Author: poetryfest

Pour your love into the lies you speak,
let it drip slow,
a ritual of normalcy
Brought in a cup of muddy secrecy,
I’ll drink it down anyway,
choking on the sweetness
you use to bury the poison.
Your words
a rhythm i can’t follow,
a gospel of maybe.
I press my palms to the sound,
searching for the pulse of truth,
but all I feel is blurriness and confusion.
How am I supposed to know
if your touch is salvation or sin?
You leave me trembling,
praying to gods,
I don’t believe in anymore.
am I dying or achieving enlightenment
in your religious faith.

Who dare ring the bell for safe haven
On a night of winter’s first snow?

The world is silent, minus the beating of his heart.

The blood rushes, whooshing and pushing through his ears.

All is silent except for the sound
of pumping blood and fears.

“Ring”, yells the bell. There’s a loud knock on the door. Who could it be?

The postman always rings twice.
Yet, Zachary always rings thrice,
the bell so I know it is not he!

“Please help! Please help! Let me in!”
Cries the voice echoing in the void from
the Otherside.

Thick lies terror like smog in the air.
Breath begins to fail while ears can’t hear. Smells reminiscent of things most foul.
The terror, the terror as the bell rings. Adrenaline and a knock again.

So wide his fear it tears a slash through the skies of the black night.
A gash, a wound red, so red it resembles the Blood moon.

Loud, so loud, I could practically taste the flesh in my mouth. Cold and fresh, winter’s flesh, lost
under the moon, and to me, they wander ringing for help and they can’t help they don’t know
any better! A mere mortal far from a mystical one, a grin glides across my face. I hear it still with
my ear against the thick wooden door. I peek through and see him. My heart begins to race so
fast. The bell rings again, and faster this time. Louder now. I can’t wait to see my lover’s face.

The bell, it won’t stop. Ring, ring, ring, and it chimes reminiscent of grandfather’s cuckoo clock,
handmade Bavarian. Cared for and carved with technique so pristine. It is a skill set rare in this
day. Hands are not as patient as they once were.

Ring, ring, yells the bell. “Let me in, please!” This must be a dream.
The poor soul dare ring and knock on my door after I’ve waited too long now.

Sitting aloft a pile of pillows silky and soft, blackened with lace.
Camouflaged and transparent, I am sitting in silk like a spider I wait to spin!
I must spin and spin yet again as he rings and rings let me in let me in!

Until at once, at last, I open the door.
He is now within my web, within my hands, in my grasp, the ring of the bell has finally stopped
and the sounds all disappear. Mostly. He put up a fight as they always do.

All except the silent sound of horrors and whooshing, whooshing, blood-pumping fear.
Never is it too late to trap and devour although for him lateness came too quickly now I spin.
Weaving his fate all while he unknowing, a sorry soul, knocking on the wrong door, ringing the
wrong bell. I cannot wait to see my lover’s face.

For if his luck is bad then mine is great. Now he sits aloft with me alone on a pile of pillows,
hanging silken sheets, and velvet throws, and wrapped in tight he screams faintly with fright
wondering how ringing a bell could make his life hell. And this one is plump and filled with meat.
He will make a delectable treat for my Queen.

I answer the call of the bells
which ring to dispel
the bad ones.

My love who they call through
Chant and song to protect
The good ones.

A Silken Spider Queen
With fangs to haunt dreams
As poison gleams and glistens
Down pale skin, sinking deeper into him.
I watch her feast on his features in the darkest corner of the hall.
Venom ripples, blood in waves, and finally, it slows down.
Underneath the moon, the ground is frozen and full of ice.
Everything is frozen stuck
in time and in that one moment, I have to serve my lover, my Queen.

And once more the bell rings, and the cycle of nature is promising if you treat her right.
Who could it be?! Who could it be? A mistake they’ve made coming to my door and now they
will know fear intimately like never before.

With her belly full, and fangs oozing and dripping
the remains my Queen starts to laugh and she says,
“They will pray and plead and beg,
to live and to leave,
to tell the tales of my lair of silk
but instead, death becomes them.
Let us watch as death changes their shapes and shifts their faces.
Spinning limbs, on a whim I sit and I wait. Once more on a night of first snow.”

“Ring, ring, ring!” And there the bell goes

I’ll be my own worst enemy
Wandering aimlessly, untethered to destiny
Predator and pray, night and day
Left to rot in perfect decay
Unworthy of sacrifice, incapable of love
trapped between what’s below and above

I’m the monster in my own head.
Nothing more than the things unsaid
A beast , a burden, a curse and a blessing.
An undiscovered secret, deeply distressing

Dying at the hands of my own hunger
The product of disorder and malfunction
Living on the edge of total destruction

I’ll embody my demons, create my own reality
Untouched by god and Immune to gravity
An endless nightmare of ceaseless insanity

I’ll cut out my own cancers
I’ll purify this soul
I’ll find my own answers
And I’ll eat my guilt whole

Consume my insecurity, tell you I’m fine
I’ll edit my own genome and waste my own time

I’ll break the unwritten codes holding back the veil
I’ll become worthy of the air you exhale
More than a camacase set to derail

A ghost with no past, an eco with no future
A beautiful mask, a thrilling exhibition
A plotless story, an apparition.

A performance for your delusion
A haunted body holding the impending conclusion

Delicate and deceptive
Desperate and divisive.
I know what I am and you know what I’m not
I’ll weaponise my weakness, it’s all I’ve got.

Ruthless and relentless down to the bone
I’ll carve out the darkness, make this place my own
I’ll swallow the sins that I can’t atone.
Forever fragmented mind, isolated and alone.

Cut the narrative short
I’ll hunt myself for spor

Samuel rows smoothly as
Waves rock the boat.
His wife, Evangeline, rested
on the seat across from him.

Water laps at the wood
A puppy begging for treats.
It tries to tip Samuel as his wife
Fed the fish.

Tiny pieces of chum
Splash into the pond
Samuel gazes at his wife.
She looked heavenly laced in red

The splashes grew larger
The fish snap their jaws
Samuel rows smoothly as
Waves rock the boat

Sirens wailed out across the waves
As red and blue lights flashed
Such lovely screams,
They were just like his dear Evangeline’s

I wake up in cold sweat
icicles: my eyes now weapon
I must address these holes in my hand
address green puke on my chest
my head spinning uncontrollably
a blizzard came through
blew open my windows
I’m shivering, devouring everybody
who comes near
they tried warning me
tenderness was dangerous
you put your hand to his forehead
he puts his hand to your forehead
we’ve, now, at present, lost limbs
we put snow in the wound
we put wound in the snow
we remain hostile
talking in tongues
steam from our mouths
uncouth, unworthy
I am so tired
I just want to see the sun.

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.