Author: poetryfest

Somewhere in the dream,
there was a life.
Somewhere in real realm,
there was a knife.

A wonderland I was in,
full of thunders I cried in.
A mystery land i was in,
full of traps i fell in.

A star I was glazing,
went out of energy to shine.
The star so bright,
couldn’t see enemies in foresight.

A sea I used to sail in,
full of highs even the ocean feared.
Betrayal lead to the drought,
I sank in the sea I used to sail in.

“I willingly suspend myself
eternally between heaven and earth,
accepting neither earthly comfort
nor expecting mercy from the underworld.”

If God abandons me,
it must be after I’ve abandoned myself

All functions derive back into constants
Eventually
Someone created the Cartesian coordinates
The same person also wondered
how to recognize dreams while dreaming

So would the wise ones enlighten me?
All truth remained silent
Alarmingly, Exquisitely
A kaleidoscope emerges
If Integration is repeated, endlessly
When “I think” encounters “I suffer,”
the Cartesian plane
Collapses into a Möbius strip of pain

Examining my tears
Notes from post-apocalypse anthropologists:
“Summer, 2025, AD,
a carbon-based mother reconstructed
a grief-particle collider
during self-rescue procedures
The dark matter it released
still warps this universe”

The Geometrical Elements of
Loss Analysis

If God redeems me
it must be after
I’ve redeemed myself already

Another election, another sigh
We say we’re hopeful, but we wonder why
Every four years, we cross our hearts
And hand the country over in parts

The forty-seventh will take the stage
In a country boiling with quiet rage
Half of us cheering, half afraid
All of us tired of the games they’ve played

Will he listen or just speak
Will he show strength, or prove he’s weak
Will he care for those unheard
Or drown us all in pretty words

We’ve seen the promises, seen them break
Watched leaders give more than they take
But maybe this one finds a way
To mean what he says and stay that way

I don’t need perfect, I just want real
Someone who leads and knows how we feel
Someone who sees the mess we’re in
And doesn’t just smile and call it a win

The next four years will tell the tale
Of whether we rise or whether we fail
But no matter what comes, we’re still here
Holding our country, holding our fear

So here’s to the one who’s stepping in
To the weight, the noise, the hope, the spin
We’re watching, we’re waiting, we’ve seen before
But we still want to believe in something more

Gentle breeze
got these leaves
Swayin’
Left
To
Right,
Birds on the branches
they Singin’ n dancin’
Melodies
Soft n’ Smooth,
These earlobes
hear the waves
Talkin’ too,
Crashing upon the
Sand,
It’s just what
they do,
Sharks in the water
Please
Keep it
Cool,
Sunset turned
the sky,
Orange & Red
Clouds of
Fire,
The time is
Flyin’
Like the Tide
the Moon is
Risin’
Reflection
lighting up
The horizon…
S.R.Mendes…

The divine gaze of the saints—
too heavy to bear—
bowed my head at the altar.

The melting inner sorrow of candles,
shadows flitting across the frescos,
a lament merged into the arches.

Prayer lies cold and frozen
in the black stone pillars.

As I descend the temple steps
the faces of the street singer,
the beggar, the madman,
the thief, the murderer,
and the harlot slowly become
the faces of the saints.

I saunter to the muddy mosaic floor
shroud as an unshod swan, with
this skin-crawling prenotion that
will become divulge at the sore
sight of dawn

my plucked and gutted corpse
that will rest at that vile heart
with a radiant warmth to
conjure those craving critters
for my inky river

while the crimson moon’s ascent
from the evergreen sea, where
the shadowy-suited friend
stands at a bloody X

with a frivolous smile
to welcome my new beginning
that could only happen with the
end of my masquerade

Existence,
eternal or not,
does it ever stop?
Sometimes,

I can’t wait to get to that part.
You wanna go to heaven?
Of course! But
do you wanna die?

Kinda,
life’s nice on occasion,
but mostly, it sux here,
doesn’t it?

It’s too much
and it turns my brain to mush
like I or we weren’t designed
for this type of world.

Makes me wanna press pause on life.
Like, let me just log out real quick.
Turn it off, then turn it back on in a bit.
That’s why I like sleep.

It’s like micro dosing death.

A brief reprieve.
A release amidst the chaos.
A rest from the grind.
A respite from the world.

Until it happens for good,
and then who knows?

Hopefully permanent peace.
A prize at the end of the pain.
So heaven better exist.
If not, what’s the point of this?

Dear gerald ford i love you forever and your wife too and there’s a lot of people who die everyday and i’m sad about it and i am going to think about you and visit your presidential library and there’s a lot of presidential libraries too and i will visit all of them too and i going to visit your grave too and i will visit exhibits too and i am going to deliver a speech too to every autism event too and i have autism and im i hope i can meet you when i die and i will be buried not next to you but in seal cove next to my mom and dad and my brother coby too.

On the banks of the Ardoch Burn,
in the shadow of Doune,
a thick-pelted otter lollops
up and over lichen-coated igneous
left dry in the cleugh.

I marvel at its slinky deftness,
its effortless, oily movement among the stones,
its back flexing to match the riffles,
lippering astride its hop-dive-curl-stretch–
lovely syncopation in walnut brown.
Then, finally, in mid hop-curl,
it is gone.

My father has made it halfway down
the slope that leads to the water’s edge.
From there, I take his hand
and help brace his body,
so fragile now I barely feel
its weight against my arm.

Together, we reach level ground and pause.
We talk about the grey heron
we see wading in the river,
silent and precise in its quest for perch.
I tell him of the otter,
long and sleek and blink-swift.

My father says little–
A manifestation of his condition,
his neurologist tells me.
But I suspect he is thinking
about the otter with envy
as I offer my arm for ascension.

You in your green dress,
the one that perfectly matched your eyes.
How it fell away from your shoulders,
exposing the gentle rise and fall of your spine.

When I close my eyes I’m in that old cabin.
I can smell the sweet pine and honeysuckle,
musky sheets and lake drenched towels.

The breeze from the open windows, always made its way to you-
to dance freely within your hair,
like some kind of magic.

Sweat trickling down your face,
hugging your dimpled cheek before rejoining the earth.
When I dream it takes me back to that melancholic place.

To the days of long,
belly-deep exhales.
Sunrise to sunset,
with you,
I was home.