Author: poetryfest

every other day we’d ride downtown on the EL
back when you could still hop turn-styles
even in the winter; especially in the winter
we’d put on our coats and head out to shop the bakery dumpsters for dinner
there was this one deli where yuppies from different buildings met from seven to seven each day
on the edge of the loop and the gold coast neighborhood
they baked gourmet baguettes and scones and every kind of bread you could imagine
– a lot of these joints now compact their trash,
even back then some would lock their dumpsters
in a world that teaches greed, even their trash is somehow sacred…
however, this particular bakery would toss the extras out every night;
which usually consisted of hefty bags with pounds of good meal, untouched and separated from the store’s trash bin bags full of perfectly good half eaten sandwiches
we’d bring home sometimes ten or more pounds of fresh gourmet baked breads, sweet confections, scones and pastries
and the house of 13 to 20 of us would live on that
the slum lord threw us out when he got sick of the health department on his ass

and the clueless jump out boys raiding us over and over
never finding a thing
except, perhaps,
an empty syringe – for all the dope was in our arms by nightfall
nothing ever lasts for any of us,
I suppose
the young poor still manage to navigate across the great divide and gravitate towards each other

and the old poor get too old to move and die alone

we don’t know our shit from shinola and neither do they

and I guess it’s for the best
the phone still rings and the old new replaces the new old
and flies – gnats – cipher nectar from our dreams
in a world of cages and emotionally parasitic lives
we still reach into our pockets hoping to find that laundered, crumpled 5 dollar bill with the magical face on it that will hold us on gasoline for just one more day

a crazy hope; penny side up
I miss the scones.

In the barn, Ol’ Red waits, a silent friend,
Its red paint faded, but the heart beats on.
The cross in the rearview still stands to send
A prayer to the skies, though Grandpa’s gone.

Scents of oil, of hay, still cling to the air,
Like whispers of the past that never leave.
I climb inside, his presence everywhere,
In every engine purr, in every breath I breathe.

We’d ride dirt roads, the truck wheels churning,
Through hay fields where dreams were wide.
His voice was a gentle hum, stories grinning
With each turn, every mile we’d ride.

Though time moves on, Ol’ Reds here, still and true
A piece of Grandpa is always there to view.

You stole from me
The love I gave freely
To walk the streets
And sell your body
For money
To get high,

But Crack never paid you back

You got so high
Puffing on glass pipes

That you disappeared
And reappeared
At random
Times
But crack never wondered where you at.

I never knew why crack made you act like that
Throwing your life away,
No job, equal pay,
Cursed like an urban nomad
Lost in a desert of shame
Yet crack never had your back.

Our tears and pleas
Meant nothing
As you changed
From a loving mother
To an object of pain

We cried for you
Prayed for you
Paid rehab for you

But you never changed
In fact, you relapsed
Again and again
Needless to say

Crack never kept you on track.

So I wrote this poem
To remember the saying
Through all your days
As an addict
I’ll tell you the same
Love wasn’t enough
In fact, it was in vain
But one thing remains—

Crack never loved you back.

The song on the radio is familiar but unkind,
Your steps are heavy, dragging down the line.
The effect is wearing off, time soothes into reality.
This can not stand.

The butcher shop stinks of rotten meat,
The clouds in your veins parting, trying to let the sun in.
Your head is heavy, the need to rest begins,
Find somewhere to land.

And then the shakes begin, rattle rattle rattle.
Your heart earns for more, another respite to the real,
The place where you dream is gone,
Another hit, or good god damn.

When I turn on the news
I see you.
I see the suffering on your faces
Tears flowing down gaunt cheeks
Bones protruding in many places

Your children and family being killed everyday.
How could life possibly be this way?

Food and aid has run out
There is no supply
Mothers cry
Watching their children die

The red is on the walls.
In the rubble and in the sand.
The red is everywhere there.
It’s dripping from his hands.

Hiding behind antisemitism
If anyone has uttered a word of criticism
But this is not about race or religion
It’s about HUMANITY
Which has long been lost in all of this insanity!
Believe me, I love the Jews.
After all, I am one too.

How can we sit and watch
As these horrors unfold?
History will reveal itself
The truth will soon be told.

I wish that I could help you.
Feed your children and give you a hot meal.
I can’t imagine the pain and helplessness
that you must feel.
I wish I could give you a warm, safe shelter
to sleep throughout the night.
But all I can do is pray for you.
Pray with all my might
Pray that you don’t give up your fight

And as this war and misery continues to persist,
I wish that one day, some how, you could read this.
That way you will know that someone who cares

ACTUALLY DOES EXIST.

The Red in the Sand

A two fingered V sign may pass the test
Even if it was not intended to confound
With the palm held away from the chest
As that choice is the safer, I’ll be bound
Signalling victory is certainly for the best
There’s not many of those to the pound
Yet if reversed and the meaning guessed
Offence is then taken, with angry sound
A sign at our Agincourt archers’ behest
To indicate more enemy can be downed
Even at a long distance, not like the rest
There are some things that I have found
And despite odd comments made in jest
May still be shown the wrong way round

Calm black
cloaked over a greying throne
Withered nettles
bring about the muffled moans
Searing light shines through to the quiet cave
A home of fading memory
and all the pages burnt of bane

Shriveled wants, withered hopes, and decomposing dreams
With all the blood of unchosen sorrows
woven into ancient seams
Outside, the elder woods,
the moon and stars your only light
Bringing about melancholic comfort
as spoken tongues send ravens into flight

Upon the pricklied throne,
Sits a twined man all alone
Laid back
His gaze on the stars that no one knows
This is our place, lay forever
Where the nettled king hides his face

i’m high as fuck right now
eyes shot straight red
i’m piped up off adrenaline
from the words that are brewing inside me
from the hurt that’s been stuck to my hip
beside me

my heart’s racing
at the thought
of what my mind thinks next

i can’t keep up
my skin’s itching
feigning for my next fix
nervous system’s deteriorating
body longs to fold

blowing my brains out
on these pages
ain’t on the schedule
but man let me tell you
it doesn’t compare
to what they dropped in the hood

its got me in a chokehold
i’m never giving it up
this high

these creations
no intervention

THIS

my liquor
fentanyl
crack
and meth
misunderstood

Wings flash. Between this theater of needled
trees, the woodpecker cruises, its nose precise
as the tip of a rocket, red crest behind

sharp eyes fierce and jagged. It claims the deadwood
trunk, no longer a tree anymore, ragged
top blackened where its towering limbs were burned

to sticks, coals, and ash during last fall’s firestorm.
The bird remembers how entire leaps of flame
razed this ravine of hundred-foot hemlocks to

stubble. Following the lightning-born wildfire,
a cloudburst flooded the mountain with an inch
of rain an hour until bodies of fire

withered to choking streamers of smoke. Today,
the bird expects the devastated stump’s loose
and silvered bark to explode under the grip

of its talons revealing an insect feast.
The termite nation beneath has spent the fall
swarming the dead trees, mining their inner whorls

of pith, cellulose, and gum. They rebuild, reroute,
masticate, digest all the elements of
this organism in its rote stages of

decomposition, an upcycled fortress
within which they build tunnels, mate, defecate—
a palatial nest gifted them through divine
calamity. With its torpedo-like beak,
the woodpecker ratchets at spongey heartwood,
capturing entire precincts of termites. Those

deeply embedded brandish pincer mouthparts,
their segments quivering in self-defense ‘til
the woodpecker’s hammering bill-strike flays them

lifeless, proteins pressed into beds of dry rot.
The staccato of its incessant chisel
deafens the entire colony, vibrates their

resolve. Those past the attack perimeter
eject and tumble into the litter of
the deep woods, avoiding the terror of the

bird’s razor beak, the hostile penetration
of its claws into fragile pith where honey-
colored eggs in glistening clumps surrender

to the bird’s violent feeding. These insects
chance a soft landing in the underworld of
leaves and lichen that serve as a bunker to

regroup—subterranean reconnaissance.
No hard feelings, only heads down and queues formed.
There will be more eggs to lay, more fiber to

macerate in bile, chew into sustenance,
more crosscuts to dig, until this latest gasp
of a tree is nothing but sawdust. And then,

as quickly as it soared through this glen glowing
in amber autumn light, the woodpecker is
quickly dispatched in a seizure by golden

leatherette armor: the joints of a Cooper’s
hawk’s legs, a predator so swift in attack
even the termites do not sense it coming.

The stealthy bird noiselessly grapples its red-
crested hostage. An explosion then: feathered
underbelly from both birds floats like dead leaves.

Each levitates while the forest, as witness,
pauses to hold its breath, then each heaves a sigh,
a flurry of down over unsuspecting

exoskeletons. Stricken, the woodpecker
cackles its shrill protest until the hawk clamps
its claws around its neck, wringing to break red

into startled, terminal silence, sensing
an expulsion—of termite bodies and chipped
wood—from its gullet, a last guttering breath.

Written by a young person at Clark Children and Family Justice Center

Started off as a baby
The life I chose was crazy

When I was young
I was smart but still dumb

I made a lot of mistakes
& some promises I would break

I started playing sports
& hung out with some dorks

Then I got a call & jumped
off the porch

I just wanted to change
the life I lived was lame

But life is not a game
I should’ve stayed the same

No one to blame
my life ain’t the same

wit Me & my bros
on a long journey filled with goals.