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.

LGBTQ+ Poem: MADNESS, by Lucio Chiala

Rows of
serrated teeth
glint,
platinum,
sharp as
a jack knife’s
edge
A single shock
of crimson
for an eye,
leering in the
wet cavern
as the jagged
ceiling
drip
drip
drips.
ivory animal
carcasses crunch
underneath
the soles of
beat up sneakers.
Where am I?
The tantalizing scent
of cannabis leaves
splinter the geode,
an abstract mind
splattering its
rainbow colored
entrails
until
drawings of pen and ink
grow in detail
and dimension
etched in vivid
color, more avatar
than fiction.

ENVIRONMENTAL Poem: Mother’s Warning, by Ami Offenbacher-Ferris

She told us, she warned us,
repeatedly through story,
through song and finally,
she showed us.

Even with the showing,
we did not listen.
Even when chaos reigned down
on us from above.

When fiery rockets of molten lava
spewed from below.
When oceans rose and deserts disappeared,
still we did not listen.

We forced her hand
and being who she is,
she could not, would not back down.
We became the enemy.

We became the infestation.
We who had been given this paradise
of greenery, of sustenance, of life,
repeated our own history.

We did not garner one single learned moment
from the eons and eons of quiet pleas,
the unheard cries, the high decibel screams
she issued.

The animals could hear, the flowers and the plants
could hear. The mountains, the seas, the deserts
and the trees could hear.
But we could not hear.

We did not hear. We would not hear. Some did.
Some heard and tried to rally around the flowers
and trees. The oceans and deserts,
but they weren’t enough. They were too late.

NATURE Poem: The Moon Knows, by Donna Harlan

The moon knows to relay the light she’s lent
with rivers and streams in subtle rays of gleam.

The sand and seas know to glow in the borrowed golden wash,
creating symphony with waves that crash.

Leaves of silver maples know to glisten
as they listen to the whisper of the wind.

Lakes know to glimmer, to play with the sheen,
to bounce and volley it like sport.

Clouds know to show off their brighter side,
to hint of their hidden silver linings.

Rainbows know that light doesn’t have to be owned
to be shown in full splendor.

Soap bubbles, oil on sidewalks, even snow and ice know
that they can render art by receiving and returning.

The earth, stars, and planets know.
Light is to be shared.

POLITICAL Poem: They Fly Them Over the Houses, by Sheldon Hubbard

Testing death machines,
they fly them over the houses.
this facility that designs & manufactures
bots, choppers, & planes to go
decimate the Middle East is only
a stone’s throw from my relatives’ backyard.

Rattling glass & shaking the house,
making the dogs go nuts before
we even have the chance to feel the thick
WHUMPWHUMPWHUMPWHUMPWHUMP
from these death machines that ignite
the fright of others thousands of miles away;
they fly them over their houses.

Alarms scream but only in my head;
these machines aren’t coming for me (yet)
but knowing the conflict they carry,
& what mission they fuel, turns my stomach
to the floor…I must say, I cannot take it anymore.

We humans, the caretakers of Earth, are meant
to love & protect it alongside each other;
holding dear our most precious of things,
like that love I just mentioned…

Yet here we sit, on our many screens,
while the blood of children & families
congeals in streets all across the Middle East.

ROMANCE Poem: That Poem I’ve Been Meaning to Write, by Christopher Bookman

I was missing you real bad
and wanting to feel some closeness,
wanting to relive one of those beautiful days
when we weren’t so distant and far apart.
You wanted a mango smoothie and fried chicken
from some Korean place,
I wanted to do anything I could to see you smile,
and being a thousand miles away makes me a little crazy.

It’s been a month since we’ve really talked.
You still respond,
but it’s not the same.

Energy can neither be created nor destroyed.
If that’s the case,
then the love we built up and tore down is something other
than energy.
Perhaps we were tearing down a home.
Maybe we were digging a hole.

I have this one crazy thought
Because I love you so much
If I’m unlucky enough
And you die before me
We’ve been married for fifty years at this point
That when I die too
Probably of a broken heart
Just open up your casket and throw me in there
with you and wrap my arms around you
Of course,
that would never happen because that’s gross
but if I could have a chance to be close to you even in death
Heaven wouldn’t be Heaven if you’re not there with me

I ended up buying some of that chicken too.
I didn’t get a smoothie.
I got an iced coffee with cream instead.
I see what you mean, now.
You’ve got good taste.
Hopefully we can share some with one another one of these days.

It’s hard to tell what’s got me higher:
the weed, or the heartbreak?
Lower.

The sun motherishly embraced us while the wind lovingly adumbrated past our forms,
a sublime blend of warmth and love, ice and fear.
Sauntering towards me, breasts swaying with every step, your eyes as
beautiful as ever…
I didn’t realize how close you were, when
out of nowhere,
from the sweetest part of God’s biscuitry,
came your sweet, soft, simply
cutie-pie lips!
Taken aback, I managed to utter,
“What’s wrong?”
You looked up at me,
with the faintest of smiles
I could see the clouds slowly swimming past us in your glasses
And you said
s o f t l y…
while you put your head on my chest
and I put my arms around you,
“Nothing at all.

GRIEF Poem: Dissolving Fillers, by Elena Talia

Some feelings you can never get back.
Like standing outside between two closely parked parallel cars in a deeply cold night complete
with thin flurries pummeling down from the south west.

“I don’t understand why someone would start a weed habit at 40 years old” my sister Tamara
told me over the phone a few months ago. No names were named – nevertheless the truth hung
there like a cross between us.

What’s annoying is, she’s right. One contract in Colorado Springs and now I gorge on the
heavenly earthen roar of flames aflash in the pan of my throat. Wars in my head…ended. Ability
to trust in rhythms of the creation, restored.

200 mg of Fluvoxamine straight up with a twist and a slim few inhalations of an organic joint –
ethically sourced in NY State – and I am spinning plates on various planes within the
multiverse.

It shocks all three of us that having a grand child has brought out the best in you. We barter
confessional stories between us about times our pain went unacknowledged or dismissed.
Our villanelles’ refrain: Why wouldn’t she want her own children to have things better than she
had it?

Yet some relapsing wound makes my teeth gnaw seeing my nephew be loved by you in such
unabashed glory in way I never even grazed.

Why doesn’t she want her own children to have things better than she had it?
ABA, ABA, ABA, ABA, ABA, ABAA

My high is leveling off and that’s perfect. Now, I can settle in for a digestible episode of TV
littered with vivid shots of pleasant skies overlooking a small town of people who have
meaningful problems with resolutions. These shows always have titles resembling the names
of ski lodges.

These stories never face the deeply cold night of the truth.
What you needed then. What you need now.
Will never come.

By Elena Talia