Author: poetryfest

Nancy reads me her poetry straight out of her journal.
Her crisp sentences speak like straight pins of words.
Her grammar never melts down, nor is it obscured.

On the college newspaper
she corrects our errors with pride and a hint of irritation.
“There should be a comma here.”

Her room is as neat as her sentence structure.
Her blanket always covers her bed evenly with no creases.
Her walls are blank.
The objects on her nightstand are purposeful and correct.

Even her body is evenly placed.
She wears her clothes straight through.
No curves or angles to her waist,
just pant seams in one straight line to the floor.

Nancy’s voice is both soft and skeptical.
She drinks cans of Mellow Yellow
from neat cylindrical cases,
stacked in her closet.

Her favorite films on VHS line up on the TV shelf:
Blue Velvet, Fried Green Tomatoes, Beaches, Steele Magnolias.
She’s watched them all over and over,
grinning through her favorite scenes.
This is her emotional education.

She invites us into her room to watch with her.
She sits on her bed,
and we sit in straight-backed school chairs.
Her arms fold, and she looks at us
to see if we would cry at the right spot.

When the film’s music swells in the third act.
We feel the heartache of the time past,
meeting my eyes with perfect clarity.
Now Nancy has been gone,
the same amount of time she was alive.

Like the whirl of wind appears, you disappear, but the existence of you was keyed into my
soul; if I were never to remember, I’d never know the feeling of whole

Like the whirl of wind disappears, you appear
Truly still, effortlessly silent,
Like you’re becoming the entire atmosphere I’m in,
It’s almost deafening how loud you become,
Every thought, my mind’s sky, holds the quality of us,
Intertwined, open, and undone.

I can feel it now, sunlight feels like joy,
I can smell it now, fresh air smells like freedom,
I can see it now, those eyes calmingly smiling,
The sweetness of presiding.

The whole time, I am still,
Breathing calmly like a river open, taking you in,
Falling and fulfilled,
Witnessing the tightening swirl of you around me,
Letting go, relaxing, closing my eyes, and resting.

Meet me in my dreams, what was is disappearing,
New skies I feel within, my mind returning to exploring,
Listening and wondering, but still in sleep, there’s something of you outside me that remains,
I’ve been living life within your embrace, like the skies I’m in,
And now I’ll live life with your embrace, this warmth I know, locked in.

Tavisha

When I sat down to write a winning sonnet
for a contest, not a flirtatious smile,
I had framework with squat to hang on it.
After staring out the window a while,
awaiting the arrival of my muse,
mumbling, Come on, it’s only fourteen lines,
perusing every leaf and cloud for clues—
Inspiration! What I needed was wine!
They tell us wine is bottled poetry.
The beguiling bouquet of cabernet
would surely lure the sprite to sit with me
and whisper with each sip what I should say.
Farewell ambition and apprehension.
So long hope for honorable mention.

New mother,
does not want to receive
the blanket of a child deceased.

Removing the stone from my mouth—
calling forth Louisiana lessons
pink salt, copper, and clay
to seal that mouth and keep you
at bay.

Knocking, vibrations,
shearing forces that screech then
h o w l
ruining any attempt at sleep.

A threefold payment for marring
this blissful time, continuing that
suffocating push and shove to
take, take, take.

Can count blessings, make tallies, take tepid showers
and shake—
things have taken a turn.
I’m not suddenly difficult, just a well behaved
real witch.

My one true love is born of tremendous patience and wherewithal,
At first pleasantries are all I can dole out,

Shortly, my overtures with women are
Replaced by my desire for misadventures, more, and ecstasy with him, this former role out,

I’m on borrowed time with hetero-
Normative relationships with women,
This last one with Vanessa I really
Stole out,

I’ve talked authentically with only him, to give it a try,
Persuading and recapturing, I do
Everything short of a cajole out,

Forcing anything on him will cause him to backpedal away from “us,”
I have to stop short of pleading,
I must leave control out

If only I knew what you are saying,
Are you laughing or talking or singing or praying.
You greet me in the morning with a voice ever sweet,
You chirp and feed on worms, hidden below my feet.
Sometimes you leave, but you always come back,
You’re a vibrant range of colors; from red and blue to black.
With you, spring blooms, with you, seeds grow,
Your voice is a blessing, to all those below.

leaning coneflowers (a little phallic)
overgrow their jurisdictions
compete with jagged orangey penstemons
maiden grass. meek yellow columbines
sidestep through the mulch, brush with
something white in bunches that the bees like

but the asters i cannot describe
the bunnies munch them to stalk
i tell myself i don’t mind
but

My mom likes to say she gave me her tongue—
not the muscle
but the ability to move worlds with it.
She anointed me with her fury,
her impatience,
the power to gaze within your opponent
and pluck their greatest insecurity
from their chest.
She birthed me in her image,
a reflection she must avoid
lest she take the blame for my fire.
Something to claim if I use my power for good,
singing “That’s my daughter!”
to her friends when I win tournaments
in debate because all I seem to do is
refute, refute, refute.
But when I cut her with words
woven from her womb,
I am her greatest error.

My mom gifted me her tongue—
no, not as a gift,
but as an attempt to cleanse
herself, to pass illness
from host to donor, parent to child.
It didn’t work,
and I am the proof—
the fights we detonate with our words,
two soldiers dueling for the last breath.
I’ll come to her room after we argue,
the poison still on my lips.
We say “sorry,” “forgive me,”
but there’s no peace
between women like us.

When they ask which parent I mirror,
I claim my father’s face.
But in my disposition, I am my mother’s daughter;
the venom she could never purge,
the anger she never could swallow,
the echo of all her pain.
Everything she tries to bury,
I resurrect. Everything she despises,
I become. I am my mother’s daughter,
all her rage, all her upset,
and it hurts like hell

Once a night, the Boogeyman visits
kids who stay up, kids who are bad,
and kids who don’t believe. Under
the bed and inside your head,
the Boogeyman creeps around.
The Boogeyman lurks without
a sound. He hangs around. He
waits for the perfect moment
to become visible. He attacks
in the dead of the night when
the parents cut off the light.
During the day, the Boogeyman
takes the shape of a politician,
a teacher, a secretary, a mom,
a dad, a pastor, a police officer,
or a homeless man under
the bridge. The Boogeyman
returns to his true form after
he conforms. Beware of his
gaze. Don’t make eye contact
as it serves as an unwritten
contract. Have no fear. Don’t
be scared. All you need to be
is aware. Sleep tight tonight.
If something doesn’t feel right,
get up and turn on the light.

and one day you’re twenty
some things cease to align
with your teen-aged baby blue
prints of the tequila-hot veins
beneath your dermis – – an eye
you’ve got for goodbyes on
the pier and they’ll find
you here, mouth agape
and serving as a target
so the pigeon head seagulls
can, with purpose, shit
and get this, on that one
day, which is really many
a riptide may very well
bury you atop skipping
stones, sunken, forgotten
forgone would have been
the pocketbook, of course
the handkerchief, better yet
the polls and the talons, oh
and yes, they’ll shove wood
and iron and steps to follow
but you won’t seem to be able
to construct a house as hollow