Author: poetryfest

Rain under the sun
A crow comes to call
Tomorrow, Fading
Entering the fall

Instrument in hand
Chamber full of grief
Lost in my shadow
Lonely, disbelief

Searching for my youth
Where are days gone by?
Past feels long ago
Regrets never die

Hopelessly crying
Without knowing why
Sadness overwhelms
Running out of tries

Self-isolating
Starless moonless night
Windows sealed, doors locked
Darkness sheds no light

Why the cells divided and multiplied the way they did we cannot know – one of many secrets held within the impenetrable darkness of a mother’s womb. But grow you did.

And when the winds they said would come to take you away from us blew, you held fast like a seed clinging stubbornly to the fuzzy head of a dandelion, cotton bud hopes plucked from a vacant lot where only the hardy greens grow.

And suddenly we had time:
time for a life that could not last,
time for lingering and longing,
beautiful, excruciating time.

In that time, we marveled at the cells divided and multiplied,
Devoured each fold of skin, searching for meaning in your silent gravity.
Loved you so hard the pain echoes still.

Eventually, our time ran out.

Now we hold
our breath
and watch the air
for downy dreams
made of unwished wishes.

Hear now the tale of this grand and great structure of Whitby by the sea.
Down through the ages this abbey has stood on the cliff on this headland,
Silently watching and looming, its spires and belfries high above,
Over a town of such import that Stoker himself paid a visit.
Gothic, majestic, this beacon of glory entices the darkness.

Haunted by time, and the lashing of wind and the storms of the North Sea,
Whitby and Abbey have weathered the decades and centuries of yore.
Here, at the mouth of the river – the Esk, where it joins to the ocean,
Seafarers sail from the wharf to lands distant and fishing for haddock,
Whaling, and building of ships and the berthing for Earl of Pembroke.

Harkening back to the time of when Oswig was throned in the kingdom,
Land for a convent was sanctioned and deeded in Six Fifty Seven.
Hild was the Abbess who founded the cloister. Monastics there were both
Women and men, an unusual system, but charity and peace,
Virtues she championed, characterized the community at large.

Stories were told of the monks and the nuns and their saintly compassion,
Such that the size of the village kept growing as supplicants arrived,
Seeking a life of devotion and service to God. But tensions were
Mounting and growing between institutions – of Rome and of the Celts,
Each with assertions of how they should promulgate pastoral issues.

Representations of each of the factions convened there at Whitby
Abbey to stake their positions and argue the merit of their views.
This was the Synod of Whitby, and Roman conventions were chosen,
Further cementing the power of Rome in the churches of the land.
Codified rules under Rome was the fate – year Six Hundred Sixty Four.

Tragedy struck then two hundred years later when Vikings invaded.
Pillaged and plundered, the abbey was gutted, abandoned, crumbling,
Desolate, wasting away on the cliff in the harsh elements there.
Not until Normans had conquered the land and regained governance there,
Would our fair abbey become resurrected to prominence again.

Ten Seventy saw a soldier of Norman named Reinfrid visiting
Whitby and Abbey and remnants of structures that long ago were lost.
He was the one who brought forth resurrection and started to rebuild
Chapels and dwellings for monks to be sheltered in, here upon the cliff.
William de Percy ensured that the land would be properly endowed.

Humble beginnings with simple monastical organization
Started the earnest improvement. Development fostered the growth of
Village, society and Benedictine monastics’ hermitage.
Early, the site was adorned with a beautiful Romanesque abbey,
Serving the needs of the monks as they rendered their holy duties there.

Then, in the year of our Lord Twelve and Twenty Five, Gothic rebuilding
Vitalized Whitby with purpose and passion, a captivating sight.
Masons and craftsmen who labored and struggled brought forth upon the hill,
Brilliant workmanship, intricate, stone carving artistry in the
Choir and transepts, the nave and the narthex, the altar and rib vaults.

Stone after stone that was brought to the Abbey was placed higher, higher.
Reaching for Heaven and towering over the waters down below.
Columns and arches of gothic construction were built into the bones.
Vaunted by townsfolk and all in the kingdom, magnificent in its
Grandeur. A Masterpiece rising like God was himself lifting it up.

Up to the sky went the walls of the abbey with spires rising up,
Buttresses flying and tracery gracing the windows and panels.
William the Conqueror pictured together with Jesus and Mary,
Scenes of the scourging and Stations of Cross there in the stained glass windows.
Objects and relics lent rev’rence and sanctification to its soul.

Thriving for centuries, here on this headland, the abbey attracted
Scholars and pilgrims, both laymen and clergy to celebrate their Lord.
Such, was the thriving community, rooted in mutual respect,
Working and striving, affording their neighbors a tranquil way to live,
Here, where the blood of the ancestors seeps into the mudstone shale.

Henry the Eighth was the king who suppressed it in Fifteen Thirty Nine.
Papal authority blocked and dismantled, absorbing all assets
Unto the Crown and the new Church of England for total control of
Faith and of fortune. Now hobbled by edict and Parliamentary
Actions the abbey was emptied and shuttered, the occupants exiled.

Soon the monastic endowments were forfeited, leaving no legal
Authorization for maintenance, groundskeeping and renovation.
Absent the caretaking given by stewards, the elements took hold.
Nature’s relentless advances of time and corrosion battered,
Weakening columns and arches that shouldered the weight of the structure.

Thundering storms carried bolts of bright lightning, while gales blew the roofing
Off of the parapets, towers and belfries. And decade by decade,
Ravaged by wind and relentless erosion, the graves of the churchyard
Started to topple and fall down the cliffside. And incrementally,
Buttresses broken, collapsing and crumbling, nature reclaims her.

One hundred ninety nine steps link the town with the ruins up the hill.
There on the cliff in the fog is the shell of what stood for God’s glory.
Under grey clouds you can still hear the echoes of choirs and chanting.
Slowly the structure is falling away and in solemn decaying,
Watching the centuries passing as generations lived and died there.

Nowadays visitors come to the East Cliff to marvel and wonder.
Strolling the ruins, the fields and the churchyard, nostalgic hearts; women
Clad in black dresses and lace and pale faces, clutching their parasols,
Sauntering dandies in tophats and waistcoats accompany lovers;
Wistful of romance and darkness, they call to the ruins of Whitby Abbey:

Etiam in morte vivas

Oh! illusion of all illusions
Art thou incarnated as Cupid?

Depicted ye with wings
And hath armed with love-shaft

Entwines ye many hearts of innocence
And warms thyself in their perdu passion

Thou drowns many hearts of sanctity love
Into your fathomless Lethe

And creates many insane encomiast
To eulogize thy illusion deeds

As Apollo transformed Clytie to sunflower
Thou endears innocent hearts bend towards you

Cadeceus, I pray unto thee, resurrect true-hearts
Whom the nebulous, fiend Cupid has entombed

our worst nights, all
the parts and
places they
punctured ache;

I can feel
betrayal
nettle fresh
in scarred skin

their acts like
scalpel slice,
wounds glow like
newly born.

numbness seeps
reliving
slow death, fueled
by caffeine,

bleeding work
as they cut
away seams,
pulled out guts,

ate a feast
at our arms’
bounty, hands’
craft, mind’s thought;

our bodies
paid the price
for purchase
of our best nights.
###

The cabinets won’t close
Anymore. The laundry has pilled
Up and out of the bin, I keep forgetting
To lock the door
Before lying in bed
Awake in your absence. It’s quiet,
Not like it used to be,
It used to be loud, and the mornings
Were worth getting up for, and the nights
Were worth staying up for, and I always
Order take out now, because I can’t
Bring myself to cook, because
All my recipes
Were made for two.

I snuck my hand through my sleeve
And as I saw you sitting in the heat
I reached out an olive branch
But you smacked it away
And laughed at me
And mocked me
As you skipped right on back to her
And she proceeded to beat you, to shame you,
To humiliate you with all her might
As she soaked in the sunlight
And you withered in the coldness of the shade
But I came back and extended again
And I understood that you loved her
And I tried to be a bit more understanding of you
As I furthered my position with a second olive branch
Because you mean everything to me
And because I know that this isn’t your fault
And because I know that she’s your mom
And you look up to her
And I looked up to you
Like I have my whole life
And you looked at me, baffled and confused
As you smacked it away again
And you mocked me once more
As I fell backwards into the dirt
Why are you like this
Can’t you see for once
That she’s abusing you

I thirst.
So He said.
And I did.
I thirsted so.
And like Him, I had need of that drink which brought and sustained life.
But, also like Him, I was abandoned.
Eloi, Eloi, we were both abandoned upon the asperous acanthite.
For man cannot subsist on that thirst alone; he has need of the nectar of the heart, and
the liquor of the soul, and the hunger of the flesh, and that quintessential need of belonging.
Under that ablaze – summer sun – the whipp’d wrath of Sol Invictus, that thin veil holding us
back, did melt.
His Father did abandon Him upon that mont, looking away to keep pure the gates to
His divinity.
T’was, in turn, my eyes that turned all away, for the soul knew what the mind
repressed, and our body did act accordingly.
The law of Heaven is life for life.
That desire to sip, drop by drop, has been, by his awful grace, satiated.
Juices begotten of goblin fruit; goblin fruit begotten of Eden.
Teeth pierce as Sebastian’s arrows – godly Reni’s brushwork.
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one.
We afterwards lie as the Dying Galatian, disgusted but satiated.
I thirst no more.
For now, I thirst no more.

Due to the socio-philosophical side effects from the rapid evolution of technology, come Friday, no one in America will ever fall in love again. And it won’t even be sad. No one will even notice. Because by Friday, everyone in America will have been replaced with non-organic versions of themselves. Credit this experiment to the Corporation that Owns Earth. They’ll take responsibility for quadrillions of subatomic microchips spilling into the atmosphere without a warning to ignore. No one looks up at the sky that’s no longer sky. No one pays attention to the clouds where tiny rockets shoot down into bodies of water, rendering every drop digital. No one spots microscopic robots skeeting semen across cornfields, their offspring coughing on trees. This is your secret, electric disease. First, it’s in the sunlight, then your cereal. Next, it’s in what you read, what you dance to. It’ll be the voice you hear when asking yourself, ‘Is it too early to celebrate? Too late to escape?’

Cos you know how it goes: You are what you consume. So how long have you been you? Perhaps you’ll sort that bit out by Friday, when babies and light bearers become the last victims of this imminent transition. Every choice made in the USA will be outsourced down to its molecular conception by Friday. Watch out for advertisements between your thoughts, credits to close out your dreams. Those names on the left, babies who cried, ‘Consciousness is not in my mind’, then spent their entire lives trying to find out where. Those on the right are the names of reAmericans. Don’t think of them as persons, but persons as a place, somewhere that appears when they find out where. But here’s the rub. Inside those subatomic microchips are quadrillions more subatomic microchips. And so on. And so on. Each imprinted with a hell for those who believe in it and a heaven for those who can afford it. Every day is a holiday; every day there’s a tragedy.

Will you come home when the World Series is played against the landscape of civil war, and in a maze of instant replays, you search for an edge to cling to, an edge to jump from? Who will bring you home when most people wouldn’t find home while fast asleep with maps on the back of their eyelids? They repeat themselves in memories they call today, everyday, till Friday. They don’t have names. They take names from the Corporation that Owns Earth, for corporations are people, too. But those who own Earth ain’t giving out names for free. Instead, they sell lives that have been lived quadrillions of times. On Friday, consciousness becomes currency, and everyone buys what already belongs to them. So to maintain an illusion of authenticity, reAmericans cease repeating themselves. They take your name, my name. We search for home, home not as in a place, but a person, someone who brings us home. And for the sake of our sanity, it’s best we pretend we’ve always been here.

Funny how we were once prisoners of artificial darkness, strung from rain machines, and posed as scarecrows for UFOs. After serving so many life sentences, Friday came. The sky turned pink from the fumes of tears; not just our tears, but also tears of children without coins for the wishing well, tears of parents protecting the hill that the well stood upon, and tears of grandparents filling pails with what used to be water. Remember crawling inside that well to never come out? But we never reached the bottom, didn’t know we were in the same well till meeting our digital ends, thus realizing that the well wasn’t real. And the hill had long since caved in on people climbing over each other, reaching for what they saw, but couldn’t feel. There were quadrillions of it, too big to see more than one of it at once. Those closest called it their own because they saw their names on it. Those furthest will call it home because they’ve never been home. And we call it love because we fall in it.

Why do I chase
migrating butterflies
when ones just as beautiful
are in my garden?

They’re on their way
to a beauty I can’t
provide. Yet, I
still beg them to stay with
me.

The flowers I tend,
while beautiful,
don’t have what they need to
survive.

Regardless, I beg
“Please, don’t leave.
Your colors. Your kisses.
I need them.”.

When I look at the
young man in the
pond below, I ask
him

the same question
I ask him every
day.

Why do I chase
migrating butterflies
when ones just as beautiful
are in my garden?