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Thanks to all the slam poets and friends who came out to Fletcher Free Library on a gorgeous Thursday night!
Final slam of the year is May 14! See you there!
Check out the photo gallery from past events! Click "Read More."
Check out the amazing work from all across the state! Let us know if you recognize any of the pieces or people. And show your friends and family! Congratulations, Writer of the Month Roland Downey (zeusfireair)!
Keep writing! We want to publish YOU in The Voice! AND record yourself giving a dramatic reading of your work! Or add photos! And remember to send photos, illustrations etc. for the Photo/Art Challenge to email@example.com!
I know I ignored the prompt last week, so I tried using it this time:
Restless in April
In April, the sun stays out until seven, and I stay in all day,
enviously eyeing the waxwings on the apple tree outside
and wishing I could be as free
to roam the sunny world beyond the window.
I like steamed broccoli with garlic, and getting new shoes,
But hate fire alarms and popping balloons.
I like reading Harry Potter and visiting big amusement parks,
But hate really big cities, especially when they’re dark.
I like long fuzzy socks and dessert scented candles,
But hate dried clay on my hands and sand in my sandles.
I like traveling abroad and shopping for clothes,
I snuggle deep beneath my little moss blanket on my wooden bed deep inside of the hollow tree village. Mamma and Papa are amidst another heateed argument over the same old topic: humans. The citizens of Killarney betrayed us 50 years ago but my clan is so bitter it may as well have been 50 days ago! To be completely fair it was not the citizens of Killarney who betrayed us but their town leader, Mister Amos Flaherty who was cruel to us wee folk. Thats when everything changed for us.
Grammy sometimes tells me stories of how it used to be. She said that the folks would dance in the center of the town and we rode on their shoulders. The little children used to braid our hair. They treated us like one of their own. As she said, the people were in tears on the streets as we left. They loved us. She’d tell me stories whenever it rained, whenever I was ill or honestly whenever she could keep me in the tree for more than 10 minutes.
People are a lot like pencils
At some points, we just... break.
We always want to erase our mistakes
but after a while there isn’t any eraser to erase with.
Others shave us down,
trying to strip us down from the part
that matters the most.
But we can always be sharpened again.
Unless we get too short.
For most people Vermont is that pretty picture sitting on your mantelpiece, the chartreuse colored fields, leading up to British-racing-green mountains, with the clear blue skies overhead providing the perfect background for that round barn on top of a bluff.
They lay together in her basement, him sitting on the couch with her head in his lap. She sprawled out perpendicular to him, on her belly with her legs swaying in the air. Her chin jutted into the valley between his legs, eyes intent upon a book.
"Have you ever thought about how love is just a bunch of chemical signals?" It was abrupt, but this he was used to, especially from her.
I feel most alive at night.
While days burn the eyes with intensity, from the bright colors of teen tees to the luminescent glow of sun in New England to the glare of snow to plain yellow light that seeps into the towns and cities. While all that occurs, there is always the safe reassurance of night, where those colors dim and blend in the shadows. Without light, there is no color.
Sound is just waves traveling through the gases in the atmosphere, pounding our ears.
I sometimes sit and wonder
what you were thinking when you did it.
Was your life so bad,
that it just had to end?
I remember the fields that day,
when you set out to paint.
I could never understand,
why they mesmerized you so,
like your swirls of blazing stars
in twilight blue light
could hold me in your cluttered house for hours each day.
You never liked to clean,
preferred a cluttered pallet.
I tried once,
do you remember?
Sometimes I wonder if you even remember.
If someone, something, like you has the capacity
I wonder if you ever even knew that what you took wasn't yours,
what I gave wasn't for you,
that you weren't good enough,
nor evil enough
to know you were not good.
Tell me, what did I look like to you when you found me?
What did you see that you wanted to own
was it my freedom?
Did I look beautiful to you?