Author: poetryfest

‘m not sure I’ve done the right thing
When the bullet hit
I had second thoughts
As the shot rang out
I remembered what I did
And that I’m not perfect either
I know I’ve made mistakes
In all the worst ways
But I’m not sure this is deserved
This volley of fire
As a punishment
It is too harsh
What is the justification?
Why me?

But now, what else could I do?

Why me?
What is the justification?
It is too harsh
As a punishment
This volley of fire
But I’m not sure this is deserved
In all the worst ways
I know I’ve made mistakes
And that I’m not perfect either
I remembered what I did
As the shot rang out
I had second thoughts
When the bullet hit
I’m not sure I’ve done the right thing

turn the torn pages
bring in a new synonym
hope is for children

Dreams dissolve as daylight dawns
Leaving me stranded on a shoal of uncertainty
Slowly my mind registers familiar sensations
The soft pillow cradling my head,
The comforting quilt that hugs me,
The firm mattress supporting me.
Leaving behind fleeting remnants of dreams delivered in sepia tones,
I open my eyes to another beginning.
I burrow deeper into the safe comfort of my quilt
Reluctant to breathe in the day,
But the light filtering through gauze curtains acts as my lighthouse,
Piercing my mind fog, guiding me through the waves
Of should and musts and wills
Breaking against the shoreline of consciousness
With a sigh,, I toss aside the warmth
And step forth purposefully
To choose garments,
To run a brush through my hair,
To gaze at the face staring back at me in the mirror
Never asking “Who’s the fairest of them all?”
It was never me.
The lines etched across my forehead
Are a map of a lifetime journey
Charting challenges met, loves lost in turbulent seas, routes too treacherous to travel
I meet the years courageously, defiance in my eyes
Exploding in ephemeral stillness.

Shattered into pieces
Trying to put it together
Who is the girl I see?
I can’t seem to recognize her

Each part is different
Every piece is similar
Struggle to remember each one
They all seem so familiar

I study each segment
Attempt to see what’s hidden
Each image seems so normal
Each expression seems so forbidden

I try to attach each one
As they all look so mundane
Want to make them colorful
As they seem like they’re hiding their pain

I finally see past their image
Looking beyond each imperfection
What was hiding underneath?
It was just my reflection

I lie in the dark
Trying my best to sleep
But each time I close my eyes
I have nightmares instead of dreams

Thinking about what happened
Dreaming about what could be
No matter how hard I try
I cannot seem to sleep

I worry about the future
As the recent past has been unkind
I’m trying to let it go
But I can’t shut off my mind

My body tells me yes
My brain tells me no
I recall that I loved to sleep early
But it just seems so long ago

I stare up at the ceiling
Thinking that sleep was my friend
Don’t know why it’s rejecting me
Seems like the night will never end.

The Rusted gate of winter
swings half open
to spring’s garden emerging.

I walk my nieces, five and six, to school,
wearing my dad’s down coat,
A warm cocoon
against the Colorado cold.

The girls’ pigtails
bounce in child motion,
eyes open to weeds and small yellow flowers
peeking out from snow’s crust.
Heating up in the morning light,
they have thrown off their coats.

I will go to the hospital after this walk,
to watch over my father,
who lies beside a season ending,
eyes turned to a horizon,
only he can see.

Before we get to the playground,
the phone rings.
“He is gone”, my brother says.
A grown man, his voice full of tears.

I do not tell the girls the news
of their great-grandfather’s passing.
He loved to joke with them about dancing
at their weddings as they played dolls
beneath his age-swollen feet.
We wanted his humor,
his love of cars, poetry, and Sams Club
to go on.

I handed the girls over to their school day,
innocent of the universal subtraction
that over the years
gain velocity till it takes us all.

As I walk from the school
Spring’s gate slams shut, winter takes over again
I zip up my father’s coat,
draw his essence around me,
and prepare for the lonely walk
to his now-emptied house.

Deserted, isolated, all alone,
Flowers breezing in the air,
One step then two steps,
Walk through the mix of flowers
Of poppies, daisies and roses too,
When will the flowers blossom again?

The sound of bees all around,
The clouds brighten and come alive,
The smell of pollen and roses too,
When will the flowers blossom again?

In isolation and be wilderness,
The flowers blossom,
Stalks strengthen,
Petals brighten,

In isolation and be wilderness,
The flowers will truly blossom again

The only ways to establish dominance are
To kill
Or tame

That is why women are so often
Likened to a wild animal

But maybe both animal and woman
Were never meant for anything but
Belonging to themselves

Salted tongues sparkle
Under rainbow skies, kiss me
We become the sea

The evenings of these languid summer days
continue on like old soldiers,
slowly fading away into soft night,
backlit by a sun loitering close to a hazy horizon,
butterflies swooping and jinking in the fading light,
a honey bee working the late shift speeding straight
and sure toward home, laden with the day’s last nectar,
our family of robins abandoning their late afternoon high tea,
hopping, stopping, listening, peering, pecking across the lawn,
flying away one by one to their well earned rest;
sunflowers bowing their regal, single eyed, yellow heads,
minor courtiers signaling thankful praise as their lord,
the sun, finally cedes the land to the unfolding evening,
one; two; now more fireflies winking bright, fading to out,
then on again, signaling hesitantly in the deepening dusk,
Venus shining with bright hope; other stars unveiling themselves,
taking their places on the darkening stage overhead,
the last lingering footlights finally fade to black,
massed stars of all magnitudes, supported by celestial choruses
of glowing gas, nebulae, and perhaps angels, shining into infinity
as we finally, feeling the chill of night and the arrival of mosquitos,
are released from the thrall of it all, head inside,
make our way to bed, there to lie in the still night,
to await the unheralded arrival of sleep.

Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

He won his election
through lies and deception.
And it soon became known, across the nation,
that all he had claimed was a fabrication.
A web of lies he had woven,
to forge the career he had chosen.
He said he just wished to do his job,
but was hounded by the whole press mob.
He was no rogue, he wasn’t a clown,
and it was the liberal media that was doing him down.
He became a joke, a figure of fun,
his career unravelled, and he was undone.
He then stepped down, he did claim,
to fight for his honor and clear his name.
But with his reputation sunk so low,
his only option was to go.
Though those he did dupe and deceive
were all too happy to see him leave.
He said his opponents had been spiteful and unfair,
and he had merely embellished his resume, here and there.
It was tough to be in the news spotlight,
every day, and every night,
to be constantly doorstepped by the fourth estate,
and asked to set the record straight.
His career was a ruse and a con, on such an epic scale,
that now he’s ended up in jail.
Was it worth it, George, to win your election,
by such chicanery and deception?
To have your name dragged through the mud,
and to be seen as a grifter, and a dud?
To lose, would have been better by a mile,
than to win in such a wretched style.