Author: poetryfest

“It’s called a friendship bracelet.”
She passed me a ring of colorful string
Pieced together by tiny knots and ties
Not perfect, but I loved how much she tried
From that moment on
It was on my wrist
So our friendship would never die

As time went on
The string began to fray
Little pieces of the bracelet
Started going away

She was leaving town
To hang out with some guy
When she came back
She would call off plans
“I can’t tonight, goodbye.”

The colorful string around her wrist
Slowly turned to grey
As the friendship that we had
Painfully faded away

April blinked—
and something peeled off me.
I wanted sun,
not you.

We fucked like
we could undo winter.
But spring still rotted
in the corners.

You called it love.
I called it
what I could get.

Now it’s summer again,
and I’m still
peeling myself
off memories.

Still burning
for something
that never
wanted to stay.

Did you know I think of you every day?
We’ve never met, but I’m certain we will.
Sometimes, I wonder when.
Sometimes, I wonder how.

I know people who hate you for what you’ve done
for what you’ve taken.
I’ve watched them crumble after you passed through

I know people who fear you, and others who quietly let you in.
You’ve taken those I knew,
those I love

Did you love them too when they rolled into your arms?
Where do they go when you call them?
Do they walk with you in silence?
Do they cry out, or do they already understand?

Are your fingertips gentle
when you tap their shoulder?

Or is your touch cold and final?

What is it like, keeping up this job?
Do you ever wish you could stop?
Would you rest if you could?
Do you have jealousy that we meet you once

But see life every day

Do you find peace in what you do?
Comfort in your mystery?
Power in your strength?

Are your arms always open wide?
How do you feel when we fight you?

When we push you away, only expecting to meet you again?

I fear the day I’ll have to see you come around
I hate you for what you’ve taken, and still, I’m forced to wait for you.

Impossible.

And yet, quite real.

No power, no barrier relevant
when eyes lock
and deep waters move

with landscapes ever-changing,
fortunes good and none.
The candle never to fall

or flicker.

Impossible.

And yet, rooms with light
and music.

Smell of books,
and rain.

Coffee at riverside.
Wool bundle
and cloudless noon.

Impossible.

And yet, vaults and lakes
aglow.

Drunk in the dimensional mountain air,
with a fireplace to laugh,
to cry.

Worlds ripped from anchors
and set to sail
on perfect wind.

Impossible.

And yet, not.

And yet,

not.

At the end of 2nd Street,
there is an old river that stretches
north along the weeds.
Packed, wet, delicious soil
along the edges- squirming
and sticky fistfuls in the ground.
White granules of fertilizer,
larva…
Something cool against my
skin.

Dang old corn shed,
it’s gettin’ me down.
Pop-doodle whiskey
and moldy wet ground.

Guess I done went plumb loco,
they all said I would.
So I’m hidin’ in the corn shed,
and I’m stayin’ here for good.

My woman, my woman!
C You done me such wrong!
H I’m a Van Gogh with both ears, babe:
O in church I wear a thong.
R
U Corn shed is my home, now.
S Corn shed is my tomb.
Oh, woman! Oh, woman!
I’ll trade my corn shed for you.

The wind ain’t no friend
carryin’ the stink of the hogs.
My soul’s goin’ crazy
like loose rollin’ logs.

Yeah, my woman was a savior,
savin’ my best friend right now.
Oh, I’m howlin’ at the moon,
and I’m sleepin’ with the cows.

R E P E A T C H O R U S

Now the townsfolk, they’re a-comin’,
they say I gotta go.
My corn shed, my corn shed:
Skip-Flappity-Due-Doe!

R E P E A T C H O R U S

Now I’m hangin’ from a rope,
like a bar of old soap.
Whee-doggies, it burns!
Now I’m dead, in an urn.

One may pave the sided streets from his neighbors guile,
To a diligence of a leader; or to an acid’s chyle.
This zephyr from the switchgrass of soulstice,
is unabridged by my mama’s veiled smile.
One’s true veilon is dogged behind the child.
Child who refused to find skin in war, to who has
witnessed it all, yet they won’t believe.
Won’t believe, won’t believe , won’t believe.
Groping my private xertz, to revise who I once grieved.
This Earth, prudently gritted dirt we walk on, and the prune treats.
Grown man said!; “it is zilched the sweat glands of my palms,
the taste of my siblings sugar to respirate the misconceived.”
My brutalized hope of humankind, we still appease to rise.
We’ll rise, we will rise, In the morning glow of the righteous side.
We’ll yet to rise, they must see us arise, In the sweet scent of soaking in our own pride.
One cannot sell what is lurking behind closed doors;
Devil’s dolor, my daughter’s death, or child he mourns.
Giving hordes in the vessels of lore. Given my miscarried soul’s blood,
the shedded personality in her core.
In all of humankind, we subdue to rise.
We’ll rise, we will rise, in the morning glow of the righteous side.
Yet to rise, grab my ear darling;
In the sweet scent of soaking in my own pride.
Taught from the mimes of cheat,
It interprets the spirituality of a celestite; connection, clarity and peace.
Dip my feet in water of wheat, ingredient to a carbohydrate.
One nutritional yeast, another way to cure me.
Time will hibernate, clocks return in time,
My son will call to mind how humanity
turned one’s back on selfless dehumanitized wide.

Isn’t it just awful, she
says.
They didn’t bring
the riesling or zinfandel

Red ropes race down the
faces of children
lying in literacy or
maths – it was Tuesday.

Did you hear
about that horrible
shooting? I can’t imagine –
I teach Montessori.

You’re right, I say, they
should have brought
more riesling.
The dry laughs fill

chalice and cup and
bowl and plate and
spoon and desk and
chair and body and and and

I’m a teacher
too. They tried to give me
a gun a few years ago. I
felt indignant about the idea.
About ruining a perfectly
good thing –

Wine is best served
in the absence of
children.

raindrop on a leaf
thrushes emerge from jeweled trees
forever peaceful

#47 [condemned either way]

I’m sorry but nothing you say
can convince me that he’s a Christian.

There’s no charity, no care for the poor and lost,
no concern for the sick and dying, no display
of love and kindness, empathy and generosity.
Where there should be mercy, there is none.

In this case, the one with sin
throws the first stone. In this case,
he would not forgive the prodigal son
but rather send him away to Guantanamo Bay.

Life is a game he needs to win,
which is why he bullies and threatens, lies and cheats.
He builds himself up by tearing others down.
Look at that scowl. Count the number of chins
under his neck when he ad-libs and goes off-script.

If only we could be there after he dies to watch him meet
his maker—what will God say to the orange man?
What judgment awaits in the afterlife?

Will he be tossed in the grinder, shred into meat
or burned to a crisp, wind-blown across this great land?