Author: poetryfest

Go deep enough in the ocean,
you will be where the fingers of the sun
can’t reach.
There are creatures here.
They mate in a forever night.
Cephalopods find each other
through light they make themselves.
Flashlights of urges, bioluminescent tentacles
feeling in the dark
like lightning strikes holding hands at midnight.
Soap bubble jellyfish, gargoyle anglers,
they swim through the ink sightless,
squirming in an echoless black
hoping for contact, connecting the gaze
of eyes that will never see sunlight.
Most living would be crushed
by the weight of water
but they procreate under the pressure,
acting intimately
and always aware
of the predators
who embrace the dark.
Those looking for a lover
will never know
if those they meet in deep
are there for connection
or there to eat.

Lined up like dirty pearls
on an old necklace
are all the little things that wronged me

lined up behind each other
lined up next to each other
It’s a collection of unforgiveness
To forgive does not bring me peace
I would cry if I ever loose that old necklace
I need to wear it during happy hours
I need to look at it during sad nights
Not forgiving brings me peace
Plotting brings me peace
Being petty brings me peace
Destroying brings me peace
I’m sorry
but also
I am not

To qualify for any situation, there’s criteria. Leadership, takes extra steps.

Reputation is built, off of action. Not position… Propositions.

Embrace the beauty in active listening. What attributes will set you apart? Analyzing, makes a self criticize.

Because what’s realized, leaders waste no time…On events, which seems to be scrutinized. When one rely, on the hunger that awaits…And hide.

Must challenge the inner critic within self. Invest in positive necessariness.To fight against the naysayers craziness. Allow it to be minced.

Overstand, as a leader…Have to get rid of what you once were. Alternate what you used to know into abundances, that only results in growth.

Thank you.

Seat oneself, a sudden catastrophe
shaped as furniture, creasing anatomy
pleating paper and origami sighs.
This is how a grudge doubles over steel:
handle heavy metal like a weapon.
Swing down judgement and cognitive delay.
Baptize foes with aluminum poison.
Remember the shape of concave alloys.
A dented collision of hard headed
ego reverberates serious hurt.
The sound promises cognitive problems,
proof that concussions sing cymbals lively.
Crowd participation demands your turn.
No flinching. Wince through. Just take it.

I look at him now, standing there—
this twelve-inch figure of wood,
a statue of stillness, simple and personal,
a witness to my quiet studio since the 1980s.

How many hands have shaped you, posed you,
in studios far from mine?
Did you stand in a Renaissance workshop,
where masters sketched the human form in conte crayon?

Or in Parisian garrets, guiding young eyes
to see chiaroscuro light fall on flesh and shadow?
You’ve seen centuries of art unfold:
the brushstrokes of oil on primed canvas,
the bold abstractions of modernity.

Each creator left their touch,
a memory etched deep in your grain.
There is something in your stillness,
a reflection of time itself—
not just the decades I’ve known you,
but all the time before,
in other studios, under other lamps,
among other dreamers.

You are more than a tool,
more than a mannequin.
A model for countless studies,
a silent muse for my artist’s hand.

Now you stand by my work,
beside the carved “B” from a block printer’s hand,
amid brushes, pencils, and bottles of India ink.
Sometimes, when I turn away,
you shift—ever so slightly—
a hand raised, a leg poised mid-step,
as if you, too, have a life
beyond my easel.

What stories does your polished wood carry?
What secrets lie within your joints?
I wonder if you remember them,
or if they’ve faded
like my old charcoal sketches—
shadows of what once was.

In this small studio,
you are history, you are memory.
And I never asked your name—why?
My silent companion,
will you see it all again,
long after I’ve put down
my artist’s pen?

I call upon thee
To take away my sickness
Rip away my sins
And to save my soul
My greatest punishment for sin lays beside me
Her light appearing like a fiery depth I want no part of
Is Heaven an eternal greatness if it commands pain?
Will heaven satisfy if my sickness is incurable?
Or is my actions the only determining factor of my soul?
My thoughts are not any purer
My eternal damnation is no love to worship
And no God to serve
Please see the white light that I yearn for
A purity and innocence I no longer possess
My indisposition can hide in the shadows
And please do not place shame the one my heart yearns for my disease is not
contagious
Only disgustingly intolerable and built up on subterfuge
Then once I lay to rest
Brought down by earth’s conditions instead of the disease I learnt to live with
I may worship the only God my faith recognizes

Fear not,
for you are your brother and sister’s keeper
Fear not,
for your brother and sisters-keep you
Fear not,
your destiny, for you and yourself already
decided which path you will walk?
Fear not,
the loss of loved ones for death itself may
not be – predetermined, but it is determined.
Fear not,
those with convincing words, smooth knees
and soft hands. Their work will speaks for
itself.
Fear not,
An agent provocateur can only provoke
those who thrive on provocation

Fear is not a barren emotion. When
neglected it bears the fruit of inaction. When
pruned with protective, persistent hands the
fruit it bares, action in the absence of fear.
Fear Not

back of a Laundromat, my Wash is in
the Dryer, in my hoody sweats and
Converse sitting on a folding
chair, at a folding table
anticipating folding
clothes
which I enjoy
as a Virgo
on my Laptop Typing Up
a Paper when Attention Drifts
as Radio starts playing Taylor Swift
I Mouth the Words thinking of Him and
Grin because I know I’m a Basic White Gurl

At first glance
–the ripples of the water–
the night has ensued,
Hell is empty, and all the demons have entered–

Scene l.

Possession.

The shades of scarves depict scarlet red,
Gorged from the inside out…
he craves the sound of dancing
and the sight of song,

Ecstatic in her subconscious reverie
infecting the mariachi with her despairing contortion,
Fingers warped in an eternal battle of elongation,
She finds the expression unexpressed until death,

…or so says the audience.

The ekphrastic strums of pair-like instruments vibrate through the night,
Translike for the player… and the played,
Two tunes synchronizing for the muse,
Set on a pedestal for her self-deprecation,
Captive of her own infective body,

Nothing more than an open sore to be intruded upon.

Half the canvas enthralled with the black dahlia,
The other susceptible to their own gloomy dreams,
Midnight strikes,
The room illuminated by the encompassing shadow,
Vibrating heart-strings connecting the mortal souls,

Luminescent skin pale as moonlight,
Levitating two inches on stilted flats,
Fabric inimical to the stage scene; set,
Vibrant hues clashing to wanting shades,
The gateways to her soul empty voids,

Scene ll.

Controversy.

The belief of not me spurs her on,
Possessive of her sprouting power
only ink smeared smudgedly on a piece of paper,
All entranced…
But that of the round, sunlit jewel

Solitary in its lonesome,
Similar to the empty vessel,
Absent of any hellish denizen,
For once, in her awkward embrace,
Abstinence was not obeyed.

Never meant for an interrogation
but you cause constant irritation
When did our relationship get so defective?
Wearing the hat of a detective

Feels like solving a crime,
trying to get you to talk
playing sleuth,
looking for the truth

Can’t believe I that mistook,
all the times you played defense
you were weaving a narrative for me

Putting down the book,
forgetting the initial hook
not all mysteries end seamlessly

All because of you,
I became Nancy Drew