Author: poetryfest

Pouring is the dark water —
as if a black curtain,
which suddenly covers the window in front of you,
which you try to close
by a hearth in a murky kitchen —
that streaks down.

Pouring is the water from a tea bottle —
coming your way,
on the clothes, on the bed sheet;
the yellow traces on the wall —
and the yelling and the anger.

Sprinkled are the red paints —
as if blood spots,
spilled on the bed and the wall over the bedhead,
by some mice or cockroaches
coming from a crack on the floor,
in which a red electrical lighting in shape of a line
you see through the crack is their “nest” —
and the rain and the deluge from a fire hydrant
targeted at the crack.

Pouring are the purple stains —
puke after a bottle of red wine,
over half of the bathroom,
on the sink, on the toilet, on the floor,
after which you drag a half-conscious body to the bed,
with a disposable plastic glove on one hand —
and the spray from the shower head
to clean the scene.

Pick up her fragments of porcelain and
Put her back together.
The needle moves on its own, forward and up, down and back,
the thread is wet and red.
Secure the seams, make it so they cannot see her cracks.
Put her back together, stitch by stitch.
the red will remind her of her fragmented self, the red will make others pity her, but she does not care.
Put her back together, hope she never breaks again.
Forward and up, down and back. every two stitches makes another hairline crack appear. The cracks build. Until you need to
Put her back together. The person the world thinks you are. The bubbly, sweet her, the one the world loves.
Put her back together, before she shatters for good.

she left her shoes
gold lace, hand stitched,
velvet and pearls, smooth
under her calloused thumb
different from the coarse
clothes she cloaked
her scorched beauty in
from 5 to 17. Luxury shoes
left stuck in thorns and mud.

Bare feet are best for straddling
tree trunks. Arms grasped the vines
wormed around and through the trunk,
the parasitic plants layered over roots.
Moss rubbed her leg. She shoved
one foot up. Velvet soft moss clung
to her scraped knee, painted her red scab green
The full moon lit her hair,
luxurious curls like those golden shoes.

She offered her sorrow to the midnight.

Princes, balls, stepmothers, midnight clock hands speaking curfews,
it wasn’t for her.
Nothing had ever been for her.

The wind swayed, waltzed, 1-2-3 with the tree.
Tendrils of her gossamer hair wrapped the tree,
held it like the vines, delicate partner hand in branch,
vine over body over branch danced.
The moon was witness to her bone thin arms
flung open, embracing the night.
The bone thin tree arms echoed,
bejeweled vines like her freed hair.

She was a tree shadow
arms splayed, legs firm
around the trunk,
hair tumbled
heart tumbled
voice crumbled.

Fairy godmothers only grant wishes.
They don’t warn you about prince’s hands, and glances
parasitic fingers entwining, creeping, sneaking.

Cinderella climbed up that tree to jump,
but some wish in her heart had yet to be granted
and before she landed, before she left the tree’s embrace,
her arms stretched, bones grew thin, chest caved in
legs curled and curled into trunk, body folded into wood
puffy eyes became dark hoods, until they swirled
into whorls in the trunk, hair tumbled, tightened, curled
leafed out into the night, brand new golden hair vine
wrapped the body of the tree-woman-tree
—finer decoration than any velvet or lace.
Cinderella doesn’t live here anymore.

She is tree shadow.
Branch woman.
Bone-wood being

We were just boys,
and we had spent
the best hours
of the day,
committing ourselves
to children’s parades
and folly crusades
and lost causes.
And we came home,
hungering and ravenous,
and ate amongst ourselves
candies and red meats
and angel cake, till,
full as pigs we
went off to sleep.
And yet,
in the dark of our rooms,
in the shadows of our bed corners,
certain bleak faces
had followed us home.
Hungry faces,
pale as the full moon,
And as widely grinning.

Shadows
(they move)

Deep breaths
(can’t breathe)

Darkness swirls
(like the madness in my mind)

Deep breaths
(can’t breathe)

Name 5 things
(but it doesn’t go away)

Deep breaths
(can’t breathe)

Tree branches caress the window
(or scratching fingers)

Deep breaths
(can’t breathe)

What’s that sound
(just the wind, love)

Deep breaths
(can’t breathe)

Who said that?

my father is holding me,
i cannot feel.
my world is distorted,
nothing is real.

my brother is crying
i cannot see.
i’ve clawed out my eyes,
and i’m down on my knees.

my mother is gasping,
for air she can’t taste.
her heart is slowing,
oh what a waste.

of laughter and sunlight.
of nature and mother.
of resilience and freedom,
one daughter to another.

my ears are ringing,
in a false key.
for the rest of my life,
i’ll wish it was me.

“She’s dead now… a great woman, you know,”
You’d say once more
About your dear friend Angela Lansbury running to and fro,
Playing Jessica Fletcher with another murder to solve
With you, nestled in your chair as neglected coffee runs cold.

Although she was still breathing, we learned to never say,
As every time we would be swatted away.
Each visit we’d listen to your usual disdain:
“Well, I don’t know about that.”
It was impossible to escape your famed refrain.

Resting on an ashtray, a faithful companion was always by your side.
That one, one of twenty blue,
And you, one of fifteen.
From your childhood at Abbey View to your finale at Bishop Street,
Family never strayed too far, it always felt complete.

But now the clouds of grey have faded,
The box is laid to rest
Beside your dearest love Tommy,
Where your souls remain reunited and blessed

Stars shine like eyes,
Specks of cosmic dust
Ever present in the
Blackest, darkest night.
Visage that lights up the heart,
Mirage of days future past.

Eyes that pierce the soul,
Rekindle the flame
Forgotten so long ago.
Oasis, amongst a desert of ice.
Eyes, aurorean beams
Which fill the northern sky.

I asked her for a dance,
Under the naked ceiling
Of the universe so vast.
May stars of Perseus witness,
As entangled dancers, we fall
To rise and shine again.

And while we dance,
Please hold my hand…
And while we fall,
Please don’t take long…

Annie Edson Taylor
Wanted to be first over the falls
A school teacher from New York
She was gonna’ show them all
She had a custom barrel made
But first tested it on a cat
The poor thing plunged over the falls
It had no say, cause that was that
Luckily the cat emerged
A little tattered but still alive
So on her 63rd birthday, 1901
Ms. Taylor, finally took her dive
They called her Queen of the Mist
Queen of the Mist
The first to conquer the falls
But in real actuality
The cat deserved it all
The glory, the title, the award for the first
The cat deserves it all
Cause the Queen of the Mist, the Queen of the Mist
Was the second to conquer the Falls
She peddled her wares for many a day
As souvenirs, to passers by
‘Til her manager ran off with the famous barrel
And the detectives bled her dry
She swore she’d never do such a feat again
That once, was already too much
They say she lived from hand to mouth
And the fame was never enough
But the tawdry cat he lived the life
Fat on rats and crumpets and tea
Everyone wanted to know the cat
Who was famous, as famous can be
Sometimes you can hear them play their jazz
Near midnight along the old lagoon
They call him King of the Mist, King of the Mist
And so they wrote him this tune….

Autumn had taken all my leaves
My lilies had shed all their petals
And death reigned onto my valleys.
A screeching silence stretched in all directions;
All my journeys were lost
All my dreams had shrunk
I stood aloof in my desolate hive
When you happened, dear.
You.
You lent me a breath of spring
My dear, you held my palm with your soft lush
Like you knew all about my wretched soul.
You kissed me to sleep that night
And all of the milky way fell from the sky
All its whiteness, all its shine
You shared your sight with my empty gaze,
and you made me look
You made me look at you
And I saw you, dear
As clear as a moonshine
As bright as the brightest supernovae
I saw you explode
Into a million colours and shades
And you made me see, my love
You made me see.
You bloomed into me like it blooms once a century
And yet, you were finite.
I could hold you
I could touch you
I could hear you giggle
I could rub my nose onto your cheeks
And watched your hair float.
You, my dear
Made my soul ache again
My thunder to roar again
You fell over me like the first rain after a dropless summer.

And we soared.
We soared high on your wings
Higher than we ever have
Like there was no tomorrow.