“An Embarrassment of Dandelions” by Andy Powell

VOICEMAIL POEMS

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You Can Visit All Seven Continents. But Should You? 26:46

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For many travelers, Antarctica is a bucket-list destination, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to touch all seven continents. In 2023, a record-breaking 100,000 tourists made the trip. But the journey begs a fundamental question: What do we risk by traveling to a place that is supposed to be uninhabited by humans? And as the climate warms, should we really be going to Antarctica in the first place? SHOW NOTES: Kara Weller: The Impossible Dilemma of a Polar Guide Marilyn Raphael: A twenty-first century structural change in Antarctica’s sea ice system Karl Watson: First Time in Antarctica Jeb Brooks : 7 Days in Antarctica (Journey to the South Pole) Metallica - Freeze 'Em All: Live in Antarctica Learn about your ad choices: dovetail.prx.org/ad-choices…

7 tahun yang lalu 1:51

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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

77 episode

#Books #Poetry #Poems #Spoken #Writing #VOICEMAIL POEMS #Arts #Word

“An Embarrassment of Dandelions” by Andy Powell

VOICEMAIL POEMS

11 subscribers

published 7 tahun yang lalu

MP3•Beranda episode

77 episode

#Books #Poetry #Poems #Spoken #Writing #VOICEMAIL POEMS #Arts #Word

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1
"I Rage about You, You Old Ghost" by Hannah Rubin 1:09

23 weeks yang lalu1:09

1:09

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…

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"You Won't Ever Again be in Love in a Foreign Country" by Ky Pacheco 1:46

23 weeks yang lalu1:46

1:46

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…

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"This is What You Are" by TC Tolbert 2:56

23 weeks yang lalu2:56

2:56

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…

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"This is Poetry Time" by Dan J. Kirk 1:33

23 weeks yang lalu1:33

1:33

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…

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"The Kids Are So Back" by Morgan Tessier 1:45

23 weeks yang lalu1:45

1:45

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…

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"The Coldening" by Kelly Gray 2:35

23 weeks yang lalu2:35

2:35

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…

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"Street Plums" by Ashira Morris 1:29

23 weeks yang lalu1:29

1:29

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…

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"Smoke Elder" by Allegra Wilson 1:32

23 weeks yang lalu1:32

1:32

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…

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"Revenge Fantasy" by Stephanie Valente 0:59

23 weeks yang lalu0:59

0:59

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…

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"POV - I sent you 317 reels on Instagram" by Kate Carey 2:05

23 weeks yang lalu2:05

2:05

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…

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"Poem" by Tom Snarsky 1:47

23 weeks yang lalu1:47

1:47

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…

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"Naturalization Test" by Aishvarya Arora 2:00

23 weeks yang lalu2:00

2:00

Aishvarya Arora called us from Queens, NY. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems twitter.com/voicemailpoems instagram.com/voicemailpoems

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"Mojave" by Candace Cavanaugh 3:00

23 weeks yang lalu3:00

3:00

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…

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"Lorde's Supercut is Film Theory" by Ankoor Patel 1:08

23 weeks yang lalu1:08

1:08

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…

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"Lagoon" by Asha Berkes 1:33

23 weeks yang lalu1:33

1:33

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…

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"Bloodgood Maple" by John Muro 1:02

23 weeks yang lalu1:02

1:02

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…

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"Bricks" by Kelsey L. Smoot 2:37

23 weeks yang lalu2:37

2:37

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…

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"Moon" by Zach Goldberg 2:10

7 years yang lalu2:10

2:10

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…

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"Whero" by Stacey Teague 1:26

7 years yang lalu1:26

1:26

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…

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"Manic Pixie POV" by Taylor Jaczin 1:19

7 years yang lalu1:19

1:19

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…

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"Never Trust A Snowglobe" by Caroljean Gavin 1:00

7 years yang lalu1:00

1:00

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…

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"Reading Lines" by Mariah Bosch 1:09

7 years yang lalu1:09

1:09

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…

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"On Sundays" by Sara Hutchinson 1:21

7 years yang lalu1:21

1:21

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…

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"200 Words About Airports" by Emryse Geye 1:35

7 years yang lalu1:35

1:35

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…

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"Invitation" by Tria Wood 0:50

7 years yang lalu0:50

0:50

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…

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