Author: poetryfest

POEM:

FONTAINEBLEAU, FRANCE
OUR LADY OF THE ROSARY
7 OCTOBER 1887

I.
Through these old wooden doors, I welcome you,
To tell you my tale and give you the facts.
This seems the most sensible thing to do—
For it is not only me it impacts.
I became ordained as a Friar to
Obey the ten laws, just as God commands.
I have abstained from any impure acts—
Just as my sacramental vow demands.

II.
I shall now remove the hood from my head
With hopes that my audience understands—
In the evening, as each vesper is said,
I pray at the altar with folded hands,
On sleepless nights, I rise up from my bed,
And pace these silent floors the whole night through.
The countrymen know me throughout these lands
As Friar Jean-Louis of Fontainebleau.

III.
In a field near Avignon, I was born
To a poor family who owned a farm.
I used to roam through acres filled with corn,
When my youthful days were sunny and warm.
I played in clothes that were tattered and torn,
With no trouble to be found anywhere.
Then, one day, a fire brought terrible harm
Upon the farmhouse while I was not there!

IV.
With no home, nor family, I was sent
From place to place until I was seven.
Traveling across the country, I went
To live in Bordeaux at age eleven.
Devoted to studies, my time was spent
With books to help me overcome my loss.
I thought of my family in heaven,
And lived at the Church of the Holy Cross.

V.
When I finally reached my eighteenth year,
It was time for my studies to advance.
My mentors hoped that I would remain near,
And stay in our blessed homeland of France.
I read the letter with a joyful tear—
Feeling my life was given a rebirth—
The university gave me the chance
To remain in Bordeaux and prove my worth!

VI.
Taking on studies of divinity,
I began working the following fall—
Reading about the Holy Trinity,
And learning about the churches in Gaul—
I roamed the grounds of the vicinity,
And kept the teachings of the Lord alive.
Once I was ordained, I received a call
To Fontainebleau in Eighteen Eighty-Five.

VII.
Once my journey to Fontainebleau was done,
I moved into this old monastery.
At times, I felt distanced from everyone—
Except when I walked to the library.
One day, along the way, I met a nun—
A schoolteacher—Claudia was her name!
The step to her walk was light and merry,
And fully intrigued with her I became!

VIII.
Even though in love, anyone would say
I’ve maintained the life of a loyal priest.
I saw her outside her schoolhouse one day,
Located close to Avon, to the east.
I stood and watched the students and her play—
Then left for home to practice my singing.
In honor of a royal Lenten feast,
I heard the Château bells faintly ringing.

IX.
On the way back, she remained on my mind,
I thought about her teaching her classes.
How she kept her dark hair neatly designed,
And the deep blue eyes behind her glasses.
Her beauty and elegance were refined—
She put a lot of work into her looks.
I envisioned her attending Masses
On Sundays, walking with a stack of books.

X.
I imagined her precious smile shining
During her younger days at the convent—
With other nuns, at a table dining,
While celebrating the days of Advent.
And often was I privately pining
Over why we were distanced for so long.
I cannot regret how my time was spent—
For men to love women should not be wrong!

XI.
I accept that I am a mortal man,
And have learned how to reap what I have sown.
I endure all the heartache that I can,
When I dream of her, then awake alone!
This all seems far more honorable than
Giving up a lifetime of devotion!
The thought of that chills me down to the bone,
And hence, I have abandoned that notion.

XII.
With all the dues I had chosen to pay—
Love had stricken me speechless from the start—
I know I should see her some other way,
Than if she were a living work of art!
The very words I wished one day to say,
I kept to myself, as anyone would.
Although, if she could see inside my heart
To know I would marry her if I could!

XIII.
Fifty years ago, in the Château, where
Duke Philippe and Duchess Hélène once stood—
For them, it was a matter of fanfare—
Something they had done for the common good!
They assembled royalty here and there,
And from standard traditions they did stray—
Celebrating twice more than what they should—
They were wed three times in one single day!

XIV.
Their first wedding took place in the ballroom,
Which under the second Herni was made.
It was here where the bride met with her groom,
And here, their undying love was displayed.
It was Étienne-Denis Pasquier whom
Had united them in matrimony.
All around the ballroom, nobody prayed—
As this was the civil ceremony.

XV.
In the chapel was their second wedding—
The one of the Holy Trinity named.
This service Duchess Hélène was dreading—
As it was Protestantism she proclaimed!
Slowly down the aisle, they began heading,
Making sure their image did not falter.
Along the ceiling, each painting was framed,
And the bishop waited at the altar.

XVI.
Their third one was within the royal hall
Filled with large columns from floor to ceiling.
The elegant paintings upon each wall
Helped to maintain the majestic feeling.
It seemed like a good time was had by all
When Pastor Cuvier wed them again!
Visually, it looked quite appealing—
Yet, many must have been hiding their strain.

XVII.
I lament never having had a wife,
While others marry as much as they choose!
I know that this is all part of my life—
And my sacred vows I cannot abuse!
I must pause from vocalizing my strife—
As the Château bells now ring in the hour.
I take this chance to reflect and bemuse
Throughout the tolling of the bell tower.

XVIII.
As God once had instructed all mankind,
I must continue to labor and toil.
Fortune allowed me a true love to find,
Before I am buried beneath Earth’s soil.
With beauty, she is crafted and designed—
I could never ask for anything more.
To help to ease my internal turmoil,
I began leaving flowers at her door.

XIX.
First, I must mention how this came about—
As this next specific part of the tale
Began early last spring, when I went out
With my fishing pole and a wooden pail.
Heading to the canal in search of trout,
I happened to walk past Claudia’s school.
I saw an older nun—looking quite frail—
Knocking at the front door with her ferule.

XX.
The very sight at first had startled me,
When she handed Claudia a letter—
Her older brother had been lost at sea—
As she read, her eyes kept getting wetter.
After I watched her weeping with a plea,
I built a bouquet of mercy—and chose
Forget-me-nots to help her feel better—
Rather than sending a single red rose.

XXI.
As the days, weeks, and months continued on,
I maintained my duties to comfort her—
I prayed for her suffering to be gone,
And hoped bringing her flowers would ensure.
The summer had turned to autumn anon,
And the classes soon resumed at her school—
At this point in the tale, I must infer,
I clumsily had made myself a fool!

XXII.
One time, as I was dropping off her gift,
Just when I presumed that the coast was clear—
I watched a frosted window quickly lift,
And behind it, her students gathered near!
My retreat was immediate and swift—
With the Château bells announcing my fate!
I then returned to my chambers in fear,
And sat at my window, to watch and wait!

XXIII.
Just this morning, in the crisp autumn frost,
I saw the footprints of the blessed nun!
Along the courtyard grass, a path was glossed
With her rapid steps—but not quite a run.
I rubbed my eyes, then my blankets I tossed—
When, from my upstairs room, I heard a sound.
As I opened the doors in the bright sun,
There was a basket of bread on the ground.

XXIV.
She left a bottle of wine for a toast—
In my confusion, I looked all around.
The note under the bottle mattered most—
Telling me her lost brother had been found!
He was located on an Irish coast—
After several months of being lost!
This discourse has allowed me to expound
Upon this tale of how our lives had crossed.

Performed by Val Cole

—–

POEM:

To the tune of Yesterday-With apologies to Paul McCartney

Yoga pants
I spend half my life in yoga pants
don’t do yoga, I don’t even dance
oh, I just live in yoga pants

Wintertime
cold outside but I don’t have to freeze
Used to garden in my dungarees
but yoga pants have set me free

Yoga pants
at the wash –I give a lonesome glance
in my robe it’s just an awkward stance
waiting for my yoga pants

My best years ahead
I have thrown out all my jeans
no more
zips and snaps
I’ve made peace with my ice cream

Ring the bell
friends at the door and I just have to tell
all the glories of my circumstance
oh I believe in yoga pants

The daughter speaks of him.
He hears the words falling on his grave.
There is nothing he can do but shift in the soil.

Night after night the dead look to the stars and God displays their lives in every sparkling disk,
from birth to death repeating their Godless existence.

In January snow covers the mounds of dirt,
that separate the living and the dead.
He hears the crunch of feet walking above him.
The branches on the trees rise up and down,
the sound is like an angel’s sigh.

Is that you? He asks

In spring he bathes in wet earth. Birth is everywhere.
Babies push to life dropping from their mother’s womb,
green nubs on trees cutting through hard branches,
Tulips and Crocuses straining to break the seal of winter.

Summer, he hears voices here and there, tending to their dead.
There is no life above him, no cries of grief. Only weeds grow above his bones.
Fall is the loneliest time. The wind wails and the graves that have no mourners weep.

The daughter’s voice is weak, frayed as a tattered garment.

There are questions in your voice.
In the life I’ve lived, I can answer nothing.
What words will heal your life?
Is it just my speaking you long to hear?
I will grab a crow from the sky and teach it my voice.
But is it the truth you want? There is no truth that I know of.
There are only facts.
Do you still want to know?

There are sounds above him. A breath of wind whistles through the cracks of his endless death.

Is that you? He asks.

All of us walk through this land that is so dark and malicious. We get tangled in the roots
of the trees, some try to end their suffering by grabbing the feathery tendrils and wrapping them around their necks. They soon learn that you can’t kill the dead.
69

Occasionally the light from the living world shines down on us
and the shadows of our bones tremble.

Can you hear me? Or am I only talking to this stale air I breathe in? There is a muffled cry above me. Did a fledgling fall from its nest?

Is that you?

He promised her his voice, so he hands her a memory.

Mother kept an album page after page of a perfect family.
None of it was true. The bruises didn’t show in the black and white photographs.
After the old man died, I found them crammed into a shoe box. Mother died years before.
His final cruelty towards her. The perfect life she created in that book, abandoned in a box, as messy as our lives had been.
I am fascinated by their stiff gray bodies. There is a photograph of me at eight years old. This was the year life shifted. I no longer held onto that kernel of hope he might change. Reality hit me like a ghost passing through me.
Five years later I found a pint of father’s finest. It was a new world of easy edges and voices that almost sound kind.

A winter storm thunders above him, the wind wrestles a tree from its roots. It lands loudly across his grave.

Is that you? He asks.
At night, in the stars the voices torment me. I remember all of it.
Even If you decorate the grave I lie in, the stench of my sins will kill the blooms you plant.
There is no excuse for the monster I became.

Daughter? He whispers.
Lean over the edge of my grave,
Tell me the life you have.
Death is so quiet I ache to hear a voice.
He leans against the wall of death.
His eyes lift up to the life above him hoping to see just a touch of her shadow,
but he only sees eternal darkness.
Rain steadily taps on his grave.

Is that you?

Performed by Val Cole

Editor & Visual Design by Steve Rizzo

Produced by Matthew Toffolo

Performed by Val Cole

—
POEM:

Mirroring myself
Only led to broken glass
Pick up the pieces

Stained with memories
Jagged and rusted with tears
Only truth remains

Performed by Val Cole

—
POEM:

Is it better never to have loved at all
Than to have loved and lost in sorrow’s pain,
When love departs on flights to be enthralled
With pleasures of youthful spring again.

That temptation of Eros which beckons,
To shed one’s age and cast love’s old clothes;
And search for the lost spark of heaven
In the sultry skins of fresh blooms of youth.

Oh, to be young again. When youth’s splendor
Enticed men’s ardor to my prime.
Can the fire relight love’s endeavors,
When love is ever fickle over time.

Empty hours now fill the idle days;
Walls deaf to the sound of love’s voice,
A smiling face absent from one’s gaze,
A life devoid of its cheer and joy.

Love that is lost leaves no footprints anywhere,
Nor even a Christmas day to share.

Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

We’d been sailing for months when the isle sprang to view,
grassy it was, and forlorn for sure.
Charts said nothing
of its being here.

We moored near the isle
where I set forth a search,
myself in the lead
of course.

Now I must tell you:

As we crossed from the ship
in our dinghy so frail
I and the crew felt as the first
to do it.

Once to the isle
we spanned its grey length,
uneasiness began to gnaw.

Over a knoll, we found a shanty
(a shack if you will),
aged and weathered and empty.

We entered the structure, and did hope to find
a trace of the makers long past.

When nothing upturned, we checked ’neath the floor
and there we found our prize:

For lying untouched was a jewel so strange,
pea-sized, fine cut, ancient.

Actual stars
of nighttime skies
were easily visible in depths.

Icy winds
blew from its blackness, and a rainbow
wrapped it ’round.

However…

Upon all this,
we returned to the ship
and sailed ever on.

At times I regret our leaving the gem,
but considering the unearthly inhuman design
I was fearful of wrath from Gods or others:

surely such creatures
may have owned it.

It will be there for them when they swiftly return,
if ever they do.

I wonder.

Signed 1242, bleak midwinter
at the pole.

Performed by Val Cole

Editor & Visual Design by Steve Rizzo

Produced by Matthew Toffolo

Performed by Val Cole

Visual Design by Adam Bilyea

Produced by Matthew Toffolo

POEM:

When the time comes you have to spend Christmas alone,
the way to do it is to hit the vigil
service at some strange and distant parish,
and show up drunk.

Drive all morning
Christmas Eve to some god-forsaken
podunk town where you know no one.
Get a room, a greasy diner lunch
and a bottle of Jameson.

(If Irish whiskey
is your go-to, then choose another.
Look for something pleasant but unfamiliar.
Note well: this is not an anesthetic
but a pro-one.)

The two of you
could walk the town a while if you’re
discrete. (Remember, jail is not
the goal, but church.) Take in the sights,
but focus on the whiskey.

If strands
of lights the town has wound around
itself recall some strands of your own
hometown or kin, take off your glasses;
let them blur. (If you don’t wear glasses,
put some on.)

The timely disorientation
of senses, wits, will be your cue
to refind the rented room—you’ll say
to go home. Take care; if you start feeling hostile
you’ve walked or drunk too much.

Now undress
in the middle of the dimly lit but sterile
room just like a million other
rooms, in front of the mirror that’s seen
a thousand naked bodies.

Tidy up
yourself. With greatest ceremony
unbag those finest garments you brought
fresh from the cleaners and wrap yourself
in them as one would a gift.

Now go.
The hour is getting late and you’ll want
to be early. But wait—another sip
and don’t forget your smile, something
to share as you’re filing in.

When the Gloria
comes, oh belt it out with gusto.
You haven’t forgotten the words, but let
Yourself, so you can sing each word
for the first, blessed time.

Go on, belt it out.
They’ll let you know if you’re off key
or too loud, and when they do, though your smile
be overwrought and forced, the liquor
effusing from your pores,

think
of the beautifully ribboned packages
you saw in downtown windows and
remember that you have nothing left
to give, no hopes of receiving

and wish them,
oh heartily wish them (or try) a merry,
a very merry, indeed the merriest
of merry, oh a very merry
if non-traditional
Christmas

Performed by Val Cole

Visual Design by Adam Bilyea

Produced by Matthew Toffolo

—-
POEM:

I’d almost forgotten
Those halcyon days
When sunlight shone
While children played
The softest breeze
Carried only tufts
Of dandelions on the wind

These days we hide
‘Neath metal prisons
Beyond which awaits
More dangerous stuff

Was it all worth our ancestors’ struggle
To win the day with nothing to show but rubble?

If I could go back to those happier times
When we took for granted our peace of mind
I like to think I’d warn against
Such foolishness, such naiveté, such ignorance

This ruined land, this is not peace
Try telling that to those deceased

All it took was one step, one threshold crossed
To curse future generations with crippling loss
So if you read these prophetic words
In a time before, when they might still be heard
Heed them, act, else it be too late
To avoid such a gruesome fate

Age has offered wisdom I can no longer use
You are our future, you are our hope
I beg you don’t waste it
May this final, desperate act aid you in what you choose