Author: poetryfest

Softly, our fingertips meet, as eager as the lovers with no promise of tomorrow.

Timidly, my hands tremble along your face, my thumbs carving you into their memory.

You belong to me,
and I belong to you.
Every trouble melts away, because your lips belong to me, and mine belong to you.
You,
are an orchid, and your petals dance upon my mouth.
Let us bloom without a why, for tomorrow belongs to neither you, nor I.
A shadow of wine paints the corner of your mouth. Oh! How I long to breathe you in.
Softly you smile, and your tongue surrenders to mine.
Are you real, or a dream?
Our lips part…
I am no dreamer,
you are no dream.

seldom do i wish

for skin pressing on mine
as gentle as a whisper
as powerful as the mountain storm
so infrequently do i ask
for stars within me to collide
a breath so deep
it kisses my bones
safety in the arms of whom
i once called home
a deep necessity settles inside of me
a honeybee caught in the rain
from a journey too far
where the flowers are heavy with fruit
a once roaring fire begging for more
fuel, fuel for life
tiny snowflakes fallen indifferently
crying for time, more time
cravings for a touch so sensationally
entire
i believe I’ve experienced life in the skies

i cry and i cry and i cry

the clock is broken / I still count the minutes you took with you / there is a space between seconds / where I reach for you / my hand pulls at air / like I could still feel your skin there / but it’s always empty / the space between us is an echo / it fills the room with nothing / and I am learning to live with nothing / I forget the sound of your voice / but I still hear it sometimes / like a song I never learned the words to / your absence tastes like the first bite of a meal I’m too hungry for / I swallow it whole / but it doesn’t fill me / the floorboards creak under the weight of your ghost / and I wonder how much longer it will be / until I’m not waiting / until I don’t need to hear you say my name again / but today / your name is the only prayer I know / I whisper it like a secret / between breaths / between hours / and in the silence that follows / I wait / and wait / and wait / until waiting is all I remember.

I am no traveller from an antique land.
I am land itself
I am the Earth
The thing that grows and crumbles to
dust
Ashes painted over cave walls by firelight
Mixed with water, daubed on faces and canvases and buildings.
I am the sand that your footprints press upon
And the wave that washes them away.

I am the last thing Ozymandius saw back when he was
Just Ramesses
I was the stone his body became
– Atherosclerosis ; Renal Calculus –
More than mere Nephrolith

I made him monolith
Hardened him from Earth and
Gave him centuries
Turned to steel then
Took him away
Chiselled him down to rubble
Nose down to a stub
Turning
Feet to sand
He crumbled from the bottom up
To be found and then spoken of
Later
By one teller to another.
Crushing
myself to black
Spreading
Thin over mesh into paper

Together
We gave him more life still.

I am all of this and so much more.
I am History.
With hands and tools
I am the ropes that bind and pull him
up,
And then reverse myself
To bring them tumbling back down towards me.

Colston; Columbus, Kings of all Kinds.
Despite them,
So alive am I
Beyond story and memories and Earth.
I am What shall remain,
Even when the truth cannot.

Hey
Did you hear about the new Restaurant?
No?
Well, it’s Rich McCormick’s new place
It’s a new fast food place
Amazing service
With no adult employees
All kids aged three and up
As long as you’re potty trained
You can work there.

When customers come in
They greeted with a five-year-old cashier
I hear she’s getting better at counting to ten
But she has experience using a tablet
So she is good at getting your order right with each click
Just don’t expect any change back
Because she likes the feel of change going up her nose.

We have three eight year olds in the back
They’re flipping burgers
They haven’t been able to see over the stove yet
And we’re still currently working on them
Not using the spatula to scratch their butts
At least they learned not to put their hands on the stove.

Now the newest recruit
She’s three years old

Our counters are sticky from soda
because she can’t hold the cup yet
but she tells us she can do it
oh, and I hope you like floaties in your diet coke
it’s booger flavored.

Ah,
My chicken nuggets are ready
They’re cold and with bite marks
Just the way our fry cook like it

Need to complain to the manger?
I wouldn’t bother
He will spit raspberries at you
And call you a poopy head
While burping in your face.

Doesn’t sound realistic?
A little more realistic
Than running the streets of New York to pick berries
Or throw an imaginary newspaper from their bikes
At least if kids worked in fast food they could get a meal
Since you’re determined to take away free meals from school.

Hey Rich Mccormick,
With your fake smile
And fake car salesmen suit
I have a better idea for you
How about you go home and watch reruns of leave it to beaver
And dream of the idea of the 1950s that didn’t exist
While everyone living in 2025 make the decisions

A still, moonless night
I lay my head down on your chest,
And listen to your heartbeat,
Slow

And your breath steady
As you drift away
A moment of sleep
Then, out of nowhere
You flinch, awake
And hold on to me.

When I ask you if you’re okay,

You nod your head
and tell me you felt like
You were falling
Asleep!

And the only thing I can think of
while looking into
these dangerously deep eyes
Is the inescapable feeling that
I am falling too!

I would try to maneuver myself so I could focus
on the horizontal sliver of sky.
– Barry Lopez

I bought a
one-dollar
copy of
Arctic Dreams
and carried it
to the truck,
cradled in
both hands.
Turning south,
homes melted
to open fields,
rain-soaked
beneath a
slice of
horizon.
Voices of
Oregon Public
Radio rose through
the cab, prolific
and award-
winning author
Barry Lopez
died yesterday
in Eugene. My
mind lit upon
an autumn
evening, small
circle gathered
’round Mr.
Lopez, frail
then, we spoke
long enough
to give thanks
for his work,
his definition
of prayer,
continuous
and respectful
attendance to
the presence of
the divine. In his
grasp, my palm
felt worn and
clean. Maneuvering
toward the edge,
I held both
hands open, ready
to receive
a sliver
of sky, blessed
body, broken
and
given.

I covered my face in makeup.
Earlier, I met a bird with his back to a brick wall.
I crouched.
Two animals blinked at each other until
I walked away with my head turned down
From the cold sun.
I didn’t count, but if I had I might’ve
Counted twenty blinks until
I walked away with shame curled up in my puffer jacket pockets.
I’d thought about smiling without showing
My teeth so he knew I was no reason to be afraid.
But I am and he was, so I’ll remember him when I curl into bed.