Author: poetryfest

Shit, I stepped off the plane
& onto the moving walkway
robot motion of human habits
& recognized that I don’t want to be here.

But being the air is always only temporary.

I try to remember the feeling of summers off in elementary
walks to the gas station with my mom
buttered rolls, tea light and sweet
the white Bronco chase on the news
when I slept upstairs with Poppy
tickle me Elmo and Nintendo64

watching Buffy for the first time
a crush or an idol I couldn’t tell
but I still tried to kick shit in the face
punk pits smelling of dank, must and stale 40’s
I am pretty much a stale 40.

Suspended in the air.
a product of the 90’s with electric color patterns
there’s a metaphor in the beanie baby craze

I always thought we’d grow old together.

Now I’m not sure I’ll grow old at all.

https://www.daniellebero.com/

the greatest contest ever played

josh and pat – their average names

now turned to legend by this game

“it’s mine,” roars Josh, “the giant’s slayed

thirteen seconds – we’ve got it made!”

now on the bench unbelieving

what’s up? are my eyes deceiving?

he stands up proud in blue and white

a shocking loss – but he’s alright

his class and grace means believing

Praise the trials that molded me
that scolded me
and ripped my skin to shredded
flesh and bloody outcries for death.
Death is rest, not less this torture
with hidden bliss and blessings.
All of this — messing with my mind
how trials, so unkind,
can help me find a better me
to set me free from pain
and misery, not meant to be,
yet, here I stand, a better man,
sculptured and scolded by anxiety,
and why? A Devil’s lie.
My God’s reply. Because I try
my pain turned into pleasure.
I praise the trials that molded me
into this priceless treasure.

We sail on a rowing ship

and the captain is drunk with glory

we have a poet on board

who’s supposed to record our story.

But the poet has his hands tangled

and his language is poor on words

that can describe our strangled

existence in this miniature world.

The cook has been too kind to us

always trying to cheer our souls

for him a lovely meal’s a must

and yet it ends in the shithole.

It doesn’t seem like hope is lost

if you judge by the drunken sailors

singing about a distant coast

and the treasures of an old pirate whaler.

And so, we all keep rowing

hoping to reach a new land

despite the smarter of us knowing

it will hardly change our stand.

The waves will rock us day by day

the colors slowly will degrade

the deck will be in disarray

and all of our ambitions fade.

And once we crash amidst a storm

the fish will have a fattening feast

to know this, oh it feels so warm

I can hope for this at least.

Submit to the view, submit to our view
The ‘new way’ is the way, the ‘only way’
To see, the emperor has a set of new clothes
Unless you’re BLIND, BIGOTED, PREJUDICED…. blah blah blah.

Humans for 2 million years, naturally evolving
The ‘new way’ is the way, the ‘only way’ and
To hell with science and natures laws
The emperor has new clothes……CAN’T YOU SEE?

Nature sets its case in evolution but
The ‘new way’ is the way, the ‘only way’ and
Says no to women with wombs and men with penises
BUT the law remains, we do not control it, do not own it
The truth is the ‘new way’ is ‘not the way.’
The emperor does NOT have new clothes on…….

Grace M.

Apostolis IliopouloGod gave me a bunch of talents.
He took his basket and threw them at me like he was throwing potatoes.
And I took and grew like a straw scarecrow,
with a heart full of guilt and thorns for them
deep stains
that were happening, until I straightened up,
blue,
black,
blue jacket, without the slightest beauty
and I stood in my place.
There were no mirrors or anything else,
colorful objects.
I lay down and wondered about life and yet,
I got drunk with the squall, the buds in the trunks
and I danced losing my drops of sweat,
crying in shame. And my writer friends and I
came persuaded me to tear up all my volumes,
to shake off my drool and better wipe at
moths of inactivity and me
I huffed, yes, that’s what I wanted to say, and stopped.
I played and played the grand piano, I tapped and rattled like it was music,
I went out like a dog in the streets and didn’t even recognize them,
words struck on the tile,
where are my friends

No one there to listen to me. Shut up, everyone
actors, bro operas, pussies, yes pussies curled up,
umbrellas, idiots, you won’t tell me again that I don’t play,
I won’t play again,
accented, like an aristocrat,
or purple,
blue,
blue,
read what it sounds like, it’s for reading
the poem,
fool,
fool,
blue,
blue. Ah, and the time has come,
my time when I couldn’t anymore, yes anymore,
bulldozer,
all about the recitation, and I understood, I meant it,
that’s enough, I won’t continue.
Neither one nor the other
since beauty, youth, gaia have forsaken me.
I am not a poet, nor an actor, nor a talented baboon.
I was convinced. I compared myself to the greats and
they didn’t make sense to me, pointless, pussy, shit.
Where is the magic of the little creation, of the friend
that cries, the simple child’s joy,
the exaltation of the great in the non-
his greatness never in,
messed up,
confused,
alive.»s

She gets tired of waiting
in the hope:
He will want
And love her.

It has been decades
She has started this shawl.
Each row of knitting
Cries out for yearnings
Things past will return.

Ulysses is here
After long voyages.
His mind remains
On distant shores.

Penelope has pulled the yarn.
Her work discloses
Sad color rags.
Her needles know the dream is over
For nothing can weave anew
The heart he has destroyed.

She does not knit now:
Why will she waste
Fingers, yarn, and needles?

Penelope conks out:
“Ulysses, go back
To your mermaids!
You are far below my salt”.

What’s that mysterious treasure that you are solely seeking?
Specifically the one that consumes your self-centred being
Desires, affections, humankind praising you as king?
That one priceless score that your whole DNA intensely are desiring
The way your IQ goes berserk when you have this island fling

Can you touch this treasure that your eyes constantly desire?
Hidden secret worlds that flames with forbidden deadly fires
Given away to indulge by the tracking trace of your tyre
Unstoppable hidden secrets within, even if the FBI got you wired
It’s not just the girls in vampire diaries who desperately cried
Some treasures kill like wolfsbane without a trace of asking why

Did you find your costly treasure my dear friend?
Or did the mountain ash stop you before the beginning end?
Did time move on without you, costly your life spent
Was this worth it? Or just another tiktok trend?
Couldn’t you adjust gravity or crush the time line always unbent
Why seek artificial treasure when the unsearchable one is already sent

Hannes Grove

Genre is a mixture of inspirational; social; romantic; spiritual; political; humanitarian; philosophical and theological

The hungry hamster who ate the moon,
Startedo ff by eating a spoon.

Ever so hungry he started to cry.
To cheer himself up,

He baked a pie.

Loving the pie he made five more,
He swallowed one whole,

Followed by four!

This hungry hamster is getting quite fat,
Oh no!

He’s eating a cat!

He ate a cat and munched on a horse,
Is he still hungry?

Yes, of course!

The biggest hamster ever to be,
He still looks hungry!

He might eat me!

He Gobbled me up and spat me back out,
He’s too full,

Oh no! Watch out!

He’s taken off and going to the moon,
Hey look!

There’s that spoon!

Landing safely on his feet,
The moon looks tasty,

It’s ready to eat!

Two years later,
only half way through,
Oh golly gosh,

He needs a poo!