Author: poetryfest

If I join arms, am I a criminal?
I stand with those who fight for dreams,
for what they believe is right.

My mother’s tears fall as I leave her side.
With trembling hands, my father whispers, ‘Live on.’
My country wishes for my victory;
I wish to see a new dawn, to see my parents once more

If I fight for my family, am I a soldier?
I belong to no one but my own—
My ancestral home.
I am not a pawn, as many see me;
I fight for my people, not the regime.

If I lift my brother up when he is down, am I cruel?
My brothers in arms,
who stood with me when the grenade flew,
when we crawled through the trenches,
praying to all the Gods we knew,
when we cried and bided our time,
waiting for this godforsaken war to end.

– A Star
– Oh. No, thank you.
– But I made it myself.
– That doesn’t mean that I want it.
– But… I made it…
– I don’t like the way you make stars, I can make them myself.

He was holding the lock in his hand
My little brother only three years old
Grasping the obtuse metallic object
In his cold clammy fingers, raptor like

At the bottom of the living room stairs
I watched over him that weeknight
While my mother worked in the factory
Leaving me alone to take care of him

I knew it was past his bedtime, so dark
But I still needed to finish homework
Math problems swirling in my head
Stooped under the lamp with a pencil

I looked up suddenly, sensing his milky smell
There he was smiling and giggling, coming closer
My baby brother’s voice an ascending arpeggio
Mumbling gibberish sounds in broken chords

What happened next was a visceral appeal
For attention I suppose and for being possessed
My baby brother’s episodes of controlled chaos
His inner child devolving into murk at midnight

My disbelieving eyes relive the terror of that night
As my imp brother hurls the metal lock at my face
Crushing my bottom teeth and opening a wound
At the bottom of my chin, blood running all over

My shrill cries, heaving sonorities into our house
Ignored by my father hammering away heavy snores
Alarmed I run into the kitchen to grab a clean towel
Pressing it hard against the newfound cave in my chin

There was a numinous quality to the cuts on my face
Peering into the cavity of my mouth, I see the missing teeth
The mountainous looking mouth now had lost its peaks
As if appearing without my intentionality, an apt symbol

My baby brother, the improviser, does not register
The precision of the wound, like a marked Christ
Our overlapping cries assembling into one ragged line
A mini-opera with piercing sounds of dissonance, manifested

And the result is disconcerting–a rough-edged gash erupting
On my face, still today–the hangar like space of my mouth now closed in
The margins shrinking, a visual reminder of my youth, an analogue
Fueled by a memory of my adolescent self, of forced womanhood

An inferiority complex induced by a childhood accident
My brother my gemini twin and I torn but stitched back
Together, bloodshed as balm for a life of poverty
An absent working mother and a complicit fallen father

I’m laying in an empty bathtub under the moonlight,
I hear faint music playing by Chloe,
The tub slowly fills with cotton candy.

“Love me, love me, love me?”
I look up into the void they call night,
I’m laying in an empty bathtub under the moonlight.

The stars just don’t feel right.
I could house a snake in my hair it’s so ratty,
The tub slowly fills with cotton candy.

It reaches my shoulders, it feels sandy,
It’s dragging me under and I don’t want to fight,
I’m laying in an empty bathtub under the moonlight.

Sometimes my necklace feels too tight,
I think he thinks I’m bratty,
The tub slowly fills with cotton candy.

“But don’t you think I’m funny?”
I hope the chrysalis won’t fly off in the wind like my kite,
I’m laying in an empty bathtub under the moonlight.

I see you but I’m losing my sight
In my heart we’ll plant a dandelion tree,
I’m laying in an empty bathtub under the moonlight,

And the tub is overflowing with cotton candy.

In the hush of dawn, beneath the waking sky,
Where shadows blend with whispers, soft and shy,
There blooms a patch of wildflowers, bright and bold,
Yet in their vibrant dance, a story must be told.
Among the petals, fragile as a dream,
They gather ’round the brook, where sunlight starts to gleam,
Each bluebell bows in sorrow, while the daisies lean,
As if to listen closer to the heart’s unseen.
For every fleeting season that brings rain and sun,
A bitter truth lies nestled in the joy they’ve spun:
The winds have sung of loss, the change of summer’s breath,
And in this sacred garden, they learn the song of death.
The poppy remembers a friend now gone,
The sunflowers nod gently to the fading dawn.
Lilies sway in silence, their scents a soft lament,
While violets spill their tears, for moments heaven-sent.
In their grief, they find the strength to bloom anew,
A tapestry of colors woven from the blue.
Through roots entwined in sorrow, they share a heavy fate,
Yet rise in whispered beauty as they learn to celebrate.
So here where wildflowers gather, in sun and shadow’s weave,
They honor all whom nature takes, and learn how to grieve.
With gentle strength, they flourish, through the cycle of the year,
A testament to love, in every petal, crystal clear.

In dawn’s doorway stood a man.
Drunk on lies, left behind, all alone,
Confronts the bringer of his pain.
Only to be dropped like a stone,
And kicked around across the road,
No one ever stopping to share his load,
But all he’d ever known was keeping on.
He never asked for help from…you.

But one night, he stepped inside
Of a dirty ole bar room filled,
To the brim, when a greasy fella came in.
Slapped him on the shoulder and said he was Tim.
Bought him a shot and said he’d be alright
Told him to keep on…trucking, yeah.
The man thanked Tim for his advice
Tried to buy him a gin
But Tim denied and bought himself a beer instead
The man rested his head, then, back to the road again.

The same road he’d walked now and times again.
He knows The Road better than anyone he’s ever been,
But low and behold, it throws him for a spin.
He walks, deceived once again, leading him off course
To where he stands before her, dawn’s rosy, red fingers.
Leading him inside her realm of day,
She betrayed his trust more than once before,
But she greets him well and tells him to come on in.
She said, “It’s nice to see you again. How’ve you been?”

Silent, he stood closing the door.
She just spoke again, welcoming him in,
But he turned and scorned the lady,
The lady who brought him his hate.
She knew him well,
But she knew him back then.
Now he stands far more lost than he’s ever been,
And she sat, remained, to find old tenderness within.

He told her, “There was no going back
Those days have passed, and that is that.”
He wanted to leave, and he opened the door,
And saw there was no road he’d traveled before.
Not to say there was no road, but the road led nowhere.
The door, he shut in her face walking in the shadows,
Hating he had been made to face the long-awaited day.
This was to come no matter the way.

So he looked inside at her face, remembered her grace,
Knowing it sometime before, again, he shut the door.
She smiled and let him see her in her true form,
And he remembered once more why he had left before,
And standing there now, he could think.
Very well, think of a couple more.
He didn’t say another word, but did get up
And stepped out through that same nowhere door.
Landed on pavement and headed exactly there, nowhere.

Glad to have left ‘er,
Sad to have met her,
He headed away from that wretched place.
Just as he got away, he had no umbrella
And it started to rain, and what’d ya know,
Walking along that nowhere road, he couldn’t believe.
It was really him, the greasy bar rat. It’s Tim!
Somehow they found a bar, without knowing where they are
And Time bought a beer, and then he pulled out
A joint.

Bartender yelled something obscure, couldn’t make out.
Then he got in the man’s face and began to shout:
“He you, queer, you can’t smoke that reefer here.
Get the hell out, or…or at least give me a toke.
It’s been three goddamn days,” he said, “I’ve been
On my feet all day and sober since May.
Just give me a puff, one’ll be enough, and you
Stay right here, finishing your beer
Ain’t no reason to go smoke out in the rain.”

The Man looked at Tim, who’d been
Awfully quiet through this scene, sipping his beer
Tim’s face was twisted and a mad pirate’s grin, sort of
Sour, kind of weird, as raindrops fell into his lager.
That’s when Tim, “Who you be in a timeless place?
The Master of Weather or something else for Pete’s sake.
I ain’t got no taste for timeless rain to waste my beer
So who Yee be?” he shouted as the rain fell,
In the bar, the bartender snapped and fell no longer.

“Holy Sheet, was that magic or what!” said the Man,
getting up “I’ll smoke out back with strange alley cat.”
There went smoking out back on a fat joint
Tim had acquired south of this nowhere border.
Then that strange alley cat slunk out of hiding,
From somewhere in the back, and all of a sudden started
Talking crap about who knows what and where
We’re really at.

Tim stopped him in his tracks, “Hey Jack,
That ain’t where it’s at. Take a hit of this grass
Let those worries pass. We ain’t being watched.
We’re simply forgotten…”
Tim took a drag and passed
It again. Round it went till it was back to Tim,
Who began to say again, “A generation of sheep.
Denied our dreams by near-forced glutinous desire
For stimulus unlimited to the eye.

“To slaughter
We go to work the wheel with no grist ever and on
We go looking, looking for some speck of satisfaction
In the world within, a reflective speck
Of what our mind constantly consumes.
The photogenic life of uniqueness
Causing our expectations to narrow.
Slendered down to unrealistic proportions.”

The Man simply nodded. Strang alley cat agreed,
“An astute observation, well-formed examination indeed.”
The joint turned to roach, and well stoned,
They were well equipped to get back on their nowhere
Trip down that shadowed road, not knowing where it is,
Nor was it particularly going.
They agreed to travel together, Tim and the Man.
Eager to see if they could form some traveling band.

Who knows where they’ll go, maybe even leave
That pointless road and open up a show
In a town near you, or on all your streaming devices.
It’s the Traveling Band featuring Tim
And The Man.

I remember it was like ruins after a war, with flowers up to my calves,
An intelligent breeze, a blue sky and flawless sun rays.

I remember the inhale and exhale of every memory,
Each one impaling a different part of my childhood.

I remember realizing part of me would be frozen forever
As if met with medusa’s solidifying stare.

I remember the denial of being bluffed a good hand,
And knowing he had taken too much this time and gone too far.

I remember the hesitation to tell me over the phone
Because the cops didn’t know how, but we all knew why.

I remember the last time I saw him he couldn’t speak an honest word,
Someone tossed him a ball and he let it drop.

I remember the last smile and time he put his hands in his pockets,
He had taken too much this time and gone too far.

I remember it was like ruins after a war with flowers up to my calves
Like a fire had burned everything to the ground.

i used to kiss a girl named colette. i think beautiful moments will always start or end with that name, a reminder to look up or look back. i think colette is a reminder to breathe slower, wait longer, feel stronger, cry harder. now i read a girl named colette, and i take a moment to imagine how her eyes must look at this hour. colette led me to paris with her soft hands and her long hair and i will leave with memories of her silhouette against the limestone. i used to kiss a girl named colette. i wonder if she remembers me.,

Such small fingers linger in the aisles of my bosom,
For when she blossomed from my innermost beauty,
Where forth she shall be called mine in sweetsome,
Her sweet little eyes sparkle with a smile from the heart of eternity;
And she grows to be the most beauteous star in the skies above,
When forth she is cradled in my arms,
From the deepest of deep love,
She paces innocence into my arms away from such harm;
By time, she goes and grows to be the meaning of love…
From the heavens above…
…She steps from innocence to a born most beautiful flower…
…That blossoms from a mid-winter day ’til night’s rest from eternity’s flicker…
…From my beauty that bear her blossoming beauty which found love under the hands of recondite
manly glory…

“Your bill is due by the twenty-seventh of Sept…”, —
“Go fuck yourself!”, I interrupted. You could hear a
Cosmos of silence on the line and the billing department
At the hospital surely huddled around the phone on the
Other end of the line to listen in for what I was going to
Say next. I had to meditate silently and think of what my
Japanese cousins and friends would do.
So, I mode switched and began quoting all the Haiku I
Knew how to recite in the mother language. They tried
To interrupt but all I could do was start snapping my fingers
And tapping my feet as I sat there giving this piece of shit
Bill collector the audible rendition of all the beats and tempo
Of a thousand years of Japanese literature as it came fountaining
From my lips. It was love poetry too—almost sexual sounding.
I changed the tone of my voice too. The woman started stammering
As I lowered my voice and I suspect she was an anime fan
Because she started gasping at my tone. And then I hung up.
It was the performance of a lifetime and all I could do was refuse
Payment with a, “Domo Arigato Goazaimasu”, and a swift click of
The line and write you this little poem celebrating it!