Author: poetryfest

the streetlights flicker
sterile on teenage
pavement. jutting
grasstaste, blades
softening, a haircut
lay, to be rainswept
away. through venetians
as luminated as liminal
a Hopper: my bedroom
universal, a seasoned
perfume. patience. not
a sound to be heard
and yet, there is music
from a past unencumbered
summer: a vacancy.

In a laundromat
socks were spinning
and pounding, and pounding
and the washing machine’s door trembled
because the socks were angry

The socks weren’t really spinning
they were thrashing

And among them, a glove had gotten lost
and cried for help
and choked
and the socks were crashing it

None of them wanted to be there
and they all screamed
The socks screamed in rage
and the glove screamed for help

Outside the washing machine, no one cried for help
The other machines were empty
and it was already too late
to call for help
because he was already dead
and lay sprawled on the floor of the laundromat

It was dimly lit
and there was a disproportionate buzzing from the lamps
which clearly weren’t doing their best

But he lay there, gone from life
and didn’t scream for help
and his death hadn’t yet spread far

And already the glove screamed for help again
and also screamed in fear
and the socks screamed in rage
and beat each other

And he lay stretched out and twisted
on the dirty floor
on his side
and the glove screamed for help

The trembling of the washing machine drowned out everyone
But the socks grew so furious
that the machine couldn’t bear them
and the door burst open

And the socks slid gently with the water
and his rigid body was covered by them
while the glove remained stuck
inside the washing machine

I’m tired of being the artist, this time I wanna be the muse,
I wanna be the inspiration, I wanna be the spur.
I want to read a poem about the sound of my laugh,
or listen to a song about the sparkle in my eyes.
I want to see me through someone else’s lens,
to see how goofy I look when I dance,
how flowy the wind makes my hair.
But I have to be the artist, I’ll never be the muse,
otherwise, who would write the poems about you?
Who would write poems about the sound of your laugh?
Or paint skies as blue as your eyes?
If I weren’t the artist if I were the muse,
who would write songs about every little thing I like about you?
I’m tired of being the artist, this time I wanna be the muse,
but I guess I can wait a little longer if it means that I get to write about you.

Ignored as one does a decorative piece.
Left amongst the dust and wasted space.

Convenient, such as a desperate friend.
Obediently waiting to be called upon again.

Hung up along with punching bags,
gently cleaned with warm, damp rags.

Dug from the background of bragging rights,
hiding the scars from judging sights.

They wait and wait till needed from you,
collected as kindling, guilt-ridden fuel.

Even the ones who are kindest to you,
will still poison your food.

It’s the unearthing of sensuality awakening
my sensitivities to the divine in me.
We are love, we make love as we create intimacy,
Its… embedded in our wiring revealed through
our connecting.
Be a bridge with me, build a bridge for me, meet me in
the belly of connectivity, unearth me.
Take it all away, to reveal what’s inside of me, disrobe
me, dismantle me, detangle me, dethrone
my insecurities, leave me breathless and naked in
my truth, in our truth. For you unearth me.
Unearth me, strip away that which is me, then rebuild
the refuge within me, master or unmaster the disaster
that is my residence, that which exist in my resistance.
It’s just an element and elemental portion of…
my soul surfacing. Surfing through an intersection of
dimensions, daring to dive deeper, even into the
forbidden, hidden parts of me.
You resist me, fearful of my unearthing, but I…
I see you…. unearthing me, even as I unearth you!

There’s a monster in the closet,
he’s been there seven years.
He sits there in the darkness
feeding on his fears.

He’s never coming out.
He’s never seen the sun.
He tries to draw me in
so he’s not the only one.

I lay in bed at night.
I think I feel his breath,
his cool and smelly sigh
that makes me think of death.

I turn over at the smell,
I’m frightened to my core,
but there is nothing there,
just the silent closet door.

So I turn back over
and try to go to sleep,
thinking all is fine because
I do not hear a peep.

“Timmy, Timmy, Timmy,”
whispers across the room.
My heart speeds up so quick
I think it will go boom.

“You wanna come into the closet
when everything is black?
I promise if you do,
you never will look back.

I’ll hold you tight and keep you safe
with my heavy, hairy paws
and if you want, I’ll sing you something
through my jolly, giant jaws”

The monster is so lonely,
that much is very clear.
So I say, “Mr. Monster
why don’t you come out here?”

I do not feel his breath,
I do not hear his voice.
The monster had to ponder
this intimidating choice.

“I’ve never been outside
these quiet, closet doors.
I’ve never seen a face
that isn’t mine or yours.

What if the world is spooky,
spookier than me?
It’s all that I can think about
since you were only three.”

“Well now, Mr. Monster,
that’s no way to be.

There’s a world outside of there
that’s beautiful and pretty.
There’s a mountain and a forest
and an ocean and a city!

I sit up in my bed now
and say with lots of pride,
“You’ll never know what’s out of there
unless you step outside.”

From the glimmer of the moon
that shined through on the door,
I see the monster’s tentacle
step out on the floor.

He peeked his head outside.
The monster was not scary,
albeit he was big and tall
and very, very hairy.

But I saw a bit of nervousness
that twinkled in his eyes.
They looked like they were waiting
for a terrible surprise,
something from a corner
of my bedroom to arise.

My room is very safe,
so after all is scanned,
I head over to my closet
and I hold out my hand.

He puts his paw in mine.
I tell him he is fine.
He really isn’t fearsome,
in fact he is divine.

I walk across the carpet
to go outside my room.
He looks back at the closet
where he sat with all his gloom.

We’re walking through the house
and now we’re at the door.
He asks me what is out there,
so I tell him what’s in store.

“There tons of stuff out there,
some is good, some is bad.
At least that’s what I’m told
by my mommy and my dad.”

His eyes are filled with wonder
and a little bit of dread,
but I open up the door
and I kiss him on his head.

“Have a fun adventure!
Please come back again
and tell me what you see.
I’ll think of you till then.”

He steps down from the porch,
he’s made it to the walk.
He’s looking at a daisy
I drew there with some chalk.

He lifts his head up,
sniffs around,
sighs out, and I swear,
the monster is amazed
at the coolness of the air.

I wave goodbye
and watch him slither
gaily toward the street.
He smiles at the moon
and it’s really kinda sweet.

He disappeared into the black.
I knew he wasn’t coming back
because he felt release.
I smile when I think of him.
The world is often very grim,
and still he found some peace.

I lay in my room
without a peep,
close my eyes,
and fall asleep.

She regrets the high heels–awful human accessory–
as the gray snow sidewalk swallows the clicks.
The slick overcast threatens her disguise every time
she steps into the amber streetlight or a passing taxi
interrupts the liminal city.

Third alley on the block between the Narcissus
bar and the closed bodega, the neon “OPEN” sign
on the left casts red and blue shadows
on dark eyes and tight lips before she’s smothered
in brick and asphalt solitude.

A figure emerges from a dim lit doorway.
Demeter clutches her phone tight, straightening
her blazer and lifting her chin. The Barretta
in her pocket shifts–goddesses can’t be victims
to naivety without dual-razored consequences.

All the remaining heat between the snowflakes
siphons into the man crunching toward her,
sweeping blonde hair and a daylight grin, predatory
under the guise of assistance. He clicks his tongue
and stops a few feet away, hands buried in his slacks.

“Hecate sent me. Said you know where she is,”
Demeter cuts to the chase, feeling the wasted seconds
on the tips of her acrylics. “I’m aware darling,”
he purrs. “You’re not going to like my answer.
A drink might help soften the blow, my treat.”

“Now, Helios,” she scowls. He chuckles and runs
his fingers in his mane. “Yes, alright. Hades took her.
Heard he struck a deal with the big man up the mountain.
Be ready to make a bigger one if you want her back.
A catch like Persephone, well, I wouldn’t let her go either.”

Demeter shivers, hissing a frustrated breath. “You’re sure?”
“I’m quite a reliable source. By the way, my tips aren’t
free. But you can take me up on that drink sometime,”
he winks before turning his back and walking through
the doorway. Demeter turns on her heels and makes a call.
******
Hades enters alone, his presence a smog greater
than the smoke tendrils dancing off his lit cigarette.
He grips Persephone’s hair like the silken threads
of his Windsor-knotted tie and yanks her head back,
making her flinch. “Open your mouth, little goddess.”

She squeezes her tear-filled jade eyes before obeying.
Pulling pomegranate seeds from his pocket,
he drops them in the back of her throat. She gags
as she swallows them. “Now, for six months you will
go. In that time, never forget that you are mine.

I’ve allowed you and your mother a great mercy today,
something I’m not fond of doing. But to have you at all,
little goddess, is worth it.” He draws a silver blade from
his pocket and cuts the rope binding her wrists. Persephone
nods before stumbling upright, bambling

to her mother on fresh foal feet. Demeter waits
in the doorway, Baretta tense at her side, clutching
Persephone’s golden hair matted around her sunken
cheeks before whisking them topside, out of the cavernous
underworld. Clothed in the filthy remains of what she

was kidnapped in, Persephone nears transparency
in the gray landscape, skin paled in the sunless realm
of Hades bedroom. “What is this?” she chatters
as she holds out a hand to the falling ice kissing her.
Demeter stares at the dark office windows

and empty sidewalks. “This happened when you were taken.
This is what my world became without you.” She wraps her coat
around her daughter and ushers her to their penthouse.
A cloud drags past the half-moon, bathing the snow
in shimmers as it settles into the last of its fall.

Leak the gas all night.
Bolt the windows tight.
Strike a match first thing in the morning.
Leave the man in the closet.
Plug the running faucet.
Did the children get the warning?

What people used to sell
people buy no more.
The chorus went home,
Father, get the door.
Let’s go check the trashcan.
Man to burning man
—Do you know the girl is missing?
Say, where’s your pickup van?

Bet the news don’t say
what happened yesterday,
the wedding band is playing jazz on the roof.
Everybody wishes everybody else
is gonna carry my burden of proof.

Bet your skin, bet your ribs;
go ahead and bet all the rest,
roll the dice on her hips—
better cash in the chips,
lick your lips and pray for the best.
2

I believed the dirty lines
Fell into a sea filled with red lies
To hold onto words that have no bite
Tucking myself in only to experience discomfort at night

Your imagination is getting away from you
She’s just a friend
Trust me, I would never do you wrong
Crossed fingers hidden at the end

Rolling schemes tucked into neatly placed words
Trust, love, believe
And all the hopeful verbs
If only they meant more to him

A week later, I broke the vase
I saw receipts for two
At our favorite place
The same nights you came home two hours, too late

No lipstick on your collar
But guilt marked your face
Did I change over the years?
Did you believe that I could be replaced?

Don’t give up on me, smeared on his lips
My mind floats above the clouds
I used to bare the pain with silent indignation
And tear filled eyes

Facebook tied woven stories together
Like puzzles freshly solved
You destroyed our connection
You broke unspoken laws

We’ve never been perfect
But I expected more
I don’t want to be without you
But my heart is already out the door

Packed bags, new gym membership
And the addition of a new black dress
I won’t mourn us
There is only the loss of trust

Are you gonna miss me?
Walking around in your shirt
Remember how I used to serve dinner after dessert?
How I held your hand when you needed support?

No matter the situation
I put our love first
I treated you with kindness
That I never received in return

I hope your heart aches
May your chest burn
One day you will search for me
Like peace in the midst of a storm

But I won’t respond
Because for me it was a lesson learned
The connection is gone
It was easier to let go then to hold on

Applaud the great king of the Ingaria dynasty,
Under whose administration we wept with a smile
And laugh with tears. The one who sold the calabash
In the sacred irunmole’s confinement to the Jesus that
Lives over the sea. Great are you, Oh, King.

Ovations roar like the August rain from the gods,
Not of joy but of tears unwept, joy unachieved,
And life not lived. We celebrate the death of our lives and
Mourn the demise of our way. He wears our Agbada
Under his ironed suit, he kills us with the heat from it.
Great are you, Oh, King.

Sounds of honour might soon turn to rebellion
As we welcome the death of his suit, if only
We can live to liberate ourselves, freedom harbour
Not the sky, nor does it act in pieces,
But in one piece. If, for the last time, we could shout
The commotion of a new dynasty, we could sing
In unison, Great are we, Oh, Ingarians.