Author: poetryfest

Imagination is Everything.
It is the preview of life’s coming attractions.
-Albert Einstein

He is lonely, hopelessly harsh–
a late summer’s bright afternoon dismal in his eyes
as he drifts through L.A.,
driving his scarred Mustang convertible quick and slow.

Haunted by visceral gestures still intact,
he trembles; their palpable parallels
had swelled and emerged into waves,
breaking inside their own turbulent ocean.
Not for everyone is this torrid love,
enchanted by poets and composers.

This persistent survivor deftly conjures up
a genuine memory from his ethereal pocketful–
importing his lady’s smile from raw dreams;
a last touch of her delicate neck he can still feel.

Music springs from the radio; persistent sensuous blues
transcending the void, arching his heart.
“The remedy for what ails you,” he laughs sarcastically.

As early evening is overcome by desolate darkness,
the lock to the front door clinks its opening sounds.

She is at least home;
saturated with scornful self pity,
she only notices herself.

Trailing accessories–their mirth, camaraderie,
his lips leaning in to loosen hers,
the blue green swirl and a pinpoint of
yellow daisies in his eyes staring
helplessly through her–flash,
before falling here,
a time-worn diatribe,
and there as rancid vehemence.

Their years together no longer shelter
the disconcerting whispers of denied truths.
She saunters toward a good-night,
oblivious, hardened to all the ravaged promises.

The sounds of placid running water
resonate behind the usual closed doors.
A cough or two silences talk;
and the night settles ominously
around their tortuous familiarity.

Together they are worlds and adventures apart;
conscious sadness heightened
by love’s erosion.
Its easiness is a simple motion away.

The obscure darkness of their elusive happiness
covers them like a tomb; nothing is peaceful
like the promise of death before dawn.

She comes home
too many times later,
still dazed, dragging herself;
her pitchfork troubles have revealed
too many fatalities for her soul to bear.
The house is dark with a vacant loss.
Stale perfume from discarded battles
hangs shamefully as she confronts
a different emptiness.

A fixed startled fear debilitates her scream;
it touches down a gnats-breath away,
exploding in fireworks,
encircling the distant bathroom–
thoughts of life already abandoned–
his only body gone dead.

I don’t understand why?
You was my guy.
Did she even have to try?
Was she easier on the eye?

Six years down the drain.
It hurts so bad i can’t explain.
What did you have to gain?
Now I’m stuck with the pain.

I can’t look at you the same.
Do you even know her last name?
Have you no shame?
Our love must’ve been a game.

I took every beating,
but, I can’t handle the cheating.
All the screaming,
Guess that it had no meaning.

Now I’m stuck with the heartbreak,
That you helped make.
It’s almost more than I can take.
I didn’t know your love was fake.

Days go by slow and hollow
Seasons change but I don’t
I remain the same
Quiet and unmoved
Bored of the same old same
Wavering oak roots
Strong but trapped
Grand but feeling small
Never steady and never stubborn
Just the same old same
Uncertain truths yet so predictable
Rain comes and goes as it does
Forever months to follow
Under the same unsteady sky
But every day the same old same

– MaHo Pita

“Hold onto me, don’t look away from me!” he said.
She slips closer to the edge of the cliff, “Can’t you see I am a mess?”
“I don’t deserve to be saved.”
His grip tightens on her hand, “Yes, you are worth saving.”
“You are beautiful, you are precious! Please come to me. Please hold onto me!”
“I am pieces, ready to fly away into the wind.”
“I am only dry leaves floating on the air.”
“No! You are my heart, my life, my love!”
Shaking her head, denying his pleas she pulls her hand from his grip.
Falling from the cliff the only sound she hears is his screams of horror.
Then complete blissful silence before darkness wraps its embrace around her.
He falls to his knees, holding onto a piece of her shirt, the last piece of her.
He had grabbed it when he had tried to save her, holding onto it tightly.
His tears fall from his eyes while his screams break the silent peace.

~ PRASHSTI CHETANI
I DON’T KNOW IF I MISS HIM
HE WAS NEVER MINE
TO BEGIN WITH

BUT I STILL LONG
THE LAUGH I ONCE HAD
WHEN I TURNED BACK
AND TALKED TO HIM
THE SCHOOL, THE CLASS
ALL FELT HEAVEN
A CLASS, WHERE HE WAS SITTING IN
AND I ? WAS IN FRONT OF HIM
(DELIBERATELY SO)

I SAW HIS PICTURE
I DON’T KNOW IF I MISS HIM

TO BEGIN WITH RATHER
HE WAS NEVER EVEN MINE TO MISS
BUT I FLOODED MY MIND
PICTURES, AND CONVERSATIONS
I TRIED HARD TO KEEP ALIVE
TURNED MY SEAT AND TALKED TO HIM
ABOUT ‘FOODS’ HE LIKED

HE’S STILL NOT MINE
I COULD NOT EVEN BRING MYSELF TO TRY
HAD MY PRINCIPLES
HOLDING ME BACK

AND IN A CORNER,
A SMALL FEAR SAT
WHAT IF
HE DID NOT HAVE ANY FEELINGS TO
RECIPROCATE BACK?

You arrived.
Not at all like the
simplicity of seasons.
Not at all seamless/ and slow,
not at all graceful
not at all grand.
You arrived. Like
a drunk
roommate at 3 a.m.
clumsy and intoxicated
full
of promise and piss.
Loud and loose and laborious.
Uninhibited. Un reachable.
You arrived breaking and
misplacing
everything
to prove
you are unafraid, you arrived
to convince someone
you are capable.
You arrived spinning, slumbering
almost, mostly, all but
nonexistent.
You arrived like
a small town carnival,
dirty and foreign
flashy and bright
cheap rides for anyone
daring, or desperate, enough
to risk
your bre
aking
down.
You arrived,
the worst of the things
I crave.
Overcrowded
overcompensating,
dependent
on adrenaline
unsatisfied with me
always,
and always
wanting more
hearts
more hands
coming for you,
paying the price
for your time.
You came//you went;
nothing at all like my prayers,
(and yet);
exactly everything
I had prayed for.

Poets opening for musicians.

Kerouac.
Poetry tv shows.

Olson.
To the Kerouac
Killed at a jazz show

Or the Adelaide
Who had a small tribe
For just a little while

The drunkenness in the likes
Of Maximus of Glouchster
Has decided the diving
Of any future dirty artists
Library or no

These tendencies are known
And the white collared
Have better ideas
For their poetry

Kept behind podiums
Or slammed at open mics
No space between them.

Save for the graces of politica

Lost to any ages

The graces of higher arts
These places for dignity
And divine, not dirty arts
And dirtier workers!

By Amelia Michelle Nicol

Ugh, I don’t know. Maybe the reason I’m scared of throwing up is the same reason I don’t say
what’s really on my mind, you know? You have an idea of what’s coming out, but you’re still not
ready for what it is. Maybe, it’s because I would be sharing an ugly part of myself, in a way at
least… Better yet, maybe it’s because when I start, I won’t be able to stop, right? I won’t be able to catch my breath and even if I feel somewhat relief, I’m also left feeling empty and shaken.

Shaken by what came out or shaken by the fact that I actually let it and now I’m seen in a
different light… But, yep. I’m emetophobic. That’s why I’m afraid of getting drunk, or pregnant,
or both. If I’m dumb enough to, that is. But anyways, I fear for my life when I get nauseous.
When I see others even gag, I move to evacuate…Speaking of which, I think I had a bit of a
breakthrough, huh? I should, uh…I should probably, you know… Same time next week?

First, we would load up the car, with salty
sunflower seeds in our pockets and thermos’
in hand, and when we took to the lot
we used buckets that we filled with blackberries
bursting in the August sun. We took them home,
and sat purple mouthed with fingers
bramble-worn from the pricking, as grandma
cooked them with sugar in a big pot, and the next
morning it was my job to help get the biscuits done.
Then we’d open a jar and pry the wax from the top,
and sometimes chew it up like gum, but only after
we got to the good stuff at the bottom.

clearly a cherry blossom in disguise
shining brighter than most eyes can see, shifting, changing, parading— it is big merely spring to
send
love letters filled with cherry blossoms and glitter glue hoping that despite written in the largest
letter font you could dream of
no but this excites me too much
and with that, spring is over. the blossoms turn into trees
the trees nod to summertime but how can one ever forget the spring and the sunshine and the
blossoms and the way the light reflected off my sunglasses enough for you to remove them— to ask
me to kiss
you, first. one could guess or even
attempt to swallow those
cherry blossoms whole just to keep them around longer.

곤란한
it’s sexyheart
breaking-liberating. to sway your waist under artificial lights and
foggy floors. hip-hip-hip -hip to waist ratio
you are on fire. sweetheart
aching. you are so goddamn liberated.
with your hands in the air five-thousand miles out
pour me a glass of tequila like my very own communal-shot-glass.
so many noises i forgot what was realforintentions
sake. pay attention to hip-hip-hip-bump
shift to the left
that floor is shaking under your white rubber boots and mini skirt
baggytshirtwiththebelt-lines-in your
dreams. oh you
dreamer. comebackagain.
pour me a glass of water.im parched.

mosquito love bites
is-this-what-it-feels-like-to-hide-a-hickey-in-plain-sight? ask
the mirror and reply back with how-would-you-know,-you’
ve-never-had-a-hickey-before. and gaze at the love bites left by the blood-sucking demons that roam your
foreign home. but-why-is-this-my-experience-hiding-a-
hickey? trace your gentle fingers along the raised developed lines. wasn’t-celi
bacy-your-idea? trace back to moments in time. not-always. but moments in time exist frozen with many
matters out of your control. remember-waking-up-after-crying-your
self-to-sleep-seeing-a-con
dom-near-your-bedside? because these matters exist in your own head.
yes-because-that-day-i-was-happy-to-never-have-sex-again. sure. happy-you-say? for
clarification. but-i-didn’t-know-i-would-feel-worthless-in-exchange-of-no-more-humiliation.
but gaze at your love bites that adorn the right side of your neck.
but-those-mosquitoes-love-you-don’t-they? covered neck with hair shorter than you’d remembered.
truthfully-i’d-rather-remain-unloved-and-un
touched-all-the-same.