Author: poetryfest

Do we run faster to not be adults
to not raise a toast
and let the children
share our second-smoke
give to receive
more flattery
to assault beauty
critique politics and curse the protestors
to not feast
throw a glass and blame the waitress
lose weight and order lobsters
to enjoy flashlights
pose on the velvet carpets and laugh
like an olympus god
to stay seated
pound the table and say

I Stay Neutral
to disperse teargas faster than fireworks
and celebrate
because it’s their story
and lift a finger to scroll away, tilting to the left
Bask in the sun, and have another round of applause.

On bright nights the sun displays four colors.
White is the tents punctured.
Black is eyes pretend to shut but never shut.
Red is a tree of hands behind the politico.
Green is the symbolic peace calling from next spring.
In the tortured, desired, promised and razed land—the sun also rises but the powder
blocks it.

somewhere in my travels i had taken the wrong turn
i can’t inform my path to there for i have yet to learn
i don’t know how it happened, how hell i stumbled into
journey aside, i found the devil’s lair without a clue

amidst flames i met a woman – a kind old soul in life
her piety led me to ask–what guide’s the devil’s knife?
she replied, i thought i stayed devout to faith when living
when i passed god revealed my sins, and he was not forgiving

i’ve agonized for centuries, unable to escape the facts
i have murdered many in my time–34 to be exact
when i could have born a child but i chose a different path
god had tracked one cardinal sin for every year that passed

it started when i was in poverty and could have born 5 kids
they were not conceived; they were murdered before they lived
when 3 ate at my table i could have birthed 10 more
i did not so those 3 would thrive – with god this struck a chord

when i was nearing 45, due to danger i removed a child
i chose to save my own life, but choosing is not god’s style
i decided to live a mother to 3 than leave a motherless 4
i did not foresee this decision was one that my god would abhor

this is why i was struck down into this infernal realm
i have murdered more than 30 souls–for that i burn in hell
but even now the devil knows i’d repeat every choice
despite what god revealed to me, i would do it for my boys

mark my words she stood there in agony looking proud
i had to turn away from her since she would not back down
i sometimes wonder what brought me there to the depths of hell
if only just to meet a woman and bring back her story to tell

Today,
Lesser men sang a song of worship
and genuflected like syphilitic nymphs
to the ascension of a lesser god,
The Fetid Cow of Greed
crowned with the ferns
of the Order
rising with the storm clouds
of a broken nation’s ignorance
to clap thunder
and cast flames
on truthtellers
strangers
and the starving
so the White Church could scream, “hallelujah!”

but We do not burn!

Pay for your hunger
Pay for a roof over your head
Pay for your life

Year after year
The price tag for basic rights
Keeps increasing

Pay for your transport
Pay for the cold
Pay for your life

Healthcare is expensive, life is expensive
When you can’t afford it – die
What happens if you can’t afford that, too?

Pay for your pain
Pay for having a disease
Pay for your life

Cost of living: unforgiving
You are Capitalism’s villain
Pay with your life

– After “Final Portrait of Charles and Holly Wright” Photographed by Holly Wright

My pillow is forever furrowed by worry,
so it folds under wild hair.

His lie flat, tufts of hair to
sweat beads on his forehead.

His elbows carve holes into the quilted comforter covering a clean set of sheets,
belt remains clenched to torso and blue ink pen engraves his chest.

My hands pursed together, I let my fingernails prod the blue veins of my hands,
my necklace neatly arranged under my day clothing.

Creased leather work shoes meet the end of our bed.
Heeled ankles cross and remain in bliss above the flowered quilt.

Our bed, our lives,
our sleepless nights, our pencil skirt and pleated pants.

Bread and circuses—
the stage they’ve set for us,
where the crowds are fed,
and the spectacle blinds our trust.

We’re all victims of random circumstance,
born into battles we never chose.
But when we rise to fight for change,
they rewrite our story,
ruin our names,
turning our heroes into foes.

Bread and circuses,
a feast for the eyes,
while the hands that feed us
dangle our lives like lies.

Like clowns on a stage,
we throw pies at each other—
faces full of filling,
blinding you and me.
The ringmaster made them all with deception—
delicious, but sugar-free.

Distractions sweet,
so we never see—
the chains that bind us,
the price of being free.

They’ll make us dance,
they’ll make us cheer,
while they steal what we hold dear.
And in the silence of our screams,
they offer bread,
and sell us dreams.

American humanity has spoken
their votes a napalm venom
spat mercilessly at their own wives
and daughters
we will not forget your cruelties
even when you beg
for forgiveness
the women and the marginalized
you claimed to love, cherish, protect
will not hear you
over the roar of our blackest inevitability

A damaging doctrine,
disguised as the truth.

They are only lies told
to keep you in line,

to keep you under their control.
They are only lies told in order

to hold you down,
to keep your soul from

being delivered into freedom—
to have you clutched in their

greedy hands, a treacherous power.
They do it to keep you in your chains.

This is a power that smothers,
a power that stops your heart,

rots your mind,
starts your wars.

Don’t ever believe them,
not ever, not one word of it.

The world’s doctrines
are not your truth.

Where does yr megalomania come from?
The central part of the mindset, hmm…
Almost every Gate of The Kingdom

It must be harder to think & feel

If such tyranny would allow me to speak
That could burn u alive from both ends
Or maybe it would incite insurrection

Like Zen gardens turned stormy

So how is it u fell out of step with life?
Making friends & enemies the same
If u don’t want to think about that

Live yr life of troubled sorrow