Author: poetryfest

The creator took grief and smudged it across the sky,
With one mighty fingertip,
He caused the clouds to cry.

The creator took love and painted it on the buds,
With every leaf opened,
It swallowed up the floods.

The creator took hope and twisted it in an arc,
With seven vibrant colours,
He promised no more dark.

The creator took peace and tossed it into the sun,
With gentle healing light,
Its feathered force be done.

The creator took time and swirled it into the air,
With each granule of sand,
He vowed to remain fair.

And so the creator, created, a world so fresh and new,
With another person born,
Its frequency lifted and grew.

My father died alone
in a bed
in a room
no pictures hanging
the nurse on break
the filtered air
too cool to warm
the thin sheet
that covered him.
Miles of empty space
separated him
from a tie to me
As the snow blocks the view
of my car
stuck in place
he left.

My beloved Great Aunt Ruth
Fed her children good gray truth.
Great Aunt Lisa, whom I prize,
Raised her brood on bright red lies.

Filthy cupboards, cockeyed doors,
Spotted carpets, sticky floors,
Rancid odors, saggy plaster. . .
Lisa’s house – what a disaster!

Aunt Ruth’s dwelling – narrow, smaller,
Repudiated Lisa’s squalor.
Here, a thorough search, I trust
Would not have found one speck of dust.

At Aunt Lisa’s splayed old manse,
I learned to sing and learned to dance
And shamble after rare perfumes
Through littered, smoky, dusky rooms.
Lisa, sprawling, shouted, “Sport.
I hope you’re not the god-damned sort
Who simply can’t abide a lie.”
To which I said, “No, Aunt, not I.”

At Aunt Ruth’s my name was Lad.
Aunt Ruth talked with Mom and Dad
While her children (she had two)
Did the things they liked to do.
The older, Brick, thin as a taper,
Worked the crosswords from the paper.
Sue, his sister, did her nails
Or practiced, at the keyboard, scales.

And while the grown-up talk droned on
I would stretch or scratch or yawn,
Or sit beside my cousin Brick
And listen to the hall clock tick.

Lisa’s family, on vacation,
Traveled to some foreign nation.
Lisa’s oldest, Crazy Harris,
Told me they had been to Paris.
“Not true,” said one sister, Nina.
“We went down to Argentina.”

Another, Mabel, yelled, “Peru!”
I’ve no idea which one was true,
But Harris lumbered to his feet,
Waved his hands and shook his seat,
And with a sort of filthy glance
Did a comic Can-Can dance.
While I, in league with cousin Mabel,
Tangoed ‘round the kitchen table.

Brick and Susan both attended
Camps their pastor recommended.
In later years, Ruth still displayed
The braided bracelets they had made,
A sampling, also, or assortment,
Of their prizes for deportment,
Telling me, as great aunts do,
I could win such prizes, too.
“Work hard,” she said, “and never lie.”
And I said, “Yes, Aunt Ruth. I’ll try.”

After I was graduated
Time, for me, accelerated.

This job. That job. Wife. New schooling.
Babies bawling. Babies drooling.
Busy me, I lost the trick
Of keeping up with Sue and Brick.
Bikes and braces. Little League.
By the time my kids were big,
Except for Christmas cards and such
Lisa’s three and I’d lost touch.

So I was shocked when from the blue
Who shows up but Lisa’s crew,
And after pleasantries had passed
(“God knows,” they said, “when we met last”),
Harris, with his whiskey breath,
Told me of their mother’s death.

I attended calling hours.
Great Aunt Lisa, banked by flowers,
Looked like some cherubic sleeper
Who had cheated the Grim Reaper.
At the house, the food and liquor
Sparked to life a little flicker
Of that fierceness without measure

I had early learned to treasure.
Falsehoods, lies, inventions, fable
Flew from Harris; flew from Mabel.
Great Aunt Lisa, in their telling,
Still resided in that dwelling.
Laughter, stories, jokes and din
Wouldn’t let the truth sink in.
Then, down to beer, the whiskey gone,
They shouted, “Put more music on!”
And punching out our cigarettes
We danced a dance with castanets.

The hearse that bore Aunt Ruth away
I followed on another day.
“Thank God. . . Thank God her death was quick.”
So said Susan. So said Brick.
They’d come to town to give to others
Things that once had been their mother’s.
Not her carpets. Not her jewels.
The kitchen gadgets. Garden tools.
The stuff you’d call the bagatelle.
Things they figured wouldn’t sell.

Susan’s lately written me
To say she’s on the faculty
Of Harvard, or perhaps it’s Yale.
Harris, I’m afraid’s, in jail.
Nina’s found a brand-new diet.
She’s doubtful but she plans to try it.
Brick’s a genius CEO.
On and on and on things go.

In honor of the good gray truth,
I named my first-born daughter Ruth.
In my old age, she cares for me.
Blankets. Broth. And steaming tea.
And when the days are warm and dry,
When evening’s colored up the sky,
When a slant of mellow light
Suggests the coming of the night,
She calls for me, and she and I,
On our rambles, we’ll stop by
The narrow house of Great Aunt Ruth
And listen for the hymns of truth.

Good Ruth. My Ruth. – Well, just the same,

Lisa is her sister’s name.
And Lisa’s visits – random, hectic,
Come with battle. Come electric.
Brief. That’s as they ought to be,
Or else they’d be the death of me.
And yet I beg, before she goes,
She dress me in my finest clothes
And, neverminding rain or sleet,
Drive me to Aunt Lisa’s street
Where, unbeknownst to daughter Ruth,
I shuffle off my clothes of truth
And, naked under vicious skies,
Dance in praise of pretty lies.

I didn’t recognize the feeling,
Of wanting without hurting,
Of desire without dread,
Of peace without the screaming,
That waits around the corner.
Like punishment for lust.
I knew me and him felt wrong,
Didn’t know me and her could equal “us”.
I thought that the calm meant,
There was a lack of butterflies,
But they’re pink and waiting patiently,
For me to look into her eyes.

I met a man on Tinder who gave me a fake name. He told me that he loved me, and I was his one and only dame. He brought me to the Louisiana swamps where we drank satsuma wine and bubbly champagne. Every sip he took, the story of his life became more sad with pain.

Something about him trapped me in some vicious voudou spell.
I swear it was the enchanted forest, that alligator’s watchful eye, because that man there was straight from the deepest depths of Satan’s hell.

I traveled to the ends of the earth with him, and left my family behind.
But that man there beat me black and blue until my eyes went blind.
His words broke me down, into someone I didn’t recognize.
I’m sorry this ballad just intensifies.
He never loved me, just used me.
He took the dog, but at least I’m free.

Skin so soft but not as soft as her gaze
Voice sweeter than sugar itself
Especially when I wake up to her in my arms
Mumbling her sweet nothings
I could stay in this moment for hours
For days
For a lifetime
Forever
This love is so gentle
So real
So safe
Something I wish was true in all contexts
My heart is safe with her
And hers with me
But
Our neighbors don’t talk to us
Strangers make signs that say the most vulgar things
Boys yell at us when we walk along the sidewalk together
We are so perfect but society is not
Silent
People sit and watch harassment like it is nothing
If I were her man instead of her woman we would be applauded
A match made in heaven
Instead we are doomed to hell by people so full of hate
Hate is a sin too you know
And I would rather be hated for my love then praised for my hate any day

Whether you pretend to see me,
or you actually do
eventually, eyes betray
and look at what they really want.

In an attempt to know myself,
I know you.
What it means to know beauty.
To find a moment you hope lasts forever.
A smile that forgets how fragile
we really are,
and forgets how long it’s supposed to last.

How fast eyes can swell with tears,
and how ashamed we can be
to not let anyone see or know.

Knowing these truths
is to admit that everyone gets tired.

I extend these roses to you.
Each rose a release
that loosens the weight in our chest
not to interrupt your routine,
or even stop you from where you’re going,
but a pause to remember that we are human.

That in this escape,
it’s quite possible
you need these more than I do.
To ease the dirt that’s rested under your nails
from a long day of work.
To be the pause that stops and thinks
of something other than self.

The only peaceful thing we know
that dies with dignity.

But before it wilts
and bleeds in silence,
it’s filled with water
and planted in a vase
and remembers.
As one of the only things
That made you smile

Would you like to dance?
I could sing your name out slowly
Je-
Mi-
Mah
Lullaby loosely word that reminds me
Of syrup
I mean clearly the marketers knew what they were doing
Because your name still sounds like a poem to me

A deep southern love song
A windy romance

Would you show me the hills?
Walk me up and down
Je-
Mi-
Mah
Weaving through pathways like crochet
Slowly
Until the day fades into stardust
Until the scent grows sweet with the coming dew

I don’t care what colour you are
I care what sunset you bring to your eyes in the morning
And the cadences of your
Laughter

You could sing to me in yellow

Would you want to breathe?
A cathartic huh, huh, huh
Je-
Mi-
Ma
Mah
Muh
Uh
Uh

Uh

Jerimiah was a bullfrog
But you are beautiful
They have not copyrighted your smile
Nor have they formulated your recipe

But I bet I could memorize your walk
I bet I could sell your scent
If you ever gave me the rights

Romeo was a lover
But I’m sure on someone else that name fits like
A ripped pair of jeans

I think Juliet was right

I cannot imagine you anyone else
Anywhere else
Anybody else

Would you smile at me?
I could ease your awkward tendencies
Je-
Mi-
Mah
Oscillating violin strings
Slow moan

I mean you make me want to make you sing
But you keep your perfect mouth closed

Some locks don’t have a key

My garden is a wild tangle of intention and accident—a soft rebellion blooming between the clipped borders of my neighborhood. It’s a quiet refusal to control what was never meant to be tamed. Here, amidst the milkweed and dandelions, I began tending not just soil, but something unkempt and yearning inside myself.

One afternoon, while pressing a hand-painted sign into the warm soil beside a patch of clover, my neighbor, Mr. Thompson, leaned over the fence.

“You know,” he called, half teasing, “I always thought you didn’t have a green thumb.”

I smiled and glanced around—dandelions flickering like tiny suns among the leaves.

“Maybe not for proper gardens,” I said, brushing dirt from my hands. “But for this kind? I do just fine.”

He stepped closer, eyes catching the words on my signs. Milkweed – Monarch butterfly haven. Dandelions – Not just weeds, but tea for the soul. His brow furrowed, then softened. “Never thought of it like that.”

“That’s the thing,” I said. “We’re so busy trimming and taming nature into what we think it
should be, we miss the beauty in simply letting it be. Dandelion tea is my favorite. It’s like
sipping a bit of the garden’s spirit.”

Peaches, my ginger cat, strolled out from the undergrowth, her tail held high. She moved like a whisper through the clover and herbs, perfectly at home. A creature born for freedom. “She seems to like it,” he said, watching her with new eyes.

“She does. Cats remember something we tend to forget—the grace of not being controlled.” He didn’t speak for a moment, just nodded slowly.

“Maybe there’s something to that. Letting things be…”

Then a sudden rustle—a young deer darted across the path, chasing a butterfly that spun like a drifting seed. Mr. Thompson gasped, caught off guard.

“Never seen that in my yard,” he murmured.

The garden exhaled around us—mint, jasmine, the grounding scent of dandelion roots. The sun’s heat loosened its grip, and the breeze began to cool like a sigh. Birds tuned the hush with their evening songs, and the leaves joined in with their own kind of applause.

Later, as I watered the ferns, his words lingered. Each plant in my garden, from the humble dandelion to the defiant milkweed, whispered a truth I’d come to cherish: you don’t have to be tamed to be beautiful.

I used to believe I was a poor gardener—because I couldn’t shape roses or train vines. But it wasn’t my garden that was wrong. I just hadn’t yet learned what kind of garden was right for me. As the sun lowered itself behind the trees, casting long amber shadows across the uneven beds, I sank onto my old bench. Peaches curled beside me with a sigh, her purring folding into the quiet around us. The garden hummed—not neat, not silent, but alive in all the right ways.

This isn’t just gardening. It’s rewilding—of soil, of soul. A quiet revolt against control, and a return to something truer, older, mine.

A special place is where I sit,
A seat made just for me.
A seat I earned, but never wanted,
While quietly mourning what should be

I take my place in the chair,
It cannot possibly be meant for me.
I sense the eyes of onlookers
While I feel nothing, but grief

They feel something different,
As if they lost a prize.
They fume in the backseat they earned,
While I slump down in mine.

I would give up my seat if I could
I would happily take any other.
But this seat is something I earned
Through the love of another

Now her casket lay closed in front of me
And my phone buzzes in my bag
The salt of my tears sting my lips
As I look to my right and see the face of a sister she once had

Those behind me wonder who I am
And wonder how I earned my spot
Not many sit front row at a funeral
And I’ll tell ya, it takes a lot

So please, don’t waste your time
Pretending to know the dead
Because my best friend is in there
And I know she would be seeing red

Because if you look to the screen above,
You’ll see photos of her with me
For I earned my seat,
You got yours for free

A special place is where I sit
A seat made just for me
Because to sit in the front row,
Means you have a front row ticket for Grief