Author: poetryfest

O mighty Mountain, cradle of the deep,
Your walls of stone, where echoes softly, sleep.
Zillion-year rocks carved by time’s flowing hand,
You stand eternal, a balm to this land.

Beneath your rim, the Mountains sing,
A hymn of renewal, its melody brings
The broken, the weary, to rapids that roar,
And Heals the spirit to dream once more.

O river, with currents that twist and wend,
You carry the lost, their hearts to mend.
Guides, like sages, steer through your embrace,
Where shrapnel fades, and hope finds its place.

See the Soldier, once silent, anger his shield,
Now eloquent nature, pain revealed.
Countless days with whispers and might, His
soul rekindled, heart set alight.

O canyon vast, where shadows entwine,
A Pilot finds strength in sacred design.
Through rapids unflipped, her courage renewed,
She rises victorious, life re-pursued.

Your grottoes conceal pools of grace,
Hidden realms where time slows its pace.
Dreams long buried in modern strife.
Are unearthed, reborn, and given new life.

Guides and travelers, their fates align,
In your embrace, under cliffs divine.
Jobs left behind, and vows proclaimed,
In your vast silence, lives are reclaimed.

O ancient rocks, whispering of ages past,
Your sunsets glow, your beauty steadfast.
Not merely of stone, nor merely of stream,
But a tapestry woven from nature’s dream.

Science finds what you’ve always shown:
The Healing of the body, the mending of bone.
Through ions in the air and forest’s breath,
You push back despair; you quiet death.

Even in cities where chaos reigns,
A fountain’s trickle or green domain
Calls back the Soul to its rooted truth:
Nature restores and rekindles youth.

O Mountain, O River, eternal and vast,
May your Healing flow forever.
For in your depths, we find our place,
Not above, but as part of your sacred space.

So let us follow where your waters lead,
Through twists, through turns, through joy and need.
In the Mountain’s embrace, we stand made whole,
A harmony of Body, Heart, and Soul.

O mighty Mountain, cradle of the deep,
Your walls of stone, where echoes softly, sleep.
Zillion-year rocks carved by time’s flowing hand,
You stand eternal, a balm to this land.

Beneath your rim, the Mountains sing,
A hymn of renewal, its melody brings
The broken, the weary, to rapids that roar,
And Heals the spirit to dream once more.

O river, with currents that twist and wend,
You carry the lost, their hearts to mend.
Guides, like sages, steer through your embrace,
Where shrapnel fades, and hope finds its place.

See the Soldier, once silent, anger his shield,
Now eloquent nature, pain revealed.
Countless days with whispers and might, His
soul rekindled, heart set alight.

O canyon vast, where shadows entwine,
A Pilot finds strength in sacred design.
Through rapids unflipped, her courage renewed,
She rises victorious, life re-pursued.

Your grottoes conceal pools of grace,
Hidden realms where time slows its pace.
Dreams long buried in modern strife.
Are unearthed, reborn, and given new life.

Guides and travelers, their fates align,
In your embrace, under cliffs divine.
Jobs left behind, and vows proclaimed,
In your vast silence, lives are reclaimed.

O ancient rocks, whispering of ages past,
Your sunsets glow, your beauty steadfast.
Not merely of stone, nor merely of stream,
But a tapestry woven from nature’s dream.

Science finds what you’ve always shown:
The Healing of the body, the mending of bone.
Through ions in the air and forest’s breath,
You push back despair; you quiet death.

Even in cities where chaos reigns,
A fountain’s trickle or green domain
Calls back the Soul to its rooted truth:
Nature restores and rekindles youth.

O Mountain, O River, eternal and vast,
May your Healing flow forever.
For in your depths, we find our place,
Not above, but as part of your sacred space.

So let us follow where your waters lead,
Through twists, through turns, through joy and need.
In the Mountain’s embrace, we stand made whole,
A harmony of Body, Heart, and Soul.

My notebook aslant,
I write,
Or rather, inscribe,
My pen impressing
Its ideas
Upon the yielding fibers
Of the pages
Beneath
The one I am writing on.
I hear her heavy tread,
Then I sense her pause,
Mid-stride, next to me.
My peripheral vision
Catches the myopic glint
Of a gold bangle.
Then, her hands
Turn my book,
In a half-pendulum swing,
So that it sits straight,
Like her,
Spine erect.

My test comes back,
In a day,
Corrected.
I open the book,
And my back stiffens.
There sit my T’s,
Crossed in straight red lines,
Their scrolled, curlicued ends snipped.
Now, I not only have to
Mind my P’s and Q’s,
But cross my T’s as well,
The ‘propah’ way,
Like my teacher’s back,
Ramrod straight.

Coffeeganger or Coffeedouble

The mug twirls in the microwave.
The tea bag inside swells,
Releasing a light brown hue
Into the hot water,
That soon darkens into a deep golden brown.
I think of the infusion pump
Upstairs, that screams in protest
Whenever an air bubble appears
In the IV bag or line.
The bubbles in the tea
Don’t make anything scream though.

I pull out the mug to add some milk,
When I hear a ‘Hello!’
To my left, bright, cheery, like the face
That peers at me.
Cheery face decides to go cutesy.
‘Sooo, is there coffee in these?’
It asks,
Pointing to two flasks
On the counter.
I nod yes, absent-mindedly.

‘Sooo, can I have a cup?’
Asks the face.
‘Oh!’ I say.
‘I am not the coffee lady!’
Years of having to explain myself
Make my weary words drip,
In minimalist mode,
Drip, like coffee.

I start pointing fingers:
My thumb twerks towards the staircase:
‘Patient!’ I say.
It then jerks in my direction:
‘Family!’
My right hand points to the microwave:
‘Making myself tea!’
My left hand gestures towards

The Real Cafeteria Lady:
‘She can help you!’

The face shows dismay, shock,
Je ne sais quoi,
And floats away.

‘Hi!’ says a voice.
I turn, and see a girl
Peering at something to my right.
A little board, bearing a flotilla
Of coffee flavors and cup sizes,
Written in chalk.
‘I’d like a decaf, large,
With hazelnut cream and
A swirl of caramel on top,’
She says.

I do my not-the-coffee lady show and tell routine.
I am back in kindergarten.
She drifts away, still uncaffeinated.

I grab my tea and run for the elevator,
Molting, sloughing off the sheath
Of Dispenser in Charge,
To become
Dispenser at Large.

BTW, I do drink coffee sometimes.
I like mine brown,
Like me.

Sit down my friend, and let me tell
a tale of times of strife,
of days so dark, when war, disease
and hunger were so rife.

And so begin all great eddas,
sagas, epics, and songs.
Although I must admit, it is
histories that I long.

Oh please, give me a tale of kings,
so wise, kindly, and bold,
who once actually lived and walked
the Earth in times of old.

For long I studied the works of great
sage scholars, but in time
soon found to read was not enough.
I needed to pen mine.

Where does one go to witness it?
To stand in attendance
at the first breath of history?
I met a king by chance.

Impressing him with wit and way
with words, I earned a job
as Royal scribe, recording the King’s
victories with aplomb.

I had attained my heart’s desire,
and yet I needed more.
There’s a tragedy being royal
scribe when there is no war.

Historians live looking back,
and I could see the past
in the shelves of the library.
Words scribed in peace don’t last.

To make my book endure was work,
such vile scheming I
scarce not speak of it, yet I must.
Of treachery and lie.

The king’s fiancée was a maid
of fine birth and feature
and I plotted her sad demise.
Oh, loathsome sick creature.

I spread gossip, rumors, tall tales,
oh wretched man I am,
to stain her honor and name,
the maid suffered the scam.

And all the while, I scribed the story,
just waiting for the war
as two kingdoms scuffled and raged
to settle the king’s score.

A wound to honor can only
be salved with blood, they say.
And so I counted on as I
sat waiting for the fray.

However, I did not foresee
the parley which brought peace,
when the two unexpectedly
spoke so conflict would cease.

It was good news for the king and
his bride, but not for me,
as word of the rumors led back
to he who told it, see.

Which would be me. I knelt before
my king and begged pardon
but found none. The king condemned me
for I lost his ardor.

As penance, King bade me travel
the country to share my
tale, allowing me to beg coins
if my foolish woes vie
sympathy from any who listen.
I’ll admit myself to
be a flawed man. I’ll even fall
as I degrade into
a beggar, but foolishness is
not something I’ll admit,
despite the King’s decree, for I
write my own small acquit.

Do remember this scholar, for
while there’s ink in the pen
then my sad history has not
yet come to my tale’s end

I will know the taste of her skin
after a long Sunday
on a lazy Riviera Maya beach
where the sun
has sunk in
deep enough
to disinfect
my memory
of when love
struck me dead

Coronas and Modelos
in thick glass bottles
will sweat nervously
awaiting limes and lips
while we edge closer
than translation can describe

I will run my tongue
slowly up her bicep
tasting every year we spent apart
then bite into her shoulder, hard
like she is a crisp apple
like I am Eve

I saw love in their eyes. The kind that leaves you wondering what they’re thinking. They scan over your life like a book with missing pages, licking their index finger so as to not dent the pages. Dusting off the surface from past neglect. Their head never turns and their expression stays absent . No matter how much time passed they always found their way back, putting a bookmark in the spine & placing you down to rest. They teach you patience. No amount of “I love you’s” have been equivalent to what they can show you. So you wait, keeping that same book cover present, hoping that they pick you back up again. And they do, dusting you off like fragile glass, turning on every light in the room, & putting on their reading glasses to get a better view.

This is the place
we stake our skins to the earth. Hopeful,

as we climb into each other, seem bigger
in case monsters.

Tonight, a stand
of evergreens hides the bodies

of heaven and their mythologies. Without sky, the gray moss whispers,
there is only forever; tomorrow

is forfeit – and the next day
and the next.

Then, we’ll braid you in our hair when we feel like being old
men leaning

against the give of the ground, sighing.
Never let this be a memory.

And I keep so still, praying you’ll stay and forget
everything we haven’t done.

All of the people that I care about care about me.
Through thick and thin, right? They really do care for me.
That’s why they couldn’t send me a birthday card this year or the last,
And instead send me tumbleweed and they’re second-hand crap.
Through thick and thin, right? These people stand by me.
When we’re at events together they make sure they’re upright and adjacent to me.
All of the people that I care about acknowledge the simple fact
That I am living and breathing. I live to appease not to attack.
That’s why they send me tumbleweed. They know that I won’t fight back.
They’ll keep giving me shit and I’ll keep taking their crap.
But I’m not a doormat. Not for anyone in fact.
If nobody’s there to start with then they can never leave or turn their backs.
Or maybe they’re just selfish to the core
Just like people who are kind and caring would be, I’m sure.

I am a cancer
At least that what others told me
My birthday is July 14
They told me that is not what they mean
I thought it was because I am just a teen
I search for a mass
I have searched for a hard lump
Like I look for a marble in a sea of grass
I fear and expect to find a bump
I have searched my head
I feel this constant dark mood
I fear a growth as a lay in my bed
I only desire to get it removed
If I can find the cancer I can be free
I can go explore and make friends
Not be afraid to sail the dark seas
And be able to make amends
My mom told me today I got cancer
I asked her how does she know
She says it’s who you are Alexander
I guess that’s how I was sewn
My dad told me yesterday I need to go
Go where I asked confused
He says I don’t care boy
I stood there unsure of whether to be amused
Or realize this is not a simple word throw
Threats are common in my house
Not all become reality
But apparently this is real I suppose
As my bags were packed because of my sexuality
That’s what the note said next to my toy mouse
whore was written on its anatomy
All I did was kiss someone of my gender
Just a touch of lip
But it created a large bender
And i now I belong to an imaginary pimp
The romantic touch was a bliss
Until the photo got sent to my parents
Now everything is a mess
And I can’t find a place to rent
A kiss is a sin
But abuse is okay
I got tossed in a bin
my family won’t pay
We live in a world
Where being gay is a cancer
To those who say they follow God I am no longer just Alexander
I belong to the underworld
I may be a cancer
But not the sign of fear or of death
I will be a prancer
And find a place to have a pure breath

n the fringes of a dense forest
plants poke through ground cover.
Scrawny, light deprived saplings and
ferns snatch at wavering rays of sun.
Scattered throughout, two unlike greens

The poison ivy raises kneecap high,
bunched where it’s easiest to walk.
Loopy shuffles allow passage around
without transferring oil onto pants
and that evening onto hands and face.

The mint keeps vegetative distance
from its brethren and the ivy,
the leaves shiny, the smell faint
until the leaves are crushed underfoot
Or, irresistibly, plucked and chewed.

These two sparse-leafed, patient swales
would be overwashed in open grasses
and wait in uncluttered dimness
for the rot or fire that lets in more light
or the slow death of darkness