Author: poetryfest

He toyed with my mind
Stretched it, shook it, cracked it wide
He called me fat, ugly, hairy
When I first heard him, I cried
Then it faded

When staff wouldn’t care, I pretended not to
But when I got home, when I showered
When I had to shave the face I hate
The water washed the tears, but not the pain
When the razor met my face, it all rushed back to me

It felt like it was the first hurt in my life
I thought about when another toyed with my heart
We would hide rings at the pool, exchange glance
Our soles met below common-area tables
I’d lay awake imagining his scent
But he didn’t imagine mine

I gave him a way to reach me, and he smiled
But as I left, I saw him show the others
His words evaded me, but I already knew them
The same staff who left me to cry threatened my pencil
They said it’d be gone if it happened again
But why would it?

That night my journal read “I am rotten meat”
I’m not sure if it holds true
But when I was held there, I felt it was
They toyed with my whole being

That place left me feeling defective; broken from birth
I still feel scrambled; like I have loose parts
I want to be loved, not just played with
I want to go far, but I need to be wound up again

Wait.

Is it over yet?
Not for another year. Or ten.
I’m a violent shade of bruised violet

Your brother died in the war? He was fighting for your rights
Your rights I so love to violate.

Wait.

Just a little bit longer
Only a few thousand left to die
Marching off straight to the skies

Bones in grass
Browns, and decaying grays

Wait.

I am one of you,
I am the everlasting elite,
I am the horseman known as war,

And I will do
Whatever it takes
for me to survive.

Memories linger between
the threads of my sweatshirt.

Glimpses of lilac-clothed moments
retained within the stitches of
a cotton-polyester blend.

Simple fabric now consoling me
from my mind’s wanderings to you.

Adiós por ahora, mis amigos

Hay mucho que todavía yo no sé.
Habrá cosas que yo no puedo saber.
¿Si otra vez nos volveremos a ver?
De cierto, hay mucho que nunca sabré.

¿A dónde nuestras vidas nos llevarán?
¡Eso es el rompecabezas más grande!
Viendo mañana, nadie ahora rinde
Ni si al buen lugar nos traerán.

Pero sí, conozco a mi futuro
Entero a sí mismo él me traerá
Aunque él me da un camino duro.

Debo creer que completos nos hará
Que confían en su amor seguro
Y en su amor mis amigos guardará.

Jesús para siempre nos guardará.
En lo fin, Jesús completo nos hará.

[My response to the song, “The Rose,” by Amanda McBroom]

I never learned to dance!
I had a heart afraid of [everything]
Ridicule, being called stupid, a “retard”
Clumsiness, being called a foot-breaker
Cluelessness, being called a heart-breaker
Facing the wrath of a God who hated fun
At least if I had it
Whether ‘twas God or others accusing
Made no difference
And, oh, yes, it takes two to tango
And my heart was afraid of breaking
So I never learned to dance!

I had beautiful, Technicolor dreams
But they were also afraid of [everything]
What if I was wrong, and called a “failure”—
I faced this anyway and could not avoid it
Even when I gave up my own dreams
To follow and serve those of others.
At least then I was not guilty of a “wrong” dream
A dream that must be “wrong” because it was my own!
And I also had vivid, Technicolor nightmares
That came closer to reality than my dreams
And that I could never pawn off—they were always my own!
Better to dream on, than to awaken and face them!

But was I so afraid of being taken
That I never learned to give?
No, I gave and gave and gave!
I was afraid of being taken
But I was more afraid of being called uncaring
Unchristian, stingy, the cause of others’ woes
That I gave even when I shouldn’t have
Gave for all the wrong reasons
Gave up some of those closest to me
Who now no longer own me
Gave up opportunities that would never come again
And never really learned to give!
 

So my soul too was afraid of [everything]
But most of all of dying while I yet lived
Of loss of the things that were my life
Of the death of the love of those I loved
Of the very things that, in my fear of death, died
Of the knowledge that of this death I was the cause.
It was not the hatred of the God who hated fun
The God of my Puritan, pilgrim past
That kept me from learning to dance
From learning to live
But my fear of life’s loss kept me from learning to live.

So dare I hope so late as now
Toward the end of my life
That, beneath all of the ice and snow
Atop my frozen grave
When the sun’s love clears the cold stone
There will yet lie the seed
That in the spring becomes the rose?

Our cat died tonight
The last of many losses
The sweetest cat we’ve ever known
But she was old
And old cats die.

We agreed we would never
Have another pet;
Losing them is too hard
And it would be hard
For our next pet to lose us.
Old people also die.

But might I make an exception
For a pet rock?
Old rocks also die
But on geologic time.

Of course, someone might.
If ignorant of our relationship,
Discard my new pet.
And, after my demise,
Someone might feed my rock
To a crusher,
To make works
Of fleeting human “progress.”

So maybe I should instead
Take a pet star!
Even old stars die,
But if I pick a young, blue one
I can be certain it will
Outlive me by many years,
And remain,
Even when my sun is no more,
And not mourn my passing.

por Ian Bruce Johnson

Somos siervos, mi amarguita y yo,
E hijos adoptados de un Rey.
Servimos él en su casa por la fe
Que nuestro ser se hará como el suyo.

Aunque temimos que el Rey nos odiara
Por los males que nunca podremos pagar
El hijo mayor del Rey, él de su gran amor
Pagó todo para hacernos su familia.

Él me ha perdonado en gracia gratis
Asimismo, me manda a mostrar su gracia.
Pero ahora he herido mi amarguita gratis.

Mis palabras la dañaron y costaría
Mucho más que el precio de un almuerzo gratis
Es con razón que el rencor me guarda.

Jesús contó una parábola en que
Un siervo encarceló a su deudor
Hasta que pueda pagar, en su dolor,
Lo que un encarcelado nunca tiene.

El Rey a nadie en libertad pone
Pero lo que cada uno a otro supone
¡No dejemos que el enemigo gane,
ni triunfe triste Melpómene!

En lo cambio, ahora me ha enviado
A la oscuridad exterior de la vida
Hasta que me perdones amarrado

Debo escuchar mientras estás destruida
Por los verdugos, porque yo he pecado.
Mi tormento es saber de tu herida.

¿Puedes ver al cuello atándome,
Amarguita, la piedra de molina?
Es la de tropieza que te arrimé.

Debemos ir a la misma colina
Si de esta roca estaríamos libre
Solo huiremos por la gracia divina.
 

¿Dije algo malo? ¡Ya no debo ser!
Si solo en mi tumba me perdonara,
Señor, por favor, ahora me llevará.
Ahora me muero por el ayer.

¿Me pasa solo un muy mal sueño,
Que por mi mal eres atado conmigo?
Quiero huirnos de la cárcel contigo
Pero ¡la llave te cierras en el puño!

**********.

[Ese poema es una personalización de Mateo 18:23-35 siguiendo la manera de Franz Kafka.]

Dear Love,

The stars shine too brightly here tonight—
just like they did the night we met.
The sky is calm, almost too calm,
as if it’s holding its breath for the storm to barge in.
And yet I lie here in the open,
savouring the silence for the first… and maybe the last time,
wishing you were beside me.

Life never seemed so precious until today.
We received word—we might not win.
Still, I promise you:
we’ll give it our all, even if it means giving up our lives.
And yet, the air doesn’t feel heavy.
Maybe it’s because I’m too light.
I may not live to see tomorrow’s night.

So, forgive me for spending every last precious second thinking of you—
so close in my heart, yet so far in reach.

Are you awake now?
Are you under the same sky,
looking at the stars the way I’m looking through them—searching for you?

I wish I’d memorized you better.
Your soft brown waves, how they used to fall across your eyes,
the way your laughter lingered on your lips after I kissed you—
those are the only things I’ll carry with me,
beyond the end.

Funny how I’ve bled in battle,
but nothing hurts like bleeding on paper.
But this—this letter—is my soul, laid bare for you.

Be strong, my darling.
Even when I’m gone, I’ll live in these folded lines,
watching from the stars,
guarding your smile.

It’s raining now.
Does time ever feel guilty for all it steals from us?
Maybe even the sky wants me to say goodbye.

If there is a life after this,
I’ll find you—I promise.
And I’ll spend forever making up for this stolen time.

Take care of my better half—
I’m leaving it with you.

I will always be close.
Always.

Adieu, love.
The tears that stain this page—
they are the only ones I’ve ever shed.
Not from sorrow…
but from joy—
that I had you, even if only for a fleeting moment.

Yours always,
One Man Army

We have to talk about the movie Rosemary’s Baby
If you have never seen it
Here is the sparknotes version
Newlywed couple, rosemary and guy
Move into a new apartment
Waiting to have her baby

her husband
brings in a witch doctor
Assures her
this is real medical care
As The rest of her neighbors are gaslighting her
Forcing her to digest these weird drinks
We wonder which characters
Will cage her body autonomy in this screenplay
As if her body isn’t already paranoia
Oh and get this
They lie to her.
They tell her she had a stillbirth
when in reality she gave birth to the antichrist.

And one time
my grandmother was watching this movie
Said
How her and rosemary
are on in the same.
How there is a type of ambiance this movie gives her
The comfort knowing when the credits start rolling.
This fictional story will come
to a fleeting halt
Cinematography amputated

But the real horror begins
When women walk down her own nightmare on elm street
Flips her bear spray like a switchblade
so no Freddy Kruger tries to create her
into a final girl.

So Everytime
I sit on a doctors examination table
Physicians Puppet teer my body in any direction
Why is it I feel so seen in a character
that was made in 1968 when it is year 2025
How long will I stare into rosemary’s screams
before I stop seeing my own

cinematic universe where cycle of violence is
a plot point
Screenwriter uses assault as world building tactic
How many directors will use storytelling
to discuss survivors
Only to be exposed as perpetrator of violence
As persiste academy awards title them as victor
Instead of abuser
Is my pain is good enough for a film bros aesthetic
Yet Not enough to be believed in this lifetime

Im sitting in a doctors office
Frankensteining the witch doctors disguise off
Reaveling how politicians are the real villains the entire time
Body autonomy is met with fear tactics and apathy
So terrified of movements
They fantasize about there own prophecies
One
Where they Vote the rights away.

If my grandmother were to be reincarnated as my daughter
She would be marching for rights she did in a past life
Would her soul recognize rosemary’s hysteria
Would her feet recognize the march’s of ages
how many women’s reflection is seen in the screen
how much hell can a holy body hold

I feel like shit. I’ve been lying on my couch bingeing TV shows, movies, watching cat, capybara and owl videos on Instagram. I read. I make dinner. I planted cucumber seeds in little pots on the window sill and now they’re strong seedlings, turning their faces to the sun.

I have my writing group tonight. I haven’t written anything. I have nothing to share. I just want to drink. I plan on buying a cocktail in a can and bringing it with me. I envision the alcohol making me happy. It won’t.

Every Saturday S gets to the clinic too late to get his methadone. He calls. Wants money and lies about what he needs it for. I Zelle it. He buys heroin. Comes home. Says he’s been to the clinic, took his dose and has his bottle for tomorrow, Sunday. He doesn’t. He didn’t.

It’s bright outside in the daylight. Ground Hog Day. S retreats into his bedroom to burrow under the covers. Even though it’s Spring it’s going to be a long winter. May 17th, May 31st, June 7th, June 14th….every fucking Saturday.

I want some laughter, some lightness, some relief. I’m fine. Really. But a part of me is dead. Dead atop the rage, the pure blind rage, the dying light, the grief. Youth, squandered. Age, imminent. Here.

And all the days I didn’t drag you out and fling away the needles and envelopes and carry you into the waiting arms of the EMT’s and follow their screaming sirens and you. Who cared if it was against your will? Who was I to take your will into consideration when it was my job, my job, my job to protect you? Who takes that pain away? No one.

I swear to God, if you die with a needle in your arm I will never forgive myself. I will never stop raging against not the light but myself. My rage will be boundless, and my grief. And never again will I bring forth green life in the permanent and barren winter my life will becom