Author: poetryfest

Mottle affairs Midterm Election goats at work
Sleepy Whale’s invisible ink I can’t check the box
Unshed tears blue eyes red turning Pink
Milk oozing left-handed Coffee Jerk at Mary’s Dinner
Rich Red Silk Stockings morning mass in the trash
Sabastian’s backyard ice rink melting under the Blue Sky
Sheeting sea tide on the Brink of a blue land slid
Ghost woman’s pint drinking Democrat Quirk
Crying at a lamb Republican Yarn
Grave yard dead keep cheap here we go again
Wine dark millers’ Red Barn polling place
Lace fringed smile Bar-Keep for two years
Weasel rats race in the barn
Knock-kneed Shepards’ sheep creep up the hill

i never knew how heavy colors could be
until the whites and reds and blues piled on top of me
my father was buried refusing to believe
the dark tones of his skin weren’t complementary
to the blood red drowning around them and him and me

this year, once again, the crimson was splattered around
as the sunshine gave way to the storm underneath the ground
the blue in our veins chilled and completely bound
refusing to bleed out and listen to the incessant terrifying sound

refusing to admit that turning blue can do no more
than bleed us out for the dream and hopes just like before

but, is it really like before?
the hues of the familiar colors reflect in a way
that has me believe what my father would say
“the american dream is real, you’ve just gotta believe in it”
it’s 50% 48.7% chance it could be

Performed by Val Cole

Editor & Visual Designer: Kaitlin Manalili

Produced by Matthew Toffolo

POEM:

What is the inevitable problem of life?
It has everything to do with survival.
The predator always has a razor-sharp eye for his prey.
The prey is looming with no fear,
Only faith to surpass the outlook on life after death.
Why is GOD creations the only ones that kill?
Who is responsible for the bloodshed in the past?
Situations occur at one blink of an eye.
That is how fast it takes for one to die.
That goes for all of us,
No matter what race, color, gender, etc.
We as human the days are numbered.
The time has come for us to become the prey,
And the predators are the once to make us extinct.
And for what! Just to eat each other.
In order to strive from one day to the next.
As the moons glows the night turns into death and mayhem.
When the sun comes out to shine.
Life and deception revealed in the shadows.

Performed by Val Cole

Editor & Visual Designer: Kaitlin Manalili

Produced by Matthew Toffolo

Performed by Val Cole

—-

The Shape It Leaves

Grief does not arrive like thunder.
It seeps
through the quiet crack of an ordinary morning,
in the space where a voice should be.

It teaches absence its own language:
a chair pulled out but never used,
a name that echoes longer than it’s spoken,
a phone you still expect to ring.

At first, it is heavy
a stone you carry in both hands,
impossible to set down
without feeling like you’ve let them fall again.

Later, it changes shape.

It becomes the way you pause
before telling a story they would have loved,
the way sunlight feels almost like permission
and almost like betrayal.

People will say it softens
but that’s not quite true.
It sharpens into memory,
into moments so clear they almost breathe.

And somehow, you go on.

Not because it’s easier,
but because love, unfinished,
refuses to end where a life did.

So grief stays
not as a wound alone,
but as a quiet proof:

that something mattered enough
to leave a shape
even after it was gone.

Of people: In terms of healing, growth, and the “choosing me” syndrome.

—

Performed by Val Cole

Performed by Val Cole

—–

POEM:

Liars “Country Club” , by Linda Oconnell

dedicated to all the snakes—you know who you are

Snakes have lying eyes.

You’re all predators hiding in the grass.

You betray another for your own gain.

You’re trying to save your own skin.

You’re all predators hiding in the grass.

You’re the ones crossing your fingers behind your backs.

You’re all trying to save your own skin.

But your skin keeps shedding for all to see.

You’re the ones crossing your fingers behind your backs.

You’re all in cahoots with each other.

You’re the ones thinking you got away with it. (Ha!)

But your skin keeps shedding for all to see.

It’s written all over your quivering faces

It couldn’t be any clearer.

You’re the ones thinking you got away with it.

What do you see when you look in the mirror?

You’re all trying to save your own skin.

(You’re the type of men with no spine.)

You’re all in cahoots with each other.

Snakes have lying eyes. (just ask their ex wives)

Guess what? You didn’t get away with it.

You type of men are the weakest.

You betray another for your own gain.

We all know your secret.

Performed by Val Cole

—–
POEM:

LAST DOCTOR’S VISIT
Every visit started with the check-in process
Age, name, doctor, and time of appointment
Have a seat
Elinor says; silly girl I’m in a wheel chair I’m
Already sitting.
Fill out this form
We know the drill
All these years it hasn’t changed
I fill out the form
We wait.
Last night Jennie and i made Greek soup
Which is lemon, eggs, chicken, rice and celery
For some reason I brought a large container
Of the soup for elinor to take home
To eat during the week
She was hungry
Needed something to eat
I gave her the cold soup
She loved it
Jennie an I were happy
She loved it
So sad she ate as if she hadn’t eaten for days.
They called her name
To get her blood drawn
Four attempts to get into her vein
Screaming with each try
The nurse was unable to take
Blood from her port
Finally, they stopped trying
Doctor was ready to see her
Dr. Citron hugged her
He sat, she was in a wheel chair
And didn’t need to sit.
A wheel chair
She hated the wheel chair.
He typed in all her complaints
Looked away from the computer
Moved his chair very close to Elinor
So close their noses were apart
By a few hairs
Elinor, the pain you feel is the cancer progressing
It’s the same cancer that started us
On our journey thirty-four years ago
If the pain is more than you want to tolerate
Take another pill
They are for you to take for pain
Do not worry about how many you take.
You know Elinor, there is no more I can do
She looked into his eyes
Not a word
He said no more blood test
No more ports
No more infusion of iron
“No more anything”,
She said
I know every time I came
There was something, new drug
New procedure
Not this time.
Elinor wanted Dr. Citron
To give her what she wanted
To live
That simple.
They hugged
You know Elinor, you have been with me for thirty-four years
And you always wore black
No, sometimes I wore dark brown.
We laughed
They hugged once again
And he left.
Us alone in the examining room
We gathered our stuff
Walked out without checking out
They will call if we owe them money.
One request
Let’s have lunch
So we ate
Our last lunch
At the hospital lunch room.

Performed by Val Cole

—-
POEM:

Doppelgänger

They say a name is just a word
until someone is hunted by it.
My great-grandfather carried Herman Jager
like a lit match
small, bright,
but dangerous if seen.

In the camp,
an Aryan spoke it
Herman Jager
and for a second
the name split open.
Two men,
opposites
one holding the gun,
one inside it
but the same sound
passing between them the day they were born
and all the days after.
As if the fire
was unsure which one
it was meant to consume.

After the camps, the name learned
how to blend.
It crossed water,
shed its weight,
smoothed itself
Herman to Henry.
This is how survival sounds:
quieter each generation.

And there is a third name
that never left.
Tzvi.
Deer.
Not a name
a state of being:
to listen for what hunts you,
to move before a branch snaps,
to vanish before extinction.

I answer to Henry.
I inherit Herman.
But Tzvi is the moment
the hunted
becomes the thing a fire can
never consume.