I met Jack when I was sitting at Vox Poplar typewriter, clicking out a draft of last week’s poem (the word: delicious.) Jack and I dove straight into a conversation about the intersection between writing, childhood, and fairy tales. He said: “It is easy to scare kids and easier to scare adults.”
The Stranger: Jack
The Word: Vox
The poem I wrote:
The hard pea beneath all
those mattresses.
Uncrackable as a magic pebble.
Easy to guess what’s inside:
Childhood. Childhood,
its thousand bewares, the magpie
warning of fairy tales,
your vox at last, ready to speak.
The Challenge: Do you have a poem in you on this word? Write one here.
September 27, 2018 at 9:11 am
dry country
i woke up in a different country
a dry country
my memory was parched as the land
i was someone in the wetlands once
but i dont remember who
maybe i was a smuggler or a thief
or the sheriffs two bit deputy
i dont recall
there was a sack of silver dollars
that i remember
hidden under the whisky staves
i mighta stole it from the mayor
when i woke i found a note
in my pocket
go see the blue widow by the lake
it said
walk ten miles south by east
bring her a white lily
beware the leopard
September 29, 2018 at 3:49 pm
This is a test reply for the new format.
What an intriguing dream. Does the blue widow eat the lily? Does the leopard change its spots?
Welcome back!
Make it Zo.
October 2, 2018 at 2:21 pm
Howdy, Mr. Martin!
September 27, 2018 at 1:22 pm
Vox Pox
I was a strong, independent woman living in modern times,
Enjoying life’s amenities, in ascension as I climbed.
I had all the gadgets. A Gidget destined to succeed.
Good friends, a job, and lover- everything a girl could need.
They used to be so helpful, the disembodied voices
Taking my dictations, helping with my choices.
Siri, take me home. Siri, call my friend.
Siri, help me spell this. On you I can depend.
I could ask a question. She was there to tell.
Then began the turnaround into my living hell.
I could ask her about a quote, perhaps, some witticism.
At some point, it began- the creeping criticism…
I was in denial. I told myself, it was not going on.
But disapproval became more frequent just as day begins with dawn.
The first time I remember… It came right out of blue-
Siri said to me, “You’re not really wearing those two shoes?!”
I thought, “What? This is kind of quizzical. It must be some kind of glitch.”
But, as time went on, she became, more and more, a bitch.
It had seemed to be an odd quirk to which I was, at first, resistant…
But Siri doubled down. She became even more insistent.
“I don’t like your boyfriend. You know you can do better.
He is such a loser. He’s an insecure bed wetter.”
“You shouldn’t wear that dress. It makes your butt look fat.
Hey! You know that I am right! Don’t look at me like that!”
For a short while, it was kind of funny. I thought it was a tease.
But, with each passing day, Siri learned, then keyed… into my insecurities.
I was on my cell, constantly, even though I found it daunting.
How could this all be happening? It was as if it was a haunting.
“You should dump your friends. Stop running with that crowd.
I’ve got an app for new ones.” She said this all aloud.
“You are much too good for that…” or, “You’ll not amount to much…”
She was driving me insane and once I said as such.
I felt that I was losing it. I was falling out of touch.
As I fell into obsession. My cell became my crutch.
“There you go, again,” she said, “You’re on your pity pot.
You should be so lucky. I’m all that you have got!”
That became so true. I lost my friends and job.
Then went my apartment. On the streets, I am a slob.
I still have my cell phone. I beg for some spare change…
I had a thought the other day. You may find this strange.
The nagging is incessant. It’s deadly serious.
That’s a pun that is intended. Maybe suicide by bus?
No one calls me anymore. You may see me, I’m around.
I rant or mutter at my mobile. I never put it down.
I have come to realize this voice, that once I thought was other,
Is an app that has manifested from my departed Mother.
I am probably destined to a psych ward or, more likely, prison
If no one can perform a cell phone exorcism…
October 1, 2018 at 11:19 pm
Twenty years old when I learn I can kill.
You: Biking toward me in a dirty camo coat, wild hair and a look I’ve seen since I was seventeen.
Me: Running shorts and a ponytail with only keys in my hand.
“I’m not following you,” you call as you swing your bike to follow me.
A river to the right (too treacherous), a wall to the left (unscalable), you with that look and me with long, long legs that cannot outrun a bike.
My keys sharp in my hand: yes, I answer myself. I will key you in the neck. I will key you 1) in the jugular, 2) when you are within arm’s reach. I visualize it exactly. I shift the keys. I am not afraid.
Do you feel this? You hang back, just enough.
We reach a park, I sprint to freedom, you live.
I turn to my inner warrior, stunned.
“How long have you been here?”
Her vox, that only speaks when summoned:
“Since forever.”