Author: poetryfest

They invade the dawn breeze like icons they are
With their black necks with the crazy movements they can do with them
Humans drive them crazy but who can blame them
They flap their wings with an breeze no other bird can top
No permissions needed because they just honk it off

Just always honk, it’s the only way they know how
Canadian geese. The best bird that I ever met.
Hatched with pure yellow fuzzy-ness that is undoubtedly adorable
They hiss when anyone who annoys them get in the way then again who can blame
them
Constantly flying in a V because that’s how they slay all day

They don’t slow down for humans that’s not who they are
They are moods in every single way and I love them for that
Learning the way of the honk is easy if people were actually smart
People would rather love on the petite birds then actually appreciate the “different
birds”
The other names people call them are just flat out disgusting and they don’t deserve it

They too swim gracefully like swans or ducks but people still hate for no reason
It almost feels like anyone who hates them has never been bullied before who they are
If they hiss, then they are defending themselves. Every animal does it so why is it
different for them?
They too just want to belong in society but people constantly said no all due to
stereotypes
Why hate when all you can do is love. Is that too much to ask?

But I, DC, the Goose Whisper shall be the one who loves them
And I don’t care if I get hated on too for loving these silly birds
I learned to speak their language
I can get up to them close enough with no hesitation and guess what. No. Hissing.
They are my favorite bird and I am proud of it. Screw what people have to say about
them.

Beneath Apollo’s superficial stare
I found you miles into a pinewood
Doe eyes settling in stricken despair

A coat of false belligerence you wear
Anthropomorphic you stood
Beneath apollo’s superficial stare

You held no maternal sense of child care
Picking at the ashes of my girlhood
Doe eyes settling in stricken despair

This moment an altar, our eyes locked in prayer
A perpetual lull i wouldn’t break if could
Beneath apollo’s superficial stare

If you were this life to spare
Pomegranate promise to remain true and good
Doe eyes settling in stricken despair

Callisto, my Ursa, clawing midair
I’m your Arcas, vision obscured
Beneath Apollo’s superficial stare
Doe eyes setting in stricken despair

Does he hear the lingering screams,
when he sits on the porch
and the wind ceases its sea-surge
amongst the fingered leaves—

Does he regret the strength
that pushed him to his feet
leaving sister, father, mother,
to walk his wounded days alone—

Does he wish he had instead
fallen to his side, rested
his cheek on searing stones,
and let the hot wind take him,

Unwind him and bind him
forever to that place—
does survival gleam
like the gold of fools—

In memory of the survivors of the 2019 Whakaari/White Island volcanic eruption

When school ends the halls empty, with nobody there
The sound of laughter fades, replaced by quiet
Friends disappear paths go seperate ways
Routine falls apart, freedom feels like a void
Days stretch long, unfilled, unplanned
The sound of the bell, now just a memory in our heads
The loneliness comes in, as we think more about time
The absence of talking, a heavy stillness
We crave connection, the shared moments
In the quiet, we find ourselves alone for good

You faded the other day,
like light in Eire’s west, retiring from beating time,
sun and sweat, closing in shutters
making a mess of bed clothes.

These were the bookshelves we left unorganized,
the tattooed skin I couldn’t interpret,
absent-minded that I was back then.

I was innocent of it,
nursing grief wounds that came unhealed,
scabrous in time, that you had helped sew up
lick clean, dress in silk covering.

And how playful we were, naked, unashamed,
frolicking through meadows, melodious,
without care for cuts a branch bramble
would give to those not heeding.

I fell too easily then, coarse feet against
night air and grass stain;
that the trick mirror had revealed
all was worsened from wear.

As your form turned void, shapeless then unholy,
I wept:

thinking of how we would never again be so close to our Garden,
always so distant from Grace, in glass highways
endless stone arches.

I Am a Spider
I am a spider
And you are the dew
That is caught in my web
Though you are not trapped
You could slide down at any moment
Free
Yet you choose to stay
For we are so enamored of each other
I pick you up and carry you on my back
Until the morning sun makes fools of us both

The rosemary bush beside
dad’s house
has gone to ivy. The last four sprigs
reach for sunshine
while the rest suffocates beneath waxy
five-pointed leaves. When
this house sells will the next neighbor
tear it out and hope
for barren ground or will the ivy stay
as if it always belongs? Will the next
neighbors even question
the bush beneath? They won’t know of the bees
that used to dance over purple flowers
and the cabbage moths that fluttered
between the springs. That context of this land
will live only in my mind along
with the memories
of standing in front of that bush
and holding out my hand
for content honeybees to rest on.

I.

Eros walked slowly through the forestland,
Near Mount Olympus, in the soft twilight.
By his side, he held his bow in his hand,
As he walked on through the advancing night.
Above the forest, the evening was clear,
As a full moon lit up the mountain’s peak,
An endless number of stars filled the skies.
Through the trees, he saw a wandering deer,
That appeared to be searching for a creek—
He quickly followed its path with his eyes.

II.

Reaching back into his quiver with care,
Eros placed an arrow within his bow.
He quietly raised the bow in the air,
Then he slowly crouched his body down low.
He watched the deer at the creek quench its thirst,
As he swiftly trailed it through the thick brush—
Suddenly, there came a beautiful sound.
The music startled both of them at first,
Then Eros and the deer left in a rush—
The arrow fell from his bow to the ground.

III.

As they both followed the sound of the lyre,
They then found themselves now coming nearer
To a woman on a rock near a fire—
Her sound and her beauty became clearer.
The deer slowed down from the pace which it ran,
And shook the loose leaves away from its fur—
Erato had brought an end to the hunt.
Her playing always charmed both beast and man—
The deer calmly listened from behind her,
And Eros stood enamored from the front.

IV.

They listened together, as she played on,
Wearing myrtle and roses in her crown.
Further into her presence, they were drawn—
Surrendering, Eros placed his bow down.
In the moonlight, Erato’s tunic flowed,
Appearing light blue within the green trees,
And her golden lyre began to glisten.
The fading embers of her campfire glowed,
And remained burning in the gentle breeze—
Eros stood and continued to listen.

V.

Overhead, the moon hid behind a cloud,
The fire was soon extinguished in the dark.
Her playing became increasingly loud,
And the fire reignited with a spark.
The playing then soon silenced in the night—
Her precious lyre upon the rock she placed,
And handed Eros a golden arrow.
He then watched the deer leave in the firelight—
Being thankful, for their presence it graced,
And for the sounds from the clearings narrow.

Slammed doors,
raised voices,
tears hitting the floor,
she’s faced with choices.

She sleeps alone
for the first time
in a long time
with a heavy heart.

Her own painful words echo in her head
and guilt consumes her.
What started the fight?
How did it get so bad?

She was unsure.
She gathered her blankets,
and her courage,
then left her pride lying in bed.

Her heart began to race,
worried that he may reject her approach,
but she found him to be completely asleep
curled under a small blanket.

She slinked into the bed with him silently,
She felt him sigh, his body sagging with relief
He held her so tightly, she almost couldn’t breathe,
and it was a comforting feeling.

With her pride left far behind,
and her lover wrapped around her,
Tender apologies were whispered, and then she fully relaxed, knowing that
she had made the right decision.

She was home.

What is this madness in the soul?
Some old desire?
Some childhood dream.
Some buried pleasure, now long forgotten.

“Circumstance at odds with the Universe”, he said. And that was when it all began.

I tell you, sometimes, in the dark early mornings.
Before the light. When you are still warm and distant.

How we saw the world, in complete glory.
Collecting bottlecaps and catching fish with gum wrappers,
Looking skyward and seeing nothing.
We were happy then.
Dust fell in time, and we fell deeper too.

A child of the Universe, throwing matches in the wind.

Maybe this story is your own.

“What brought you here. So where are we now?”

I hear the dogs barking down the street.
I’m trading baseball cards in for forgiveness.
And I drive past the cemetery and still hold my breath.
Today the leaves fall, as they always do,
But someone has to pick them up. I’ll try tomorrow.

I can see the big, big world, when I look into the sky now.
It’s so busy, coming and going, both directions at once.
Somewhere I do know that child of the Universe is right.
We are all stardust hurdling towards … something.
Not his words though, mine.

So much matters more now.
Who knows where that shoebox full of bottlecaps is now
Or if those matches ever caught fire.