Author: poetryfest

Inky, beautiful black seas, but it is not night.
I hear the sea was once a colour,
blue or green, maybe even red?
It has been black for a century,
oil slick and usually on fire.

Summers do not go gentle
as wildfires rage, rage against the dead light.
Plumes of acrid smoke are blown across my face:
The sensuality is not lost on me.

I could cry, my tears do not betray me.
They do not betray the tormenting drouth
or the tormented thirsty.
My faithfulness ought to be commended,
the smoke in my eyes grants no one relief.

The sea ice of the Arctic is all but gone-
the peaks above the sea are
the flames rising higher and higher
Overcoming the murky depths below.
Stunning.

If summer does not go gentle,
Winter is no different-
Storms prove more energetic and unleash more water.
I hear that water once extinguished fire.
How ridiculous!
How could anyone stand to stamp such beauty?

Inky, beautiful black seas at dawn.
I hear the sea was once a colour,
No longer, with their indecision and failure.
Our future has been black for a century,
oil slick and usually on fire.

September 29th, 2020

Air from Terra Rising
Quivering in the Mountains
Rocks Rumble Beneath Earth, & One’s Feet
Wind Blares Down on All of Us
Nature Plays Tambourines – Touching Each of Our Ears
Terrene Mother Drums her Hands’ Down on the Planet’s Crust
Manmade Iron Rails Roll their Human Cargo through Scenic Landscapes
Man – in their Fibbing Imaginations’ Believe that they Overcome the Mountain’s Rocks &
Horns
Sights Behold, & Sights Lost in Time
A World Without Flesh Arrives with Urbanization
Voices Born & Silenced through Oppression
Mothers Can’t Pay for Milk,
Feet Thump on the Aggregate – Pasted Over the Once Fertile Ground
Steps on the Concrete of Our Grandparents’
Skyscrapers Block Out the Open Sky
They Lord Over the Sight of Homes Lost to the Next Generations
Parks Become Sinkholes in the Modern Age
Beats from the Boomboxes of Youth
Converting themselves into Car Radios
Words Walk By
but their Unheard by Invisible Bodies,
Gibberish Blends in the Air
Whispering Echoes of Past Lives – Lost Within the Smog
The Sun Sets on the Densely Driven Divides.

A man can be himself only so long as he is alone; and if he does not love solitude, he will not love freedom; for it is only when he is alone that he is really free.
— Arthur Schopenhauer, Essays and Aphorisms

Alone along forest trails
through soft spotted grass
with moistened blue moss
and patches of velvet earth;
I am entirely present.
Songbirds glide above waving air
while trees move methodically
alongside my step. Inside this place
all are free, no masks and without concern,
to be truly their own essence.

In the stillness of the forest,
where light spills like honey
through the lattice of branches,
I listen closely,
for trees speak in whispers—
ancient dialogues etched in bark,
their words swirling in the breeze.

Each trunk a tome,
circles of history inscribed in knots,
holding stories of storms weathered,
of roots tangled in earth’s embrace,
where the heart of a seed beats
with the courage of generations past,
rebellious, yet ever humble.

The way their leaves quiver
in the language of longing,
a ballet of green and gold,
is a reminder that they too,
dance with the seasons—
some shedding burdens,
others reaching for skies
in fierce and fragile hope.

Underneath the canopy,
the air thickens with unspoken things,
conversations between branches,
the soft rustle of secrets
traveled on the sighs of the wind,
like the murmurs of women
carrying the weight of the world
in their laughter and tears.

I knelt at the roots,
felt the pulse of the earth,
the heartbeat of life woven in layers—
each inch of soil a chapter,

a promise of regeneration,
and I wondered
if we too, as women,
hold these living languages
within us,
our stories tattooed in skin,
our voices echoing through the ages.

In the quiet strength of the forest,
I see reflections of resilience,
in the gnarled branches, I trace paths
of survival and rebirth,
recognizing my own limbs reaching out,
sometimes yearning,
sometimes grounded,
stretched under a sky both stormy and blue.

For trees do not rush,
they breathe, they listen, they grow,
and in their patient unfolding,
I find lessons in grace,
each scar in their bark
a reminder that beauty thrives
even in the face of hardship.

So I return to the roots,
embracing the language of trees,
their words wrapping around my spirit,
inviting me to stand tall,
to sway with the winds of change,
to know that in our intertwined existence,
we—like them—
are both delicate and resolute,
carriers of timeless stories
waiting to unfurl

Less okay and not so good,
like the cold; opposite of a tongue,
then it feels unexplainable, which is to say,
the most obvious thing I’ve never known,
that the best feeling in all the worlds is our
cold, cold, noses on each other’s cheeks, that
second before we turn, when then, our mouths,
together, are the warmest thing in the world.

Run away from the vultures circling
Your broken memories for a morsel of sanity
Left are the remains of your logic
Bubbling up from reason
Your burning desires and ambition
Let it not grow into an inferno that consumes you whole

Rather this is the narcissist’s greatest feast
Left only asking how you dare let yourself crumble
Onto their feet, after fanning your flames
Self-destruction in the hollows of your mind
May a spark ignite the soul
That once occupied your no-longer-standing corpse

Where did all the Blue Jays go?
The trees are thin and bare
Their songs are but a memory
And no-one seems to care
Did they find someplace better?
That lacks this hollow shell
Did they disappear without a trace?
Or a soft farewell
I know there’s something missing on the branches of this town
Oh, what I’d give to hear again that whisper of a sound
The silence screams to all who feel as if they don’t belong
One day I swear I’ll go to where the blue jays all have gone

A plane touched down in paradise found
Amid sun, soft sand, and blue seas
Beauty untold, or so that’s what they sold
On that Eden that came with a fee

But beaches once white are now marred by the sight
Of humanity’s souring touch
Endless things that will stay, and never decay
As apathy tightens its clutch

Water so clear, and little to fear
Look down amidst sea life and grass
A bottle floats by, carried gently by tides
And paradise crumbles to ash

The ocean now warming emits a soft warning
But the cries become lost to the sounds
Of money and power, of greed from the cowards
As they shrug and straighten their crowns

Coral now bleached can no longer beseech
The help of the few who may care
What good is their fight, against money and might
And the knowledge that time has run bare

So when a plane took off from paradise lost
It carried down the runway of fate
A new recognition, a silent admission
That it already might be too late

The curtain drawn back in quiet attack
Showed an Eden now covered in rust
Humanity will cry when the garden does die
Leaving only but shadows and dust

But the mighty won’t care as they stand there
Burning dreams once hoarded like tokens
They’ll sit on their thrones, surrounded by bones
Looking out over paradise broken

To preserve something you have to love it. / To cradle a parasite the host
must be warm / and ready to breathe in fire. / What now makes the
ground stretch with life / used to come packed in shrapnel / in heat that
could not be moved. / The Man is in the attic and he is preparing his box
of tools / he will drill the screwdriver to set the ground ablaze / he will
snip the scissors and send the children to their graves / To preserve
something you have to covet it first. / Sometimes destruction makes a
beautiful movie / and efficient fertilizer, too. / The Man curves his mouth
around an idea / and calls it an epiphany, / but it’s just as original as
when we pried dark matter from space / and called it dark matter. / To
preserve something you have to become a host / and let the parasite latch.
/ Children run into the explosion / thinking the inferno is a firework /
and their arms loop in a circle, / their fingertips curved toward the
crowns of their heads / like a heart / or a very unlucky pose to be
fossilized within / when detonation strikes. / The Man calls his way of
life living / and anything else / is a sure / fire / way to go. / He loves the
sweet scent of ammonia / and can almost trade controversiality / for the
satisfaction he gets by / tonguing out corn from between his teeth.

Today I was driving through Northern Oklahoma
And I was looking at the windmills—The wind turbines—
The big, tall white ones that are meant
To replace the oil refineries
In some version of the future.

And while looking at some of them
Off in the distance outside Ponca,
All I could see were the giant resurrected
Undulating hands of old Indians
Sticking up out of the ground,
Waving, turning, gesturing toward me
And the rest of us.
They were trying to get my attention, our attention
And to whisper soft:

These odd filthy things you’ve been doing here
Where we lived for a time,
Even though we’ve all been dead n’ gone so long,
We are just trying to call to you
And say
In a whither, in a gusted breath
Be careful with this good Old fertile Ocean bed my loved children.
Good night
For a while until we meet. And we will.