Author: poetryfest

Love is a game we play.
It ought to come with a board, in an oblong box,
LOVE: A GAME FOR ALL AGES emblazoned across the cover
Amid bright red hearts
And pudgy cherubs with wings.
Inside we’d find a pair of dice and playing pieces in bold colors.
I could be green or red and you could be blue, or purple.
And the rules would be clearly printed inside the cover.
We would sit across from one another,
The board between us, our tokens resting securely on the flat surface
Smooth and shiny and vibrant, designed to delight the senses.
We would take turns, casting the dice
Playing with a mixture of apprehension and joy
As each of us completes a move.
Weighing, calculating, the rules close by for a quick consultation,
We would play the game.
Would it be an intellectually stimulating game like CLUE,
With three secret cards in the black envelope in the middle of the board?
Would we slowly and strategically reveal the cards we hold
Until one of us solves the mystery?
Or would it hold the ruthless potential of MONOPOLY,
Each of us trying to outdo the another,
Acquiring more, demanding payment, until one of us is bankrupt and broken?
Maybe it would be more like TRIVIAL PURSUIT,
Each of us choosing categories that allow us to shine,
Avoiding those that revealed our weaknesses and limitations.
Maybe it’s more like CHESS, the game of kings,
Where one player must not only out think the other
But also demonstrate patience, willing to sacrifice something now
In order to win three moves later, anticipating each move,
As antagonists do, avoiding costly unforeseen mistakes.
Maybe LOVE is more like SORRY!
We each choose a card and advance,
Hoping to bring all the pieces safely home.
We may be sent back four spaces or returned to start before the game ends,
But sometimes we land on Slide, effortlessly moving closer to home.
In all, the result is the same: someone wins and someone loses.
And despite whatever the rules, the possibility exists
That one of us will refuse to play,
Will upset the board, scattering tiles and playing pieces,
Wiping out the game’s progress, declaring we are done,
Stalking away without explanation.

about Edgar Degas’ L’Absinthe (1876)

“This picture fetched a hundred-eighty pounds
last year; surprised it sold at all, really.
People hissed it in our sales room when it was
handed up for bidding. There was a to-do
a few months later as well, when it went on view
here at the gallery: A great many patrons
of the arts found it revolting, as you may
imagine from this copy I had made of it.

The setting’s an artists’ dive, clearly;
by the eyes, the woman’s drunk out of
her senses, probably has been for years.
Call that art? a woman drunk in public?
She’s said to be an ‘actress,’ but she’d only
fall off the stage in her condition.

Her male companion draws on his pipe,
ignores her, looks the other direction—
in search of trade, perhaps? His elbow
leaves her only a corner of the bare
marble for her glass; the water jug
she, or the waiter has set on the table next,
as if she’s with the fellow, but not really.

The absinthe is clouded, so she’s already
poured water in it, and drunk off half an inch.
The stuff’s four parts alcohol, you know,
stronger than whisky by half. The herbs in it
said to be poisonous, too. They are what
give it that clear green cast, I believe,
before mixing with water. Flavor of anise,
they say; you may as well take gripe water,
to my mind. Her limbs, you notice, are
splayed out, whether from footsoreness,
intoxication, or lewdness—all three perhaps.

Both figures are sottish, degraded. We know
such people exist—we have our own gin-
sodden tarts this side the Channel,
God knows—but to paint them? And who’d
display them at home for wife and daughter to see?
Count on the filthy French for vulgarity,
that’s my view. I much prefer his dancers,
the ballet pictures, all in all: A bit of décolletage
never goes amiss, so long as it’s respectable.
They fetch more, as well. Bloody Frogs!

Give me some raw truth,
For I am tired of dark lies.
Need a real love.

And why wouldn’t it after what happened. And why shouldn’t I brace myself, expect that it would when I headed back home. How could I? Afterall, who expects to have the bedroom window explode in a shower of glass through the room over the bed even the pillow where’s she’s sleeping. Talk about vulnerable. Not safe. No expectations of normalcy. Just both relief and surprise that more damage wouldn’t be, wasn’t inflicted.

And the questions keep replaying “Why?” The house hasn’t done anything wrong that she should be attacked. “Why me?” Eventually you hope the instant replays stop replaying the crashing shower of glass and you can return to the Before instead of the After. The house, like a boat, felt off kilter. I made a pot of coffee as if the normalcy of that would right me again.

And then there’s the aftermath, the repair stage and its cost, who to call, what to say. You called 9-1-1 who kept asking questions you didn’t know the answers to. Police arrived, found the brick, tried to assure you it was a random act of drunkenness youth revelers on this particular New Year’s Eve, but you wonder to what purpose, what meanness, what cause and effect?

The space is boarded up now where the drunken perp pictured himself an NBA star and lobbed the brick creating shards, and. You’re still encountering the scatter in bare feet. There’s even a dictum that bathroom products must never be sold in glass containers.

You cried when the Policeman found the brick. The Intent to Damage and destroy palpable, real, evident. Glass shards on my pillow. On leaving the Policeman said, “Happy New Year.” and I burst into tears. Again.

*&*&*&

In the pages of my childhood,
Hiawatha stalked his prey
On the shores of Gitche Gumee
Long ago and far away.

In the pages of your childhood,
Sleeping Beauty kissed her prince.
You were charming when I met you.
You’ve been my princess ever since.

Take my hand and walk beside me.
Take my heart and make it whole.
Fill my life with deeper meaning.
Take my body. Take my soul.

Be my wife and have my babies.
I’ll be your husband and keep you safe.
And we will build a loving family,
And from our love we will draw strength.

And when the storms sweep across the prairies
Or when the lightning’s striking near,
I’ll hold you close and say I love you
And do my best to calm your fears.

And we’ll find joy in simple pleasures,
And some day when we’re old and gray,
We will share a million memories
Of long ago and far away.

I exclusively date men like Christopher from Gilmore Girls –
Men who pop in and out of my life at their leisure,
Like he did so many times to Lorelai.
I always got so pissed at her for postponing her joy
For a man who can’t get his shit together.
But now, I get where she’s coming from.

I hate that I’m waiting for the people who hurt me
To pull up on a motorcycle outside the grocery store
And tell me to take my shirt off.
I’d get arrested, but I’d do it
If it meant I successful
In getting your attention.

And maybe Chris and Lore should’ve ended up together.
Sometimes, I wonder if the writers got it wrong.
Maybe his startup should’ve taken off
And he should’ve been the husband and father
Those girls really deserved.
But maybe I’m just projecting…

Because who am I kidding?
My version of Chris will come over tonight.
That car will be in the driveway at 3 am.
His boots will be next to the fireplace at 3:05.
He’ll never have it together,
But he’ll always have me.

Think of me as you would the sky
So open and free and boundless
Think of the shallow color of my perfection
And the complex rainbow of my tremors
And the flashes of lightening
You can not yet control

Think of me as you would the sky
And forget I am there most every day
But worship me in poetry when you can
Knowing I will always be with you
If you never think of me in a rotation
Or if I come up in every conversation

Think of me as you would the sky
And realize that when my clouds roll in
They will roll right out, as a child’s marbles
So temporary in their conception
And the salty rain of my tears
Will end in a glorious pallet of colors

Think of me as you would the sky
And know I am present if you are here
Or decide to fly to Paris, France
The sky is ride or die, and will never decide
That there is a trek that cannot be made
Or that an adventure should not be known

Think of me as you would the sky
And know that I am known to all
But special only to you
And that my vastness is not contained
For only your viewing pleasure
And never once ask for it to be that way

Think of me as you would the sky
And as I become harder to see come night
Do not think I will not come back
To greet you with the rising sun
And never doubt my devotion to you
When I am out of plain view

Think of me as you would the sky
And do not simply fall in love with my light
But love my darkness and uncertainty
And every imperfection you can know
For if you fall out of love at night
You were never in love with me at all

Think of me as you would the sky
And I will think of you as the world
And accept the task of lighting every day
And sparkling every night
Never once letting you walk alone
My task is loving you with every color

Think of me as you would the sky
And my wildest dreams will come true
Help ground me and I will help you fly
And this shall by our love story told
For love is never truly love
If it is not grand, unconditional, and bold

performed by Val Cole

Poem by Laila Jones

with her tears, she bathed you.
hurt aside, she tightened your ties,
and made you love the mirror.
no clocks in her home, your keys in the door told time.
5am laughed at her every weekend.

a lesson learned for you both,
but the true teacher is her.
now the language of love is your native tongue,
you tighten your ties, I taste only truth on your lips.
without her hurt, would you be this way?

I have fallen for the woman who made you,
I am eager to please her, so lie down.

– the ex-perience