Read Poem: Do Not Always, by Matildas Waltz

We could spill it all out
In a good read about
How there ever came to be
Up in the sky . . .
…a poetry tree,
That never burns down
And in its branches abounds
The phoenix whose sounds

Are the silence . . .
of ETERNITY;
But what could we achieve
When the tale of all ages to believe
Was being plucked as the tail
Of the phoenix,
whose message be:
Only when from above
Is life’s lesson simple and straight
Precise in corresponding
With detail complicating,
Below in the gradings
Of matters of density
Established of space
In time continuum fabric;
Will
the word be real
And only then might nobody steal
Such that nothing might be
Of all the words blue,
One would think the sky true
And just as numbers
are to be believed
What goes up when in need
Just as feathers regrew upon me;
Just as poetry be a lonely old tree
Just as it is as it is in ETERNITY

For all of every word spilt,
God’s love is the only interpretive milk
And the Devil repay what ilk
My life in failed believe
That if birdsong it be,
Listened to have thee
Thy knowledge of need be need be
For the Devil fell not me
But all of God’s lore will be
Jesus who owns the throne of this tree
Grown that Solomon would make Sheba see
While I hear with the ear of unease
Between all those
who know me;
Better just let it be
As it is and believe

An URL of a video of me r

Read Poem: Paranoia, I seek help, by Vyom Desai

I suffer from chronic personality disorder
Also called emotional dysregulation disorder,
where I suffer from mood swings and behavioral changes,
just like abruptly changing seasons,
winter to monsoon,
monsoon to summer,
not following the regular order.
order to keep track of my body
I keep forgetting what happened 2 mins back,
but remember every time my heart was pierced
Cut down,
sold in the market,
at a price as low as the value of plastic.

The symptoms of it says,
Expectations
rising expectations from people,
people you have invested in.
Disappointment
It becomes part of your daily life,
as expectations are not for people who suffer.
as expectations are privileges I cannot afford.
Moodswings
Abrupt mood swings opens space of discomfort
like those between states and countries
unsaid and cold,
like my red eyes after every suicidal thoughts I have.
Behavioural changes
I fear to talk to the person I love,
like a kid afraid of falling from bicycle
or a man afraid to fall in love.
I stay blank unable to talk,
As I my mouth has been stitched
because words will take them far from me.
and I won’t be able to see them again
or maybe I will see them
through my soul and not eyes,
with love and no love in return,
Paranoia,

these Symptoms leads me to paranoia,
like smoking leads to cancer
addictive and unrequited
My disorder is no different,
It takes me far from people,
people I love,
people for whom I have killed myself again and again,
people who don’t know anything about my sufferings,
Today I tell you with all my strength and love
All my life and vulnerability
I am not okay,
I am suffer from chronic personality disorder
leading to paranoia
that my love for you
works as needles and threads
stitching my mouth to not say anything,
and listen to you
with my eyes red in colour
Telling
I love you.
I wish to be okay.
I seek help.

Read Poem: All Hallows Eve Fun, by Jackie Mead

On the darkest night of the year.
I was alone at home, quivering with fear.
I started remembering the year before; I had a fright.
Just as the day was fading to night.

I recounted the encounter which gave me such a fright.
On the scariest, darkest of nights.

Walking home, alone, I pulled my coat tight; I was chilled to the bone.
First a shiver ran down my spine.
Then “many” long arms wrapped around me, tightly squeezing, like a creeping vine.
I couldn’t move, I was paralysed with fear.
Then I heard the voices of “many” whispers in my ear.

Fe, Fi, Fo, Fum
We like All Hallows Eve fun

I opened my eyes to look the “many” up and down
It was as if I had stumbled into a Ghost Town.
The “many” wore clothes tattered and torn.
Their har thin, and like a sheep, shorn.
Their skin hanging from their skeletal frames.
The “many” started to play their games.

First, they took some rope from their pocket.
Then they took a picture out of a gold locket.
They used the roped to bind my hands.
Then they huddled in a circle to finalise their plans.

They stood me up and spun me around.
I was giddy and almost fell to the ground.
They showed the picture to me, it was one I held dear.
Me as a child, before I knew fear.

They said they would set the picture alight.
Showing fear would not help my plight.
As the picture burned it would take my soul; deliver it to the devil.
I began to twist my hands; I began to scream and wrestle.

I did not want to live below, where the fire is intensely hot.
Where the devil chooses someone each day to scare and tie that person in knots.
The “many” closed in and took me by my bound hands, led me away.
To a pit they had dug that very same day.

The pit was 6 feet deep and lined in red.
The first thing to do was to bury me standing, up to my head.
The “many” stood me in the pit and picked up their shovels.
They quickened their pace and filled the pit on the double.

I stood once again paralysed with fear.
I felt my cheeks wet, with the tracks of my tears.
The “many” took the picture and held it high over my head.
Laughing, shouting in my face “had I wet my bed”

I knew there would be no turning around from this, tonight would be my last.
I grew calm and waited for the final blow, shot or blast.

I had my eyes shut tight.
But…nothing happened, nothing came, the picture did not ignite.
I was still trembling though feeling terrified.
I couldn’t move, my hands were still tied.
I prayed to heaven; I did not want to die.

Then a bit of luck perchance; I did a little happy dance.
I wriggled my hands and pulled them in tight, the rope began to loosen.
Just maybe I would remain on this earth, remain human.

My hands broke free and pushed away the earth; set myself free.
I looked at the time on my watch, saved by the bell, 01:01, last admittances to hell.

When the clock had struck 0100hrs, All Hallows Eve Fun was over.
Saved for another year, but to be on the safe side I will remain indoors this year.

Read Poem: BREATHING EXERCISES, by G.R. Melvin

She won’t roll away & not watch me.
Y’see, I won’t seem to take another…

When I dream (or wake),

To take another breath before

The scene fades, before

Lights go up,

Then down to more of a zoom.

She waits in our bedroom for me to resume.

.

II.

We went to go to a yoga class.

Where a barefooted, hair-pleated group leader;

Beautiful, and calmer than a

Merciful last coma,

She insisted that our deep breath is

The gist of all of it (within, & out).

We rearrange the short & tall of it.

The Gist to change the depth, see,

Of our sea of possibility.

When we inhale

We re-memorize our own gods.

We exhale our hell. barefoot. on a mat.

Whew. To that.

.

III.

When I get to go to the Gulf of Mexico

I’ll try out the drink, 1st thing.

I’ll try not to think, when I try to let go

& sink, when I deadman’s float all day,

Into what I think of as a spiritual drift, in a way.

I’ll hold onto my own breath,

Face down,

Head down.
.
.
G.R. MELVIN

Poetry Reading: DAUGHTER OF THE DUST, by Fadrian Bartley

Performed by Val Cole

Producer/Director: Matthew Toffolo http://www.matthewtoffolo.com

Festival Moderators: Matthew Toffolo, Rachel Elder

Casting Director: Sean Ballantyne

Editors: Kimberly Villarruel, Ryan Haines, John Johnson

Festival Directors: Rachel Elder, Natasha Levy

Camera Operators: Ryan Haines, Temitope Akinterinwa, Efren Zapata, Zack Arch

Poetry Reading: He Looks Human To Me, by Elly Paul A. Tomas

Performed by Val Cole

Producer/Director: Matthew Toffolo http://www.matthewtoffolo.com

Festival Moderators: Matthew Toffolo, Rachel Elder

Casting Director: Sean Ballantyne

Editors: Kimberly Villarruel, Ryan Haines, John Johnson

Festival Directors: Rachel Elder, Natasha Levy

Camera Operators: Ryan Haines, Temitope Akinterinwa, Efren Zapata, Zack Arch

Read Poem: Letter to an Indifferent, by Noman Teserak

Genre: Life
Website: https://ajosephpoetry.wordpress.com/

Muse, dear muse
Faintly, I still hear you
crying, now laughing
with Charon

You are gone, yes
You’ve let me go
Now you can breathe freely

Dear muse
Do our dreams go on endlessly ?
Could you not have shown me one kindness
and taken from me these memories ?
Which, unbidden,
remind me of what was, once ?

The cruelty isn’t that you’re gone
It is that I remember.

Read Poem: ART OF WORSHIP, by Adekunle Adewunmi

I will stand upon my watch
And set myself upon the tower
To listen to;
The pangs of richness I long to eat and
Smell of His fragrance I long to savour.

I’ll pour forward waters of obeisance
Sending fresh smoking sacrifices from the
Corners of my room –the heart
From whence cometh unreserved worship.

Bowing in awe, unto Him will I rest my oasis
Lifting unto Him in surrender, the hands he gifted me
I’d beckon on the sweet Holy Spirit and,
Make a feast cooked with tongues of fire

While dishing Him assorted,
I’ll stand upon my watch and
Set myself upon the tower
As I long to koinonia in realness
Because I know, upon my waiting
I won’t return empty.

Poetry Reading: GENERATION, by A. Brown

Performed by Carina Cojeen

Generation, by A. Brown

To have Strength to persevere
in a time filled with:
peer pressure,
envy and hate,
is a modern-day miracle.
I’ve come to realise,
that the greater the blessing,
the greater the obstacle.
There was a glass ceiling,
until it was broken by
my,
desire not to be,
compared.
There are many opportunities,
but only one chance.
Father, help me,
I pray thee.
When disappointments come,
Please help me
to respond with integrity.
I don’t want to be,
another statistic,
whose life ends in tragedy.
You have never left our side.
Your promises are true.
Lord, I need you,
and our generation does too.

Producer/Director: Matthew Toffolo http://www.matthewtoffolo.com

Festival Moderators: Matthew Toffolo, Rachel Elder

Casting Director: Sean Ballantyne

Editors: Kimberly Villarruel, Ryan Haines, John Johnson

Festival Directors: Rachel Elder, Natasha Levy

Camera Operators: Ryan Haines, Temitope Akinterinwa, Efren Zapata, Zack Arch

Read Poem: Gone, by Michele Fermanis-Winward

She sings her ancient song
strives to keep its words alive
despite the grief it brings
to know she sings alone
no other shares her tongue.

She travels far from home
no land where she belongs
she is the last of her kind
we will speak for her
but cannot hear her song.