Author: poetryfest

under the moon
beneath the orange haze
of street lights
laid out on a park bench
in my bones
lie these memories of
dead souls from time gone by
old dreams crawl through
returning without prompt
lost in the night
they creep through
unwanted guests, arriving late
in the dark
memories of laughter spill
through and then
and the throb of
gentle desolation
as they fall deeper
yet they are just memories
all lost in time
with nowhere to go
on empty park benches
they linger around
the unwanted clouds of time
in life past by
under the moon
beneath the orange haze
of street lights
laid out on a park bench
in my bones
lie these memories of
dead souls from time gone by
old dreams crawl through
returning without prompt
lost in the night
they creep through
unwanted guests, arriving late
in the dark
memories of laughter spill
through and then
and the throb of
gentle desolation
as they fall deeper
yet they are just memories
all lost in time
with nowhere to go
on empty park benches
they linger around
the unwanted clouds of time
in life past by

A quiet, simple, relaxing death
Stung by flowers
Eaten up by sunshine
The smell of coffee and cakes
As I choke

A death, outside
Farewell bid by trees and beams of light
Curious, comfortable sunkissed
Fading to black as naturally as the end of a movie

What is death like?
Is it peacefully breathing
God’s sleep apnea machine
covered waist deep
In plastic bags full of sleeping larvae

Your life was like a tv dinner
You were passable and disposable
You were the flag high atop a mountain of trash
In your final moments
No sex robots or flying cars could save you

Maybe a loving embrace
A living planet
A technicolor carousel of worlds
Great glass galaxies
Dying like babies, in their sleep, peacefully

Our greatness could fill a thimble
Our wings are carved from stone
The warming buzz of pillowy columns
Thrusting like a tornado into the sky

Will death be a release?
A sneeze that blows out a candle?

All in all it was worth the trip
But now i’m garbage
Throw me in a hole and use my guts to grow the grass

Sometimes I feel the sky is falling,
and pressure builds inside my head.
I hear the Reaper calling,
my name among the dead.
Fear sends me sprawling,
blind and bawling,
nerves are shred.
Death’s dread
tread.

I’ve skinned my knees a million times,
Violet marks are courteous signs,
Saddening vague virtues,
Your hoax altruistic crimes,
Greatest of sorrows,
Cracks of the pearly sky.
My incendiary bestows,
Viz heart-warming lies,
Crestfallen applause,
On the curtain-call
of my allure play that slowly dies.
Would thee accept the blame for my scorching execrate?
Or be the sinner of a poet’s written rage?
Torment gashes me for every line I create,
As for your hoax altruism,
I cannot contemplate.

rotten stench pervades the air
seeping through brick,
gliding through wood
all of it seeking
his death to share

the announcement was silent,
unheard and unseen
suddenly dead
with what could have been

the maggots feast, BIG and fat
the flies vomit, splat splat splat
they twirl and coil
munching, gobbling
on his pile of flesh

everything spoiled
no longer fresh
and for weeks, he wasn’t missed
pants stained, blood on his wrist
accident or suicide?
Who can know, when it was for him to decide.

all we know is that he had lain
quiet and unmoving
worms eating his brain

and there he lies
the rotting corpse
surrounded by vermin
surrounded by flies

the man in apartment 42

At seven years old,
I mimic my classmates,
Pencil etching across my desk,
connecting the dots.
I copy the lines they draw:
How to talk, how to be.
Mine don’t look the same.

The proclamation:
“I don’t want to play with you.
You’re weird.”
The punishment:
playground banishment.

At ten years old,
I start to agree.
I’m unappetizing.
I’m too sour.
I try to disguise lime
with piles of sugar,
but they’ve made up their minds.

I shred my old sketchbooks.
I don’t need a reminder
of how I’m made wrong.

At twelve years old,
I decide I’ll hate them too
I decide I’ll hate me too
I decide I’ll have three years left
before I crumple
and end this.

I slice into that key lime pie.
It’s the only way to sustain me,
as my jaw finally snaps
around my own flesh.

I can’t stop.
I hack into that pie
then pick at the scabs,
as sickly-sweet wafts out
and blood turns to scars
turns to blood.

At thirteen years old,
for some reason,
I let the pie cool,
and I stay here.
I don’t know why.

I pour over pages,
fished out from the trash,
graphite gashes carving through them.
I try to make my lines beautiful.
I don’t know how.

I try showing off my art.
Unexpected compliments stab me,
critique snaps me.
Learned hate commands me
to snap back.

At fourteen years old,
I still draw ugly, wrong,
unique.
Maybe I’m not supposed
to trace someone else’s lines
and expect to fit inside.

I will stay.
No matter what or why or how.

I haven’t cut
that pie in ages.
A notched crust surrounds
lime on full display.
Because it didn’t deserve
to be hidden.

At fifteen years old
Hate fades.
My line
meets a line
meets a line
and they understand each other.

I finally see myself
living past fifteen
and the pie tastes sweet.

It happened again.
They died and I felt no pain.
Am I a monster?

I don’t need supplies.
I need your vote.
For you.
Your family.
Your future.
I taught them to be quiet.
To hide by the safe wall.
We use our walking feet.
Hide your body.
Be quiet.
Crawl.
While I turn off the lights, close the blinds.
Lock the door.
Whisper out names.
Make sure everyone is accounted for.
Some voices turn to giggles.
“Why are we doing this?”
Don’t you remember?
It’s now a lesson I teach, a book I read.
The video about safety, the one we watched.
You are just a baby.
You’ve never heard gunshots.
I follow my training.
The one I learned in a library.
Just another staff meeting.
When “What if?” comes to play.
Fire Extinguisher in hand.
I climb a chair.
I tell the children it will be okay.
Because we practiced.
They’ve been instructed to grab weapons.
They’ll use the school supplies you sent them.
I tell the 5 year olds to defend themselves.
While I wait above the door.
Standing on a bookshelf.
To use my life.
To save someone.
Someone I love.
Did you know that is what teachers are made of?
Guess what?
I still love my job.
Those babies light my heart up.
We care for them so much.
Add Human Shield to our job description.
“You must be a saint.”
They say in the hall.
To have patience for children?
Oh you must be heaven sent.
Yes. I am only trying my best.
Have a growth mindset.
After a drill, I survey the wreckage.
Wipe tears from eyes that are scared senseless.
Have a calm class discussion.
Communicate our emotions.
Ask questions.
Man, these kids are smart.
Empathetic.
Engenius.
Like “What happens if Ms. Porter is hurt?”
How? Do we? Help her?
Where do we run for the help we need?
What do you mean we run to the street?
I’ve imagined all the “What ifs?”.
I dream of blood,
seeping from,
the bodies of,
your children.
As they are scattered across the playground.
I see their corpses in the classroom.
I can hear the screams now.
The ones for change.
To the 2nd amendment.
I ask you.
Your guns?
or
Your children?
Whose future are you protecting?
I’ll buy my own markers, scissors, and supplies.
Make a choice.
Vote.
Use your voice.
Tell me the cost of a child’s life.

My garden is the most beautiful in the neighborhood
Mrs. Messer’s Garden can’t even compare
With all the grey in her hair
Her roses are wilting, them scared to face God
My roses are lifted, their heads raised high telling God to praise them
Her marigolds have lost their color, brown like the leaves that fall in the sky
My marigolds shine brightly like the sun, the orange-yellow burning holes in neighbors’ eyes
Her poppies spread far apart, forming various small cliches
My poppies hundreds in number, like kids on a school trip
Her sunflowers only able to feed herself
My sunflowers feeding the neighborhood kids
Her violets pink and cute but not right
My violets a deep burning purple, their hue fit for the most noble of royals
We both bought beautiful tulips from the store
Her’s are now dead
Mine look beautiful in their stead
Mrs. Messer’s Garden doesn’t hold any deep secrets
Mine buries a few
The only thing buried in her garden are dead fruits and vegetables
My garden houses a different kind of dead
Shoe boxes of old bones are buried in my garden.
Mrs. Messer tends her garden because she’s old and almost dead
I tend my garden because I’ve had to bury so many dead.
Mrs. Messer is now dead
I’ll plant a plot of daisies for that dead
Hopefully Mrs. Messer taken some of my flowers to greet my dead.

There is no life after death, only a pulsing energy. you have no body, at least not one you are aware of. there is no awareness, no pain, no happiness, no touch, no God or color, no writing or language, only the sound of a drill slowed down a thousand times in a vacuum of space that might be behind a wall or right next to you. the spaces of life we know or think we know do not exist. only a vibration of energy and an inconsistent fluttering of light. but light doesn’t exist. time doesn’t exist. only the vibrational hum that is us.