Author: poetryfest

Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

Dry, arid, desert landscape of Mojave
spartan-like, feisty under the relentless sun,
austere rock outcrops, shrubs,
wildflowers under the clear blue sky,
bloom vividly upon a thousand stars in the cover of the night.
A solid trunk of a tree, a poetry
unfurls its branches in a twisted scape
gazing straight upon the starry night,
in deep contemplation of its sparse existence.
Eking out a living of its own,
resilient,
the root seeks water through the fault lines of the desert.
Standing alone in sublime beauty of its harsh climes,
radiating joy to the lone hiker.
In the beauty of a silhouette, it emerges
the Joshua tree of Mojave.

Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

T’was my last caper, a risky but weighty score:
Safe dial whirred, door popped at speed,
No chance to focus, time to take a shot,
In n’ out in minutes, so why’d I get caught?

Cops cuff’d me, then questioned me, but I didn’t break,
The files stashed, they couldn’t charge me,
But wasted no time planting seeds of doubt,
“Somebody’s been talking,” they casually dropped.
If one of my crew snitched, I’d figure it out.

A close pack we were, tied by our trials,
Traditions oft’n lie, so I drilled down deep,
Only four knew the plan, a rare conceit,
Can any leave alive? Most bloody receipt.

My bag man, they call’d him the Butter Knife,
Never let a mark win, cunning ran rife.
He made the contact, he secured the score,
When asked, “Did you let me get caught?”
He refused to answer; Cross off one more.

Mac was the best driver–always got away,
A life lived too fast, no pause or delay,
Never stopp’d to think, rather chase the toast,
At the meet, I asked, “Why’d you ghost the heist?”
He made a run for it, so his corpse must roast.

Fat Tony wasn’t just a handler, but a made man,
My mate, he was–unlike Mac–consistent as sin,
` He did a dime for me, uncheckered loyalty,
But ne’er made the exchange, body floating out to sea.

None to squeal; the Feds couldn’t charge me,
Covert info, Fools gold, the law couldn’t bar me.
Then a congressman bid—more than info bought,
Money is evil, but censorship got me shot.

Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

Pain and grief,
Sadness and sorrow
Will I have the strength to make the morrow?

I fear my loss
Will forever emboss.
Can I shed this pain, no matter the cost?

Rage and anger
Are no stranger,
Especially towards the one born in the manger.

You watch your world burn
Through sickness and yearn,
Yet you expect yours not to turn?

The hate for you I feel
Is all too real
That there’s no longer a way you can make me
kneel.

Praying woman taken down,

As many more of yours will surely drown.
Yet I still need to yield to your falsified crown?

You are no longer the strength I borrow;
For looking to you, I now find anger and sorrow.
I’m flying from you like a fleeting sparrow,
And with me, I take my last arrow.

My feelings used to be quite reserved,
Though my eyes kept observed,
Seeing the claimed justice no longer served

Your numbers dwelling well deserved.

Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

I was, maybe, three
years old, when my mother
said: “I challenge you to run
from here to the corner.”

And, delighted, I ran.

On my spring stick new legs,
I ran,
giving it my all,
I ran,
alongside the old stone building,

While holding my mother’s hand
and I felt the wind
in my hair,
and that delicious,
palatable,
infinite
sense of freedom
for the first time.

It was 1974
and the country was on the verge
of shaking the shackles
of a fifty year-old dictatorship.
shots resonated against the darkness
and the first morning lights
unveiled the corpses of
insurrectors,
lying,
their eyes wide
with surprise,
by the roadside.

But that day,
I ran.

Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

The Countdown begins
When?
November 5th, Jan.6th
OR
Is it
When does the countdown end?
I have heard one question and one statement over and over
Are you better off
We will fix it
I hear words like
I am traumatized
I am wondering I am leaving
I am scared
That is not better off
That is not fixed
That is…
More of the same.

Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

When I die, I’m coming back to haunt the shit out of everyone who ever screwed me over in this lifetime.And I will be immune to your puny exorcisms. And if you’re on my afterlife shit list and you happen to get yourself dead before me, don’t consider yourself off the hook. Poor you, living or dead. I’ll be an Asian ghost. And Asian ghosts don’t fuck around. I’ll have fifty snakeheads. And in each of my heads, will be a clever brain. And each clever brain is going to remember exactly what you did. And the heads will take turns sleeping. When one sleeps, 49 sisters will be awake and sharpening their teeth on the whetstone of memory. And each of those 50 snake heads will command a set of dog-loyal hands that will salt your heart and shove it in your mouth eternally, and you will swallow again and again and again, motherfuckers.

Just saying.

Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

My body isn’t a protest.
It’s a betrayal.

I’ve been trapped in here for years,
buried inside a harp seal,
wide-eyed with hakapiks overhead.
It was silent when I wanted to scream.
It froze when I wanted to fight.
It stayed when I should have fled.
My body isn’t a protest.

It’s a betrayal.
It’s a betrayal.

Even my body knows it,
marks its own cells as intruders,
attacks itself,
as if the outside world wasn’t enough,
it joins the conquest,
and forms an internal massacre.
Hand me the club.

I’ll do it myself.

Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

It was your curves I fell in love with
Or was it the gentle branches you offered me
Vines entwining you so lovingly
Bowing over to bond with each other

You provided shelter from all around
Protection like no other
Your strength shining in your continuous growth
Wisdom reflecting in your care

Open wide, unique for all to see
Providing warmth on stormy days
Always there, consistent in your presence
No judgement or service to render

Offering a daily dose of peace and comfort
A prescription for the simplicity of life
Blending and connected to others
No need to shine alone

Changing to situations with ease
A reminder of how much we have developed
In a world full of grey, your beauty glows
Adapting to the warmth you receive

A natural state of love you offer
Freely and with grace
A true example of pure beauty
Keeping secrets never to be told

Embracing all who meet you
Positive right down to the core
Silent when the elements change
You remain strong and powerful forevermore

Lisa Khan
lisakhan.com

Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

Let’s just say it.
You are the lucky one, Ed.

Dying is the answer to all of it.
Life is a constant drum

occluding the lyrics.
When you die,

you have flexible hours.
You can eat all the bacon you want.

You can run red lights.
You can float or bilocate.

If allowed to choose
I would be you instead.

But I have the boys,
and I trampoline back to this answer:

Yes, I would do all of this again
even knowing you would go first.

Are you near a window?

Can you feel the snow?

Have you met your heroes?

To the other dead husbands:

Please befriend my beloved.

He’s the one with the sweet beard.

He’s the one with the almond eyes.

He’s the one with the sleeve tattoo.

He’s the one that’s always glowing.

Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

tightrope like tied note twirl tangential tiptoe
talk | your reflection
through
twisted spun spiderweb stuck-fly absurdity
scam | your reflection

escape glass enslavement soft falsehood of fractals
fear | your reflection
is lying, what

monster haunts this fun-house body
trepid mask manifests so malevolent
my-flesh does-not be-lieve it-self, bursts
skyscraper hoarding horizon like anti-hero
like the mirrors must be mistaken-

miss taking handfuls of half-full hungry for high school
bathrooms where I held the toilet seat how I wish to be held-
fingers stretched towards the accuracy I believed to live in my throat

hoped I only saw a stranger in the corner shops of Paris where

a boy who kissed me like I was glass
like I was the New York skyline
like the space I took up was beautiful, told me

“you can see Belgium from space they had so much
money from the slave trade they
lit up the whole country” said

“there are no stars in the city
but I like looking at you”

and I was sorry for the space I inhabited and I believed
all the fallacies I met eye-to-eye
all the reflections that lie and do not lie
and I stood in the mirror and wept
for the puddles we walked through and knew-

they were just
piss