Author: poetryfest

And as I lifted the shingle from the roof, the ants were exposed
(It’s hard to think of their being there before I revealed them).
they became a compact scurrying horde
scurrying around a pile of white larvae
And I didn’t smash them.

Very quickly they made a system —
each little black strongman would hoist a larva over his head
And carry it away.
The first ant blazed a trail across the roof
And he was followed closely.
And so they formed a neat one-by-one path
Like ants do.

I don’t know where they were going to take their babies.
Surely the ants did.

anyway I tried not to kill anyone.
They knew they couldn’t stay. I think they knew their home was a temporary one. They
Left.
Ants can live anywhere.

The little girl nor young woman excite for growth
for the expansion of heart and mind and soul
for BLOOD and BONE and NAILS and TEETH.

The heart was birthed first, beating the WRONG time.
We—THEY—only noticed once it joined the symphony.

If BLEEDING hearts and SICK minds
were tumors and growths
we would cut you with
STAINED chemicals and bright lights.

We don’t want someone with a malfunctioning heart.
We’ll repair you. Make you whole.

We don’t like you like this.
We want the girl we knew,
I WAS never acquainted WITH.

THEY LEFT ME A LONG TIME AGO.
DISAPPEARED AFTER BEING BUTCHERED.

AND
I’M
THE
APHRODITE
THAT
ROSE
FROM
HER
BLOODY
CARCASS.

I AM YOUR LAST REMEMBRANCE OF
W A R.

You are a poor imitation of our little girl—
A SMALL CHILD WHO SHOULD HAVE BEEN SAFE,
SHOULD HAVE BEEN PROTECTED.
But you—LET THEM GO MISSING!
YOU WITNESSED THEIR EXECTUION!
AND YOU don’t have the right TO MISS

SOMEONE YOU HELPED BURY!

DON’T GO TO MY FUNERAL
WHILE I’M STILL screamING
FROM SIX FEET UNDER!
SawllowING THE DIRT
YOU THROW ON ME

DON’T dress ME IN THOSE CLOTHES,
AT MY WAKE. THEY’RE TOO tight.

THE AUTOPSY WOULDN’T BE your first time
SOMEONE pull up your skirt.
Don’t worry, I WILL be quiet and still
AND HOPE I look pretty for me.

The general advises the king for the coming battle.
The art of war is of vital importance to the State.
No nation has ever benefited from a prolonged war.
War is not hell; it is deception.

Strategy is more important than the size of an army.
Make many calculations before the battle is fought.
Address the time of day, season, and terrain.
Be flexible as the situation shifts.

The environment determines opportunities.
Defend from the most secret pits of the earth.
Attacks flash from the heights of heaven.
Do not create conveniences for the enemy.

Information on the enemy is key to success;
spies will turn weakness into strength.
Win first, then go to war.
Know the enemy and know yourself.

no religion
as a child my god was my father and my goddess was my mother
and that’s how I excused their suffering
because the gods are stabbed and shot and spat on and suffer eternally
and no one ever notices

and it wasn’t until I was an adult with a-stabbing and a-shooting and a-spitting of my own that
I realised

and dammit
I’m sorry.

I see a newly-painted crosswalk
covered in color-arranged chalk
to mimic the aura of what it once was:

a rainbow crosswalk

leading to the very building
where 49 souls
left bodies behind
dripping blood on the dance floor.

victims of hate-driven gun violence
no reasonable resolutions
in the only country
where these events
are in one ear
out the other

I wonder
what the families think.
did they watch their sons and daughters
baptized in desaturation
as the Department of Transportation
erased the colors away?
was the blood splatter
still fresh beneath the paint?

did these souls flow down the drain,
left to let die
like when cowards stood by,
afraid to infiltrate a building
when loved ones’ lives
were left on the line?

When all that mattered about a bathroom
was if it was a safe place to say goodbye

I see the community gathered
brought together by anger
for the ways in which
the government tries to erase us

their rage to brace themselves
stare daggers into hatred’s snarling face
fan flames with flags
demand the right to be colorful
in their own community

and so when nature
washes the chalk away
they resort to repainting
repaving the way
flowers laid across the lawn

sidewalk sprayed,
OUR HISTORY WILL NOT BE ERASED
protesters say,
WHOSE STREETS? OUR STREETS

I see the community gathered
further bonded by laughter
and love
and love
and love
will always prevail
over hatred

a rainbow’s more visible in the rain anyway.

She stands on the edge
of the cantilevered bridge
that connects the mountain roads
above the gorge.

On the other side,
we sit outside,
behind the café on
the belvedere,
not looking at our coffees,
not reading our papers,
not looking down at the river
at its low in August,
not trying to call out,
as she wouldn’t hear,
not waving, as the sun
shines at her from above
and behind us,
not trying to call the police,
as they’re too far away.
We already know
how it ends.
Only she knows why.

Some of the bridges
and mountainside roads
have higher railings
but they just climb
the railings and
leap from there.

My friends told me you keep my heart in a birdcage
bring it out at dinner parties
poke and prod it until it performs tricks

I suppose I had been wondering how you’d been treating it.
thought maybe in a room down the hall, propped up on pillows with a
thermometer helplessly dangling out of the aorta
thought maybe you’d keep the curtains drawn for it, wait a bit before prying it out of the sheets
I guess you lost the last strands of your patience.

They said it looked almost pink, about the color of an artificially dyed salmon
that the outside had started to shrivel up like my pruney fingers on the shower floor.
They said all you could talk about was its quiet uselessness,
your arduous task of caring for it, your noble cause in fixing it.
Ha ha. So noble. Ha ha.

It sung for you once, is that the reason?
still soft with hope, still pumping blood at the rhythm of footfalls on a crowded staircase, still
slyly spreading its veins, still so beautiful and so blissfully red you said it reminded you of roses

I suppose I’d be less angry if once you were alone with it you shut it away and forgot about it.
But each night, I feel the afterglow of your rough fingers combing out the arteries, whispers of
hollow encouragement I blame on the wind, and then that all consuming ache in my chest
as you pound and pound it in eventual frustration
trying to get it to beat again.

Tears trickle life grey
one drip teasing time.
The days end
hope drains amber and gold
out of the backlight blue battling black.

The dimming moon fades
behind onyx invading horizons.
Hushing roll of rain
begins lightly crying on sunset leaves.
Soon a storm
will cleanse more than the trees.

The sky closes tight
echoing deep thunder
scurrying the shadow wolves
like forest squirrels.
Societal storms are seething to exist
crumbling wisdom into the wild darkening.

Teeth bite
lightning shatters the mountain’s hush.
Cracks of white
shouts between silence’s screams
tremoring crimson rivers flow under
bruised and battered twilight.

Shelter sought under
what is now nothing.
Distant starless howls
call to arms an anemic fight.
Cultures standing for centuries fall
gnarled roots give way.
Rinsed of riches
war’s worthless rivers rise.

Ripped raw
debris flows distractions
down on them all.

Falling to the sky
last breaths mist fog
on forgotten ground.
Morning mercy moans misery’s pain.
Blades of green sanctuary
catch hues of dripping morning sun.

Dawn’s wind whispers
the wishes of warmth
for war-soaked steps.
Ageless, bothered branches
intertwine a haven
under emerald fluttering leaves.

Daybreak suffocates
in sunlight’s sparkling
cradle of contentious canopies.
Terror’s tempest torments
long after dark squalls sleep.

Freshly washed from last night’s storm
shaking off the despair.
A furry face shimmers a gaze
inviting life from torrential nightmares.
Traveled paws teasing tenacious time
a tail sways freedom from tears.

Daylight no longer hears
howling in war’s night storm.
Lone’s wolf eyes are gently looking for
the hues of life after dictated disasters
calm.

1.

He guiltily looked at pictures of hurt young children
Told himself he was a psychologist and did it to
better understand his patients—That was a lie
Caught at this he received a ten-year sentence
in a federal prison, a sentence that he didn’t survive
He never hurt a child—looking at the photographs was
his attempt to vanquish his own sad, violent childhood

2.

I’m retired yet I still have nightmares about my
working days—But they’re false
Nothing real bad happened then
Now, I’m in my seventies and all sorts of
scammers take me, an old man, for an easy mark

If we fail to care for the earth it will, in order
to preserve itself, kill us all

Scammers will tell you of their rock-like belief
in God who is with them throughout their days
(Jesus is my savior) That they’re patriots
(our country—hooray USA) and that they
are very good people, very good people
whom you should trust

I’m having none of it

As a form of life, were I to believe in God,
it might comfort me to convince myself that the evil
will suffer and fail and the good will win every battle

Nonsense

Socrates taught us that there is no worse fate
that can happen to a person than to learn to hate
knowledge, truth and reason—He didn’t fear death
because he knew (was convinced) that when
the soul leaves your body, your soul is immortal

Work distracted me from melancholy

I can both believe and disbelieve
in the immortality of my soul
When I die will new generations remember me
or will it be as though I never lived at all?

As for hell, hell isn’t anywhere
if it’s not here with us on earth

3.

Oh how they love those cats and dogs
They find the affection in them that they can’t
get from other humans—“My dog taught me
how to love” “I love my dog”
“I hug my bug-eyed cat”

Its senseless to look for in others that
which can only be found in yourself

I knew her for quite a long time
I’m still not sure about her
especially when she aggravates me

She’s highly neurotic
Somewhat exotic
Very erotic
I loved her

If your passion comes from great love
and you’re young
The wisest thing to do may
be to yield to it with everything
you’ve got

4.

The United States is slowly becoming a police state—
with unmarked vans, masked police, secret lists and
false denunciations
With loyal powermongers in charge
who don’t know what they’re doing

As our mean-spirited Russian friends brag
“Give us a person and we will find some sort
of treason”

In their day they thought Mussolini and Hitler
were the greatest politicians in the world
But there’s no such thing as the
greatest politician in the world
Mussolini was shot to death by partisans
and together with his dead mistress displayed to the public
Hitler committed suicide
Caesar, who “boldly crossed the Rubicon”, to destroy
the Roman Republic was assassinated
on the floor of the Roman Senate

48% of the American public are ignorant idiots
And our “dear leader” with his cuts to their education
aims to keep them that way

He too, like any scammer, pretends
to believe in God—Celebrates Easter
in the White House—However, he doesn’t
even pretend to admire the kindness of Christ
He’s cruel, unruly and in search of revenge

This lying scammer got elected, as they sometimes do,
by telling lies to the naïve American people
Our billionaires tried to pay him off—
As when Hitler was elected, eminent civic leaders
thought they could control him
They couldn’t control him and instead
became his puppets
Just like any dictator our “dear leader”
can’t be controlled by such billionaire trolls
He won’t be their puppet because
he’d much rather be their king

The Slate River is rage-cascading
down these stark black slabs
splitting herself on sharp hewn boulders
every second
spilling over as froth and rushing
onward as if nothing happened
And this
every day
not just the ones some
city dweller like me happens to take
a day off from the usual grind
to notice,
calling suddenly suspect yestermoment’s
chance encounter I’d credited with having
saved my soul.
I only ate enough mushrooms to be given
over, somewhat, to awe;
Not enough for a truly
religious experience.
Still, all this!
Dislodge my metal bottle
and the careful architecture of my pack
preserves its spot for easy reinsertion;
I’d mistrusted myself enough to have
thought of everything in advance.
Wild raspberries
and tiny, high-mountain strawberries reward
my new-keened observation with a sweetness
unforeseen,
–and suddenly unmerited
it seems.
Better to leave the forest’s fruits
for some wilder creature, one who does not carry
her lunch on her back
or time her trip to trail’s length.
Aw who the hell do we think we are
or need to be?
Coloradoans march by, their packs heavy
with lightweight everything one might need.
Having “bagged” their fourteener, they caution me
in passing of storms approaching; turn back.
I amble on, gel-lackadaisically
through lichen-speckled rock outcroppings.
I nod to the trees, or bow deeply, as the psilocybin urges,
and smile to the passing conquistadors
relieved that I
am blithely not married to summit,
not even to saddle,
that a walk in the woods
is still quite simply thrilling.