Author: poetryfest

Submit your Poetry to the Festival. Three Options: 1) To post. 2) To have performed by an actor 3) To be made into a film.

HAIKU Poems by Nkoyo Nsa

Dryness
Dry earth cracks beneath
Barren lands that once were green
Thirsty plants cry out

Parched lips crack with pain
Dry air sucks the moisture
Leaving skin so tight

Desert sands shift cold
Dunes that stretch far and wide
Endless dry expanse

Dry leaves crunch beneath
Autumn’s remnants scattered
Fleeting life’s brief dance

Riverbeds lay dry
Cracked and barren, empty space
Once flowed with life’s force

Dry winds howl with grief
Mournful sounds that echo pain
Sorrow’s empty cry

Dry forests stand tall
Skeletons of life’s remains
Barren, still, and grey

Dry skies weep no tears
Cloudless expanse of blue grey
Emptiness above

Dry hearts beat with pain
Love’s flame flickers, dwindles
Ashes of what’s lost

Dry souls search for peace
Thirsty for a drop of calm
In life’s arid sea

Dry minds crack with stress
Fractured thoughts that shatter peace
Anxiety’s grip

Dry bodies weaken
Parched and frail, in need of rain
Nourishment’s sweet kiss

Dry voices whisper
Faint and hoarse, a barely sound
Fading life’s last breath

Dry eyes stare blankly
Empty, void of life’s spark
Soul’s last ember dies

Dry silence screams loud
Deafening emptiness that
Echoes through the mind

Dry shadows stretch far
Darkness that consumes the light
Endless, void, and cold

Dry tears fall like dust
Grief’s remains that wither fast
Sorrow’s fleeting sigh

Dry memories fade
Forgotten moments lost in
Time’s relentless march

Dry laughter echoes
Hollow sounds that mock the heart
Joy’s distant, fading

Dry roads stretch far ahead
Endless highways that unwind
Through life’s arid land

Dry mountains stand tall
Barren peaks that touch the sky
Majestic, still, and grey

Dry valleys lay low
Empty spaces that echo pain
Sorrow’s hollowed out

Dry rivers flow not
Empty beds that once held life
Now lay barren, still

Dry trees stand like bones
Skeletons of life’s remains
Barren, still, and grey

Dry flowers wilt fast
Fleeting beauty that’s lost soon
Life’s brief, fading dance

Dry sunshine beats down
Harsh and unforgiving light
Burning life’s last spark

Dry storms rage with grief
Turmoil that echoes pain’s cry
Sorrow’s wild, fierce scream

Dry calm follows pain
Stillness that descends like night
Sorrow’s quiet, dark shroud

Dry darkness reigns supreme
Endless night that consumes all
Life’s last, flickering ember dies

Dry silence is all
Empty stillness that remains
Life’s fleeting, final breath.

TRAGIC Poem: The Rutting, by Joseph Garrison

I can remember it
like it was yesterday.
The day I had to
split my fathers’ face.

Dinner was just that
in our family.
It wasn’t a ceremony,
it was just the pleasure,
of eating food.
We never
said Grace.

We had just sat down to eat
when the phone rang.
It was an old rotary phone,
an ancient relic nowadays.

I got up and answered it,
on the other end
was a high school friend,
who must have been forgettable
because I can’t remember who it was,
or maybe it’s what happened next
that blotted it from my memory;
“Get off the fucking phone”,
my stepfather yelled.

He was a large man.
His arms were the size of some mens legs.
His hands were hard, rough,
and stained with motor oil,
and when he closed them,
they were like boulders.
His neck was red from the sun,
and the skin,
thick and coarse
like leather.

“I got to get off the phone,
my Dad is trippin” I said,
then I hung it up.
I guess this angered him,
because he jumped up from the table
and came into the room I was in.
Then he squared off with me.

I was a skinny,
and innocent teen,
I was not yet the hard,
jaded man that I would
unwittingly become,
very soon.
He pushed me,
I pushed back.
That’s when he struck me,
with a closed fist.
I don’t remember it hurting,
but when your biological father
dies from a heroin overdose,
when you’re eleven,
not much else after that,
is truly painful.

When he struck me,
I retaliated without hesitation.
One swift blow to his face.
Then the mountain of a man,
I had admired for years,
ran into the hall,
and I followed.
His back was against the wall,
when I continued to strike,
until I felt something wet.
I looked at my hand,
and saw blood.

You see,
my hands aren’t large clubs
of stone like his.
They are the hands of an artist,
a lover,
a writer,
delicate and agile,
and when thrown with force,
will split flesh.

I looked up from my blood-splattered hand
and the look on his face,
is still eternally etched in my mind.
His eyes were large,
and on his cheek,
a single, small red slit,
like an open,
gaping mouth.

I took a step back,
he turned and darted into the living room,
and as he did I pushed him and yelled,
“Don’t you ever hit me again.”
He tripped over a chair,
falling against a window curtain,
dousing it with blood.
That was about the time my mother said,
“We are going to take you to get stitches,
then you’re getting the fuck out of here.”

That event led to their divorce,
and she resents me for it to this day,
but at least now,
when I’m eating dinner,
and the phone rings,
I can talk as long
as I want.

3/27/24

TRAGIC Poem: Nameless, by Mozy Adless

Oh, Death!
Life’s twin brother,
Two states of the same,
You could vanquish it all.
Bring my beloved
From the valleys of shadows
Where you hide his light.
My soul agonizes
without its better part.
We’re divided, apart –
Two star-crossed lovers,
split by abysmal deception
Of vengeful gods.
Time is a pitiless river,
And I’m nearing the shore
Where no mercy exists
And near bridging the gap.
So, claim me as yours, Death.
I’ll ask you for only one favour –
To fall gently asleep.
Give me a peaceful, short end –
Just closing my eyes
And forgetting it all.
Come to me,
Unexpected and uninvited,
Stealthy and quiet,
Like a deadly dancer,
Take my hand,
With your withered fingers,
And bring me to the land of my beloved.
Chase away the anguish,
Of hope and desire,
resentment of lost chances
And unfulfilled expectations.
My soul would sing,
Freed from its mortal shroud.
My soul would dance,
Free and unbothered,
By human disappointment.
And my spirit would flee happy,
In the land of eternal youth,
where dreams and fairies dwell.
My Anam Cara awaits me.
Smiling and impatient,
Bright and resplendent,
Like the morning sun,
He’d take my hand
Leading me to Heaven.
And our souls would entwine,
Until the end of time,
No longer divided by fate and time

TRAGIC Poem: This Thing Called Childhood, by Thom Young

In an age of black, four decades back,
There’s a place I never go.
Suppress the thought,
Of the things I was taught,
That I didn’t need to know.
Having innocence stolen,
Made the conscience disappear.
Morality’s the victim,
It’s the sacrifice of fear.

I still hear the footsteps
And see the shadows of the thing,
And remember all the terror,
To my heart that it would bring.
And memories more painful,
Is when it chose to pass me by,
And I would just pretend to sleep,
As I heard my Sister cry.

Ever living with the guilt,
And the secrets no one knows,
Of the times I hid in silence,
And the younger ones it chose.
Souls destroyed of generations past,
And those of yet to come,
Paying for the sins of their Fathers,
But maybe not for some.

So in my youth I devised a plan,
To wipe my memories free,
That children of my own I’d have,
And guiltless they would be.
And if I could complete this task,
As impossible as it seemed,
That I could finely live in peace,
My conscience been redeemed.

I did the job I set out to do,
Despite the price it cost.
And raised three children to adults,
Without their innocence lost.
Now came the time, I’ve paid the price,
For the freedom that I crave.
But for me there was no salvation,
There was nothing left to save.

Survival is overrated,
From the nightmares that never leave.
To hide the truth consumes the life,
In this tangled web we weave.
If given the chance to erase the past,
Without a doubt I would.
And wipe the mind forevermore,
Of this thing called childhood.

TRAGIC Poem: Twenty Good Years, by Richard Diamond

I turned fifty this year
Which made me reflect
That at best I have twenty
Good years left before
My life is basically over
As seventy is pushing it
For a man these days
This of course assumes
I don’t get hit by a bus tomorrow
Or even later today
Or have a heart attack
Stroke
Aneurysm
Staph infection
Or anything else
That could end my life prematurely
This realization shocked me
As I basically now have the lifespan
Of a small dog
Or cat
Wow
That kind of thinking can depress
A man such as me
Who in the best of times
Is naturally pessimistic
So I won’t think of it again
Until I’m seventy
Unless I die before