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.

ODE Poem: Daniel’s Poem, by Jill Bemis

In Costa Rica’s lush embrace,
Where the sun shines bright and the rain falls with grace,
Lived a man named Daniel, with a heart of gold,
A Latino with a remarkable story to be told.

With every step he takes, confidence radiates,
A trailblazer, a dreamer, never one to hesitate.
Daniel, a compass in a world that can be unclear,
He always shows love and concern for his family, far and near.

His handsome features and compassionate eyes,
Reflected in the beauty of clear blue skies.
With eyes that sparkle, like stars in the night,
And his smile shone so bright, a beautiful sight.

With a wisdom so deep and a spirit so bright.
He’d help anyone in need, day or night.
His gentle touch, a soothing balm,
A comforting embrace, a calming psalm.

With a love for life, pure and true,
His compassion is a gift that takes away the blues.
His spirit is gentle, yet so strong.
A melody in life’s sweet song.

So let us raise a toast to our dear Daniel’s might,
A warrior, a muse, a guiding star so bright.
May he continue to shine, with his spirit untamed,
As he dances through life, forever unrestrained.

His heart, a wellspring of kindness and grace,
A shining example, in every place.
May your days be filled with laughter and bliss,
May your dreams soar and never miss.

GRIEF Poem: THE SILT OF GRIEVING, by Natalie Haynes

—For my mother

while night scoops down to transform silt in the veins
spilling into day a slow drowning in songs from the waters of life
stretched fraying before day breaks
to dying embers of temporariness
wind blows like candle flames struggling,
calling with moans bodies of water found at home;
an odorous loneliness confers the darkness
etched in-between the broken lines in my face are alive.
the shelter-less river a spongy bait
of human ruins mislaid at the shore
offers a chastity of charity to bury loss…
dangling upon the wingless moon of nights—
carrying thrice my remains like an aura—
searching the language of color
coughed into the tears of thunderstorms,
clomping raw emotions into leverages of sand.
photocopied here a wet purpose of sacred water
reflects love
with a voice reposing gravity.
here, drink
drink of the sounds wafting into the hungry clouds
walking distress into god’s ears,
whispering what becomes of night
when the moon is put to shame in the nape of a thunderstorm.
a decorated death wind returns the echo of my wails;
standing before a mirror’s shadow praying,
tongue-shattered, I do not break:
a billowing tone rose a sun over my head as hands
touching the attire of my scarred morning breaths
brimming into freshness, night’s mouth.

LGBTQ+ Poem: Forget-me-not, by Maddi Lee

Remember things always, especially if it hurts.
Your experiences are worth the heartache.
Life goes on, despite what happened.
Every mistake is an opportunity to learn.
Everyone who hurt you has taught you a lesson.

Indescribable pain will eventually fade.

Forget-me-nots now grow from the corners of my mind.
Overgrown memory gardens filled with little blue flowers
Reminding me to give myself grace–
Grace that I deserve. It wasn’t my fault.
I learned a lot from the demons she left behind.
Vanquishing them is a waste of the experience they offer me.
Even the loveliest flowers may someday wither.

You’ll never be able to change what happened then,
Only the person you become because of it.
Understand the opportunity you’ve been given. Grow and learn. We all deserve better.

POLITICAL Poem: POLITICAL RING, by John Lawrence Darretta

The circle of Politics is
a flat ring that
curves from the Center
all the way to
Far Right or Far Left.

At the end of the curve
white-hooded klans
black-masked pinkos
meet and merge in
a mean extreme.

What they have in sight
is all the same
except that one sees from
the left eye and
the other the right.

Each side is filled
with hate and anger
desiring to control
longing to rule
the subservient other.

The good concept is
that they represent
no-one and nothing
between themselves and
the rest of the ring.

John Lawrence Darretta

GRIEF Poem: Boy with a Broken Heart, by Vince Soldano

He sits there on the stoop
with a somber look in his eyes,
with tears streaming down his face,
holding the poem he wrote for him—
the man he fell in love with,
A man he began to envision life with—
his head resting on his knees as he weeps.
He wonders what he did wrong,
why his outpour of love wasn’t appreciated,
his romantic gestures were not cherished.
He sits there questioning love—
Why can’t he find it?
Is he even deserving of it?
Did he love him wrong?
Was it too much?

He sits, ready to give up hope,
desperate for any chance at happiness.
All he ever wanted was to be loved,
to feel the warmth of one’s embrace.
For he has the biggest heart and loves purely,
giving his all to show his devotion.
But he knows, there may never be another like him,
not another soul that can love him the way he loves.
For he comes to realize that such shall be life— alone.
He laments, for he must live with a broken heart.

FREE VERSE Poem: butterfly’s swan, by Miasma Park

In the greenhouse, in the shed
the petals blacken that once bloomed
the weathervane has a broken coo
the garden lacks it’s nutrition
the butterflies are there, your favorite
animals, that desperately flutter and twirl
to try and replicate your performance,
though it’s dark in their cages,
the sun is out of the sky,
the sun is down on earth

It’s a ballet recital that never concludes
you twirl and you spin, shining light over all
your heels trace the steps of serendipity
your footwork tells the story of a thousand songs
and your butterflies study your every move,
and memorize your every note,
to translate into flutters, across language,
and you lock yourself in parnassus,
where they follow, seeking your company
as their final dying wish,
and you kiss them over their chipped wings

you’re the black swan, wanting arms
to nestle in, where you could swim
unapologetically and let the sun infiltrate
you, inside, instead of always extent beyond
because you’re a spectacle to be looking at
But you’re aging, in your mind, rotting,
and you want to die with beautiful things,
prisms and pools of colorless ink

It’s a sadness fluttering within the
final moments of a dying butterfly
You dance until your feet are tarnished
ballroom heels crackle and cheapen,
Your cheeks go red and yellow
From bruises years of rejection gave
You die to give your feet a rest
In a nest where your feathers can splay