Author: poetryfest

“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.

Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

Faced with itself
humanity once again reveals its boundless capacity for destruction.
How hardened must our hearts grow
to endure the inhumanity we choose for ourselves?
The black clouds gathering in the east are more than a storm;
they carry the promise of a future long feared—
an omen of misery, terror, and death.
No, war will never be a relic of the past.
Even now, bombs fall from the skies,
killing the innocence of the blameless
and shattering the dream of a world at peace.

Divided and discordant, the peoples follow leaders
who crave chaos.
Apathetic, the credulous march behind the warlord,
but they are not innocent—
for in this story, innocence has all but vanished.
My prayers go to those who long for peace,
even as they clean their weapons to face war.
Their path is a steep descent into the inferno’s storms,
from which none know if they will return.

For though all know when war begins,
none can fathom the full breadth of its devastation.
Those who chase imagined enemies
will find only their own demise.
Perhaps, before their fall, they’ll understand
they were never leaders but tyrants—
always more inclined to destroy than to create.

The vocabulary of such men is woefully narrow.
In their inability to find words,
they resort to weapons,
readier to command death
than to let peace flourish upon the earth.
They shed the blood of others
to ensure their names mark history’s pages,
even if those pages are steeped in infamy.

Down with these dictators who speak only the language of hate!
Let poets rise to power,
for they will never lack the right words.
A poet will never trade a flower for a bullet,
nor a kiss for all the power in the world.
A poet will find indescribable beauty
where others see only insignificance and discord.
A poet will always pen a verse of love
instead of a declaration of war.

And if their lexicon lacks the words
to sustain the pursuit of peace,
they will invent one—a word to inspire us all.
But what word could a poet create in this war
to fully describe the discovery of pain and death
by an innocent child?
And why must they even try?

At the edge of this madness lies extinction,
and there can be no glory,
no heroes,
in a war where none survive.
How tragic it would be if this were the end of humanity’s tale:
annihilation through greed and folly

Have you seen my scalp fall off in unmistakable flakes?
White chunks falling on my desk during class as I try and hide my own disgust
after I itch my head innocuously and see them sway down like snow—
Except no — it doesn’t snow here, it’s much too climatically challenged.
My skin is an unfakable symbol of the heat, tanned from cream to caramel;
it’s so unmoisturized it cracks like a crumbled cookie— gosh, I’m hungry.
I could smother my sweet treat self with the lotion that sits by my sink, but I am too unmotivated to care for myself, it feels like living in hell; a chore comparable to
scrubbing toilets or shining mirrors so hard I can stare at my face in them.

But wait — I hate my face. I hate my features and my naked, unmakeuped looks.
I hate my stubby eyelashes, as they fail to conceal my creased undereyes,
I hate the indent of my subtle but still visible mouth lines, and I hate, hate, hate,
the way my lips looks when I smile, so I shut both tight in all photos as if my life
depends on my face appearing more appealing but lacking enthusiasm;
an expression that is solemn but still doesn’t mimic the sick state of my mind.

My brain only brings pain, seeking to ruin its host’s life; a parasite that haunts
my skull like a hungry animal that cannot prioritize anything except food—
except I have an abundance of sustenance, so my stomach craves compliments.
I eagerly anticipate comments about my appearance so I can say thanks,
then I collect others’ words and cut and arrange a collage of my worth—
more like a mirage to my mind, because even with the gracious nature
of the pronouncements I receive, I remain ridiculed by my reflection.
I let kind remarks sit on the barrier of my body and don’t allow them
to sink in my skin, or burrow in my brain, and my figure is too flat to let them attatch
to my appendages— Maybe the compliments can cling to my appendix,
because they’re both worthless to me anyways; I believe I am of less worth than
anybody that’s ever graced the windblown, white, brown, or green grass of this world.

Hold on — Have you seen me sneer at the snow on the ground?
Have you heard me mock the moisture of the rain?
Have you felt me hate the hail that pelts down?
No, so then why do I despise every element of myself when I worship
all elements of the powerful, imperial earth I am anchored on;
its scalp flaky, its skin cracked like mine, its surface imperfect,
but it is purely indifferent because it doesn’t exist to serve itself
to be consumed or reproduced on some silver platter or flattered by anyone else.
Does it compare itself to other great planets?
Does it hate its own slow growth of plants?
Does it leer at its legions of people?
Or is it me, a mere morsel of sand on the oceanic expanse of the huge earth,
have meticulous thoughts that wouldn’t be considered by such a
well-rounded, warming, otherworldly world that orbits and spins with no hesitance?
The climate here is heating hotter every day, but I can choose my own weather;
whether I will soften my skin with lotion or crack in uncomfortability.

When the far-cast comes, asking, “How did she die?”
Tell the old men, “Well enough, on the airless plain,
Bravely, on an orbital with scarce a cry,
Choking, in the cyanide highlands with unbearable pain,
Bitterly, holding a shearing blade,
With a curse, overrun by smart killing ships,
Gasping with relief when she felt life fade,
With a prayer to be left to sleep, on her cold blue lips.”

When they clamor to know how many lives,
Did I give and was given to give again,
Tell them, “Twenty times a hundred so that others could be wives,
And mothers who know the birthing pain,
Twenty times a hundred born and buried,
In the name of a homeworld long forgotten,
Life squandered and death hurried,
For a cause misbegotten.”

When they demand, “Why did she spurn miraculous rebirth?”
Tell them, “You have a galaxy of blood on your hands,
Spilled by women denied their dotage before the hearth,
Sent to alien worlds and strange lands,
To perish again, in diamond mud and indigo blood amid hand-chatter and mind-yammers,
To wake retching and weak, born anew to ride the star-linking Wires,
Ambushing dubious foes to rain lightning and raise crimson banners,
Kindling entire planets to unquenchable fires.”

Should they demand their general’s final words, gasped, whispered or shouted,
To be read to and unheard on indolent Earth,
Tell them, “She railed, persisted, and at the limit of all we conquered, doubted,”
Recount my verdict, delivered among the drifts of bones, that “These far stars have no worth,
Not for me, not for you, no debt owed, for the blood of a billion conquered foes,
For the memory of doomed daughters, sent carelessly away,”
To endure endless short lives of infinite woes,
And die without end so you may see another day.”

When the far-cast comes, summoning fresh recruits to the wall,
Daughters scarce out of childhood,
Tell them I said, “No more will come in answer your call,
Sisters eager to satisfy your murderous mood,
Tell them “She chose the cleansing pyre,
So her end was a signal to every world you bleed,
A refusal to serve, writ in fire,
And end to resurrection, as a final deed.”
ENDS