Author: poetryfest

Since my fathers death I cannot write but I’ll try it here
this grief feeling a lot like fear
walking around broken inside
yet where we reside
is out there
so I trudge along with this latest trauma
tight inside my chest
hurt feeling and offense
for now unresolved
making it even harder to hear
what is meant for me now so
I bow
my head often in prayer
hoping an answer lies there
is it you now walking with me Dad?
The constancy of what we had
now gone
my heart broken
I feel your freedom though
and had dreams of your face all aglow
as you gazed with joy at your new untethered future
which made me happy
I will hold that vision and cry my tears
and feel my fears
and love you
forever
til we meet again

He was my brother
And would have enjoyed
Crossing the Kentucky River
And the Rio Grand’
In the same day
And I have to say
I would have
Enjoyed it, too
If I hadn’t been
Coming back
From his funeral

That dress you left behind? It carried on,
splayed out diagonally across my chest-
nut table. I ripped carefully along
the seams holding the plastic teeth abreast

and set the jaws aside. Stitched ribbon skin
along the wounded spine and plucked each piece
of fur that stabbed the fabric deep within
its weave. Your dog, like you, would never cease

its shedding or its anger. Unlike you,
the thing was blameless and ugly. The dress
is mine now, hanging on your old pool cue,
which leans against my wall. I cleaned the mess

created by the restoration. I
will cut and sew your things until I die.

You want to,
cry aloud.
it was my mistake

Tell me am I am coward,
this guilt is weighing me down

Honeysuckle scent,
suffocating me

If I wasn’t a coward,
would our conversation have
ended differently

You don’t say you’re scared,
And I don’t say “I’m sorry”

When you’re already gone,
beneath the surface.

Layered beneath stone and dirt,
unmoving in sedimentary

Whether burned or buried,
the end isn’t up to me

Imaginary tears
on your face
I scream and cry

The honeysuckle scent
Suffocating me,
but not you.

I’m the one left suffocating
I’m the one left scared.

What if death
The gentleman caller
The arc angel
Is not the one
That brings us
To whatever is next
But is the one
Who saves us
Who brings us back
From those moments
The ones you read about
Or see on the news
When someone
Sees the light
Feels the darkness
Closing in on them
But comes back
What if death is
The hero of the story
Tirelessly running around
Giving people the heimlich maneuver
Making us look both ways
Before we cross the street
What if death is just
Late, alot
With so many lives to save
What if he just can’t
Get to everyone on time
So he’s left watching tragedies
He knows he could have stopped
A superhero whose spidey senses
Are just overwhelmed
So when we lose someone
We are never alone
In our mourning of a life gone to soon
Not alone in all of the what ifs
Death is there
Standing next to us
Thinking the same thing

Pandemic, country swept
wine flows, souls smolder
humans live without touch.
I share with you the fears that
lie in my heart, but only through
the mask covering my face. We
are no longer allowed to exist in
the same intimate spaces.

Some appreciate the
reprieve. Grandpa did not. If
someone was to ask me
what the hardest thing about
the Coronavirus was, I would tell
them, it was losing one of my favorite
people. In the end
of his life, we had to stay away to
keep him alive and, I think,
the distance might have killed him.

I often think about love and
the human condition. The way we
give love freely but also want
space. Until space is the only
thing we’ve got. Grass is greener,
I guess. Why is it so hard to love
what we have, when we have it?

Grandpa had love
to spare. He never needed
space. I fear forgetting
and yet I remember him like
no time has passed, his
Smell, his
Smile, his
zest for life and the fight he
showed until the end.

I never imagined that I would,
one day, pray for his
death. Until his death brought
him peace. And relief from
the pain.

Life is full of conditions. This
condition and that condition and
I don’t care for them, to be
honest. I want to go to
his house and pull up the tiny
white stool that was the perfect
height to sit face to face with
him. Just high enough to hold
his hand and let our arms rest
together
on the arm of the recliner.

It’s been nearly four
years and I’d give anything to
just sit and hold Grandpa’s
hand

(for Rodney and Richard—Johnson)

from a schooling
comrades were Russian commies
from an education
comrades were soldiers

basic training during Nam
we were bunk mates
no dna brotherhood
and the band yet to play

bonds of
practicing weaponry
bonds of
weekend brothel boozing

time of danger
brewing on a far horizon
time of reality
mortality at hand

flesh and blood
torn and flowing
I remember your face
those times from pictures

those times of pride
friendship and toasting
roasting in jokes
laughing arm in arm

decades later
I finger touch
your name
on a granite wall

inspired by the famous hit of instupendo

you advance
and advance
and advance –

until you reach beyond the land beyond the gloom and withering owers –
and become submerged in a new kaleidoscope, a new illusion.
your tendons feel the nails of the
reaper, who traces intricate and
thoughtful patterns on its canvas.
your mind nods away, the air
tattooing incoherence on your
senses.

is this real or is this another fucked up dream?

voices whisper,
as your descent
into ________ (MADNESS, SADNESS, EMPTINESS?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!)
ensues.

you advance
and advance
and advance –

until you realize, there’s no dierent
path you can take. it’s the same cycle –
and once that realization settles, the
reaper grabs your ankles and drags
you away, while the symphony of
the trees, the ground, the land –
recite an ode, only they hear.

to hell you go… to hell you go… to hell you go

The shaman shrieks!
The world is looking bleak
He adds another drop of blood
He’s a mother-fucking freak!

Dark is the night!
How may I help you sire?
Just unleash my hell
And come and start the fire!

CHORUS:

The shaman shrieks!
The world is looking bleak
He adds another drop of blood
He’s a mother-fucking freak!

The spell is complete!
The shaman rules the realm
With his mate Judas E
And Satan at the helm!

(c) The ShrunkenHeads 1979

There is what was a man
who walks October storms in darkness.
On sleepless nights I see him striding
all wrapped up in sheets of lightning
or flushed with the sodden rain of fall.
The gentle nights are spent without him
who rouses for the howl of wind
that consummates his passage.
I think to join him in his trek
but fear that he will tell me
of why he travels in this violence
or worse, for whom he seeks.