Author: poetryfest

A blooming youth, with gown and cheeks like dawn
Who rarely spent her springtime but in yearn
By rain and sun the North sill sat upon
And waited for when fair love should return

She laughed with none the evening stars until
For talk and dance this woman never sought
They sound it off- this headstrong lack of will
That ev’n midlife her faith had faded not

By age her worry she could not conceal
In fear that time might end her with its wing
‘Fore every mass and every softened meal
She prayed He let her see another spring
Poor, elder maid! For little did she know
Her love had passed half century ago

In 2004, the 200-plus animal herd began to die from pneumonia. Around 80% of the herd died before
the adults gained an immunity; however, the lambs born each spring contracted the disease and within
months were dead.” – Associated Press

Sometimes, I think of the bighorn sheep of South Dakota’s Badlands
Wise eyes surveying their domain,
Hooked horns rounded into crowns,
Kings of that melted landscape, wind-whipped and worn.

Cut down in the spring, fluid in the lungs
Pneumonia staking its claim, lambs born dying
And the herd is thinning out, burnt by bacterial wildfire.

Wise eyes tired, hooked horns heavy,
Day by day, they rule their rugged kingdom,
Their empire is slowly dying
But that does not make it any less proud, or strong, or beautiful.

On the crumpled paper
that wrapped the things
brought home,
I find some words:

Beloved….
Never….
Why….
Will you abandon….

And other fading letters,
blurred emotions.
I contemplate the heart
that swelled while writing these lines,
the fingers that trembled.

Destined to be loved,
perhaps only after death—
and only briefly—
someone’s eyes,
still gleam on this paper.

Do you know what it’s like
to be caught,
a prisoner inside the body of time,
locked from within
like a fetus in the mother’s womb…
That is our existence:
condemned to suffocation,
to death by asphyxiation.
But when I’m with you,
our hands, entwined,
grasp—madly—
the flesh of time,
and we dig our nails into its entrails
until they split,
until the flesh tears,
and light breaks through.
And we,
freed from the amniotic fluid,
step outside
while time moans in pain,
holding in its hand
the placenta of our becoming.
It cries out,
but our ears hear only
the music of the present,
of the moment already gone.
There,
with blood-smeared hands,
I hold your cheeks
and kiss you for an eternity,
for time is no more—
nor death,
nor life,
nor gods, nor angels,
only the demons of our love.
Nothing else.

I met a boy the other day
as I waited for the bus.
He was cruel and rude,
and hurt and afraid,
and kind and funny,
and aloof and unaware,
and smart and wise.
He spoke to me, sometimes
loud and crass, sometimes
fearful and quiet, sometimes
hopeful and contended.
He told me who I was and would be,
I could only laugh.
He told me his destination,
but he did not know the route.
I asked if he needed help,
But he told me he’d figure it out.

I met a young man today
on the bus.
I thought he was looking out the window,
but he was looking at,
no,
to me.
He asked a lot of questions,
good ones, bad ones,
easy ones, hard ones,
and ones I didn’t want to answer.
I asked him about himself.
He knew the route,
everyone had told him.
He just couldn’t remember his destination.
He was frantic.
He wanted to get off
as soon as possible so he could
read a map or ask someone else.
I told him to look outside
and watch the world go by.
To lose himself in the rolling hills
and shimmering lakes.
To cherish the darkest tunnels
and suburban sprawls.
“You’ll know when you see it.”

I’ll meet a man soon
as he gets off the bus.
I won’t know his route, and
I won’t know his destination, but
I know he’ll know why he’s arriving.
I’ll ask him many questions,
but I’ll also ask a lot of him.
“Remember who I was and who I am,
and understand us.
Forgive us when I make mistakes.
And please, tell me. Will I
really
know when to get off the bus?”
I’ll see him out the window,
standing in the cool November air,
and all he’ll do is laugh.

One hand on the wheel
One hand on my thigh
All the way home from San Francisco
We don’t talk
It isn’t awkward
I can finally breathe

I love you
I wish I could be like you
You’re so gentle
So Tender
So Loving
So Kind
Somehow untouched by all the sadness and hurt in the world

Your voice is a salve for the darkness in my heart
Your touch is the sweet flesh of a summer peach
So Juicy and so soft
Ripe for the tasting…
Something to sink my teeth into

1
As we walked to George’s apartment,
hundreds of stars watched overhead.
We didn’t hold hands, we’re men,
but we would occasionally lean into one another –
an easy communication.
We didn’t speak, we knew
where we were going . . . and why
on this steamy August night. 47 words

2
He didn’t ask me home,
we just left together,
comfortable in our own certainty.
We walked in silence that hot, late August night,
glancing up at a black sky full of stars.
No need to look at one another,
we knew we were there and why,
smiling smugly to ourselves. 50 words

3
We glanced once at each other
as we walked side by side
down a deserted Cambridge Street,
beneath a somehow moonless late summer sky
filled with brilliant stars.
Our silence
and the occasional brushing of shoulders
was ample communication
of our shared intent
that perfect leonine night. 49 words

The soul answered the call of man
The leaves answered the call of dew
No his, no her—
The dew smiled like a mother,
A mother who met her child
Yet no smile, no word
No joy of love.

Who is this little one?
No his, no her—
Who is crying to fight?
A daughter? A son?
Or only a newborn
Unnamed by the world.

No one touched to kiss
No one touched the lips
The father was not a father
The soul had
no sister, no brother—
No kin, no clan
No softness of love—
Ever. Never. Never.

Ask the name of the soul?
You? Or you?
No one asked
No one called the soul
Only a cry remains

Is this our world?
Are we human, or none?

In moonlit streets
At every signal
A hand stretches in ritual plea
Dark kohl above the brows
Lipstick red as vengeance—
Upon the chest:
The pride of defiance

No his, no her
The soul speaks to the night—
Is this an endless fight?
The soul runs
By night’s end—

A handful of borrowed starlight
Beneath those feet—
The sky, forgiving, immense

A voice still echoes:
Begone, hi—…!
But now the soul has come
To the sea of absolution.

Like wind,
Like river
Like moss married to stone
Rain chants moon-songs
In waters dyed with dusk—
And the stars, they laugh.

Salute, O mind. Salute
Among saints and seekers
Among butterflies fallen
From ruined homes—
A dusty pilgrimage
Ornate with surrender.

In the Ganges
Redemption flows—
One eye weeps
The other forgives
All washed into the sea.

The shameful words rise again:
“Even here, you stand—
But where shall you dive?”

The sea of the hour cries out
Still we ask—
Why so far behind?

The soul—no his, no her
No love, no one to care
The soul sings alone
O soul, O my soul—
Are you crossing this sea
To the tune of your own?

Why did you say you loved me
When it wasn’t even true?
In that lavender-orange
Afternoon
Why couldn’t I be there for you?

You said you wanted me forever
To have, to hold, to cherish
So why, when I kissed you
Did you push away?
Why did you turn my red blood
Blue?

I loved you deeply with my eternal soul
Why did you need my heart
To smother, and choke, and sleep?
For you alone to look upon
For my feelings for only you
To be gone?

You killed my heart which beat for you
Broken now and forever, my love
Which was just for you, why still then
Did you leave?
Why did you
Ignore my grief?

Why did you take that secret knife
That perfect autumn afternoon
And set my blood free to dress my skin?
The cuts erasing our special day
Why didn’t you simply send me
Away?

The heart I had couldn’t save me,
I perished soon after
You left me on the floor and soon
You walked out the door.
Why?

Why darling? Why did you leave me
Why did you need to
Deceive me?

So much pain you gifted me
After so much dulcet acting
You filled my days with lies
Why did you bleed my tender skin
Why did you break my sad kiss
When I begged you
For forgiveness?

Forgiveness which I do not owe
I didn’t know
Nothing I had done had caused this
Why did you fool me and love another Instead?
Why had you gone to sleep
In her naked bed?

Why did you leave the blade in my chest? Why did you make tears in my dress?
My skin? My heart
My darling, why?
I bled so much for you and cried
Too much to move
Your devoted, dying bride

I tried to call you back, pleading
I pleaded for your love to
Return
Why did you prevent me from crying
When you cut my throat open
And roses fell like I had bled
What had you smashed against
My head?

Why didn’t you tell me why?
We were engaged and happy, I thought
When my last tear fell, cold and gray
Weren’t you there
To stroke it away?

Why did you hurt me before I could say,
“My only darling, you are the light in
My cold life, the cure to

My fear and strife
You make me smile
When I should weep
You carried me to bed
And warmed me in my sleep

You danced with me that night and
Kissed my heart alight
You told me you would
Do anything for me
You let me hold you hand and think
How lucky then I was, how
Blushing pink I became when
You whispered,
“Let’s watch the moon.”

Still you spoke,
And I believed
Your words unfurled
“I love you my darling,
You are my world
Your smile is diamonds and
Your kisses are pearls
I love you dear, I love you so
Never worry me
And never let go.”

Why did you answer me with that face? And why did you break
My bones without so much as a word?
Why did you let me feel assured
Then made me look into your stony eyes?
I couldn’t see you anymore
Nothing,
But my own demise

Why did you ask for my hand
Why did you wish for me to make you
The happiest man in the world?
Why did you dress my finger with this beautiful jewel?
Why was I such a fool?
Were you always so cruel?
The man I knew
Wasn’t anything
Like you

He died with me there in our hotel suite
Lying still on the floor
You left me alone, broken in two
Nobody heard, saw, imagined
Or ever knew
Who it was that murdered the poor Woman in that room,
And why now does she
Appear
At the window
Every autumn afternoon?

His toys are still where he left them,
lined like witnesses in the spotlight of his nightlight—
soft, blue, blinking in the dark—
like he still needs it,
in case I might.

The bed is too large without him.
Even his blanket is cautious.
I sing lullabies to no one,
kiss the pillow his head should be on.

Tonight, he sleeps where I cannot nurse him.
His father holds him instead.

The night asks questions I can’t begin to answer—
sharp ones that turn a mother’s hair gray
with every mile between her and her child.

The night demands answers now that my arms are empty:
about the sin of the father—
whether I am guilty.

“What did you do?”
“I loved him.”

His words were a blasphemy against me,
yet I feel punished for demanding respect.
Because it’s his visitation—
I must sleep alone.

Goodnight forgiveness,
Goodnight grace,
Goodnight, empty space.