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.

TRAGIC Poem: Naïveté of first love and other horror stories, by Corey Randolph

obsession
you were not my first,
but you might’ve been the worst.

excitement
sneaking over to your dorm
at 2 am to pleasure you

i wanted to be wanted
and you gave me that
for a month or two

they told me you were no good
they told me what you did
and i didn’t listen

i wasn’t using my head
or my heart either.
i don’t know what i was thinking with,
might not have been thinking at all

clandestine meetings,
skin against skin, teeth sinking in
rough and hard and exciting and terrifying

i thought i wanted you.
i thought i was happy,
drunk on your attention.
i thought you were the best
the world had to offer

ridiculous
the naïveté of a boy
who had never been wanted in his life

i thought bruises and bites and force and fighting were the language of sex and love
i thought love was supposed to hurt
i didn’t know love could feel good
or rather, i thought your love felt good because it felt like what i knew

WAR Poem: The Last Plea, by Prajna Mundra

It rose from hell,
Like devil’s sick of sin,
Through death of poppies
To where we’d been
.
Softly, slowly, the wicked smiled,
In that moment, we realized—
BOOM! And then silence,
Was it the good old riddance?

Steel ripped the air, and blood ran red,
I lay torn, barely alive, not dead,
A shrapnel bite, a burning brand,
Yet worse—the sight that lay at hand.

He lay there broken, torn in two,
His eyes met mine, hollow and blue,
The wind howled, the trees danced
Yet, it was not a blissful trance

“Shoot Me,” he begged, his voice a cry,
But my hands shook, I could not comply.
Before I moved, his breath was gone,
His spirit lost, his body drawn.

And there, amidst the mud and cries,
He closed his empty, pleading eyes.
I saw in him the fate of all,
The silent answer to war’s call.

LGBTQ+ Poem: I made peace with ‘Those Three Letters, by Saptarshi Bhowmick

I think it’s odd,
How they express this burning passion in me;
Just Three Letters all they say
With a shrinking face and disgust on it_
It bothers me,
But they don’t bother:
All that they cared for
The jubilation of categorizing one’s feelings for Love.
Still those Three Letters disturbs me
For their auspicious and frightening tone,
But I think I have fallen in love,
How they rhymes so nicely with ‘Lay’_

The peace I found
While gracing my lover
And on his chest I lay.

EPIC Poem: Ode to the Hair Braiders of 125th Street, by Adesuwa Olumhense

Braiders:
stood before the train
stone-stared like apostles on Judgment Day
wrapped in Mama’s Thursday finest
tied wrappa, wax print weeping gold down
the cracks of 125th and Lex. Take a
‘fro, file it into cornrows. Split the scalp—
let the twistout shine. Braiders stay
unimpressed. Burnt earth stare towards
darkened crowns that do not pass muster,
do not pass go, she meets your eyes, tilts her head,
says ‘hair braiding miss?’ Flattening the r so
it leans to an l, ‘Hair blaiding miss?’, translation,
I can fix that, translation, You stepped out like that?
Translation, Let me help you, And on the days
you stumble out of Metro North with August
Saturday plans stretched into taffy, hair blown out
And edges screaming, you shake hands and
step up the stairway to heaven and down the hall,
where black chairs squeaked with childish glee
and toilet paper was by request, Braiders,
Tilting your head back to meet a dead fan and
streaked ceiling. Braiders, splitting kanekelon hair
and greasing plastic rat combs with Let’s Jam! How
her hand tugs at your scalp like a promise
Of a journey, how the braidline rumbles from your
scalp to her as cracked hands fly, half attentive, stuck
between a box of Popeyes and a conversation, a
bubble of Bambara bouncing off full lips. Turn your
head. How the throb of braids presses a rhythm into
your skull, bloodtapped nerves internal hi-hat over
Nollywood movie bassline trilling from TVs rimmed
by static, her phone rings, she answers, hands
still flying I’ll be there in two hours. She doesn’t have
time to respond—half a head of hair left, new
appointment at 6, ‘fro sticking up like mahogany
flames—she has a mission, planting braids
at the scalp and watching them fall to your waist,
watching you touch the result. Braiders, who gossip
while their children chase clumps of hair coiled like
dense tumbleweeds. Cowboys in a lawless country,
sending money to Mali, Senegal, Ghana. Braiders,
wandering ghosts over your head, cleaving the scalp
to sculpt a story, you, she, and this impossible
country, and her hands climbing your edges,
how she steps back to watch her work
like a sculptor, head tilted just so, a smile
when you smile, I am because we are. Braiders,
spread down 125th in silk line threads, fingers
callused like Hendrix and voices sharpened to steel.

Bubbling water on the ends, now,
Steam a curl climbing the neck
Her hands pile the mousse. Your scalp peeks
out to watch through the braid grid. A business
card passed through hands. She made the card,
of course. The door swings and her hand follows you
home.

DEATH Poem: A HEARSE FOR THE BRIDE, by Larry Blazek

Johnny looks at his bride
beautiful in her wedding dress
her ebony curls cascading
artfully over her shoulder
in her casket
he has arrived early
in the church where they
were about to be wed
he glances around
he looks in the cloak room
the key to the hearse
is in the pocket of
the undertaker’s jacket
he lifts her from the coffin
he carries her out to the hearse
carefully placing her in the back
he roars off down the highway
his eyes fill with tears
clouding his vision
he skids and leaves the road
bouncing through some underbrush
ending up in someone’s back yard
he leaves the key in the ignition
and walks along the highway
a horn honks
it is his almost mother in law
she smiles and asks
what he has done with her
he gestures over his shoulder
she tells him to get in
he takes her to where
he left the hearse
she looks in the back
her daughter looks somewhat miffed
but other then being dead
is perfectly fine
she carefully rearranges her
she gives her almost son in law
the key to her car
and drives the hearse
back to the church

BODY IMAGE Poem: The Body Boundary, by Lawrence Bridges

This poem will end racism.

These bodies just happened to us

Every single one of our ancestors
reproduced successfully and consecutively
for three and a half billion years

You’re welcome to not comment on mine

This poem will end racism.

You know to never comment on a woman’s body?
It’s a matter of etiquette
Keep your body-comments to yourself

What if you stood in front of your identical twin?
What would you say?
What would you not say?

We need a Bill of Body Rights
which includes the Freedom from Comment

and government control

This poem will end racism

when we view people as individuals
and not as a member of a group

Personal autonomy is freedom
Personal autonomy is the ultimate value of privacy
Our bodies are the boundaries of our privacy

We are free to think
free to act
but there should be freedom from being acted upon

Treat people like you are responsible
for them

Don’t tell me what to do with my body
My body is my boundary
Respect it
Ennoble it

And a note to Old Believers: A Savior isn’t one color

Be polite
No comments about bodies
Don’t bring up race
Don’t bring up gender
Observe etiquette
and a new taboo

This poem will end racism.

BALLAD Poem: To Be In Love With Myself Again, by Elon Bryant

In the mirror’s gaze, I once felt whole,
But shadows whispered fears that took their toll.
A young Black girl, with dreams like stars,
Yet burdens of judgment left invisible scars.
I’ve danced to the rhythm of others’ embrace,
Lost in their visions, I lost my own grace.
Scared of the change that could set me free,
I built up a fortress, but it suffocated me.

With every new dawn, the world feels so loud,
They watch and they comment, a critical crowd.
Afraid to be bold, afraid to be bright,
I’ve hidden my heart, turned away from the light.
But deep down, I yearn for that spark to ignite,
To reclaim my own power, to step into the light.

For in every struggle, I find strength anew,
To love every facet, to cherish what’s true.
So here’s to the journey, though fear grips my soul,
I’ll rise from the ashes, I’ll reclaim my own role.
No more will I cower, no more will I bend,
I’ll learn to be fierce, to love and defend.
To be in love with myself once again,
To break through the chains, let the healing begin.

With each step I take, I’ll embrace all the change,
And dance in my beauty, unbound and unchained.
For I am a melody, rich and profound,
A young Black woman, with strength all around.
So here’s to the future, bright, bold, and free,
To love myself wholly, just as I should be.