Author: poetryfest

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

When they’re all screaming my name—
Giving me praise, calling me a hero,
All it does is drive me insane.

My comrades died on the battlefield,
And only I remain.

That horrific, unforgettable day—
I still hear the screams we made
As the enemy opened fire,
Ripping apart men,
Crying and dying.

We returned fire in the bullet exchange,
And in less than an hour,
Three hundred enemies laid …
So did nineteen of my buddies,
Who joined them in the grave.

And now—
My life will never be the same.

They don’t tell you
that the first time
doesn’t always look like the movies.
No neon rave,
no smoky rebellion.
Sometimes,
it’s an older cousin
saying,
“Come on, just hit it,”
at a party
in a shipping container
in some stranger’s backyard-
the music too loud,
the stars too quiet,
your heartbeat
pretending not to panic.

“You’ll like how this one feels.”
And you believe them
because trust wears the same cologne as safety
and fear takes a backseat
when you’re already empty.

It didn’t taste like poison.
It didn’t scream “danger.”
It whispered,
relief.

Warmth bloomed behind my eyes
like the world finally exhaled with me.
I thought,
Damn… this is what quiet feels like.

No fireworks,
just the sound of silence
finally being gentle.

They don’t tell you
how fast that silence
starts talking back.
How comfort becomes a hook,
and suddenly,
you’re chasing the echo
of a first time
that never comes back.

1. Throwing birthday parties
for immortal jellyfish

2. Dropping and blooming flower petals,
icing water like a cake

3. Wringing out the clouds
like your grandma’s dish towel

4. Piercing a straw straight into
the grape, stealing the first drink of wine

5. Rewinding orange juice pulp,
reminding it of its other exquisite faces

6. Putting fairy lights in the abyss
so translucent fish can witness their lovers

7. Naming all of the groups of things,
like an exaltation of larks

8. Tucking in the inchworms,
around cold and beautiful tombstones

9. Placing colors you can’t see
in their indigo and seafoam homes

10. Blowing kisses and lifting
Earth up in the shy desert

11. Turning the sun on so we can see
animals make love in the dark

Empty,
like old notebooks-
your name in the margin,
smudged by a tear I pretended
wasn’t.

Inspired by Psalm 135

Accept,
this broken plea, dear Lord,
who saved me once more,
a poor, forlorn, mud-caked soldier,
whose anchor, deep in this trench, is You.

O God, You reign!
My spirit cries to You
all day long.
Your cover fire,
a stream of grace.

In my lowly foxhole,
deep in Donbas’ cold soil,
my slow, quiet prayer, You heard,
and shouted Your orders,
they were followed.

Unrivaled King,
beyond all compare,
sovereign through ageless ages,
through time without end.

That all the nations
shall adore Your fair face,
praise Your name.
But now, O gracious Lord,
lead me home.

Teach my feet to march –
Your true way,
Your love, an iron dome,
shields me with Your grace,
from the chilly, deep grave
You drew me through.

Hurry Up! Get Angry!
Save Ukraine from their dark foe,
Let Russia, a dire-wolf, go extinct,
Then rise anew, its rule made true,
Forever bound and one with You.

sometimes i wonder if i am a barbie
a figment of a person
pretend
and the little girl playing with me
is bashing my head against a wall
or drowning me in a bathtub
i can’t figure it out
but it doesn’t feel like i am my own
somehow moved through this world
despite fighting against current after current
constantly thrown another curveball
pitted in the stomach, blow after blow
caught in life’s undertow
my face melting from the heat of it all
now disfigured and unwanted
stuffed into a drawer, forgotten
body aching, bones shaking
but i’m not real
so what’s it matter what i feel