Author: poetryfest

Performed by Val Cole

—-
POEM:

I.
In Oropos, a lone warrior rode
On horseback in search of a place to rest.
He had been on a long and weary quest,
So, he pulled on the reins and his horse slowed.
Up in the trees, the afternoon sun showed
Two doves huddled together in their nest.
He stopped his horse, and thought it would be best
To reach into his pouches to unload.
He walked to the center of the woodland,
And kept watching the doves in their repose.
He found some shade and stopped, just as he planned—
As the doves took flight, he picked up a rose.
He ate berries from a bush with his hand,
And then prepared a spot where he might doze.

II.
Through the thick leaves, Cupid’s arrow did fly,
Dropping the strong warrior on his back.
And with no warning sign of the attack,
The wounded warrior let out a cry.
The very source of every lover’s sigh
Had now made his vision a world of black.
The arrow in his armor left a crack
Over his heart from the archer so sly.
The doves that were circling overhead
Softly landed near his fallen torso.
In the warrior’s current state of dread,
He yelled for help with his physical woe.
As more of his blood continued to shed,
He heard the distant screeching of a crow.

III.
Through the boughs, crept the goddess of healing,
Circling around the branches with ease.
She saw the warrior beyond the trees,
Then stopped in her place—carefully kneeling.
She watched him with a merciful feeling,
And slowly rose to her feet from her knees.
Hoping to cure him from pain and disease,
At the loose tree bark, she began peeling.
She walked with her golden hair a-flowing,
As her white tunic radiantly gleamed
And reflected into her eyes of green.
She looked down at the warrior, knowing
That his wounds were worse than what they first seemed—
Then, she sought out ways of washing him clean.

IV.
She pulled on the arrow with gentle care
To make sure that his pain was not increased.
It appeared to be more than man or beast
Could ever have endured—or even dare.
There was a wide crack in his armor where,
From his heart, the arrow was now released.
The warrior had been nearly deceased
When it was removed from him unaware.
The poisoned arrowed turned into a snake,
And slowly began crawling up her arm.
From forest plants, a poultice she did make
To free the warrior from deadly harm.
As he continued writhing from his ache,
A splash of water completed her charm.

V.
She assembled the best cure that she knew,
And its level of success was profound.
Now that all its components had been found,
The muddy poultice took on a dark hue.
Softly into the wooden bowl she blew,
And the serpent then fell upon the ground.
As the snake in the grass slithered around,
The two doves simultaneously flew.
Walking over to where his body laid,
She worked away to heal his wounds and scars.
As there was no sort of debt to be paid,
She left his side, along with her nectars.
As he rose to his feet, he hoped and prayed
That she would take her place amongst the stars.

Reading performed by Val Cole

POEM:

It was in a small town in the Midwest,
Where the following story once took place,
Between a woman and a man.
Each night, she held a cross close to her chest—
Praying just as hard as one can.
Every day, he kissed the sides of her face—
To be married soon was their plan.

One morning, he went away on a quest,
A family member was very ill—
It had now been several days.
In the living room, she now tried to rest,
As the sky became a gray haze.
From inside the house, the thunderstorm still
Made her worry in many ways.

She walked through the dark house to go outside,
As small insects swirled around her oil lamp—
The floor felt warm beneath her feet.
She opened up the front door, and then sighed—
The summer air was dense and sweet.
The humidity made her skin feel damp,
While she stood in the summer heat.

The rain began with a heavy downpour,
And over the garden she spread a sheet—
Her budding roses were covered.
She wished he was home like never before—
Her heart would then feel recovered.
Without her, his life never felt complete—
A true love he had discovered.

As he rode through the woods upon his horse,
He stopped off for a moment for a drink,
And saw the creek had overflown.
On his journey back, he still felt remorse
For having left her all alone.
While riding down a path, he tried to think
Of any ways he could atone.

Now, her long wait had finally ended,
As she saw him emerging from the trees—
Keeping his promise to be wed.
From the saddle, he quickly descended,
Repeating all he had once said.
He leaned down and brushed the dirt off his knees,
Then removed the hat from his head.

Upon his return from another town,
They embraced—no longer broken-hearted—
As crickets chirped a nighttime tune.
The heavy rainfall had helped to cool down
That warm summer evening in June,
And the cloud cover in the sky parted
To reveal the strawberry moon.

Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

I.
She was a difficult person, too smart for academia perhaps
and reluctant to self-promote
and angry that she was unsung unlike her acclaimed grad school chums.
As Little Edie said she was a “staunch woman”
and the world—or her particular subfield of art history—
just didn’t like that.
She told me about the numerous friends and infrequent lovers
who had wronged her,
so I knew our friendship had a time stamp on it.
But O how we would kiki and make fun of our straight colleagues
(and how some of them deserved our bitchy ridicule
after all the phobic behavior they smugly presented to us queer folk!).
She was so witty and so lonely too.
Her lovely apartment on East End Avenue was covered in dust.
Sometimes she wanted an audience more than a friend,
other times I was her trusted ally, seeking and giving out advice, providing camaraderie.
And then I never saw her again.
Years later I found out she died from cancer.

II.
We had a stormy, silly romance.
I needed something time-consuming
to avoid focusing on my dissertation
and he certainly gave me drama with his erratic, if ardent, behavior.
He wasn’t working
and I noticed letters from the management company
for back rent piled on the kitchen table—
He lived in a doorman building, and I lived in a tenement.
But I paid my rent. And had money to take us out to dinner at the diner.
He had been a model for Valentino and was trained as a classical singer.
He was funny and loved to laugh.
He loved to call everyone Miss Thing,
including me.
He planned to become a Heldentenor
but he wasn’t quite ready he said to be on stage to sing heroic Wagnerian roles.
So he continued his voice lessons.
One day I noticed his back had mysterious spots on it.
He tested positive for HIV and I tested negative.
I pledged that I would stand by him
no matter what.
But then I never saw him again.
Years later I did a search on the Internet
And saw that he was married
and teaching voice at a college in the state where his mother was from.

III.
My mommy was a regal German-Irish feminist from the Bronx,
A strong swimmer afflicted with polio when young.
She was also a cry-baby like me and when we watched Old Yeller together, we sobbed,
and then laughed at each other.
She cried too when Bewitched was interrupted to announce that MLK was assassinated.
I tried to comfort her but couldn’t. No laughter then.
Later when I thought I was grown up, I started calling her by her first name.
She smiled each time I did this, as if to say,
call me what you want—
I know you are still my baby boy
and no matter what name you use
inside you are calling me Mommy and you always will.
Mommy was your first word and it will be your last.
O Jean. O Mommy. I have so much to tell you. I have a husband and a dog and I’m happy.
Well, most of the time.
I am taking care of your house, and its land, which is mine now, but it is still yours too.
And it turns out, I’m not crazy after all, but the world is.
In her last days she was in hospice care in her rented apartment in Brookline.
Though she was ready to be released from her shrinking body,
she took a turn for the better
and I jumped on the Amtrak train at Back Bay to resume my NYC life, if only for a few days.
But before the train pulled up to the Route 128 stop, my father called sobbing.
And then I never saw her again.

IV.
Sorry, but I refuse to sum up.
Yet I must confess
I have attempted the disappearing act too

Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

Needing you still, I come when I can,
this time to the labyrinth
to share this circular path.

There’s no one on the trail today
as I make my way
a shroud of fog settles in.

These trees were strangers
stark with winter their bare limbs
bearing a striking silhouette; pilgrims bent in prayer.

But now I know them well—
a weeping cherry, a slouching yew;
three graceful cedars standing tall.

Weather has erased the names from their plaques, but there remains:
In memory of; In memory of; In loving memory of
a beloved husband; now six years gone.

Listen. The cedars whisper vespers
as I make my way around the outer edge;
the bricks are slick with moss and sound beneath my feet.

When I pass again, a rotting bench where no one sits and
through the trees, a flicker of neon yellow; hulking husks—
empty school buses, lined and waiting in a vacant lot.

I tell you; it’s still as a graveyard—
the enduring quiet of this liminal place.
Alpha and Omega.

At the still point, I pause to rest;
everything slows, quiets even more, but
nothing stops; nothing ebbs my ache for you.

Still needing you, I come when I can;
again and again, back to this labyrinth.
Look. I am the yearning woman circling this path.

Reading by Val Cole

POEM:

I find myself back at 3240
Where we used to sit at the back table,

Close to the bathroom in case we need
A hit of nicotine or a visit with mary.

They replaced the wooden tables
With cold marble, erasing

Our initials we carved
Into these tables on all those weekends

Spent with cake pops and comics
We never ended up reading.

I’m back at 3240
And they changed the parking lot

We aimlessly walked around
under strained street lights.

The gas station has a new generation
of fiends who might go through the

same as us. Yet nothing is
the same here anymore.

Kids don’t walk here anymore,
Nor do they rome what was once

An aimless field of washed out
White parking lines

Nothing is the same, because we aren’t kids
anymore. We’re not sixteen

So you’re not here
And here I find myself, back at 3240

Tick, tap, tick, tap, tick, tap…,
What is that I hear,
…Tap, tick, tap, tick, tap, tick.

People eyeing me for no reason,
To feel implemented is an atrocity,
A passion had forgotten my presence.

Do I belong to their world,
Can they see how dispirited I am,
Or is it they see me as a menace?

What do they know about interaction,
One stares right in front to bring me life,
Pearl would always look at me gently.

Pearl is my only friend,
Does not leave or judge,
Couldn’t think of harsh labeling.

Pearl knows me well,
With one deep cave into nowhere,
A place of nowhere is my own comfort.

It’s me and Pearl, chair and chair, residual and love,
Kiss, kiss, kiss,
Pearl still loves me.

Tick, tap, tick, tap, tick, tap…,
Paranoia follows me everywhere,
…Tap, tick, tap, tick, tap, tick.

No contact of any person,
They see me as a muddle,
Rather than see me as considerate.

Men want to mishandle me with feeling,
Women want to avoid me in hurting pleasure,
I can only bear with nothing.

Affection is a momentum,
If they knew what it means about concerning,
I know they can’t feel what Pearl could give.

Pearl allows me to feel her,
The way she is smooth,
How calm when glistening.

Pearl’s grip is heavy,
But protective of me,
Being important as a fond.

It’s me and Pearl, chair and chair, residual and love,
Kiss, kiss, kiss,
Pearl still loves me.

Tick, tap, tick, tap, tick, tap…,
I can’t stand that sound,
…Tap, tick, tap, tick, tap, tick.

Why are they looking at me,
Am I an enemy,
Have I lost my balance.

Tick, tap, tick, tap, tick, tap…,
Is there any sanction for me,
…Tap, tick, tap, tick, tap, tick.

Please tell me, is no one helping me,
I’m not a dangerous man,
I’m confused why I live.

Tap, tick, tap, tick, tap, tick…,
Grieving… I can’t breathe,
…Tick, tap, tick, tap, tick, tap.

I love you, I don’t want to be alone,
You are my heart and my brain,
Shining for my choices of will.

Pearl do you hear me,
Why are you not responding,
Speak to me, SPEAK TO ME!

TAP, TICK, TICK, TAP, TAP, TAP…,
TICK, TAP, TAP, TAP, TICK, TICK…,
TAP, TAP, TICK, TAP, TICK, TAP!!!

…It’s me and Pearl… chair and table… residual and fate,
KISS,
Pearl has left me.

I don’t know how to behave at a funeral.

Dad cuddled, played, joked, laughed,
loved us with a ferocity I thought was forever.
And then he packed a bag full of camo and
guns and we waited with baited breath
for him to come back

for him to come back
angry and bitter

with us, the world, organized religion,
with how normal society didn’t allow him to
carry a gun at all times for “protection” as
he taught middle schoolers instead of
commanded troops with no free will.

(Though he yelled in his sleep over and over
until mom laughed it off enough to respond.)

No, he would never keep ammunition in the
house, our house, our Home, he told mom
over and over until she believed him despite
what her heart had to say and how we
all knew better because we
knew him.

National Geographic printed an article about
Emotional Abuse
when I was eleven and I loved the shit out of that magazine,
yet I handed over this one copy to my mom
because that was him and she
dismissed

Me in the cold, phone in hand with no one else
Home but him and I as he lay unmoving yet aware,
painfully aware as we both were,
until the ambulance arrived and they asked
me about medications I didn’t know and
stole my mitten and
he disappeared
but left the mounds of snow to be taken care of.

In our dreams, he walks and it was all a
ploy to get more help, more kindness, more
from us all until we collapse from exhaustion;
our bodies too worn out from the fighting
and the caretaking to remember how to
breathe and want.

Watch a movie with me, he repeats each night
though he knows it’s nearly midnight and I want/
need
time to myself without debating my
nonexistent future or if mom hates him but
I sit in the chair and watch the beginning of something
we’ll never finish.

Lies pile high like the medical supplies in the mail
until he slips, slides, nose dives, and truth
rears its ugly head and the nurse hands me tissues in her office
while he plans his escape and lies and
lies
like he did at the bottom of the driveway and I still don’t know
the medications to help.

The aid got a ramp put on her house a year before we knew.
He wants to know why I don’t answer his calls.
“What’s Tori’s problem with me” replaced mom’s hatred/
future plans/money/movies/care/compassion/
fatherliness.
Because we only matter to each other when under the same roof.

I don’t know how to behave at a funeral,
yet I attended a new one every time he opened his mouth.

They planted trees for “future generations”
beside a factory
that coughs smoke into the same air
those generations will breathe.

They printed posters about unity
in the same building
where meetings decide
which neighborhoods get nothing.

They painted a mural of justice
on the courthouse wall,
so people don’t notice
the cases that never make it inside.

They built a monument for peace
on the same street
where the police broke a boy’s arm.
The ribbon cutting made the news.
The broken arm didn’t.

And they’ll tell the story years from now,
pointing to the trees, the posters, the mural, the
monument; proof, they’ll say,
that they cared.
But no one will remember
the silence that swallowed everything else.
For Future Generations

– Ivanna Muñoz

a sphere of curiosities spun and slingshotting around the sun
really fast and a year at the same time slow
where invisible lines dictate who’s right and who’s wrong
at any given moment on any given election cycle, everywhere.
curious sphere, on fire, flooding, blowing hard, frozen
yet mostly wet, little men with big guns, all grown up
with remote control cars, traded them for remote control planes
trained in kamikaze taking aim at someone never to be known.
ender’s game in the sky, while in the street people too convinced that
all uniforms are bad, attack them doing their jobs because, a.c.a.b.
fuck the police, mothers of three and fathers of two who want to make
the streets safer for their kin, abused attempting a once honest living.

everybody right and everybody wrong and religion is disappeared
but reborn in anti-religion and party lines and say one thing
political and your entire bible of belief can be predicted by chatgpt
and somehow deceived that any of our opinions are unique–
if both my neighbours are my enemy, will we ever live in peace?

The birds in your hair,
miracles in your bosom,
You amaze me so.
-my love

To be loved, adored,
to be written on his tongue
like a melody.
-to be loved