Author: poetryfest

I have a strange feeling I may leave tonight,
Quick and quiet as I lay dreaming.

Recently, I’ve reacquainted myself with nature
And I’ve decided that when I die
I’d like to become a willow tree
Standing strong and beautiful
Like I always wished I could be.

I’d like to become one with the Earth
To return my breath to the world
Be shade in the sun,
Flower in the spring.

To everyone who loved me,
Plant me in a silent place
And let my branches grow long
So I may provide shelter to any who need it.

Let lovers sit beneath me
And carve their hearts into my bark
So that I may feel the pain and passion
Of loves I never had.

Let those with sorrow find solace within my leaves
And if they weep, I will weep with them
My branches will guard and comfort them
And eventually, send them back out into the world.

To everyone I loved,
Plant me in the dead of night
Visit me under the stars
Hear me in the midnight breeze

At night, I was alive

Twilight from Tenebrae candlelight eves
the light of the world, extinguished leaves.
the lamb of God empaled sins relieves
forgiveness given, believer grieves.
Christians worship, prayer, meditation,
silent exaltation, saved among thieves.

You write about the gutter
But you’ve never tasted pavement.

Black magic is everywhere
Especially in your head.

Stop thinking clever like
It doesn’t suit you.

And never forget that
God gave man writing
To put
Confusion
In its head.

There’s no almost in life
So just quit
Before you get beat.

Time’s up
Did you screw up

I’m losing sense of who I am
I do not know who to become

The stale garments upon my skin, my matted hair, accompanied by the stench of my body, cultivate a pathetic sight that would make many happy.

Desire is a privilege I could not reward myself with, not with this state of mind.

When I was younger, I was rife with rage.
That rage grounded me. I bottled it all in because I knew if I let it out, I would never win
Anger rewards you with nothing but shame and regret.

I remain irritated easily, I cannot temper it, apathy displeases me
I chew on more than I can bite, often choking on the burdens I carry
Some are mine, others borrowed
Perhaps it has turned into a delicacy; I would rather digest some peace of mind instead.

I promised myself freedom, but it kept being delayed by circumstances out of my control
I want a say in fate, too. Because the universe does not know what to do.

The waves tenderly coax me, like a siren luring a sailor into her arms to drown in the blue of the endless tide. And oh, the sea, with all its grandeur, how could I contend? How dare I compare?
A caress on my back
A hold on my hand
I wet my lips, tasting sand
Still, when cut, I bleed like a man. And it is not all in my head—I was born between salt and foam. I would know, the way I know this anchor pulling at my leg. “Lament dressed in dignity,” my grandmother once said. Although few conversations we had, she often repeated the phrase, alongside a saying that goes: “Hope is a poor man’s coin.” This and pride are all we have. With that, one must accept never possessing anything else.

When I’m lost in pain and stormy skies,
You’re there with love in your gentle eyes.
Your silken hair, like a calming breeze,
Rests on my shoulder, puts my heart at ease.

The tide of your breath, so warm, so near,
Calms my heart, makes the world clear.
Since the day I drowned in your deep sea,
I’ve touched new heights, set my spirit free.

I’ve written about you before, typed pages and
pages
about you and I.
It has been years since we last spoke, longer since meeting
but I think of you often.
The woman next to me is nothing like you
at all,
and that is good.

Yet often in those intrusive stale, steely hours between
wake and sleep
dream and nightmares
insanity and lucid thought,
you come creeping back like Germans
over the Alsatian line.

The crickets amongst pallid wind whisper
you over the cut lawns and framed homes.
You drove me mad and I drove you away,
word by word
cruel act after cruel act
lie
by
lie.

Reflecting on previous poesy
immature and false it was,
I now know the fool some folly
and can testify to those
dubious and duplicitous acts
so many sunsets ago
as Oahu dimmed a dangerous red.

Green, Green, Green…
Gone.
Light blue skies-
Grey gas.
Swimming, Happy fish-
They surfaced.
Beautiful, icy glaciers-
Warmth.
Warmer and warmer.
Is it hot in here to you guys?
Coughing, and coughing
My lungs feel full.
Not full of fresh air.
But full of it.
Full of this indecency.
Pick up your trash!
Go for a walk!
Take a break from driving for a bit!
You deserve it!
So does the environment,
So does the world.
Reduce, reuse, recycle!
It’s not just a jingle
We need to commingle.
A Community
together,
It is not a one-person job.
A solution for pollution,
Hopefully, soon, or we will be robbed
Robbed of this once beautiful Earth
Here for us to enjoy and love.
But there’s love no more
Slowly Dwindling,
Dwindling,
Dwindling,
And Gone.

Poverty
Isn’t the story they sell you.
It’s not just the guy on the street
with a sign and stare.
It’s your neighbor who turns off the lights early
to save on the bill.
It’s the kid in class
who’s always never hungry at lunch.

It’s working two jobs
and still falling short.
It’s being told
“just work harder”
by people who’ve never had to choose between groceries or gas.

It’s shame that whispers,
not screams.
Struggles hidden by wide smiles.
Hope stretched thin
like the paycheck
fully spent
before it even came.

But poverty isn’t weakness.
It’s survival in slow motion.
It’s power in worn-down shoes.
And we’re done pretending
this is normal.

Drawn by hype I raced
to a planned encounter,
with a pony-tailed wayfarer,
who dragged a rake,
through virgin sand.

His native motifs,
scratched on low tide’s grainy canvas,
received no accolades,
drew no crowds,
just me.

The artist, indifferent,
I, disappointed and duped, retreat—
contemplating another gallery,
another day.

But, there!

Lithely swaying sea oat brushes
hold tiny droplets of orange pigment.

On wings of softest parchment,
droplets float silently from brush to brush,
barely touching the canvas,
like weightless ballerinas moving from partner to partner,
unbound by morning sky…
The monarchs fly!

One solitary artist
drew me to a chance encounter
in a random studio
nestled in the dunes.

And the masterpiece!

I gave you a home,
patched the cracks where others had broken you,
fed you love like it was bread,
like hunger could be starved out of a person.

You said you were sorry.
You said you were done chasing ghosts,
but I heard the whispers,
saw the way your phone lit up
like a lighthouse in the dark.
And I knew.

Did he feel like silk?
Did he taste like freedom?
Was he softer, warmer—
did he call you by names
that didn’t carry my weight?

I was never enough, was I?
Not when I bled for you,
not when I forgave you,
not when I called your son my own.

You took everything.
Every damn thing.
And left me with the hollowed-out shell of a man
too tired to start over.

So, I ended it.
Not in rage—no, rage is quick and sloppy.
I ended it with the same steady hands
that once traced your spine
and built a life around you.

Now you are mine,
in the only way that lasts.

Forever.