Author: poetryfest

A carpet of sweet-scented bluebells,
beneath towering oak and birch,
lies interspersed with wild garlic
and bordered by feathery fern
that seek the sun through scattered rays of light;
their lush, green leaves unfurling
as the forest floor, feverishly, comes to life
and spring begins its annual
awakening

The woman he saw from his childhood often,
He pondered—
She is not even fair and beauty—
When did his heart become so fragile and soften?
Was it her silence, deep as the ocean,
Or the way she was unbothered
By what the world might think of her life and motion?
When did I start to observe her so?
I should condemn my heart before it goes too far.
I’ve witnessed every phase she’s been through,
Watched the life she walked, in joy and scar.
Some claim that love means sharing the good and bad,
But it’s hard when I think of pulling her into my worst and sad.
I’d be glad if she got a life much better—
But I fear, what if I’m wrong and regret it later?
Enough—this inner battle must now settle.
I’ve decided to take her hand in mine
And get over this heart’s restless saddle.
I went to her
And whispered in a gentle manner,
“I wish for your heart—
Give me a chance to heal your broken part.”
Blushing a little,
She answered:
“You really took your time a lot.
Don’t you think you deserve a penance
For all the days we spent apart?”
I cracked a laugh
To ease my nerves—
She really doesn’t know
How fast my heart beats.
It’s a mysteria, I don’t deserve.
She chirped,
“I have a request to tell—
Please hear me once, and hear me well.”
I replied,
“I am yours, as you are mine.
Don’t hesitate—just tell your mind.”
She continued:
“I want to make memories with you—by
Walking down a narrow aisle,
Getting married before the ones
Who gave us birth—and the One who sent us here.
Not just making pictures with those
Who can’t decide whether to forget or forgive,
Or those who never learned ———-
—- How to live or let live.
I want to leave an impression of each moment in this world,
With you—walking along.
I never cared who doesn’t get along.
I don’t want castles or money bills—
Let’s live the rest of our lives in a little cottage down the valley and hills,
With nature and our pet Dolly—
Simple feasts now and then with friends.
And I’ll be so happy.
I know you have many dreams to pursue—
I’ll support them, even if it costs a few.
I know it’s hard for you to open up sometimes,
But I’ll be there—for all your climbs.”
I was astonished by her speech—
She looked puzzled, unsure how I’d react.
So, I gave her a peck on the forehead,
To let her know—
She’s not getting away from me.
Never ever.
Now I know why it happened to my heart…
Indeed, she is not fair and beauty.
She is beyond that—
She is my beautiful fairy

I would desire to sink into your body
deep into the ocean as the titanic sank
Into the Pacific, awake on this body as though on a seashore of the ocean I sank into, the feeling of your warm embrace as I explore this body of island
Your eyes a starlight and when you stare
I could feel the sun rays on this dear skin that sits on my
Bones and drive my desire for yours.
I see you fine brown girl
In twilight’s tender our soul entwined in a secret place
With eyes aflame, we shared a lustful gaze-
A yearning passion that set our hearts ablaze.
Forbidden love, a tempting furtive tape
As our fingers brush igniting fervent fire, a desire whisper rising ever higher. With a stolen kiss, a breathless sigh, we wrote our love in silent fervent verse
In moonlight tender glow at night we found our way.
These two hearts aflame forbidden love’s display,
a passionate lustful union secret and complete In twilight’s arm, our love was bittersweet.
When the war came, we fought, we fought with our words as firearms fired against opponents as in warfront
I would surrender even now to become captive to this love and lust.
But every prisoner seeks true freedom
And every lover seeks true affection.

I work a machine
where I push a bar
connected to a yoga ball—
back and forth I push
to let fish escape a pond.

Out of work for a year
restoring our town’s concrete
foundations after a hurricane,
I’m back on the job,
able to breathe without ringing ears,

with the hope of a day worker
that my exhaustion brings
contentment at day’s end,
a paycheck whittled in the books
by my slim expenses,

with thoughts of summers
by the river, where fish
get their first taste
of headwaters
where they were born to return.

If I was one of those ancient poets with something profound to say, I would’ve written about the rain. By now, all of the good stuff has been taken- the smell that modern science has given a technical and unromantic name, the way the grass gets greener after a shower, the relief of the cool drops on your skin in the summer when the day’s already scorched you half crisp, the powerful thunder and lightning that sometimes flash murals of epic momentary beauty, the sticky feeling of heavy air when a storm is near that we now call humidity. Humidity isn’t a beautiful word, and all the beautiful parts of rain already have poems, so I guess I’ll just say this. I love the rain.

A pair of sunglasses sits in the small open pocket of my passenger door, waiting for use on the sunny days when we go somewhere together. The pocket’s not big enough to serve as a cup holder, but not tight enough to effectively hold any napkins. Just the right fit for the proof of her presence. She tells me the lenses are polarized, and that means they protect her eyes more than other shades. I think her green eyes are the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. She says they hurt too much in bright light. The glasses have a brown turtle pattern and the bottom of the lenses are rounded, ready to sit perfectly atop her nose. During the months that we have to spend apart, they sit, the rattling in the door pocket filling the air that was otherwise filled with her singing. She’s a little pitchy. I am too.

Under Me
I almost didn’t notice the snake
Slithering in the water beneath my feet
As I read on the pier, legs dangling
Towel under me, still damp from yesterday’s swim
If I hadn’t noticed this snake
Would I have seen the second?
The water ripples as it passes
Head above the water, watching
It leaves me wondering
What’s next?

The imitation of Grey Goose.
The scattered books on the floor.
The blueberry edible & the brownie.
The black empty chair.

Three poets dead.

The rectangular red carpet.
The blue sofa with distant flowers.
Your pink backpack.
Unwanted, empty frames.

I’m not alone, Solitude.

My husband misses the woman he married.
I miss her too, especially since
There are parts of her I can’t remember.
I remember her face,
But now I can’t be sure if it was hers.
I remember her strength and smile;
Borrowed and stolen from time.
Her dreams were reachable and real.
Now there are a floating fantasy,
Slipping through my fingers like smoke.
How fitting.
My dreams and the woman I were
Set ablaze and I have the sinking feeling
I am the one who struck the match.

I floated high on the fantasy of ease and comfort,
Only to crash down and scrap my knees
For another cog, another temporary placement,
Another far-fetched belief this will become something.
Something more. Something worthwhile.
Something that makes the cake real.
I bought it, and I need for it to be real.
Otherwise my life will be wasted.
One life; one chance.
And what do I do with it?
I constantly refresh my phone looking to cover
More shifts at work so I can have a chance
To breath freely.

I understand why my husband hates people.
I feel there are moments where he hates me.
Or at least regrets having to take care of me.
What’s worse is I am dependent on him.
I depend on him to love me today, tomorrow, and
Onward.
I know he loves me, but he’s got to be tired
Of dealing with me.
My incessant questions about his day,
My constant hunger,
My compulsion to “fix” whatever I did (real or imaginary),
My messed-up mind.
My strange sense of honor.
My childish dreams of being a writer,
But freezing at the sight of a blank page.

My spending, which I promise has gotten better.
My simple childishness notions about how
Screwed up I am, my family thinking all I
Must do is make him a true patriarch
While I skip along to take classes in the wishful
Delusion that some random certificate
Will birth my dream job.
This coming from the parents who didn’t prepare me
For the eventuality/possibility of having
To face the world alone.
The same parents who when they tried to
Force me to think about life without my husband
Drove me to tears.
The same parents who either can’t or don’t
Understand that every day I am trying to
Make whatever I can to survive.
Two jobs. Writing articles. Donating plasma. Bottle drop.
Everything I do with my husband is to survive
When the world is a nightmare, I am unable to wake up from.
Maybe that’s why my husband is silent and taking
His anger out on video game aliens and terrorists.

I am alone. Just my thoughts until tomorrow.
My husband will be back.
Another voice for me to lose myself into and avoid
The moments in my mind that lure me into self-hatred.
Another body in the apartment that lights up
My darkest days and keeps me tethered to the world.
A nightmare alone, but a hero’s journey with him.

We are both survivors;
Our pasts broke us.
We nicked our fingers gluing ourselves back together.
Some pieces we are still looking for.
The empty spaces make an unsettling noise
With every breeze blowing through us.
It stopped hurting me for now.
I can tell it hurts my husband,
but I don’t know how it hurts him this time.
He sleeps with that pain.
I feel him fight against it every night.
I feel him grab me.
He’s trying to shield me from something.
He never tells me what it is. I think he fears saying it.
If he ever says it, it can’t manifest, and I’ll be safe.

But we can’t be safe forever.
We silently fight our way out of dead-end life
And survive another day without succumbing to the voices
In our heads that tell us how meaningless,
Worthless, hopeless wanting more is.

Maybe if I fake my smile enough those voices will
Leave me alone and tell the voices in my
Husband’s head to fuck off and drive those
Dinosaurs in Congress to act their age and (for
Most of them) die.

Why can’t they die, but I feel myself die a little more inside?
My heart feels trapped.
Caged and laying still out of fear and survival.
Stay still and pretend you’re okay and then you’ll believe it.

I am a broken record.
Maybe that’s why my husband is probably grateful for the alone time.
At least for today.
I have no tears left to cry. I thought I had more left from yesterday.
But my head told my body I didn’t have enough of a reason
To cry myself to sleep.
I didn’t know how much my own brain could fuck me over by
Getting me to NOT cry.
I’ve had so many chances where I could’ve cried.
So many chances to unload those heavy words.
Mine and others.
But I put on the mask and now I think the mask is my face.
I’m so tired and I need my husband to get this mask off.
This there some solvent that can get it off? At least for one day.
Maybe one night so I can sleep without white noise?
Please. I’m scared of my thoughts. I’m scared of myself.
Because I hate myself. I hate what I don’t know,
But not in a politician sort of way.
I don’t know why I don’t know who I am.
I am kind, not nice. I am petty, not cruel. I am simple, not stupid.
I am here, not present (most times).
I am breathing, not living (mostly surviving, as I’ve made it abundantly clear).
I am broken, not gone. I am a mess, not a lost cause.
I am scared, not fearless.
I am almost enough when the world wants me to have enough.
If this is supposed to be my story,
I want to make it just before the end where everything
Makes sense and the journey through Hell
Is a memory.

Not a repeated venture,
If I must go through Hell, I wish it would be
One version as opposed to its many reincarnations and sequels.
Maybe if I get a taste of Heaven, it will be the cake
That doesn’t disappear on my lips.

My fingers hurt. My heart aches. My eyes are heavy.
Being alive hurts. How easily the body can break.
Funny how our bodies keep us alive only to do us in
Without a care.
They don’t discriminate, I guess.
My appendix could burst and kill me no matter how
Many miles I run or how many bench presses I do.
I could drop dead from an aneurysm with a salad
In my stomach when I really wanted the bacon cheeseburger.
Who am I kidding?
It’s the other way around and that would make the difference
In the size of urn my husband would pick for me.
Either way, it’d be the most affordable housing either of us could afford.

How sad.
In death, we would be truly free.
Work ourselves old and miserable before our time only
To find peace in death when we should’ve tried and make more
Time and love for one another when we were alive.
This could be the light of the tunnel we need to find each other again.
I hope my husband and I can find each other.
I hope we are on the right path.
We have our torches. It’s just a matter of time.

I burn my years and erase
memories that couldn’t be stacked
against the wall of a broken home

I’m too old to hold out long
the fall is certain
and the burden too much

I can’t be a hostage to the past
nobody would buy
the smoke is momentary
and the heat hurts more

let me live life through my self
doing nothing, thinking nothing
just sitting silently and watching
time takes care of the rest and life too