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    • poetjohncompton


      information about my press!


      the new voice lux press is here and we are relaunching.
      the previously published echapbooks are $3.
      you can order from the website.
      (poet's get 50% royalty per echapbook sold which is $1.50)

      also check the site for all the know how info! echapbook submissions are now open.
      the submission fee for echapbook manuscripts are free.

      submissions open in february for our print chapbook manuscript!
      there will be a $5 entry fee.

      we will publish 4 echapbooks & 1 chapbook in 2023. 

      echapbooks will be release in: may, july, september, november.

      chapbook will be released in june.

      thank you to the team Joe Nasta & Tommy Sheffield!


      if you get accepted for publication with voice lux press — to us you're the biggest poet in the world. we will do everything in our power to promote and help you sell your book. to bring you to the forefront.

      we don't look at names, we look at poems. that is what poetry is. the poetry. 

      whether it is your first chapbook you've ever published or tenth book. every poet we accept are equal. 

      you'll have no fears in submitting with the voice lux press team. we strive to be the best publication out there.

      we plan to be transparent and you will be part of an amazing team. we will work with you every step of the way. from editing to book cover to getting reviews. 

      we will never publish you and forget about you. we will never make you have to work alone. we will never demand any sales from you. if we believe in you it means we will work together with you.


  1. Members' Poetry

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  • Our picks

    • She may be young,

      She may be small,

      She may even

      Be southeast Asian.

      Yet do not

      Discount her so soon,

      For she is nimble,

      And she is quick.


      This young lady,


      And wearing standard

      PT gear

      And wearing a small pin

      Depicting a flag:

      A red and blue flag,

      With a triangle

      At the hoist,

      Depicting a sun

      At it’s centre

      And three stars

      At each point

      Of the triangle.

      As said before,

      Discount her not,

      For looks do deceive.


      For, Behold;

      With her staff;

      Graceful as a cat,

      She swings and thrusts,

      And parries,

      With the grace of a cat,

      Taking down

      All foes,

      Whether human

      Or occultic,

      Winning it all,

      For her homeland,

      For her host country,

      And for her 


      In her special regiment,

      And even for

      her homeworld;

      The planet Earth!


       most importantly,

      she also fights

      For her Lord and Saviour,

      As evidenced by

      Her genuflecting,

      With her head bowed,

      And her staff held

      In an upright manner!


      See! Above her,

      against the



      A pair of rings,

      Green, floating rings,

      Resembling eyes,

      Hover above,

      Seemingly spectral,

      To which she pays

      No notice.

      What are those rings?

      Are they the eyes

      Of a friend,

      Sent by her Lord

      And saviour to guide

      And protect

      Her and her regiment?

      Or are they

      the eyes of

      A supernatural


      The likes of which

      She is sworn to fight?


      That, dear reader

      Is the mystery

      behind this painting!
      • 2 replies
    • Is it not amazing?

      There you see her,

      This ginger kid,

      A teenager;


      In a navy blue


      Down on her knees,

      Admiring her new

      Bracelets! Bracelets-

      Bound together

      By a long, thin chain.


      She shakes her arms

      This way and that,

      Yet the bracelets

      Maintain their hold,

      On either wrist,

      Tightening further.


      How she got them,

      There’s but two theories:

      One theory says

      That she got them

      After a loss,

      From a wrestling match!

      A wrestling match

      Against another

      Like herself

      In stature, dress,

      And skills,

      Yet different from her

      In age, ethnicity,

      And even profession,

      For it has been

      Rumored that her foe

      Was a cop back

      In her homeland!

      If this story’s true,

      Then all those flips,



      Light punches,

      And light kicks

      Availed her little,

      For she surely

      Lost the match,

      Since the terms

      Of that match were

      That whoever lost

      Would be forced

      To wear those bracelets,

      But for how long

      Would she have

      To wear those bracelets?


      Another story

      Goes like this:

      She wore them willingly,

      As part of a show,

      Yet why is she

      Down on her knees?

      Could it be practicing,

      So that she could break

      Into those bracelets?

      Would she be able

      To perform well

      On the balance beam,

      And on the floor,

      When the big day comes?

      If so, it’d be a first;

      A first for gymnastics!


      After that,

      there’s but one problem:

      After the event,

      How’s she gonna

      take them off?

      Would her coach

      Or her teammates

      Be able to help her

      Unlock those bracelets?

      Also, what about

      Her wrists? They’re

      Gonna be real sore,

      Lemme tell you!


      • 1 reply
    • Some rather nice comments from the editor:


        • Like
      • 3 replies
    • Fevers of the Mind
      A collaboration with poet Lia Brooks. 


      All the best.







      • 1 reply
    • I have one appearing here...






      • 1 reply
    • Killin’ time sippin’ whiskey

      At a bar on the boardwalk by the sea

      the jukebox keeps on playin’ visions of love

      and it takes me back to when I first saw you

      swayin' to the rhythm of the waves

      eyes as blue as the sea

      the wind in your hair

      pink ribbons everywhere


      I stopped to stare

      you did your best to make a boy aware

      your swayin’ arms reached out letting me in

      the touch of your hand calmed the storm within

      your shinning light touched my mind, body, and soul

      I saw it in your eyes

      I felt it from your heart

      Love was all around me


      You made it so easy

      the way you loved me

      made it so easy with every little thing you did

      Unconditional, unconditionally

      You loved me unconditionally


      We set sail upon the waters

      you were the wind in my sails

      drifting onto the sea of love

      tides rolled by, waves of love

      swept into my heart

      The smile on your face, your laughter

      brought me back from the depths of heartache and pain

      I felt alive for the first time in my life


      Anchored on the vessel of embodiment

      cherishing the freedom from within

      A rainbow appeared in the far horizon

      and that girl


      You made it so easy

      the way you loved me

      made it so easy with every little thing you did

      Unconditional, unconditionally

      You loved me unconditionally






      • 9 replies
    • illustrated by Robert g. Jerore


      The Violin

          It was an average size theater, capable of seating two hundred persons. Tonight it was filled to capacity. The variety of entertainment presented during this evenings program was very enjoyable. There had been two vocal solos; a small singing group; an orchestral presentation; twin pianos duet, and a flautist. The twenty minute intermission which allowed a comfort break was over, and the second half of the evenings program was near completion, except for a female violinist who was last on the program.

          Auditorium lights overhead dimmed.; muffled sounds emanating from the audience diminished except for an occasional cough. Dark red, velvet curtains slowly opened accompanied with faint clicking of a few worn rollers as they moved along the rail, from which the curtains were suspended. The crowd hushed...another cough.

          From the left wing of the stage a lone figure emerged, illuminated by a small spot light beaming down from overhead. He strode toward a Grand piano stationed at left-center of the stage. Placing sheets of music against the upright rest on the piano, he seated himself on a frail looking bench, raising slightly to adjust his tuxedo tails. Not satisfied, he raised and seated himself twice more, before looking beneath the key board. There he tapped lightly with his foot, on the pedals of the piano. Adjusting a small lamp above the music rest, he fingered through the sheet music assuring himself everything was in readiness. Finally, he nodded slightly toward the right side of the stage. 

          Behind the opened curtain at the right wing, a young woman appeared, carrying a violin and bow. Clapping of the audience began the moment she appeared. She was wearing a light blue, strapless gown that flowed like water around her lithe body as she moved. Another spotlight followed her; its beam causing tresses of her long blonde hair to gleam like spun gold; clapping continued. At center stage she turned toward the audience...bowing slightly, acknowledging their enthusiastic greeting. Slowly, the applause faded, there was quiet except from somewhere in the audience again a light cough.

          Turning toward the pianist she nodded. At first his fingers touched the ivory keys lightly, then grew more intense as he played the lead to her chosen song. Raising the violin, she placed it beneath her chin, nestling it against her slender neck. It felt cool there. Drawing the bow across its strings lightly; she persuaded the violin to speak, as only a violin knows how. Sweet strains poured forth from the instrument filling the auditorium with a near human-like quality. Crying softly at first...resembling a plea of pure loneliness. It moaned as though deeply wrought in sorrow, calling out to a lost lover, yet knowing there would be no response to its cries. Softly, its soulful anguish began to fade...
      • 2 replies
    • As One from the Snowfields



      Route to Navajo Mountain,

      skitter of tumbleweed - land

      and sky merge

      like the face of Black God,

      shadowy arms

      canted to a common side.


      Sounds of the ceremony

      seal over distance

      threading pop and hiss

      of the engine with

      stars ascending

      paths the yeh-bi-chai took,

      footfalls mute litany

      along the galaxy’s ledges.


      Small beneath the long ruin

      of peaks

      the road finds

      the horizon’s shadow and follows.

      Beneath those bodies

      a man could walk

      to the cliffs’ forgetful darkness,

      that omnipotent mask.


      A car goes by, headlights

      soft probes on the highway.

      Exhaust spreads

      brief invisible fire in its wake.

      Killdeer’s voice

      starts from sleep at arroyo’s edge

      and finds me from far away –

      I am here! Here!





      previously unpublished
      © 2015 David W. Parsley
      Parsley Poetry Collection
        • Like
      • 24 replies
    • A Shameless Plug for the Reference Section
      I know some of you occasionally scroll down to the reference section but naturally the primary focus here is the Member's Poetry which is as it should be.
      However, with the recent change of format at PMO, the reference section went through extensive "clean up" and a little reorganization. I am really pleased with how it has turned out. There is certainly more out there to research and I will add it when I find it (I am searching all of the time.) but I think most of whatever is out there about the craft of writing poetry has now been documented here.
      So if you have some time and are so inclined, scroll down the page check it out.. Or if you have writer's block and need some ideas to jump start your muse the world of poetry is a treasure box of ideas, maybe a new approach to an old idea is just what you need. See how the cultures of the world approach writing.....Explore the Craft of Writing From Around the World ...
      Pick a genre, pick a culture, pick a structure, pick a technique or meter, explore! You might find it fun … [click on the title to continue reading]
      • 4 replies
    • Iambic Pentameter
      The most common metric line in English poetry is iambic pentameter. A poem written in pure iambic pentameter (da Dum da Dum da Dum da Dum da Dum) can create a sing songy effect yet a skilled writer can deliver the metric pattern without the poem sounding like a nursery rhyme. Here are some guidelines for composing iambic pentameters. The guidelines are generally accepted standards that I try to follow.
      Many people have the misconception that a line of iambic pentameter must contain exactly five iambs. While five iambs in a row certainly does make an iambic pentameter, iambic pentameters are not limited to this configuration. Various substitutions (of other metrical feet) may be used within lines of iambic pentameter, and the lines will still be considered iambic pentameters … [click on the title to continue reading]
      • 0 replies
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