friends remind you and remember your friends and their favorite colors and kiss someone just to taste their lips love your apartment even when the microwave breaks love food even when it is toast from the toaster love your hands and your skin put rings on your fingers wear a designer lipstick and keep it in your pocket ————————————– Charlotte Alexander called us from Moscow, ID. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2206627231 Fri, 07 Nov 2025 16:46:07 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/sugar-bloom-and-smudge-by-c-rivera-11 00:01:39 VOICEMAIL POEMS no What bloomed from grief came instinct, came wrath. The aftermath of my longing will show on your back like Lichtenberg figures after the subtlety of a strike. My beautiful friend, I do think heat causes molecules to excite, and if you let me, we’ll honor the burn marks after this smudging. But not before prayer, not before kneeling behind you your scent, curiously ancient I’m suddenly wet I want you protected, well fed. So please, let me sage you. The air around you. The air around persimmons you’ve hung out to dry, leaving you / not bruised but sugar-bloomed into a world you want to breathe in. And you’re gonna wanna know what becomes of it, the tsuris of us. Probably nothing, it’s nothing, right? I keep finding you in kitchens. And I, tending to a grow bag full of fairytale eggplants, their blooms bowing down as if in shame or in love or as if grieving was a thing of shame or love or is it your scent, curiously ancient, that is the intimate why of my grieving. ————————————– C. Rivera called us from New York, NY. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems What bloomed from grief came instinct, came … What bloomed from grief came instinct, came wrath. The aftermath of my longing will show on your back like Lichtenberg figures after the subtlety of a strike. My beautiful friend, I do think heat causes molecules to excite, and if you let me, we’ll honor the burn marks after this smudging. But not before prayer, not before kneeling behind you your scent, curiously ancient I’m suddenly wet I want you protected, well fed. So please, let me sage you. The air around you. The air around persimmons you’ve hung out to dry, leaving you / not bruised but sugar-bloomed into a world you want to breathe in. And you’re gonna wanna know what becomes of it, the tsuris of us. Probably nothing, it’s nothing, right? I keep finding you in kitchens. And I, tending to a grow bag full of fairytale eggplants, their blooms bowing down as if in shame or in love or as if grieving was a thing of shame or love or is it your scent, curiously ancient, that is the intimate why of my grieving. ————————————– C. Rivera called us from New York, NY. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2206627203 Fri, 07 Nov 2025 16:45:59 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/potato-by-c-late-9 00:01:27 VOICEMAIL POEMS no three soldiers in tinfoil jackets roasting on the bottom oven rack she’d cut the ends off one too long for its own good hacked chunks from the pudgy pocked one sliced the largest of the lot into quarters pulling used foil from a crumpled stash she manhandled the starchy meal into silver uniforms tried to unwrap and uncrinkle but eventually abandoned hope supper could be smooth or smartly dressed when the oven sang out its warning she skinned them from the foil burned fingers in her haste to separate what she’d spent so much energy on wadded up the bits she couldn’t reuse and chucked ‘em in the bin the bin it’s where most of us find ourselves after a relationship sharing space with those silver skins not fitting any better than the aluminum did her and her meal prep her and her insistence others should hide what she plans to devour ————————————– C. Late called us from Kansas City, MO. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems three soldiers in tinfoil jackets roasting on the… three soldiers in tinfoil jackets roasting on the bottom oven rack she’d cut the ends off one too long for its own good hacked chunks from the pudgy pocked one sliced the largest of the lot into quarters pulling used foil from a crumpled stash she manhandled the starchy meal into silver uniforms tried to unwrap and uncrinkle but eventually abandoned hope supper could be smooth or smartly dressed when the oven sang out its warning she skinned them from the foil burned fingers in her haste to separate what she’d spent so much energy on wadded up the bits she couldn’t reuse and chucked ‘em in the bin the bin it’s where most of us find ourselves after a relationship sharing space with those silver skins not fitting any better than the aluminum did her and her meal prep her and her insistence others should hide what she plans to devour ————————————– C. Late called us from Kansas City, MO. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2206627195 Fri, 07 Nov 2025 16:45:52 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/progressively-ambitious-poem-for-the-future-by-dylan-emmons-10 00:01:42 VOICEMAIL POEMS no I want to write about eternity too just like the cats probing at their breakfasts or your two week old hands Isadora brushing my beard like sleepwalking windshield wipers or the way the sun uses maple leaves as lampshades if we can spend as much of ourselves in time as out of it if our conch shell ears keep after months the cymbal samba of the sea if your feet tender toweled and purpling remember the ant hills and thumb tacks and jelly spills they haven’t found yet if your big sister and her enormous feelings and your mom and her incomparable well of kindness and how they use each moment almost like a ladle if everything is like breath if we can use jazz the way we use a shower if everything can be a little of everything else if the naked basement bulb of my patience in its morse distress can most times be enough if the slapstick surgeon of memory can hang in if the horror show doesn’t get too hungry for more and more dimensions if we can start carpet bombing the nations of the earth with dollar bills and daisy petals instead if our favorite pizza place can please fall into the amber bath of immortality and we can live there in perennial Friday evening they’re bringing cups of ice and the ovens are awake ————————————– Dylan Emmons called us from Poughkeepsie, NY. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems I want to write about eternity too just like the… I want to write about eternity too just like the cats probing at their breakfasts or your two week old hands Isadora brushing my beard like sleepwalking windshield wipers or the way the sun uses maple leaves as lampshades if we can spend as much of ourselves in time as out of it if our conch shell ears keep after months the cymbal samba of the sea if your feet tender toweled and purpling remember the ant hills and thumb tacks and jelly spills they haven’t found yet if your big sister and her enormous feelings and your mom and her incomparable well of kindness and how they use each moment almost like a ladle if everything is like breath if we can use jazz the way we use a shower if everything can be a little of everything else if the naked basement bulb of my patience in its morse distress can most times be enough if the slapstick surgeon of memory can hang in if the horror show doesn’t get too hungry for more and more dimensions if we can start carpet bombing the nations of the earth with dollar bills and daisy petals instead if our favorite pizza place can please fall into the amber bath of immortality and we can live there in perennial Friday evening they’re bringing cups of ice and the ovens are awake ————————————– Dylan Emmons called us from Poughkeepsie, NY. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2206627219 Fri, 07 Nov 2025 16:45:43 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/new-york-summer-by-jenna-cardinale-8 00:01:00 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Storms– Wave action– Sand crash– A kite coming close– Wobbling moon– Desire work– These optimisms– There’s your thunder– Your downpour across the street– A kid beating a tree with its stick– Panting about every day– Too hot to worry about plot– Chewing ice into the mic– Today a hundred- year-old woman died– Separately I saw so many maggots later– As a recluse I really went all out– ————————————– Jenna Cardinale called us from Brooklyn, NY. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems Storms– Wave action– Sand crash– A kite coming c… Storms– Wave action– Sand crash– A kite coming close– Wobbling moon– Desire work– These optimisms– There’s your thunder– Your downpour across the street– A kid beating a tree with its stick– Panting about every day– Too hot to worry about plot– Chewing ice into the mic– Today a hundred- year-old woman died– Separately I saw so many maggots later– As a recluse I really went all out– ————————————– Jenna Cardinale called us from Brooklyn, NY. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2206627207 Fri, 07 Nov 2025 16:45:35 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/naked-in-manhattan-by-micaela-camacho-tenreiro-7 00:02:19 VOICEMAIL POEMS no after Chappell Roan The cold knows me in ways you never will. Darkness clamps her hand over the city’s mouth. Still, light. Music rises like smoke. And God is anything but subtle — this joint, our first kiss. Now my heart’s a helium balloon — pink, no strings attached. Sailing high among the lanterns — paper clouds in a makeshift sky in a lesbian bar where I keep my sunglasses on so you can’t see me cry. If we’re already in Hell, then that explains middle school, which isn’t when I knew. But the body, like God, offers signs. Neon and to the point — Open. Welcome. Thank You. When I called desire by name, the fog lifted from our past. (Seventh grade art class. I wanted to tell you.) Twelve years later, your palms are electric against my cheeks. Eyes, the color of parched earth — so here is my grief. Winter, like any crush, renders my layers useless. I forgive myself. In New York, there are no chance encounters. There are choices other than fear. ————————————– Micaela Camacho-Tenreiro called us from Wharton, NJ. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems after Chappell Roan The cold knows me in ways yo… after Chappell Roan The cold knows me in ways you never will. Darkness clamps her hand over the city’s mouth. Still, light. Music rises like smoke. And God is anything but subtle — this joint, our first kiss. Now my heart’s a helium balloon — pink, no strings attached. Sailing high among the lanterns — paper clouds in a makeshift sky in a lesbian bar where I keep my sunglasses on so you can’t see me cry. If we’re already in Hell, then that explains middle school, which isn’t when I knew. But the body, like God, offers signs. Neon and to the point — Open. Welcome. Thank You. When I called desire by name, the fog lifted from our past. (Seventh grade art class. I wanted to tell you.) Twelve years later, your palms are electric against my cheeks. Eyes, the color of parched earth — so here is my grief. Winter, like any crush, renders my layers useless. I forgive myself. In New York, there are no chance encounters. There are choices other than fear. ————————————– Micaela Camacho-Tenreiro called us from Wharton, NJ. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2206627223 Fri, 07 Nov 2025 16:45:26 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/may-10th-by-jamie-hood-6 00:02:17 VOICEMAIL POEMS no May 10th Perseverance is terminal, Every day dully getting up. The end times keep edging us But I’m a Taurus— I prefer to come And to go another round. They shot Katy Perry Into orbit, then let her back in. We turned the mission into memes To stop thinking of burned old growth forests, Boiling oceans, where all the bees have gone. In the shuttle there was something To do with a world tour. Will the wet bulb be worth it? A senator says we all have to die sometime, Which is news to me! I am always telling people How Katy Perry killed a nun. Now she’s coming for the rest of us. I too could call myself an astronaut; We tell ourselves stories in order to et cetera. I wanted heaven But space spat me out. I heard earth girls are easy. I’m so easy I only learned how to fight Back last week. I didn’t win. But I cured my depression By making the bed! The cure lasts ‘til just past The point I’ve smoothed the duvet. I draw the curtains. I play a record. I shake my locally-sourced oat milk To eke out one more use. Does it bother me, us fucking other people? Jury’s out. But if I picture you Brushing another woman’s hair From her mouth an atom bomb detonates. I see all my bones. They are female And furious. They rattle and shriek like death Metal. Don’t fucking brush another woman’s hair From her mouth. A hole’s a hole, darling, But tenderness is non-renewable. Bottle your affection for only me. I’m sorry. I have to get up again. I hate when there’s only one outcome. ————————————– Jamie Hood called us from Brooklyn, NY. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems May 10th Perseverance is terminal, Every day dul… May 10th Perseverance is terminal, Every day dully getting up. The end times keep edging us But I’m a Taurus— I prefer to come And to go another round. They shot Katy Perry Into orbit, then let her back in. We turned the mission into memes To stop thinking of burned old growth forests, Boiling oceans, where all the bees have gone. In the shuttle there was something To do with a world tour. Will the wet bulb be worth it? A senator says we all have to die sometime, Which is news to me! I am always telling people How Katy Perry killed a nun. Now she’s coming for the rest of us. I too could call myself an astronaut; We tell ourselves stories in order to et cetera. I wanted heaven But space spat me out. I heard earth girls are easy. I’m so easy I only learned how to fight Back last week. I didn’t win. But I cured my depression By making the bed! The cure lasts ‘til just past The point I’ve smoothed the duvet. I draw the curtains. I play a record. I shake my locally-sourced oat milk To eke out one more use. Does it bother me, us fucking other people? Jury’s out. But if I picture you Brushing another woman’s hair From her mouth an atom bomb detonates. I see all my bones. They are female And furious. They rattle and shriek like death Metal. Don’t fucking brush another woman’s hair From her mouth. A hole’s a hole, darling, But tenderness is non-renewable. Bottle your affection for only me. I’m sorry. I have to get up again. I hate when there’s only one outcome. ————————————– Jamie Hood called us from Brooklyn, NY. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2206627235 Fri, 07 Nov 2025 16:45:16 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/letter-to-the-editor-by-lauren-mills-5 00:02:24 VOICEMAIL POEMS no I have been made aware of the fact that you died in 1846, but am hoping this will reach you regardless. I have heard you are the foremost expert on solar activity, weather patterns, and astronomical cycles, as well as the best times to fish and how to build a community. I have heard you lived and worked in New Hampshire, which is where I have recently come to live and sometimes but rarely work. Did you know that ticks no longer freeze here, in the winter? The annual mean temperature has increased by about 2.6°F since your days. I check my ankles in both August and January, and am disappointed by how little it snows. I read about you on the Almanac’s website (a website is like a book that’s in the air) and wanted to reach out. They have a biography on you, they praise your name, they say there were two total solar eclipses in the US in your lifetime. They publish a new cake recipe on your birthday every year. They sell things now, too, like a Fruits Vegetables & Herbs 1000pc Puzzle for $19.95 and a Jeffersonian Brass Kinetic Wind Vane for $119.99. Don’t worry, that’s inflation, mostly. I know you just wanted to help the travelers, sailors, bookkeepers, beekeepers, and prognosticators. I don’t know if those people exist anymore. Robert Bailey Thomas, I fear summer now rots into last ditch efforts and expletives over the softness of peaches, so I’ll wrap up with some questions I hope you can answer. Why can I only see some stars out of the corner of my eye? Was your America much greener? Why, even when I am so quiet, and so good, can I not catch a fish? Why did you die, when you knew every psalm by heart and every benefit of witch hazel? Do you ever feel like July has forgotten your name? Do you know what I mean? Hey, Robert Bailey Thomas, please say you know what I mean. ————————————– Lauren Mills called us from London, UK. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems I have been made aware of the fact that you died … I have been made aware of the fact that you died in 1846, but am hoping this will reach you regardless. I have heard you are the foremost expert on solar activity, weather patterns, and astronomical cycles, as well as the best times to fish and how to build a community. I have heard you lived and worked in New Hampshire, which is where I have recently come to live and sometimes but rarely work. Did you know that ticks no longer freeze here, in the winter? The annual mean temperature has increased by about 2.6°F since your days. I check my ankles in both August and January, and am disappointed by how little it snows. I read about you on the Almanac’s website (a website is like a book that’s in the air) and wanted to reach out. They have a biography on you, they praise your name, they say there were two total solar eclipses in the US in your lifetime. They publish a new cake recipe on your birthday every year. They sell things now, too, like a Fruits Vegetables & Herbs 1000pc Puzzle for $19.95 and a Jeffersonian Brass Kinetic Wind Vane for $119.99. Don’t worry, that’s inflation, mostly. I know you just wanted to help the travelers, sailors, bookkeepers, beekeepers, and prognosticators. I don’t know if those people exist anymore. Robert Bailey Thomas, I fear summer now rots into last ditch efforts and expletives over the softness of peaches, so I’ll wrap up with some questions I hope you can answer. Why can I only see some stars out of the corner of my eye? Was your America much greener? Why, even when I am so quiet, and so good, can I not catch a fish? Why did you die, when you knew every psalm by heart and every benefit of witch hazel? Do you ever feel like July has forgotten your name? Do you know what I mean? Hey, Robert Bailey Thomas, please say you know what I mean. ————————————– Lauren Mills called us from London, UK. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2206627227 Fri, 07 Nov 2025 16:45:03 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/lawful-good-by-alexa-vallejo-4 00:01:08 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Solidarity is pissing in adjacent stalls. A godly marriage is a throuple with Christ. Dude was a real trove of sword lore. We cheered for the biracial babies. At the racist wedding, the pastor praised Korean cars & submissive wives. Cousins snuck liquor into the dry reception while sober Christians gnashed their teeth. So began the diaspora. One spent a year in Singapore; another posted pics from Botswana. Were we the first to get divorced? At least on that side of the family. For twelve years she was my grandmother too. Remember how we buried her in the rain, & how afterward we ate crab cakes. ————————————– Alexa Vallejo called us from Philadelphia, PA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems Solidarity is pissing in adjacent stalls. A god… Solidarity is pissing in adjacent stalls. A godly marriage is a throuple with Christ. Dude was a real trove of sword lore. We cheered for the biracial babies. At the racist wedding, the pastor praised Korean cars & submissive wives. Cousins snuck liquor into the dry reception while sober Christians gnashed their teeth. So began the diaspora. One spent a year in Singapore; another posted pics from Botswana. Were we the first to get divorced? At least on that side of the family. For twelve years she was my grandmother too. Remember how we buried her in the rain, & how afterward we ate crab cakes. ————————————– Alexa Vallejo called us from Philadelphia, PA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2206627211 Fri, 07 Nov 2025 16:44:55 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/evolution-of-missing-you-by-juniper-danger-3 00:02:00 VOICEMAIL POEMS no April 2024 Wish you were here is no synonym for I miss you, though of course I do. Wish you were here Like I know you would love this LIke I want to remember this with you, not to you Wish we could rebuild the subtleties to each other and build the details Fall over each other in the telling Want you to feel this first hand, absorbing it too Count you among the partners here along for their own rides Drinking in the soprano soloist, a bringer of comfort, this time firmly hand in hand I said I wish you were here because I WISH YOU WERE HERE This time, I’ll settle for one of us November 2024 I miss you jumps to my mind and tempts my tongue, only for strangers to hear it. To be somewhere alone is to be there unseen, thoughts unheard, except by their thinker. Their thinker, like The Thinker, sits unseen by any he knows, his crowded head superimposed on whipsering autumn plane leaves. Surely I am beheld as I behold, traversing sunlit plazas, long skirted and parasol shielded If only as Narcissus in mirror-black windows. My thoughts have value even if no one reflects on them. These mountains scrape the sky even after the sun dips behind them, the gardens keep growing in darkness even after the dykes who dressed up for the art have wandered out Jesus and Mary Magdalene remain trapped amid rough marble after I stop circling them . And I grow softer and stronger by the day, even though at the end of it there's no one to feel it for a thousand miles ————————————– Juniper Danger called us from Philadelphia, PA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems April 2024 Wish you were here is no synonym for I… April 2024 Wish you were here is no synonym for I miss you, though of course I do. Wish you were here Like I know you would love this LIke I want to remember this with you, not to you Wish we could rebuild the subtleties to each other and build the details Fall over each other in the telling Want you to feel this first hand, absorbing it too Count you among the partners here along for their own rides Drinking in the soprano soloist, a bringer of comfort, this time firmly hand in hand I said I wish you were here because I WISH YOU WERE HERE This time, I’ll settle for one of us November 2024 I miss you jumps to my mind and tempts my tongue, only for strangers to hear it. To be somewhere alone is to be there unseen, thoughts unheard, except by their thinker. Their thinker, like The Thinker, sits unseen by any he knows, his crowded head superimposed on whipsering autumn plane leaves. Surely I am beheld as I behold, traversing sunlit plazas, long skirted and parasol shielded If only as Narcissus in mirror-black windows. My thoughts have value even if no one reflects on them. These mountains scrape the sky even after the sun dips behind them, the gardens keep growing in darkness even after the dykes who dressed up for the art have wandered out Jesus and Mary Magdalene remain trapped amid rough marble after I stop circling them . And I grow softer and stronger by the day, even though at the end of it there's no one to feel it for a thousand miles ————————————– Juniper Danger called us from Philadelphia, PA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2206627199 Fri, 07 Nov 2025 16:44:46 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/beholden-by-john-muro-2 00:01:25 VOICEMAIL POEMS no “There can be but one teacher – nature. She must always be consulted.” - Camille Pissarro I’m wondering how best to preserve this day when I find myself summoned outside into the warming light, tossing my net beyond the low islands and the jagged edge of the Sound, hoping its threads return in gilded attire, yielding a tangle of blessings culled from both sea and hollow that are a mix of old-growth splendor and the commonplace, while I fall back to silence, watching the way the morning light breaks apart and is then quickly redrawn by wind gusts that blur and wrinkle the surface of the water, and entranced by the soft rustling of the beach grass and taste the tang of salt-scented air while white-capped tides are suffused with the same mussel-blue hue as the open fist of sky and seeing how both air and water are stitched together by these clamorous gulls rising in rapture then swooning towards shore and asking what more can be done other than to try and somehow slow earth’s hurry and call summer back. ————————————– John Muro called us from Glastonbury, CT. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems “There can be but one teacher – nature. She must … “There can be but one teacher – nature. She must always be consulted.” - Camille Pissarro I’m wondering how best to preserve this day when I find myself summoned outside into the warming light, tossing my net beyond the low islands and the jagged edge of the Sound, hoping its threads return in gilded attire, yielding a tangle of blessings culled from both sea and hollow that are a mix of old-growth splendor and the commonplace, while I fall back to silence, watching the way the morning light breaks apart and is then quickly redrawn by wind gusts that blur and wrinkle the surface of the water, and entranced by the soft rustling of the beach grass and taste the tang of salt-scented air while white-capped tides are suffused with the same mussel-blue hue as the open fist of sky and seeing how both air and water are stitched together by these clamorous gulls rising in rapture then swooning towards shore and asking what more can be done other than to try and somehow slow earth’s hurry and call summer back. ————————————– John Muro called us from Glastonbury, CT. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2206627215 Fri, 07 Nov 2025 16:44:38 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/4-tongue-poem-by-chiara-crisafulli-1 00:01:06 VOICEMAIL POEMS no "4-tongue poem" by Chiara Crisafulli by VOICEMAIL POEMS "4-tongue poem" by Chiara Crisafulli by VOICEMAIL… "4-tongue poem" by Chiara Crisafulli by VOICEMAIL POEMS voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2151614721 Thu, 14 Aug 2025 17:55:16 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/work-ghazal-jarrett-moseley-16 00:01:36 VOICEMAIL POEMS no The last night we spoke, you said we could make this work. I sold the bed we used to sleep on, to forget, hoping it would work. I left the pink book you gave me on my desk, your letters in my drawer, the ones where you said love is work. I left the memory of us sleeping on a cliffside in my head but deleted the picture we took, dead-eyed from waking up to work at 5 AM on another coast, the night sea barely visible beyond your head laid against my thigh, sprawled black hair, it was easy work to be in love with you, but it was impossible to love you in a way you felt. We were two felled trees attached by thin string, trying to work gravity against itself. In a Key Largo parking lot, years ago, before we ever fell through each other, your hand brushed against mine. We worked so hard to be that simple again. B, forgive me. I would have given myself away (I did) just to make it work. ————————————– Jarrett Moseley called us from Charlotte, NC. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems The last night we spoke, you said we could make t… The last night we spoke, you said we could make this work. I sold the bed we used to sleep on, to forget, hoping it would work. I left the pink book you gave me on my desk, your letters in my drawer, the ones where you said love is work. I left the memory of us sleeping on a cliffside in my head but deleted the picture we took, dead-eyed from waking up to work at 5 AM on another coast, the night sea barely visible beyond your head laid against my thigh, sprawled black hair, it was easy work to be in love with you, but it was impossible to love you in a way you felt. We were two felled trees attached by thin string, trying to work gravity against itself. In a Key Largo parking lot, years ago, before we ever fell through each other, your hand brushed against mine. We worked so hard to be that simple again. B, forgive me. I would have given myself away (I did) just to make it work. ————————————– Jarrett Moseley called us from Charlotte, NC. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2151614736 Thu, 14 Aug 2025 17:55:08 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/we-promise-to-protect-each-other-lauren-dotson-15 00:02:38 VOICEMAIL POEMS no We promise to protect each other After Willie Perdomo which means we pinky swear it which means we draw our pinkies like switchblades from brassy knuckles which means i hold your hands between the pocket space where we keep the taser between the thumb & index the hammer between the index & middle the cross between the middle & ring & the middle is my weapon of choice which means i talk a lot but my face says i can’t fight your face says we should run which means i face you standing still pressing my switchblade into yours wishing the switchblades were switchblades & not pinky promises we draw from brassy knuckles want brass knuckles but don’t want proximity want a gun but don't want that smoke want incense but only handmade want these hands to be protection enough that’s what space in poems are for: to store arsenals in this ars poetica keys between my fingers never felt comfortable like i would get sliced too if it came down to it i am walking across a blacktop i could tar myself into the sun is saying i should get home but home is on my hip i am aware of you & all the things that follow to follow & nothing more which means we promise to protect each other we pinky swear it ————————————– Lauren Dotson called us from Chicago, IL. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems We promise to protect each other After Willie Pe… We promise to protect each other After Willie Perdomo which means we pinky swear it which means we draw our pinkies like switchblades from brassy knuckles which means i hold your hands between the pocket space where we keep the taser between the thumb & index the hammer between the index & middle the cross between the middle & ring & the middle is my weapon of choice which means i talk a lot but my face says i can’t fight your face says we should run which means i face you standing still pressing my switchblade into yours wishing the switchblades were switchblades & not pinky promises we draw from brassy knuckles want brass knuckles but don’t want proximity want a gun but don't want that smoke want incense but only handmade want these hands to be protection enough that’s what space in poems are for: to store arsenals in this ars poetica keys between my fingers never felt comfortable like i would get sliced too if it came down to it i am walking across a blacktop i could tar myself into the sun is saying i should get home but home is on my hip i am aware of you & all the things that follow to follow & nothing more which means we promise to protect each other we pinky swear it ————————————– Lauren Dotson called us from Chicago, IL. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2151614709 Thu, 14 Aug 2025 17:55:00 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/things-id-still-do-dre-pontbriand-14 00:02:34 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Get in vans with strangers: a Palo-Santo heavy Chevy G20 with a sonnet-spilling prophet; a red 70’s Volkswagen shaggin' wagon with three long-haired surfers headed South; a fuzzy pink and purple pimped out festival-goer’s fantasy stocked with the best candy—one taste and I make-out with God. Talk myself out of a felony on one side of the border, have my first lucid dream on the other. Skinny dip a bioluminescent shoreline with a nowhere-bound time -traveller, his touch the lightning that strikes me sober, makes me want to remember. Take LSD blessed by a Mayan shaman on a Panamanian beach. Find out the only love I’ve ever known isn’t free—my softened gaze on strangers spinning around me, I love them not because they’re mine but because they never will be. Get all my shit stolen and backpack for three months without a backpack. Dance callouses onto the bottoms of my feet. When strangers barge into the van, I learn that boundaries don’t need to be barbed wire fences, a purple velvet rope is all you need. The prophet heads North and Tara asks Are you sure he’s not the one who stole all your shit? Nope. Hand what’s left of me to a golden-haired dreamer who hymns any instrument he holds. Change my mind about building a home in the gap between his front teeth. Leave him carving our initials in the rearview like the one before him left me. Fall in love during a solar eclipse. Let a wizard undress my notions of pleasure in the stolen darkness at mid-day, melt into the world of tantra without knowing what it means. Yes, a nameless rose does smell as sweet. I’d forego the forever my college sweetheart promised when he said he’d ask my dad, like I was an 18th century commodity. I’d handpick the same bouquet of brief eternities, still slam on the gas pedal—my rose-coloured windshield shattered to pieces when I travel to the final frontier to find the lights in his Northern eyes out of order those nights. Kintsugi: the Japanese art of repairing broken items with gold lacquer; freesias swooning over the fallen vase—her slow dance of shimmering scars. Given the chance, I’d still fling myself off the shelf, bless the falls that broke me golden. ————————————– Dré Pontbriand called us from Antigua & Barbuda. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems Get in vans with strangers: a Palo-Santo heavy Ch… Get in vans with strangers: a Palo-Santo heavy Chevy G20 with a sonnet-spilling prophet; a red 70’s Volkswagen shaggin' wagon with three long-haired surfers headed South; a fuzzy pink and purple pimped out festival-goer’s fantasy stocked with the best candy—one taste and I make-out with God. Talk myself out of a felony on one side of the border, have my first lucid dream on the other. Skinny dip a bioluminescent shoreline with a nowhere-bound time -traveller, his touch the lightning that strikes me sober, makes me want to remember. Take LSD blessed by a Mayan shaman on a Panamanian beach. Find out the only love I’ve ever known isn’t free—my softened gaze on strangers spinning around me, I love them not because they’re mine but because they never will be. Get all my shit stolen and backpack for three months without a backpack. Dance callouses onto the bottoms of my feet. When strangers barge into the van, I learn that boundaries don’t need to be barbed wire fences, a purple velvet rope is all you need. The prophet heads North and Tara asks Are you sure he’s not the one who stole all your shit? Nope. Hand what’s left of me to a golden-haired dreamer who hymns any instrument he holds. Change my mind about building a home in the gap between his front teeth. Leave him carving our initials in the rearview like the one before him left me. Fall in love during a solar eclipse. Let a wizard undress my notions of pleasure in the stolen darkness at mid-day, melt into the world of tantra without knowing what it means. Yes, a nameless rose does smell as sweet. I’d forego the forever my college sweetheart promised when he said he’d ask my dad, like I was an 18th century commodity. I’d handpick the same bouquet of brief eternities, still slam on the gas pedal—my rose-coloured windshield shattered to pieces when I travel to the final frontier to find the lights in his Northern eyes out of order those nights. Kintsugi: the Japanese art of repairing broken items with gold lacquer; freesias swooning over the fallen vase—her slow dance of shimmering scars. Given the chance, I’d still fling myself off the shelf, bless the falls that broke me golden. ————————————– Dré Pontbriand called us from Antigua & Barbuda. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2151614730 Thu, 14 Aug 2025 17:54:52 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/these-days-everybody-wants-to-hear-aparna-paul-13 00:02:59 VOICEMAIL POEMS no "these days, everybody wants to hear the prophecies of yore at a mcdonald’s drive through, and i just don’t think that that’s what i’m after" & when my friend pulls up & the speaker starts crackling with some eldritch horror, & it asks, do you want to die with that? & my friend looks over at me & asks, well, do you? & i say i’m good with just the pepsi, thanks & the eldritch horror, profound & decrepit, wails like a thousand suns being born or the edge of a paper slicing through skin or your dad shutting the door on your family the morning that he dies & my friend says, oh, i think they only have coke products here, & i say, hm, then i guess a cherry coke & my friend says, okay, a mcchicken, a cherry coke, plus can i get an answer the question unspoken in my heart? because my friend is always saying shit like that, especially in the mcdonald’s drive through & this time the voice from the speaker is sweet dulcet caramel dripping off a spoon, a siren song in symphony, & my friend says, damn, i think i’m a dollar short, but it’s okay because i have two dollars in my pocket, & anyway, the prophecies are free here, free like the way any of us are, free as a man with an albatross around his neck, free as an albatross around a man’s neck, since the albatross is dead, and isn’t death a kind of freedom?, free like a limited time only BOGO sale at the Gap, free like you’ll still have to give up your firstborn son, but whatever, who’s having babies in this economy, anyway, not to mention your firstborn won’t be a sun, if anything they’ll be the MOON, & we drive to the window & my friend’s camry sounds like it might fall apart right there & so might i, if i’m being honest & i look into the black hole at the first window or rather, it looks into me, i blink first & it becomes a murder of crows, silent, except to say second window only tonight, & then i say it, just for good measure, second window only tonight, & we’re at the second window, which is a little grimy, with a freckled bespectacled teen behind it, & she looks like me, a study in personal time travel, but when i ask my friend he says, hey, doesn’t that guy look like me? so it could be the whole world, or nothing at all (like most things) & i’m handed the cherry coke without much fanfare & the teen leans out the window to whisper in my friend’s ear & i strain to listen but all i hear is the rustling of the first breeze that ever swept this earth, & when my friend turns to me, he says, the prophecy machine is down tonight. can i get a sip of your cherry coke? & we drive away, dial-shifting through static, as the world dissolves into whipping wind, fresh fizz, & our laughter, spilling into empty eternity ————————————– Aparna Paul called us from Cambridge, MA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems "these days, everybody wants to hear the propheci… "these days, everybody wants to hear the prophecies of yore at a mcdonald’s drive through, and i just don’t think that that’s what i’m after" & when my friend pulls up & the speaker starts crackling with some eldritch horror, & it asks, do you want to die with that? & my friend looks over at me & asks, well, do you? & i say i’m good with just the pepsi, thanks & the eldritch horror, profound & decrepit, wails like a thousand suns being born or the edge of a paper slicing through skin or your dad shutting the door on your family the morning that he dies & my friend says, oh, i think they only have coke products here, & i say, hm, then i guess a cherry coke & my friend says, okay, a mcchicken, a cherry coke, plus can i get an answer the question unspoken in my heart? because my friend is always saying shit like that, especially in the mcdonald’s drive through & this time the voice from the speaker is sweet dulcet caramel dripping off a spoon, a siren song in symphony, & my friend says, damn, i think i’m a dollar short, but it’s okay because i have two dollars in my pocket, & anyway, the prophecies are free here, free like the way any of us are, free as a man with an albatross around his neck, free as an albatross around a man’s neck, since the albatross is dead, and isn’t death a kind of freedom?, free like a limited time only BOGO sale at the Gap, free like you’ll still have to give up your firstborn son, but whatever, who’s having babies in this economy, anyway, not to mention your firstborn won’t be a sun, if anything they’ll be the MOON, & we drive to the window & my friend’s camry sounds like it might fall apart right there & so might i, if i’m being honest & i look into the black hole at the first window or rather, it looks into me, i blink first & it becomes a murder of crows, silent, except to say second window only tonight, & then i say it, just for good measure, second window only tonight, & we’re at the second window, which is a little grimy, with a freckled bespectacled teen behind it, & she looks like me, a study in personal time travel, but when i ask my friend he says, hey, doesn’t that guy look like me? so it could be the whole world, or nothing at all (like most things) & i’m handed the cherry coke without much fanfare & the teen leans out the window to whisper in my friend’s ear & i strain to listen but all i hear is the rustling of the first breeze that ever swept this earth, & when my friend turns to me, he says, the prophecy machine is down tonight. can i get a sip of your cherry coke? & we drive away, dial-shifting through static, as the world dissolves into whipping wind, fresh fizz, & our laughter, spilling into empty eternity ————————————– Aparna Paul called us from Cambridge, MA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2151614724 Thu, 14 Aug 2025 17:54:42 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/the-goose-a-diptych-devan-murphy-12 00:01:56 VOICEMAIL POEMS no I dreamed of a canoe, and of the two of us: I was new on the lake. Streaming through the murk, the cellar scent of blue and brown water, and you, my new love, saying nothing, only rowing us backwards deftly. At the lake’s deepest point: a miniature goose—a full grown adult, though not five inches high, resting on an island of ice, mid-June. Tenderly I scooped it. Its feet were frozen in a lump of ice, but it stood on my palm as quiet and unmoving as you, who waited with paused oars, seeming not to care much about the goose, but caring about my care. I rubbed my fingers over the ruly bird’s webs to warm them, and the ice melted all shiny and dewy as the goose stared into the distance, patiently or bluely, I could not tell. The goose free, we moved on. // Tuesday night I felt a stabbing at the bottom of my foot; ignoring it I woke in the morning to the same pain and could not run. You sat with me in the dining room and took my foot in your palm and tried to maneuver the splinter out, spaded with your tweezers the dip in the soft spot of the sole, right beneath the ball, asking, “Does this hurt?” I wanted to answer, “Yes, and I love you,” but I could not tell you I loved you while you held in your hands something so rude as my dirty and wounded foot. You could not remove the splinter, but with time it came loose on its own, or else the soft cheek of my sole grew hard enough to enclose the shard. ————————————– Devan Murphy called us from Pittsburgh, PA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems I dreamed of a canoe, and of the two of us: I was… I dreamed of a canoe, and of the two of us: I was new on the lake. Streaming through the murk, the cellar scent of blue and brown water, and you, my new love, saying nothing, only rowing us backwards deftly. At the lake’s deepest point: a miniature goose—a full grown adult, though not five inches high, resting on an island of ice, mid-June. Tenderly I scooped it. Its feet were frozen in a lump of ice, but it stood on my palm as quiet and unmoving as you, who waited with paused oars, seeming not to care much about the goose, but caring about my care. I rubbed my fingers over the ruly bird’s webs to warm them, and the ice melted all shiny and dewy as the goose stared into the distance, patiently or bluely, I could not tell. The goose free, we moved on. // Tuesday night I felt a stabbing at the bottom of my foot; ignoring it I woke in the morning to the same pain and could not run. You sat with me in the dining room and took my foot in your palm and tried to maneuver the splinter out, spaded with your tweezers the dip in the soft spot of the sole, right beneath the ball, asking, “Does this hurt?” I wanted to answer, “Yes, and I love you,” but I could not tell you I loved you while you held in your hands something so rude as my dirty and wounded foot. You could not remove the splinter, but with time it came loose on its own, or else the soft cheek of my sole grew hard enough to enclose the shard. ————————————– Devan Murphy called us from Pittsburgh, PA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2151614745 Thu, 14 Aug 2025 17:54:20 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/the-dawn-raids-cindy-kurukaanga-11 00:01:28 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Chocolate Polynesian brown was beckoned to the land of the long white cloud to work in factories, freezing works, docks, was beckoned to work hard, send money back to islands of hibiscus and frangipani But chocolate Polynesian brown got swallowed, digested in a stomach churning with acid-filled hate The outcome? That other shade of brown // But dawn, because you covered your eyes with the dark hands of night batons bashed on doors, scaring pregnant women, given barely enough time to dress while dogs spat their barks through bared teeth But dawn, Because you hid behind the horizon torches blazed, blinding, breaking sleep and families as parents were taken from screaming kids to be jailed then charged then sent back to the islands Dawn, because you were silent, because all murmurings were silenced. ————————————– Cindy Kurukaanga called us from Aotearoa, New Zealand. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems Chocolate Polynesian brown was beckoned to the l… Chocolate Polynesian brown was beckoned to the land of the long white cloud to work in factories, freezing works, docks, was beckoned to work hard, send money back to islands of hibiscus and frangipani But chocolate Polynesian brown got swallowed, digested in a stomach churning with acid-filled hate The outcome? That other shade of brown // But dawn, because you covered your eyes with the dark hands of night batons bashed on doors, scaring pregnant women, given barely enough time to dress while dogs spat their barks through bared teeth But dawn, Because you hid behind the horizon torches blazed, blinding, breaking sleep and families as parents were taken from screaming kids to be jailed then charged then sent back to the islands Dawn, because you were silent, because all murmurings were silenced. ————————————– Cindy Kurukaanga called us from Aotearoa, New Zealand. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2151614715 Thu, 14 Aug 2025 17:52:11 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/sunday-tea-derrick-austin-10 00:01:29 VOICEMAIL POEMS no I studied Italian painters, Giorgione, Titian. At one job, I’m a glorified secretary. I answer the phone in my professional voice and sell gaudy urns to luxe addresses. My neighbor listens patiently, amused by my young life. We’re the only Black gay men in our building, so he has me over for Sunday tea. I fill our cups. For the heart, he says, adding whiskey to his. In the 80s, on a fellowship in Spain, he practiced arias and translated Romani ballads. After a concert, he presented Leontyne Price with flowers wrapped in sheer blue paper. Today, I argue Another Country is Baldwin’s best novel. My neighbor shares a recipe for chicken paprikash. Gone like that, he says, flipping through an album of friends in their youth with fades and thick mustaches. They could quote Mahogany. They cut up in the house-inflected dark of a dancefloor, worldly and glamorous as a Venetian painting. I refill our cups. A splash of whiskey in his tea. ————————————– Derrick Austin called us from Chicago, IL. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems I studied Italian painters, Giorgione, Titian. A… I studied Italian painters, Giorgione, Titian. At one job, I’m a glorified secretary. I answer the phone in my professional voice and sell gaudy urns to luxe addresses. My neighbor listens patiently, amused by my young life. We’re the only Black gay men in our building, so he has me over for Sunday tea. I fill our cups. For the heart, he says, adding whiskey to his. In the 80s, on a fellowship in Spain, he practiced arias and translated Romani ballads. After a concert, he presented Leontyne Price with flowers wrapped in sheer blue paper. Today, I argue Another Country is Baldwin’s best novel. My neighbor shares a recipe for chicken paprikash. Gone like that, he says, flipping through an album of friends in their youth with fades and thick mustaches. They could quote Mahogany. They cut up in the house-inflected dark of a dancefloor, worldly and glamorous as a Venetian painting. I refill our cups. A splash of whiskey in his tea. ————————————– Derrick Austin called us from Chicago, IL. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2151614739 Thu, 14 Aug 2025 17:51:42 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/sometimes-at-1037-you-need-to-change-your-life-sarena-brown-9 00:02:23 VOICEMAIL POEMS no so you do the next best thing and you cut your hair you follow a youtube video and a confident-man-hair-stylist-type shows you how using a mannequin head and swift movements on your turn you take two ponytails and the shittiest pair of scissors money can buy and you snip away at your kinda-long hair until it becomes less long and hopefully more shape arms overhead you’re diving into what no one can say today was the first day of April you got rejected from a job opportunity you remembered it’s your abuser’s birthday you sit on one friend’s porch and don’t talk about it you sit on another’s futon and you do the night wears on the day folds in on itself and you catch a glimpse of your body in the toothpasted mirror arms overhead you’re picking fruit we’ve seen this before in fact we saw you in this exact position three months ago in a stranger’s bathroom using arts n craft scissors you saved the hair before immediately losing it one day sooner or later you might find a bundle of your locks wrapped up in a sheet of printer paper with November 24th 2024 scrawled on it in green crayon there is so much you cannot control but you can choose the crayon the scissors the bathroom where you’ll cut our hair the next time you have to do something and you can choose what you do when that is no longer enough. ————————————– Sarena Brown called us from Philadelphia, PA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems so you do the next best thing and you cut your h… so you do the next best thing and you cut your hair you follow a youtube video and a confident-man-hair-stylist-type shows you how using a mannequin head and swift movements on your turn you take two ponytails and the shittiest pair of scissors money can buy and you snip away at your kinda-long hair until it becomes less long and hopefully more shape arms overhead you’re diving into what no one can say today was the first day of April you got rejected from a job opportunity you remembered it’s your abuser’s birthday you sit on one friend’s porch and don’t talk about it you sit on another’s futon and you do the night wears on the day folds in on itself and you catch a glimpse of your body in the toothpasted mirror arms overhead you’re picking fruit we’ve seen this before in fact we saw you in this exact position three months ago in a stranger’s bathroom using arts n craft scissors you saved the hair before immediately losing it one day sooner or later you might find a bundle of your locks wrapped up in a sheet of printer paper with November 24th 2024 scrawled on it in green crayon there is so much you cannot control but you can choose the crayon the scissors the bathroom where you’ll cut our hair the next time you have to do something and you can choose what you do when that is no longer enough. ————————————– Sarena Brown called us from Philadelphia, PA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2151614727 Thu, 14 Aug 2025 17:51:33 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/poem-written-in-iphone-note-via-voice-to-text-while-driving-jill-mclaughlin-8 00:01:10 VOICEMAIL POEMS no People fell in love during the fall of the Roman Empire and people were falling in love in 1930s Germany, the Nazis were coming into power and regular German citizens were going on dates and falling in love. I have new tires on my car so I feel invincible driving to you through the snow, I am driving to you and a song is on the radio that reminds me of you and I’m passing all these other cars because I have new tires and it’s snowing so hard but maybe I’m in love and I have to remind myself that happy people can still die in a car crash. There was happiness in 1930s Germany and at the end of Rome, too. Falling in love doesn’t do anything for the climate crisis, falling in love won't save democracy. It’s late-stage capitalism, it’s the fading days of the Anthropocene, new tires don’t save me from other drivers and love doesn’t save us from anything really, but isn’t it nice, for a minute in the snow, to feel so wildly protected? ————————————– Jill McLaughlin called us from Portland, ME. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems People fell in love during the fall of the Roman … People fell in love during the fall of the Roman Empire and people were falling in love in 1930s Germany, the Nazis were coming into power and regular German citizens were going on dates and falling in love. I have new tires on my car so I feel invincible driving to you through the snow, I am driving to you and a song is on the radio that reminds me of you and I’m passing all these other cars because I have new tires and it’s snowing so hard but maybe I’m in love and I have to remind myself that happy people can still die in a car crash. There was happiness in 1930s Germany and at the end of Rome, too. Falling in love doesn’t do anything for the climate crisis, falling in love won't save democracy. It’s late-stage capitalism, it’s the fading days of the Anthropocene, new tires don’t save me from other drivers and love doesn’t save us from anything really, but isn’t it nice, for a minute in the snow, to feel so wildly protected? ————————————– Jill McLaughlin called us from Portland, ME. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2151614712 Thu, 14 Aug 2025 17:51:23 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/my-last-summer-with-dad-2023-annie-powell-stone-7 00:01:12 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Dad was on the couch, mostly starving to death in front of us cancer, stage IV (for this type, many don’t catch the earlier stages, and of course there aren't later ones) we hung pinecone bird feeders close to the house, bringing Nature near when he couldn't go out we talked about our shared favorites: the praying mantis, female cardinal, blue herons, black cats we talked about Chris Christie taking a swing at the Bully, about what the hell would make someone crazy enough to walk into North Korea we talked about how to take care of mom where to find the passwords, who to trust we talked about the final moment and how I might not make it (I did, he waited) we talked about how a summer would never be enough time, as the days stretched out my son, his namesake, waited in the cherry tree ————————————– Annie Powell Stone called us from Baltimore, MD. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems Dad was on the couch, mostly starving to death in… Dad was on the couch, mostly starving to death in front of us cancer, stage IV (for this type, many don’t catch the earlier stages, and of course there aren't later ones) we hung pinecone bird feeders close to the house, bringing Nature near when he couldn't go out we talked about our shared favorites: the praying mantis, female cardinal, blue herons, black cats we talked about Chris Christie taking a swing at the Bully, about what the hell would make someone crazy enough to walk into North Korea we talked about how to take care of mom where to find the passwords, who to trust we talked about the final moment and how I might not make it (I did, he waited) we talked about how a summer would never be enough time, as the days stretched out my son, his namesake, waited in the cherry tree ————————————– Annie Powell Stone called us from Baltimore, MD. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2151614754 Thu, 14 Aug 2025 17:51:14 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/lets-be-monsters-maia-brown-jackson-6 00:01:40 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Let’s be monsters. Let’s be witches and bitches and crones and just hideous. Let’s be powerful. Let’s take and take and take and grab the world, just fucking hold on with claws and teeth and refuse to let go. And let’s be gluttonous. Let’s devour. Let’s see what we want, what delights us, and let’s inhale it with no regard for propriety. With no regard for you. Let’s be insolent. Let’s be wanton. Let’s be ugly. Let’s show our teeth as a warning sign before we sink them into your neck. Let’s be savage and angry. Let’s say, This is for me. This is because I want. This is because I exist. This is because I take up space, as much as I want, and more, and I survive despite your best efforts to tamp me down, and I will fucking wear my defiance like a punch to the gut or— Go ahead. Tell me the red on my lips is too suggestive. It’s my fucking mouth. And I use it to bite more than anything else. ————————————– Maia Brown-Jackson called us from Philadelphia, PA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems Let’s be monsters. Let’s be witches and bitches a… Let’s be monsters. Let’s be witches and bitches and crones and just hideous. Let’s be powerful. Let’s take and take and take and grab the world, just fucking hold on with claws and teeth and refuse to let go. And let’s be gluttonous. Let’s devour. Let’s see what we want, what delights us, and let’s inhale it with no regard for propriety. With no regard for you. Let’s be insolent. Let’s be wanton. Let’s be ugly. Let’s show our teeth as a warning sign before we sink them into your neck. Let’s be savage and angry. Let’s say, This is for me. This is because I want. This is because I exist. This is because I take up space, as much as I want, and more, and I survive despite your best efforts to tamp me down, and I will fucking wear my defiance like a punch to the gut or— Go ahead. Tell me the red on my lips is too suggestive. It’s my fucking mouth. And I use it to bite more than anything else. ————————————– Maia Brown-Jackson called us from Philadelphia, PA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2151614751 Thu, 14 Aug 2025 17:51:03 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/keep-your-popcorn-on-fridays-we-want-a-living-wage-jaime-jacques-5 00:01:33 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Three weeks to Christmas. We bide our time on the line by conjuring posties of the past— side-burned and handcuffed, the ones in ‘81 who dared to defy back to work orders. Got the whole country maternity leave. Now we fight traffic in trucks that hit 40 degrees, deliver an endless stream of Sephora and Nespresso, spend hours alone with the clang of keys on metal, compete with the Amazon drivers for free parking spots and as we pass each other on the street they sometimes stop to ask: It’s a good job right? For the benefits? A good job is any job that keeps you out of a tent. We probably wouldn’t defy like the legends of ’81, too many struggling with groceries and rent. Here’s the talking head on the news again. Sound bites smooth as the 300 thread count shirt he has on. As if we are a private business, not a rusting crown corporation. Meant to serve all citizens of the nation, including its workers who are crippled by inflation. Every postie’s got a side hustle and a secret dream. Lauren sews crafts to sell on Etsy. Reg DJs weddings and Sid drives a taxi. On Fridays, management makes movie popcorn to celebrate the end of the week. Why are we always so hungry? The smell of fake butter is rich. We follow it. We eat. ————————————– Jaime Jacques called us from Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems Three weeks to Christmas. We bide our time on th… Three weeks to Christmas. We bide our time on the line by conjuring posties of the past— side-burned and handcuffed, the ones in ‘81 who dared to defy back to work orders. Got the whole country maternity leave. Now we fight traffic in trucks that hit 40 degrees, deliver an endless stream of Sephora and Nespresso, spend hours alone with the clang of keys on metal, compete with the Amazon drivers for free parking spots and as we pass each other on the street they sometimes stop to ask: It’s a good job right? For the benefits? A good job is any job that keeps you out of a tent. We probably wouldn’t defy like the legends of ’81, too many struggling with groceries and rent. Here’s the talking head on the news again. Sound bites smooth as the 300 thread count shirt he has on. As if we are a private business, not a rusting crown corporation. Meant to serve all citizens of the nation, including its workers who are crippled by inflation. Every postie’s got a side hustle and a secret dream. Lauren sews crafts to sell on Etsy. Reg DJs weddings and Sid drives a taxi. On Fridays, management makes movie popcorn to celebrate the end of the week. Why are we always so hungry? The smell of fake butter is rich. We follow it. We eat. ————————————– Jaime Jacques called us from Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2151614748 Thu, 14 Aug 2025 17:50:54 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/guide-to-melancholy-ft-jar-of-olives-annabelle-chen-4 00:01:24 VOICEMAIL POEMS no if you are sad: sit, silent, and bathe in the brine of an olive jar. let the salt consume you till you are preserved in acidity rather than memory, and the blood in your veins might well be that of the ocean. if they ask you how it happened, say: “i didn’t know how to swim.” this is false, but so are the teeth they blatantly lie through. (you do not owe them the truth if they don’t give it to you. do not sacrifice your bitterness for these saps.) return to the olives. swallow the pits: wrinkled fools have no place here, at least not since he died. stare as they swim around your plate, reminiscent of almonds, and remember how he taught you that the amygdala handles emotion. maybe by overconsumption you can erase all you ever knew. when asked, say he was your mentor. when asked, say he was kind. when asked, say you’d do anything to see him again. the olive jar says you should take only nine, yet seventeen have passed through your teeth. it is okay. it will all, one day, be okay. ————————————– Annabelle Chen called us from Milton, MA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems if you are sad: sit, silent, and bathe in the bri… if you are sad: sit, silent, and bathe in the brine of an olive jar. let the salt consume you till you are preserved in acidity rather than memory, and the blood in your veins might well be that of the ocean. if they ask you how it happened, say: “i didn’t know how to swim.” this is false, but so are the teeth they blatantly lie through. (you do not owe them the truth if they don’t give it to you. do not sacrifice your bitterness for these saps.) return to the olives. swallow the pits: wrinkled fools have no place here, at least not since he died. stare as they swim around your plate, reminiscent of almonds, and remember how he taught you that the amygdala handles emotion. maybe by overconsumption you can erase all you ever knew. when asked, say he was your mentor. when asked, say he was kind. when asked, say you’d do anything to see him again. the olive jar says you should take only nine, yet seventeen have passed through your teeth. it is okay. it will all, one day, be okay. ————————————– Annabelle Chen called us from Milton, MA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2151614733 Thu, 14 Aug 2025 17:50:45 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/first-cumbia-tatiana-chaterji-3 00:01:06 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Lake Berryessa, azure at our backs the man from Toluca slips me lozenges from under his tongue Spanish alive in my mouth touches the screen reaching deep lights from his phone plays me my first cumbia: chee chih chih woodsmoke unfurls decomposed flesh dusted bones awakening at his cue turning slight curving threaded magnets loop khee ki-ki khee ki-ki khee ki-ki each scratch of rake pulling me into the earth thrumming his hand at my hip la guira’s song tethered ancient spine’s pulse hungry, touch the heart of before knowing how to fly, certain feathered tz sts sts tz ————————————– Tatiana Chaterji called us from unceded Ohlone land in Oakland, CA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems Lake Berryessa, azure at our backs the man … Lake Berryessa, azure at our backs the man from Toluca slips me lozenges from under his tongue Spanish alive in my mouth touches the screen reaching deep lights from his phone plays me my first cumbia: chee chih chih woodsmoke unfurls decomposed flesh dusted bones awakening at his cue turning slight curving threaded magnets loop khee ki-ki khee ki-ki khee ki-ki each scratch of rake pulling me into the earth thrumming his hand at my hip la guira’s song tethered ancient spine’s pulse hungry, touch the heart of before knowing how to fly, certain feathered tz sts sts tz ————————————– Tatiana Chaterji called us from unceded Ohlone land in Oakland, CA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2151614742 Thu, 14 Aug 2025 17:50:33 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/decline-mantra-aldi-at-46th-and-market-diandra-williams-2 00:01:54 VOICEMAIL POEMS no "There is a look one sees, the mouth somehow desperate– … the fear of death, taking as its form dedication to hunger…" - Louise Glück b/c one day i will want for nothing b/c one day i will not want b/c one day i will need nothing to want for b/c one day my body will cease to function b/c one day my body will function outside itself b/c one day my body will cease functioning as a vessel for causeless desire b/c one day my body will cease desiring cease to function b/c one day the flesh of the earth will clothe the body’s naked hunger b/c one day i will feed off nothing but the dirt’s choicest cuts b/c one day the dirt’s best nourishment will stonewall the body’s needing & wanting b/c one day i will become dirt my gut become dirt pelvis become dirt hands legs spinal column become dirt skull cavity encompass dirt drawing down dirt to become dirt one day b/c the hungry ghost of my body seeks grene pasture & stil waters one day b/c feeding the 5000 remains a miracle, not a reality one day b/c desperate measures leave ample room for development one day b/c 2Bd / 2Br Luxury Apts resign us to dirt b/c the PIN #: **** issues DECLINE & no other b/c a woman’s body is a grave b/c the rectum is a grave b/c the coffin of my body cradles your body it will accept all manner of things ————————————– Diandra Williams called us from Philadelphia, PA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems "There is a look one sees, the mouth somehow desp… "There is a look one sees, the mouth somehow desperate– … the fear of death, taking as its form dedication to hunger…" - Louise Glück b/c one day i will want for nothing b/c one day i will not want b/c one day i will need nothing to want for b/c one day my body will cease to function b/c one day my body will function outside itself b/c one day my body will cease functioning as a vessel for causeless desire b/c one day my body will cease desiring cease to function b/c one day the flesh of the earth will clothe the body’s naked hunger b/c one day i will feed off nothing but the dirt’s choicest cuts b/c one day the dirt’s best nourishment will stonewall the body’s needing & wanting b/c one day i will become dirt my gut become dirt pelvis become dirt hands legs spinal column become dirt skull cavity encompass dirt drawing down dirt to become dirt one day b/c the hungry ghost of my body seeks grene pasture & stil waters one day b/c feeding the 5000 remains a miracle, not a reality one day b/c desperate measures leave ample room for development one day b/c 2Bd / 2Br Luxury Apts resign us to dirt b/c the PIN #: **** issues DECLINE & no other b/c a woman’s body is a grave b/c the rectum is a grave b/c the coffin of my body cradles your body it will accept all manner of things ————————————– Diandra Williams called us from Philadelphia, PA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2151614718 Thu, 14 Aug 2025 17:50:25 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/bench-clearing-marissa-desantis-1 00:01:08 VOICEMAIL POEMS no My dad died and sports came back. We wore masks at his funeral to avoid being next, I guess. The night before Joe Kelly fired at Carlos Correa’s head and cleared the bench and I get it, because what other response is there to feeling cheated than bearing witness to your hate blossoming from your body, your spite-filled fingers gripping the splitting seams, your hurtling release spitting seeds that will line the graves of generational grudges. What song do you serve your ears the morning after your mom sends you home with a peace flower and you say goodbye in the dark because it hurts to see? So King Push pummels my skull as my jaw sits hollow and jagged, a haggard quarry of heavy stones and I stare at a cracked tree limb, angled 90 degrees in a non-committal breeze. And a bird cries like a rusty swingset and now I see the hurt has just begun to bloom. ————————————– Marissa DeSantis called us from Cleveland, OH. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems My dad died and sports came back. We wore masks a… My dad died and sports came back. We wore masks at his funeral to avoid being next, I guess. The night before Joe Kelly fired at Carlos Correa’s head and cleared the bench and I get it, because what other response is there to feeling cheated than bearing witness to your hate blossoming from your body, your spite-filled fingers gripping the splitting seams, your hurtling release spitting seeds that will line the graves of generational grudges. What song do you serve your ears the morning after your mom sends you home with a peace flower and you say goodbye in the dark because it hurts to see? So King Push pummels my skull as my jaw sits hollow and jagged, a haggard quarry of heavy stones and I stare at a cracked tree limb, angled 90 degrees in a non-committal breeze. And a bird cries like a rusty swingset and now I see the hurt has just begun to bloom. ————————————– Marissa DeSantis called us from Cleveland, OH. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2089454223 Tue, 13 May 2025 14:59:08 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/a9da6fea-8df0-4e54-8936-d273aefe8313 00:02:28 VOICEMAIL POEMS no You’re like a paragraph in a book, he says, folding a dollar bill into an origami ring at the bar, and I’m not sure if it’s an insult. He slips the ring onto my forefinger: don’t get too excited. Should I apologize to you or myself or the woman who loved him before? I stay for the story. He is the only one who can make me laugh during an argument. We huddle in the doorway of the pub, passing the vape back and forth in the cold. He mocks my rotating flavors: watermelon, mango, strawberry. I tell him I miss my cigarettes but really, it’s just autumn again. Puff, puff. I’m rotting from the inside. Downing pills with an Old Fashioned. My heart is episodic, my brain one chemical imbalance after another. This unfurling is not what I wanted. He’s the head rush from the first good drag. The first sip of coffee to cure a hangover. I’m living at the bottom of the bottle and it’s beautiful here, all glass and no windows. Who is there left to quit for? The bodies in the lake, one of them mine. The bodies in his pool, all of them my lovers. I slaughter them to the gods of my wanting. I like the way he talks to his cats. Throws one over a shoulder and coos. I ache for this rough with my soft. A 4am kiss, a purpling bruise on my bicep. All those late night drives, always to him. We’re at the bar again. I’m nursing an unwanted Tito’s shot as he ignores me for a man with a matching DUI. He only notices when I storm away. Follows as I’m trying to hide so I give him a hard time because how dare he watch me bleed. Scar, I love you. He says my childhood nickname like he can hardly lift it. I’ve forgotten how it feels to be seen and still wanted. I can outrun anything, even love. I can shoehorn any ending I want, even with my heart in his chokehold. In this version, I fish my lovers’ bodies out of the pool for one last dance before burial. I lay my vapes on their graves instead of flowers. ————————————– Scarlett Hume called us from Washington, DC. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems You’re like a paragraph in a book, he says, foldi… You’re like a paragraph in a book, he says, folding a dollar bill into an origami ring at the bar, and I’m not sure if it’s an insult. He slips the ring onto my forefinger: don’t get too excited. Should I apologize to you or myself or the woman who loved him before? I stay for the story. He is the only one who can make me laugh during an argument. We huddle in the doorway of the pub, passing the vape back and forth in the cold. He mocks my rotating flavors: watermelon, mango, strawberry. I tell him I miss my cigarettes but really, it’s just autumn again. Puff, puff. I’m rotting from the inside. Downing pills with an Old Fashioned. My heart is episodic, my brain one chemical imbalance after another. This unfurling is not what I wanted. He’s the head rush from the first good drag. The first sip of coffee to cure a hangover. I’m living at the bottom of the bottle and it’s beautiful here, all glass and no windows. Who is there left to quit for? The bodies in the lake, one of them mine. The bodies in his pool, all of them my lovers. I slaughter them to the gods of my wanting. I like the way he talks to his cats. Throws one over a shoulder and coos. I ache for this rough with my soft. A 4am kiss, a purpling bruise on my bicep. All those late night drives, always to him. We’re at the bar again. I’m nursing an unwanted Tito’s shot as he ignores me for a man with a matching DUI. He only notices when I storm away. Follows as I’m trying to hide so I give him a hard time because how dare he watch me bleed. Scar, I love you. He says my childhood nickname like he can hardly lift it. I’ve forgotten how it feels to be seen and still wanted. I can outrun anything, even love. I can shoehorn any ending I want, even with my heart in his chokehold. In this version, I fish my lovers’ bodies out of the pool for one last dance before burial. I lay my vapes on their graves instead of flowers. ————————————– Scarlett Hume called us from Washington, DC. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2089454199 Tue, 13 May 2025 14:58:59 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/c667190d-84fb-49aa-ad2b-111f73099510 00:02:55 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Double-check you have not morphed into wax. Are the appendages protruding from the trunk of your body still soft skin, or have you hardened your armor like they taught you in eighth grade when a car flattened your cat at your Christmas party? You cried. You watched as he twitched and his insides squelched onto the pavement, and when he became still, his body stiffened. Still, with tears, you hauled him home. It was hard. They said “you’re ruining the party with your moping,” so you plopped by the Christmas tree. It was hard, was it hard to wake up this morning and find your skin had not hardened like exoskeleton? You are still soft. Still tender. It was tenth grade when your grandfather requested you be pallbearer at grandma’s funeral. You couldn’t bear it, the weight, the load. The corpse, it was caked in makeup to mask the blemishes from Her accident. She was not herself. You grasped her hand—it was hard. It was like wax, and when you squeezed her hand farewell, you left an indentation. That was hard. To see a hand that was no longer her hand. Remember if you wake up and don’t feel human, check your hands. Knead the flesh of your palm. If it morphs to hand again, you are still alive. You are still alive. Still, you are alive. You are you, and you are alive! You are alive! You are soft. Still human. Still tender. Still raw. Still. You are not twitching. Not wax. It is hard to love because someday love goes stiff. And you must convince yourself to lift love from the pavement, to love even when the soft animal of love’s body hardens, and you cringe when the coffin contacts the ground. And you feel numb, too soft. When it’s all too much, let the softness of your body convince you. You’re alive. You’re alive. You’re alive. ————————————– Kenny Mitchell called us from Bloomington, IN. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems Double-check you have not morphed into wax. Are t… Double-check you have not morphed into wax. Are the appendages protruding from the trunk of your body still soft skin, or have you hardened your armor like they taught you in eighth grade when a car flattened your cat at your Christmas party? You cried. You watched as he twitched and his insides squelched onto the pavement, and when he became still, his body stiffened. Still, with tears, you hauled him home. It was hard. They said “you’re ruining the party with your moping,” so you plopped by the Christmas tree. It was hard, was it hard to wake up this morning and find your skin had not hardened like exoskeleton? You are still soft. Still tender. It was tenth grade when your grandfather requested you be pallbearer at grandma’s funeral. You couldn’t bear it, the weight, the load. The corpse, it was caked in makeup to mask the blemishes from Her accident. She was not herself. You grasped her hand—it was hard. It was like wax, and when you squeezed her hand farewell, you left an indentation. That was hard. To see a hand that was no longer her hand. Remember if you wake up and don’t feel human, check your hands. Knead the flesh of your palm. If it morphs to hand again, you are still alive. You are still alive. Still, you are alive. You are you, and you are alive! You are alive! You are soft. Still human. Still tender. Still raw. Still. You are not twitching. Not wax. It is hard to love because someday love goes stiff. And you must convince yourself to lift love from the pavement, to love even when the soft animal of love’s body hardens, and you cringe when the coffin contacts the ground. And you feel numb, too soft. When it’s all too much, let the softness of your body convince you. You’re alive. You’re alive. You’re alive. ————————————– Kenny Mitchell called us from Bloomington, IN. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2089454184 Tue, 13 May 2025 14:58:52 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/d254e03e-393a-4ce7-a8a6-7b534bf3e95d 00:01:46 VOICEMAIL POEMS no When the blues find where I’ve been hiding, They pile on like puppies— so damn excited to see me. These days, I’m into cats, brother. You know, maybe one will rub up against me, once in awhile, or meow enough until I give it what it wants— usually my food and then, my appetite. But the dogs, man… they just don’t stop— yipping, nipping, slobbering— all fucking over me, and then I’m down for the three-to-five-day count. I try to rationalize—“They’re just puppies. They’ll get bored and go away.” I try stoicism—“I can’t get bothered by the uncontrollable.” I try booze—the puppies just lap that shit up. But they always sniff me out! After a few days enjoying the sunshine, I guess my contented stink gives me away, ‘cause the cute, fucking, little, tail-waggers always, always fucking find me, the little shitheads. First rule of depression: We don’t talk about depression. I wonder if Paper Street Soap Co. makes Existential Stench— extended release version, of course— its scent so cloying and heavy, it’ll hide my temporary joy. Crap! Here they come, the adorable little bastards. Shoving their tongues up my nose, in my mouth, and one—I’m sure his name is Cletus— is so glad to see me, he’s going to pee on me, gah! Get away from me you goddamn mutts! ————————————– David J. Schast called us from Elkins Park, PA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems When the blues find where I’ve been hiding, They … When the blues find where I’ve been hiding, They pile on like puppies— so damn excited to see me. These days, I’m into cats, brother. You know, maybe one will rub up against me, once in awhile, or meow enough until I give it what it wants— usually my food and then, my appetite. But the dogs, man… they just don’t stop— yipping, nipping, slobbering— all fucking over me, and then I’m down for the three-to-five-day count. I try to rationalize—“They’re just puppies. They’ll get bored and go away.” I try stoicism—“I can’t get bothered by the uncontrollable.” I try booze—the puppies just lap that shit up. But they always sniff me out! After a few days enjoying the sunshine, I guess my contented stink gives me away, ‘cause the cute, fucking, little, tail-waggers always, always fucking find me, the little shitheads. First rule of depression: We don’t talk about depression. I wonder if Paper Street Soap Co. makes Existential Stench— extended release version, of course— its scent so cloying and heavy, it’ll hide my temporary joy. Crap! Here they come, the adorable little bastards. Shoving their tongues up my nose, in my mouth, and one—I’m sure his name is Cletus— is so glad to see me, he’s going to pee on me, gah! Get away from me you goddamn mutts! ————————————– David J. Schast called us from Elkins Park, PA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2089454232 Tue, 13 May 2025 14:58:44 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/840d79d5-25ed-4df6-b8a4-f921aefad213 00:02:57 VOICEMAIL POEMS no My mother’s half brother wore a blue herringbone tweed jacket with padded elbows to her funeral / The kind worn by a caricature of a substitute teacher or traveling salesman or a freshly sober high school dropout / He told us to call him Uncle Loser & used to whisper to us in the back of his trailer the same three ghost stories every summer / The one about the man who underachieves his way back to the kiddie table when the adults start pairing themselves into euchre teams / The one about a man who drags a rusted shopping cart behind him as he haunts the parking lot of the abandoned shopping malls that line the freeway access roads / The one about his teenage classmates who drank themselves into their senior year & went missing while camping in the woods not far from here / Uncle Loser taught his parrot all the best curse words to use on everyone except grandma & his daughters / We thought that damn bird was gonna outlive us all but she died early from lung cancer / Family Tradition / For every set of us one must annihilate himself farther faster / Uncle Loser surprised his in-laws by looking like a goddamn college professor next to the cremains of my mother / My dad was so impressed by the burnout’s newfound glamour he offered to buy a round of drinks for them before remembering that side of the family was newly sober / Uncle Loser used to let me spin around in his daughter’s tutu in front of an antique mirror in the back of his trailer / He was glad someone enjoyed his embroidery. Ask Your Uncle to let you take a tutu home | Turn to page 2 Spin until “Genius of Love” starts to skip | Turn to page 3 ————————————– RJ Equality Ingram called us from Portland, OR. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems My mother’s half brother wore a blue herringbone … My mother’s half brother wore a blue herringbone tweed jacket with padded elbows to her funeral / The kind worn by a caricature of a substitute teacher or traveling salesman or a freshly sober high school dropout / He told us to call him Uncle Loser & used to whisper to us in the back of his trailer the same three ghost stories every summer / The one about the man who underachieves his way back to the kiddie table when the adults start pairing themselves into euchre teams / The one about a man who drags a rusted shopping cart behind him as he haunts the parking lot of the abandoned shopping malls that line the freeway access roads / The one about his teenage classmates who drank themselves into their senior year & went missing while camping in the woods not far from here / Uncle Loser taught his parrot all the best curse words to use on everyone except grandma & his daughters / We thought that damn bird was gonna outlive us all but she died early from lung cancer / Family Tradition / For every set of us one must annihilate himself farther faster / Uncle Loser surprised his in-laws by looking like a goddamn college professor next to the cremains of my mother / My dad was so impressed by the burnout’s newfound glamour he offered to buy a round of drinks for them before remembering that side of the family was newly sober / Uncle Loser used to let me spin around in his daughter’s tutu in front of an antique mirror in the back of his trailer / He was glad someone enjoyed his embroidery. Ask Your Uncle to let you take a tutu home | Turn to page 2 Spin until “Genius of Love” starts to skip | Turn to page 3 ————————————– RJ Equality Ingram called us from Portland, OR. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2089454226 Tue, 13 May 2025 14:58:36 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/1f7b299c-d8da-439c-914a-d40d0677f9ff 00:01:19 VOICEMAIL POEMS no They call one bulldagger. I heard them say she spreads women’s legs that's all she does, but I know her. She builds entire worlds where their mouths cannot go, their eyes cannot perceive. What they wonder is who she fucks and how they are going to have more children in the world, and there is more to loving a woman. I know because I hold them two inside. An elder called the bisexual one greedy, and we all laughed at her small imagination. Her hands mortared me together. Them two made me part of a house to hold back the winds and water for a century, keep them safe whether hurricane or one of them come knocking at their door, and because the family loves a corpse, we will be cremated into ash and return as blocks calling out for a love like theirs to hold. The only thing that hears them two sex are concrete and coal fly, and neither one will tell. ————————————– Marlanda Dekine called us from Georgetown, SC. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems They call one bulldagger. I heard them say she sp… They call one bulldagger. I heard them say she spreads women’s legs that's all she does, but I know her. She builds entire worlds where their mouths cannot go, their eyes cannot perceive. What they wonder is who she fucks and how they are going to have more children in the world, and there is more to loving a woman. I know because I hold them two inside. An elder called the bisexual one greedy, and we all laughed at her small imagination. Her hands mortared me together. Them two made me part of a house to hold back the winds and water for a century, keep them safe whether hurricane or one of them come knocking at their door, and because the family loves a corpse, we will be cremated into ash and return as blocks calling out for a love like theirs to hold. The only thing that hears them two sex are concrete and coal fly, and neither one will tell. ————————————– Marlanda Dekine called us from Georgetown, SC. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2089454217 Tue, 13 May 2025 14:58:28 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/396f382c-7c7a-445d-9a46-0bfbae6bcfc5 00:01:12 VOICEMAIL POEMS no I want to be: a good boy, your domesticated coyote. My tongue’s handwriting is the shape of your body unshaved and without a shower. They need us to feel disgusted with ourselves, so you commit to my appetite unreserved. You become tender only while listening to crust punk and letting my fingers impersonate what I really want. The moon is a cuck watching our disentanglement. I can’t remember if I slept but the birds are our mothers waking us up. You make my coffee like a prayer, so I call you a saint right before we kiss. It is time to creep into something other than each other, but you don’t need a leash to take me on a walk. You’re five feet taller than me when I’m on all fours. You fear a million fears about me, but only a handful are true. ————————————– Mary Violet called us from Philadelphia, PA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems I want to be: a good boy, your domesticated coyot… I want to be: a good boy, your domesticated coyote. My tongue’s handwriting is the shape of your body unshaved and without a shower. They need us to feel disgusted with ourselves, so you commit to my appetite unreserved. You become tender only while listening to crust punk and letting my fingers impersonate what I really want. The moon is a cuck watching our disentanglement. I can’t remember if I slept but the birds are our mothers waking us up. You make my coffee like a prayer, so I call you a saint right before we kiss. It is time to creep into something other than each other, but you don’t need a leash to take me on a walk. You’re five feet taller than me when I’m on all fours. You fear a million fears about me, but only a handful are true. ————————————– Mary Violet called us from Philadelphia, PA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2089454214 Tue, 13 May 2025 14:58:20 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/b51b4f8a-5b25-4843-9c6b-38076b0407f0 00:02:24 VOICEMAIL POEMS no I’m on the floor again, and that isn’t a metaphor for rock bottom. My new therapist asked me how I did it. How I managed to keep myself safe all these years. For the first time in over a decade, I was honest: I don’t remember. The meds are working, too, I think. Though after they unfurl my patterns, my dreams of precision, all the rot turns to tremors in my hands. It feels like the world ended when we were fourteen, and after years of dodging the undead on bare feet, I finally found my way to cold water and clean shoes. So after the session, I went out and bought stamps. I was thinking of the last time you and I shared a meal. How we cried in the rollercoaster line at Busch Gardens because we were hot and hungry and couldn’t fit ourselves to girlhood. How you said that Tampa will never be home because we wear fewer clothes here and our sweat smells different here. That night we tossed curse words across the dinner table and stuffed our mouths sour with lettuce. —By now you must know that I’ve broken my promise: I’m dealing with men so I don’t have to deal with myself. I’m thinking of one who lives on the west end of the city. He makes odd music, and I pretend that its subversion is what inspires me. He calls me the poet of silence and hair—you’ll be proud to know our love never reached flesh. Thank God it stopped at the bones. I hope you’ve kept your promise. And I hope your thyroid is better. Tabitha, if I could carry it all, I would. ————————————– Meghan Malachi called us from Chicago, IL. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems I’m on the floor again, and that isn’t a metaphor… I’m on the floor again, and that isn’t a metaphor for rock bottom. My new therapist asked me how I did it. How I managed to keep myself safe all these years. For the first time in over a decade, I was honest: I don’t remember. The meds are working, too, I think. Though after they unfurl my patterns, my dreams of precision, all the rot turns to tremors in my hands. It feels like the world ended when we were fourteen, and after years of dodging the undead on bare feet, I finally found my way to cold water and clean shoes. So after the session, I went out and bought stamps. I was thinking of the last time you and I shared a meal. How we cried in the rollercoaster line at Busch Gardens because we were hot and hungry and couldn’t fit ourselves to girlhood. How you said that Tampa will never be home because we wear fewer clothes here and our sweat smells different here. That night we tossed curse words across the dinner table and stuffed our mouths sour with lettuce. —By now you must know that I’ve broken my promise: I’m dealing with men so I don’t have to deal with myself. I’m thinking of one who lives on the west end of the city. He makes odd music, and I pretend that its subversion is what inspires me. He calls me the poet of silence and hair—you’ll be proud to know our love never reached flesh. Thank God it stopped at the bones. I hope you’ve kept your promise. And I hope your thyroid is better. Tabitha, if I could carry it all, I would. ————————————– Meghan Malachi called us from Chicago, IL. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2089454202 Tue, 13 May 2025 14:57:57 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/6902c9f9-379b-4a22-bbff-1d7cd4c4be9b 00:03:07 VOICEMAIL POEMS no We open with a stationary shot of me in my office, a pride flag on the wall behind me. An offscreen bonfire flickers in my eyes, and the savvy viewer will read this as a symbol of both passion and hunger, and before they can ask where it comes from I begin to speak: “I’m a therapist and community organizer living in Cambridge, Massachusetts, this is my audition video for Survivor in the form of a poem, and my name is Isaiah Moses Newman…” and the savvy viewer will recall, here, that Moses once came upon a field that held a bush that burned and would not die, and if they are Jewish they may also know that he answered the blaze by shouting hineni, which can translate to “here I am,” but also “witness me here, having survived all that has tried to kill me.” A drumbeat begins in the background as I describe the tear-stained and sleepless nights of my adolescence, and then on screen a picture flashes: me and the friends I called family at age 19, huddled in down jackets like penguins, and there is a conspicuous silhouette carved out of the center of the picture, but I do not name him, or describe the way his loss shattered us. Instead, the picture vanishes, and I explain that I have spent the past year obsessing over a reality TV show in which found families tear each other apart for false promises of survival, and it has felt familiar. I do not say that I lost someone the same way as the silhouette in October, because the law prevents me from speaking their name. I do not describe how badly I want to believe that we can save people, and how I have failed. Instead, I speak of the many ways I have tried to stop the world from burning even when it seems impossible, and then we pan to the fourth wall, which is not a wall at all but a curtain of air that opens onto a field containing a bonfire, and a long tracking shot follows me as I walk through it, and I stop next to the inferno and my ribs glow through my shirt like coals and we zoom out to see that the bonfire was actually the burning bush the whole time, limbs outstretched and skeletal, and I reach my arms up to the sky and my fingertips light like candlewicks, and the glow spreads from my ribs to my heart, and the savvy viewer will see how I burn and burn and do not die, and then I shout of how the world seems always to be inventing new ways to break the people and communities I love, but my heart burns with the flame of survival and I am a therapist to keep as many of us alive and singing as I can, and I am an organizer because we deserve a world that can hear our songs, and I will win Survivor if you put me on the show because I know what it takes to keep the torch of belief alive in the face of all that would drown it. So hineni, CBS. Here I am. Come and find me. ————————————– Isaiah Newman called us from Cambridge, MA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems We open with a stationary shot of me in my office… We open with a stationary shot of me in my office, a pride flag on the wall behind me. An offscreen bonfire flickers in my eyes, and the savvy viewer will read this as a symbol of both passion and hunger, and before they can ask where it comes from I begin to speak: “I’m a therapist and community organizer living in Cambridge, Massachusetts, this is my audition video for Survivor in the form of a poem, and my name is Isaiah Moses Newman…” and the savvy viewer will recall, here, that Moses once came upon a field that held a bush that burned and would not die, and if they are Jewish they may also know that he answered the blaze by shouting hineni, which can translate to “here I am,” but also “witness me here, having survived all that has tried to kill me.” A drumbeat begins in the background as I describe the tear-stained and sleepless nights of my adolescence, and then on screen a picture flashes: me and the friends I called family at age 19, huddled in down jackets like penguins, and there is a conspicuous silhouette carved out of the center of the picture, but I do not name him, or describe the way his loss shattered us. Instead, the picture vanishes, and I explain that I have spent the past year obsessing over a reality TV show in which found families tear each other apart for false promises of survival, and it has felt familiar. I do not say that I lost someone the same way as the silhouette in October, because the law prevents me from speaking their name. I do not describe how badly I want to believe that we can save people, and how I have failed. Instead, I speak of the many ways I have tried to stop the world from burning even when it seems impossible, and then we pan to the fourth wall, which is not a wall at all but a curtain of air that opens onto a field containing a bonfire, and a long tracking shot follows me as I walk through it, and I stop next to the inferno and my ribs glow through my shirt like coals and we zoom out to see that the bonfire was actually the burning bush the whole time, limbs outstretched and skeletal, and I reach my arms up to the sky and my fingertips light like candlewicks, and the glow spreads from my ribs to my heart, and the savvy viewer will see how I burn and burn and do not die, and then I shout of how the world seems always to be inventing new ways to break the people and communities I love, but my heart burns with the flame of survival and I am a therapist to keep as many of us alive and singing as I can, and I am an organizer because we deserve a world that can hear our songs, and I will win Survivor if you put me on the show because I know what it takes to keep the torch of belief alive in the face of all that would drown it. So hineni, CBS. Here I am. Come and find me. ————————————– Isaiah Newman called us from Cambridge, MA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2089454193 Tue, 13 May 2025 14:57:48 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/a06dfb74-a74b-4f3d-bd7b-bcda668d5f64 00:01:32 VOICEMAIL POEMS no In August it’s hard not to want – everything heavy with it – ginkgo fruit rots on sidewalks, sweat falls down spines, the whole beast city breathes in smog and breathes out low clouds dropping lightning. Confused, a little, reading subway signs for revelation, it all comes up wonder – which pre-historic lizard dragged itself up into daylight just so you could buy Calvin Klein underwear and forget to call your mom on purpose? Who’s your manager, Saint Sebastian? Maimonides? What day of the week is it? How did you get this number? Rumi, I told you to stop calling my motel. I need to be alone for a long time, ride the empty train over the bridge back and forth, commune with Whitman above the East River. Where else do you go to ask when summer cherry pit spits questions into your lap? Whose ghost do I see on street corners? When does the weight lift? What do I do with this little bit of time I’ve caught to live inside? What do I do now I want to eat every apple, seed stem core? Who belongs, who decides? Does want end with get? And if not – ————————————– Birch Wiley called us from Brooklyn, NY. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems In August it’s hard not to want – everything hea… In August it’s hard not to want – everything heavy with it – ginkgo fruit rots on sidewalks, sweat falls down spines, the whole beast city breathes in smog and breathes out low clouds dropping lightning. Confused, a little, reading subway signs for revelation, it all comes up wonder – which pre-historic lizard dragged itself up into daylight just so you could buy Calvin Klein underwear and forget to call your mom on purpose? Who’s your manager, Saint Sebastian? Maimonides? What day of the week is it? How did you get this number? Rumi, I told you to stop calling my motel. I need to be alone for a long time, ride the empty train over the bridge back and forth, commune with Whitman above the East River. Where else do you go to ask when summer cherry pit spits questions into your lap? Whose ghost do I see on street corners? When does the weight lift? What do I do with this little bit of time I’ve caught to live inside? What do I do now I want to eat every apple, seed stem core? Who belongs, who decides? Does want end with get? And if not – ————————————– Birch Wiley called us from Brooklyn, NY. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2089454187 Tue, 13 May 2025 14:57:37 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/09c4ea11-bb4a-4541-9bc6-6df58a805a4c 00:01:04 VOICEMAIL POEMS no We learned to love the birds. The backyard bird with her black cap and white cheeks. The flicker so flirty in his polka dot dress and red scarf. The bus-stop-bird who mocked us each morning with a mixtape of songs by someone else. We learned to love the bones. The mismatched shingles on the mansard roof and the pumpkin-colored door. The wrought iron staircase and windflower wallpaper– the backdrop for crushed velvet dresses and top hats. We learned to love the pool. The feeling of lungs so full of breath we learned to live underwater. Our fins unfurled and settled at the bottom of the ceramic basin. The sub-aquatic sounds, muted and muddy, but unmistakably mermaid. We learned to love through frayed feathers and stone skin and saltwater dreams. We learned to love through all the silly seriousness of being immortal teens. ————————————– Colette Love Hilliard called us from St. Louis, MO. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems We learned to love the birds. The backyard bird … We learned to love the birds. The backyard bird with her black cap and white cheeks. The flicker so flirty in his polka dot dress and red scarf. The bus-stop-bird who mocked us each morning with a mixtape of songs by someone else. We learned to love the bones. The mismatched shingles on the mansard roof and the pumpkin-colored door. The wrought iron staircase and windflower wallpaper– the backdrop for crushed velvet dresses and top hats. We learned to love the pool. The feeling of lungs so full of breath we learned to live underwater. Our fins unfurled and settled at the bottom of the ceramic basin. The sub-aquatic sounds, muted and muddy, but unmistakably mermaid. We learned to love through frayed feathers and stone skin and saltwater dreams. We learned to love through all the silly seriousness of being immortal teens. ————————————– Colette Love Hilliard called us from St. Louis, MO. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2089454205 Tue, 13 May 2025 14:57:17 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/94e095ee-c8be-4030-b523-c28a6f3ffee4 00:01:16 VOICEMAIL POEMS no We failed, you & I, to care for plants we potted at the start of summer—lamb’s ear & lavender, one for each pocket. You told me you loved to stroke the soft fur of the hedgenettle & the smell of your hands upon pinching a switch of lavender & I said I loved our hands together, futuring something into soil. Then we failed in miniature each day, forgetting the attention required for something gentle to thrive, until, too late, we realized that they were barely holding on; that—whether whither or rot—something had soured as we went about separate summers; that we could not now feed them all at once without drowning; that every living thing wants for water, care, hands, and to be thought of every day. ————————————– Tonee Mae Moll called us from Baltimore, MD. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems We failed, you & I, to care for plants we potted … We failed, you & I, to care for plants we potted at the start of summer—lamb’s ear & lavender, one for each pocket. You told me you loved to stroke the soft fur of the hedgenettle & the smell of your hands upon pinching a switch of lavender & I said I loved our hands together, futuring something into soil. Then we failed in miniature each day, forgetting the attention required for something gentle to thrive, until, too late, we realized that they were barely holding on; that—whether whither or rot—something had soured as we went about separate summers; that we could not now feed them all at once without drowning; that every living thing wants for water, care, hands, and to be thought of every day. ————————————– Tonee Mae Moll called us from Baltimore, MD. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2089454208 Tue, 13 May 2025 14:57:01 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/762a54bb-9d34-4bc7-964d-a769070fa15f 00:01:10 VOICEMAIL POEMS no They say it can’t be, but it is, perfect. What they don’t know is that clocks circle the drain like pasta water, unasked questions we both know answers for. After some time we actually did become psychic—I know another life flickers somewhere in your mind, yet you come home to guess at The Price Is Right. It says I have seen what God does and the endoscopy, and I could not find another crevice through which to love you—whatever hasn’t been said is whispered over and again as we hang in the blackness of the in-between dotted with blue, white, and red giants. ————————————– Sandra Marchetti called us from Lisle, IL. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems They say it can’t be, but it is, perfect. What … They say it can’t be, but it is, perfect. What they don’t know is that clocks circle the drain like pasta water, unasked questions we both know answers for. After some time we actually did become psychic—I know another life flickers somewhere in your mind, yet you come home to guess at The Price Is Right. It says I have seen what God does and the endoscopy, and I could not find another crevice through which to love you—whatever hasn’t been said is whispered over and again as we hang in the blackness of the in-between dotted with blue, white, and red giants. ————————————– Sandra Marchetti called us from Lisle, IL. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2089454196 Tue, 13 May 2025 14:56:52 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/e54587f7-dab0-43fa-ad11-974609f997a1 00:02:13 VOICEMAIL POEMS no It’s not about who made the mistake with the wrong address in the GPS getting us to Brooklyn an hour late, is it? It’s about your retirement and our finances, and a 20-something living in our house without employment but with a car payment. It’s about the four scrapings the dermatologist did this summer to determine if I have another basal cell carcinoma. It’s about the arthritis that’s making my fingers achy and your neck pain from past injuries stealing your sleep and making you cranky. It’s about the rising prices on the three bedroom houses with a view of the Blue Ridge Mountains we’ve been dreaming about since ‘19. It’s about Sandy who we visited Wednesday at the assisted living facility and her forgetting the names of her grandchildren because of that nefarious bitch, Dementia. Getting off the elevator to see her, we were hit with the thick odor of overripe flesh, like forgotten Georgia peaches adrift on scorched Southern grass in August. She was lining the hallway of patients in front of the nurse’s station, a parade of motionless commuters waiting for a train never coming, together simmering in a fragrant stew of steaming blankness, backs to the wall, heads lolling forward onto their avian chests. But I digress. Arguing about who did what is a distraction, yes? Blaming and projecting emotions like anger are easier to manage than our current circumstances. If we end up like this, let’s promise to go to the home together and sit next to each other touching elbows in our matching sweatpants with elastic bands as I misdirect your attention again by shouting Look at that! While giggling and pointing to the left in order to snatch another fry from your unbreakable plate and you happily letting me do it. ————————————– Maureen Martinez called us from Bronx, NY. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems It’s not about who made the mistake with the wro… It’s not about who made the mistake with the wrong address in the GPS getting us to Brooklyn an hour late, is it? It’s about your retirement and our finances, and a 20-something living in our house without employment but with a car payment. It’s about the four scrapings the dermatologist did this summer to determine if I have another basal cell carcinoma. It’s about the arthritis that’s making my fingers achy and your neck pain from past injuries stealing your sleep and making you cranky. It’s about the rising prices on the three bedroom houses with a view of the Blue Ridge Mountains we’ve been dreaming about since ‘19. It’s about Sandy who we visited Wednesday at the assisted living facility and her forgetting the names of her grandchildren because of that nefarious bitch, Dementia. Getting off the elevator to see her, we were hit with the thick odor of overripe flesh, like forgotten Georgia peaches adrift on scorched Southern grass in August. She was lining the hallway of patients in front of the nurse’s station, a parade of motionless commuters waiting for a train never coming, together simmering in a fragrant stew of steaming blankness, backs to the wall, heads lolling forward onto their avian chests. But I digress. Arguing about who did what is a distraction, yes? Blaming and projecting emotions like anger are easier to manage than our current circumstances. If we end up like this, let’s promise to go to the home together and sit next to each other touching elbows in our matching sweatpants with elastic bands as I misdirect your attention again by shouting Look at that! While giggling and pointing to the left in order to snatch another fry from your unbreakable plate and you happily letting me do it. ————————————– Maureen Martinez called us from Bronx, NY. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2089454220 Tue, 13 May 2025 14:56:42 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/a37fa3ef-02a6-4b79-ad20-596698ed314d 00:00:50 VOICEMAIL POEMS no that's a euphemism—yes, i have cavities, but it means i am bullet train, bound for collision. i am jar of marbles broken across a concrete floor. i am the rise of the seas. what i lack in control i make up for in firepower and i should not be given an excuse to start shooting. i am landslide tornado earthquake wildfire, ready to raise hell, ask questions later. i put the disorder in bpd and my nightmares like to remind me. i close my eyes, see incisor pop softly out of gumline. run tongue through bloody mouth, lose teeth like i used to cut corn off the cob. same time tomorrow night. ————————————– nat raum called us from Baltimore, MD. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems that's a euphemism—yes, i have cavities, but it m… that's a euphemism—yes, i have cavities, but it means i am bullet train, bound for collision. i am jar of marbles broken across a concrete floor. i am the rise of the seas. what i lack in control i make up for in firepower and i should not be given an excuse to start shooting. i am landslide tornado earthquake wildfire, ready to raise hell, ask questions later. i put the disorder in bpd and my nightmares like to remind me. i close my eyes, see incisor pop softly out of gumline. run tongue through bloody mouth, lose teeth like i used to cut corn off the cob. same time tomorrow night. ————————————– nat raum called us from Baltimore, MD. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2089454190 Tue, 13 May 2025 14:56:34 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/7f7f65d5-e3dd-4d5f-a6b9-f9bb6a68e134 00:01:11 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Here we are among snow and ash. Cracked from saw or harsh November winds. We are wood always moving. Bit of flesh from birch, oak, cedar. Stacked for burning. Once I was home to a little ant, he swallowed my bones. Built a little city. More crawled in. They made me warm in winter. Little curling creatures. I said, soak more from soil, make each splinter firmer. My god we grow. Leaves arrived fat, cradling bubbling dew. I tell you I know what it is to be a universe. Tonight leaves turning ash first reach for sky then they fall and they fall. To be turned into nothing. ————————————– Oisín Rowe called us from Boston, MA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems Here we are among snow and ash. Cracked from saw… Here we are among snow and ash. Cracked from saw or harsh November winds. We are wood always moving. Bit of flesh from birch, oak, cedar. Stacked for burning. Once I was home to a little ant, he swallowed my bones. Built a little city. More crawled in. They made me warm in winter. Little curling creatures. I said, soak more from soil, make each splinter firmer. My god we grow. Leaves arrived fat, cradling bubbling dew. I tell you I know what it is to be a universe. Tonight leaves turning ash first reach for sky then they fall and they fall. To be turned into nothing. ————————————– Oisín Rowe called us from Boston, MA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2089454211 Tue, 13 May 2025 14:56:23 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/04680f4b-af6d-4375-8b86-87f45eeeae04 00:00:35 VOICEMAIL POEMS no On PCH somewhere Malibu— going north not quite yet at Point Dume, two biker boys, not quite men, stopped at a red light. Underneath hiero- glyphic hand signs a single red rose in hand outstretched. Electricity wrinkled between them, All-American rose received, ugly-beautiful bag scene. This scene was recalled to me like a home-movie dancing on the TV. ————————————– Mattie K. Lagan called us from Seattle, WA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems On PCH somewhere Malibu— going north not quite y… On PCH somewhere Malibu— going north not quite yet at Point Dume, two biker boys, not quite men, stopped at a red light. Underneath hiero- glyphic hand signs a single red rose in hand outstretched. Electricity wrinkled between them, All-American rose received, ugly-beautiful bag scene. This scene was recalled to me like a home-movie dancing on the TV. ————————————– Mattie K. Lagan called us from Seattle, WA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2089454229 Tue, 13 May 2025 14:56:15 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/4c2d16ed-b8e0-42b9-a9d9-86183eee5c62 00:01:10 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Talking shit, like you know about cracked knuckles and flamin hots with pickle juice. Or the broken heat lamps on the El, or getting high off a lakefront. Yesterday, I counted every duck at the lake and called them my woes. By hook by crook by crooked alderman, you learn that the trap that stays shut is the trap that starves. No one will beat or bite this place out of me. Not by the skin of their enameled teeth. Not by the potholes on every major street. Not by the 312. Not by the school closures. Not by the crack of a July thunder. Like being at The Taste and getting flooded by rain. All that muddy. All that moist. Like when you were little and other kids hit you, and your mom said to hit ‘em back. ————————————– Ola Faleti called us from Chicago, IL. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems Talking shit, like you know about cracked knuckle… Talking shit, like you know about cracked knuckles and flamin hots with pickle juice. Or the broken heat lamps on the El, or getting high off a lakefront. Yesterday, I counted every duck at the lake and called them my woes. By hook by crook by crooked alderman, you learn that the trap that stays shut is the trap that starves. No one will beat or bite this place out of me. Not by the skin of their enameled teeth. Not by the potholes on every major street. Not by the 312. Not by the school closures. Not by the crack of a July thunder. Like being at The Taste and getting flooded by rain. All that muddy. All that moist. Like when you were little and other kids hit you, and your mom said to hit ‘em back. ————————————– Ola Faleti called us from Chicago, IL. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2089453332 Sat, 03 May 2025 16:29:37 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/uncle-loser-the-knight-of-swords-rj-equality-ingram-14 00:02:50 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Uncle Loser The Knight of Swords - RJ Equality Ingram by VOICEMAIL POEMS Uncle Loser The Knight of Swords - RJ Equality In… Uncle Loser The Knight of Swords - RJ Equality Ingram by VOICEMAIL POEMS voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2089453323 Sat, 03 May 2025 16:29:37 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/even-though-i-hate-the-movie-mattie-lagan-2 00:00:35 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Even Though I Hate the Movie - Mattie Lagan by VOICEMAIL POEMS Even Though I Hate the Movie - Mattie Lagan by VO… Even Though I Hate the Movie - Mattie Lagan by VOICEMAIL POEMS voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2089453320 Sat, 03 May 2025 16:29:37 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/its-not-about-that-maureen-martinez-5 00:02:13 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Its Not About That - Maureen Martinez by VOICEMAIL POEMS Its Not About That - Maureen Martinez by VOICEMAI… Its Not About That - Maureen Martinez by VOICEMAIL POEMS voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2089453317 Sat, 03 May 2025 16:29:37 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/monter-drive-colette-love-hilliard-8 00:01:04 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Monter Drive - Colette Love Hilliard by VOICEMAIL POEMS Monter Drive - Colette Love Hilliard by VOICEMAIL… Monter Drive - Colette Love Hilliard by VOICEMAIL POEMS voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2089453314 Sat, 03 May 2025 16:29:37 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/psychography-birch-wiley-9 00:01:32 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Psychography - Birch Wiley by VOICEMAIL POEMS Psychography - Birch Wiley by VOICEMAIL POEMS Psychography - Birch Wiley by VOICEMAIL POEMS voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2089453311 Sat, 03 May 2025 16:29:37 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/the-laughing-cinder-block-marlanda-dekine-13 00:01:19 VOICEMAIL POEMS no The Laughing Cinder Block - Marlanda Dekine by VOICEMAIL POEMS The Laughing Cinder Block - Marlanda Dekine by VO… The Laughing Cinder Block - Marlanda Dekine by VOICEMAIL POEMS voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2089453308 Sat, 03 May 2025 16:29:37 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/the-first-time-a-man-fucked-me-like-a-man-mary-violet-12 00:01:12 VOICEMAIL POEMS no The First Time a Man Fucked me Like a Man - Mary Violet by VOICEMAIL POEMS The First Time a Man Fucked me Like a Man - Mary … The First Time a Man Fucked me Like a Man - Mary Violet by VOICEMAIL POEMS voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2089453305 Sat, 03 May 2025 16:29:37 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/im-overdue-for-a-dream-in-which-my-teeth-fall-out-nat-raum-4 00:00:50 VOICEMAIL POEMS no im overdue for a dream in which my teeth fall out - nat raum by VOICEMAIL POEMS im overdue for a dream in which my teeth fall out… im overdue for a dream in which my teeth fall out - nat raum by VOICEMAIL POEMS voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2089453302 Sat, 03 May 2025 16:29:37 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/survivor-audition-video-number-3-isaiah-newman-10 00:03:00 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Survivor Audition Video Number 3 - Isaiah Newman by VOICEMAIL POEMS Survivor Audition Video Number 3 - Isaiah Newman … Survivor Audition Video Number 3 - Isaiah Newman by VOICEMAIL POEMS voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2089453296 Sat, 03 May 2025 16:29:37 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/i-tell-you-i-grew-from-dawn-oisin-rowe-3 00:01:11 VOICEMAIL POEMS no I Tell You I Grew From Dawn - Oisin Rowe by VOICEMAIL POEMS I Tell You I Grew From Dawn - Oisin Rowe by VOICE… I Tell You I Grew From Dawn - Oisin Rowe by VOICEMAIL POEMS voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2089453293 Sat, 03 May 2025 16:29:37 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/tabitha-meghan-malachi-11 00:02:24 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Tabitha - Meghan Malachi by VOICEMAIL POEMS Tabitha - Meghan Malachi by VOICEMAIL POEMS Tabitha - Meghan Malachi by VOICEMAIL POEMS voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2089453290 Sat, 03 May 2025 16:29:37 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/knowledge-sandra-marchetti-6 00:01:10 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Knowledge - Sandra Marchetti by VOICEMAIL POEMS Knowledge - Sandra Marchetti by VOICEMAIL POEMS Knowledge - Sandra Marchetti by VOICEMAIL POEMS voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2089453287 Sat, 03 May 2025 16:29:37 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/lambs-ear-and-lavender-tonee-mae-mol-7 00:01:16 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Lambs Ear and Lavender - Tonee Mae Mol by VOICEMAIL POEMS Lambs Ear and Lavender - Tonee Mae Mol by VOICEMA… Lambs Ear and Lavender - Tonee Mae Mol by VOICEMAIL POEMS voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/2089453284 Sat, 03 May 2025 16:29:37 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/bluster-ola-faleti-1 00:01:10 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Bluster - Ola Faleti by VOICEMAIL POEMS Bluster - Ola Faleti by VOICEMAIL POEMS Bluster - Ola Faleti by VOICEMAIL POEMS voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/1948565339 Tue, 12 Nov 2024 15:33:40 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/i-rage-about-you-you-old-ghost-by-hannah-rubin 00:01:09 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Make me dim-witted. One of those days where I can’t bare it—the hum of madness. My belly wreaking havoc up and down my spine, intestines in a knot. Garlic! Disgusting! or maybe you called it gross & I called it get me out of here. A different morning: I’m spinning sex between my fingers. Cavorting with an old pillow case hoping you’ll come along and lift my top. As a kid I would peel the skin off of grapes with my two front teeth and gently push the innards into my cheek with my tongue keeping it safe before coming down on it with a hard chew. Pulpy swallow & the great disappointment: here was a truly valuable soft thing that I had worked hard for & didn’t know what to do with. ————————————– Hannah Rubin called us from Los Angeles, CA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems twitter.com/voicemailpoems instagram.com/voicemailpoems Make me dim-witted. One of those days where I can… Make me dim-witted. One of those days where I can’t bare it—the hum of madness. My belly wreaking havoc up and down my spine, intestines in a knot. Garlic! Disgusting! or maybe you called it gross & I called it get me out of here. A different morning: I’m spinning sex between my fingers. Cavorting with an old pillow case hoping you’ll come along and lift my top. As a kid I would peel the skin off of grapes with my two front teeth and gently push the innards into my cheek with my tongue keeping it safe before coming down on it with a hard chew. Pulpy swallow & the great disappointment: here was a truly valuable soft thing that I had worked hard for & didn’t know what to do with. ————————————– Hannah Rubin called us from Los Angeles, CA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems twitter.com/voicemailpoems instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/1948565355 Tue, 12 Nov 2024 15:31:46 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/you-wont-ever-again-be-in-love-in-a-foreign-country-by-ky-pacheco 00:01:46 VOICEMAIL POEMS no It's a bus stop in South America And crossing five lanes of traffic At ten in the morning. It's quiet, More than we were expecting. The taxi is late for arrival and I am thankful for every second. It's not knowing the language And our tensions so high, A tennis court in my chest. Love was being rewritten in my head You were becoming the epitome of sacrifice. You asked me what I would answer if you pledged me to marry you. I said I’d wait a few years And that was the correct response. It’s a man in a bulletproof vest asking you the intention of your visit, To give her hope. We cross out of the city. There are dogs on rooftops, We are sharing headphones And the glass begins to fog in the humid jungle evening. Whatever home there is left I find it as I lay my head on your shoulder. There is a song humming subtly over the foreign soap opera on the TV. It’s not quite your taste But it is my favorite. You will be able to sleep on the plane And I won't ever again for the next two years. ————————————– Ky Pacheco called us from Flagstaff, AZ. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems twitter.com/voicemailpoems instagram.com/voicemailpoems It's a bus stop in South America And crossing fiv… It's a bus stop in South America And crossing five lanes of traffic At ten in the morning. It's quiet, More than we were expecting. The taxi is late for arrival and I am thankful for every second. It's not knowing the language And our tensions so high, A tennis court in my chest. Love was being rewritten in my head You were becoming the epitome of sacrifice. You asked me what I would answer if you pledged me to marry you. I said I’d wait a few years And that was the correct response. It’s a man in a bulletproof vest asking you the intention of your visit, To give her hope. We cross out of the city. There are dogs on rooftops, We are sharing headphones And the glass begins to fog in the humid jungle evening. Whatever home there is left I find it as I lay my head on your shoulder. There is a song humming subtly over the foreign soap opera on the TV. It’s not quite your taste But it is my favorite. You will be able to sleep on the plane And I won't ever again for the next two years. ————————————– Ky Pacheco called us from Flagstaff, AZ. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems twitter.com/voicemailpoems instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/1948565351 Tue, 12 Nov 2024 15:30:17 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/this-is-what-you-are-by-tc-tolbert 00:02:56 VOICEMAIL POEMS no This is what you are missing Melissa – dust turned to waves in the desert – okra coming up two months too late – a forward-breaking gate opening into someone else’s field – I walk by a window and I don’t understand how little I see you – but so clearly the wasp backing out of a hole inside a long-dead tree – when we were children we lived with our grandparents and I remember without sadness mostly the sound of tires screaming into the street – the porch light welcomes whatever intercepts it – I praise insistence – I kiss my love because our best friend died when we were 5 years old – a brain tumor – and then again at 7, 11, 17…43 – bodies killing themselves by growing beyond their own capacity – I’m building a bed for our visitors – it’s infuriating how little I understand about re-joining wood already broken piece by piece – anticipate everything I hear God saying to no one – I’m still listening when you stop, for a moment, breathing in your sleep – I’m recognizable now as a part of the man who made me – every man is a suspect – inside my own mouth I’m annoyed by who I cannot seem to be – do you miss this Melissa – every part of our body is ash aching to be reminded it is ash – unlike fire reaching through the face of every forest in order to be incited by wind or offered some relief – I’ve learned to flinch by standing absolutely still – it isn’t death exactly living without you – the purpose of a rope is to borrow someone else’s strength – that’s why I’m calling you – when I pray I hear nothing so clearly as our new voice singe-scoured and full of disbelief – ————————————– TC Tolbert called us from Tucson, AZ. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems twitter.com/voicemailpoems instagram.com/voicemailpoems This is what you are missing Melissa – dust turn… This is what you are missing Melissa – dust turned to waves in the desert – okra coming up two months too late – a forward-breaking gate opening into someone else’s field – I walk by a window and I don’t understand how little I see you – but so clearly the wasp backing out of a hole inside a long-dead tree – when we were children we lived with our grandparents and I remember without sadness mostly the sound of tires screaming into the street – the porch light welcomes whatever intercepts it – I praise insistence – I kiss my love because our best friend died when we were 5 years old – a brain tumor – and then again at 7, 11, 17…43 – bodies killing themselves by growing beyond their own capacity – I’m building a bed for our visitors – it’s infuriating how little I understand about re-joining wood already broken piece by piece – anticipate everything I hear God saying to no one – I’m still listening when you stop, for a moment, breathing in your sleep – I’m recognizable now as a part of the man who made me – every man is a suspect – inside my own mouth I’m annoyed by who I cannot seem to be – do you miss this Melissa – every part of our body is ash aching to be reminded it is ash – unlike fire reaching through the face of every forest in order to be incited by wind or offered some relief – I’ve learned to flinch by standing absolutely still – it isn’t death exactly living without you – the purpose of a rope is to borrow someone else’s strength – that’s why I’m calling you – when I pray I hear nothing so clearly as our new voice singe-scoured and full of disbelief – ————————————– TC Tolbert called us from Tucson, AZ. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems twitter.com/voicemailpoems instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/1948565371 Tue, 12 Nov 2024 15:28:40 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/this-is-poetry-time-by-dan-j-kirk 00:01:33 VOICEMAIL POEMS no There are few mornings like this – When the tumble day slows and the sweltering July heat subsides; when memories of last night’s fire show resonate with a still-first sense of wonder. The footfall of Fatherhood feels fine underneath; I am comfortable here, at peace with a stirring that has often lingered in the quiet process of thinking. My daughter turns her eyes aware, Expecting the dance of color in the thick night sky, and utters with perfect sincerity the answer her mother and I had first provided to her own plea for more “firewoooorrrks!” “Later, next year,” she repeats. She seems to understand – just as she is profoundly unaware that stirring in her mommy’s womb just now, the slightest mobility towards life of her first sibling yet to be born. The sky creeps thoughtfully, grateful it seems that the booms have subsided, for now – until “Later, next year.” The clouds pass lightly as we look upward to dream of a better place. This unsummer in its brilliant disguise – cool, elusive, uncharted. The tongues amongst the people do not complain of lasting heat nor of humidity. Instead, the cool, soft morning greets them, allowing children to play. ————————————– Dan J. Kirk called us from Pittsburgh, PA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems twitter.com/voicemailpoems instagram.com/voicemailpoems There are few mornings like this – When the tumbl… There are few mornings like this – When the tumble day slows and the sweltering July heat subsides; when memories of last night’s fire show resonate with a still-first sense of wonder. The footfall of Fatherhood feels fine underneath; I am comfortable here, at peace with a stirring that has often lingered in the quiet process of thinking. My daughter turns her eyes aware, Expecting the dance of color in the thick night sky, and utters with perfect sincerity the answer her mother and I had first provided to her own plea for more “firewoooorrrks!” “Later, next year,” she repeats. She seems to understand – just as she is profoundly unaware that stirring in her mommy’s womb just now, the slightest mobility towards life of her first sibling yet to be born. The sky creeps thoughtfully, grateful it seems that the booms have subsided, for now – until “Later, next year.” The clouds pass lightly as we look upward to dream of a better place. This unsummer in its brilliant disguise – cool, elusive, uncharted. The tongues amongst the people do not complain of lasting heat nor of humidity. Instead, the cool, soft morning greets them, allowing children to play. ————————————– Dan J. Kirk called us from Pittsburgh, PA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems twitter.com/voicemailpoems instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/1948565343 Tue, 12 Nov 2024 15:27:26 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/the-kids-are-so-back-by-morgan-tessier 00:01:45 VOICEMAIL POEMS no barking up the right trees stuck on the double branch don’t climb if you can’t get down if you can’t get down better learn to jump the kids are so back vlog squad with baby teeth sucking back cinnamon getting pantsed by their dads tamogotchi death hits all seven stages and everyone knows that the moon is made of cheese that green eggs go great on a ham sandwich that cyber bullying is cooler when everyone is doing it slip-&-slide into stardust along greenwood grass burning the summer at both ends there’s glass in the pool marco polo cut short feet cut deep red & blue sunburns on chlorine skin remember when sunscreen used to work the first time fallen hotdog soldier slipped between truck slats hunger driven dance-moves filled with cruel intentions no amount of ketchup can cure a broken heart but a viral video is a bandaid solution for missing lunch category is horse category is narwhal category is charades is easy when every answer is the right answer guess flamingo guess spider guess where your hamster went I promise you’ll be happy with the results The kids are so back but seriously don’t climb a tree if you don’t know how to get down or if your mom can’t find the ladder but by some act of god if you find yourself up there just close your eyes try and remember how to jump ————————————– Morgan Tessier called us from Toronto, Ontario. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems twitter.com/voicemailpoems instagram.com/voicemailpoems barking up the right trees stuck on the double br… barking up the right trees stuck on the double branch don’t climb if you can’t get down if you can’t get down better learn to jump the kids are so back vlog squad with baby teeth sucking back cinnamon getting pantsed by their dads tamogotchi death hits all seven stages and everyone knows that the moon is made of cheese that green eggs go great on a ham sandwich that cyber bullying is cooler when everyone is doing it slip-&-slide into stardust along greenwood grass burning the summer at both ends there’s glass in the pool marco polo cut short feet cut deep red & blue sunburns on chlorine skin remember when sunscreen used to work the first time fallen hotdog soldier slipped between truck slats hunger driven dance-moves filled with cruel intentions no amount of ketchup can cure a broken heart but a viral video is a bandaid solution for missing lunch category is horse category is narwhal category is charades is easy when every answer is the right answer guess flamingo guess spider guess where your hamster went I promise you’ll be happy with the results The kids are so back but seriously don’t climb a tree if you don’t know how to get down or if your mom can’t find the ladder but by some act of god if you find yourself up there just close your eyes try and remember how to jump ————————————– Morgan Tessier called us from Toronto, Ontario. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems twitter.com/voicemailpoems instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/1948565375 Tue, 12 Nov 2024 15:23:58 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/the-coldening-by-kelly-gray 00:02:35 VOICEMAIL POEMS no The leaving was such that each apple in the orchard glassed over into ghost-form on a single night. Centers rotted, dropped out, only translucent orbs at the end of wooded knots remained. A buck arrives, noses them to the ground. His only want: to hear the shatter. First my grandmother, then my brother. A permanent Autumn settles across my face. Brinks become a fabric to dress in. I practice sewing parts of my body shut: the mouth, an ear, the space between my fingers. At the edge of the orchard I find an owl. Bring my hands around the middle of the algid body, between my palms it moves as dead things move. Still, I’m gentle as I walk the owl out of the orchard to the place of bramble and stumps. Lay the bird out like a boat, like a baby in the arms, like a dirge. Slow gold light slips, the night freeze blackens fruit trees. I continue to visit the owl. The spiders come. The flies, too. For a moment one of the owl’s eyes opens. I look through the eye into the back of his death, parts of flight and story leak out. The collapse of the left lung: green. The collapse of the right lung: sky. I’ve only ever had one good dream in 46 years of bad dreams and it was of sleeping in a moon field with my daughter while friends placed inocybe between my teeth. The eye of the owl closes. The buck says it’s peaceful here, to be with you like this. I don’t say anything because I don’t speak anymore. Within a streak of light, wasps fly out of the ground as leaves fall in the orchard. I become a ghost apple at the nose of a buck. ————————————– Kelly Gray called us from Camp Meeker, CA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems twitter.com/voicemailpoems instagram.com/voicemailpoems The leaving was such that each apple in the orcha… The leaving was such that each apple in the orchard glassed over into ghost-form on a single night. Centers rotted, dropped out, only translucent orbs at the end of wooded knots remained. A buck arrives, noses them to the ground. His only want: to hear the shatter. First my grandmother, then my brother. A permanent Autumn settles across my face. Brinks become a fabric to dress in. I practice sewing parts of my body shut: the mouth, an ear, the space between my fingers. At the edge of the orchard I find an owl. Bring my hands around the middle of the algid body, between my palms it moves as dead things move. Still, I’m gentle as I walk the owl out of the orchard to the place of bramble and stumps. Lay the bird out like a boat, like a baby in the arms, like a dirge. Slow gold light slips, the night freeze blackens fruit trees. I continue to visit the owl. The spiders come. The flies, too. For a moment one of the owl’s eyes opens. I look through the eye into the back of his death, parts of flight and story leak out. The collapse of the left lung: green. The collapse of the right lung: sky. I’ve only ever had one good dream in 46 years of bad dreams and it was of sleeping in a moon field with my daughter while friends placed inocybe between my teeth. The eye of the owl closes. The buck says it’s peaceful here, to be with you like this. I don’t say anything because I don’t speak anymore. Within a streak of light, wasps fly out of the ground as leaves fall in the orchard. I become a ghost apple at the nose of a buck. ————————————– Kelly Gray called us from Camp Meeker, CA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems twitter.com/voicemailpoems instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/1948565387 Tue, 12 Nov 2024 15:22:08 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/street-plums-by-ashira-morris 00:01:29 VOICEMAIL POEMS no I’m waiting for the tram, picking plums but really what I’m doing is looking, longingly higher up where most of the fruit is sitting ripe. A man approaches — bald but for a crown of white hair, lightweight vest, faded tattoos of an old sailor, two breasty mermaids with red lips. Do you want me to pull down the branch, he asks and I say yes please thank you and he does and suddenly I’m ensconced in the leaves, enveloped by the tree. I pick the plums one at a time, each a little ball of orange red fruit. That’s all for now, I say, and he starts to let go— then reconsiders. He pulls the branch back down takes matters into his own hands. His wide fingers grab fistfuls of fruit and drop them in my bag. Just as many fall to the ground and there are errant leaves and twigs, all component parts of the tree are now there, in my bag, in pieces. What a joy, to seize something entirety in pursuit of the one sweet part, the part that could be crushed by a closing palm. What a delight, to move with abandon, to ignore precision, to choose clear cutting over particular picking. Could my own hands claim what’s in front of them so confidently? Could they take so completely? I run into the street to catch the tram, whose yellow doors are already swinging open. ————————————– Ashira Morris called us from Sofia, Bulgaria. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems twitter.com/voicemailpoems instagram.com/voicemailpoems I’m waiting for the tram, picking plums but real… I’m waiting for the tram, picking plums but really what I’m doing is looking, longingly higher up where most of the fruit is sitting ripe. A man approaches — bald but for a crown of white hair, lightweight vest, faded tattoos of an old sailor, two breasty mermaids with red lips. Do you want me to pull down the branch, he asks and I say yes please thank you and he does and suddenly I’m ensconced in the leaves, enveloped by the tree. I pick the plums one at a time, each a little ball of orange red fruit. That’s all for now, I say, and he starts to let go— then reconsiders. He pulls the branch back down takes matters into his own hands. His wide fingers grab fistfuls of fruit and drop them in my bag. Just as many fall to the ground and there are errant leaves and twigs, all component parts of the tree are now there, in my bag, in pieces. What a joy, to seize something entirety in pursuit of the one sweet part, the part that could be crushed by a closing palm. What a delight, to move with abandon, to ignore precision, to choose clear cutting over particular picking. Could my own hands claim what’s in front of them so confidently? Could they take so completely? I run into the street to catch the tram, whose yellow doors are already swinging open. ————————————– Ashira Morris called us from Sofia, Bulgaria. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems twitter.com/voicemailpoems instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/1948565347 Tue, 12 Nov 2024 15:21:01 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/smoke-elder-by-allegra-wilson 00:01:32 VOICEMAIL POEMS no In front of the laundromat a cigarette grows out of stub and ash, smoke seeps from lungs back into sticky-dry tobacco, red hot cherry backs away from filter, reshapes as fire, jets back into bic lighter, gas condenses into fluid. Came back unsmoked to haunt our past selves down. Almost a room in the outskirts, we write each other out. Eyes like wildness, your torso tree trunk, we careless pass a bottle of warm stolen vodka. Sing songs of chipmunks, chase each other up plum trees, over roofs of cars, fluff each others tails before we scamper through the oaken night to bury acorns. Came back to teach us how to make our bodies out of muddy leaves, shape our faces from a pliant clay. Crop vineyard hair, cattail braids, let snakes grow as they may. Pluck river stone out of the water, become ourselves a river. Chisel cloven feet for gravel dancing. Came back to sing again I think, together. Seek each other out by scent, taste clove smoke. Dig up the acorns, and with our fingers dirt-caked set them shiny in our mouths as teeth and gilding for our crowns. ————————————– Allegra Wilson called us from Santa Rosa, CA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems twitter.com/voicemailpoems instagram.com/voicemailpoems In front of the laundromat a cigarette grows out… In front of the laundromat a cigarette grows out of stub and ash, smoke seeps from lungs back into sticky-dry tobacco, red hot cherry backs away from filter, reshapes as fire, jets back into bic lighter, gas condenses into fluid. Came back unsmoked to haunt our past selves down. Almost a room in the outskirts, we write each other out. Eyes like wildness, your torso tree trunk, we careless pass a bottle of warm stolen vodka. Sing songs of chipmunks, chase each other up plum trees, over roofs of cars, fluff each others tails before we scamper through the oaken night to bury acorns. Came back to teach us how to make our bodies out of muddy leaves, shape our faces from a pliant clay. Crop vineyard hair, cattail braids, let snakes grow as they may. Pluck river stone out of the water, become ourselves a river. Chisel cloven feet for gravel dancing. Came back to sing again I think, together. Seek each other out by scent, taste clove smoke. Dig up the acorns, and with our fingers dirt-caked set them shiny in our mouths as teeth and gilding for our crowns. ————————————– Allegra Wilson called us from Santa Rosa, CA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems twitter.com/voicemailpoems instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/1948565383 Tue, 12 Nov 2024 15:19:51 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/revenge-fantasy-by-stephanie-valente 00:00:59 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Begins with texts to my best friend. Do you want to hear my revenge fantasy? Let’s get iced coffee and be brats. Learned helplessness is a crime. Success is an art. I’m working on my MFA. That’s deeply stupid. I’m reviewing my life choices in this Greek restaurant. Not everyone needs to be a Very Interesting Person. Who needs a human man? Shadow Daddies exist. I’m having revenge fantasies. The taste of blood. That’s deeply brilliant. I would destroy him. For you. I’m in love with everything. I prefer to move in silence. ————————————– Stephanie Valente called us from Brooklyn, NY. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems twitter.com/voicemailpoems instagram.com/voicemailpoems Begins with texts to my best friend. Do you want … Begins with texts to my best friend. Do you want to hear my revenge fantasy? Let’s get iced coffee and be brats. Learned helplessness is a crime. Success is an art. I’m working on my MFA. That’s deeply stupid. I’m reviewing my life choices in this Greek restaurant. Not everyone needs to be a Very Interesting Person. Who needs a human man? Shadow Daddies exist. I’m having revenge fantasies. The taste of blood. That’s deeply brilliant. I would destroy him. For you. I’m in love with everything. I prefer to move in silence. ————————————– Stephanie Valente called us from Brooklyn, NY. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems twitter.com/voicemailpoems instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/1948565335 Tue, 12 Nov 2024 15:18:37 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/pov-i-sent-you-317-reels-on-instagram-by-kate-carey 00:02:05 VOICEMAIL POEMS no I am not mentally okay. I thought of you, or more specifically, I thought this would be something you'd enjoy. This is some news you need to hear. Here is some free therapy that I heard. This made me cry. Watch this cute animal & forget how the world is falling apart. I'm not mentally okay but I cannot say that to you so instead I hide the things I cannot speak between the lines of these memes sent for your entertainment. A noncommittal event invitation. My ADHD brain is experiencing mania and I'm consuming consuming media like CRUNCHCRUNCHCRUNCH potato chips. I am mentally unwell. I am bedrotting and need attention. I miss you but I don't know how to start a conversation anymore. I want us to be closer but I'm terrified of being vulnerable first. I'm a crow sending shiny things to your inbox with no expectation you'll even see them I am my mother's daughter - I leave her 317 Instagram reel messages to me unread because I feel too guilty and too avoidant to open them. There is a chasm of things I have not yet figured out how to say. I only know how to write them in my journal. I don't know which of these things would be useful to voice. I am mentally unwell. I saw this video of two unlikely animal friends resting on each other & I want us to have the same intimacy. ————————————– Kate Carey called us from Philadelphia, PA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems twitter.com/voicemailpoems instagram.com/voicemailpoems I am not mentally okay. I thought of you, or mor… I am not mentally okay. I thought of you, or more specifically, I thought this would be something you'd enjoy. This is some news you need to hear. Here is some free therapy that I heard. This made me cry. Watch this cute animal & forget how the world is falling apart. I'm not mentally okay but I cannot say that to you so instead I hide the things I cannot speak between the lines of these memes sent for your entertainment. A noncommittal event invitation. My ADHD brain is experiencing mania and I'm consuming consuming media like CRUNCHCRUNCHCRUNCH potato chips. I am mentally unwell. I am bedrotting and need attention. I miss you but I don't know how to start a conversation anymore. I want us to be closer but I'm terrified of being vulnerable first. I'm a crow sending shiny things to your inbox with no expectation you'll even see them I am my mother's daughter - I leave her 317 Instagram reel messages to me unread because I feel too guilty and too avoidant to open them. There is a chasm of things I have not yet figured out how to say. I only know how to write them in my journal. I don't know which of these things would be useful to voice. I am mentally unwell. I saw this video of two unlikely animal friends resting on each other & I want us to have the same intimacy. ————————————– Kate Carey called us from Philadelphia, PA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems twitter.com/voicemailpoems instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/1948565359 Tue, 12 Nov 2024 15:16:46 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/poem-by-tom-snarsky 00:01:47 VOICEMAIL POEMS no I felt like masturbating I felt like crying It was the twenty-first century Already A quarter over There had been artistic movements & wars My debts had been repackaged Countless times The enemy of my enemy Followed me On Twitter, now called Ex-Marines shot themselves in the head in their aunts’ basements We lost touch almost as a whole Category We listened to music for evaluative purposes Had to turn off Shostakovich a recording of quartet #10 that churned too fast like history A choir with one boy who couldn’t sing But tried to follow, quietly Teachers like cigarettes fired or quit My memory got so bad I said the same thing a hundred times Into the wax cylinder Like the moon changing in the same ways Like the water falling back to earth The killdozer guy said it was like people couldn’t see The 50-ton machine he was working on for a year and a half Even though it sat there openly In a shed, folks coming and going “somehow their vision was clouded” It was the twenty-first century Eschatology Minus clarity All the new angels issued Their wings & narcan Doing their trainings from home ————————————– Tom Snarsky called us from Berryville, VA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems twitter.com/voicemailpoems instagram.com/voicemailpoems I felt like masturbating I felt like crying It … I felt like masturbating I felt like crying It was the twenty-first century Already A quarter over There had been artistic movements & wars My debts had been repackaged Countless times The enemy of my enemy Followed me On Twitter, now called Ex-Marines shot themselves in the head in their aunts’ basements We lost touch almost as a whole Category We listened to music for evaluative purposes Had to turn off Shostakovich a recording of quartet #10 that churned too fast like history A choir with one boy who couldn’t sing But tried to follow, quietly Teachers like cigarettes fired or quit My memory got so bad I said the same thing a hundred times Into the wax cylinder Like the moon changing in the same ways Like the water falling back to earth The killdozer guy said it was like people couldn’t see The 50-ton machine he was working on for a year and a half Even though it sat there openly In a shed, folks coming and going “somehow their vision was clouded” It was the twenty-first century Eschatology Minus clarity All the new angels issued Their wings & narcan Doing their trainings from home ————————————– Tom Snarsky called us from Berryville, VA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems twitter.com/voicemailpoems instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/1948565367 Tue, 12 Nov 2024 15:15:12 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/naturalization-test-by-aishvarya-arora 00:02:00 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Aishvarya Arora called us from Queens, NY. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems twitter.com/voicemailpoems instagram.com/voicemailpoems Aishvarya Arora called us from Queens, NY. voice… Aishvarya Arora called us from Queens, NY. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems twitter.com/voicemailpoems instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/1948565331 Tue, 12 Nov 2024 15:13:06 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/mojave-by-candace-cavanaugh 00:03:00 VOICEMAIL POEMS no He gave up looking for a town, gas station, or house off a road or driveway The desert unfolded further than his eyes could see. In the stillness, the ground spread in glare, broken only by shrubs now and then. A swell of dunes lay below a jut of mountain range bulking up from beneath the surface. They were told it could take hours to traverse this section. That they should have a full tank, a functioning radiator, and plenty of liquids. No warning was offered about the middle hours of the day. Notions of night, coolness, and breeze were charred in the afternoon glare. They were not told their mouths would stop moving, their minds would stop seeking the right words, that their hearts would contract, twist, and burrow away from the blistering air, the closeness of the car, of each other. The road snaked a path past shoulders of rock. A ground squirrel foraged, darted between weeds and creosote bushes. He kept his hands on the wheel, his eyes on the cut of the road. Driving on even though he could sense her wanting to stop. He knew she’d climb from the car, step away, wait. She’d identify creatures, absorb them, witness their edgy movement into and out of the earth. Not yet. It was a prayer. Not yet. Once they got through this part they’d be okay, his mind promised. Just get through the jaws of the afternoon. They weren’t alone on the road. Not the way they were alone beside each other. The sporadic sight of another car or a truck jarred small blooms of hope inside him. They could do this. It could be done. They weren’t forsaken. Look - that couple is perfect, aren’t they? She’s laughing, his smile is huge. Windows down, faces open to the day. He steered through the chemistry of metal, fuel, and the razored wills of fragile-skinned humans. They pressed through the brittle air, the stunned expanse of earth, the endless heave of sluggish planet. He heard the tires beneath them, the hum of their dull frenzy. He wished now that they hadn’t been in such a rush to leave. That they had waited a few days, weeks, even hours. Waited for the heat to disintegrate into twilight. They could have eased through the morning, napped in the building temperature, made off at dusk. They could have taken turns at the wheel, slept in shifts, found refuge under the star-punctured night. They could have stayed oblivious to the teeth of mid-day, missed the blast of mute terrain, slipped past the bully of stark beauty. They may have evaded the simmer of their silence, the taunting of their minds, the stunning of their chary hearts. ————————————– Candace Cavanaugh called us from Desert Edge, CA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems twitter.com/voicemailpoems instagram.com/voicemailpoems He gave up looking for a town, gas station, or ho… He gave up looking for a town, gas station, or house off a road or driveway The desert unfolded further than his eyes could see. In the stillness, the ground spread in glare, broken only by shrubs now and then. A swell of dunes lay below a jut of mountain range bulking up from beneath the surface. They were told it could take hours to traverse this section. That they should have a full tank, a functioning radiator, and plenty of liquids. No warning was offered about the middle hours of the day. Notions of night, coolness, and breeze were charred in the afternoon glare. They were not told their mouths would stop moving, their minds would stop seeking the right words, that their hearts would contract, twist, and burrow away from the blistering air, the closeness of the car, of each other. The road snaked a path past shoulders of rock. A ground squirrel foraged, darted between weeds and creosote bushes. He kept his hands on the wheel, his eyes on the cut of the road. Driving on even though he could sense her wanting to stop. He knew she’d climb from the car, step away, wait. She’d identify creatures, absorb them, witness their edgy movement into and out of the earth. Not yet. It was a prayer. Not yet. Once they got through this part they’d be okay, his mind promised. Just get through the jaws of the afternoon. They weren’t alone on the road. Not the way they were alone beside each other. The sporadic sight of another car or a truck jarred small blooms of hope inside him. They could do this. It could be done. They weren’t forsaken. Look - that couple is perfect, aren’t they? She’s laughing, his smile is huge. Windows down, faces open to the day. He steered through the chemistry of metal, fuel, and the razored wills of fragile-skinned humans. They pressed through the brittle air, the stunned expanse of earth, the endless heave of sluggish planet. He heard the tires beneath them, the hum of their dull frenzy. He wished now that they hadn’t been in such a rush to leave. That they had waited a few days, weeks, even hours. Waited for the heat to disintegrate into twilight. They could have eased through the morning, napped in the building temperature, made off at dusk. They could have taken turns at the wheel, slept in shifts, found refuge under the star-punctured night. They could have stayed oblivious to the teeth of mid-day, missed the blast of mute terrain, slipped past the bully of stark beauty. They may have evaded the simmer of their silence, the taunting of their minds, the stunning of their chary hearts. ————————————– Candace Cavanaugh called us from Desert Edge, CA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems twitter.com/voicemailpoems instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/1948565327 Tue, 12 Nov 2024 15:03:00 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/lordes-supercut-is-film-theory-by-ankoor-patel 00:01:08 VOICEMAIL POEMS no To hate yourself and have sex makes you a movie director on a street corner, seeing everything in slow motion, scouting for bodies. When it’s too dark to see we clock out to edit more. After work, every night becomes dance. Re-cuts of thighs and light shows. A supercut is a cheap haircut, not filmmaking technique. But I know montage because I put movement over belonging, dwell only in breath, each a one-time use. Montages aren’t romantic. They are light shot through crashing tunnel, excess draped in scarcity. No, there aren’t many rhythms to curl up inside. But why luxuriate in memory? Rewind us. I am radiation. I’m giving off so much light. I can’t stop working. I can’t sleep. I’m out in nightclubs, searching. Burning for it. Someone that knows how not to hate me. Someone that can teach me how. ————————————– Ankoor Patel called us from San Francisco, CA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems twitter.com/voicemailpoems instagram.com/voicemailpoems To hate yourself and have sex makes you a movie d… To hate yourself and have sex makes you a movie director on a street corner, seeing everything in slow motion, scouting for bodies. When it’s too dark to see we clock out to edit more. After work, every night becomes dance. Re-cuts of thighs and light shows. A supercut is a cheap haircut, not filmmaking technique. But I know montage because I put movement over belonging, dwell only in breath, each a one-time use. Montages aren’t romantic. They are light shot through crashing tunnel, excess draped in scarcity. No, there aren’t many rhythms to curl up inside. But why luxuriate in memory? Rewind us. I am radiation. I’m giving off so much light. I can’t stop working. I can’t sleep. I’m out in nightclubs, searching. Burning for it. Someone that knows how not to hate me. Someone that can teach me how. ————————————– Ankoor Patel called us from San Francisco, CA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems twitter.com/voicemailpoems instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/1948565363 Tue, 12 Nov 2024 14:59:47 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/lagoon-by-asha-berkes 00:01:33 VOICEMAIL POEMS no The cut on my ankle bleeds into the shape of an exclamation point You speak and it comes out ornate swirling, as if from an an ancient book I’m trying to follow those letters which are, inevitably, words, through the tall yellow grasses at the edge of the lagoon where your charm bracelet lays splayed in the sand and my nose disappears into the blue Let me tell you about swimming: The bleeding stops The world ends long enough for you to miss it The cold snaps, like a spell from the end of a wand melting fear into a body the weightlessness unhowling me In the water your words circle me floating in amongst the moon jellies On my back I watch my breasts like two pale ducks bob in the gentle waves I watch them fly away Your words bend into the exclamation point Make a portal of me A sentence of me A loudness of me I paddle back to shore a pearl growing under my tongue I settle into the meat between land and sea and decide to stay there ————————————– Asha Berkes called us from Tacoma, WA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems twitter.com/voicemailpoems instagram.com/voicemailpoems The cut on my ankle bleeds into the shape of an e… The cut on my ankle bleeds into the shape of an exclamation point You speak and it comes out ornate swirling, as if from an an ancient book I’m trying to follow those letters which are, inevitably, words, through the tall yellow grasses at the edge of the lagoon where your charm bracelet lays splayed in the sand and my nose disappears into the blue Let me tell you about swimming: The bleeding stops The world ends long enough for you to miss it The cold snaps, like a spell from the end of a wand melting fear into a body the weightlessness unhowling me In the water your words circle me floating in amongst the moon jellies On my back I watch my breasts like two pale ducks bob in the gentle waves I watch them fly away Your words bend into the exclamation point Make a portal of me A sentence of me A loudness of me I paddle back to shore a pearl growing under my tongue I settle into the meat between land and sea and decide to stay there ————————————– Asha Berkes called us from Tacoma, WA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems twitter.com/voicemailpoems instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/1948565319 Tue, 12 Nov 2024 14:58:48 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/bloodgood-maple-by-john-muro 00:01:02 VOICEMAIL POEMS no How their branches seem to extend without burden in the lengthening light, their star-shaped leaves of deepest burgundy, weightless, more form than texture, surrendering to autumn air in such a way that it’s difficult to discern where leaf-tip ends and shade begins; until, wind- jostled, they flutter like wisps of cordovan dust out into a blue expanse of emptiness – traversing the chasm between having been and soon becoming – showing us a way forward, letting go without regret or anguish, and knowing this world will be made whole again from those very things that have been taken or freely given. ————————————– John Muro called us from Guilford, CT. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems twitter.com/voicemailpoems instagram.com/voicemailpoems How their branches seem to extend without burden… How their branches seem to extend without burden in the lengthening light, their star-shaped leaves of deepest burgundy, weightless, more form than texture, surrendering to autumn air in such a way that it’s difficult to discern where leaf-tip ends and shade begins; until, wind- jostled, they flutter like wisps of cordovan dust out into a blue expanse of emptiness – traversing the chasm between having been and soon becoming – showing us a way forward, letting go without regret or anguish, and knowing this world will be made whole again from those very things that have been taken or freely given. ————————————– John Muro called us from Guilford, CT. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems twitter.com/voicemailpoems instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/1948565315 Tue, 12 Nov 2024 14:53:55 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/bricks-by-kelsey-l-smoot 00:02:37 VOICEMAIL POEMS no I hope all my books are banned books, like, so contraband they start trappin’ them out the bando— people fiendin’ for my words with such fervor clawing at the door for just one more taste someone keeps the lookout to make sure twelve don’t see the weight: tiny baggies filled with poem scraps pushed out from every corner I hope my books become so obscure that someone’s biggest flex is telling you they’ve read me and then you search for my Wikipedia page and all it says is -Black -queer -longtime resident of the south -93 ‘til infinity I hope white people hate my shit try to say it means nothing in the daylight feel so raw and dirty sneaking peaks on the dark web face a hot mess of flush; I hope they slam their laptops shut when they hear footsteps approaching hang their heads with shame and spend the rest of their lives wondering how much they missed out on I hope they outlaw my books And then drag queens read them to toddlers on the front steps of the capital I hope there are no front steps of the capital Because I hope the empire falls I hope a trans woman throws the first brick And I hope a page ripped from one of my books is attached to it I hope, one day, I meet a genocide survivor all grown up, despite all odds And they tell me they know all about my books And I’ll gasp and ask them how my poems made it to Palestine Through the whisper network, they’ll say We mixed them with Arabic and by the time they reached us they already had French Haitian Creole and Swahili in them too I hope my books are too heady for the Pulitzer I hope my books get down on the down-low I hope their registration expires I hope my books live in infamy I hope my books turn into history books buried somewhere long forgotten only to be dug up in two hundred years by whoever is still left on this rock And they read them and they cry and they wonder what made me write these words and what type of world we were living in where people banned books and then they take my books toss them into a pit pour one out for an ancestor and then they burn them for warmth ————————————– Kelsey L. Smoot called us from Atlanta, GA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems twitter.com/voicemailpoems instagram.com/voicemailpoems I hope all my books are banned books, like, so c… I hope all my books are banned books, like, so contraband they start trappin’ them out the bando— people fiendin’ for my words with such fervor clawing at the door for just one more taste someone keeps the lookout to make sure twelve don’t see the weight: tiny baggies filled with poem scraps pushed out from every corner I hope my books become so obscure that someone’s biggest flex is telling you they’ve read me and then you search for my Wikipedia page and all it says is -Black -queer -longtime resident of the south -93 ‘til infinity I hope white people hate my shit try to say it means nothing in the daylight feel so raw and dirty sneaking peaks on the dark web face a hot mess of flush; I hope they slam their laptops shut when they hear footsteps approaching hang their heads with shame and spend the rest of their lives wondering how much they missed out on I hope they outlaw my books And then drag queens read them to toddlers on the front steps of the capital I hope there are no front steps of the capital Because I hope the empire falls I hope a trans woman throws the first brick And I hope a page ripped from one of my books is attached to it I hope, one day, I meet a genocide survivor all grown up, despite all odds And they tell me they know all about my books And I’ll gasp and ask them how my poems made it to Palestine Through the whisper network, they’ll say We mixed them with Arabic and by the time they reached us they already had French Haitian Creole and Swahili in them too I hope my books are too heady for the Pulitzer I hope my books get down on the down-low I hope their registration expires I hope my books live in infamy I hope my books turn into history books buried somewhere long forgotten only to be dug up in two hundred years by whoever is still left on this rock And they read them and they cry and they wonder what made me write these words and what type of world we were living in where people banned books and then they take my books toss them into a pit pour one out for an ancestor and then they burn them for warmth ————————————– Kelsey L. Smoot called us from Atlanta, GA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems twitter.com/voicemailpoems instagram.com/voicemailpoems voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/500987430 Mon, 17 Sep 2018 04:59:20 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/moon-by-zach-goldberg 00:02:10 VOICEMAIL POEMS no as silent and holy as an empty church. a polished row of pews. you, moon in the sky, how do you do it? your one-handed gravity holding still the earth. astral magic trick, you newly christened old god. every family’s forgotten dance is a scar on your surface. memory like a bear trap. worldfodder magnet. wise old sledgehammer once smashed through our orbit longways. we were just a pie cooling on the galactic windowsill. now we say Light & mean your face, stretched our whole lives and once reached your shadow. pockmarked queen of all ships. all flags. can’t sing a note of worship if it doesn’t include a word of pain. the night sky’s opening bell and serene last call, nursing your craters like old wounds nursing your craters like children. your face held high and regal through eons of the same steady bruise and somehow you arrive to us with a bouquet of escape of routes. i have so much to learn from you, and not just about physics. how long did it take you to learn such luminescent confidence? your brilliant backlit halo, the way you just float and move everything, shine your own ligaments to dust. when people say they love each other to the You and back, is it about distance or about damage? about some man’s lonely footprint? and what do we know about damage next to you, anyway? all our blood clots thick with time but you have no winds to whisper your name. sometimes the healing does not rush through you. prehistoric ocean or otherwise. there are no channels you didn’t cut yourself. no way to say Over in the dead space. no one there to hear it but a silent star. and a billion other stars. ————————————– Zachary Goldberg called us from Oakland, CA. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast as silent and holy as an empty church. a polishe… as silent and holy as an empty church. a polished row of pews. you, moon in the sky, how do you do it? your one-handed gravity holding still the earth. astral magic trick, you newly christened old god. every family’s forgotten dance is a scar on your surface. memory like a bear trap. worldfodder magnet. wise old sledgehammer once smashed through our orbit longways. we were just a pie cooling on the galactic windowsill. now we say Light & mean your face, stretched our whole lives and once reached your shadow. pockmarked queen of all ships. all flags. can’t sing a note of worship if it doesn’t include a word of pain. the night sky’s opening bell and serene last call, nursing your craters like old wounds nursing your craters like children. your face held high and regal through eons of the same steady bruise and somehow you arrive to us with a bouquet of escape of routes. i have so much to learn from you, and not just about physics. how long did it take you to learn such luminescent confidence? your brilliant backlit halo, the way you just float and move everything, shine your own ligaments to dust. when people say they love each other to the You and back, is it about distance or about damage? about some man’s lonely footprint? and what do we know about damage next to you, anyway? all our blood clots thick with time but you have no winds to whisper your name. sometimes the healing does not rush through you. prehistoric ocean or otherwise. there are no channels you didn’t cut yourself. no way to say Over in the dead space. no one there to hear it but a silent star. and a billion other stars. ————————————– Zachary Goldberg called us from Oakland, CA. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/500987229 Mon, 17 Sep 2018 04:58:28 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/whero-by-stacey-teague 00:01:26 VOICEMAIL POEMS no remember bodies at night how they glow how they bend into us like refracted light the memory of where a body was after it has left its phosphorescence you cocoon into the spaces around things find yourself in auburn eyes and hazel skin the red that flows from you you learn that aloneness is a softness a sky that pulls you through you see bodies as they are things that love you and then stop when you wake up it’s heavy water write down the deep green blue feelings like paua shells there is a pale existing in your head a light moving in your hair behind a colour in the lunar month you return home the whenua moves its arms up to greet you climb up the hill to see the faraway beach feel lonely like mislaid keys it’s good to be there in the quiet saying to yourself i’m real i’m real as the feelings inside shrink red into shape ————————————– Stacey Teague called us from Clonakilty, Ireland. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast remember bodies at night how they glow how th… remember bodies at night how they glow how they bend into us like refracted light the memory of where a body was after it has left its phosphorescence you cocoon into the spaces around things find yourself in auburn eyes and hazel skin the red that flows from you you learn that aloneness is a softness a sky that pulls you through you see bodies as they are things that love you and then stop when you wake up it’s heavy water write down the deep green blue feelings like paua shells there is a pale existing in your head a light moving in your hair behind a colour in the lunar month you return home the whenua moves its arms up to greet you climb up the hill to see the faraway beach feel lonely like mislaid keys it’s good to be there in the quiet saying to yourself i’m real i’m real as the feelings inside shrink red into shape ————————————– Stacey Teague called us from Clonakilty, Ireland. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/500984382 Mon, 17 Sep 2018 04:46:11 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/manic-pixie-pov-by-taylor-jaczin 00:01:19 VOICEMAIL POEMS no yeah i’ve got a lighter. can fix your filter. give you honey stick secrets and light tight roll laughter when you call me blue dream like your favorite strain like your favorite character ramona you know the blue of your dreams? yeah they’re both pierced. few things hurt so good like a needle. addict in a cute way. smoker with a toothbrush. dreamer with insomnia. liar and a poet. dream girl without problems. will ignore your worst for a sprinkle of the same. won’t shut the cartoon off till you ask for the remote or a shaved head. will lay alone with you and all of the dirty dishes. or i can wake up pretty if you want me to. i can be your party now and your home in the morning. feed you jewels of deep red pomegranates and suck the stains from the bed sheets. let you call me by any name you want when you fuck me. lick your wounds so you don’t have to. pretend you don’t have them until you don’t. and i will say goodbye before the jump so you don’t have to see me splatter. or if you want, i could rewrite the closing scene. i could change this to a happy ending. i can make you everything you want. i will make me anything if you ask me to. ————————————– Taylor Jaczin called us from St. Petersburg, FL. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast yeah i’ve got a lighter. can fix your filter. giv… yeah i’ve got a lighter. can fix your filter. give you honey stick secrets and light tight roll laughter when you call me blue dream like your favorite strain like your favorite character ramona you know the blue of your dreams? yeah they’re both pierced. few things hurt so good like a needle. addict in a cute way. smoker with a toothbrush. dreamer with insomnia. liar and a poet. dream girl without problems. will ignore your worst for a sprinkle of the same. won’t shut the cartoon off till you ask for the remote or a shaved head. will lay alone with you and all of the dirty dishes. or i can wake up pretty if you want me to. i can be your party now and your home in the morning. feed you jewels of deep red pomegranates and suck the stains from the bed sheets. let you call me by any name you want when you fuck me. lick your wounds so you don’t have to. pretend you don’t have them until you don’t. and i will say goodbye before the jump so you don’t have to see me splatter. or if you want, i could rewrite the closing scene. i could change this to a happy ending. i can make you everything you want. i will make me anything if you ask me to. ————————————– Taylor Jaczin called us from St. Petersburg, FL. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/500984043 Mon, 17 Sep 2018 04:44:29 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/never-trust-a-snowglobe-by-caroljean-gavin 00:01:00 VOICEMAIL POEMS no In the palm of my hand I harbor Fault lines, one-way streets, A famous bridge half-crossed and Another I steered from the passenger’s seat While the driver smoked weed Such honking dreams in the patchouli, Of frolicking unhindered, of Slapping my feet in my Sunday shoes Down my aunt’s hardwood hallway. The earthquakes always come. I’ve cracked off into the ocean. Every day’s dawn yawns a Salty horizon, and the fog rises off the water And the fog rides into town, and the fog bowls me down, And sits on my chest, reading off a checklist of regrets I am so thirsty And my irises are turning gray and It never snows in San Francisco no matter what The souvenirs say. ————————————– Caroljean Gavin called us from Winston-Salem, NC. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast In the palm of my hand I harbor Fault lines, one-… In the palm of my hand I harbor Fault lines, one-way streets, A famous bridge half-crossed and Another I steered from the passenger’s seat While the driver smoked weed Such honking dreams in the patchouli, Of frolicking unhindered, of Slapping my feet in my Sunday shoes Down my aunt’s hardwood hallway. The earthquakes always come. I’ve cracked off into the ocean. Every day’s dawn yawns a Salty horizon, and the fog rises off the water And the fog rides into town, and the fog bowls me down, And sits on my chest, reading off a checklist of regrets I am so thirsty And my irises are turning gray and It never snows in San Francisco no matter what The souvenirs say. ————————————– Caroljean Gavin called us from Winston-Salem, NC. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/500983830 Mon, 17 Sep 2018 04:43:30 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/reading-lines-by-mariah-bosch 00:01:09 VOICEMAIL POEMS no A man in a powder blue suit offered to tell me my future on Olive Avenue. When I tried to say no, he said Baby, please, in a way that told me that he might know something that I didn’t, so I held out my palm. I used to hold out the same palm on the playground for other girls to read. They would tell me that I was destined to have five kids and a loving husband. Maybe a mini van. They told me my future with such certainty that it was difficult not to see some truth, some sincerity, some genuine desire to wish a happy future upon each other. So I believed them. The man on Olive said he could see Los Angeles and its sprawl. He could see me there, too, but he wouldn’t tell me what I was doing without another five dollars. I looked happy, though, he said. Happy in Los Angeles and laughing in the sun. There, in Fresno, I sought to find an intersection of these futures. ————————————– Mariah Bosch called us from Fresno, CA. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast A man in a powder blue suit offered to tell me my… A man in a powder blue suit offered to tell me my future on Olive Avenue. When I tried to say no, he said Baby, please, in a way that told me that he might know something that I didn’t, so I held out my palm. I used to hold out the same palm on the playground for other girls to read. They would tell me that I was destined to have five kids and a loving husband. Maybe a mini van. They told me my future with such certainty that it was difficult not to see some truth, some sincerity, some genuine desire to wish a happy future upon each other. So I believed them. The man on Olive said he could see Los Angeles and its sprawl. He could see me there, too, but he wouldn’t tell me what I was doing without another five dollars. I looked happy, though, he said. Happy in Los Angeles and laughing in the sun. There, in Fresno, I sought to find an intersection of these futures. ————————————– Mariah Bosch called us from Fresno, CA. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/500983470 Mon, 17 Sep 2018 04:42:07 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/on-sundays-by-sara-hutchinson 00:01:21 VOICEMAIL POEMS no I stay in bed til 2 then get up and open all the windows. Make coffee and walk around the 5 x 10 space I call my living room. Turn my attention to the postcards and photographs on the fridge. Stare hard at all that evidence. Whisper: See, there’s no reason to be lonely. Smoke one cigarette and then another on the steps out front. Begin to cry over my own good luck. I never told you this but the truth is I would follow you to the edges of any map. I never told you this but that’s what scares me. And it’s not just that I love you. More often it’s a mixed melody of the same idea, which sounds quite a lot like: thank you. Forgive me one last time. Come back. This time I mean it. ————————————– Sara Hutchinson called us from Santa Cruz, CA. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast I stay in bed til 2 then get up and open all the… I stay in bed til 2 then get up and open all the windows. Make coffee and walk around the 5 x 10 space I call my living room. Turn my attention to the postcards and photographs on the fridge. Stare hard at all that evidence. Whisper: See, there’s no reason to be lonely. Smoke one cigarette and then another on the steps out front. Begin to cry over my own good luck. I never told you this but the truth is I would follow you to the edges of any map. I never told you this but that’s what scares me. And it’s not just that I love you. More often it’s a mixed melody of the same idea, which sounds quite a lot like: thank you. Forgive me one last time. Come back. This time I mean it. ————————————– Sara Hutchinson called us from Santa Cruz, CA. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/500982990 Mon, 17 Sep 2018 04:40:27 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/200-words-about-airports-by-emryse-geye 00:01:35 VOICEMAIL POEMS no I. I fall in love every time I fly. Leaving Dallas: the medical student wearing headphones and a full headscarf just to forget her be-planed predicament. Above Tucson: the sorority sister with the strawberry hair whose father is waiting at the baggage claim; they leave, arms over shoulders over arms. In Denver. The woman in security: her bright eyes contradict the softening skin on her hands like Kleenex, like my mother’s. I desperately want to be travelling away from here with someone, with one of these walkabout-women at my side on a midnight-plane to anywhere: companionable silence, holding hands in anticipation. II. My parents call from twelve-and-a-half hours in the past to tell me that when they dropped me off for my flight to Seoul on the way out— they saw a woman striding confidently through the winding Sea-Tac security, carrying what they were sure was her whole life on her back, Emryse. She was going off somewhere. On her next adventure. I like to imagine her lived-in day-pack, her tried-and-tested shoes; her threadbare smile. I like to think she was happy because they told me they knew that would be me, one day, and they told me she had been alone. ————————————– Emryse Geye called us from Portland, OR. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast I. I fall in love every time I fly. Leaving Dall… I. I fall in love every time I fly. Leaving Dallas: the medical student wearing headphones and a full headscarf just to forget her be-planed predicament. Above Tucson: the sorority sister with the strawberry hair whose father is waiting at the baggage claim; they leave, arms over shoulders over arms. In Denver. The woman in security: her bright eyes contradict the softening skin on her hands like Kleenex, like my mother’s. I desperately want to be travelling away from here with someone, with one of these walkabout-women at my side on a midnight-plane to anywhere: companionable silence, holding hands in anticipation. II. My parents call from twelve-and-a-half hours in the past to tell me that when they dropped me off for my flight to Seoul on the way out— they saw a woman striding confidently through the winding Sea-Tac security, carrying what they were sure was her whole life on her back, Emryse. She was going off somewhere. On her next adventure. I like to imagine her lived-in day-pack, her tried-and-tested shoes; her threadbare smile. I like to think she was happy because they told me they knew that would be me, one day, and they told me she had been alone. ————————————– Emryse Geye called us from Portland, OR. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/500982747 Mon, 17 Sep 2018 04:39:20 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/invitation-by-tria-wood 00:00:50 VOICEMAIL POEMS no When are you going to move closer? The space aches between us. It invents its own language. The jagged edge of the ocean paints the sand dark, retreats into its own swollen urge, arcs forward to tease the shore with the inexorable inevitable that drives my hands into the unwritten dark to pull the tide of you over me. Drown me, roll me against you. Make me your pearl. ————————————– Tria Wood called us from Houston, TX. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast When are you going to move closer? The space ache… When are you going to move closer? The space aches between us. It invents its own language. The jagged edge of the ocean paints the sand dark, retreats into its own swollen urge, arcs forward to tease the shore with the inexorable inevitable that drives my hands into the unwritten dark to pull the tide of you over me. Drown me, roll me against you. Make me your pearl. ————————————– Tria Wood called us from Houston, TX. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/430260474 Mon, 16 Apr 2018 00:15:11 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/an-embarrassment-of-dandelions-by-andy-powell 00:01:51 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Sons blushed and became soft peaches in the hot backseats of cars, never even wanted the front seat. Or, I was the son, but it’s nice to be plural and grand and count the dandelions in right field as friends, which I picked in the ancient way of boys who’s fathers tried to metaphorically light fires under their asses, there I go again, I was the boy, who was mediocre at boy at best, first boy, if it makes a difference being a minute closer to your father’s father, and I don’t remember if I plucked maybe a little out of spite because my dad told me metaphorically to quit picking dandelions, or if when he mentioned them they sounded like pixy stix in the outfield during a tee ball game, which due to the smallness of five-year-olds mostly happens very close to home plate, and dandelions pluck so satisfyingly like plonking open a can of coke (let us use plonk’s secondary definition of playing on a musical instrument – the coke tab – laboriously or unskillfully) and their frilly heads spin when you shush them in your hands like you’re warming them. If you build it then some of the angels will come to plop down in the outfield, finger the dirt and rest their heads on tender blades while the pop flies pock the earth around them. ————————————– Andy Powell called us from New York, NY. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast Sons blushed and became soft peaches in the hot b… Sons blushed and became soft peaches in the hot backseats of cars, never even wanted the front seat. Or, I was the son, but it’s nice to be plural and grand and count the dandelions in right field as friends, which I picked in the ancient way of boys who’s fathers tried to metaphorically light fires under their asses, there I go again, I was the boy, who was mediocre at boy at best, first boy, if it makes a difference being a minute closer to your father’s father, and I don’t remember if I plucked maybe a little out of spite because my dad told me metaphorically to quit picking dandelions, or if when he mentioned them they sounded like pixy stix in the outfield during a tee ball game, which due to the smallness of five-year-olds mostly happens very close to home plate, and dandelions pluck so satisfyingly like plonking open a can of coke (let us use plonk’s secondary definition of playing on a musical instrument – the coke tab – laboriously or unskillfully) and their frilly heads spin when you shush them in your hands like you’re warming them. If you build it then some of the angels will come to plop down in the outfield, finger the dirt and rest their heads on tender blades while the pop flies pock the earth around them. ————————————– Andy Powell called us from New York, NY. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/430260252 Mon, 16 Apr 2018 00:14:51 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/the-sticks-by-james-barrett-rodehaver 00:02:09 VOICEMAIL POEMS no When you’re out in the sticks - the woods are a fortress - sunlight stabs down at you in bright daggers - I bet no one told you how a canopy is like armor. I had a place in the woods where rules couldn’t touch me - little warrior boy with sticks beating up all the full grown men that ever left mama broken. On the ground with a jar of bugs - benevolent demigod me who only knew enough to tear out earthy pieces of the woods and shove them in. Love is often a tearing away - open heart surgery featuring pieces of us that don’t fit - and a partner who can play dead really well. I played house - made a time machine too - went back in time - made mistakes - I must have - how else did playing house get so hard all of a sudden - why else would everything be my fault? I preached in two different churches at the age of eight. I forgot the God is love part - was too busy memorizing bible verses - writing fire and brimstone sermons. Whenever I was on my way to an ass whooping - I always wished I was someone else - someone strong enough to put the switch down. Did you know hide and seek isn’t fun at all - if one person suddenly decides they don’t wanna play anymore? When you grow up and the woods can’t hide you - you learn to disappear on the inside - you try and make yourself a fortress. Best I could muster was a jar of ripped up roots and leaves - with a bug that knew how small he was - who was much loved - until the day he wanted out. ————————————– James Barrett Rodehaver called us from Dallas, TX. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast When you’re out in the sticks - the woods are a f… When you’re out in the sticks - the woods are a fortress - sunlight stabs down at you in bright daggers - I bet no one told you how a canopy is like armor. I had a place in the woods where rules couldn’t touch me - little warrior boy with sticks beating up all the full grown men that ever left mama broken. On the ground with a jar of bugs - benevolent demigod me who only knew enough to tear out earthy pieces of the woods and shove them in. Love is often a tearing away - open heart surgery featuring pieces of us that don’t fit - and a partner who can play dead really well. I played house - made a time machine too - went back in time - made mistakes - I must have - how else did playing house get so hard all of a sudden - why else would everything be my fault? I preached in two different churches at the age of eight. I forgot the God is love part - was too busy memorizing bible verses - writing fire and brimstone sermons. Whenever I was on my way to an ass whooping - I always wished I was someone else - someone strong enough to put the switch down. Did you know hide and seek isn’t fun at all - if one person suddenly decides they don’t wanna play anymore? When you grow up and the woods can’t hide you - you learn to disappear on the inside - you try and make yourself a fortress. Best I could muster was a jar of ripped up roots and leaves - with a bug that knew how small he was - who was much loved - until the day he wanted out. ————————————– James Barrett Rodehaver called us from Dallas, TX. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/430260198 Mon, 16 Apr 2018 00:14:23 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/beavers-by-john-quinonez 00:02:59 VOICEMAIL POEMS no I feel as if I should tell you That I have never yet, seen - A Beaver in the Wild/ but have, for sure seen plenty things: -Too many a shrub and quail, -Elk drunk at the Waterfall, -Horses arrogant in the sun -So many a video of Fruit Bats gnawing on…Fruits. -So many dams Made by clawed hands, or less clawed hands. I still strong-arm the river at the diaphragm in wanting - and choke/ Think I grow more confident in The frame I wake in - Every rock turns and shifts to coerce the spirit Outside the Vessel & up the The shore pregnant, affirmed. Hope I am loud enough to Beckon help As the water’s edge keeps climbing. I’m sorry - it is rude to Think me a river. I fear the space I take knowing my Gender both me and coursing, but want not to Scare whatever gets Swallowed by my shadow. I’ve been swallowed, and have seen all not bashfully shroud by my lashes – Sometimes I burst in a partners mouth And a dam breaks – Floods all my being With heavy hand. I do not hear it coming/ go warm as doubt drowning, & hear my name called to me over crashing timber, This Time. It is enough to keep running by morning. Enough when my friends call me a Mother in earnest. It is a truth with heavy hands, Lapping at the levee without relent, But Most Times I cradle my stomach in rushing water and do not feel a Fertile Shore. I weep and search the mirror for a place to rescue my wanting/ Wonder so often if all who love Me must breathe water, Or just as unlikely make a home in my body By their mouths Or clawed hands, Or whatever will a wild thing has To take shelter in impossible places. I had not yet seen one for me in my wandering - this being that treads stream and earth confident //without fear until just here in my room - Through the eyes of another. Bless this Babe of the Wood with soft touch that makes all of my landscape Proud And Untethered. I’ve held this force of nature - & every minute knowing the deficit of The sense to believe those close/in love - Without always seeing & It is enough of a miracle To hear your name from a loved one’s Mouth, to trust//breath and well, I suppose I could have led with just that. ————————————– John Quinonez called us from Boston, MA. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast I feel as if I should tell you That I have never … I feel as if I should tell you That I have never yet, seen - A Beaver in the Wild/ but have, for sure seen plenty things: -Too many a shrub and quail, -Elk drunk at the Waterfall, -Horses arrogant in the sun -So many a video of Fruit Bats gnawing on…Fruits. -So many dams Made by clawed hands, or less clawed hands. I still strong-arm the river at the diaphragm in wanting - and choke/ Think I grow more confident in The frame I wake in - Every rock turns and shifts to coerce the spirit Outside the Vessel & up the The shore pregnant, affirmed. Hope I am loud enough to Beckon help As the water’s edge keeps climbing. I’m sorry - it is rude to Think me a river. I fear the space I take knowing my Gender both me and coursing, but want not to Scare whatever gets Swallowed by my shadow. I’ve been swallowed, and have seen all not bashfully shroud by my lashes – Sometimes I burst in a partners mouth And a dam breaks – Floods all my being With heavy hand. I do not hear it coming/ go warm as doubt drowning, & hear my name called to me over crashing timber, This Time. It is enough to keep running by morning. Enough when my friends call me a Mother in earnest. It is a truth with heavy hands, Lapping at the levee without relent, But Most Times I cradle my stomach in rushing water and do not feel a Fertile Shore. I weep and search the mirror for a place to rescue my wanting/ Wonder so often if all who love Me must breathe water, Or just as unlikely make a home in my body By their mouths Or clawed hands, Or whatever will a wild thing has To take shelter in impossible places. I had not yet seen one for me in my wandering - this being that treads stream and earth confident //without fear until just here in my room - Through the eyes of another. Bless this Babe of the Wood with soft touch that makes all of my landscape Proud And Untethered. I’ve held this force of nature - & every minute knowing the deficit of The sense to believe those close/in love - Without always seeing & It is enough of a miracle To hear your name from a loved one’s Mouth, to trust//breath and well, I suppose I could have led with just that. ————————————– John Quinonez called us from Boston, MA. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/430260135 Mon, 16 Apr 2018 00:14:15 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/different-ways-to-say-the-word-thug-by-dagmawe-berhanu 00:01:54 VOICEMAIL POEMS no 1. Trigger happy target 2. Archangel of the burnt and bruised 3. Newport ash on a papi store floor 4. Pants way passed where his mama taught 5. It’s my car sir 6. Ocean front scalp 7. Jesus in hiding 8. Unintentional vaudeville show 9. Fireflies in his palms 10. A friend’s blood 11. Tomorrow’s bedside prayer 12. Tonight’s prime time special 13. It’s just my phone sir 14. I just want to go home 15. I didn’t ask 16. A gunpowder freestyle 17. A stained glass dice game 18. A white man’s orgasm 19. My hands at 16 20. His voice before the shots 21. Stop sign eulogy 22. Mom alone in the chapel 23. No angel 24. All blood ————————————– Dagmawe Berhanu called us from Philadelphia, PA. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast 1. Trigger happy target 2. Archangel of the… 1. Trigger happy target 2. Archangel of the burnt and bruised 3. Newport ash on a papi store floor 4. Pants way passed where his mama taught 5. It’s my car sir 6. Ocean front scalp 7. Jesus in hiding 8. Unintentional vaudeville show 9. Fireflies in his palms 10. A friend’s blood 11. Tomorrow’s bedside prayer 12. Tonight’s prime time special 13. It’s just my phone sir 14. I just want to go home 15. I didn’t ask 16. A gunpowder freestyle 17. A stained glass dice game 18. A white man’s orgasm 19. My hands at 16 20. His voice before the shots 21. Stop sign eulogy 22. Mom alone in the chapel 23. No angel 24. All blood ————————————– Dagmawe Berhanu called us from Philadelphia, PA. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/430260075 Mon, 16 Apr 2018 00:14:02 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/i-sang-it-in-a-love-song-so-it-must-be-true-by-alison-kronstadt 00:02:39 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Sometimes I wish I could stop you from talking when I hear the silly things you say Alison, I know this world is killing you Oh Alison, my aim is true - Elvis Costello, “Alison” I was named for a catcall strung out into three verses and a chorus Ballad drowning in mystery fansites say she’s a pretty stranger his eye caught at the grocery store maybe an ex-fling scraping out a fetus with half his DNA Elvis Costello says my aim is true he might mean it literally No one wastes time on what Alison might say but I am Alison so to Elvis Costello to anyone who has ever claimed to love me Take my name out of your mouth. Your eyes lied when they looked at me and told you muse Damsel I’m the troll under the bridge Asked for peace Got this trap, trap trap Every echo hissing my name in a hated cadence saying: we sing because we love Who wouldn’t want a passion sharp enough to carve the melody of you into the air? I was a child the first time I was dragged from my body and into verse the first time someone thought their love meant they could take my name bend it into a circle to crown them prince or failing that martyr against the heresy of my refusal I ran into the arms of a boy who never sang did what Elvis couldn’t: gift me a contagious silence whistling a hole through my head to land in my own mouth I survived him only to stumble through more poets stitching me into metaphor muting me to make way for the romance they knew they deserved If I were love, I’d say: take my name out of your mouth Set it ablaze I would rather be ash than what you’ve made of me Alison means “of noble birth” A princess of course needs not just a hero but a narrator Her voice only good for singing to the forest creatures The moral only ever Sit Wait Someone will love you enough to speak for you to dirty your name What a happy ending. ————————————– Alison Kronstadt called us from Boston, MA. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast Sometimes I wish I could stop you from talking w… Sometimes I wish I could stop you from talking when I hear the silly things you say Alison, I know this world is killing you Oh Alison, my aim is true - Elvis Costello, “Alison” I was named for a catcall strung out into three verses and a chorus Ballad drowning in mystery fansites say she’s a pretty stranger his eye caught at the grocery store maybe an ex-fling scraping out a fetus with half his DNA Elvis Costello says my aim is true he might mean it literally No one wastes time on what Alison might say but I am Alison so to Elvis Costello to anyone who has ever claimed to love me Take my name out of your mouth. Your eyes lied when they looked at me and told you muse Damsel I’m the troll under the bridge Asked for peace Got this trap, trap trap Every echo hissing my name in a hated cadence saying: we sing because we love Who wouldn’t want a passion sharp enough to carve the melody of you into the air? I was a child the first time I was dragged from my body and into verse the first time someone thought their love meant they could take my name bend it into a circle to crown them prince or failing that martyr against the heresy of my refusal I ran into the arms of a boy who never sang did what Elvis couldn’t: gift me a contagious silence whistling a hole through my head to land in my own mouth I survived him only to stumble through more poets stitching me into metaphor muting me to make way for the romance they knew they deserved If I were love, I’d say: take my name out of your mouth Set it ablaze I would rather be ash than what you’ve made of me Alison means “of noble birth” A princess of course needs not just a hero but a narrator Her voice only good for singing to the forest creatures The moral only ever Sit Wait Someone will love you enough to speak for you to dirty your name What a happy ending. ————————————– Alison Kronstadt called us from Boston, MA. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/430260021 Mon, 16 Apr 2018 00:13:51 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/the-dark-spots-by-kelly-jones 00:00:42 VOICEMAIL POEMS no A few years ago a machine peaked into my head and found a section dead. Most likely from a lack of oxygen in utero, but really, that’s speculation – what’s done is done and there’s no undoing it. Like when I was eighteen and someone pilfered the contents of my lingerie drawer. They took it all: the see-through, the satin, the blood-spotted cotton panties and all the socks and bras. It creeped me out, but I cared less about how it all went missing and worried more just about their being gone. ————————————– Kelly Jones called us from Burlington, NC. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast A few years ago a machine peaked into my head an… A few years ago a machine peaked into my head and found a section dead. Most likely from a lack of oxygen in utero, but really, that’s speculation – what’s done is done and there’s no undoing it. Like when I was eighteen and someone pilfered the contents of my lingerie drawer. They took it all: the see-through, the satin, the blood-spotted cotton panties and all the socks and bras. It creeped me out, but I cared less about how it all went missing and worried more just about their being gone. ————————————– Kelly Jones called us from Burlington, NC. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/430259931 Mon, 16 Apr 2018 00:13:40 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/replication-of-a-miracle-by-katherine-indermaur 00:01:19 VOICEMAIL POEMS no For Owen Steinmann (2016-2017) Sugars trickle from maples’ taut trunks, sapping summer energy, the crystallized light of wanting to stay alive. But what melody the drops make a man from a pulpit always says as they leap out the spout, percuss the bucket’s galvanized bottom. Yes, such sweet vasculature and saccharine, this living always toward death. He calls for recalling thinner times, the feel of liveliness not yet stuck in the spiles and given up. Forgetting doesn’t rid our bones of any ache. Look—I’m trying to hold open every leaking word all winter long but this bark cracks, defenseless against air and overfull. For each legible ring, more lost. For each lived ache, a flume of language unspun by air among us. ————————————– Katherine Indermaur called us from Laramie, WY. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast For Owen Steinmann (2016-2017) Sugars trickle fr… For Owen Steinmann (2016-2017) Sugars trickle from maples’ taut trunks, sapping summer energy, the crystallized light of wanting to stay alive. But what melody the drops make a man from a pulpit always says as they leap out the spout, percuss the bucket’s galvanized bottom. Yes, such sweet vasculature and saccharine, this living always toward death. He calls for recalling thinner times, the feel of liveliness not yet stuck in the spiles and given up. Forgetting doesn’t rid our bones of any ache. Look—I’m trying to hold open every leaking word all winter long but this bark cracks, defenseless against air and overfull. For each legible ring, more lost. For each lived ache, a flume of language unspun by air among us. ————————————– Katherine Indermaur called us from Laramie, WY. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/430259880 Mon, 16 Apr 2018 00:13:29 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/some-synonym-of-practice-i-am-by-olatunde-osinaike 00:01:14 VOICEMAIL POEMS no I finally want to talk about it has taken me a decade more than most and all my wisdom teeth have fallen victim by now there is a draft buried beneath this you will never know of a pleasure of released dioxide and simile I don’t write because the block asks I do this out of an empathy for myself, a backlog of tears and this body knows that the deal is ending soon it just thinks it can wait out having to pay the delivery fee and this is just like me to go on and on nodding to the tune of ephemera in my head without letting go I can count on one hand how many fingers I have lifted to speak to my grandmother or times I even perused a bible yet I could tell you more about how many times I opened my mouth for favor this week alone. ————————————– Olatunde Osinaike called us from Nashville, TN. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast I finally want to talk about it has t… I finally want to talk about it has taken me a decade more than most and all my wisdom teeth have fallen victim by now there is a draft buried beneath this you will never know of a pleasure of released dioxide and simile I don’t write because the block asks I do this out of an empathy for myself, a backlog of tears and this body knows that the deal is ending soon it just thinks it can wait out having to pay the delivery fee and this is just like me to go on and on nodding to the tune of ephemera in my head without letting go I can count on one hand how many fingers I have lifted to speak to my grandmother or times I even perused a bible yet I could tell you more about how many times I opened my mouth for favor this week alone. ————————————– Olatunde Osinaike called us from Nashville, TN. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/430259823 Mon, 16 Apr 2018 00:13:20 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/at-the-end-of-the-devils-breath-by-romaine-washington 00:01:49 VOICEMAIL POEMS no …july. wilted cereal in a bowl / we drown in brown boiling milk. the haze of sparklers and fire- works add to the deafening heat that drips into august. caged in by smog, air smells of cigarettes and melted tar. surely this place is meant to ignite. september, when he arrives, he thinks this is a flat plain, where desert dirt covers everything like snow and sweat is meant for breathing. but then- october, and the devil’s breath laps up lotion, claws skin with its vicious teeth. yowling roofs beat whoosh and bend of threatened windows. tree leaves sound like ocean. stripped-dry littered bare limbs. the hard ones snap, ripe for a switch. usedtabe gangs of tumbleweeds ran the streets; now, solitary wadded balls of rootless limbs roll by. november is a postcard miracle, surrounded snow capped crisp sky where our eyes hang glide like eagles. we perch low in the valley shadow straining to see the walk of fame. sunset and hollywood. palm springs. peer into the pier of the pacific. every mountain peak is paramount. he says, if it weren’t for the devil’s breath, i’d never know where we are, and just how beautiful ————————————– Romaine Washington called us from Rancho Cucamonga, CA. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast …july. wilted cereal in a bowl / we drown in brow… …july. wilted cereal in a bowl / we drown in brown boiling milk. the haze of sparklers and fire- works add to the deafening heat that drips into august. caged in by smog, air smells of cigarettes and melted tar. surely this place is meant to ignite. september, when he arrives, he thinks this is a flat plain, where desert dirt covers everything like snow and sweat is meant for breathing. but then- october, and the devil’s breath laps up lotion, claws skin with its vicious teeth. yowling roofs beat whoosh and bend of threatened windows. tree leaves sound like ocean. stripped-dry littered bare limbs. the hard ones snap, ripe for a switch. usedtabe gangs of tumbleweeds ran the streets; now, solitary wadded balls of rootless limbs roll by. november is a postcard miracle, surrounded snow capped crisp sky where our eyes hang glide like eagles. we perch low in the valley shadow straining to see the walk of fame. sunset and hollywood. palm springs. peer into the pier of the pacific. every mountain peak is paramount. he says, if it weren’t for the devil’s breath, i’d never know where we are, and just how beautiful ————————————– Romaine Washington called us from Rancho Cucamonga, CA. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/430259757 Mon, 16 Apr 2018 00:13:08 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/southwest-airlines-flight-2003-by-cortney-lamar-charleston 00:01:22 VOICEMAIL POEMS no The eyes have it: weight, such that they can’t even roll. This is one of those moments when I should probably listen to my body but you know how it goes when someone talks too much for your taste (coffee, sir?). There’s lots of work to do today. There’s money to be had and even more easily lost like a sensible child to the pursuit of higher learning after high school. Time is really something, isn’t it? Death is entirely something different, but I don’t believe in dying in the sense that I haven’t done it yet, so I’m unsure if I can. I’m rather incompetent when it comes to handling important matters and a de facto doctorate in the trivial; I’m always the trial and I’m always the error. If ever I’ve felt content, maybe even happy, it was a glitch. And then it was gone. ————————————– Cortney Lamar Charleston called us from Jersey City, NJ. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast The eyes have it: weight, such that they can’t ev… The eyes have it: weight, such that they can’t even roll. This is one of those moments when I should probably listen to my body but you know how it goes when someone talks too much for your taste (coffee, sir?). There’s lots of work to do today. There’s money to be had and even more easily lost like a sensible child to the pursuit of higher learning after high school. Time is really something, isn’t it? Death is entirely something different, but I don’t believe in dying in the sense that I haven’t done it yet, so I’m unsure if I can. I’m rather incompetent when it comes to handling important matters and a de facto doctorate in the trivial; I’m always the trial and I’m always the error. If ever I’ve felt content, maybe even happy, it was a glitch. And then it was gone. ————————————– Cortney Lamar Charleston called us from Jersey City, NJ. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/430259682 Mon, 16 Apr 2018 00:12:57 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/tiny-nowhere-by-jessie-knoles 00:01:43 VOICEMAIL POEMS no brilliant elixer fuck me up fuck me dead why does academia hate me i’m ready to sacrifice my body to a career something boring like teaching teenagers why romeo and juliet did or didn’t die make my grandparents proud of me again i pour this into my glass and pour my glass into the bathtub full of rejection letters that call me ‘jessica’ instead of jessie this is the year of being normal let’s get married and request fuzzy bath towels let’s get married and i’ll wear the white dress and makeup and smile for 12 hours until my teeth fall out or my chin rots academia what did i ever do to you would i not make you proud either are you scared of me am i not worthy enough to pay you to rub me raw kill me deader than i already am academia all i want to do is walk down your pathways and smell your million dollar flowers i am not so full that i cannot hunger i am not so tired that i cannot stay up for two years straight in this scenario you are my grandparents and you are proud of me and i am sitting at the piano with straight white teeth and slender fingers men can be proud of and i never get too drunk and i always stay in this line in this scenario we never fuck up we never drink the sun on accident we never forget to turn faucets off magical drinkable liquid elixer you promised me more than this ————————————– jessie knoles called us from Bellingham, WA. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast brilliant elixer fuck me up fuck me dead why doe… brilliant elixer fuck me up fuck me dead why does academia hate me i’m ready to sacrifice my body to a career something boring like teaching teenagers why romeo and juliet did or didn’t die make my grandparents proud of me again i pour this into my glass and pour my glass into the bathtub full of rejection letters that call me ‘jessica’ instead of jessie this is the year of being normal let’s get married and request fuzzy bath towels let’s get married and i’ll wear the white dress and makeup and smile for 12 hours until my teeth fall out or my chin rots academia what did i ever do to you would i not make you proud either are you scared of me am i not worthy enough to pay you to rub me raw kill me deader than i already am academia all i want to do is walk down your pathways and smell your million dollar flowers i am not so full that i cannot hunger i am not so tired that i cannot stay up for two years straight in this scenario you are my grandparents and you are proud of me and i am sitting at the piano with straight white teeth and slender fingers men can be proud of and i never get too drunk and i always stay in this line in this scenario we never fuck up we never drink the sun on accident we never forget to turn faucets off magical drinkable liquid elixer you promised me more than this ————————————– jessie knoles called us from Bellingham, WA. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/430259619 Mon, 16 Apr 2018 00:12:46 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/how-to-push-by-laura-e-davis 00:01:06 VOICEMAIL POEMS no I was on my back that morning standing still & running half-turned, fetal & spread eagle & curled up along the edge of the hospital bed and the doctor says “It’s time,” & I already know because it has always been time, time to push & she is explaining to me how to push, how to undulate you from my body & as she explains I bring my chin to my chest even though my chin was already there & had never been there & never would be just like you were already there & had never been & never would not be there because I already knew & know how to push & so I push & was pushing because I’d always been pushing & you appeared blue and be-limbed because I push you there right there, little boy, into the world & onto my abdomen right where you’d forever never been before and after amen. ————————————– Laura Davis called us from San Francisco, CA. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast I was on my back that morning standing still & ru… I was on my back that morning standing still & running half-turned, fetal & spread eagle & curled up along the edge of the hospital bed and the doctor says “It’s time,” & I already know because it has always been time, time to push & she is explaining to me how to push, how to undulate you from my body & as she explains I bring my chin to my chest even though my chin was already there & had never been there & never would be just like you were already there & had never been & never would not be there because I already knew & know how to push & so I push & was pushing because I’d always been pushing & you appeared blue and be-limbed because I push you there right there, little boy, into the world & onto my abdomen right where you’d forever never been before and after amen. ————————————– Laura Davis called us from San Francisco, CA. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/425906709 Tue, 10 Apr 2018 00:15:01 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/winter-2018 00:20:16 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Our hosts Logen Cure and I.S. Jones review their favs from our Winter 2018 issue! (Get caught up on Winter 2018 here: soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/sets/voicemail-poems-fall-2017) This installment features poems by: Kirwyn Sutherland https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/taunts-to-the-klan-by-kirwyn-sutherland zach blackwood https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/whelp-after-aziza-barnes-by-zach-blackwood Sam Rush https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/sonnet-for-trans-lifeline-february-2017-by-sam-rush Music by TrueKey. (@truekey). >> The deadline to submit to our Summer Issue is June 1st: http://voicemailpoems.org/call >> Help us made more of these by supporting us on Patreon! http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems >> Review us on iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/voicemail-poems-.org/id847081003 Our hosts Logen Cure and I.S. Jones review their … Our hosts Logen Cure and I.S. Jones review their favs from our Winter 2018 issue! (Get caught up on Winter 2018 here: soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/sets/voicemail-poems-fall-2017) This installment features poems by: Kirwyn Sutherland https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/taunts-to-the-klan-by-kirwyn-sutherland zach blackwood https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/whelp-after-aziza-barnes-by-zach-blackwood Sam Rush https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/sonnet-for-trans-lifeline-february-2017-by-sam-rush Music by TrueKey. (@truekey). >> The deadline to submit to our Summer Issue is June 1st: http://voicemailpoems.org/call >> Help us made more of these by supporting us on Patreon! http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems >> Review us on iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/voicemail-poems-.org/id847081003 voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/394759623 Mon, 05 Feb 2018 11:08:33 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/blackberry-winter-by-robyn-campbell 00:01:07 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Another storm has the neighbors' chickens all lumped together and subdued, so I can't hear them from my attic room. Rain has thrown itself for days against the roof. "What is the cruelest month?" people ask. Last year I watched a man put one poor frozen bird in a garbage bag at the end of winter; it had been stuck in a corner of the coop. That's what Spring does: uncover what you thought was gone, flood the dirt and leave you to wonder which is meaner- the freeze or its long thaw. --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast Another storm has the neighbors' chickens all lum… Another storm has the neighbors' chickens all lumped together and subdued, so I can't hear them from my attic room. Rain has thrown itself for days against the roof. "What is the cruelest month?" people ask. Last year I watched a man put one poor frozen bird in a garbage bag at the end of winter; it had been stuck in a corner of the coop. That's what Spring does: uncover what you thought was gone, flood the dirt and leave you to wonder which is meaner- the freeze or its long thaw. --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/394759473 Mon, 05 Feb 2018 11:08:02 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/rayleigh-scattering-by-eg-cunningham 00:00:43 VOICEMAIL POEMS no End of the year gray. Anchors Where balloons should be, or: Could peace wait on the outer Bank of sane. How in the holiday Buzz to say nothing for clear, that is: Give me back remembering, Its attendant costumed sting. The portraiture made overkill By rain. No incoming. The quantum State the same. The slide to black, The self-quilled quell to love The heartburn sun, its citrus sky. If only. --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast End of the year gray. Anchors Where balloons shou… End of the year gray. Anchors Where balloons should be, or: Could peace wait on the outer Bank of sane. How in the holiday Buzz to say nothing for clear, that is: Give me back remembering, Its attendant costumed sting. The portraiture made overkill By rain. No incoming. The quantum State the same. The slide to black, The self-quilled quell to love The heartburn sun, its citrus sky. If only. --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/394759329 Mon, 05 Feb 2018 11:07:28 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/alternate-by-mariel-fechik 00:01:24 VOICEMAIL POEMS no i. In the other world, everything smells like cherries. Every phone call is the news of someone's death, and every cigarette is candy. In the other world, you tell me you do not love me every day, and our bed is made from cedar trees. The horses run rider- less and frightened, chased by men with bottles for weapons and collarbones made of ice. The plains are a burnt orange in the other world, and everyone reeks of a longing to understand. ii. In the other world, she never died, and everything tastes like gunmetal. Everyone washes themselves in coldness and sleeps in the bath. In the other world, I tell you to keep the dogs at bay, and our bed is made from palm leaves. The ocean laps at sand that is still glass, riddled with shipwreck. The mountains tumble down themselves in the other world, and everyone speaks to each other in tongues. iii. In the other world, everything sounds like a heart- beat. Everything is made of tinsel, multi-colored, and glows in the dark. In the other world, we tell each other every secret, and our bed is made from cattails. Grief slithers in and out of our ears, only frightened away by singing. The grasslands mumble mutely to themselves in the other world, and everyone knows only their own names. --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast i. In the other world, everything smells like che… i. In the other world, everything smells like cherries. Every phone call is the news of someone's death, and every cigarette is candy. In the other world, you tell me you do not love me every day, and our bed is made from cedar trees. The horses run rider- less and frightened, chased by men with bottles for weapons and collarbones made of ice. The plains are a burnt orange in the other world, and everyone reeks of a longing to understand. ii. In the other world, she never died, and everything tastes like gunmetal. Everyone washes themselves in coldness and sleeps in the bath. In the other world, I tell you to keep the dogs at bay, and our bed is made from palm leaves. The ocean laps at sand that is still glass, riddled with shipwreck. The mountains tumble down themselves in the other world, and everyone speaks to each other in tongues. iii. In the other world, everything sounds like a heart- beat. Everything is made of tinsel, multi-colored, and glows in the dark. In the other world, we tell each other every secret, and our bed is made from cattails. Grief slithers in and out of our ears, only frightened away by singing. The grasslands mumble mutely to themselves in the other world, and everyone knows only their own names. --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/394759200 Mon, 05 Feb 2018 11:07:03 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/rocket-by-allison-hummel 00:02:17 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Part 1: Untitled It was yesterday or something, when I heard the song playing in a store, asking do I make myself a blessing to everyone I meet? I don't sing it to myself, exactly, but I do repeat it, metallic gyre, all the day long. In the at-home lab of an electrical engineer, I was surrounded by metallic gyres (not an industry term,) tiny spools of wire thread that do not unwind to fulfill their purpose. I touched things carefully, understanding none of them, vaguely susceptible like a green bruise because we had woken up in one another's legs. Do I make myself a blessing? (I really do. I am not perfect, but lovely, and a perceived dearth of this, of lovely people, is just a cultivated skew, benefiting whom? It's like, capitalism.) Anyway, unearthed Soviet tubes filled with brief forests of material mythos surrounded me, hofbrau, complex blessing. Engineer says: …(the) reactors all disappeared and who knows where they are. Each could kill 100,000 people. He makes coffee, I sit on the lawn. Oh, and at 1:47 we watched a rocket ascend. It did not go straight up, in case you are wondering. Part 2: Rocket Ascent at Vandenberg It appeared to experience a horizontal epoch, a teendom. Maybe meandering is part of all great inclinations. I'm reminded of "...the falcon cannot hear the falconer," but that's never really true, it's only a game. The rocket could definitely hear the falconer, and I feel sure that it still does, even at this very moment. --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast Part 1: Untitled It was yesterday or something, … Part 1: Untitled It was yesterday or something, when I heard the song playing in a store, asking do I make myself a blessing to everyone I meet? I don't sing it to myself, exactly, but I do repeat it, metallic gyre, all the day long. In the at-home lab of an electrical engineer, I was surrounded by metallic gyres (not an industry term,) tiny spools of wire thread that do not unwind to fulfill their purpose. I touched things carefully, understanding none of them, vaguely susceptible like a green bruise because we had woken up in one another's legs. Do I make myself a blessing? (I really do. I am not perfect, but lovely, and a perceived dearth of this, of lovely people, is just a cultivated skew, benefiting whom? It's like, capitalism.) Anyway, unearthed Soviet tubes filled with brief forests of material mythos surrounded me, hofbrau, complex blessing. Engineer says: …(the) reactors all disappeared and who knows where they are. Each could kill 100,000 people. He makes coffee, I sit on the lawn. Oh, and at 1:47 we watched a rocket ascend. It did not go straight up, in case you are wondering. Part 2: Rocket Ascent at Vandenberg It appeared to experience a horizontal epoch, a teendom. Maybe meandering is part of all great inclinations. I'm reminded of "...the falcon cannot hear the falconer," but that's never really true, it's only a game. The rocket could definitely hear the falconer, and I feel sure that it still does, even at this very moment. --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/394759062 Mon, 05 Feb 2018 11:06:30 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/the-rising-by-cathleen-allyn-conway 00:01:02 VOICEMAIL POEMS no The town knows about darkness, the slithered purple that comes on the land when rotation hides the sun. Something gathered, slow and heavy and electric, almost as though the town knows evil is coming, and its shape. From here we can't see spots on the sun. We know where the roads go and where, how the ground lies. The town has us because we know it, and it knows us. It sees through our lies, even the ones we tell ourselves. And in the dark, the town is ours and we are the town's. Being in the town is prosaic, sensuous, alcoholic; black galaxies shot with morphic red. We see ourselves drowning in the sweet evil falls and liking it. There is no life here but the death of days. Something is going to happen. Can't we feel it? --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast The town knows about darkness, the slithered purp… The town knows about darkness, the slithered purple that comes on the land when rotation hides the sun. Something gathered, slow and heavy and electric, almost as though the town knows evil is coming, and its shape. From here we can't see spots on the sun. We know where the roads go and where, how the ground lies. The town has us because we know it, and it knows us. It sees through our lies, even the ones we tell ourselves. And in the dark, the town is ours and we are the town's. Being in the town is prosaic, sensuous, alcoholic; black galaxies shot with morphic red. We see ourselves drowning in the sweet evil falls and liking it. There is no life here but the death of days. Something is going to happen. Can't we feel it? --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/394758957 Mon, 05 Feb 2018 11:06:05 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/were-on-a-roller-coaster-im-nauseous-but-i-dont-wanna-get-off-by-aleida-m 00:02:09 VOICEMAIL POEMS no we're crying in a costco parking lot fiending for that intimacy we once felt because every so often we lose it and then i get depressed when i think you deserve much better sometimes i think i deserve better too most of the time it feels like i am already holding all the good that's out there large and fragile in my arms i hold on for dear life 
 the woman parked across from us is staring i wonder if she's ever felt like a failure 
 on my knees on the stairs that lead up to your father's bedroom we've unearthed that intimacy and it takes us away as usual so easily in the dark of the oakland warehouse the delight of the freedom to touch taste tie no time to worry about whether my roommates will hear us laughing when the cheap ikea bed gives up and we keep fucking on the debris sometimes i'm so ashamed at the pleasure of the way you fill me in these moments 
 on the stairs in my mouth in my hands i wonder if we could really feel things all that differently 
 the car seats are reclined as far as they can go we're here again face to face with each other trying hard not to look away because we're not ready to be face to face with the end honey let's take the sobbing upstairs and it becomes a perfectly choreographed waltz with your head gently falling onto my heavy chest while hands wrap hands when we make contact the weight is lifted and you fall asleep as quick as always i hate that i can't help but stare your at-peace tender face moving in perfect synchronicity with the rhythm of my unsteady breath as it ruffles your hair 
 i fall asleep with lips and tears in your hair i wonder if anything lasts for ever --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast we're crying in a costco parking lot fiending fo… we're crying in a costco parking lot fiending for that intimacy we once felt because every so often we lose it and then i get depressed when i think you deserve much better sometimes i think i deserve better too most of the time it feels like i am already holding all the good that's out there large and fragile in my arms i hold on for dear life 
 the woman parked across from us is staring i wonder if she's ever felt like a failure 
 on my knees on the stairs that lead up to your father's bedroom we've unearthed that intimacy and it takes us away as usual so easily in the dark of the oakland warehouse the delight of the freedom to touch taste tie no time to worry about whether my roommates will hear us laughing when the cheap ikea bed gives up and we keep fucking on the debris sometimes i'm so ashamed at the pleasure of the way you fill me in these moments 
 on the stairs in my mouth in my hands i wonder if we could really feel things all that differently 
 the car seats are reclined as far as they can go we're here again face to face with each other trying hard not to look away because we're not ready to be face to face with the end honey let's take the sobbing upstairs and it becomes a perfectly choreographed waltz with your head gently falling onto my heavy chest while hands wrap hands when we make contact the weight is lifted and you fall asleep as quick as always i hate that i can't help but stare your at-peace tender face moving in perfect synchronicity with the rhythm of my unsteady breath as it ruffles your hair 
 i fall asleep with lips and tears in your hair i wonder if anything lasts for ever --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/394758840 Mon, 05 Feb 2018 11:05:39 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/ammonite-sonnet-by-melissa-eleftherion 00:01:15 VOICEMAIL POEMS no the ammonite an index of sutures i got tired of cataloging them hermetically sealing little traumas afraid they'd get to know one another go boom little mother catastrophes instead i smashed little rocks to bits in a ditch each shard a memory released pressure from stomach the common burial ground the cavity of accumulation each little box coated in dust and feelings each glass stone chamber not really secret i get ready to shatter the discretions i open my palms no explosions no pain coalesce little traumas wrap your wounds around each other a chrysalis blood a becoming of feathers of air a fire --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast the ammonite an index of sutures i got tired of c… the ammonite an index of sutures i got tired of cataloging them hermetically sealing little traumas afraid they'd get to know one another go boom little mother catastrophes instead i smashed little rocks to bits in a ditch each shard a memory released pressure from stomach the common burial ground the cavity of accumulation each little box coated in dust and feelings each glass stone chamber not really secret i get ready to shatter the discretions i open my palms no explosions no pain coalesce little traumas wrap your wounds around each other a chrysalis blood a becoming of feathers of air a fire --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/394758738 Mon, 05 Feb 2018 11:05:10 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/marseille-by-emily-s-cooper 00:01:49 VOICEMAIL POEMS no He had created a type of 3d paint, was one of the first things he told us. As we followed him upstairs to his plant filled apartment, we decided he was lying. It wasn't long until he told us about Mexico; kidnapped by cartels, held hostage for weeks, his father and grandfather were mercenaries in the French Foreign Legion. He introduced us to his three passport dog, four French girls and his pal from Belgium. Everyday there were new visitors, the Belgian was the last man in the house. When we woke up to find him tucking us in we realised he actually didn't sleep. Each night he tried to persuade a new girl into his bed; the Germans were more easily led, the French a severe non. He spoke French with an American accent, had the physique of a young Brad Pitt and described to us in detail how he used to build bombs. We were taught about an old style of torture while we sat in an empty fountain, among the graffiti we learned that if you swallow a button, and pull it back up, your body evacuates everything south, north, east and west. Six months later he called me in the middle of the night. I didn't pick up, but remembered the paintings he showed us before we left, the faces lighting up, leaping out. --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast He had created a type of 3d paint, was one of the… He had created a type of 3d paint, was one of the first things he told us. As we followed him upstairs to his plant filled apartment, we decided he was lying. It wasn't long until he told us about Mexico; kidnapped by cartels, held hostage for weeks, his father and grandfather were mercenaries in the French Foreign Legion. He introduced us to his three passport dog, four French girls and his pal from Belgium. Everyday there were new visitors, the Belgian was the last man in the house. When we woke up to find him tucking us in we realised he actually didn't sleep. Each night he tried to persuade a new girl into his bed; the Germans were more easily led, the French a severe non. He spoke French with an American accent, had the physique of a young Brad Pitt and described to us in detail how he used to build bombs. We were taught about an old style of torture while we sat in an empty fountain, among the graffiti we learned that if you swallow a button, and pull it back up, your body evacuates everything south, north, east and west. Six months later he called me in the middle of the night. I didn't pick up, but remembered the paintings he showed us before we left, the faces lighting up, leaping out. --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/394758636 Mon, 05 Feb 2018 11:04:37 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/say-uncle-by-wimpy-af 00:00:51 VOICEMAIL POEMS no "when you see a mountain coming, get out of it's way." my uncle, six-two and oxen told me after clipping my wing. i learn at an early age to be a black man is to see a black man and fear his size, momentum. to love a black man is to see his shape and surrender. i lay myself down on his threshing floor say uncle, and await apocalypse across my arms. when two gods enter a room, one is humbled. but there are no walls, no floors in space. so i say lover when i meet him there. --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast "when you see a mountain coming, get out of it's … "when you see a mountain coming, get out of it's way." my uncle, six-two and oxen told me after clipping my wing. i learn at an early age to be a black man is to see a black man and fear his size, momentum. to love a black man is to see his shape and surrender. i lay myself down on his threshing floor say uncle, and await apocalypse across my arms. when two gods enter a room, one is humbled. but there are no walls, no floors in space. so i say lover when i meet him there. --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/394758444 Mon, 05 Feb 2018 11:03:49 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/hi-im-ovulating-by-elysia-lucinda-smith 00:01:19 VOICEMAIL POEMS no My mother calls them phases and maybe that's an accurate representation because they're lunar, edges of something, the kind of scrambling you do drunk in the dark. It's a lot of being drunk in the dark. I'm dying to discover myself and finally be cool. I'm smoking. I'm smoking hot. I'm a smoking gun. I went out one night and suffered through talking because I just wanted someone-anyone!- to fucking kiss me. The next day, I booty called Colin and took Jay home and kissed Emily and thought about kissing Jessica and I know I'm not falling in love with anyone but maybe just falling in love with touch? What is it when I dry hump the rug and watch porn and drink all the Elderflower Liquor in the cabinet? What is it when I let you make a home in the back of my throat? The thing is: I've got it all figured. Finally something to pass off as the truth. I'm just wrapped up in movement, in fingers wet hot small of my back smell like fir needles poking out of the snow. Touch me and touch you and it's a special thing. It's the only thing you fucking have. Do you hear me? --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast My mother calls them phases and maybe that's an a… My mother calls them phases and maybe that's an accurate representation because they're lunar, edges of something, the kind of scrambling you do drunk in the dark. It's a lot of being drunk in the dark. I'm dying to discover myself and finally be cool. I'm smoking. I'm smoking hot. I'm a smoking gun. I went out one night and suffered through talking because I just wanted someone-anyone!- to fucking kiss me. The next day, I booty called Colin and took Jay home and kissed Emily and thought about kissing Jessica and I know I'm not falling in love with anyone but maybe just falling in love with touch? What is it when I dry hump the rug and watch porn and drink all the Elderflower Liquor in the cabinet? What is it when I let you make a home in the back of my throat? The thing is: I've got it all figured. Finally something to pass off as the truth. I'm just wrapped up in movement, in fingers wet hot small of my back smell like fir needles poking out of the snow. Touch me and touch you and it's a special thing. It's the only thing you fucking have. Do you hear me? --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/394758267 Mon, 05 Feb 2018 11:03:16 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/charms-by-joseph-s-pete 00:01:28 VOICEMAIL POEMS no All soldiers believe Charms in their MREs are foul luck, bad juju, more than just a dark talisman, a virtual death sentence. Patrols have been called off if some dirtbag private straight out of basic tested fate by peeling open a pack of the generic Jolly Ranchers knockoffs that bring nothing but doom. Everyone on the FOB heard stories about how Charms were a malediction that summoned malefactors who felled soldiers with sniper fire, mortar blasts and IED ambushes. Marines supposedly even once threw Charms at the enemy in a firefight to even skewed, candy-altered odds. That's why you never ingest Charms. That's why you cast them away theatrically, make a real show of it. That's why you have to observe the whole superstition. We all choke down MREs. That's a universal experience. Some have Charms; some don't. It's all chance. It's purely random, who's charmed or cursed by fate. Likewise, it makes no sense who randomly gets killed, maimed, blown up, torn apart, out there, outside the wire. There's no rhyme or reason behind which soldiers go down, who gets battlefield crosses with helmets, rifles, boots and dog tags, who succumbs to PTSD, traumatic brain injury, moral injury, any war wound. Maybe some stale, rotten hard candy could make sense of it all. Maybe Charms are just imbued a significance they never earned in a senseless chaos devoid of any meaning, in an abysmal void that invites lore. --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast All soldiers believe Charms in their MREs are fou… All soldiers believe Charms in their MREs are foul luck, bad juju, more than just a dark talisman, a virtual death sentence. Patrols have been called off if some dirtbag private straight out of basic tested fate by peeling open a pack of the generic Jolly Ranchers knockoffs that bring nothing but doom. Everyone on the FOB heard stories about how Charms were a malediction that summoned malefactors who felled soldiers with sniper fire, mortar blasts and IED ambushes. Marines supposedly even once threw Charms at the enemy in a firefight to even skewed, candy-altered odds. That's why you never ingest Charms. That's why you cast them away theatrically, make a real show of it. That's why you have to observe the whole superstition. We all choke down MREs. That's a universal experience. Some have Charms; some don't. It's all chance. It's purely random, who's charmed or cursed by fate. Likewise, it makes no sense who randomly gets killed, maimed, blown up, torn apart, out there, outside the wire. There's no rhyme or reason behind which soldiers go down, who gets battlefield crosses with helmets, rifles, boots and dog tags, who succumbs to PTSD, traumatic brain injury, moral injury, any war wound. Maybe some stale, rotten hard candy could make sense of it all. Maybe Charms are just imbued a significance they never earned in a senseless chaos devoid of any meaning, in an abysmal void that invites lore. --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/394758081 Mon, 05 Feb 2018 11:02:38 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/whelp-after-aziza-barnes-by-zach-blackwood 00:02:24 VOICEMAIL POEMS no my head is full of blood steamed like latte foam pressing open the seams in my skull, burning through folds in my brain like a shot luge. my head is the generating station in the delaware river, developed into luxury condos with beds that fill the whole homes. my head is a smoking suite with smoke stains in the corners of the ceilings and the ice cubes smell like the smoke stains and that is disappointing in an expected way. and i'm laying in my underwear in every single bed, rolling and sighing in the sheets and taking notes how do i feel here what did i do here how was the bounce maybe a man is there smelling sweaty or like flat champagne sticky about the nape and i like to feel wanted or at least i like to be paid what i told that feeling i wanted. or at the very least, i'm shoveling black sand into some deficit, punching out, and watching the direct deposit cartwheel in at 3am. i am trying to convince everyone that this is what i do, i lay in the beds and turn inputs to outputs and i go out with my friends when i feel like they miss me and i make wry jokes about my own self-worth and my lonesomeness and they laugh and i write about the things that they laugh about in language opaque enough that i don't even feel it anymore. and i am naked looking out a big window in a luxury condo where my spirit is hung on a bamboo hanger like a bathrobe. of course it is the 4am hour where nothing is provocative any more. i read a magazine article in some design rag about the fire hydrant pumping station across the river. without it, they'd never have built the station or turned the station into condos. the fire would have burned in the middle of the river and the lights would all ball-gag themselves. i feel very bad for the factory. does he like to gorge himself in big sucks and swallows from the river just so that people can tap it from hundreds of holes miles away? --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast my head is full of blood steamed like latte foam … my head is full of blood steamed like latte foam pressing open the seams in my skull, burning through folds in my brain like a shot luge. my head is the generating station in the delaware river, developed into luxury condos with beds that fill the whole homes. my head is a smoking suite with smoke stains in the corners of the ceilings and the ice cubes smell like the smoke stains and that is disappointing in an expected way. and i'm laying in my underwear in every single bed, rolling and sighing in the sheets and taking notes how do i feel here what did i do here how was the bounce maybe a man is there smelling sweaty or like flat champagne sticky about the nape and i like to feel wanted or at least i like to be paid what i told that feeling i wanted. or at the very least, i'm shoveling black sand into some deficit, punching out, and watching the direct deposit cartwheel in at 3am. i am trying to convince everyone that this is what i do, i lay in the beds and turn inputs to outputs and i go out with my friends when i feel like they miss me and i make wry jokes about my own self-worth and my lonesomeness and they laugh and i write about the things that they laugh about in language opaque enough that i don't even feel it anymore. and i am naked looking out a big window in a luxury condo where my spirit is hung on a bamboo hanger like a bathrobe. of course it is the 4am hour where nothing is provocative any more. i read a magazine article in some design rag about the fire hydrant pumping station across the river. without it, they'd never have built the station or turned the station into condos. the fire would have burned in the middle of the river and the lights would all ball-gag themselves. i feel very bad for the factory. does he like to gorge himself in big sucks and swallows from the river just so that people can tap it from hundreds of holes miles away? --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/394757949 Mon, 05 Feb 2018 11:01:56 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/taunts-to-the-klan-by-kirwyn-sutherland 00:02:37 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Klu klux what? I'm a such A tool for America Hands scraped raw Hammered deep into cotton Fly up and it rains gold I'm a Midas But was forced to turn Inanimate objects into fortune To fields of green picked Over and rotten I'm a supposed Dead used problem Both birth and demise Alleged Between trying to kill And forgetting about I'ma question A poking to see if I writhe How much can a country Heap on a back until It concaves into a nail America's only seeming quandary You jealous? // Hey Klu Can I call you Klu What you going to do With that cross besides Make me laugh A tongue is a flame A black body is a cross You worship, me? Little ol' burnt thing Used to be pick to your ninny Now every time you lynch me You clone me // Behind you! Issa Me Oh! You thought the Noose would kill me No, no,no,no,no,no I mean not really me But another me Remember the clone The string up and teleport So every molecular thing Served up to slaughter Still lives structurally Same skin and everything But equipped with the Memory of your evil I do strange things with memory Like let it drip into a knife But don't worry I haven't breathed here enough To know how to use it // I don't get the sheet. I never got the sheet. I mean sure back then it was just as much about costuming fear as it was a mask, but now it's not even necessary. We have lived long enough to spot a racist. A white person could yawn and I could tell you if they whisper nigger under their breath in boardrooms or if they loudly proclaim their lust for my blood. It's all the same to me, all engineers of the type ecosystem that thirsts for black death so take off those gosh-darn sheets, join us, reveal how easily you slip into assembly, you'd be surprised. --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast Klu klux what? I'm a such A tool for America Han… Klu klux what? I'm a such A tool for America Hands scraped raw Hammered deep into cotton Fly up and it rains gold I'm a Midas But was forced to turn Inanimate objects into fortune To fields of green picked Over and rotten I'm a supposed Dead used problem Both birth and demise Alleged Between trying to kill And forgetting about I'ma question A poking to see if I writhe How much can a country Heap on a back until It concaves into a nail America's only seeming quandary You jealous? // Hey Klu Can I call you Klu What you going to do With that cross besides Make me laugh A tongue is a flame A black body is a cross You worship, me? Little ol' burnt thing Used to be pick to your ninny Now every time you lynch me You clone me // Behind you! Issa Me Oh! You thought the Noose would kill me No, no,no,no,no,no I mean not really me But another me Remember the clone The string up and teleport So every molecular thing Served up to slaughter Still lives structurally Same skin and everything But equipped with the Memory of your evil I do strange things with memory Like let it drip into a knife But don't worry I haven't breathed here enough To know how to use it // I don't get the sheet. I never got the sheet. I mean sure back then it was just as much about costuming fear as it was a mask, but now it's not even necessary. We have lived long enough to spot a racist. A white person could yawn and I could tell you if they whisper nigger under their breath in boardrooms or if they loudly proclaim their lust for my blood. It's all the same to me, all engineers of the type ecosystem that thirsts for black death so take off those gosh-darn sheets, join us, reveal how easily you slip into assembly, you'd be surprised. --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/394757733 Mon, 05 Feb 2018 11:01:03 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/sonnet-for-trans-lifeline-february-2017-by-sam-rush 00:01:43 VOICEMAIL POEMS no sonnet for Trans Lifeline & February 2017 & for Kai It snowed last week & the clouds slept lower. I wonder where your body went without you, who unraveled it & what came falling from their mouths. I think of you; a weighted sky; dirt, loosening itself in welcome; what it is to bury: to deem ready to give back; to kill: to call a body just a body, to turn to flesh & name the rest, the lost, the still of us fever dream prophecies of flightless birds about the heavens they can't reach. We know the sky was falling long before these days. It's just, it seems, the ground thaws out softer for us, now. Hungry or buckling or kind. --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast sonnet for Trans Lifeline & February 2017 & for K… sonnet for Trans Lifeline & February 2017 & for Kai It snowed last week & the clouds slept lower. I wonder where your body went without you, who unraveled it & what came falling from their mouths. I think of you; a weighted sky; dirt, loosening itself in welcome; what it is to bury: to deem ready to give back; to kill: to call a body just a body, to turn to flesh & name the rest, the lost, the still of us fever dream prophecies of flightless birds about the heavens they can't reach. We know the sky was falling long before these days. It's just, it seems, the ground thaws out softer for us, now. Hungry or buckling or kind. --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/394757598 Mon, 05 Feb 2018 11:00:28 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/a-shining-example-of-how-an-honest-kind-strong-and-responsible-man-lives-his-life-by-dana-whtvr 00:01:51 VOICEMAIL POEMS no I set down my flaming sword long enough to stare into a hunting trip photo at my Grandfather's memorial. It shows two men, and him between them in a dress and wig-hilarious joke (everyone laughed), "abomination" an Uncle scoffs casual-like now, tells story: "that's the ugliest woman I ever saw" man driving by says to man in passenger seat (everyone laughs). See: sadness and shame felt in my painted toenails hidden in socks, the tie too tight around my neck, clueless compliments about my long hair and hoops. Retell the story a different way: at 10, a buck strung for skinning from the eaves; the droppings he cut out and put in my palm. I can never breathe in church, but this morning I took communion for the first time in 9 years, for the old man-God knows why. Over his grave beside his stillborn first daughter's, I become the hospital where he died-Queen of the Valley (think meanest motherfucker: full crown of antlers on my head, long locks of weeping willow dyed with blood trailing in the wind, time turned back on itself, a naked Eve naming all the animals). Pulling my dress off the hanger, I bear witness: the empty center of the universe like a liver spot; wind in my hair, sun on my bare shoulders; and under the ground, hidden in the urn, his miserable ashes in drag. *Title quoted from the obituary for James E. Fidler published in the Napa Valley Register, 08/28/2017 (http://napavalleyregister.com/lifestyles/announcements/obituaries/james-e-fidler/article_65807aa0-9a66-5a83-a859-8be03d18c1c7.html). --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast I set down my flaming sword long enough to stare … I set down my flaming sword long enough to stare into a hunting trip photo at my Grandfather's memorial. It shows two men, and him between them in a dress and wig-hilarious joke (everyone laughed), "abomination" an Uncle scoffs casual-like now, tells story: "that's the ugliest woman I ever saw" man driving by says to man in passenger seat (everyone laughs). See: sadness and shame felt in my painted toenails hidden in socks, the tie too tight around my neck, clueless compliments about my long hair and hoops. Retell the story a different way: at 10, a buck strung for skinning from the eaves; the droppings he cut out and put in my palm. I can never breathe in church, but this morning I took communion for the first time in 9 years, for the old man-God knows why. Over his grave beside his stillborn first daughter's, I become the hospital where he died-Queen of the Valley (think meanest motherfucker: full crown of antlers on my head, long locks of weeping willow dyed with blood trailing in the wind, time turned back on itself, a naked Eve naming all the animals). Pulling my dress off the hanger, I bear witness: the empty center of the universe like a liver spot; wind in my hair, sun on my bare shoulders; and under the ground, hidden in the urn, his miserable ashes in drag. *Title quoted from the obituary for James E. Fidler published in the Napa Valley Register, 08/28/2017 (http://napavalleyregister.com/lifestyles/announcements/obituaries/james-e-fidler/article_65807aa0-9a66-5a83-a859-8be03d18c1c7.html). --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/354997520 Mon, 13 Nov 2017 07:01:00 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/fall-2017-poems-by-kimiko-hirota-austin-beaton-kai-river-blevins 00:19:22 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Our hosts Logen Cure and I.S. Jones review their favs from our Fall 2017 issue! (Get caught up on Fall 2017 here: https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/sets/voicemail-poems-fall-2017) This installment features poems by Kimiko Hirota, Austin Beaton, and Kai River Blevins. Music by TrueKey. (@truekey). >> The deadline to submit to our Winter Issue is December 1st: http://voicemailpoems.org/call >> Help us made more of these by supporting us on Patreon! http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems >> Review us on iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/voicemail-poems-.org/id847081003 Our hosts Logen Cure and I.S. Jones review their … Our hosts Logen Cure and I.S. Jones review their favs from our Fall 2017 issue! (Get caught up on Fall 2017 here: https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/sets/voicemail-poems-fall-2017) This installment features poems by Kimiko Hirota, Austin Beaton, and Kai River Blevins. Music by TrueKey. (@truekey). >> The deadline to submit to our Winter Issue is December 1st: http://voicemailpoems.org/call >> Help us made more of these by supporting us on Patreon! http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems >> Review us on iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/voicemail-poems-.org/id847081003 voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/346268024 Tue, 10 Oct 2017 16:35:36 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/almond-blossom-by-ellen-webre 00:01:29 VOICEMAIL POEMS no I have spent a thousand years picking myself out of the middle of nowhere on an empty highway clutching fistfuls of fireflies to my eyes clawing poppy blossoms across a belly full of rabbits I dripped with peppercorns I salted the earth as if that would make the mud easier to swallow I buried the creatures with a pocket watch and a dead fish and mounds rose up the hills of my body a congregation of sparrows sang like nightingales as if that would bring me peace my ghost is mad Ophelia babbling in swampflower poltergeisting the highways and waiting for the next thud wooden dolls slapped out of my hands brings me walnut shells to curl into like that could keep me safe from waking up again in the cheekbone curve of a boy who does not know the difference between a raven and a writing desk between I’m sorry and have some wild almonds love I picked these myself you’ll have to kiss me to taste them --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast I have spent a thousand years picking myself out … I have spent a thousand years picking myself out of the middle of nowhere on an empty highway clutching fistfuls of fireflies to my eyes clawing poppy blossoms across a belly full of rabbits I dripped with peppercorns I salted the earth as if that would make the mud easier to swallow I buried the creatures with a pocket watch and a dead fish and mounds rose up the hills of my body a congregation of sparrows sang like nightingales as if that would bring me peace my ghost is mad Ophelia babbling in swampflower poltergeisting the highways and waiting for the next thud wooden dolls slapped out of my hands brings me walnut shells to curl into like that could keep me safe from waking up again in the cheekbone curve of a boy who does not know the difference between a raven and a writing desk between I’m sorry and have some wild almonds love I picked these myself you’ll have to kiss me to taste them --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/346267979 Tue, 10 Oct 2017 16:35:15 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/fourier-by-lihi-z 00:01:52 VOICEMAIL POEMS no The voice spills / Over the telephone / Time morphed into frequency / And back again / A compression of sentiment / Unraveled by longing / It says: ‘hiiiii’ A conversation about nothing is spoken / The day’s errands / The planned social respite / A desire to lay roots too soon to build / Hidden within a sense of fear of the future / What lays beneath Beneath the telephone / Lies a manipulation so essential / Its how music to MRIs function / Called the Fourier transform / And as removed as you think math can be from philosophy / Well transform it into another domain / They are the same thing / What I mean to say / Is Fourier found a way to describe how something instantaneous / Is infinite / A pulse in time / Corresponding to a sinc function in frequency that stretches to infinity / Decaying, it’s limit approaching zero, reverberations felt less and less as you leave the instant behind but ever so present / Laid on top of each other like rain drops / Like a voice / Dancing in time But to get that voice back to me / The telephone truncates / Otherwise it would alias / His words would morph into something indistinguishable / Like he isn’t him / Like he’s the CIA agent he always jokes he could become / What I mean to say is in order to bring words back to me / Engineering dictates that the sinc function must cut off at a certain point / Not let it stretch to infinity / Practicality telling philosophy to stop overthinking or I’ll lose my mind / Or the signals can’t get reconstructed / He says he has to go / I know our conversation about nothing can’t last very long / If I want to preserve the instant --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast The voice spills / Over the telephone / Time morp… The voice spills / Over the telephone / Time morphed into frequency / And back again / A compression of sentiment / Unraveled by longing / It says: ‘hiiiii’ A conversation about nothing is spoken / The day’s errands / The planned social respite / A desire to lay roots too soon to build / Hidden within a sense of fear of the future / What lays beneath Beneath the telephone / Lies a manipulation so essential / Its how music to MRIs function / Called the Fourier transform / And as removed as you think math can be from philosophy / Well transform it into another domain / They are the same thing / What I mean to say / Is Fourier found a way to describe how something instantaneous / Is infinite / A pulse in time / Corresponding to a sinc function in frequency that stretches to infinity / Decaying, it’s limit approaching zero, reverberations felt less and less as you leave the instant behind but ever so present / Laid on top of each other like rain drops / Like a voice / Dancing in time But to get that voice back to me / The telephone truncates / Otherwise it would alias / His words would morph into something indistinguishable / Like he isn’t him / Like he’s the CIA agent he always jokes he could become / What I mean to say is in order to bring words back to me / Engineering dictates that the sinc function must cut off at a certain point / Not let it stretch to infinity / Practicality telling philosophy to stop overthinking or I’ll lose my mind / Or the signals can’t get reconstructed / He says he has to go / I know our conversation about nothing can’t last very long / If I want to preserve the instant --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/346267964 Tue, 10 Oct 2017 16:35:10 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/man-gets-tired-of-being-in-the-spotlight-by-kai-river-blevins 00:01:43 VOICEMAIL POEMS no (after Jacqui Germain) Tells me that I’ve spent enough time antagonizing him, corrupting his divine name, condemning the thinly veiled violence in his bones. He demands that I forgive his unrelenting presence, forbids me from saying all that I’ve learned about him – like Man is the aftertaste of disgusted stares. or Man comes alive when hardened fist meets pliant ribcage, his laughter exposed by the sudden crack. or Man says my mouth is a broken levee, my voice an unwelcome flood (softly) wearing down the fang of him. or I know there is something powerful about queer blood. Why else would Man be drawn like a rabid beast to the iron of me? or Man begs silently for the warmth of desire, for open arms, for hands that no longer grasp at his throat. or Man is a leech, a broken mirror, a wounded animal – small and fragile and desperate and defeated. or Man has turned my family against me. Man has turned my family against me. Man has turned my family against me. or Man has turned my family against themselves. or I was born into the hands of a doctor who sucked Woman from my throat, filled my gasping lungs with the drought of Man. or I was born into the hands of a doctor who worshipped Man. What chance did I have? --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast (after Jacqui Germain) Tells me that I’ve spent … (after Jacqui Germain) Tells me that I’ve spent enough time antagonizing him, corrupting his divine name, condemning the thinly veiled violence in his bones. He demands that I forgive his unrelenting presence, forbids me from saying all that I’ve learned about him – like Man is the aftertaste of disgusted stares. or Man comes alive when hardened fist meets pliant ribcage, his laughter exposed by the sudden crack. or Man says my mouth is a broken levee, my voice an unwelcome flood (softly) wearing down the fang of him. or I know there is something powerful about queer blood. Why else would Man be drawn like a rabid beast to the iron of me? or Man begs silently for the warmth of desire, for open arms, for hands that no longer grasp at his throat. or Man is a leech, a broken mirror, a wounded animal – small and fragile and desperate and defeated. or Man has turned my family against me. Man has turned my family against me. Man has turned my family against me. or Man has turned my family against themselves. or I was born into the hands of a doctor who sucked Woman from my throat, filled my gasping lungs with the drought of Man. or I was born into the hands of a doctor who worshipped Man. What chance did I have? --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/346267960 Tue, 10 Oct 2017 16:35:07 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/when-you-were-gone-by-julia-pileggi 00:02:45 VOICEMAIL POEMS no In the morning, I stood up, sticky and sweaty. I walked to the fridge with weight. I felt a stillness. This house has been quiet since you left. When you were gone I slept on your side of the bed and didn’t wake up once during the night. There could only be two reasons— 1) Because your side is better than mine or 2) Because I sleep better when you are gone. When you were gone I cleaned the house and sat in silence. I read on the balcony while I grilled chicken wings in a marinade I had invented (You would have loved them). I slept naked. I didn’t flush the toilet every time. I danced. I had friends over for cherries and pistachios. I moved your chair to the other side of the room. I watched the fireworks. I smoked your weed. I listened to music. I stretched. I sang. I stayed up late. I fell asleep on the couch. I touched myself. I took a long shower. I fell asleep on the couch. I washed the dishes. I scrubbed the grill. I ate ice cream. I ate ice cream. I ate ice cream. I missed you most in the afternoon when the daylight no longer knew which color it wanted to be. I watched a video of us singing in the park. I smiled out loud. I thought about what it would be like to dance for you—If you’d ever get over yourself. I thought about what it would be like to flirt with you like you were a stranger—If I could ever get over myself. I looked at my nails a lot. I wrote. I talked to angels. I listened. I mapped out five different garage sales happening around our home and planned to go to each one. I didn’t. I tricked time. I crushed hunger. I did not cry. I did not drink. I did not lock the sliding door. --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast In the morning, I stood up, sticky and sweaty. I … In the morning, I stood up, sticky and sweaty. I walked to the fridge with weight. I felt a stillness. This house has been quiet since you left. When you were gone I slept on your side of the bed and didn’t wake up once during the night. There could only be two reasons— 1) Because your side is better than mine or 2) Because I sleep better when you are gone. When you were gone I cleaned the house and sat in silence. I read on the balcony while I grilled chicken wings in a marinade I had invented (You would have loved them). I slept naked. I didn’t flush the toilet every time. I danced. I had friends over for cherries and pistachios. I moved your chair to the other side of the room. I watched the fireworks. I smoked your weed. I listened to music. I stretched. I sang. I stayed up late. I fell asleep on the couch. I touched myself. I took a long shower. I fell asleep on the couch. I washed the dishes. I scrubbed the grill. I ate ice cream. I ate ice cream. I ate ice cream. I missed you most in the afternoon when the daylight no longer knew which color it wanted to be. I watched a video of us singing in the park. I smiled out loud. I thought about what it would be like to dance for you—If you’d ever get over yourself. I thought about what it would be like to flirt with you like you were a stranger—If I could ever get over myself. I looked at my nails a lot. I wrote. I talked to angels. I listened. I mapped out five different garage sales happening around our home and planned to go to each one. I didn’t. I tricked time. I crushed hunger. I did not cry. I did not drink. I did not lock the sliding door. --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/346267921 Tue, 10 Oct 2017 16:34:53 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/hi-jenn-by-jenn-henry 00:01:00 VOICEMAIL POEMS no You said my name for the last time The night before you died Exhausted and terrified You lifted the oxygen mask from your mouth And said, hi jenn That was all you could muster So much hung in the air left unsaid. Hi jenn, I’m sorry. Hi jenn, it wasn’t your fault. Hi jenn, I shouldn’t have kicked you out. Hi jenn, you are a disappointment. Hi jenn, you did everything I wanted to do. Hi jenn, I’m jealous and scared and tired. Hi jenn, It’s almost over and I fucked up. Hi jenn, help me. Hi jenn, save me. Hi jenn, I’ll never give you the satisfaction of my goodbye. Hi jenn, pick up the pieces. --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast You said my name for the last time The night befo… You said my name for the last time The night before you died Exhausted and terrified You lifted the oxygen mask from your mouth And said, hi jenn That was all you could muster So much hung in the air left unsaid. Hi jenn, I’m sorry. Hi jenn, it wasn’t your fault. Hi jenn, I shouldn’t have kicked you out. Hi jenn, you are a disappointment. Hi jenn, you did everything I wanted to do. Hi jenn, I’m jealous and scared and tired. Hi jenn, It’s almost over and I fucked up. Hi jenn, help me. Hi jenn, save me. Hi jenn, I’ll never give you the satisfaction of my goodbye. Hi jenn, pick up the pieces. --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/346267915 Tue, 10 Oct 2017 16:34:50 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/the-sacrifice-by-max-urena 00:01:46 VOICEMAIL POEMS no When I came into this world they said Welcome to the holy land The world is in your palm Just as you fit into your mother's Gave me a name which slid off tongues In a way too harsh for the American voice and Too soft for the Dominican palate I grew up longing for the day where My name never sounded like an apology Uncommonly Christian When I introduced myself to my theology course last year My professor gave me a look and said "Ah, that must be why you're here" My given name can translate to "sacrifice" and Coming out as trans has definitely felt that way as I Give away favorite clothes because dysphoria no longer allows them as I Endure the bite of a hypodermic needle every other week as I Still push down the discomfort of being a "daughter", "sister", "aunt" when I am just a person and I can feel the knife being twisted While my veins run cold The world stops as I Smile while they hug me and  Greet the ghost of who I used to be  They unmask me to my friends They sacrifice me and Making a home out of this flesh prison means Sacrificing my home and Your love and The comfort in between our silences It means Saying goodbye to you, to me, To us and our simplicities But I have long been ready to sweep this ash and Rise from the dead Hello, My name is Max and The only thing I'm sacrificing today is Fear --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast When I came into this world they said Welcome to … When I came into this world they said Welcome to the holy land The world is in your palm Just as you fit into your mother's Gave me a name which slid off tongues In a way too harsh for the American voice and Too soft for the Dominican palate I grew up longing for the day where My name never sounded like an apology Uncommonly Christian When I introduced myself to my theology course last year My professor gave me a look and said "Ah, that must be why you're here" My given name can translate to "sacrifice" and Coming out as trans has definitely felt that way as I Give away favorite clothes because dysphoria no longer allows them as I Endure the bite of a hypodermic needle every other week as I Still push down the discomfort of being a "daughter", "sister", "aunt" when I am just a person and I can feel the knife being twisted While my veins run cold The world stops as I Smile while they hug me and  Greet the ghost of who I used to be  They unmask me to my friends They sacrifice me and Making a home out of this flesh prison means Sacrificing my home and Your love and The comfort in between our silences It means Saying goodbye to you, to me, To us and our simplicities But I have long been ready to sweep this ash and Rise from the dead Hello, My name is Max and The only thing I'm sacrificing today is Fear --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/346267878 Tue, 10 Oct 2017 16:34:33 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/you-guys-i-took-up-smoking-again-by-becca-yenser 00:01:41 VOICEMAIL POEMS no This time with Natives, not my old bougie choice Of American Spirits. I took up nail polish In Millennial Pink. I started mixing Sangria With Coca-Cola. I went to work and dipped in and out of lives, Looked at grandchildren peering out from wallets; I touched the shoulder of a man who drinks Elevated IPAs like he might die tomorrow. He might die tomorrow. He waits for the bus and stumbles outside. I was supposed to help him remember, But I got hypnotized by Chelsea Wolfe, that haunting: “How many years have I been sleeping?” But who listens to lyrics anymore? I give him a bag of Lay’s. I pat him On the shoulder. Softly, softly Driving home from the bar with Depeche Mode on, I can finally Hear my own tires taking me Home. Not anywhere I want to be. Not up in the mountains, where high Prairie flowers break your heart One by one. Too delicate. Was everything on Earth built to fail? A couple show me a video of a baby Learning to talk. We laugh. As I turn To wash the glasses, the detergent Slides up my arms. It burns. “I’ll Cry later,” I think, “Yes, that’s when.” --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast This time with Natives, not my old bougie choice … This time with Natives, not my old bougie choice Of American Spirits. I took up nail polish In Millennial Pink. I started mixing Sangria With Coca-Cola. I went to work and dipped in and out of lives, Looked at grandchildren peering out from wallets; I touched the shoulder of a man who drinks Elevated IPAs like he might die tomorrow. He might die tomorrow. He waits for the bus and stumbles outside. I was supposed to help him remember, But I got hypnotized by Chelsea Wolfe, that haunting: “How many years have I been sleeping?” But who listens to lyrics anymore? I give him a bag of Lay’s. I pat him On the shoulder. Softly, softly Driving home from the bar with Depeche Mode on, I can finally Hear my own tires taking me Home. Not anywhere I want to be. Not up in the mountains, where high Prairie flowers break your heart One by one. Too delicate. Was everything on Earth built to fail? A couple show me a video of a baby Learning to talk. We laugh. As I turn To wash the glasses, the detergent Slides up my arms. It burns. “I’ll Cry later,” I think, “Yes, that’s when.” --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/346267865 Tue, 10 Oct 2017 16:34:25 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/i-love-you-rite-aid-by-austin-beaton 00:02:18 VOICEMAIL POEMS no And it’s not only the dollar aisle or because you gave birth control to a couple ex-girlfriends or how you fed me Lexapro, a pill Kanye West rapped about in a studio probably not far from a Rite Aid in Los Angeles. Not just that five bucks buys me and a millionaire the same serotonin droplets spreading under the part of the scalp soft on a baby, a chemical that tells me I’m me returning like a rabbit angel with a cartoon halo floating back into near-corpse Bugs Bunny so he can keep eating carrots and talk like he’s from New York, & I can enjoy the smell of gasoline, the beauty of an extra paper clip given by a colleague or finding beach rocks and agates shaped like Nebraska. It’s not only the reliability of my favorite cashier, a ketchup red vest like the fun aunt at Christmas or the palm tree parking lot, the oranges glowing out the black branches, magneting the light from your Pluto blue sign like something that’d happen between a moon and a star. It isn’t primarily the ice cream I never eat but glad is there for others like Christianity and Botox, or the bananas I don’t buy because I’m not sure I always want to be good to myself but would give it all away for a little familiarity. I could move to a new state, lose my mind or lover then visit any of the 4600 drug stores and the heels spin on the driveway back home from the mailbox, an anybody American boogie-ing down aisle 6 under bars of fluorescent, the industrial hum and same anxiety a pharmacy can soften. Rite Aid, I love you and a stranger also with your store membership is asking, what am I shopping for today? Who misses me? How much does it matter when I don’t trust myself? --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast And it’s not only the dollar aisle or because you… And it’s not only the dollar aisle or because you gave birth control to a couple ex-girlfriends or how you fed me Lexapro, a pill Kanye West rapped about in a studio probably not far from a Rite Aid in Los Angeles. Not just that five bucks buys me and a millionaire the same serotonin droplets spreading under the part of the scalp soft on a baby, a chemical that tells me I’m me returning like a rabbit angel with a cartoon halo floating back into near-corpse Bugs Bunny so he can keep eating carrots and talk like he’s from New York, & I can enjoy the smell of gasoline, the beauty of an extra paper clip given by a colleague or finding beach rocks and agates shaped like Nebraska. It’s not only the reliability of my favorite cashier, a ketchup red vest like the fun aunt at Christmas or the palm tree parking lot, the oranges glowing out the black branches, magneting the light from your Pluto blue sign like something that’d happen between a moon and a star. It isn’t primarily the ice cream I never eat but glad is there for others like Christianity and Botox, or the bananas I don’t buy because I’m not sure I always want to be good to myself but would give it all away for a little familiarity. I could move to a new state, lose my mind or lover then visit any of the 4600 drug stores and the heels spin on the driveway back home from the mailbox, an anybody American boogie-ing down aisle 6 under bars of fluorescent, the industrial hum and same anxiety a pharmacy can soften. Rite Aid, I love you and a stranger also with your store membership is asking, what am I shopping for today? Who misses me? How much does it matter when I don’t trust myself? --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/346267858 Tue, 10 Oct 2017 16:34:20 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/a-poem-for-my-old-best-friend-by-kimiko-hirota 00:01:50 VOICEMAIL POEMS no The pink skies and dry air The blue tongues and dark secrets soften like chalk pastels on our fingerprints Remember picking up pinecones discovering the city by bike surprised by anything we could dig and bury Nine p.m. is fading The steepest sand hill is still sinking and your hair isn’t short anymore My teeth are straight and my tires are flat and your dog has been dead for years So we move on thinking we’re clever swimming against the tide toward our new fears We drive down one-ways in opposite directions remembering our swingset when country Taylor Swift plays We used to want each other’s happy stories the way adults like sob stories to donate to and feel better about themselves We used to hold up the moon with our feet, peace signs high popcorn stuck in our gums Photographs veiled with dust at the back of our drawers I’m beginning to sleep before midnight with the playroom black The door closed The dolls lay close but not touching --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast The pink skies and dry air The blue tongues and d… The pink skies and dry air The blue tongues and dark secrets soften like chalk pastels on our fingerprints Remember picking up pinecones discovering the city by bike surprised by anything we could dig and bury Nine p.m. is fading The steepest sand hill is still sinking and your hair isn’t short anymore My teeth are straight and my tires are flat and your dog has been dead for years So we move on thinking we’re clever swimming against the tide toward our new fears We drive down one-ways in opposite directions remembering our swingset when country Taylor Swift plays We used to want each other’s happy stories the way adults like sob stories to donate to and feel better about themselves We used to hold up the moon with our feet, peace signs high popcorn stuck in our gums Photographs veiled with dust at the back of our drawers I’m beginning to sleep before midnight with the playroom black The door closed The dolls lay close but not touching --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/346267847 Tue, 10 Oct 2017 16:34:12 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/right-back-with-coffee-by-shanna-alden 00:02:43 VOICEMAIL POEMS no I have spent most of my life as a writer, spinning universes and microscope lenses, cosmic horrors, and hope. Intellectual treatise, statistical research, and internet rant. but despite this, and despite months of trying, I am shit at writing love poems. And you, you deserve love poems but convention and tradition offer me no council I mean, I could promise pull down the moon for you, and I’m sure you’d be impressed by my scientific prowess as I tear chapters from your favorite science fiction to build the world’s first tractor beam... But the minute I turn that thing on, oceans will pull back from distant shores and rush towards our coastal town killing hundreds of our friends and thousands of innocent fish somewhere in the vicinity of Tahiti, and I just don’t think expressing love with the mass murder of people ...and fish makes a whole lot of sense. You can call me unromantic, but no matter how fond of you I am, I just don’t think any one person is worth an extinction level event. I could tell you that your soulful, eyes shine like the sun, that you are like staring at the sun, But, one of the myriad reasons I love you is that unlike some other loves, in some other poems, you are not out to blind me. ...and unlike the sun, you don't give me skin cancer. I am suspicious that celestial metaphors secretly suck. Maybe I’m being too literal, but I feel like comparing our love to silent, deadly titans, suspended in cold unknowable expanse, is like saying we will always be so distant, we will only really see each other in the reflections of our past.   I want better for us, words that don’t imply emotions have rendered us scientifically illiterate sociopaths. After hours and months, the best I’ve been able to come up with is this: I'll be right back, with coffee. No, seriously, I think these might be The Most Romantic Words. …Hear me out. When I say, I’ll be right back with coffee I mean I will face blindness, from the actual sun, at whiskey hangover o’clock, so you can sleep a little longer. I mean I want your mind to function at full capacity because while, yes, you are inarguably beautiful, I’m very much like a zombie in that I am really into you for your brains. It means, I want to give you comfort and as proper Seattleites our comfort curls steaming from mugs clutched between fingers and tongues tempered to know a little bitterness enhances warmth. When I say, “I’ll be right back with coffee”, I mean you’ve known me to leave, And I have known you to leave, and we’ve seen each other run both away from and toward dangerous things ...like each other and while we may put cold unknowable distance between us, if I can provide warmth, or comfort, or a few minutes of peace rest assured, even if I have to go for a while, I’ll be right back, with coffee. --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast I have spent most of my life as a writer, spinni… I have spent most of my life as a writer, spinning universes and microscope lenses, cosmic horrors, and hope. Intellectual treatise, statistical research, and internet rant. but despite this, and despite months of trying, I am shit at writing love poems. And you, you deserve love poems but convention and tradition offer me no council I mean, I could promise pull down the moon for you, and I’m sure you’d be impressed by my scientific prowess as I tear chapters from your favorite science fiction to build the world’s first tractor beam... But the minute I turn that thing on, oceans will pull back from distant shores and rush towards our coastal town killing hundreds of our friends and thousands of innocent fish somewhere in the vicinity of Tahiti, and I just don’t think expressing love with the mass murder of people ...and fish makes a whole lot of sense. You can call me unromantic, but no matter how fond of you I am, I just don’t think any one person is worth an extinction level event. I could tell you that your soulful, eyes shine like the sun, that you are like staring at the sun, But, one of the myriad reasons I love you is that unlike some other loves, in some other poems, you are not out to blind me. ...and unlike the sun, you don't give me skin cancer. I am suspicious that celestial metaphors secretly suck. Maybe I’m being too literal, but I feel like comparing our love to silent, deadly titans, suspended in cold unknowable expanse, is like saying we will always be so distant, we will only really see each other in the reflections of our past.   I want better for us, words that don’t imply emotions have rendered us scientifically illiterate sociopaths. After hours and months, the best I’ve been able to come up with is this: I'll be right back, with coffee. No, seriously, I think these might be The Most Romantic Words. …Hear me out. When I say, I’ll be right back with coffee I mean I will face blindness, from the actual sun, at whiskey hangover o’clock, so you can sleep a little longer. I mean I want your mind to function at full capacity because while, yes, you are inarguably beautiful, I’m very much like a zombie in that I am really into you for your brains. It means, I want to give you comfort and as proper Seattleites our comfort curls steaming from mugs clutched between fingers and tongues tempered to know a little bitterness enhances warmth. When I say, “I’ll be right back with coffee”, I mean you’ve known me to leave, And I have known you to leave, and we’ve seen each other run both away from and toward dangerous things ...like each other and while we may put cold unknowable distance between us, if I can provide warmth, or comfort, or a few minutes of peace rest assured, even if I have to go for a while, I’ll be right back, with coffee. --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/336714738 Sun, 06 Aug 2017 16:05:41 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/episode-05-summer-2017 00:17:13 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Our hosts Logen Cure and I.S. Jones review their favs from our Summer 2017 issue! (Get caught up on Summer 2017 here: soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/sets/voicemail-poems-summer-2017) This installment features poems by Mercedes Lucero, Daniel Barnum, and Bee Ulrich. Music by TrueKey. (@truekey). >> The deadline to submit to our Fall Issue is September 1st: http://voicemailpoems.org/call >> Help us made more of these by supporting us on Patreon! http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems >> Review us on iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/voicemailpoems/id847081003 Our hosts Logen Cure and I.S. Jones review their … Our hosts Logen Cure and I.S. Jones review their favs from our Summer 2017 issue! (Get caught up on Summer 2017 here: soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/sets/voicemail-poems-summer-2017) This installment features poems by Mercedes Lucero, Daniel Barnum, and Bee Ulrich. Music by TrueKey. (@truekey). >> The deadline to submit to our Fall Issue is September 1st: http://voicemailpoems.org/call >> Help us made more of these by supporting us on Patreon! http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems >> Review us on iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/voicemailpoems/id847081003 voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/335661874 Mon, 31 Jul 2017 17:00:26 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/poetry-by-nicole-jean-turner-chelsea-sieg-em-taylor-ej-schoenborn-skyler-reed 00:13:21 VOICEMAIL POEMS no This week’s poems: >> “The Scenic Rout” by Nicole Jean Turner >> “thank you for supporting your local counseling and psychological services” by Chelsea Sieg >> “In Which Rachel Changes the Oil” by Em Taylor >> “Afterwards” by EJ Schoenborn >> “We Named the Dog Indiana” by Skyler Reed Hosted by Logen Cure! Thank you to our Patreon supporters! Please contribute to our project: >> http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems Subscribe via iTunes: >> https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/voicemailpoems/id847081003 This week’s poems: >> “The Scenic Rout” by Nicol… This week’s poems: >> “The Scenic Rout” by Nicole Jean Turner >> “thank you for supporting your local counseling and psychological services” by Chelsea Sieg >> “In Which Rachel Changes the Oil” by Em Taylor >> “Afterwards” by EJ Schoenborn >> “We Named the Dog Indiana” by Skyler Reed Hosted by Logen Cure! Thank you to our Patreon supporters! Please contribute to our project: >> http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems Subscribe via iTunes: >> https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/voicemailpoems/id847081003 voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/334477574 Sun, 23 Jul 2017 20:11:58 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/poetry-by-bee-ulrich-melissa-cerrillo-chrissy-martin-daniel-barnum-kyle-liang 00:12:43 VOICEMAIL POEMS no This week’s poems: >> “the burning of knight von hohenberg with his servant before the walls of Zürich, for sodomy, 1482″ by Bee Ulrich >> “In a Dark Room, the Universe Was Calling Me” by Melissa Cerrillo >> “For My Grandmother, Who Kept His Last Name" by Chrissy Martin >> “Part Waters (Two of Cups)" by Daniel Barnum >> “Tankman" by Kyle Liang Hosted by Logen Cure! Thank you to our Patreon supporters! Please contribute to our project: >> http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems Subscribe via iTunes: >> https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/voicemailpoems/id847081003 This week’s poems: >> “the burning of knight von… This week’s poems: >> “the burning of knight von hohenberg with his servant before the walls of Zürich, for sodomy, 1482″ by Bee Ulrich >> “In a Dark Room, the Universe Was Calling Me” by Melissa Cerrillo >> “For My Grandmother, Who Kept His Last Name" by Chrissy Martin >> “Part Waters (Two of Cups)" by Daniel Barnum >> “Tankman" by Kyle Liang Hosted by Logen Cure! Thank you to our Patreon supporters! Please contribute to our project: >> http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems Subscribe via iTunes: >> https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/voicemailpoems/id847081003 voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/333447937 Sun, 16 Jul 2017 17:13:08 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/poetry-by-zoe-blair-schlagenhauf-elliott-ocean-mercedes-lucero-taneshanicole-alexis-briscuso 00:12:01 VOICEMAIL POEMS no This week’s poems: >> “New Orleans Poem” by Zoë Blair-Schlagenhauf >> "Frozen" by Elliott Ocean >> “Tomorrow Will Be Beautiful” by Mercedes Lucero >> “The summer of mourning” by TaneshaNicole >> “post talk” by alexis briscuso Hosted by Logen Cure! Thank you to our Patreon supporters! Please contribute to our project: >> http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems Subscribe via iTunes: >> https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/voicemailpoems/id847081003 This week’s poems: >> “New Orleans Poem” by Zoë… This week’s poems: >> “New Orleans Poem” by Zoë Blair-Schlagenhauf >> "Frozen" by Elliott Ocean >> “Tomorrow Will Be Beautiful” by Mercedes Lucero >> “The summer of mourning” by TaneshaNicole >> “post talk” by alexis briscuso Hosted by Logen Cure! Thank you to our Patreon supporters! Please contribute to our project: >> http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems Subscribe via iTunes: >> https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/voicemailpoems/id847081003 voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/332408925 Sun, 09 Jul 2017 20:51:39 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/july-2017-poetry-by-paulie-lipman-melissa-rose-indiana-pehlivanova-alex-mcdonald-ryan-nakano 00:11:55 VOICEMAIL POEMS no This week’s poems: >> “I Am Nothing I Thought I'd Ever Be By Now" by Paulie Lipman >> “Demeter Speaks to Persephone After her Rape" by Melissa Rose >> “Untitled” by Indiana Pehlivanova >> “I Was Forcibly Removed from the Holy Land” by Alex McDonald >> “Lakes Hills Estates” by Ryan Nakano Hosted by Logen Cure! Thank you to our Patreon supporters! Please contribute to our project: >> http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems Subscribe via iTunes: >> https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/voicemailpoems/id847081003 This week’s poems: >> “I Am Nothing I Thought I'… This week’s poems: >> “I Am Nothing I Thought I'd Ever Be By Now" by Paulie Lipman >> “Demeter Speaks to Persephone After her Rape" by Melissa Rose >> “Untitled” by Indiana Pehlivanova >> “I Was Forcibly Removed from the Holy Land” by Alex McDonald >> “Lakes Hills Estates” by Ryan Nakano Hosted by Logen Cure! Thank you to our Patreon supporters! Please contribute to our project: >> http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems Subscribe via iTunes: >> https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/voicemailpoems/id847081003 voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/322673716 Sat, 20 May 2017 00:57:49 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/004-spring-17-catherine-weiss-jessie-lynn-mcmains-kit-travers 00:19:57 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Our hosts Logen Cure and Alexis Smithers review their favs from our Spring 2017 issue! (Get caught up on Spring 2017 here: https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/sets/voicemail-poems-spring-2017) This installment features poems by Catherine Weiss, Jessie Lynn McMains, and Kit Travers. Music by TrueKey. (@truekey). >> The deadline to submit to our Summer Issue is June 15: http://voicemailpoems.org/call >> Support us on Patreon! http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems >> Review us on iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/voicemailpoems/id847081003 ~ About the Poets ~ >> Catherine Weiss lives in Western MA with her husband, two dogs, and a cat. Her poetry has also been published in Gravel Mag and Jersey Devil Press. Catherine is the founder and editor-in-chief of the podcast and lit mag Slamchop. Learn more at www.catherineweiss.com. >> Jessie Lynn McMains (aka Rust Belt Jessie) is the Poet Laureate of Racine, Wisconsin. They publish their prose and poetry in their own zines and their work has also appeared in New Pop Lit, The Rain, Rising Phoenix Review and others. You can visit their website at recklesschants.net >> Kit Travers lives in Philadelphia with his two houseplants, Edgar and Leo, surrounded by books. He works in medical publishing by day and scribbles poetry and short fictions by night. His most recent prose can be found in Bedfellows. He makes a fairly decent curry. He can be found on instagram: @ktravesty Our hosts Logen Cure and Alexis Smithers review t… Our hosts Logen Cure and Alexis Smithers review their favs from our Spring 2017 issue! (Get caught up on Spring 2017 here: https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/sets/voicemail-poems-spring-2017) This installment features poems by Catherine Weiss, Jessie Lynn McMains, and Kit Travers. Music by TrueKey. (@truekey). >> The deadline to submit to our Summer Issue is June 15: http://voicemailpoems.org/call >> Support us on Patreon! http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems >> Review us on iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/voicemailpoems/id847081003 ~ About the Poets ~ >> Catherine Weiss lives in Western MA with her husband, two dogs, and a cat. Her poetry has also been published in Gravel Mag and Jersey Devil Press. Catherine is the founder and editor-in-chief of the podcast and lit mag Slamchop. Learn more at www.catherineweiss.com. >> Jessie Lynn McMains (aka Rust Belt Jessie) is the Poet Laureate of Racine, Wisconsin. They publish their prose and poetry in their own zines and their work has also appeared in New Pop Lit, The Rain, Rising Phoenix Review and others. You can visit their website at recklesschants.net >> Kit Travers lives in Philadelphia with his two houseplants, Edgar and Leo, surrounded by books. He works in medical publishing by day and scribbles poetry and short fictions by night. His most recent prose can be found in Bedfellows. He makes a fairly decent curry. He can be found on instagram: @ktravesty voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/320080611 Sat, 29 Apr 2017 18:40:16 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/spring-17-week-4-belcourt-williams-weiss-mcginnis-davidheiser 00:13:26 VOICEMAIL POEMS no This week’s poems: “GAY INCANTATIONS” by Billy-Ray Belcourt “Exit Speech For Michelle: Last Supper At The White House” by Kelly Williams “model 3.5” by Catherine Weiss “In Which I am the Ouroboros” by Dorothy McGinnis “Peine Forte et Dure” (For the Women Who Love Giles Corey) by Caitlyn Gilvary Davidheiser Hosted by Logen Cure! Thank you to our Patreon supporters! Please contribute to our project: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems Subscribe via iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/voicemailpoems/id847081003 This week’s poems: “GAY INCANTATIONS” by Billy-Ra… This week’s poems: “GAY INCANTATIONS” by Billy-Ray Belcourt “Exit Speech For Michelle: Last Supper At The White House” by Kelly Williams “model 3.5” by Catherine Weiss “In Which I am the Ouroboros” by Dorothy McGinnis “Peine Forte et Dure” (For the Women Who Love Giles Corey) by Caitlyn Gilvary Davidheiser Hosted by Logen Cure! Thank you to our Patreon supporters! Please contribute to our project: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems Subscribe via iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/voicemailpoems/id847081003 voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/318969372 Sat, 22 Apr 2017 16:56:50 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/spring-2017-week-3-alexa-doran-kay-kassirer-jessie-lynn-mcmains-isobel-ohare-meron-afutu 00:10:05 VOICEMAIL POEMS no This week’s poems: "Syracuse, Lullaby, V. 1" by Alexa Doran "Dancefloor/Sanctuary/Office/Bedroom" by Kay Kassirer "Exeunt" by Jessie Lynn McMains "honey is a verb" by Isobel O'Hare "Untitled" by Meron Afutu Hosted by Logen Cure! Thank you to our Patreon supporters! Please contribute to our project: patreon.com/voicemailpoems Subscribe via iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/voicemailpoems/id847081003 This week’s poems: "Syracuse, Lullaby, V. 1" by A… This week’s poems: "Syracuse, Lullaby, V. 1" by Alexa Doran "Dancefloor/Sanctuary/Office/Bedroom" by Kay Kassirer "Exeunt" by Jessie Lynn McMains "honey is a verb" by Isobel O'Hare "Untitled" by Meron Afutu Hosted by Logen Cure! Thank you to our Patreon supporters! Please contribute to our project: patreon.com/voicemailpoems Subscribe via iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/voicemailpoems/id847081003 voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/317896979 Sun, 16 Apr 2017 04:23:50 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/spring-2017-week-two-jo-gehringer-luis-neer-jude-moore-kit-travers-evelyna-ekoko-kay 00:12:20 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Thank you to our Patreon supporters! Please contribute to our project: patreon.com/voicemailpoems This week’s poems: "POSSESSED BY CAITLYN JENNER’S GHOST / I NEED TO LEARN TO TAKE A JOKE" by Jo Gehringer "WHY IS EVERYONE PARTYING?" by Luis Neer "sun models" by Jude Moore "Jesus is as good a replacement for crack as any, I guess" by Kit Travers "Sally In Paris (for Sally Hemings, 1773 – 1835)" by Evelyna Ekoko-Kay Hosted by Logen Cure! Subscribe via iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/voicemailpoems/id847081003 Thank you to our Patreon supporters! Please contr… Thank you to our Patreon supporters! Please contribute to our project: patreon.com/voicemailpoems This week’s poems: "POSSESSED BY CAITLYN JENNER’S GHOST / I NEED TO LEARN TO TAKE A JOKE" by Jo Gehringer "WHY IS EVERYONE PARTYING?" by Luis Neer "sun models" by Jude Moore "Jesus is as good a replacement for crack as any, I guess" by Kit Travers "Sally In Paris (for Sally Hemings, 1773 – 1835)" by Evelyna Ekoko-Kay Hosted by Logen Cure! Subscribe via iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/voicemailpoems/id847081003 voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/316597754 Fri, 07 Apr 2017 17:41:15 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/weekly-poem-replay-featuring-balasko-nkhonjera-brannen-cunio-goll-spring-2017 00:13:34 VOICEMAIL POEMS no This week's poems: "My therapist thinks my name is Alex" by Alec Balasko" "Origin" by Jacqueline T. Nkhonjera "autogynephilia is the lie they made up to trick trans girls ..." by Penelope Jeanne Brannen "the thing about bears" by Troy Kody Cunio "february 17th / shoutout to gravity" by Annabelle Goll Hosted by Logen Cure! >> Thank you to our Patreon supporters! Please contribute to our project: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems >> Review us on iTunes: itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/voice…oems/id847081003 >> More at http://voicemailpoems.org This week's poems: "My therapist thinks my name i… This week's poems: "My therapist thinks my name is Alex" by Alec Balasko" "Origin" by Jacqueline T. Nkhonjera "autogynephilia is the lie they made up to trick trans girls ..." by Penelope Jeanne Brannen "the thing about bears" by Troy Kody Cunio "february 17th / shoutout to gravity" by Annabelle Goll Hosted by Logen Cure! >> Thank you to our Patreon supporters! Please contribute to our project: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems >> Review us on iTunes: itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/voice…oems/id847081003 >> More at http://voicemailpoems.org voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/307566637 Mon, 13 Feb 2017 20:32:20 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/vmp-podcast-003-winter-2017-jasmine-dillavou-chris-rife-allyson-whipple 00:22:54 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Voicemail Poems contributor Allyson Whipple joins host Logen Cure for the Winter 2017 episode of our podcast! This installment features poems by Jasmine Dillavou and Chris Rife, as well as an interview with Allyson. Music by TrueKey. (@truekey). >> The deadline to submit to our Spring Issue is March 15: voicemailpoems.org/call >> Support us on Patreon! patreon.com/voicemailpoems >> Review us on iTunes: itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/voice…oems/id847081003 More About the Poets: >> Jasmine Dillavou received a Bachelor of Arts degree in Visual and Performing Arts from the University of Colorado at Colorado Springs. She has shown work in numerous exhibitions including the Student Show, X. presented at The Gallery of Contemporary Art. She was also the curator for the Spring Zine and Handmade Book Show in 2016. Her passions lie in documenting the personal and quiet experience of mixed-Latinas. Learn more on Facebook at Art by Jasmine Dillavou. >> Chris Rife is an aspiring human being. A semi-finalist for the 2016 Gwendolyn Brooks Open Mic Award, he is a writer and performer based in Chicago. His work has been published in Denver Quarterly, Hobart, Ghost Ocean, CAP, and other places. Learn more at http://chrisrifewrites.tumblr.com/ >> Allyson Whipple is the author of two chapbooks, We're Smaller Than We Think We Are (Finishing Line Press 2013) and Come Into the World Like That (Five Oaks Press 2015). She is currently in the MFA program at the University of Texas at El Paso and she co-edits the Texas Poetry Calendar for Dos Gatos Press. Learn more at www.allysonmwhipple.com ~~ THANKS Y'ALL! ~~ Voicemail Poems contributor Allyson Whipple joins… Voicemail Poems contributor Allyson Whipple joins host Logen Cure for the Winter 2017 episode of our podcast! This installment features poems by Jasmine Dillavou and Chris Rife, as well as an interview with Allyson. Music by TrueKey. (@truekey). >> The deadline to submit to our Spring Issue is March 15: voicemailpoems.org/call >> Support us on Patreon! patreon.com/voicemailpoems >> Review us on iTunes: itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/voice…oems/id847081003 More About the Poets: >> Jasmine Dillavou received a Bachelor of Arts degree in Visual and Performing Arts from the University of Colorado at Colorado Springs. She has shown work in numerous exhibitions including the Student Show, X. presented at The Gallery of Contemporary Art. She was also the curator for the Spring Zine and Handmade Book Show in 2016. Her passions lie in documenting the personal and quiet experience of mixed-Latinas. Learn more on Facebook at Art by Jasmine Dillavou. >> Chris Rife is an aspiring human being. A semi-finalist for the 2016 Gwendolyn Brooks Open Mic Award, he is a writer and performer based in Chicago. His work has been published in Denver Quarterly, Hobart, Ghost Ocean, CAP, and other places. Learn more at http://chrisrifewrites.tumblr.com/ >> Allyson Whipple is the author of two chapbooks, We're Smaller Than We Think We Are (Finishing Line Press 2013) and Come Into the World Like That (Five Oaks Press 2015). She is currently in the MFA program at the University of Texas at El Paso and she co-edits the Texas Poetry Calendar for Dos Gatos Press. Learn more at www.allysonmwhipple.com ~~ THANKS Y'ALL! ~~ voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/297503840 Tue, 13 Dec 2016 17:45:39 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/vmp-podcast-fall-2016 00:20:16 VOICEMAIL POEMS no Voicemail Poems editors Logen Cure and Amy Saul-Zerby return for another episode of our podcast! Featuring poems by nico wilkinson, Melissa Lozada-Oliva, and Emily Page Wilson. Music by TrueKey (https://soundcloud.com/truekey). >> The deadline to submit to our Winter Issue is December 15: http://voicemailpoems.org/call >> Support us on Patreon! http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems >> Review us on iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/voicemail-poems/id847081003 More About the Poets: >> nico wilkinson is a spoken word artist, letterpress enthusiast, lover of plants, dogs, and colorado springs. their poems are usually about queerness, brain stuff, love, and its byproducts. learn more at http://nicothepoet.tumblr.com/ >> Learn more about Melissa Lozada-Oliva on Facebook at Melissa Lozada-Oliva Poetry, Twitter @elloMelissa, and on Button Poetry with her poem "Like Totally Whatever." >> Emily Page Wilson is an English Adjunct and Poetry MFA from UNC Wilmington. She is a Pushcart, Best of the Net, and Best New Poets nominee. She wants to grow something wild & unruly. She tweets @Emmy_Golightly. ~~ THANKS Y'ALL! ~~ Voicemail Poems editors Logen Cure and Amy Saul-Z… Voicemail Poems editors Logen Cure and Amy Saul-Zerby return for another episode of our podcast! Featuring poems by nico wilkinson, Melissa Lozada-Oliva, and Emily Page Wilson. Music by TrueKey (https://soundcloud.com/truekey). >> The deadline to submit to our Winter Issue is December 15: http://voicemailpoems.org/call >> Support us on Patreon! http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems >> Review us on iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/voicemail-poems/id847081003 More About the Poets: >> nico wilkinson is a spoken word artist, letterpress enthusiast, lover of plants, dogs, and colorado springs. their poems are usually about queerness, brain stuff, love, and its byproducts. learn more at http://nicothepoet.tumblr.com/ >> Learn more about Melissa Lozada-Oliva on Facebook at Melissa Lozada-Oliva Poetry, Twitter @elloMelissa, and on Button Poetry with her poem "Like Totally Whatever." >> Emily Page Wilson is an English Adjunct and Poetry MFA from UNC Wilmington. She is a Pushcart, Best of the Net, and Best New Poets nominee. She wants to grow something wild & unruly. She tweets @Emmy_Golightly. ~~ THANKS Y'ALL! ~~ voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing tag:soundcloud,2010:tracks/280797199 Wed, 31 Aug 2016 20:18:09 +0000 https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/voicemail-poems-podcast-summer-2016 00:13:39 VOICEMAIL POEMS no The Voicemail Poems podcast RETURNS! Hosted by editorial staffer Logen Cure, featuring poems by Alabama Stone, Emily Yin, and Ron Riekki. Music by TrueKey (https://soundcloud.com/truekey). Submit to Voicemail Poems Fall 2016. Deadline September 15th. More info at http://voicemailpoems.org The Voicemail Poems podcast RETURNS! Hosted by ed… The Voicemail Poems podcast RETURNS! Hosted by editorial staffer Logen Cure, featuring poems by Alabama Stone, Emily Yin, and Ron Riekki. Music by TrueKey (https://soundcloud.com/truekey). Submit to Voicemail Poems Fall 2016. Deadline September 15th. More info at http://voicemailpoems.org voicemailpoems@gmail.compoetry,poems,spoken,word,writing