Author: poetryfest

Flowers bloom so slowly
That we, the human eye,
Cannot even watch them grow.

One day, they are simply here,
Surprising us all with their beauty.

Perhaps you are the same, my love,
Simply waiting for the right time.
So treat your soul with kindness, darling,
For you are only just unfolding.

afterimages skulk across the
backs of my eyelids like
dystopian war propaganda.
american flags –
drag queens –
high schoolers huddled under
too small desks –
and an eerie smile with the whitest
veneers. did you know
the economy is going to shit? did
you know healthcare is not
your god-given right? did you
know your neighbors repost fake
quotes from an orange dictator and
they hate you.

did you know?

you better go out and
vote but only for the person
I want. you better
do your research in tiktoks and facebook
memes and fall for the reasoning of
who shouts loudest. you better
put your faith in that cardboard bolted in
your u.s. soil. you better
have some extra because it’s bound to
be stolen by maga hats and members of
the mega church.

media makes me feel
sticky like those sweet
talking fakers may have
infected my brain –
finally
I’ll repost:

“Vance defends spreading claims that Haitian migrants are eating pets”
~ npr.org

Don’t understand stupid me,
Your passion and warm embrace?
Although the wind howled, and it woke me as I felt it brush across my face, you felt it too
But as the warmth of our bodies merged we soon forgot the world outside .
A sense of peace submerged and pushed the banshee away.
Fragile is the heart and head but still a sense of darkness lurked and loomed, words said
in jest and haste hidden feelings charading wit with scorn,
Fragile is the mind assembling words into a tidal wave of cloaked anger.
Sadness engulfed me as I knew the debris of words touched only the surface.
I left with heavy heart, hoping to hear your pounding feet a breathe away, to no avail .
Fragile is love, dreams disintegrated like ashes in the wind.
From the remnants of the storm lay the shipwrecked chests filled with moments of time
all laid out for me to view like a mental crime scene filled with words and actions, not
knowing who had slayed who.
So much hurt and pain and here I am pounding on this Iron vaulted wall, my tears and
voice disappear into an abyss of void.
You said you would never hurt me
You lied
X

In the same way that people find music that complements certain films, or drinks that go with some foods, I’ve found music that accentuates my image of you. I pair the two and they exist in perfect harmony, like the tunes couldn’t have existed without you there beside them. In the same way that one might feel incomplete in a theater without popcorn, hearing some songs won’t feel the same without the thought of you.

You’re all those melodies that musicians wrote when they saw or heard something beautiful and had to express their admiration for it. You’re what frustrated me when you pointed out my qualities, but also intrigued me because I realized you were looking harder than everyone else. You’re the catchphrases reappearing in my head and in my vocabulary and the image that blends so beautifully with every melody. You’re retaliation and mixed feelings and waiting for the barrier between us to lift so I can sit down and take notes again. You’re escalation and putting everything away and going to sleep because I got a message from you that took away my vocal cords and my motor functioning skills and rebuilt me into something completely new. How symbolic that I sat down at the table of luxury to feast and was distracted by the thought of you.

Can I come with you?
The voice came low,
like a riverbed under moon-sifted dusk.
Come before the match burns down to throat and embered ash.
Forgotten mornings,
love flung like salt on open skin,
silence so dense it fogged the marrow,
I remember.

I come to dwell,
to root your wisp of mind
into the molasses pulse of flesh.
There are worlds here you have not kissed.

Each rib a library,
each scar a word.
My lungs, bellows of grief and grace.
My knees, aching altars to your resilience.
I have dreamed of you dreaming of me,
but you floated elsewhere,
a ghost riding thought.

I am not your burden.
I am your cathedral.

Can we strike the match now –
not to burn,
but to remember warmth?
Can we blow it out
while the flame still dances,
before it devours the land in a final sigh?

Can I come with you?
Stand barefoot in your own holy fire.
Re-inhabit your breath
like it’s the first one you ever took.
Can I meet you in the bones?

Another good man cries tears,
Over the crimes he’s committed.
His wife’s shoulders are wet,
And her hands are tired from holding his head.

And they’re both thinkin’
Is this what you call living?

They’ve abandoned the spring,
From blood they will rise,
A new beginning.
They chant, we chant.

We chant, you chant!

Take skin off my flesh,
Flesh off my bones,
Every inch I digress,
Soul and all I’m yours to own.

What a calling!

Take skin off my flesh,
Flesh off my bones,
Every inch I digress,
Soul and all I’m yours to own.

You have called him!

My sweet child on earth,
I feel your heart,
The aching, the quickening
Near stopping.
Crimes cannot be defined,
Is it sinning or surviving?
Either, or.

Oh baby I don’t mind!
As your soul is mine for the taking.

A little boy smashes
two trucks together,
believing they’ll
explode
and coincidentally, the boys father
The President
pins two countries together,
believing there will be no
explosion.

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.