Author: poetryfest

Follow me from mountains borne
From marshes rare, green
And paths well worn
And I shall show you a riveting brook
That babbles from the deep,
All the secrets you hold so dear
All the lies you try to keep.

Follow from Titania’s flowery bed,
Where the fool with asses’ ears still lays
Come swift, come wise, like Bonnie Janet wed
Forget your cloak, let passion smoke
The nights cool dim creates diamonds within
As proof of love’s eternal blaze

The stars above are my haven, you see
The world below is far too cruel
We dance to drum and fife while mortals cry and plea
From the realm beyond the ring of toadstools

O, leave the day and cares away
Diane’s foresters’ are we
Merry castaways all, heed not curtain call,
When the young prince cries, “The play is the thing!”
Live the sweet dream, for players we be
Strumming, mocking fate as Orpheus sings
The mortal truth, life is never free
Sit with me,
Have a pomegranate seed.
And dance with us, till your eternal sleep.

Follow me from mountains borne
From marshes rare, green
And paths well worn
And I shall show you a riveting brook
That babbles from the deep,
All the secrets you hold so dear
All the lies you try to keep.

What is the most beautiful thing you saw recently? How did it make you feel? 𝔫𝔞𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔢
𝔑𝔞𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔢 𝔞𝔱 𝔦𝔱𝔰 𝔣𝔦𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔱,
𝔑𝔞𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔢 𝔢𝔫𝔧𝔬𝔶𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔦𝔳𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔪𝔬𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔰,𝔑𝔞𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔢 𝔦𝔰,
𝔦𝔱𝔰 𝔞𝔟𝔬𝔲𝔱 𝔴𝔥𝔞𝔱’
𝔰 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔞𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔤,
𝔑𝔞𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔞𝔩 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔞 𝔑𝔞𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔞𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱,
𝔞𝔰 𝔦𝔣 𝔦𝔱𝔰 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔞𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔤,
𝔠𝔞𝔫 𝔦𝔱 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔟𝔢 𝔯𝔢𝔭𝔩𝔞𝔠𝔢𝔡 𝔞𝔰 𝔦𝔱𝔰 𝔯𝔢𝔭𝔩𝔞𝔠𝔦𝔫𝔤,𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔯𝔲𝔦𝔫𝔰,
𝔭𝔦𝔠𝔨𝔦𝔪𝔤 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔠𝔥𝔬𝔬𝔰𝔦𝔫𝔤,
𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔤,
𝔳𝔬𝔩𝔲𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔞𝔰 𝔦𝔱 𝔯𝔦𝔰𝔢𝔰,
𝔡𝔬𝔫’
𝔱 𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔭 𝔴𝔥𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔦𝔰 𝔱𝔬 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢.
𝔅𝔢𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔡
𝔎𝔦 𝔨𝔦

Incandescent lights above terracotta statues
Paint stoic faces yellow;

They stand in near-perfect lines
as a wall of glass separates them
from nameless men in white shirts
with a nation’s emblem on their left breast.

The men hammer words into their ears
through a circular hole;
Papers fly toward a mud face
through a waist-height slit in the glass.

Sun dried clay falls back
like an array of dominoes;
Terracotta heads meet the tile
as brown-faced dreams scatter across the floor.

When you’re denied
All of the nice things in life
It stings

Try to alleviate that pain
With your favorite poison
A promising painter did that

He died
Yet his apartment
Went up in flames

But his painting of me
Remained untouched
By the flames

When denied
All things becomes
Pins and needles

It happened to me countless times
When I am applying for a job
Or submitting literary works

For free with no money
All I can do is get high
On pain

Because I love pain
So much
I bottle it up

I wonder how
It feels when you gain acceptance
It feels good

They said
After being accepted
For their works

Gaining all of the fame, the fortune and fan adoration
For all the right reasons
Or the wrong reasons

If not scampering on a tree
and for its long and bushy tail,
it could be a chipmunk.

It must be a young kit
just out of the nest.
But how boldly it scurries
up and down our old poplar!

Now, down on the ground,
it pauses, looks about, sniffs—
fearful, excited, curious?—
roves through the grass,
stops, crouches, then springs,
leaps onto the birdbath
in one fluent bound,
perches lithely on the rim,
pauses, smells, inspects,
flicks its reddish tail,
dips its head to the water,
and drinks . . .
and drinks . . .
and drinks . . .

So small, so quick, so thirsty!
Weaned from mother’s milk,
its thirst for life still unquenched,
it now guzzles thirstily
from nature’s wellspring,
to nourish the surging vitality
of supple young sinews and organs
and to savor novel sensations:
the discoveries, fears, and delights
of its first furtive forays
out of the nest into the world,
a skittish, quivering plunge into
the vibrant, mysterious flow of life.

Maybe it’s flaunting its agility,
proving its incipient skills,
showing off its fragile beauty
for its mother, who is watching—
fearfully, anxiously, proudly?–
from a far-off treetop nest.
And for another mother,
gazing through the window
as she sips her breakfast tea.

For the first guy I’ve ever liked,
I dreamed of marrying him in Disney
I planned out a wedding and everything
But of course nothing happened, I was three
He thought I was a weirdo which I was
And threw out all the cards I gave him

The second guy I’ve ever liked
I fell for him HARD
I became friends with his friends
I was pretty much a wildcard
I fell for too long and eventually
He told his friends that he didn’t like me

The third guy I’ve ever liked I drove INSANE
I watched baseball and came to every single game
He loved baseball more than he could love me
I was too blind to see that unfortunately

The fourth guy I’ve ever liked was my friend from school
About 6 foot 4, and everyone thought “he’s cool.”
I learned all the tricks and the games in lacrosse
Until he found a girl, she bullied me, then hope was lost

The fifth guy I’ve liked, I have nothing bad to say
He’s so precious and kind, and good in everyway
Except for the fact that he’s so handsome I didn’t stand a chance
He met a girl named Lily and she’s his date to the dance
For this guy I didn’t do much except trying to look pretty,
Because I started comparing myself to Lily.
I realized through him I need to grow up from fantasy
Because boys like him will never love me.

The sixth guy I’ve liked was a pain in my ass
If life was an airplane he’d be in first class
Tight end linebacker of my emotions
I studied his religion and tried to
make love potions
He was even worse than guy three
Was, is, and will forever be

The seventh guy I’ve liked is who I like now
He’s also out of reach, but closer somehow
I’ve started eating healthier, hoping to slim down
But that just leads to late night indulging
I like him so much but he’s in love with someone else
So i just sit here waiting like an elf on the shelf
Wishing he’ll see something in myself
He’s too flirty with me to set me
And I don’t think I want to get set free

“Don’t let the ice cycles fall on you, it will hurt.” my mother yells as they fall from the shingles in the cold and frosty winter weather.

That memory plays in my mind like a broken record. Here I sit holding an ice cycle just as sharp as the ones That I used to stick my tongue to just for fun and games. Except I’m not playing no games and I’m not having no fun. These cycles are not falling from above and my mother’s warning is almost but a faint whisper in the back of my mind.

Your color such a beautiful clear almost light blue that blends with the sky above shining like the melted crystal I have in this cycle. Except my tongue doesn’t stick to this one and I can’t feel it’s frost on my finger tips.

every one of you so unique in its own way, beautiful as a sight to behold in the December morning air. Yet as I’m getting older it’s becoming true that the beauty in your design becomes the same with the color change I see when you fall Onto me while the glass pane in front of me stops your fresh winter air from healing my lungs.

My mother’s warning is silenced as the tip of the ice cycle Peirces my skin like the warm cup of cocoa I once held when I came Inside after admiring your beautiful glacial cycles for the last time. Here I sit as the last memory I have of u Fades as slow as the warm icy liquid I’ve come to know takes hold of my mind and soul as it races its way through my veins all because I didn’t listen to mother and I let the ice cycles fall straight into me.

As a Young girl I used to admire your Wonderous glacial Beauty from afar But it was never enough so I let you fall onto me.

And mother I promise you, these ones don’t hurt they scare the hurt away.. ❄

I sit in St Mary’s Aldermar Church
It’s bustling with remote workers, businesspeople and students.
They have all gathered
to work and study and sip coffee
within a church.

I think back to my childhood
I was raised roman catholic
But my sexuality confused my relationship with god
A whole other tale to get into
I’m not ready to open that door now
I simply want to watch

It’s complete with a café, a souvlaki bar and burrito station
What world have I walked into?
I didn’t know –
Churches could be multi-purpose
Not to this extent

In my church growing up, there was only the alters, pews and aisle
A few leaflets by the door, next to the holy water
And baskets of straw crosses, only on ash Wednesday
It was so simple, so pure, yet this church is apparently a place
Where worshippers gather too?

I am in one of the pews
There’s a coffee table within it
I can order a latte
And converse with the saints
All at once

I watch the aisle and think of my confirmation
When my faith was a part of my life
I watch and see myself as a teenager
In my dress with flowers in my hand
Walking up to take the holy communion from father willam

In my neighbouring pew an interview is occurring
A girl demonstrates her theories of corporate escalations
Whilst the interviewers jot down notes and
Stare at her half blankly

The chains of love
Need never be
It isn’t love
If it isn’t free

(Anonymously Written for Sting, Homage To His “Dream of the Blue Turtles”)

I walk in an agonized spiral
I’m brooding for something insane
The spectres of living are with me
They chide me and ride me to pain.

Through windows the city breathes nightsong
And still it seems eons away
The Lights of the Dark are well living
And I should want to belong to their rays.

But still I’m alone
Inside this great home.

The curtain is blazing with starlight
The night speaks of wanting for day
The tantrum of faraway storm-burst
Seeks my ear as its sub-sonic prey.

Yes I stand in this house, a loner
The rooms wrap around me in vain.
There’s no one I’d care to ring-up, now
No comfort to find for my brain.

In colour of dawn comes the longing
The end of the night and its song.
Another goodbye and removal
With tea standing hot into long.