Author: poetryfest

Submit your Poetry to the Festival. Three Options: 1) To post. 2) To have performed by an actor 3) To be made into a film.

ROMANCE Poem: Love, War, and Leftover Coffee, by Chloe Rodriguez

I miss how you’d fall asleep
to World War Two documentaries,
like you were secretly training
for some imaginary war.
And I’d complain, of course,
because how dare you be so
charmingly predictable—
but honestly,
I think I was just jealous
of the way history could hold you
when I couldn’t.
Now it’s me,
drinking a whole pot of coffee
because I can’t stand the silence
of one cup.
It’s too much, too big—
too much like the way I loved you,
like I thought I needed to pour
myself into someone else
to feel real.
But no one told me
that the coffee gets cold
before you even notice.

I don’t miss the lies—
or the emotional Black Friday sales,
where I had to beg for a spot
on your list of priorities,
fighting for a bargain love
that never quite fit.
I don’t miss being second choice,
or, let’s be honest, third,
but I miss the way you’d hold me
like I was the last one left in the store
and you were already planning
your next big purchase.

But I’m not at war anymore,
not with you, not with myself
no more pretending this will all mean something,
no more fighting ghosts
we never had a chance to outrun.
We used to tear ourselves apart,
thinking it would make a difference,
thinking the mess would settle into something worth saving.
But it didn’t.

And sure,
there are days I think about the wars we waged
how we used to fight over everything,
and nothing—
how we swore we could change the world
but only ever tore down our own.

We threw ourselves into it
like soldiers into a battle they didn’t choose,
thinking maybe the casualties would somehow be worth it.
I don’t miss the chaos, but I remember it
the way we clung to each other like history’s worst chapters,

the way we swore we’d never let go,
even as we slipped through the cracks,
dying on the battlefield of us.
There was something about that intensity
that felt like we were living
like we were still writing the pages of our own story.
But today?

I don’t need the battle anymore.
I don’t need the victories we never claimed.
I’m done with the war we built in silence,
with the endless retelling of our own destruction.
I’ve learned to let the instant rations of it fade,
to let them become part of the history dirt that
doesn’t matter anymore.
These are the things we carry—
the wars we choose,
the ones we don’t,
the ghosts that shape us,
and the silences that fill the spaces where love used to be.

I hope history envelops you,
lets you rest among the stories
we’ll never finish telling,
and find peace in the rubble we left behind.
You’re somewhere in history,
fighting battles that never even happened,
while I’m here, holding a cold cup of coffee
and a second-choice life
I don’t know how to walk away from.
Because we carry everything,
whether we want to or not,
and maybe that’s all we’re ever meant to do.

ROMANCE Poem: A Married Man, by Anna Skarupa

They say marriage is a prison,
And if that’s the case,
Lock me up officer,
I’m guilty as hell.

They say marriage ties you down.
I’ll buy the rope.
Because prison bars
Are just my wife’s arms.

My happiness chained to her smile,
Your honor, give me the life sentence,
As long as she’s my warden,
I’ll behave.

In this strange prison we call marriage
I never felt freer.

GRIEF Poem: left with only words, by Cristina Leavitt

i ate the words-
words that started it all
spoken between us
i am always so messy
with my mouth
in all the wrong ways
tongue full of razor blades
my mouth tasted like old pennies
i am so messy with your heart
using it as i use a knife in the kitchen
unable to slice vegetables without cutting my fingers
i tried to carry it
place it inside of my rib cage
for safe keeping
i dropped your heart
it broke like teeth
chipping on sticky caramel candy
i never felt you take my heart out
i never saw you break it in front of me
while hiding yours
razor blades are still stuck inside of me
i am still chewing the words in my throat
swallowing
letting them fall
into my empty rib cage
where nothing thrives anymore

ROMANCE Poem: My Soul’s Love, by Alexandra Grant

1. Walking one day by a cafe, I heard your lyrical laugh
2. Your voice caught my attention to so rich and deeply resonating
3. I had to stop to take one look around and asked one of the staff
4. Your name and if you were local, for whom you seemed to be waiting
5. No name given and not a local was the reply, you waited for no other
6. I had to know your name, engage you in a bit of chatter, I felt so drawn
7. When I came upon you, said hello and saw your face, I cold not speak further
8. I knew, my heart and soul as well, this was no simple liaison
9. Asking if the seat was taken, I looked in your eyes and found my world there
10. Those eyes I’d seen a hundred times, but in my dreams, before me
11. You welcomed me and gave a smile, my heart leapt in my chest, I had no air
12. I’d never felt such pull, such hope and need so close and not to this degree
13. Introductions made, we began to converse and life suddenly felt completed
14. We ordered food and drink, spent hours getting acquainted well
15. My thoughts began to wander to our future, my life, her life accreted
16. All too soon the meal ended, the conversation dwindled, she rose to say farewell
17. I asked her number and where she stayed and she shared the information
18. My soul’s mate left and walked away, me eager to see her once more
19. Evening fell, my heart did ache, needed to see her before the end of her vacation
20. Was this a passing fancy, desperate need, destined love, I wanted to explore
21. I rang her line and she picked up and I asked her to come out
22. The object of my heart, sadly declined, said she had commitments
23. She’d leave next day, needed to pack and had no time to mill about
24. My soul cried out, as hopes and dreams began to die in this predicament
25. I asked her if she felt what was between us, she said she did indeed
26. She could not just leave to be with me, it did not seem to her to be wise
27. Then tears began to fall on the call and we felt desperately in need
28. To find ones mate, then have it torn away, I’d found a gift and she her prize
29. She touched my soul and made my life whole without her there’d be no hope
30. Yet she could not just stay and I understood, she’d need to go back home
31. Running to her, I knocked on the door, got on one knee and asked her to elope
32. She gasped as tears fell from her eyes, we both had known our meeting was not random

GRIEF Poem: The Sun, by Steven Mittelman

The sun used to make you happy
You squinted toward the sky, cheeks reddening as we waited
You laid on your towel, baking on hot concrete
While we sheltered under umbrellas
You stripped off your clothes and bounded into the pool
Not a care in the world
What happened?
Your world became brown and gray
You don’t see the yellow and pink and forest green
The sun now means sweat
And tired
A broken air conditioner and a hot car
If you tell me what changed, I’ll do anything to fix it
Has the sun dimmed?
I’ll buy you a house with a pool and a big soft towel to lay on
Is it too strong?
I’ll buy you sunscreen
And a floppy hat
The sun hasn’t moved
Or changed
It’s still in the sky
Lighting billions of faces
Warming skin
Come on
Get up
Please come outside
I’ll show you the sun

BODY IMAGE Poem: Itty Bitty, by Emily Hawkins

Itty Bitty
I exhale all of the air
from my tired lungs.
There hangs before me
a tropical beach scene
smattered on white gathered fabric.
What hangs before me is the mysterious
“String bikini”
This is made evident by the barely there
fabric held on by a prayer with
strings impossibly small
that makes me question
the engineering feat of holding
such an ensemble together.
I gather the offending garments
with a small glimmer of hope
peeking out from under my strappy
black blouse.
The strappy white fabric
with its tasteful tropical beach scene
does not give me the appearance
of beach broad’s bodies of bygone eras.
It barely hangs onto my breasts
now threatening to bust from the front
like a haphazard can of biscuits.
I move to the side suddenly,
which causes my breast to fall out
like a reluctant Madonna.
A voice festering in my skull
shouts out, “put that damn thing away!”
No, this offensive garment will not do.
The bottoms are next to come.
My apron belly proudly drapes over
the impossibly small fabric,
swallowing any vision
of the beach scene.
I giggle at the thought
of being chased down the beach,
loudly shouting “I swear, officer, I’m clothed!”.
This ensemble will not do.
Maybe in another life
will I take the risk of being cited
for public indecency.
Which is something I’m convinced
was made up by skinny people.