Author: poetryfest

There is magic in being of a place.

A home for rootedness,
and for returning.

My home is the coffee ground leftovers of an ancient glacial lake.
Where fossils become skipping stones
and skipping stones becomes summers.

And enough
stacked between sugar cake autumns
and heady lilac springs
laying dormant
under lake effected winters
become entire lifetimes.

And I could spend mine
slow sipping from backyard fountainheads,
waiting until that special kind of twilight moment for the Waterfowl Flyover,
listening to their great ancestral song.
Calling me back again and again
to my home waters.

The way the night smells sweet,
inviting all the heat of the day to rise from thirsty ground and rest in her boundless starry
arms.
Or when it is cold,
snow-angeled looking up
and how the falling makes you feel like flying.
Nothing but sky and snow and the silent sound it all makes.
My home is great lakes
waters lapping at the doorsteps of the people who guide me,
who shape me.

My home –
this great northern country
who taught me
to love and honor Nature
for the absolute force that She is.
With seasons that crash and demand us sit back and watch –
whether we had other plans or not.

Oh, how I love the hidden waterfalls
and fantasy greens,
the magnificent seaways
and the lakes that feel like oceans.

How from the Ontario bottom
to the very Adirondack tip top of my heart,

I am of this place.

And it carries me,
no matter where I go.

As the cluster-flowered Iceberg Floribunda roses, with a yellow eye unjaundiced of health contained in the pistil, with smooth alabaster and white petals languaged in the content of heavenly sleep, shaped as Africa’s diamonds, hymn tranquilite praise to the rancied and misty shade of Nature within its holiday shrub; as the ruby majesty of the Marlena roses, with green and leavy ivies under its stems, flows as currency of the salt washes in the Atlantic beneath the world’s blow of troubulous airs; as the likes of mossy green weeping willows complement the content in discontent of each creeping thing that would to enjoy this albany of a garden, above is only sky, teal and turquoise blue in its impressions, without any to rage as Achilles and die off a Hector, no war on terrors other than the battling cumulonimbus clouds and modern wright flyers disrupting the meditative scene. No Medeas redunding and shouting argument to fleece-ridden Jasons; no Medusas out to stone an uncultured boy; no Apollos are out for a Daphne; only the soul laughter-loving Venus within the spirits, as Cupid arrows his loving quivers for all to admire
the one rose, of one rose, of one rose, and all the other meditative roses making the first and final appearance among the buds burst for Springtime –and lo! he bows love to mine bosom to the helianthus salicifolius, the willowing autumn-gold sunflower with love in its brown pupil; they ask How do you do? though really they try to mouth the words I love you in their flowery dialogue, clumped together in their perennial. And there, another: helianthus annuss, the common and divine sunflower, with each brethren containing a wide-eye of Horus, attracting the ancient honeymakers to visit its museum of love and exchange their stingy nature for an ounce of happiness. The winds are unpolluted nosegays, and smell as an innocent virgin laughing her way off to a sunset; and along this scene’s background, a neptune of assorted blueness sculpture the setting with reflexive niceties in the clear skin of the waves, and permits lowly vessels to enjoy their ship along the coast and draft. Along the way, the American flag waves with the wind; but here, in the agrostis tenuis ornamental green floor and grasses of these poetic gardens, Damon and Pythias enjoy assorted pasttimes; under the unbeiged summer house Pyramus requits his Thisbe; and by the oxydendrum arboreum, the tree called of the lily vallies, near a formal bed of magentas, strawberry-petals, and other yellow-scaled tulips surrounded by the grand orchestra of whitèd daisies, there is no quintessential figure of genius, a one of heavenly spite, perverting the fortune of these times, nor figure of Strepsiades deconstructing the clouds for a vortex, but only that of sons and fathers, fathers and sons, mothers and daughters alike picnicking and sharing lunchables to the wondrous visage of the gardens –with flowers, flowers, and the more delights of the senses caressing the futile encumbrance away of this scene.

You sit at a table in the dark
as your first cup of

morning coffee brews,
reading on your phone

about the various ways
various bees survive winter.

Those that don’t hibernate
or migrate, like carpenter bees,

devote themselves to their future eggs.

Male honey bees
are removed from the hive

until they’re needed again come spring.
Envelopes of wildflower seeds

you bought online
wait there in the kitchen junk drawer

of your new house,
wait for the ground to thaw.

Brian Beatty is the author of five small press poetry collections and a spoken-word album. Beatty’s writing has appeared in Appalachian Journal, BULL, Conduit, Cowboy Jamboree, CutBank, Evergreen Review, Exquisite Corpse, Floyd County Moonshine, McSweeney’s, The Missouri Review, ONE ART, The Quarterly, Rattle, Seventeen and The Southern Review.

dandelions burst
wiggled in the wind
settled on the eyes of a black bear
blindfolded by stardust
he stood up surprised
sniffed at the future
goosebumps settled as he stumbled
through riverine jungles
gobbling honeycombed rumbles
eating salmon crumbles
his mouth full, the great bear
spotted a fish
leaned over and tumbled
black thunder-clouds clapped
HA HA! Vajra!
the bear, insulted, looked up and snarled
releasing a salty salmon hive
of bejeweled bees
that raced up to the waiting embrace
of roiling clouds
as they flew
thunder bolted
lightning slashed
frightened, the bees froze
then hardened over eons
till they twinkled
far below
the Great Bear watched bemused
as the constellation bearing his name
coalesced through time

I’ve never felt so at peace as I do
in the forest, leaves crunching beneath my feet,
shuffling past saplings straining for light
amongst the wiser trees.

Or when I push past the edge
and sink into the clearing,
where shadows stretch long and breezes gust
among the bees
that dance atop wildflowers,
bending to the whims of the wind.

I’ve never felt so rich as when I bask
in midday sun on a boat
that sways with the heartbeat
of a river most unruly,
curling around hayfields,
cutting through hills.

I’ve never felt so sleepy, so content,
as I do in the blue of a holler afternoon,
daylight still burning

on the other side of the mountain.
In these moments, I am whole—
bound to earth, yet drifting free,
a quiet soul among the leaves,
the river’s pulse, the mountain’s breath.
Here, I am as I was meant to be.

Appalachia

my elephant tears
the word pet- petty
small and inconsequential
you were anything but minor, small-minded
a meaningful counterpart, forever friend
Four-legged furry, gift of purpose

sassy, spunky spitfire
Huntress of Elysian
frightened by nothing, coyote taunter
My faithful protector
A bond beyond price, you medicated my soul wound
your memories weigh in elephant tears

It cannot be better said than Anatole France,
“Until one has loved an animal,
a part of one’s soul remains unawakened.”
my wise elder, routine holder
Fast forward – weeks of fractured patterns
My Silent Eulogy: A Vanishing World

lifeless home, brooding solitary
surrogate daughter of a childless couple
devoid of reminders for play and mindfulness
Now -I must be retrained
Extraneous to others -estranged ambition
the elephant weeps

Even the Savana mourns with me,
a herd bound by shared ache
the loss of the legendary lion chaser
tears archive the moments shared,
heavy as the love that anchors my heart
you are etched in my memory, in my elephant tears.

if i can argue that spring is better for our feelings,
then i can argue that you are better for mine.
mud-ridden feet spreading seed,
let us dance on growing fields.
and when we are tired,
let us lie on wet grass
that has never looked so green.
brush to interlock,
find lonely hands once cold.
renew us of life,
renew us of chance.
she graces me freckles for you to count,
flowers for you to bring,
and songbirds to harmonize
with chords that you strum.
longer days for us to dance,
and longer days for us to lay.
though i bathe in her sunlight,
i am warmest with you,
because the sun is not as giving
as you are with your coat.

but just like spring,
you are graced by its temporary.
feelings evanescent,
they change with the seasons.
sweaty palms irritate hands that hold,
straw dried grass once green,
heat rash, bugs and burns.
when did our plans become obligations
and when did her sunshine dim?
flowers you walk past,
no longer amazed by their strife.
my freckles ever present,
still await your recount.
tired are the birds who used to sing,
tired are you of me.
in the frenzy of summer
the carcass of spring rots.
remains of you.
remains of us.
spring is better for our feelings,
but you are not better for mine.

The sky opens,
raindrops fall,
and sunlight breaks the clouds,
casting its glow
throughout my backyard.

An event, as if tailored for me—
a dance of water and light.
The universe is communicating
through the space between.

I am in tune with the
presence of something greater,
an ephemeral moment,
a timeless memory.

The spectacle is brief,
but its message stays:
there is no separation,
no boundary between struggle and peace,
rain and sun—
only moments of balance
where everything converges.

In this stillness,
I feel the connection—
the universe whispering softly,
and I am here,
grateful for this moment.

Beating, beating
sweat beading
sun beating
down.

Suck out the sap,
the sweetness,
the marrow.

How a hummingbird guzzles nectar.
Guzzle it down.

Observe intricate designs
on the wing
of a butterfly fluttering.

Don’t let it get away,
it’ll be gone soon.

Extend your right hand-
grab it.

Heat beating,
beating down.
Beads forming,
dripping quickly
down
down
down.

And repeat,
until a gust leaves relief.

Serene, sonorous
On the seem of serious.

Suck it out.

The sap,
The sweetness,
The marrow.

Guzzle

it

down.

– Isabelle Scheffert

I always knew when the winter came crawling by,
As I could feel the cold creeping up my spine,
My dark hair blowing in the wind,
And the blue scarf wrapped around my neck as tightly as ever.

Whenever I felt it was going to rain,
The thought of having my pink umbrella kept me sane,
So I always knew I would be safe,
And wouldn’t get wet, even in this pouring rain.

Whenever the sun would start to shine a little brighter,
I’d feel the trail of summer becoming lighter,
And there it was, the pool parties and late evening swims,
I always had my swimming goggles to save my eyes from water getting in.

From the falling of orange and red leaves on the road to the crunching of gravel,
It had all foretold, the coming of autumn,
That we all had to now to wait and watch,
My cream-colored coat was there to bring me some warmth without a doubt.

And when the sun would glow and the flowers on the cherry tree would bloom,
I’d have a Taylor Coleridge poem in my hand, reading it,
Sitting under the shady tree and the cool land, being over the moon.