Author: poetryfest

Written November 6th, 2024

Many cheer with relief
and joy,
while I sit,
and know what is to come.

I think of the warnings given
and ignored,
the deaths
and damage
that will arise.

I think of Romania, 1965.

How the rights of many
were stripped away,
as contraceptives were outlawed,
pregnancies tracked,
and abortions forbidden.

I think of the women who died,
the same-sex lovers
who were made criminals by law,
the children whose lives were ruined
by underfunded and understaffed orphanages.

I think of the people who were lied to
about how the government
would take care of their children
if they couldn’t.

And it started with an election
like this one.

So, I sit,
knowing what is to come,
and think of Romania, 1965.

I wish I could’ve met you
That you could’ve told me stories about your childhood, your family, anything
I wish we could’ve had coffee together, or a breakfast as foreign to me as everyday-bacon
Maybe sausage, Virginia-style! Or Carolina grits, anything!
I got too many missed chances with folks,
I had absolutely no chance of gettin’ to know you
I pray you were enough of a God-fearin’ man, pray Heaven is where you are
Maybe we could meet there, or maybe we were never meant to know of each other
Only God knows.

the light of my eyes pour into the sky through the scope of your hands; dips into a swan trapped in a sea of stars; i hear your fingers screw and unscrew pulling the night closer, closer; my other eye swivels between the tilt of your head and the milky way; i couldn’t make them blink a single tune,

they’ve branded us partners
in crime, killers on the
run. our love is
lethal. kiss like a little death,
a haunting. fuck
like our souls leave the mortal
plane, split it down
the center, split us down
our centers, sew us together–
call us the freak show
all you want;
we like it.

they’ve branded us cannibals,
ravenous animals.
our love is a hunger,
a kiss on the neck vampiric
desire, a modern Bram Stoker.
fuck like a consumption,
i devour you,
you devour me.
no one else holds
the power to tear
apart like you–to drain
the blood from my
chest and lick
the honeyed drops
that trickle
down
the way you do.

they’ve branded us threats,
destruction.
maybe we are.
maybe we’ll tear apart
the fabric of the universe.
maybe we’ll take some
of the scraps and
upholster something new,
something quainter,
something queerer,
thrown together like a quilt,
a patchwork clown suit,
a collage.

we brand each other lovers.

i brand you the sun.

i brand you autumn leaves.

i brand you little beetles.

i brand you a cozy coffee morning.

i brand you my muse.

Safeword: The 1st Amendment
In violation of the social contract

I’ll play the confused Starbucks employee
To your unhinged Karen soccer mom

I’ll be the unemployed new grad
To your Silicon Valley exec

The deeply concerned citizen
To your ICE Agent

The Guantanamo Bay ‘detainee’
To your CIA torturer

The for-profit prisoner
To your indifferent warden

The American
For your country.

meet me at the lake
when the sky burns shades of orange and purple
a warm comfort in the vast unknown

meet me at the lake
when the wind howls sharp and merciless
and the waves rise like wild creatures
breaking their teeth upon the shore

meet me at the lake
when we are children, barefoot and bright-eyed
chasing a horizon we could never touch

meet me at the lake
when our silence spans years not moments
When i’m closer to death than to knowing you
the shape of your hand the tilt of your smile

meet me at the lake
when his daughter has my hazel eyes
and your sons smile belongs to another life

meet me at the lake
when the memories are no longer mine
and i can no longer swim the horizon
you will ask and i will answer

meet me at the lake

It wasn’t your favorite French toast—
breakfast had already slipped away
when we met, almost a month
before you left my hometown.
We didn’t care about anything
aside from the gazes we exchanged.
How much have you missed me?
Tell me in words,
not by brush of your closest finger
against mine. We smiled
when croissants came to us
to fill the gaps
of silence,
of our days
without having
a word.

How was your croissant?

I never spoke of this before
remembering the sounds
which aren’t in either of our native languages.
It’s alright
was your preffered phrase.
You’re alright
so you just took one.
I never cared to take the other again.

How could I eat
even when I was starving?
It was never adobo
and you’re alright.
I do not doubt that you came
from an eight-hour flight
before work and before we met.

How’s your trip in New Zealand?
You told me stories
I had never heard last week
and never had the chance
to ask
but never answered.

You mentioned of many things:
you’ll migrate to Europe,
you missed snowboarding,
you hopped in the bar
with your best friend.
You enjoyed
talking you.

I cut my croissant in half
with this gentle knife.
The butter kissed the halves,
I finished one slowly
while I was chewing flour
to loose its wilderness.

Yet, I am never full.

I laugh,
though it is time for mourning.
The sound system has been on
since this morning,
but I cannot trust either of my staff,
at least not the new member,
to remember to play the songs.
I tell him to play Bach’s cello suite.
Not that one – the second one, in D minor.
I tell him to play it at a low decibel level,
to soothe, not disturb the guests.
He does not know anything.
He does not know that the microphones
are in the flowers, and in the lampshades
that dull the yellow lamps on the oak side tables
next to the blue upholstered armchairs
from 1982, and above the drop ceiling in the
overflow room, where the critical conversations are held
(but never in the box – too risky).
The unaccompanied cello elicits a tear,
because I had three friends who shared
my enthusiasm for Yo-Yo Ma,
but we have recently had a kind of falling out,
and I do not know what I will do without
the dentist, the jeweler and the attorney.

pick up the rock, throw. it lands.
do i remember how to play this childish game? once i did,
when my time was taken up with floral skirts, double dutch,
laughter, hair red as a sunburn wearing

a braided floral crown. white petals
falling, a delicate halo. now, i am hesitant. no longer
sun kissed and smiling, making wishes with dandelion puffs,
pulling petals off—he loves me, he loves me not.

he never will. i want to scream.
i always laughed too loud.
can i tell you a secret?
i pretend now,
laughing loud so you think i’m happy.
i’d rather be screaming while running barefoot in the grass

again. heat crawls up my face, eyes of strangers
prickles my skin. i hop on one foot. land on each number,
jump over my rock. turn around. return to the beginning.

I think I finally understand why people paint the world they see.
I think I finally understand why writers write,
why poets rhyme,
and why preachers preach to those who pray.
I think I finally understand why the hurt turn to the healers,
and why the healed never turn back.

It is faith.
It is hope.
It is about finding beauty in the world around me.

Admiring the sun and the sky,
the sand and the sea,
I appreciate the way the current increases in intensity,
as if it has tales worth telling under the glistening stars.
With sandy feet and soggy hair,
wrapped in towels and waiting to be transported
to a kingdom where seashells crown the shore,
where the tide writes letters in foamy script,
and sunlight spills like liquid gold upon the sand.
The mountain of water conveys myths and sagas
that would shock ancient scribes and Greek mythologists alike.
I want to paint a picture that shows the way the sand makes time drift slow,
how the sea silences worries and provides music for the soul,
and how the shells remind me of the beauty of the ocean.

I want to capture the way sunsets hold memories,
the colors preserving events of years past,
and show how the waves encapsulate time.
The sand hides the truth,
while the sky shows endless possibilities.

I finally understand why people paint the earth meeting the endless sky,
or the way the sun smiles down on those who lounge.

If only I could paint the laughter that drifts as lightly as the breeze.
If only a painting could capture everything.

If only.