Author: poetryfest

The house hums low with voices gone,
Shadows stretch where light once shone.
A chair still rocks, though none are near,
And yet—I hear her, soft and clear.
Her scent still lingers in the sheets,
Lavender, dust, and something sweet.
But when I reach—just empty air,
Cold and hollow, no warmth there.
They took her wrapped in plastic white,
A breathless ghost in morning light.
No touch, no kiss, no last goodbye,
Just sirens fading into sky.
She coughs in echoes down the hall,
Fingernails scratch along the wall.
I call for her, but hear instead,
A whisper creeping from the dead.
“Don’t wait for me,” the silence weeps,
“But keep my name where memory sleeps.”
Yet every night I leave the door,
A little wider than before.
For in the dark, I know she stays,
Between the walls, beneath the haze.
A voice, a touch, a fleeting sigh—
A mother’s ghost who won’t say why.

Your house is your larger body — Kahlil Gibran

My witch’s window is shattered,
the falling glass smells like you.
I’m empty
no telephone to call for help
no plywood or Hefty
and thunderclouds are approaching.

Don’t look at me.

Draught winks attic door open on rusty hinges.
I squeal at molesting breeze descending
into left-behind chairs, scalping my carpet as it settles.
A cowed dress form stands stripped under the gable end
like an unwanted child or artist
whose masterpiece drove him to lose his head.

Don’t look at me.

There are pocket doors jingling change
in the hidden passages of my foreclosed mind.
A reminder that this is more
than being a haunted house, this is
being a haunted house under construction.

Don’t look at me.

Nothing but contiguity serves
as my concrete. I remember
how the previous owner’s feet felt on my floors
but I’ve forgotten his face.
A dank, mildew odor replaced
the residue of housewives’ perfumes.
Such a stupid term, “housewife,”
all houses live alone.

Don’t look at me.

My studs wall bones are broken,
popped like knuckles expelling downy finger caresses.
Some say a ghost’s touch can feel like feathers
but whether or not that’s true is no matter to me,
besides, there used to be pillows here.
Comfort no longer resides,
it died as soon as dust can fall.

Don’t look at me.

Many of my rooms were meant for sleep.
My eyes can flutter, too.
Their Venetian blinds were once lashes of a bashful girl.
See the way moonlight glides over
the medallion on the ceiling
and the few remaining cut-crystal prisms?
Yes, look at my former glory but please,
please, not me.

Don’t look or you’ll see

all the cabinet doors are opening,
all the chairs are stacking impossibly.
I haven’t been welcoming since he left me in shambles.

So, don’t look at me.

– Isabel Grey

When I was just eleven years old
you said it was a boy’s love that you sought.
I was scared at first, but you drugged me up.
I was a love mannequin who never fought.
Knew some day I’d return from Wanker-town
once the drugs you gave wore off.
Now you’re texting me all over again.
You say other boys leave you soft.

Time to meet an evil clown in Wanker-town
and put a big smile on her face.

I’ll block you from all contact
but my mom will hunt you down.
She’ll vivisect you slowly
cause mom’s the evil clown.
If it’s suffering you’ve been seeking
then I guess we’ll both agree
that the paralytics she’ll administer
will leave you anything but pain-free.

Time to meet an evil clown in Wanker-town
and put a big smile on her face.

You say you’re an ordained bishop
with a robe and odd-shaped hat,
but I’ll bet mommy’s whirring bone saw
cuts through your breastbone in 5 seconds flat.
Your heart won’t look very sacred
as she’s showing it to you.
Better whisper some vesper
as your cyanotic lips turn blue.

Time to meet an evil clown in Wanker-town
and put a big smile on her face.

My mom’s stainless-steel gurney
collects all your bodily fluids,
though devoid of transubstantiation,
they’re a treat for her vampiric druids!
The brain we’ll donate to science
and watch it glide down the sluice
into a jar with a satisfying splat
forever to bob in formaldehyde juice.

Time to meet an evil clown in Wanker-town
and put a big smile on her face.

There was once a girl who lived near a wood
where mysterious beasts and strange trees stood.
The girl and her friend loved to play and to dance,
and when opportunity came, they took their chance.

“Perdita, let us find a tree spectacular and grand,
and let it be the cornerstone of which our world will stand!”
“Yes Asha, let it be a tree of beauty and delight.
That will watch over us and shelter us when our new world comes to light!”

The young girls ran into the forest and found an enchanting path lined with flowers
So beautiful that they must have been blessed with crystal clear spring showers.
The path led to a place so bright and so clear,
And what in the center of that did appear?

A petite budding tree just burst from the ground
Amongst pink, blue and red flowers which did surround.
The young girls cheered, for they knew it would grow strong,
They knew so well they couldn’t help but burst into song.

“This shall be our tree!” the young girls cried with glee.
And thus they spent their time in blissful serendipity.

For years and years, the young girls cheered,
their new world had come together.
Full of wondrous things and mysteries
and their little tree did tower.

But as more years passed them by,
And the two grew older,
adulthood was too soon nigh.
Imagination turned its shoulder.

Perdita and Asha grew apart.
It was time that real life came to start.
Through obligation, they met sometimes.
But courtesy could not mend lost time.

As Perdita did her life pursue,
in Asha, a bright starlight grew.
And to her tree Asha went back,
with silent delight she found her new track.

Perdita had no time for such childish things,
She thought it was silly for Asha to cling.
Yet Asha grew more brilliant with every trip she made.
And to her misery had no stake to claim.

But one day Asha disappeared.
Soon, no one had seen her for days.
And her mother cried such trepid tears,
“When will it pass? This haze!”

And so, the town would look,
even great big trees they shook,
looking for the young maiden.
“Oh, good Lord!” the mother cried,
“please let her not be taken!”

The grief-struck mother did Perdita try to comfort,
“Or perhaps she’s gone to the tree, you see.
Or something else of that sort.”

So at the edge of the wood Perdita came to be,
bringing with her a group of townsmen.
“She will be in here, you see.
I know where she has been.”

And she led the way with all the say,
surprised by familiarity.
“Here, my friends, please do stay.
It must be her, up there, I see.”

Down the path, Perdita went, which haunted her with childhood.
It was the field, old world so free,
where a strange dark figure stood.

“Asha, there you are! Come with me,
the town has been looking all over for you.”
But the figure stood still, upon a small hill,
stroking a pink flower.

It said ‘you look for me but still. You see,
this is my final hour.”
Perdita touched the figure,
Its frame as cold as stone.
She expected it her friend to be,
but the face she saw was her own.

Once upon a time,
In a fantasy world a away,
Stood a beautiful girl,
Innocent and sweet,
Taken from her perch
Far too soon.

As she fell in love,
She fell hard.
For a man that she thought could change.

As reality hit,
And times changed around her,
The man she hoped to change,
Fell short of expectations.
Leaving bruises and empty promises in his wake.

As time passed,
He promised her one more thing.
As she stood at the altar,
Her heart fluttered,
As her hope set in once more,
For the man she hoped she could change.

Alas, as time ticked by,
The girl stood alone,
As a tear fell upon her cheek,
Staining her white dress black.

The man she so hoped would change,
Failed to show on the day they were supposed to wed.
Leaving her heart bruised and empty,
And her life drained.

As time passed,
She continued to live,
Upon her perch once more,
Waiting for the perfect man,
To come and sweep her off her feet.

There was an old witch who caught a spider,
It built a web next to her cauldron of cider.
There was an old witch who caught a cat.
Now, what do you think of that?
Of a witch who caught a cat…
She caught the cat to paw at the spider
That built the web next to her cauldron of cider.
There was an old witch who caught a ghost,
She caught that ghost- a Halloween host,
She caught the ghost to play with the cat.
She caught the cat to paw at the spider
That would build a web next to her cauldron of cider.
There was an old witch who caught a ghoul,
I thought, “She caught a ghoul? How cool!”
She caught the ghoul to scare the ghost.
She caught the ghost to play with the cat.
She caught the cat to paw at the spider
That built his web next to her cauldron of cider.
There was an old witch who caught a goblin,
The goblin was around the graveyard hobblin’,
She caught the goblin to befriend the ghoul,
She caught the ghoul to ghoul to scare the ghost,
She caught the ghost to play with the cat,
She caught the cat to paw at the spider,
Who had built his web next to her cauldron of cider
And on October 31st when there was a chilly fall breeze in the air,
The sounds of these creatures in the haunted house gave everyone a Halloween scare.

the man who sells stars
(but swallows the sky)
built a tower of teeth
& called it freedom

his hands (so full of nothing)
touch screens & women & dreams
& turn them to static

a mouth like an elevator—
down down down
to the basement of
(where your tax dollars sleep)

somewhere a rocket dies mid-air
somewhere a car is burning but it’s not art
somewhere he names himself god &
(forgets how to pray)

then, there is the other
mouth
so vast it becomes a country
a war
an (exclamation mark!)

it speaks & the clocks rewind
the mirrors crack
the past (which was never gone)
grins wide & steps forward

his hands
shake the world
(but never a book)

his hunger eats itself—
(feeds on the fear it makes)
a beast with its own face
in a suit the color of money

the billionmou$e king & his loudest echo
(louder than God, dumber than light)

& yet the crowd still claps
& yet the ghosts still vote
& yet the night
stretches
(longer than truth)

Not British enough, not Foreign enough,
Maybe European enough – whatever that means.
What’s my language?
And how many do you speak?

Some mornings, I wake speaking
Yesterday’s language to tomorrow’s dawn,
My dreams a patchwork of metro maps
And street signs I once called home.

It’s different things for different people.
I belong wherever I go
But the environment shifts beneath my feet
Like quicksand of expectations.

They ask where I’m really from,
As if truth could be contained
In a single point on their atlas.
I am from everywhere I’ve left pieces of myself.

“It’s just because you’re not from here,”
You say when I disagree
When I voice thoughts that don’t align
With your comfortable certainties.

These opinions aren’t European,
Aren’t German, aren’t foreign –
They’re mine.
Each thought
Breaking through borders
Like roots through concrete.

I’ll adapt but won’t conform.
I’ll translate but won’t transform.
Every new place paints me technicolour
Until I’m a canvas of everywhere I’ve been.

From city to city
Eyes down, eyes up
Whatever your gaze meets –
Lives a thousand beats per minute more
Louder and brighter
In this precious conglomerate
Of foreign wonder.

To the late First Lady, Jackie Kennedy
To my sister Sara and my cw teacher Ms. Bothwick

Your name was spoken by every person, in every tongue and in every place that November
afternoon.
At 1 pm the sun had already perished,
as a sign of respect, I assume,
for your wife’s horrific shrieks.
John! John! John!
I felt my body stiffen at the first bullet,
my limbs dry on the second,
your skin colden on the third.
At the time I was your most grand possession, your most obedient servant
And yet, no one was aware.
To the people you were hers
and in the evenings you were.
But on mornings you’d greet me with a lordly smile
working side by side
“To change the world” as you’d say.
I’d have your undivided attention
your most ostentatious affection
and utmost comfort as I sobbed on those busy nights.
I am devoted to you. Even after you’ve gone,
because in my world, your grip on my waist
was the only time I came alive.
They think it was your speeches that mattered.
The speeches that shook the world.
But they were all just echoes, weren’t they?
They screamed confidence but your letters were tender.
I was the only one who felt the tremor of your soul
in every stroke, in every moment of doubt or uncertainty.
I was your only darling,
your only duty.
When the world, including she, saw a leader,
only I knew the man behind the podium.
I saw your weaknesses.
I knew your fears and was present
for your quiet moments of contemplation.
We shared secrets that historians will never unveil.
We made history.
In those final moments, we shared
the crowd’s applause
as they turned to roars in an instant.
John.
4 letters or 7 strokes of cursive
plastered on every paper.
Montblanc,
but you weren’t the one clasping me this time.
Someone else wrote your name.
It’s hard to remember all I had felt that afternoon.
Afterall, nothing was written down.
Your blood splattered over her bright pink suit
and for a brief moment there was silence.
Grief in her eyes as I seized onto your pocket.
My crown glued to you,
detached from the rest of me
falling from your lap.
Together we lay motionless,
as we bled blue and red for our nation

First, you send her flowers in the morning.
At noon, you send her worded poetry and flirty verse.
In the evening, you buy her a meal.
And at night, she might wrap her legs around you or not mind your sweat trickling down her
breast.
Or just a lesson about repetition till it loses its meaning,
Or gain relevance
You begin by calling her beautiful,
And forget she is a jaguar,
Who sits on the branches of her high principles,
Or she learned to be a man first, guard her balls first before anyone noticed the fledged breast.
To love a woman right,
You know you lost the moment you looked into her eyes
To get by a strong opponent, you need to fight around the corners,
Like, creep up behind her
Get your hands around her waist before she beats you to it,
Walk your way through her shoulders to her neck,
Say you are beautiful on your breath
And let her ears bed every letter of that sentence,
You might get a kick in the balls
Because she hates a man who can not stand her fierce eyes,
Or turn to you with closed eyes
So she does not scare you.
A woman does not lose. She learns
She might let you explore her territory,
And you might get lost in the cocoons of her butterfly.
When you get scared, do not say she is not genuine,
Her mind is hazy of constant debate of what is true or trivial,
So she hits hard on, ‘Do you love me?’ when the odds are against her.
Do not ask if it is the hormone,
Her mind is a brawl of events that may or may not have happened
It does not matter. Just love her
Laugh a little too hard at her stories and pretend you understand most of them,
It is okay if you do not, as long as you remind her that she is the light in your mornings.
And you do not mind if she filters into your mouth some sauce
Just before the happy hours.
Being a woman is a strength even if her shoulder has known the weight of a thousand men.
Or she is fighting battle after battle of infidelity and infertility,
Her smile is soft,
Like when she opens the windows of her heart
And let you sit like a king even if she preferably competes with you
You would not know that, but she seeks your protection,
For her thoughts, trust, integrity, dignity
And a whole room of safe space and always burning candles
Leave some music on while you step out,
She leaves the music on till you come back
And leave a little light in her smiles again.
The truth is, to love a woman is a personality
And if you are not a real one, it is work
And you might still get kicks on your balls if you do it right
Or if she chooses her branches over warmth
There are no written rules to how it plays out,
Just uncertainties and love. ~_Kas_