Author: poetryfest

I loved something wild,
something that knew the secrets
whispered through the winds,
that spoke of forgotten times,
of untamed lives lived long ago.
When the earth and trees stretched soundlessly in snow,
and in the soil, there was a piece of her bound to grow,
buried in a time long before this one.
Oh, she’s known something lawless,
something that calls her for more
than what humanity has decided it is
molded for.
And so, she will leave this town
the second she gets the chance.
I’ve loved someone untamed,
someone whose spirit runs like the rivers,
whose soul recognizes the same voices that speak to me,
telling me to run, to hide, to escape
from this noise, to find peace in the silence.
I’ve known someone
who hears and sees
life
through my eyes.
But now I must realize,
someday,
she will wander too far off,
and the rivers will
be the only thing I am left with.
Her footprints will fade into mountains,
and I will have to sit at the base
and wonder if it was really her who had left them.
Someday, her words will dry like ink,
and the distance between us will grow too vast,
but I know—given the chance—
I would run too.
Because she made me wild,
showed me the restless fire bound to ignite in our hearts,
how we never understood the ease with which others stay,
how we questioned those who didn’t have this primitive ache for more,
who couldn’t feel the pull of the mountains,
the rivers, the sky.
Those who were unable to yearn
for anything else besides brick houses
and family dinners.
God, our conversations were filled with past lives, soul ties,
and the fire that burns at the edge of our feet—
a fire that has taught us we were never once weak,
and that it’s been in our hearts since the day
we breathed air that was clear.
But now it has spread
throughout our entire bodies,
and it is telling us
to run.
And I know that we will.
Someday, I know I’ll have to watch her escape
this place we both swore we would never come back to,
because it was I who chose to love someone
as wild
and as covetous as myself.
I was always someone who knew more,
someone who ached for unleashed freedom.
But for a moment,
I was willing to become docile
if she was the one
who’d continue to tell me the tales
of what it is to feel the rushing rivers,
and the bright stars,
and the tall grass
as if they were part of a distant, forgotten memory.
Oh, I loved someone who was always fated to leave me

Not every life is equal
Not every family perfect
Some are raised with flowers at head
Some grow with minor inconveniences

Many marriages are happy
Honeymoon states throughout the life
But some weren’t a perfect match
Broken right from the start

What benefit is there in harming the person you’ve sworn to protect?
What satisfaction in breaking your oath?
Father, what do you yearn?
What is your “glorious goal”?

Mother, are you still there?
Mom, can you hear my voice?
Mom, I need you to get up
Mom, I need to go to school

What strength is needed to survive
To thrive, despite the pain?
How do you have enough persuasion and love
To lie still and not break?

No, you don’t break, nor transform
You still do not resemble these men
You fight endlessly, day and night
You give us shelter from pain

Your actions are an example, your words show us the way
There aren’t enough words to describe the awe and adoration you deserve
For despite the harm, still love
Still survive, still grow, still thrive
To still look at us with happiness
To still call us your light

For your endless patience and virtues
Which numbering would take too many lines
For companionship, support and love
I would bring you the stars from the sky

I’m sorry.
I wouldn’t be surprised if these were my first words,
Words I probably spoke more than my own name.

You’re just a speed bump in everyone’s lives! Just go away already!
I’m sorry.

No one even likes you, I don’t know why you’re even still alive anyway!
I’m sorry.

We always lose when you’re on our team! You suck! Everybody loses because you suck!
I’m sorry.

You’re the one making things like this! You never even really cared about me in the first place!
I’m sorry.

Boy if you don’t sit your ass down somewhere, damn! Why can’t you be normal!?
I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.

Scars don’t apologize for taking up residence on your skin
or in your heart. They apologize
for being seen by prying eyes,
for being burned and drank away

by tequila and whiskey.

Left to hollow out a crater of the flesh,
they merely sit in patience and wait to be accepted
like blue roses that bloom in snowfall’s hush.
Scars don’t ask for a mirror, but they do
vent to the veins about their hope for one day
to find the person capable of letting them
see daybreak and its warmth hug the wounds.

Scars don’t ask to be carried,
they don’t ask to be born
into a world of blood thicker
than water. They pray for the moment
when they can bask in silence
without the curtains gossiping about
how they let that happen to them.

Scars don’t ask to be healed.
Sometimes, they shouldn’t be.
Not as some twisted badge of honor,
but as a purple heart for the valor
and fortitude in surviving the mental warfare
waged for their right to not have
to view the world from halfway down.

Scars don’t ask to be held at night,
even when they should,
even when they deserve it,
because they don’t know how
to cradle tenderness in arm
without the constant fear
of their ugly scaring love away.

Scars don’t ask to be beautiful.
They plant their roots in the skin,
bloom white lilies from the stargazer seeds
left behind after the deaths of the old ones,
water them with fountains of warmth
and elixirs of benevolence, and bask
in the blossoming of their fleshed smiles.

Scars don’t need to be radiant,
or magical, or majestic.
They find their beauty
in their existence, the mortal,
the ethereal, they live
in the light of a dove’s kiss
from paradise above
and drink the ashes
of crisped phoenix feathers
because scars aren’t beautiful
or ugly, but ancient
reassurance of the gentle
inevitability in being human.

“gotta go make a few shekels,”
his kind eyes saturated with speckles.
this man, my hero,
never a zero.

he’d always have a phrase
getting ready for work most days.
he’d sing “gotta get that name”
from the muppets, with no shame.
surely, a deep cut
but we loved to watch him strut.
it was his on time song,
but when his timing was wrong
he’d sing quite unluckily,
“fuckety fuckety fuckety.”
we’d laugh and laugh
on my mother’s behalf.
our working class comedy
by a musical prodigy.
he’d play flute in the night,
a lullaby of delight.
he taught me great art,
and with it, open his heart.
my mom would make dinner,
my dad proud to be the breadwinner.
well, that’s what they agreed
to provide us what we need.
i’d make up a fable
about the lunch table.
we’d laugh altogether
as light as a feather.
he’d talk about work
with a cheeky little smirk.
after the evening spread,
it was time to go to bed.
he’d read a bedtime story,
voice each character in all their glory.
a picture book come to life
and afterwards he’d kiss his wife.
we’d say, “ew, gross!”
but saw true love up close.

it was a gift of a childhood,
i turned out pretty good.

i think my dad
was the father he wished he had,
and when i reminisce on those memories,
at those magnificent melodies,
i sometimes miss
that ignorant bliss.

so, when you see my pop,
tell him i never would swap
the childhood i had
with the world’s greatest dad.

Mustard is a colour
Saffron is no flower
Mango is a luscious smell
Grains and berries are
Labels of your liquor.

We found lines that none heard
Hanging down from bare branches
Standing stark in an unending summer
On the left over land we finally reached
At the end of a vacant navigation.
We travelled a long stretch
by land and water,
Also by air of arid emotions.

Have we lived here before?
Is the dying pond we walk in to wet our feet
Muddied because memories decayed?

We drank on the smell of cut grass
And the sap of fruit trees
Listening to the flapping of the last butterflies.

Unable to bear the standstill of the hour
We chased after a stray bull
That was watching us over.

– Sajan PK

If you asked my parents

“What was the worst year
Of your youngest daughter’s life?”

They might tell you age twenty.
Because that’s the year
A bottle of pills
Found their way
To the bottom
Of my stomach.

But that wasn’t
The worst
Of my experiences.

If you asked me
The same question
You’d get a more accurate response.
I’d tell you age seventeen.
The year I lost control
Of my body.
7 times in one night.
I’d tell you of how
To this day
I can still feel

Her hands
Running on my skin
Like knives.
Over and over
7 times
One after the other.

But in my house
We don’t feel trauma.
We hide it.
Bury it.
As far as it can go.

I learned that,
When at age ten
I asked my dad

“Can we tell the police?”

And he scorned

“Of course not.”

“Forget about it.”

So, I tried.
Believe me, I tried.
With everything I had
I tried to be like them.
I carried shame and avoidance
With me
Like my own children.
For years.
Never letting them out of my sight.
I took them with me
Through assaults,
And broken beer bottles on the floor.
To the tops of mountains,
In oceans, and rivers,
And lakes.
To concerts, and schools, and work.
With friends, family, strangers.

But when I tried
To bury myself
As deep as my traumas
It didn’t work.
I couldn’t breathe.
For some reason,
I am not like them.
I cannot push the pain away.
Maybe it’s because
My senses tell me
I am still there.
How can I avoid
And shame these feelings away
When they refuse to leave my side.

I wish more than anything
To be like them.
To live in avoidance
Like bliss.
To use a substance
To escape yesterday.

But yesterday
Keeps coming
Faster than tomorrow.

I just can’t keep up.

For whatever reason,
I’m not like them

We do go from here
In two years time
We will watch in fear
As the flames arise
We’ll gasp for air
Don’t be afraid
Don’t run to far
When it is time, we’ll turn to chard
Go home my son grab what you need
Run ahead, fight to be free

What are we?
We are sound.
We are a living musical instrument,
Creating the greatest symphony this universe has ever experienced.

Performed by Val Cole

Read POEM:

There are many different children around the world,
some little boys and some little girls,
Different languages and culture,
But all have their peacocks and all have their vultures,
Finding beauty can be hard, before a lullaby makes a wish upon a star.
Earth you came and earth is the heart, remember all dreams are worth it with bits of work that
can be hard, your homework, chores, and other disciplines can get tough, and even parents
should be listening. Don’t cry little butterflies if they don’t, never worry about others who
won’t, with this lullaby you shall not only find rest, but this lullaby will help you through
many tests.
Although it’s different languages learning is important, learn these things ahead and you may
avoid the impulsive, reactions and words that you may say, may this medicine for a rainy day:
Yemojah, Yemojah, mizu’des, mizu’des
Eske nou tande mwen, Eske nou tande mwen,
Te amo, Te amo! (x2s)
English:
Yemojah, Yemojah, it’s water, it’s water
Can you hear me, can you hear me
I love you, I love you!

Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

The ice is gone, the seas are high,
But hey, at least your stocks won’t die.
The forests burn, the rivers choke,
And billionaires? They buy more coke.
They told us, “Recycle! Do your part!”
While drilling Earth down to its heart.

The oil spills? Just close your eyes,
And trust the suits in their disguise.
They sign a pledge, they shed a tear,
Then burn a billion trees next year.
“Just business, pal—supply, demand!”
As islands sink beneath the sand.

Wildfires rage, the air turns thick,
“Ah well, just buy a face mask quick!”
Fish are choking, reefs are dead,
Yet stock prices are seeing red.
The CEOs say, “Don’t despair!
We’ll sell you bottled mountain air!”

“Buy electric, save the trees!”
Then frack the ground beneath our knees.
The oceans boil, the fish decay,
But the powerful are doing great!
The headlines flash: “We’re Going Green!”
As they pump more oil behind the scenes.

The rich will flee to Mars or more,
While we all rot on Earth’s back door.
And if you beg, “Please help us out!”
They’ll build new walls and shut you out.
“Survival’s just for those who pay—
The rest of you? Ehh… Go away.”

No oxygen? No food supply?
At least they’ll watch us slowly die.
And if you scream, “This isn’t fair!”
They’ll sell you bottled air.
So, dig your graves, prepare to fry,
This planet’s cooked—it’s time to cry.

And when we beg, “Please turn this back!”
They’ll say, “Sorry, should’ve paid the tax.