Author: poetryfest

When you lay your head
On my bare chest
I found it sinking in.
Slowly.
Through my flesh.

You fell asleep,
Like an infant, unaware.
But the lead weight
Of your skull
Wasn’t an infant’s.
You sank slowly
Through my chest,
Between my breast.

Was it the weight of the memories you collected.
Or the hidden sorrows.
Or the broken promises.
Or the things from the past

FABLE OF FOOTSTEPS

Through bramble and brush,
Slow or a rush,
Over gravel or stone,
Far from home,
Cloudy or rain,
When you were in pain,
I’ve been there,
Regardless of wear,
With you all the way,
Day after day.

When you were uninspired,
I never tired,
When you needed protection,
From infection,

When you needed support,
From that wart,
Mile after mile,
Pile after pile,
No matter dusk or dawn,
If you’re feeling stepped on,
Or under tread,
Step with me instead.

On one foot or two,
I’ll get you through,
Love you,
Your shoe

Crafted truth
might grow playthings
The first step
treats
Then tired problems,
most powerful frenzy.
Then
the
moment.

inspired by “A Rumor” by Safia Elhillo

say i sunk my teeth into a peach
say the sweet juice dripped down my chin

from the place where my lips part
down to the curve of my jaw

say i painted my face with a cherry
& tied the stem in a knot with my tongue

say i am a performer say i made a choice
when i chose to eat the peach

say that i was too proud say that i deserved
to be torn apart and sewn back together

with the petals of black dahlias
say i am a wife & not a husband

say i am a slut swimming down a river
say he should have held me under

& saved them all the trouble
say i’m confused say it’s just a phase

You are my eclipse
and i am the hero of the story i haven’t written
i’m not a request nor
the fact that we really didn’t pay to see
how this story plays out
i have half remembered dreams
to undo my claws
please
use your jaws of a hair press
to curl the edges
of your faded penumbra
so i won’t find that edge
that i’ll always follow

so follow me (i could be slower)
to my artificial ravine
bequeath me (i could be grateful)
words i’m too young to know
age me (i can get older)
so that i won’t find your youth
that i’ll always follow

i’ll be here
i might always shiver in the dark
but don’t peel away the stars
when we are all
splayed on the stairs
I like them here
and
how do you still

after four nouns
one proper
no prepositions
and leather wrapped bindings
make the trash
look beautiful
in the back of my yard?

AND they drink.
The wine meets her upper lip taking some of the lipstick with it,
Down her throat,
Into the bottomless pit that is her stomach
Leaving a smear that would never be cleaned off.

He has drunk almost an entire bottle by himself.
He hasn’t changed,
She comments on it.

You haven’t changed .

I have.
His blunt response halts conversation.

Still the same refusal,
Always right never wrong.

That is what he’s like.

He raises his glass again.
The red liquid stirring from its sleep.
And then the harder landing,
That comes from slight misjudgement,
When in a drunken state.

MORE wine, another bottle.
Thank God she left him.
He apologises.

Always so critical,

It’s improved.

Good. Excellent. If you say so.

She knows why he retreats behind his menu,
He embarrassed himself.
One of the few things he does well.

Come on, no sulks, be nice.

She knows that only by talking will he come out of his shell.

THEY shake hands.
His hands, sweaty, clammy,
Omitting the alcoholic odour.
His, firm then light,

then firm again, in hers,
then slowly withdrawn, wanting longer contact.

Better?

A grunt, in response.

It’s getting there,
It’s always a slow resumption.

SO. Who’s to start?

You.

Short and sharp,
Still embarrassed, he needs more cajoling.
Still in is impenetrable cocoon.

Right.

His glass, always drained,
Hers hardly touched.
She is drinking in moderate quantities,
He is drinking by the bottle.

Next it will be a Magnum,
Followed by a Jeroboam.

Judiciously, he brings the levels level.
Of course, she notices, despite what he thinks.

Right: I’ll tell you everything I can.
The wife, struggling to force him out of bad habits,
And a loving mother battling with two wild children.
I’m busy, with no complaints.
And then work,
Authoring my books, reeling out the pages.
And Paris.

Now it is her turn to be wistful.
She could be in a lovely boulangerie.
Wistful thinking, another thing he is good at.
Will he ever change?

Every trip I looked
In the window of
Diesels that passed by
Neck craned and sanguine

Every commute I hoped
To see them on the road
My last memory was
The convoy

Every drive I tried
For years, to find the one
That didn’t want
To be found

Every trek I scanned
For any sign, thinking
If they saw me
It’d change their mind

Every ride I reflect
Breaking the cycle to
Be the parent that mine needs
And not the one I had

Oh, Death!
Life’s twin brother,
Two states of the same,
You could vanquish it all.
Bring my beloved
From the valleys of shadows
Where you hide his light.
My soul agonizes
without its better part.
We’re divided, apart –
Two star-crossed lovers,
split by abysmal deception
Of vengeful gods.
Time is a pitiless river,
And I’m nearing the shore
Where no mercy exists
And near bridging the gap.
So, claim me as yours, Death.
I’ll ask you for only one favour –
To fall gently asleep.
Give me a peaceful, short end –
Just closing my eyes
And forgetting it all.
Come to me,
Unexpected and uninvited,
Stealthy and quiet,
Like a deadly dancer,
Take my hand,
With your withered fingers,
And bring me to the land of my beloved.
Chase away the anguish,
Of hope and desire,
resentment of lost chances
And unfulfilled expectations.
My soul would sing,
Freed from its mortal shroud.
My soul would dance,
Free and unbothered,
By human disappointment.
And my spirit would flee happy,
In the land of eternal youth,
where dreams and fairies dwell.
My Anam Cara awaits me.
Smiling and impatient,
Bright and resplendent,
Like the morning sun,
He’d take my hand
Leading me to Heaven.
And our souls would entwine,
Until the end of time,
No longer divided by fate and time

The sophist can’t escape himself.
He’s tried women, dogs, cats, drugs, gin,
But in the end the mirror ends up
His only friend.

He’s getting old. Bags under the eyes
like a racetrack. Gray beyond the sides now.
He gives out a laugh, a very small laugh.
The doctors think it’s beyond a cure.

Fate, the universe, death, are nothing
Compared to the callous on his right big toe.
It really hurts. He’s too old for a change.
Ah, to start over now, with what he knows,

That could have been an interesting life.

The knife gleamed
his hand, catching
the faint flicker

of the streetlight overhead.

Blood
pooled at his feet,
dark and viscous,

the scent of iron
sharp in the damp air.

He swiped the blade
clean against the coat
of the body

slumped
against the alley wall.

The chest no longer rose
and fell,

the arrogance

that once filled
the face had drained

away, leaving
behind nothing

but slack, empty

features.

Blood seeped
around the man,
no drop was out of place.

He didn’t flinch.
He never did.