Author: poetryfest

In our house, love and self-sacrifice are synonymous,
where it breathes in silence and clenched fists.

It’s the act of keeping the resting hand hanging free, not enclosed, repulsed and not letting go.
It’s being at home with that sanguine taste in your mouth and being grateful for the peeled fruit, albeit rotten.

You exist to give, and the giving never ends,
and the ruins are still ruins as the heirloom of agony hangs.
In our house love and religion co-exist, one as a noose as the latter tightens it, the helplessness, the hope, all leading up to that faithful diseased hand stretched towards God.

-kainaat.

At the end of the day
We were a magazine
Two frozen figures
Living a glossy dream
The grass just clipped
lawn ever green
Inside each of our bag lunches
A small tangerine
You and I and our quiet row home
In our bubble of quarantine
I still remember the way you showed
Me how to load the dish washing machine
Mister softee’s just around the corner
Let’s line up for ice cream
Falling asleep in your arms
My sweetest routine
Our glossy dream
We were a magazine
Oh But everywhere you go
you take yourself
Has always been
My inescapable theme

Thin like a razor, a whisper of light
Hidden away in the noise of the night
Not warm, bright, or blinding, the darkness remained
But the whisper of light didn’t run, no it stayed
It stayed through my panic and fighting to breathe
It stayed through my prayers and my desperate pleas
It stayed when nothing about me felt right
Thin like a razor, a whisper of light

The glow of an ember shone faint like the moon
On the ambulance ride, and emergency room
While machines hummed their monotone hymns in my ear
The ember kept vigil, held space for my fear
It stayed through my head spinning out of control
It stayed through my sweating and shivering cold
It stayed when I cursed and I cried out for you
The glow of an ember shone faint like the moon

O Lord, it is night, and the night is for stillness.
But the weapons and wounds still hold power against us.
Let me rest, help me breathe, find some peace in the dark
Where the light still breaks through with the tiniest spark.
Help me to trust what I cannot yet see
O Lord, it is night. Let the night shelter me. 
Em C
Thin like a razor, a whisper of light
G D
Hidden away in the noise of the night
Em C
Not warm, bright, or blinding—the darkness remained
G D Em
But the whisper of light didn’t run, no it stayed

Em C
It stayed through my panic and fighting to breathe
G D
It stayed through my prayers and my desperate pleas
Em C
It stayed when nothing about me felt right
G D Em
Thin like a razor, a whisper of light

C G
O Lord—it is night, and the night is for stillness
D Em
But the weapons and wounds still hold power against us
C G
Let me rest, let me breathe, find some peace in the dark
D Em
Where the light still breaks through with the tiniest spark
Am Em
Help me to trust what I cannot yet see—
C D Em
O Lord, it is night. Let the night shelter me

There.

Walking through the
Metropolitan Museum of Art
On my way to Iowa.

Spoke to Gertrude Stein.
Spoke to a harlequin.
Came to the painting titled Guernica.

Stopped.

I’d seen a picture of the painting
On a postcard that my art
Teacher showed me once.

Now I could see that picture
Was like a small printed map
Of this painting.

Schematic.

And I saw the people
And the people came and went,
And the people were dead.

They had marked the children.
They held the children
The children were dead.

There.

-by Janet Daily, August 1980

I searched for her
Past the starts
Through different realms.
Each path ended
in silence.
The stick spoke through the silence
Not with words,
But with pulses
I held it
And I knew
She is gone.

Her eyes –
tiny wooden coffins,
wrapped up in spider webs.
Inside – unnecessary staff,
memories and corpses.
Her hands – broken fins,
they flew too much.
The legs – dead branches,
blown by sad storms,
the leaves, the warmth – gone.
Hair – hurricanes of ash,
scattered inside others’ lifes.
She is a total disaster,
she is the nature.
All the grief
inside her.

Hold your son in your hands and
Watch him struggle to breathe.
Tell him you love him, but
“It’s okay, you can leave.”
Weep for lost time
As you cradle his head,
Weep, too, for his brother
Who came already dead.

One year later
Return to that room
Say goodbye to your daughter
Who danced in the womb.
Because of that energy
you named her for flames.
That one was special,
But you love all their names.

Nearly two days later
Another bundle of joy.
He fights for an hour;
He’s such a strong boy.
When passed to his mother,
He fades away fast.
Was he waiting for her?
Is that how he held fast?

No more waiting;
Now the final goodbye.
Do you even have
More tears you can cry?
The baby of babies,
Your heart in a whirl.
Her mother then whispers
“Fly high, baby girl.”

With that, she is gone,
The pain comes unfurled.
You just survived,
The end of the world.

As time passes you question,
An endless stream of whys.
Those close will support you,
Just don’t open their eyes.

On their birthdays, take time,
Bake their memory a pie.
Try not to let go

a seashell found sunk,
in sand like crumbs in cushions.
once it was a home.

my home felt yellow,
before my dad died in there;
alone, unjustly.

it was yellow from
laughter as our oxygen.
now it’s so quiet.

it’d be nice to say
it’s yellow for a new child
now, but it’s mine still.

alive in my head —
my dad, alone in his bed;
my seashell found dead.

i know he’s with me.
shells in sand can nest again,
but in crimson red;

red like cardinals.
he sends me signs, still i miss
my yellow, my shell.

so, i’ll scream my grief.
i will not pretend it ends.
i’ll make us a home

that’s orange.

By taylor dorothy

Listen.
Not with your ears,
but with the cracks in your ribs,
the hollow places that still echo
with the names of those
who mistook your love
for a game they could win.

I’m not talking to the you
that smiles and says, “I’m fine.”
I’m talking to the you
that knows love shouldn’t taste
like blood on your tongue
from biting back the words,
“Why am I never enough?”

Slow down.
The love you’re starving for,
the kind that stays,
the kind that doesn’t flinch
when your storms roll in,
doesn’t come dressed in apologies
or half-hearted promises.
It doesn’t scream.
It doesn’t beg.
It doesn’t leave.

It comes like dawn,
silent, inevitable,
painting the sky in colors
you forgot existed.

I know what you’ve been told:
That love is supposed to hurt,
to leave you gasping,
to make you prove your worth
over and over and over.
They’re gonna love you ’cause you’re beautiful,
but it’s another reason why they wanna hurt you.
I’ve seen what that does to a soul,
how it turns a heart into a battlefield,
how it makes you kneel
at the feet of those
who never learned to pray.

Your light?
It terrifies them.
Because you don’t just shine,
you expose.
And some people
would rather live in shadows
than face the brilliance
of what they could be
if they ever dared to try.

So, hold your cards close.
Not out of fear,
but because you’ve learned
not every hand deserves your truth.
Let them earn the right
to see your scars,
not as proof of your pain,
but as maps to your survival.

Wait.
Not for the one who says “I love you”
between drinks and empty hands,
but for the one who stays
when the music stops,
when the crowd leaves,
when the world goes quiet
and all that’s left
is the raw, unpolished truth of you.

Wait for the one
who doesn’t just love your fire,
but guards it,
feeds it,
kneels beside it
on the nights you forget
how to burn.

This isn’t about luck.
This is about knowing
when to walk away from the table
when the stakes are your soul.
This is about recognizing
that the right love
doesn’t leave you trembling,
it steadies you.

And when it comes?
You won’t have to ask,
“Is this it?”
You’ll know.
Not because the world stops,
but because for the first time,
you realize
it’s finally safe
to let it spin.

Only God gives free grace

God made me and knows all my weakness
He knows where I come from, good and bad
And my sin, being hurt then hurting you.
Although he knows me, his love never ends.

In his love, he sent us his only son
To heal our hurting and sinful souls
Made one in him, to bring us love and peace
Because he paid the price, he always says

“I forgive you.”

Your brother comes to you seeking mercy.
Jesus did not pay my price for your sin,
Nor pay, you may now say, your price for mine.
Jesus did not cover my pain and loss.

Your words and acts brought me great suffering
God’s gifts of love and peace within me died
And left me only pain and fear of you.
You can be sure my price is very high!

Nothing is free in this life.

But you have now lost any value to me
If I thought you might be in my future
Jesus’ blood might cover your debt to me
Or I might let you pay me full price.

But you are now useless to my future
The pain of keeping you is just too great
So you will never pay me any price
Except the one thing you are still good for:

We all need somebody to hate.

I have made myself fully blind to you
All that remains is my bitter memory
How can I ever forgive you, seeing
To me you will never again exist?

A life of quiet, hidden bitterness
Is worth it, if I can hold you to pay!
I have been told that everyone does it
No one forgives unimportant people.

No one is free in this life.

Friend, my life is now near reaching its end
Your life has only just barely begun
You do not yet know the great destruction
Quietly harbored bitterness can bring.

For my few short days I will mourn daily
The destruction I have brought to your life
Praying you will someday say to me
The most blessed words I shall never hear:

“I forgive you.”

© 2025 by Ian Bruce Johnson