Author: poetryfest

Expanding outwards the unknown and spectacular
Unrecognizable, macabre.

Colors that exist here among the
twists and curls.

Emotions so twisted and thorny,
I cannot bring myself to start to untangle them.
A concoction unheard of and new.

This thrives, while the sun has none
caked in dirt, I am left unsure but,
We are unable to leave.
Yet both of us look out of place.

We are stuck in a cycle
Only paying attention to the new if it is odd.
Emotions are lying
Or begging.

Rotted and new.

The menu is limited.
The ingredients, contorted.
But I am a woman who knows how to manage
How else could we have survived years of this damage?

The preparation is relatively simple.
You get ¼ pain, ¾ Shame and ⅓ Sadness.
The more unbalanced the equation, the bitter the meal.
As the chaos begins to simmer, throw in 1/7 of guilt and 1/7 of grief.
The fire of the pot will almost go out, but hold, this marriage must cook.
Add 1/7 of pity.
Ignite the flame,
prepare for a party.
The ugliness of this meal is to remember the tears, ¾ will do.
Forget the recipe your mind will give you, how could she
without being here, know that he’s sick of your blues.
Throw in vinegar, add dark to gloom, watch him dissipate,
it’s only you who remembers the last time you were you.

The cooking is real hard work.
But persevere.
Or how else can you feel the heat?
You are a woman, the fiery heat is a conquest,
Your oiled, piled dirty dishes are proof for your inquest.
The final drink for such a meal is a home made cocktail.
Take ⅙ of trauma with ⅙ of vodka and ⅕ of maddener
The crazier you look, sound and feel,
the more delicious the mixture and meal.

The eating is torture.
You can serve your man parts of this dish.
If it’s cold, he will eat it.
If it’s warm, he will repeat it.
Eating for you is a habit
You eat, you shit, take his shit, repeat.

The digestion is the hardest.
Swallowing the pain is rough,
Chewing and twisting the truth is not.
If I choke on tears or wine, what difference does it make?
If I slit my throat or hand, what hell could possibly remain?
So my broken heart tears, and travels with the pieces to my gut.
The meeting of the two causes a rupture;
scattering the debris of my crushed life and body,
forcing it to expel into a thousand, wasted faeces.
He will come home and find me in my mess.
He will sigh, pick up his phone and call his miss.

hadow creatures
between awake and asleep,
painting alleyways and
silhouettes on rented houses,
any but their own.

stepping in and out of lives
so smoothly
that their echo,
similar to a drop in a puddle:
ripples and then calms.

a shadow rests
on the opposite side of the light,
occupying a small space
for a small time:
reprieve from the burning sun

a shadow
can be striking
but only for a moment;
the day and it’s events
can only be a memory.

as the sun searches
for rest, becoming
a drop behind the horizon,
the shadow finds company
and loses its shape

1st Gear:

Very slowly, I wake up and my brain tells me where to go.
It says you already know.
Get up, brush your teeth, wash your face.
Don’t let the water be a waste.
Get dressed, don’t be stressed
Let your mother tell you that you’re the best.

2nd Gear:

Leave the house, I look up at the sky and all I see is blue.
Birds chirping, I’m drinking soda and I’m burping.
As I’m walking to the car door.
I look down at the concrete floor and wonder what else I could adore.
As I’m getting driven to school.
I wonder if what we are getting taught are the ways of a fool.
As I start to arrive, my brain goes into a deepdive.
This is the pitstop, and this is where the good part of my day stops.

3rd Gear:

First half of school, Counting some sheep.
Getting a wink of sleep.
Periods passing by, like the blink of an eye.
Now for lunch, Some people may call it brunch.
Fights, giving people left, right goodnights.
Security, supposedly the soldiers of purity.
Second half, my brain spinning its knowledge staff.
Hallways Lessening with people.
Last period, finally over.
And I’m not feeling sober.

4th Gear:

Schools over, walking home in cold november
I walk over to the deli with my friends.
But this isn’t how my day ends.

Final Gear:

I finally got home.
The sheet is flipped over.
Doing my homework, and getting ready to trash my friends in a game.
Because they are so lame, and only the good players get the fame.
Now, after all is complete it is time to continue counting my sheep and fall into a
deep and rewind on my tape player.

Hundreds of thousands of people
Hiding behind closed doors,
feeling like they’re stuck behind the door
and can’t get out.
Like they’re chained to the floor,
not knowing if they should try to escape.
Scared to be judged for who they are,
Scared of being looked at differently,
because of who they love.
Feeling like people will hurt them if they step outside.

Thousands of people have been killed for being different.
They stay inside,
not knowing if they should go outside,
because they’re considered abnormal.
Not knowing if they should try and find love.
Instead of finding love,
They cry in their room.
They cry because they’re looked at differently.
Just because a person likes the opposite sex,
and the other may like the same gender,
that does not make you different from everyone else.
You are your own person
and you don’t need to change for anyone.
You can try and change for someone.
But no matter how hard you try,
you won’t change,
because that’s not who you truly are.

Epigraph and Introductory Thoughts:
The whole world is of images that surround us in a single field of signification. Every flower we
see is an expression, every landscape has a significance, every human or animal face speaks its
wordless language.
– Hans Urs von Balthasar, in Beauty for Truth’s Sake, 37.

All beauty portrays truth,
all truth is God’s truth ,and
all creation shows God’s glory.

Satan is a foreigner in this land, he does not fit.

I
I see fully flourishing creatures
overflowing with harmonious singing
stretching out to reach Him
glowing from the beginning.

Beauty breaking forth,
old prophesies blooming.
Sacred seeds flowering
in the fullness of time.

Geometrical shapes, symmetrical art,
symbolic numbers, all playing a part
of revealing divine Truth and
reflecting divine order,
the Logos centered world
with Beauty in every corner.

Every piece reflects His name,
every part declares His praise,
every place reveals His fame,
His glory cannot fade.

II
Now I see satan, the enemy of our souls,
prowling around to destroy,
whining as he goes.
He tries so hard to take
what’s good and make it bad,
to take the boundless Beauty,
and make it oh so drab.

(But look! Everything he tries fails.
What has he to be proud of? Nothing!
Let us laugh at him!)

He bumbles around, wearing a frown,
sure he’s smart, sometimes he’s scary,
but the beast behind the curtain
is really a mightless flea.

A bruised heel,
but a crushed head,
a whimpering dog,
waiting to be fed.
See his power? See his crown?
Of course you can’t,
they’re nowhere to be found.
He is chased around,
pummeled to the ground,
never to be renowned,
never to be unbound.

III
God’s glory is here to stay.
He’s set up a kingdom that will never fade.

Stay alert!
Watch, and pray.
For the day He comes,
and sin passes away.

In everything
I see you
You made me
You gave me autism,
something people are ashamed of

Instead of a stigma attached to autism,
I am proud of this learning disability
If I were “normal” I wouldn’t have had the same experiences
Most parents would say
that there would be everyday things
that their children couldn’t do if they had autism

I am a fully functional member of society
despite my ASD
Labels sometimes suggest limits

If my parents listened to these suggestions
I would never be a author
I would never have a job
I would never drive a car

When I struggled with learning something new,
I would find other ways to learn
Sure I will always struggle with things
but doesn’t everyone struggle at some point?

When I have to sign medical papers
and tick the box saying I have autism, I chuckle
Most people have a stigma attached to their autism
I am unashamed of my autism

Sure I have autism
but it doesn’t define me
I am privileged to have it
It’s a blessing in disguise
Thank You God for my autism

I hold the world through a dog’s tender eyes.
Periods of brassy gold.
and lengthly stints of admirable blue.

Yesterday we were in the tornado
path, but it didn’t show. We watched

the reports of other devastated places,
overturned trucks, skeletal houses,

people displaced, and were sorry.
But now our birds are chirping their

varied songs, the bees have reemerged,
the tires are humming along

the asphalt, and the air, so dank
yesterday, is now cool and sweet,

it’s like coming from the basement
into a party where everyone’s in love

with you. Probably there are branches
torn and shingles discarded, even

our lavender crashed, but just now
the traffic coming to me then away

is like the ocean of my childhood,
waxing in, waning away the day.

She batters around the place with color, light and music seeping through the air-tight windows and bolted door.
Each day presents a body to be painted and dressed for the flurry of moods that she rides upon.
Her voice out paces the singer in the speaker, her sound bouncing through the place.
The cordials of potions stream all over her skin and are thrown like a spray of rain upon the blowing conditioned air.
Her days are happily spent decorating Christmas.
Some artists need recognition-money-critiques, but not this goddess.
When she does emerge from her containment, she struts her stuff all around the sitty sidewalks.
And she beams with each pair of eyes who worship at the painted toes of her beauty.