Author: poetryfest

have you seen an ant jump
have you had replacement surgery
a knee for a knee
have you seen people replace people
entirely

when you see an ant jump again
how do you know it’s the same one
people make memories
visiting tuscany
photos ahead of wineries
next year they visit again
and form new ones

and so we are always in a rush to replace
until one day we replace
ourselves
with our children
perhaps replace isn’t quite right
‘stack’ sounds about right
people never go away entirely
memories don’t either
and ants neither

if you keep stacking on top
the bottom, no matter how solid
starts giving way
and finally flattens
and so we’re just three dimensional objects
waiting to be photographs

Chicago trains sounding the alarm,
just like clockwork,

barely awake before the sun,
twilight before sunrise peeks in.

The robin, cardinal, and dove
performing for the ears of the risen.
Blue hour,
Blue Monday,
Blue soul.

Reality awakens,
softness of the feathery rug,

creaking bones,
and the pause…
Before a long day.

Do you know what rest is?
Really know
what rest is?

Maybe you are building the hard work up,
in the presence of the blue.

It’s in you,
It’s in us all,
It must be.

On this rock spinning,
we’ve built our own home?

Right?

Oh, to be free.
Oh, to rest.
Oh, to be blue.

I walk through thoughts like roses lined in rows,
Each petal bruised by things I never said
The garden keeps the secrets no one knows

A breeze recalls the way the silence grows,
Soft vines of doubt that twist around my head
I walk through thoughts like roses lines in rows

Beneath my feet, the earth remembers those,
Who bloomed and broke, then wilted when misled
The garden keeps the secrets no one knows

A lily leans where once a promise froze,
Its white face bowed afraid to look ahead
I walk through thoughts like roses lines in rows

The sun drips gold, but every shadow shows
The ghost of words we buried and put to bed
The garden keeps the secrets no one knows

And though the path may lead where no one goes,
I find the leaves still whisper that we should mend
I walk through thoughts like roses lines in rows
The garden keeps the secrets no one knows.

a poem is like watching james charles.
“hey sisters,”
echoes in my mind.

i hear his voice,
whenever i write a poem.
i hear his whispers,
his songs.

i feel the hair of his makeup brushes,
which stand there,
unattended.

i see his bright eyeshadow,
his red lips.
i see his lip gloss,

the tone of his child predatoriness,
which passes by,
without a sound.

it’s as if a poem,
with it’s whispers and screams,
all in one.

his failures pass him by,
as his successes land him on the red carpet.

a red carpet,
filled by words,
makeup,
and stupidity.

it’s an representation of humanity,
of thought,
you would never have a poem,
if there was never a james charles.

I love you forever,
Since you let
I haven’t been the same
While the ruthenium of your heart stopped
Mine still remains
Yet it beats alone
I reminisce about your laugh and smile, I began to wish you had stayed a little while
longer
Can you hear my cries from heaven?
I’ll never forget when you told me
I’ll love you forever

I woke up
And the world felt quiet
The sky was still gray
Like the thoughts in my head
The ground was still wet
I sat in silence
Thinking about everything I couldn’t fix
I looked outside
And saw a small bird
It was flying
Despite the strong wind
I watched it for so long
It didn’t stop
It didn’t fall
It just kept going
And I thought
Maybe I can too
Rise and fly in the face of the storm
Sometimes, hope is small
Yet, it’s still there
…..

My mother gives birth to her pain.
in every contour of my body
she shapes her sorrow
until my screams echo
the softness of her voice
and we contort into each other.

like mother like daughter

mother please eat me
consume my flesh and birth me again,
my body is cold and numb
and hunger is better than feeling nothing.

I feel her hunger in my own chest
it is carnal and quiet,
it beats the same as the thump in my wrist,
suckling and sustaining her eternity

i am the young to be eaten
the sacrificial lamb.
consume me quickly,
i do not want to stain
the newly pressed linen.

oh mother, do not be gentle

do not forsake me now.
i know i am not what you wanted
but i will lie patiently on your altar
until the return comes.

mother, please eat me

I am the daughter
to my mother
grieving the death
of her husband
helping her
empty
his closet
return
the hospital bed
complete
the paperwork

I am the mother
to my daughter
trying
at four years old
to understand
the loss
of her grandpa

When do I
get the chance
to be me?

The little girl
now a woman
who grieves
the death
of my father too

Your smile makes me cry.
I don’t ever want to say goodbye.
In your eyes I see the sea.
The only one that believes in me.
Your personality shines bright.
Almost the same as a light.
Your hugs are comforting.
You will never find me suffering.
Your laugh is blessed.
It is always the best.
It even puts me at rest.
Your smell is soothing.
It’s the one I’m always choosing.
You’re the best boyfriend.
And you’re one I’ll always defend.
Always and forever.
Until the end.

Justice,
before you rule,
Please hear me—
not as counsel,
but as one who has stood in that midnight kitchen
through her words,
through her trembling hands,
fighting for Pêpê’s best interest—
a child the law claims to protect,

yet leaves trembling.
It is not enough
when his hand explodes against her mother’s face,
the sound sharp as a rifle crack,
making the glass in its frame shiver.
It is not enough
when her cheek blooms red,
then fades too fast for the lens to catch.

Pêpê—her mother’s pet name,
whispered like a shield.
At night she lies rigid in her bed,
listening to her mother’s muffled whimpering,
each sob a small surrender.
She learns too early that comfort is dangerous,
that silence is armour.
I hear her in the pauses her mother cannot fill,
in the way fear wraps itself around every word.

She is six.
Only six—
and already her eyes know how to measure a room,
track his every move,
clutch her mother’s skirt as though it’s the only thing
anchoring her to safety.
She memorises the path to the door,
ready to run before she’s learned to ride a bike.

Do you know what it is
to argue a case with your throat closing?
To know that “best interest of the child”
is not a theory,
not a balance sheet,
but a warm bed free from dread—
and still watch the law lean to “access”
and “parental rights”
as if they outweigh
a child’s right to breathe without fear?

He does not feed her.
He does not clothe her.
He does not keep her warm.
Yet he claims the right to hold her,
to call it love,
to shape her into a silence that will last her life.

The mother is shamed as bitter if she speaks,
while he—
who punched a hole beside her face—
walks away smiling.
And Pêpê learns to fold herself into small spaces,
to call fear normal,
to believe this is what families are.

Justice—
I see her years from now,
laughing in a sunlit kitchen,
her footsteps light,
her nights free from dread.
Your choice can make that real.

You are not deaf
to her small voice asking:

“Do I have to go?”

Your gavel can crush—
or shield.

Choose her.

Carve a future
where Pêpê wakes to mornings of peace,
where only her cereal crunches.