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.

WAR Poem: COME BACK, by Ayme Robinson

They told me that if I left, they would let me come back.
Then they took our homes
And our clothes
.They said that if I left, they would let me come back.
They rewrote our stories,
took our dance and song.
They cheered, “The war is over,”
then sprayed us with fire.
Screeches and screams of peril filled the streets.
No room for tears.
They can smell them and track you down.
Even though they told me that if I left, they would let me come back,
the road to freedom was a one-way ticket—
barbecued, skewered, shot,hung, and hunted like human game.
Bombed buildings, no more budding businesses,
no more schools,
no more hospitals.
But they told me I could come back.!

PERSON Poem: Four Months and Others Thought About You, by Arielle King

I have this weird feeling that our friendship is going to end soon.
At the end of the four months,
you’d be a memory,
and probably my favorite one.
Your kindness
and love
captured me in a cage,
and I’d lose my freedom
if it meant I’d love you closer than just a memory.
You’d be remembered in the poems I’d never show anyone.
you’d be seen in photos hung on my wall in my 20s.
You’d be a friendly face that I’d never see.
You’d be remembered by me
for loving me well,
even if you didn’t love her well enough to keep her, and you loved another while still
with her.
And I’d be there, waiting for you to see me instead of them.
I’d let you break my heart if it meant I’d get to love you closely,
because loving you at a distance
is like when you finish a book and you realize you will never read it again for the first
time.
You’re sad because of it, even if it’s the best book you’ve ever read.
You’re mourning something that will never be,
and it’s killing you.
But at least I got to love you.
But it feels like you’d be gone,
because you’re not the type to reach out first,
and you love another,
I don’t blame you because I would love her too.
But she loves another,
And I still love you.
Expect feelings are in the middle of things, and God hasn’t opened this door,
but I’ll still knock to see if you’re home
And I’ll wait outside until you open the door,
even if you move cities
or houses
or wherever you go.
After four months,
I’d still be here.
and you’ll be there.
I’ll remain where you used to be,
waiting for you
because I love you.
And you said, “Maybe one day,
but probably not.”
I remember laying on my bunk bed,
when I was 18, staring at the ceiling.
“I love you”, I said to myself about you,
tucked away in my heart house,
moving rooms, because you couldn’t stay for long.
And when I turned 19, I burned that house down and sealed it,
but it was you that built it again.
Some of the rooms are vacant,
but you’ll always have a place in a room that I’d often visit,
one day soon.
You’re the person I loved in my 20s,
and maybe there will be another,
but you’re the first.
Thank you for being good to me,
showing me who I am and who I am to be.
Thank you for being my favorite memory.

BALLAD Poem: PULLED OVER, by Howard Osborne

Hands on the wheel, if you please
There’s no need to act all snooty
I am after all, just doing my duty
So tell me Sir, just what are these

On the front seat right beside you
It looks to me like two guns there
And automatics as you’ll be aware
You surely know what I must do

Now slowly, just get out of the car
Maybe it’s an innocent explanation
But I need much more information
Try running, and you won’t get far

So, it’s a client you’re due to meet
Tell me what brings you out this way
You’re on official business, you say
Ah, this will make my day complete

Your driver’s licence I require to see
My gun is drawn so do reach in slow
As I can react real quickly you know
Don’t ever think that you’ll fool me

Writing up my report will take time
My shift is over and I’ll get back late
Your samples I must now confiscate
In this country, it is clearly a crime

But Hey, at least you gave it a try
Knowing this isn’t your jurisdiction
Yet all this is not a work of fiction
As I saw that your badge said FBI

TRAGIC Poem: An Animal Flayed, by Lili Boe

He butchered my skin,
Tore flesh from bone,
Carved ‘round fat,
Pound by pound.

He sliced into muscle
And plucked out veins.
Dug into my marrow,
Marked a price on my remains.

A heap of discarded meat,
A rib rack hung to freeze.
He took what he wanted,
He cut away at me.

He flaunted my hide
And sold the leanest cuts.
He never thought to feel guilt,
I was just an animal with bad luck.