Author: poetryfest

Within their floral-patterned case
Its colors ranging cool to warm
A pair of glasses rests.
Your perfume lingers, just a trace
Reminding me you once had form
And eyes, and hands, and breasts.

When we were young, you taught my peers
The science that describes the Earth.
You nurtured them: Well done.
My eye, behind your glasses, tears
How blessed I am that you gave birth.
Like me, you loved your son.

I love my son.
I loved your son.
Dear Mrs. Brodsky,
Thank you for your son.

This week in widowhood
I ran pass forty gates to the connecting flight
a return to nothingness
holding back the tears
each a reminder that you were not there

This week in widowhood
I walked into our very empty house
once our home
now, even the cats don’t reside there anymore

This week in widowhood
Insomnia has returned
and I’ve forgotten how to even take a nap

This week in widowhood
I was brave, and went to a doctor’s appointment alone
I even returned your stash of unused prescription drugs
each also lonely for you

This week in widowhood
I thought about returning to New York
where I was sure to feel your presence again at the Met
I posted something to a widow message board instead
the message board swiftly becoming
a new friend

This week in widowhood
I traded in your vehicle
and found buried
your glasses, and old school ID, and a pack of cinnamon gum
that cried with me

This week in widowhood
My father helped me purchase a new car
one without your smell
one that I could not bring myself to drive
my father drove while I stared, exhausted

I survived another week
I tell myself this
I’m a real tough kid and I can handle my shit
even with a broken heart

Her soft, brown hair tied up in her favorite scrunchie,
Looking at me with bright, green eyes that look just like mine.
The scent of her perfume that still lingers, almost like she’s still here.
Beautiful on the inside and out,
The kindest person I knew.

I see myself in her in many ways,
From the way I speak and laugh to when I look in the mirror.
It’s almost like she’s staring back at me.

Everything around me is a constant reminder of her, including myself.
From hearing her favorite songs in public to seeing anything the color purple.
Pictures of us around my room and videos of her voice are what I live through,
Thinking of what my life would be like if she had gotten better.

Infectious laughs, room lighting smiles and comforting hugs
Caring for me when I’m sick, holding me while I cry.
She taught me everything I needed to know in such a short time frame,
Always teaching me more every day, explaining it with such ease.

From planning our futures that fate will prevent from happening on the couch at 1 am,
To doing face masks together while watching our favorite show,
And eating the snack she bought for me because she said it made her think of me.

“God gives you two ears and one mouth for a reason – you listen more than you speak.”
She would always tell me.
Always full of encouraging and kind words getting me through a hard day,
There for me the second that I need her to be,
Always answering the phone on the first ring.

The woman with the biggest heart,
Always giving and putting others before herself,
But never wanting anything in return.

My biggest supporter and guardian angel,
The woman I received my name and blood from,
My best friend

Spider lilies brown, unfurling like crows lifting from a branch
in driveway light.

I knew mom would be late,
could feel it as I held dad, restless
in my arms, promise evaporated
before it left my mouth.

Weeks later in SoKo these same lilies bloom
as I rot quietly in bed
and make room for compost.

I think of how mom’s face looked
the day she died,
a memory now softening
under this empty sky.

I was told by a medium I knew her in several lifetimes
before this one, but now
it’s just spider lilies
and the sense
that my parents are missing
from the room.

I asked for a sign last June,
questioned my fragile life,
and now the lilies bloom
without pause, feeling
no different for the loss.

Blood-soaked bodies lying down
Inspired by the love for the undead,
The husband cries again and again, his life
Destroyed by death. The children scream in unison
“We love you mother” but their voices drowned in an instant,
As if they could be heard.
Alas life is a tragedy, lived by those blessed with money,
Suffered by those without. “Let us bury our mother” they said
Throwing the cents they possessed,
This is too little they heard,
Lo we shall join her instead.

It all starts with a thought that follows a pop
So vivid and appealing like a curious onslaught
Then the person starts grooving out of the block
Views change, make shift, foundations are formed
Weak flame, pledged words, a moth to a bulb
Big talks, fake blogs, witfully involved

Visually lost, embraced the chaos, but that’s not enough
Growth-fully stunned, what’s wish to a cause, gracefully lost
Blinded by love, falling down a slump, to fulfill the duty to the loved ones
Amidst the carnage, the survivor can’t protest
Ravages of wars again and again, without a break
Leaves the person with nothing intact, no sense of sobriety
No realizations, No hope, just pitch black dent
And nothing’s new just plain ol’ Lament

While everything seems to make them upset
Moderating the pain to soothe the backlash
Fell in depravity, now can’t even sleep for a sec
No notion or moderation yet they try to fulfill their conquest
Their whole world is falling apart yet they can’t seem to stop themselves

For all they know is to work and work and work, so inhumane-like self
A glimpse of countless fallen souls, heroes bound for hell,
Enduring storms so cruel, even therapy lost its spell.
What you talk to isn’t even a human anymore but a charred combusted shell
Whose silence screamed for help
For years they endured so much, a salute to their resilient self

Wish someone would have noticed their stutter
Some kind words, a simple compliment, a flutter
Maybe a graceful guide, bucket-full of hopes and a house of surprise for shelter
Maybe a good friend, and a great teacher, for them to not pretend either
To mend the vice of the bitter, cries of the Aether, heart that is cluttered
Before it falls back to the nether

Their cries went in vain yet the voices still refrain
Afraid of losses and faces scorned with disdain
Forcefully smiling throughout the pain
Imminently violent and without restraint
Engulfed in the darkness for the darkness smothers their brain

Vengeful and perplexed without a rest
Their hatred is genuine, perfectly jest
For the cries that went unseen and the angst of mesh
A turmoiled life, A fractured mess

Hope is but a blundered sail
Plethora of monologues, a crumbling rail
Exhausted sighs, eerie gales
A Note Not Worth The Bother
A Ghastly tale

-Asher Graves

I am sorry,
that though I didn’t always know what to give you for birthdays and holidays,
Going in shops, I instantly know if you would’ve liked something now.

Now that there is no way to give it to you.

I am sorry,
that though I didn’t always feel like I knew you very well or was close to you,
My tears now falling make it clear that we were close.

Now that we are separated by a distance never to be traversed.

I am sorry,
that though I didn’t always feel we had much in common, and often disagreed with you,
I see now we did have things in common and, while we disagreed, what does that matter now?

Now that forgiveness or reconciliation are no longer possible.

You had asked me to remember you not in the angelic light the dead are often remembered in, but as the person you were, with flaws, still human.

And I will.
I only wish we had had time if not to be perfect people, to fix some of the flaws in our relationship, grandson to grandmother.

But since perfection does not exist, I must be content with the one we had, with all its flaws.

The imperfect but no less loving is all we have in the end.

And I am glad of even that.

he sends me trees
that yearn
he sends me their bones
thinned as if by the great effort
and their reedy mesh
like capillaries
that want
fog
he sends me trees
whose grounded brokenness
snakes blackly
through needles
that remember
spruce
he sends me a sentinel
tree
the charred figure
invested like a temporary totem
with what (and who) came before
the silhouetted
remains
also imbued with the urging
present
for the few
like him
who might be led
or find themselves
here
he sends me a forest
I might have known
©2024 Lyall Harris

Through weather worn spindles,
light and shadow create a parallel pattern,
awash with sea spray,
as ocean waves bloat,
with off-shore storm,
Rumpled rolling green surface,
blanketed with a crochet foam lattice,
laps the shore.
Happy sunshine in foreground,
obliterates ominous background.

Window couture of late summer storm season,
along southern states:
plain and simple, natural and neutral tones,
boxy squares and rectangles, cover all, leaving nothing to the imagination.
Occasionally a button down, waffle weave aluminum,
drapes slightly sexier and
more expensive.
A temporary fashion statement,
everyone hopes won’t last long.

Roaring and raging, untamed lion,
reminding mere mortals of the powerful sea,
frothing at the mouth,
spitting and spewing anger.
A gradient, gossamer, grey veil masks the horizon,
concealing the unwelcome visitor, forcing his way ashore,
wreaking havoc, plaguing people with anxieties,
as debates over evacuations preoccupy front porch conversations.

To an unassuming tourist who,
traveled for a well-deserved vacation,
balmy breezes are respite,
from demanding summer sun.
Change in air pressure, absence of humidity,
gently coerce the traveler to linger.
Locals, with sea salt skin, know
barometric pressure and wind shift,
bring unwelcome guests.

Sun has set, curfew in effect, plywood protects,
as He threatens to bear down,
on this residential community.
120 mile an hour winds,
thunder lighting, torrential downpour
in the dark of night.
A woman’s voice;
a beam of flashlight frantically trots up and down the sidewalk,
calling for Abby.
“Abby please come home!”
“Abby where are you?”
Her storm arrived early,
drenched, desperate, biting nails,
wiping wet bangs off worried forehead.

The tufted titmouse is far more courageous,
than larger feathered fowl adventurers.
Out from its hiding place, perched on feeder,
husband and wife chirping back and forth,
discourse about tasty seeds.
Plumed cousins hide in shelter as
Millibars drop.

Powerless when electricity is gone;
after storm debris
takes years to clean and heal.
Foliage placed by the curb.
Indomitable spirit, resilient as it appears,
has deep tissue bruises, not easily seen,
which flinch and ache in tropical depression.

Wedged tightly into a crack
between the porch eave and the house
he waits for his dusky cue
and ventures out.

Invisible during the day, with only guano to betray
his hideout.
Not threatened by our plastic owl
nor perturbed by poison –
he has staked his claim.

We lure him to a wooden box
nestled in a nearby tree,
but close enough to reap
the buggy benefits of our yard.

But this nocturnal neighbor
won’t be fooled by new construction,
preferring instead, as we do,
a clapboard classic.