Author: poetryfest

In halls where history is carved in bold strokes,
A fire burns that defies time’s steady hand—
Number 47’s presidency, both a rally and a provocation,
Echoes today through each fervent, divided stand.

Now, amid the clamor of modern debate,
Words once spoken continue to ripple through air;
A legacy forged in tumult and triumph alike,
Both a spark of change and a reminder of care.

Looking forward, tomorrow’s pages remain unwritten,
Yet the imprint of that era looms large and profound;
Future generations will sift through the echoes,
Finding lessons in the passion and the storm that resound.

In this ever-shifting theater of power and dream,
The present and future entwine in a complex art—
A presidency that lingers as both caution and catalyst,
A chapter of our story, etched deep in the heart.

Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

I write my love to you
From the stardust
And the grains of sand along the beach
From the dew of the mountain air
An atom from within my soul
I write I love you
Using the drops of rain
I make a canvas of love
Written in the stars
So that when the fates align
And our souls reconnect in the sky
And on the leafs of the majestic trees from the land
Our love will forever be etched
Within our essence and will forever remain
Two lovers woven together
From now until eternity

Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

She told us, she warned us,
repeatedly through story,
through song and finally,
she showed us.

Even with the showing,
we did not listen.
Even when chaos reigned down
on us from above.

When fiery rockets of molten lava
spewed from below.
When oceans rose and deserts disappeared,
still we did not listen.

We forced her hand
and being who she is,
she could not, would not back down.
We became the enemy.

We became the infestation.
We who had been given this paradise
of greenery, of sustenance, of life,
repeated our own history.

We did not garner one single learned moment
from the eons and eons of quiet pleas,
the unheard cries, the high decibel screams
she issued.

The animals could hear, the flowers and the plants
could hear. The mountains, the seas, the deserts
and the trees could hear.
But we could not hear.

We did not hear. We would not hear. Some did.
Some heard and tried to rally around the flowers
and trees. The oceans and deserts,
but they weren’t enough. They were too late.

Share this:

Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

In pauper’s field, no flowers lie,
on our graves of chosen number.
How different is grief from public outcry?
There is no comforting answer.

Is God or the state our true gatekeeper?
Both took away our chance to say goodbye.
But which one silently buried us here,
in a pauper’s field, where no flowers lie?

They abandoned the need to notify,
to strangers in the newspaper.
Unknown to our families, that nearby,
were our graves of chosen number.

Death that is silenced is now a murder
of virtue, bureaucrats can’t justify.
Tell the news crew to ask the coroner,
“how different is grief from public outcry?”

We lived as people, but they say we die,
as “state’s property,” marked by the dollar.
When justice calls, and you apologize,
we will not give a comforting answer.

The cosmos measures the truth that matters.
Heaven’s busses may run late, but still ride,
a path for those whose hearts will remember.
History must hear our raucous reply
from pauper’s field, and so we try.

Performed by Val Cole

Performed by Val Cole

Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

Talking endlessly and without reason,
I should have something to say,
something to tell you that would help you on your way,
I pause,
ready to speak,
yet nothing,
not even something little,
not even something great,
just silence,
silence so small,
so cogent,
it cause the earth to shake,
mountains to move,
and eventually,
you move with them.

Words can be powerful,
words can be true,
yet I used silence as a weapon against you.