Author: poetryfest

“Behind every great man is a surprised woman.”
Maryon Person

How could anyone, she wonders,
who can’t match colors
to dress himself in the morning
be a success in the world?
With feet like those?
Someone who spells so poorly?

How could any person, she thinks,
who is unable to remember
the names of his own cousins
reach such a status?
With so many pimples on his back?

You bet your bottom
she’s surprised.
She lives with the real man
and he’s no one you know—
shoes all over the house,
torn and stained underwear,
a klutz with any tool.

Behind every great man
is a woman, shocked as hell,
wondering,
What have I done to deserve this?

Your smugness is repugnant and your grin suggests you eat shit
With that stink about your person that unsettles nearby stomachs
You’re a misfit who can dish it, but fold like paper under pressure
And your tendency to duck hard hitting facts reflects your measure
I’d never claim you’re evil since in every sense you’re lukewarm
And the grubs that writhe in dirt best approximate your true form
You’re a wettened weasel, Dante’s easel, piteous sinner in the pit
And your voice grates like nails on chalkboards slicked with curdled spit
If this seems crass or harsh it’s just to circumvent confusions
As I’ve tried and failed before to drag you down from your delusions
I’m done you piteous pigeon, it bluntly hurts to see you like this
You may avoid confrontation, but I won’t myself be spineless

They’ll fight dusty wars, like warriors in tales,
In houses that creak with the wind’s howling wails.
They’re like the folks who in huts do reside,
With dreams that are fragile and castles inside.

We built homes of clay like toys in a yard,
Where life plays a game, though the rules hit hard.
Off they march, to chase distant thrones,
Like kings on donkeys, rattling their bones.

No wonder the earth, in a curious plight,
Hides treasures deep, like a mole in the night.
Our land, with its hues so strange and stark,
Holds men like women and women who bark.

From the dusty towns to the lightning lanes,
It rains like clouds have lost their brains.
With soggy heads, they wander along,
Singing to storms their ridiculous song!

In a land where the jiggly jellies jive,
Lived a waffle iron named Wobbletop Five,
With buttons that blinked like fireflies in flight,
And a belly that giggled from morning till night.

“Oh, flapdoodle flippers!” it cheerfully cried,
“I’ll crisp up the clouds, let the syrup slide wide!
With a sprinkle of stardust and a dollop of glee,
I’ll waffle the world into breakfast jubilee!”

It spat out some giggles—now three and a half,
While pancakes danced round in a polka-dotted staff.
With a sizzle and pop, it created a cheer,
As waffles took flight, flapping wings made of beer!

There was Squiggle, the sprout, with a hat made of cheese,
And Drizzle, the syrup, who flowed with such ease,
They formed a parade on the countertop’s race,
With the Wobbletop whirring, a grin on its face.

“Oh, who will they tickle, those jubilee treats?
Will it flutter and flap in the world’s sugary beats?
I’ll toast all the giggles and glimmer the dawn,
In a whirl of bazoodles, I’ll carry them on!”

But then came a whisper, “Oh dear! What’s the fuss?”
As a noodle-nosed gopher hissed, “Join us! Join us!
We’ll frolic through fields of frosted delight,
With your waffle-shaped wishes that twinkle at night!”

So Wobbletop spun on its swivelly toes,
Churning bubbles of laughter that sparkled and glows,
With a plop and a skip, the festivities roared,
In a conga line bobble, where sweetness adored.

In the land of the jiggly jellies, so bright,
The waffle iron danced ‘neath the shimmering light,
For life’s a grand waffle, with flavors so spry,
And each silly moment, a reason to fly

So if you find Wobbletop Five in a dream,
With its nonsensical giggles and bubbly esteem,
Join the chorus of pancakes, the parades of delight,
For in the world of waffle iron whims, all is right!

It’s quite disgusting the way
it invades your sinuses. You
cannot help but scrunch your
nose, giving yourself whiplash
in any attempt to reprieve. The
thick scent of lake only adds
to the torment. Dead fish guts and
sun-dried seaweed and Geese crap
all blend together with dense,
still water. Even better is when
a hot breeze sweeps its way through,
gifting you with everything all
at once. So, to the pigs that of
their own accord must eat and
after that must shit, I sadly hate
you. Take no offense, it is afterall
a very surface level hate. I know
next to nothing about you besides
the stench you bring forth on hot
summer days. But because of that
same glaring scent, the passing
of farm fields sends me back to
my grandma’s house. To days
of being pushed into freezing June
water by brothers and burning
marshmallows over the embers of
a dying fire. To wearing my hair in
pigtails and crying because I could
never catch a fish. Reluctantly, thank
you to the pig farm that sits across the
lake from my grandma’s house.

The fisherman who caught
the mermaid said,
she is beautiful
and, if she lives with me,
the world will say I am handsome.

And, if she has my children,
the world will say I am kind.

And, if she stays with me,
the world will say I am rich.

And, when she leaves,
the world will say he is old,
and when he was young was ugly,
cold and poor, and she had
never seen a man before.

He left me in a pickle
I don’t know what to do!
He took my books and records
And left for someone new.

His Daddy owns a factory
Makes jams and fruit preserve:
He’s a fruity millionaire, I thought,
And just what I deserve.

I loved him for his money
I’m not ashamed to say.
But he left me in a pickle
The day he walked away.

Our friendship soured swiftly
For he’d often scream and shout.
He’s the kind of undead psycho
They wrote Zombieland about.

I’m not complaining, really
I don’t care he ran away,
But he stole my books and records
And he’ll sell ’em on eBay.

He never liked my music,
Liked some books (but not a lot).
And since he left, I’m now defined
By what I haven’t got.

He’d often leave me in the dark
While he raved and slept about.
He’s the sort of man lights up a room
Just by walking out.

I met him at Dad’s factory,
Where I begged him for my books.
He looked at me with vitriol
And scornful, dirty looks.

I got nowhere pleading
Amongst the berries and the fruit.
He stole my books and records
And he didn’t give a hoot!

The factory was busy:
All noise and fruity smells
All steam and huge machinery
– And a scream, his yell from Hell

I didn’t push him, honestly!
Maybe frightened by a rat
He tripped… slipped off the walkway
Into a giant vat…

His end was truly painful:
In boiling syrup drowned,
Amongst the berries vanished
Without a single sound.

I’ve lost my books and records
Yet I no longer give a damn!
Because he left me in a pickle –
But I left him in a jam

Representing a bright day
A comforting kind of warm
Also carrots, fruit, and terracotta clay
Despite this whole array
It’s their hair the last time I saw them that holds form

When I got home,
I always fumbled the key
I couldn’t hold back my tears
you’re no longer with me

I was so tired today, I rushed
and sat into a chair
with you I found solace in my heart
I hope you were here

In my daily life with full of
boredom and thrill
I always longed for your
wagging tail

I can hear you growling
I know it’s time for breakfast
with you beside me every morning
hope this wont last

Every time we walk its not just a walk,
I walk with you slowly
so we could enjoy
the moment day by day

When I cannot describe
what are the words
this kind of love you made me feel
it was so pure and tender

My first fight felt like rebirth.
Dying time and time again.
Seconds, minutes, minutes, seconds,
Chopped by hour hands.

Time lost its pattern,
And forgot it’s rhythm.
The sapphire cyclops rattled,
No longer indifferent.

Alarmed and unwilling
to hold time together neat.
It was wrestling with its inner core.
It was just like me.

Prying at the balance wheel,
Pressuring gears from within,
Unraveling the mainspring,
Unable to conform or pretend.

Parrying ghostly shadows,
I winced then gave a grin.
First I prayed to make it out alive,
Now dying for the win.

I saw it happen all at once.
Every advance closer to the grave.
Lessons in impermanence.
Nothing will be saved.

The bell and ropes a tethered trope
more like ball and chain.
Will I make out alive?
Maybe, But that’s not why we came.

Fight to live or fight and die?
A paradox, To time all the same.
A brave man can’t be erased.
A coward can’t be changed.

We only have so little time,
But that’s the object of the game.
Remembered beyond space and time,
The only worthwhile for the pain.