Author: poetryfest

With each year I worry more of you will disappear from me
Only able to hear your voice and laugh in short videos on a screen
I wish I could believe I’d see you again
But the thought of a god angers me too much
To even entertain the possibility
Cause if he does exist why would he take you from me?
This weight of losing you so early never seems to dull
Every time I tell a story of you
realizing how much time has gone by
Mark how old things are by when you passed
This sick twist of a knife every time I need to tell a new person you are no longer here
Any milestone I pass
Mothers day
your birthday
the day you died,
My graduation
This harsh reality never ends
This rage toward the universe
For taking you away
There are many things I can forgive
but this is not one of them

The walls are thick, the silence loud,
Beneath the weight, I’m not allowed
To speak, to breathe, to voice my pain—
A prisoner to love’s cruel chain.

The days are long, the nights are cold,
A story hidden, never told.
His words, like daggers, pierce my soul,
I wonder if I’ll ever be whole.

I smile for others, wear a mask,
Pretend to live, pretend to ask—
For help, for mercy, for release,
But all I feel is sharp decease.

The bruises fade, the scars remain,
Yet still I’m trapped inside this chain.
I tell myself, “It’s all my fault,”
A truth that cracks, yet never halts.

The love I sought, the dream I held,
Now leaves me fractured, weak, and quelled.
The hands that promised to protect
Are the same that hurt, that desecrate.

I’ve learned the dance, the careful ways,
To hide the pain, to mask the haze.
And though I weep in silent tears,
I hold the hope that one day clears.

I long for peace, for breath, for light,
To break this cycle, end the fight.
To find the strength I’ve yet to know,
And let the healing come and flow.

But still I wait, and still I stand,
A heart that trembles, a shaking hand.
For one day soon, I’ll find the door—
And step outside to live once more.

We are the faults of our waking breaths.
Our fear comes through the hearts of those who’ve loved us
To watch the stars, knowing we will be there one day
Is that the only thing waiting for us?

Worshipping the beating of the heart
Praying it stops the dropping of the knees
Looking at the moon, its light piercing my soul
Where are you, my love?

Lost in the darkness of her gaze
Looking back at the moments shared with the Sun
Perching back and forth, sending out a warning
Have you forgotten me?

To the day when death takes us
The hug of the blissful angel of death
Is it too soon? Why not tomorrow?
Do you remember me?

December 2013 to January 2014: under a painted title (DOOR OF SHAME), you Sharpie’d a grade on my bedroom door, rating every game I played. Little did you know, those permanent letters not only superseded basketball and felt like a reflection of your love, but marked me, despite your several layers of paint and apologies

Well…
I shouldn’t space my lines
so you’re
small mind
can read such
big
words
– of
damage(s) you’ve
caused
and how
much
It
hurt.
How about now?
A door to a room
where i rest a head
in hopes of feeling
safe
from people like you
Does this ring a bell?
The clock strikes twelve
hitting once for each
grade you gave
marks teachers wouldn’t dare
but from you(?), lashes handed
politely
funny how soft blows
from known hands
cut worse
than unknown
wounds
from piercing
shots
Do you remember now?
paint bleeding on a door
eyes drawn to stenciled hate
your word bombs
didn’t suffice
but sufficient was
your:
black paint
on a white
Entrance
DOOR OF SHAME
in finest scrawl
//
this
night,
you
dug
a
grave //
hard
to
breathe //
i
haven’t
left
that
(bed)
room
since
you
buried
(my
worth
&
i)
alive.
irony is
you meant no harm
straightening me out
in ways you knew
i know now
you played the hand
you were dealt
, just sometimes wish
you shuffled
the deck,
maybe a little luck
would’ve done
us some good.
… I love you too, Dad.

P.S. Remember how D+ was the highest grade you gave your only son?

I.
the days of mourning for my
father are fast approaching. i’ve felt
it ever since my grandpa passed:
a sink, in the room you fear most,
clogged with spiky beard hair followed
by the punch of rotten eggs and bleach

II.
bile–it’s black, pouring out my
mouth through the lungs. like
everything else, I get this patrilineal urge.
the only cure: saffron and olive oil

III.
love is twitching legs tickling
the back of your throat. legacy is
useless after you outlive the earth
and sky. birthright, chased
with thunderbolts. will you ever again feel
safe outside your father’s stomach?

IV.
how to live up to your name?
deaf man’s villa, the
slow rotting, the soft exile, do you
feel the build up of black paint on your palms?

V.
who, to castrate, dangled by a rope from a tree
betwn the earth, see, and ski? but me?
have u only one blessing, father?

My Deity, the Maker of my life,
The Almighty Mastermind,
I slaughtered you without a knife.
It was a sin, but not a crime.

Our souls were intertwined,
I was You and You were I.
What a shame you had to die,
My Goddess Divine.

A mummy,
A mother,
A mum.
Sometimes I wish I could call you none
A part of your life
The whole of mine
The things I’d do for u to be kind.
I envy the others
Who don’t hate their mothers
One kiss on the forehead
Is all I’ve ever craved
Not a fist to my face,
Or a slap on my back,
I hope one day my skull will crack.
You gave me my life,
Please take it away.
U call me ungrateful
Causing me pain.
Can I sacrifice my soul
For a night in the grave.
I promise I’ll try my best to make it a permanent stay.
A coffin can adopt me
It can hold me close
Something you never did
Do you like me better as a ghost?
I don’t ruin your day
Or get in your way
And even as a ghost I still won’t make you pay.
We get along better
Now that I’m in heaven.
Not a day goes by that we both start dreading.
I’m glad we won’t meet again.
I’m not sure where you’re heading
But I don’t think you’ll ever be let into heaven.
No longer a mummy,
A mother or mum.
The daughter you had is now long gone
Your sentence is over
You served your time
Who knew having a daughter was such a bad crime.
– O.R.W

An untamed mischief,
Grown by the night.
A little wolf pup
Exposed in the light.

Two seditious eyes,
Wistful, yet ruthless.
Might seem invincible,
But it’s truthless.

Loving him is tough,
Leaving him, as well
One foot in heaven,
Another in hell.

His long suppressed wrath,
Caused him to drown.
But, he’s grieved, and
Abandoned deep down.

“Let’s blow this place.” Ox* said
We’d been drinking in Mike’s Pool Hall for two hours
Time to move on
We walked down Broadway to the Embarcadero
passing piers whose warehouse doors were open
longshoremen were driving forklifts,
stacking cargo
As we continued I could hear a jazz band
We were at Pier 23**, a waterfront dive
Longshoremen were drinking and laughing
Couples were sitting at tables
All faced the band
A large black man was playing the cornet
There was a clarinet player, a trombone player, a banjo player
a drummer, and a sexy redhead on the upright piano
They played:
Burgundy Street Blues
Pallet on the Floor
Didn’t he ramble
Saint James Imfirmary,…
Jazz, cigarette smoke, and booze down the hatch
The crowd thinned, the band dispersed
Ox and I remained
Ox walked up to Frank
“Erich I want you to meet Frank.
He played with Django Reinhardt at the Hot Club
and the Club Zelli, and…
“That’s okay,” Frank said
Until they stood next to each other I did not realize Frank’s size
Ox was six feet three, but Frank was a good four inches taller
And he looked just as strong as Ox who was a lumberjack
Frank extended his hand
It was about twice the size as mine.
He had a surprisingly gentle handshake
“Your band has the sweetest sound,” I said
“Comes with the years,” Frank said laughing
“Let’s go Ox said finally
We walked down the Embarcadero
toward the trawler Ox lived in
across from the Third Street Bridge
I kept thinking: Frank played with Django Reinhardt
at the Jazz Hot Club
I had met and heard history
Suddenly a battered car pulled up
“Where are you two going?” Frank asked
“The Third Street Bridge,” Ox replied
“Get in.”
Could this be true?
We climbed in the car,
riding in silence until the Third Street Bridge
After we got out we reached in our pockets
and brought out what little money we had
“We want to pay you for the gas.”
“Forget it,” Frank said, “Pass it on”
And drove off
We had heard one of the greats
Frank had played with the best
in the heyday of the Paris Jazz scene
Frank meant more than to give somebody a ride
We’ll pass on your spirit Frank.
We’ll do our best*