Author: poetryfest

selfishness is paradise

in this or any previous life

to please oneself the act sublime

to be oneself alone divine

to get one’s own more than one’s due

and most of all – not think of you

It doesn’t matter how I start out these poems
they end up as laments for my strays—
the ones who wandered off and the ones
who traveled to New York or to Chicago,
where my childhood bestie ended up.
The ones I know died; ones I imagine speak to me—

the musician who blew his head off
with his therapist’s gun and the poet
who tried to save me from history.
We’re not in touch but I keep them
in living memory with the gymkhana pony
who went to glory with her head in my lap
and my granddaughter, atomized on a two-lane
by a lumbering eighteen-wheeler.

What a dinner party we have when I call them
to the table, each beloved face shining with appetite.
And you, others, so many dead or dying, whether or not
I know you, all I write now is your elegy.

Drinking carnival lemonade on a hot summer day
Walking miles through the desert in search of water that isn’t there
Falling asleep in the car as a kid on a long drive home
Pushing a boulder up an endless hill like the sister of Sisyphus
Getting a letter in the mail from a long lost friend
Disarming an atomic bomb with a blindfold on
Letting crisp night air flow into an open bedroom window
Realizing you left a candle burning all night by accident
Sharing an umbrella and feeling the soft rain on your shoulder
Fighting a losing battle in a war you don’t understand
Driving back home after a weekend spent away
Biting the cracked skin of your lip until it bleeds
Stroking the soft ears of a dog that doesn’t like anyone
Trying to find your keys when you’re already running late
Hearing the song your dad used to sing on the radio
Forcing a feral cat to sit quietly in your lap
Tasting the homemade brownie batter on the mixing spoon
Waking up crying from a dream you don’t remember at all
Stretching your restless legs after hours spent on a plane
Grabbing hopelessly at your loose paperwork as it’s swept by the wind
Seeing your favorite movie for the first time in a small hometown theater
Running into a stranger you used to love in a grocery store
Finding an old love note hidden in your favorite book
Leaving your childhood home when you move to college

Taking that first deep breath after diving underwater

Pressing a loaded gun to your head in a game of roulette

Allowing familiar hands to wrap around your neck

Hoping, against all odds, that they won’t squeeze

Fashion

I am blinded by aristocratic glamor

one among the many lost in the
golden streaks of light bleeding across Parisian skies/Mademoiselles flitting across chiseled
walkways in swishing tulle/Spirited colors scintillating across freshly adorned silk

Tonight I am swept away by a prismatic trance
longing to be adorned in jewels and glimmering heels/and my tender locks sprinkled with fairy
dust/ I dream of emanating grace and beauty/
Instead of hoarding it like a voleuse

Yet I am sentenced to the role of a peasant
Defaced by cold mockery from the golden ones/The elite who were crowed and blessed by the
cherished goddess of beauty

They who are dazzling and eloquent in cotton, crepe, organza and muslin/Draped in scarves,
sunhats, and a plethora of baroque garments
I am at the mercy of dames and divas/Caressed by diminished glory/A wilting wallflower that
shall not glisten or glimmer/until the day ugly means beautiful/and poor means privileged

A collection of time
rests upon
forgotten things

Thickening with the years
Dust is the reminder
of things forgotten
and lost

To pick up an old dusty item
and blow the dust off
and choke as it swirls in the air
is to choke on memories

A cloud of grey and brown,
catching the light and becoming ever more visible,
swirls into pictures of the past

Though,
the cloud may make vision go fuzzy
and get into one’s lungs;
My head is sideways
dust and lint hanging and falling into my mouth and eyes
looking under the bed for—

Something.
I cannot remember
until;
The attic

a circle made of people:
a ring in the dust,
and dusty playing cards
dimly lit with the warmth of

flashlights
capturing the bits of brown turned gold
swirling and flowing
through the air

And how wonderful it is
to remember

The dust that covers everything
old,
lost,
and forgotten,
is the passage of time
presented in a tangible way,
one we can comprehend

The running of one’s finger over a dusty object
to see the line it makes
or how dirty one’s finger may get
measures the passage of life in units undiscovered;

The dust on my window screen reminds me
I have not washed it since we moved in,
usually it is invisible
but not during the golden hour as the sun sets

only bits of green shapes are visible through the sheet of dust.
Bits of hair being pushed
through the screen, less dusty then

Looking through the screen,
before dust had painted it with memories,
to see the stars
and the way the moon made plumerias glow a light blue.

To clean dust
is to travel through time,
The dust collected
allows one to live through life again.

And
after everything has been wiped off
and rid of dust,
every memory relived, every moment
savored again,
a mouth, dust smeared across the side of it,
smiles.

Things had felt strange,
I had felt unsure,
I could see things I hadn’t before,
The emotions that came with all of those thoughts,
The perspectives,
I had never seen before,
I have found the beauty in this gift,
The connection of life through belief and accepting the truth in myth,
I remember and grow into who I am,
Let go of fear and it disappears in in sinking sand,
The image changes to a beautiful beach an oasis of love that does not know defeat,
I grow stronger with love, hope and kindness,
Fulfilling and happy now my life is,
This story I write,
I will continue,
Life so magical in day and night,
Diving into the depths I enter a new phase,
The light shines through my gaze,
I see, I feel, I experience, I am,
Creating and enjoying all I can,
Which comes so easily now I know,
The journey has lead me here and I grow,
I shine and dance in the stars of the night,
The world is full of divine connection and love,
Yesterday passes and Today starts,
Tomorrow is coming and it’s all connected for us,
I reaffirm my positive thoughts,
Each night when the suns has set it’s that time I do this,
So when I rise like the light in the sky,
‘The warmth of the day and flow of gentle waves,
This is when those thoughts go into motion from yesterday,
Then tomorrow becomes better in every way,
It’s not about retraining my brain,
Survival isn’t a part we need to play,
Because in our era and new age,
It is thriving and the knowing the best is on its way,
I have set those intentions and created my path,
The divine universe dances and joyously laughs,
Connected with the highest version of me,
Of you and nature and everybody,
This life is aligned for us to experience and grow,
Create our world to become better than I had known,
Now I am thriving in the experience of this flow,
Yesterday is not tomorrow it is all a divine stream,
Life is a gift for you and for me!

She had never cared much for
the smell of the rain.
But one day a boy she loved
taught her a new word:
petrichor.

And she decided that
the gloom had grace,
and the fog could laugh,
and the petals cried,
and their tears were sweet.

And drinking in the melancholic
rays of sun,
she thought:
maybe the chasm in her chest
was not a hole but a window.

I used to think I was a fortune teller
I used to think I could control the future
I would imagine catastrophe
I would imagine your anger

I walked on one ply paper
I walked ever so softly
As to not disturb you
As to protect my tender heart

Then I learned I suck at fortune telling
Then I decided to experiment
I shared my mind’s whispers
I let out all my containment

You loved me for it
You praised my bravery
I had the widest smile
I savored every moment

Now I relinquish control
Now I let my feelings flutter
I imagine pleasant harmony
I predict our unity