Author: poetryfest

The crystal bursts under the pressure
The sacred water turns to mould
The ropes of speech begin to tighten
The young grasshopper eats the old

In bright red cheeks and tear-drained pupils,
In curls of smoke under the skies
In teeth that rattle from emotion
The sludge and mould metastasise

A car drives wildly to the border
Inside – a raging heart, a soul, a life
The trees bear witness by the roadside,
The freezing air is thin and lithe.

A soldier sits down on a tree stump
The bark of which was cut by friends
He tunes his rifle to D Minor
And hears his brothers blasting lead

He feels the Earth resist his footsteps
He knows his mother’s at wits’ end
He plays the saddest D flat Minor
And shoots his brothers in their heads

The scabs of yesterday reopen,
Red rot of righteousness sets in;
The ropes of speech are made of ether,
They flourish deep under the skin.

We tug and lash them for catharsis
The inner crystal pays the price
And when the chieftain wants his honour
The young and old both crawl like lice

Even the orange fire tornadoes
Could not compare to plain, old war.
The car shrieks proudly past the border
That wraps the belly of the Whore.

– Sasha Dulerayn

Society of thought
words irrelevant
actions on display
investigating murder
it happened one day

Interrogation stalled
a suspect’s mind
flooded pink
unable to see
what he thinks
the investigation
into murder
goes no further

A crime committed
the suspect’s guilt
obscured by pink
the investigator thinks
they conceal witness
of the crime
shielded thoughts
of what was wrought

The next phase
a straight line
through the maze
the suspect saw
the crime of his…

Son

The killer unmasked
by a father
taking the task
protecting his boy
the pink dissipates
the investigator
sees the murder
through the eyes
of the father

Bamma sits in a velvet chair.
in the darkest-lit room in the world.
Bamma cries and hangs her head.

Bamma sobs politely. Bamma sobs.
the box in the corner slowly speaks.
“I am the reason the wallpaper bled.”

Bamma becomes her own tragedy.
between the cold box. And the little stale chair
there is very little air:
the other figures have not fled.

I could be 40, 27, or two.
Bamma becomes her own tragedy.
The droopy face in the box
still fills my footprints with lead.

On a flight from INDIANA toto- Bamma can’t remember.
Bamma is much bigger than her tragedy.
the chair made her memory ohso busted

Bamma, me too!
I hate what I do.

I’m sorry.

My legacy is dead.

I’ll be sitting on
your sad velvet chair, Bamma.
voiding all
the figures in the room, Bamma.

Everything suddenly stopped.
“Why’d you do that, Momma?”

The window in this kitchen
holds the perfect imprint
Of a songbird
Alula and primary coverts
in full active flight
A watermark
Of eye ring, crown and bill
Ghost bird in dorsal view
I would share the image
But how does one take a picture
Of glass?

My heart is made of hollow bones
Sketched by memories
The places I have loved

We are under the illusion we will
recognize the way back

These animals, these people
that honor us with their presence
These things we see that keep us grounded
These things we don’t
that take us out

Ghost bird.
All so very fragile

Tracy Brennan

Shadow figures
Don’t be shy
Come dance with me
Under the Moonlight

Come dance with me and
My torment
And my pain
Serenade this cold heart
Through his Endless Night

Run with me into the hills
Let us hide from the light
One more time
And sing to our sorrows
Wishing for another Dawn
Were we can kiss Eternal
Into our endless sleep

Come dance with me

Come dance with me

Come dance with me

Soft Linen nights on
stranger’s beds
Mourning lights
Of Macedonian Wine
A town I cannot spell the name
Voices that speak no meaning
A stray wild cat with a missing eye and a hunger for life
A seagull suspended under the gray clouds
But she is trying to reach somewhere
While the Ocean dances violently
And the freezing kiss of dawn
A window to a time of dull emptiness
And yet this furious restless heart
Exalts the red red kroovy
The pills numb the senses
But the body feels the weight of their departure
A stone metamorphosis
Sinking me deep
I’ve slept for days but the pounding and shoving of life’s demises keep me in a stupor
An endless welcoming slumber
That feels like Death
A mix of poisons to numb the demons that rape me religiously
I told her softly
I should make a Sect out of this Pain
Make it count for something
Is this how it feels to be free?

I am the loneliest man I know

I want to lick your filth disease
And dance to the funeral marches
Of your misery

Flying Colors
But the promise of Death
Floats around our projecting shadows

Dirt and the stench of Sulphur
Permeates our nightly dangers
A single light paves the way to our Sanctuary

But lost and alone we pray for the Angels to take us home
Devils and Deviants constellations of Pain
We will lick our wounds
And savior the pain
Our loyal companion

The only thing that speaks the truth
As the world burns
And decays into absolution

http://shewanedward.com/poetry

the trees were rooted
but swaying in a wind
that blew with such force
that branches were stitches coming
undone.

and in that impetuous wind,
where the seams of my skin followed suit
and came undone,
i sat as still as i would allow myself.

and i lied.
i whispered all the lies
i’d been learning from five years old
until now.

and then lies became truth.
truth became rehearsed.
and the rehearsals fortified the foundation
where standing and sitting
and lying down
grew into the different levels of expectations.

i expected to find unison
in this shallow valley of hearts.
i expected to earn my way in learning
your rights from my wrongs.

cynical or jaded,
silly or uninformed,
call me all the names falling
from your sky.
throw onto me all the words
you feel are warranted,
and sign the warrants that will bring me into
the metallic prisons
where trees don’t reach my skies,
where colored flowers don’t bloom,
where my ancestors aren’t remembered.

i’ll be jailed
but i will find the freedom
from the stitches,
from the lies,
from the expectations,
from the vigorous wind
where i feel tempted to fall,
tempted to run into the darkness.

i find i rarely ask for harbor and help,
and whether i need it
or want it to ease a pinch of sorrow,
my instinct is to act alone.
i have unearthed safety in the not asking.
but have revealed no risk in the standing alone,
no risk of being hurt and
hindered by the outsider.

but in the self-made prisons,
and in the ones constructed
by a world unsteady,
a world not ready to see me as this man,
there are times when i am in need of kindness,
and the tree whispers that one of those times is now.

You offer to help me
I’m grateful for that
But it’s not what I need
That’s not where I’m at

Your listening ear
Would mean so much more
It’d show that you care
And don’t have to keep score

I don’t need to be fixed
By you or another
I’m not your project
And you’re not my mother

I’m living my life
As best as I can
I’m learning to love
I don’t need your plan

I still welcome your friendship
But I want you to know
Don’t try to fix me
Or I’ll ask you to go

by Scott Gore

After Nemo the psycho cat disappeared
There was no one left to murder the birds
Neither the weeds nor the moss
Sci Fi worlds becoming real in our backyard

Remembering the small monster on the roof of the shed
Her howling angry and sublime, circling the earth
But Nemo decided death and madness could wait
And padded down from from the moss

Again choosing the glory of owning a family
You could terrorize with small claws
Feral forgivenesses written in the scratches
Steady blood flowing in underground rivers

Incontinent and cancerous she sat like stone
In front of my wife’s car, daring her to drive
Our Ford no match for Nemo’s mad cat eyes
This tiny lion becoming a ghost the next red day

Her soft feet disappearing into time

I was asked once who I was
I said I was a novel aboveground
That breathes and walks around
I said I was a novel that cries
Recalling the pain in the past
And the tough days never last
I said I was a novel that smiles
Thinking of friends who are nice
And have never broken my heart
I said I was a novel full of pages
Some of which will be closed forever
Some of which will be read over and over
I then said life was a compelling course
Filled with fleeting hours
If I’d write down my life and milestones
It would make a great novel, of course
Just like hers
Just like his
Just like yours

Esra Cengel

THE SEEKERS

Hello to all seekers of the new world
Who didn’t lose faith and hope
To whom the hypocritical system of false values
didn’t change their mind, soul and manners
Where globalists are just marionettes of personal greed and desires
There is no brotherhood in dirty desires
You who have the right to freedom of choice
Collect all your joys
Because you are not someone’s a toys
In the world where power and money are the rulers of lost souls
Collect your lofty desires
To pray for a hungry, sick and wounded brothers
While they cut the maps of this world
I am a Seeker without a word
Falling to my knees
Wondering who holds the keys
About global warming,
There was a warning
Peace and humanitarian forces
Artificial biological viruses
Geopolitical divisions
There must be criticism
Where is the theory for laicism

Drowned refugees by mistake
Killers of marine animals, using supersonic submarines
And I don’t know how to swim
High frequency waves
Which they use to make us slaves
Using impoverished uranium
Where children get cancer as a result of plutonium
I’m speechless, like I’m blowing helium
Where industrialization and innovation made man into a robot
Where people became the logo

All seekers around the world
Let us resound in full voice
With the vibration of thoughts and hearts
We find peace and well-being pass
With a justice on a face
Be new powerful grace
The Power of the Creator of the Infinite Space.

BY MIRA