Author: poetryfest

You want to,
cry aloud.
it was my mistake

Tell me am I am coward,
this guilt is weighing me down

Honeysuckle scent,
suffocating me

If I wasn’t a coward,
would our conversation have
ended differently

You don’t say you’re scared,
And I don’t say “I’m sorry”

When you’re already gone,
beneath the surface.

Layered beneath stone and dirt,
unmoving in sedimentary

Whether burned or buried,
the end isn’t up to me

Imaginary tears
on your face
I scream and cry

The honeysuckle scent
Suffocating me,
but not you.

I’m the one left suffocating
I’m the one left scared.

I burst from the earth, bold and free,
A life force born from the soil
Did anyone sow a seed?
Like plants, my roots too dig deep
Then why do they call me, a different breed?

Small bright flowers, I bear
A beauty wild, beyond compare.
Yet humans pass or coldly stare
“Just a weed, no fragrance, no flair”

But what’s a weed, I long to ask,
For I do nature’s perfect task.
I thrive, I bloom, I seek the sky—
A tiny wonder, reaching high.

So here I stand, with petals spread,
Unloved, unnamed, yet far from dead.
For in my leaves, the world’s alive—
Why not see beauty where I thrive?

One summer afternoon,
when Peonies were at their best,
walking along the Oshawa Creek,
She asked me, Mom, what’s the secret to success?
All I said, ‘go’
consistently like a river,
patiently and strongly, when you hit a rock,
dedicatedly to reach your goal(ocean),
Enjoy your journey!

She said excitedly,
Just like this river! right Mama?
Yes, my darling, just like this river, I affirmed.

I stepped outside
and the hawk was already in her—
shoulders low,
hooked beak working through the feathers,
and into the flesh.

One of ours.
A favorite.

The others chickens watched
from the brush,
silent,
as if they knew.
Death in all its obviousness.

There was no shouting, stamping.
No rushing in.
I stood with it—
this ancient violence,
and this interruption.

She was already gone.
I didn’t want the body torn further.
So I walked towards the hawk
and he sulked off.

I went for the shovel.
The soil was soft.
Where I had buried before.

You hope it doesn’t happen.
But it always might.
The world gets in.
Even here.
Even in this life I’m building.
And part of the job
is burying the dead

Here, where long fields curve
and bees spread apart
the fuzzy middle of flowers,
where loam is loose and dark,
one seed
delays to curl open and rise,
preferring to sleep and dream,
replaying the hidden scene
of its beginning—
the way it rushed—
after songbirds bumped a branch
and wet winds gushed
when Spring sprung from deep sleep
that deep where loam was crushed,
frozen and forgotten—
Oh!
to remember the way one took
and how the loam looked and felt
upon one’s face
(sharp and icy? or damp and warm?)
before a face was even formed.

So many years ago (I can no longer remember how many), you were.
Looking at your eyes, they look back into mine
I fight the throat lump, eyes welling with liquid sentimentality.
Exuberance, youthfulness, perfection.
Every whisker and hair reflect shiny sleek cleanliness of life in its prime.
Your facial features, perfectly chiseled, ears flopped over, perfectly break in unison.
Wet, glistening nose, forehead wrinkled with attention
The symmetry of your markings
Crafted as only a cosmic creator could have executed.
In your place now, there is only the ache.
It arrived the day you left. It remained for a time, then disappeared.
Returning here and there, less and less over time, the memory of you enters my mind.
Compelled by a hint of what was you.
The smell of your rawhide, half-chewed, gnarled, by your canine enthusiasm.
The hole in the back of the leather couch, where as a puppy you chewed it apart
Now a patch in its place; roughly stitched edges doing a terrible job of pretending to blend in.
The dusty dog blanket, still sequined with your hairs
The ever fading earthy scent of you lingers; I wouldn’t wash it after you left, to keep you near.
Those painful last days have long ago passed. Healed over by time’s scar tissue.
You have long since been returned to the earth, wherever you are now.
Your dust and bone blended with the soil and trash.
In this shutter snapped moment, you are alive for as long as this image remains.
You will fade, yellowing with time and light, or be lost to an accidental deletion, emptied.
This last piece of you will be lost.
Never to me.
Not until I can no longer remember.

pause the slides so
she can take her time
with her notes,
let her write
til her face turns
blue,
let her write
til a dozen crows
come flying around to
pick at her like
a choir
of
fingers
smacking
down on
dozens of
keyboards
smearing
a residue
on my
ears,
til
all I hear is
a giant tongue
sloshing,
working some food
out of its gums,
saliva gushing and
bubbling
through tight lips,
til
all I can do
is smack
my head
with the force of
all those slammed fingertips
and bring myself back to
a blue garbage can
and a front porch
where birds smarter than us
eat cat food and scraps
from last night’s dinner
and we read
and read
til we feel
unlike
a creek that floods
whenever it wants,
and
all the poking fingers
and
all the nibbling corvids
freeze to ice chips
when
the turkey vultures come out,
when
dad’s eyes shine in the snow
like blue thumbtacks.

There’s this man I’m married to
who loves doing all the things he loves to do
a master carpenter and an excellent cook too
he does really great things with the gift of two.

Two hands to do all the work he does
with precise cuts handled with lots of love
electrical, plumbing and tile work too
I’ tell you this man enjoys all the work he’ll do.

There are other things he likes to do
like playing loud music and feeling the grove
camping, hiking and fishing in the lake
drinking, dancing, and taking me on dates.

He’s a son to his father and a father to his sons
he really loves his daughters and especially his grandson
he’s the man I married he’s as crazy as can be
a highly skilled professional is he.

That man loves the work he does
enjoying life and having fun
he likes doing all of these things
but not as much as carpentry.

He’s my companion, my partner, my mate and my friend
it’s been a challenging relationship being married to him
but, this is my special way to convey
I hope you’re enjoying Life each and every day.

Pesticide. Messed up inside.
Taken home and washed out to dry.
Paranoid behaviour. Screwball maker.
Beaten up with midnight favour.

Take me home where the grass is greener,
Take me home make me feel cleaner,
Who knows what happens when your hexed up inside.
Lest we forget, the future is bright.

Pessimism is my profession.
A career in suicide is my game.
Come, take me to the cleaners.
Wash my blood and give me fame.

Mastered by one, broken by none,
Ease my mind, sing my song.
Show me your soul, i’ll show you mine,
Maybe one day we’ll learn to die.
Until that day comes, show me the sky
Let me make hay whilst the sun ever shines.

Take me home, I’m walking dead.