Author: poetryfest

Time fractures
in the ancient sting of a needle,
where blood becomes a game
to free the fallen self.

I am the echo of a lost yesterday,
the vanishing breath of today,
the unborn pulse of a tomorrow
that will never arrive.

Death dances
in the final stupor—
a trembling hush
where even memory
refuses to breathe.

Life flickers
in a haze of forgetting,
a kiss blooming
inside oblivion’s dark bloom.

And then—
from this broken script,
a child is born.

She lives the rhythm
of her mother’s pulse:
through the bruises,
through the blurs,
through the silenced claim of death.

She carries the syringe
like an heirloom
and dreams
in the language
of scars.

Two sketchers scratch their pencils
In an otherwise empty room
They fire off a cannon
But I can’t hear the boom

Oh, you look so radiant
Like polished cobblestone
In seal and silver gradients
And ashen monochrome

Gray like asphalt, the road you take
Gray like a blizzard’s last snowflake
Gray like pigeons in the air
Gray like my grief, gray like my despair

You’re moondust in my fingers
And you still smell like smoke
My eyes fog, and I tear up
My misery’s evoked

Gray like stairs that rise to heaven
Gray like two thirds rounding to point seven
Gray like elephants and their tusks
Gray as you’re reduced to dust

Dull pencils tracing graphite
In the outline of a tomb
They fire off a cannon
Now I can hear the boom

Blue / blue / his face was blue / he wasn’t breathing / screaming / mom was screaming / 911 / 911 / someone call 911/ hello what’s your emergency / my father isn’t breathing / do you know how to do cpr / no / okay press on his chest / count with me / 1 2 3 4 / 1 2 3 4 / 1 2 3 4 / 1 2 3 4 / he was still blue / why wasn’t he breathing / so pale / so blue / lifeless / dead / dead / dead / ambulance is here / it’ll be okay / my heart is in my throat / he can’t die / he can’t die / what would I do without him / he’s my whole world / dead / dead / paramedic sprays something up his nose / narcan / it’s narcan / oh no / oh no / did he relapse / he starts breathing / where did he get the drugs / why would he do this to me / he’ll always be a recovering addict / he won’t be able to outrun the blue man forever / blue man / blue man / I’ll still love him forever though / he’s my whole world / I’m nothing without him / blue / blue / my world is blue

I did not account for
the complication of dreams. I
want to be truthful to
you, which of course means
to the self. There is
a part of me that
knows that the still-sleeping-before-coffee self
is the self. but the
day-self is relentless and convincing.
The alone-self is the self,
I know. I know there
is no truth, just well
spoken logic. Just powerpoints and
sample products: the simple power
of holding a model of a
velvet hummingbird in our hands.

New Delhi 3 wheelers
lean maniacal turns
on raging roadways

Krishna, Vishnu, Hanuman
Rama and Shiva dolls
lean off flimsy mirrors

preposterous horns
blare a maddening drone
lurching plastic Gods a whiplash pleasure

drenched in sweat and smog
jousting open air taxis give way to
a polished Bentley oozing a heaven unimaginable

Tuk Tut drivers
however notice
something more impressive

on the luxurious dashboard
wiggles a large Ganesha doll
divining one golden transport.

Paper: perfect.
White paper, crisp paper.
I, Pretty paper palace purged of imperfection.

Paper: flawless.
Sharp paper, clean paper.
I, Clean cut canvas of creativity.

Paper: held.
Held?
Slipping…

Paper: lost.
Flying paper, tumbling paper.
I, Soaring, swooping, shredding, screaming.

Paper: fallen.
Dirty paper, crumpled paper.
I, Caked with crust and covered in cuts.

Paper: ugly.
Muddy paper, grubby paper.
I, Hideous, homeless, haggled.
Help?

Paper: found.
Picked up paper, moving paper.
Little girl giggles, grabs. Going. Gone.

Paper: embarrassed.
Yucky paper, ripped paper.
I, To be tossed to terror and—
Wait.
I, Taped with girl’s twinkling smiles of potential?

Paper: healing.
Broken paper, learning paper.
I, Watching worlds whisper new words of meaning.

Paper: growing.
Drawn paper, coloured paper.
I, Scribbled with sensations of silly stardust.

Paper: magnificent.
Blooming paper, bursting paper.
I, Broken yet beautiful, different yet divine.
I, Nameless novel. Not nothing nor ever nothing.
Original paper, proud paper.
I, Paper: perfectly imperfect

I think I wish you
were a canker sore on my
tongue; sweet and stinging.

When it’s all over,
thank the Lord for the exposure.
For tumult on soil, camouflaged soldiers —
infants in torture, and deafening culture.

For suits spewing sludge, clad in magnanimous awe,
punching the button to enact martial law.
Will we all spring? Or have we seen fall?
Give us discernment to note You above all.

We’re agents of will, we hunt for what’s true —
ignorant of the barrier we’re called to break through.
Thank You…
for each truth, though troubled, received by the few
fortunate enough to forfeit life at the pew.

These youth are the future,the only right future.
Because they believe in you, because they believe in the truth.
As your power works through their bodies and minds,
all other feelings subside.

As you have saved, as you have healed, we will kneel,
kneel to the sky,
and cry out your name in glory.
With no shame or guilt.
Only the sturdy temple you’ve built,
a temple of hope and determination.

Praying away all wrongs,
as you died on that cross in return for our sins.
All of the victories you have won on behalf of us.
When you-my god are the true creator, the true maker of everything.
The great miracles you create.
Day by day.
Hour by hour.
Minute by minute.
Second by second.
We will no longer be reluctant, to explore the truth, to explore more of you.
And never stop faithfully following because we were made for you.
And for you we will serve, your message we’ll preserve.

For we constantly learn,
oh God how much we want you, how much we crave you.
As you cast away temptation, our faith shall never be taken,
not from us, not for granted, and not for the souls of a dying world.

May this town be blessed, blessed with the Holy Spirit my Lord.
Blessed as you hear them roar, roar a song of prayers.
Like a raging River-unstoppable,
only controlled by the almighty.
As their spirits light up and their lives’ change,
and their hope finally stays.
Coming from you the source,
the source of it all.
Making sure none of your children fall.
Calling them to their purpose, to the father of their nurture.
Only one in this room who is deserving, and that is you.
My lord, my savior,my truth

Thou art the melismatic chant of monks,
whose echoes haunt the stone walls with a splendour
near loosening the clutch on the bloodied crux;
as winter’s simple suffrage’s cold vapour
has voiced thy names, again and yet again,
I see the snowflakes falln upon thy lashes,
thou lean against the arcade’s gothic column,
with sighs that still must pass beyond those lips…
dissenting eyes so soft from meditation,
thy sooty robe confesses sleepless nights—
thou lift thy head as I turn yellow pages,
how long until the clapper clangs the bell?
The elements have allied in my plight,
sun, withdraw your light from beetle eyes,
and plotting winds, fly now from fluffy hair,
assailing hearts, like gulls the fisherman,
this trial, O Lord, has put me in Thy care.