Author: poetryfest

“Oh, Icarus” they say. “How cruel was your fate?”

All the nights you spent trapped beneath the ground,
Your heart, it longed to be free
Way up there you soared so high!
Did it hurt when you fell? Not from Heaven but from Earthly skies,
Down, down, down, to meet your demise.

“Oh, Icarus” he wept. “How foolish my son has been!”

The nights I spent forging our winged escape,
Only for your hubris to take shape.
Was it greed? What could have possessed you?
Down, down, down, all my work undone.

“Oh, Icarus” I sigh. “I wish I could change your ways.”

You never did learn how to fly, you could only fall, what other ending could there be for you,
after all.
What else could I have done? I broke you out, he had locked you in a cage,
Up, up, up you’re heading towards the sun

growing up was tough for him,
learning all his responsibilities,
before he had the chance to talk,
his father yelled at him for not working,
he was 9,
his mother had left,
she died when he was younger,
leaving her messy memories with her
pain filled son,
his father yelled at him for not working,
he was 12,
and just starting middle school,
it felt like his father was inside of every kid,
and he had no place that felt like home,
he finally found a place,
to make his father proud,
his father yelled at him for not working enough,
he was 14,
he’s in high school now,
blade in his pocket
carrying his demise of promises
etched into his arms
he drinks his problems away now,
he thinks his dreams are
at the bottom of the bottle,
his father yelled at him for getting fired,
he was 17,
excited to leave,
he didn’t wish to stay much longer,
if it was up to him,
he would’ve left the second he learned
to take a step,
his father yelled at him for not working,
he turned 18,
excited to step,
his father begged him to stay,
yet there was nothing else to say,
he still left,
with his father having no one
to yell at but himself.

you give me lemonade and i make lemons
you give me flowers and i find a jar to put them in
you give me instant words and i give you instant soups
you give me your roommate’s cereal and i give you my roommate’s eggs
you give me your fake-silken pyjamas, with cranes
and i give you my auntie’s pyjamas cause why not
you give me your oily shampoo and i oil your heart
you give me your wi-fi password and i give you my spotify’s account
you give me ideas of airplanes and i bring you to the airport

The pitter-patter
of drops splatters as we
walk through the night
market. Our last dance under
twilight’s gentle wane,
asynchronous like the rhythm
of the rain.

The torrent acidic, if not bitter,
on the hiss of concrete. Shards of
sapphire reflect the ambient glow.
June bugs aflutter, unsheltered. A
naked shiver in the cold caress. The
earth unfolds, a quiet puzzle. The
hum of humidity holds back.

The deluge has the courage to say
what our eyes don’t. We feign
ignorance, splashing in puddles to
remind us of forgiving times.

A flash of greased sprites spark,
splitting the sunken sky. When
lightning strikes, that’s who
decides.

A tinge in your eye I cannot control.
Damp and sullen, we tread water
until we sink. A swell of evaporation
follows lingering smells of lemon
basil. Matchsticks of sweet, salty
fish sauce and sour tang.

Once sultry, now still, under
the weeping sky. The words
grow thin. The monsoon in
May is unforgiving,
unlike green papaya salad
in the rain.

Witness to my birth, so filled with memory
Janet Frames’ Kingdom by the Sea
A seaside town built on a promise
A boom that never came
Testament to optimism, the vagaries of fortune
Wide streets, buildings of creamy shining stone
Turning apricot in the setting sun
Intricate porticos, majestic Corinthian columns
Tied to the common toil, the fruits of the hinterland… while feigning big smoke airs
Cow Cockies to wipe boots at the threshold… the true aroma of the breadwinner far from polite society
Notables dressed in Victorian garb or part of the Steampunk scene
Everyday folk beneath the Toff’s notice out of their farm clothes, HI-VIS, or “Works” blood `n’ guts
Little Blue Penguins prove popular prey for the I-Phone hunters, harbourside
But it’s the shags and their “business” seemingly keeping the wharves from crumbling ruin
Birthplace of frozen meat exports
Witness of fanfare for the Terranova and hope for success…
And first to inform the world of Scott’s fate
Not everyone’s cup of tea, this place, one could love or hate…
It’s true
I’ve felt both over the years, now I’ve come full circle
Now? I’m content in my hometown, Oamaru.

Flight takes hold
across the southern ocean’s depths—
Spring,
nestling to create anew.

Lifelong they are together,
older but forever here.
Their young will rise
as they disperse,
carrying the thread they’ve sewn.

A chick, coated in warmth,
loved—fed fish, squid, and more.
Hunting grows harder
as numbers thin,
yet down they dive,
again and again,
to nourish her.

Aged, they struggle on—
days blur into weeks, months.
She grows.
Feathers of flight unfold,
her wings flapping
until it is time.

Proud, though their last,
as age holds fast,
the chick, now an albatross,
flies on.

—

Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

36- 26 -36
My measurements were an hour glass shape
Before children
After children
Before menopause
Before breast cancer

Doctors scooped out cancer like ice cream
a triple scoop, a banana split of tissue
until I was left with divots
valleys or hollows haunting me in the mirror after my shower
a river of angry red stitches surrounding the bottom,
u-shaped moat or the demented smile of a clown

My body is an amorphous shape
not quite a rectangle, not a pear or apple
too small in places that were too big
too big in places that were so small
the hour glass only measures time
grains of sand run faster than liquid through a sieve

Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

Locked and loaded
I’ve practiced with it before
I know how to use it
Tonight
is the night
there’s no going back
all options exhausted
my pencil a gun
I press hard against my header
of this blood red notepad page
and pull the goddamn trigger

But the lead breaks
gun jams
a sad, single, broken squiggle
Fuck!
This gunpower graphite grim reaper
didn’t want my final gift

Words won’t heal these wounds
despite decades of self-inflicted salve
miles of ruts in ancient roads
carved by carts full of family bullet holes

Cursed lullabies inside my head
“Bring out your dead, boy.
Bring out your dead.
Don’t let them get close, boy
your secrets will spread.”

I can’t erase the squiggle.
like I can’t erase the past.
but maybe
I don’t have to.

there are many more pages here
notebook and body

room for
more scribbles
sonnets
songs
courageous exchanges
encouraging words

So I’ll let the last of my faith
set her sights on this gunpower prayer
May
this broken
S
q
u
i
gg
l
e Misfire
be a holy demarcation
between all of my aims before I was broken
and all of the beauty still down range.

Performed by Val Cole

POEM;

Little fuzzy wuzzy buzzle bees,
quietly working away unseen.
Oh, how you sing amongst the trees.

Pollinating plumage of Persephone,
bring life to all through spring,
Little fuzzy wuzzy buzzle bee.

Sugar snaps and strawberries,
every color of the spectrum seen.
Oh, how you sing amongst the trees.

Greenlands of growing gooseberry,
bringing life to sprouting leaves,
Little fuzzy wuzzy buzzle bee.

Thirsty titbits of tangerines,
fruits of your labor nurturing.
Oh, how you sing amongst the trees.

Acknowledging audiences will agree,
we should apologies to thee
little fuzzy wuzzy buzzle bee.
Oh, how you sing amongst the trees.