Author: poetryfest

If I said only 2 words would you hear me. Instead of Silence your heart feels each day. You matter in the world caught up In different values and the feeling that you have no say. you matter to all of the people that love you but, don’t understand you in any way. you matter

for every dream that you’ve had and aloud to cast away. you matter
You matter, just like all of the life that had become still, the dreams that were just lost Until.

It was some wetter dark rain
which began pattering
above my face ,
through those three windows.

These torrents ,pouring
against glass panes ,
beneath star reflections.
All of a sudden such shinning seemed wetter.

His wings, so soft yet mighty ,whose arms were to envelop my very fragile space.
If I allowed them inside.
He sang a song unknown to most.
But I heard him .
I heard him !

I wanted to kneel to my knees .
But it was cold .
So I stood still ,
looking upwards .

The heat was not working well
with it’s orange electric firelight floating beneath it’s luke warmth on to our beige stones.

Was I in a temple build by angels?
Were they whispering through these windswept waters ?
Maybe someone has came into my soul softly ?

And I heard him ,
I heard him .

This sudden conjunction of Saturn with Jupiter
bumping into radiance this night,
within our winter solstice .

What more was there to say ?
Nothing more really to say .

I raced down the stairs to make sure the
oven was off and the percolator unplugged.
Their sizzle and steam from morning would now
have to wait ,for just another day .

I watch my mother peak into her new day
almost afraid to greet it ,
yet helplessly obligated to it.

Perhaps ,sometimes I don’t know where I am when awackening .
Maybe most of us don’t ?
Do we ?

But tonight I looked up
Listening…
It was different under their radiance .
Those stars ,this week
before Christmas .

I yearned to kneel and pray.
Then sighed, staring upwards before sighing again.
What was it I heard,
was the sound so near ?
Were you never far ?

As I cranked open each window,
a sliver of space admitted sounds of snapping wind inside of some sacred space of my heart you found .

Which found my face ,
until it became sprayed
into this new night ‘s babtism.

So you were born ,
So you were born .

Come Gabriel,
Come ,
Come blow your horn !

today I bit into a cucumber
which pricked my tongue with
the offensive, ear-waxy taste of poison.
and
at that exact moment
my vice president was on the news
on a reel about the abortion laws
which followed the reel about
farmers suffering in this economy.
the vice president said that
the vast majority of people in this country
wish for abortion to be a federally protected right.

I agreed.

yet
at that exact moment
my stomach filled with dread
and I wondered with respect to my position
just a handful of miles off the military base

whether that cucumber was indeed poisoned.
whether that poison was indeed intended for me.

because I could look her in the face
through a screen
and know without pause in my nauseous gut
that she was full of shit.

it wasn’t what she said because
that was factually, common-sensically
true.

the proposed bans had us
of sound heart and mind
rightfully
teeming
on the edge of our own insurrection
one that would be far more intelligent
and far more successful
than the one which targeted Alex Ocasio-Cortez.

it was the unmoving void
in madame vice president’s eyes.

it taunted me that I had been right
to suspect that
with minimal exceptions
neither of these primary-colored cancers we call representative parties
could care any less
about the ants which scream and scatter
in hopes of escaping their spyglass-magnified
ultraviolet beams
at the base of Mount Olympus.

that gut of mine
threatened to spew its contents until
liquid and green
but
continued to speak thusly:

“They knew their colleagues would do this.
And they let them.”

these noble crusaders
in dignified blue
are resigned to the federal fire department.
every four years
then every two
we must call upon them
begging
pleading
that they extinguish the choking blaze
with a spray of mercy
pumped from trucks
which trail their own
corrosive
combustible
fuel.

they, too, bleed gold.

and they have seen
dissenters
poisoned
for knowing less.

So cold
the river below
as I stand here on the edge of my death

mesmerized by the splash of my shoe
as it hits the water
exposing my polished toes
and the air reveals my breath

it won’t be long now
I won’t have to wait

just like that stiletto
I’ve sealed my fate

a chill blows through me,
my skin braces for the pain
entering that frigid water
will most certainly bring

One million ice shards
greeting my skin
again…
again

I let this silk dress
slip down my body
to pool at my feet

for all of the warmth
it was not providing me

to stand here naked
for no one to see

the river is cold and wide
and wild and deep

these remnants
will be all of what’s left of me.

lips red as wind burnt skin
eyes blue as the frozen misery I’m in

I free the last of me held captive;
soft, flaxen hair
now dancing on the breeze

Arms wide open
with a smile
I breathe…

the distant sirens and voices
holding no sway

I step forward
fall,
unafraid.

You passed away before me
I was really sure that you’d live another day again
You convulsed and I tried to shake you back to life
I had no idea that you were dying
A last breath I thought would breathe you to life
A last shake I thought was mere discomfort
A last blink I thought sight as usual
And a last sigh I thought was struggle with communication
You were dying and I had no idea
I was never prepared
Never rehearsed
Never knew this is how your ending would be
Never knew this is how endings and deaths look
I kissed you goodbye and thought the grief would leave with you, but it stayed with me
A cold, crippling stream of grief engraved its roots and interconnected through my dna
I was now a fatherless child
A depressed one
A moved, shaken and damaged one
A broken one
A child given loss on a silver platter
Lifeless
I became spoilt goods
Unworthy of a father
Unworthy of your silence
Unworthy of the thoughts and unsaid words in the silence
Unworthy of your embrace again
Unworthy of your wisdom, smile, laughter, cheek kisses and prayer
Lifeless
Speechless
A speechless poet
I can’t even utter a word anymore
Can’t even describe what it felt like
Can’t even bring the therapist to understanding to giving the right diagnosis through my communication
Mute
I hope one day my words will speak me and revive me and give life to a heart as lifeless as mine

The milky breasts are trying to get out of the blouse’s torn.
In the corner of the footpath;like a bloody red chicken;
wrap up by the bowel batches;into the blood flowing dust;
the human embryo is breathing.In the crowd;
people are watching this scene on the way;like a popular cinema.
The crazy woman is trying to get up on a large scale on two hands.
But she’s falling down again and again.
Due to delivery; there is a lot of bleeding.

With so many bloodshed;freedom did not comes in this country.

In a distance;a journalist is looking at the camera angle
to present the story in a newsletter.Traffic police busy
to move the crowd.The red signal minister will go from
this road for election campaign.By getting reports of maternal
dementia; Some people have come from a Christian missionary.
Somebody of these are the title holders of Saint from Vatican City.
From the poor country;the demand of the newborn is very much abroad.
They donate fat thick donations.It was a few days earlier;
like mouse kids,had ready to run the newborn babies of kolkata;
The police rescued them from the nursing home.
Gloves in hand face with mask; like the detective; social workers
are moving forward towards the madwoman.Public eyelids are not falling.

-Who has made pregnant this crazy woman?
– opposition.

When the red signal and siren have closed;
The minister whisperly said on the ears of his intimate police.
– Make a good inquiry!
The prostitutes of this country’s politics;to get publicity;
let’s raise his mother in line.

In the hands of opposition cadres; rape of the madwoman.Hot cakes.
Before the judgment of the coat; the vote will be end.

The opposition has also participated in this event with their teams.
A group of opposition; found a caste of the crazy woman.
They’re calling the madwoman ;”Sita Maiya”.
No Ravana is not a rapist; the arrow is towards Muhammad.
And another group of opposition;does not want to get religion votes.
They are very worried about the safety of girls;after losing political power.
For the failure of the government;when the field is shaking by blowing
flags with slogans;before handling the situation by the police;
frenzy woman suddenly threw some spit on the face of constitutional agents.

Like acid;there is no toxicity in the thunder’s hatred.Teeth, face, nose-eye
did not fall off.Drought has not been burnt the dirty democracy and Sovereignty of this country. Some wants to kick on the abdomen of the frenzy woman.

But they are scared.

In the crowd of curious people;how many human tender; the entire scenario
is being captured on mobile.In the evening sitting in the media;
Feminists and humanists will be discussed about human rights of many cultivated.
After returning home;the intellectuals would like to tasting their women’s body
on the bed.They don’t like any excuse of menses.Somebody of their favorite women;
Whenever reaches the police station against the husband;like childhood vaccine spot;
the intellectual’s favorite band cigarette stamps are found on the whole body of
that woman.

Not to criticize.
Just pushing the crowd of trams, bus and procession;return at home;
Indian women count nails census on her breasts.

The madwoman shouted again;
– “Showing love for sexual desire!”

Some people laugh with hidden teeth.Some people are exchanging views.
Like a dog; the crazy woman caught by the trap of a rope.
After injection on her hip; she fell asleep.
For the purpose of civilized society;no one understood the meaning
of his unholy word!

I do not know that today’s children will be living?
From Kashmir to Kanyakumari, all over India; I am feeling her as India’s mother.
Without she; all of us are sick .

He conks out on the pillow
As typed pages fall to the floor.
Eyes shut, the man collects unbroken images
And turns off the bed lamp.

Far away, in the dark, she reads the day
On the led lighted cell phone and enters
Her daily parallel world of communion.
It has been dark decades of celibacy/restraint/abstinence and purdah.

The lamppost at the street corner sends shadows into the room.
Street dogs are quiet. A cicada still sends distant droning shrills.
She sets the alarm and puts away her phone.
Now the woman realizes there is another person opposite to her.

There is a sound of life five feet from her place on the bed.
The woman can count on this wheezing at meticulous intervals.
She feels odd not to do anything to quiet his croaky metronome.
Why doesn’t she joggle the man? Why doesn’t she leave him?

There are bounds between humans that go unanswered, though.
The woman needs his rough night sound:
It has become one of the few ties to bound them.
It means a chance of overcoming the hurt he has inflicted upon her.

Will it happen one day? Will he realize it?
He ignores it : his final strike.
The woman has lost her lust.

On the tenth of September they passed the brew,
They passed the cards and smokes.
“Deuces to open,” he barked to the crew,
And he dealt the cards and the jokes.

“What d’ya know’s got four legs and an arm?”

“I dunno what?” “A pit bull,” he laughed.
“What chills beer, toasts bread, and lays eggs on a farm?”
“Close the door, will ya Phil? There’s a draft.”

And then the lieutenant waltzed in through the door.
“Kindly deal me in, girls, if you please.”
He hung up his coat and he strode ‘cross the floor.
“How you been, number one, how’s the squeeze?”

“Alright, Phil, how’s yours?” “She’s alright ‘bout the same.”
“Glad to hear it.” “Here, Joe, have a beer.”
“Yea I will. Thank you, Pete. What’s up, Jack? What’s the game?”
“Five card draw, nothing wild. Put it here.”

They finished the hand and they dealt Joe his due,
And they settled in for the night.
Mike repeated the riddle that nobody knew,
Least nobody’d got it right.

“Lays eggs on a farm, makes toast, chills beer.”
“Jacks open.” “I’ve got it,” said Pat,
“A chicken, a toaster, a frig.” “Here Here!”
Said Joe, “I’ll drink to that.”

The men played on till they saw the sun
And heard the morning knell,
But the sleep they wanted was overrun
By a summons into hell.

Now a job’s a job and a man’s a man
And a hero’s just the same.
So it is with Patrick H. McGahan
And for too many more to name.

The firefighters rushed to the blazing crime
Impelled by guts and heart
To rescue the victims and slug through the grime,
But the buildings fell apart.

The towers exploded and trembled and dropped
And shook the city’s core,
While a rolling wave of concrete stopped
The firemen evermore.

And still more sawed and fought and clawed
Through the crumbling twisted pyre;
They climbed and dug and heaved and gnawed
And battled through the fire.

Still hundreds cried out from the gloom
And hundreds more replied,
And hundreds charged into the tomb
Where hundreds fought and died.

And when the deadly work was done,
Barbarity addressed,
Three forty three had lost and won
And staggered to their rest.

Later the comrades of the men
Who’d battled the blazing towers
Whispered a faltering amen
Among the funeral flowers.

With them knelt ten thousand more
Who prayed in awe and sorrow
For the losses they too bore
Of tomorrow and tomorrow.

Towers to the sun turned igneous,
Fire and vapor and ash,
Some dare call it “treasonous,”
Others merely “rash.”

But truth out of chaos and festering lies
Will make itself a world.
The rotten, when shaken, crumbles and dies,
Leaving liberty unfurled.

Great was the indisputable fact
(And to that fact they clung)
Buried by years of habit and tact,
They wrenched it from the dung.

They wrenched it from the senators,
They wrenched it from the press,
From the judges and the governors
And the rest of the noblesse.

They wrenched it from the corpulent
The eminent and the great,
They wrenched it from the insolent,
They wrenched it from the state.

They wrenched it from the excrement
On the oval office floor,
The part time White House resident,
The unelected whore.

They held it high for all to see
Like a sword on glory’s field,
They waved our flag of liberty
And justice unconcealed.

To all fourteen thousand they sent out alarms,
To Manhattan and Brooklyn and Queens ,
Staten Island , the Bronx : all brothers in arms,
And they started their mighty machines.

Ladder, Engine and Rescue received the brief,
Battalion and Group and Division,
Chaplain and pumper and driver and chief
Prepared for the fatal incision.

Soon the rumbling battalions of fire engines forming
A hundred thousand strong
Entered the capitol, the red ranks storming,
To cries from a fiery throng.

Ladder Five was the first. It crashed through the gate
And was followed by fifty more:
Daggers aimed at the White House to decapitate
The regime, and to settle the score.

From the ladders extended arose such a clatter
It deafened the dwellers inside.
They sprang from their seats to see what was the matter,
But, oh, ‘twas a vengeful tide.

It poured in the windows, it flooded the doors
And washed over the rooftops besides;
It crashed through the portico onto the floors
And lifted the open mouthed guides.

It broke through the west wing by God above blest wing,
The wing where the president shivered.
It was now the arrest wing by firemen possessed wing,
The wing where the writ was delivered.

Came the liberal senators all in a row,
“It’s the firemen! Let’s give ‘em a cheer!”
“You can save your breath princes. Book ‘em, Joe.
They’re as guilty as anyone here.”

“We the rabble arrest you in the name of the law,
You in your bucket of slime,
Your protection’s expired; stick that in your craw.
You’re done. You’re outta time.”

Fourteen thousand firefighters lined up to draw lots
With captains and chiefs and lieutenants,
For the chance to draw one of the five hundred slots
To cull some of Washington ‘s tenants.

The first of the winners was Patrick McGahan
From Ladder Number Five,
Such a thunderous cheer there went up for the man,
For the hero who came back alive.

They chose four hundred and ninety nine more,
Fell executioners all:
Headsmen who lusted to even the score
And to see the Empire fall.

They sharpened their axes to cut off the heads
Of the heirs of the brightest and best,
Who had sent us to rescue the gooks from the reds
In a ballad of East and West.

Judges and generals were on the list
With nodding politicians,
And media whores who’d never be missed
With cabinet patricians.

Now Patrick now William now Dennis now Jim
Now Teddy now Hillary and Dick,
On Johnny on Bernie on Nancy on Tim
On Joseph on Thomas and Nick.

“You’ll be tried with the others. How do you plead?
Did they hold a gun to your head?
Were you following orders? Did you watch us bleed?
Or were you just misled?”

The trials are over. The verdicts are in.
The Reckoning is nigh.
The firemen wait in tumult and din
To deliver a fatal reply

To the traitors carried in ghostly carts
Who weep and pray and yield.
“Let the poison flow from their worthless hearts
Through the ruts in a muddy field.”

The first of five hundred is dragged from the dock
To say his last farewell.
“Meet Patrick McGahan. Put your head on the block,
And then you can go to hell.”

McGahan steps up in his spit-shined shoes
And places his axe on the stand.
He takes up a stance in his best dress blues
And he grins as he spits on his hand,

Saying, “Prisoner, come forth and meet your doom,
The bell begins to toll.
Here is the block, and there’s your tomb.
Lord have mercy on your soul.”

He lifts his axe and he swings it back
And then he drives it through.
It lands with a frightening echoing crack.
McGahan has his due.

One by one each rolling head
Drops in a gruesome sac.
One by one are the tumbrels led
Along the deathly track.

Of advisors there are four,
Of diplomats eleven,
Of judges are there twenty more,
Of generals there are seven.

Of chaplains there is only one,
Of senators three score,
Of corporate heads (forgive the pun)
We chop off sixty four.

The media loses twenty two,
The Bureau drops a straight.
The spooks are missing quite a few,
The inner circle, eight.

Two hundred and eighty six that leaves,
Assorted strains of fungus . . .
Bagmen, beggarmen, liars and thieves,
Deduct them from the congress.

Now the deeds are almost done,
The grass is a bloody brown.
Bound in the tumbrel bides but one
In a world turned upside down.

Up steps the last fireman who barks, “Look alive!
Fetch me one Patrick McGahan!
This one’s for you Pat and Ladder Five.
Finish it where you began.”

Now from the gladdened multitude
Goes up a joyous yell,
A cheer of hope and gratitude
That bounds across the dell.

It strikes upon the hillside and
Rebounds across the land,
For ‘tis Patrick H. McGahan
Advancing to the stand.

McGahan, he pierces the beady eyed rat
With a stare that is ardent and cold.
He puts down his axe and he says, “Fancy that,
A gallon of liquid gold.”

He opens the can of the precious stuff.
On the prisoner’s head it pours,
“Y’all say ‘when’ when you git enough.
You wanted it. It’s yours.”

McGahan strikes a match and watches the flame,
“I’ll tell you a thing or two:
Empire is a risky game.
Or so it is for you.

But I’ll blow out the match because it is
A fireman that I am.
The fate of the others shall be his,
But first I’ll have a dram

For Jack and Pete and Phil and Joe
And all of our fallen friends,
To all the soldiers friend and foe
And thus our story ends.”

With a strong right arm he throws a shot
Of Irish down the hatch,
Then he grabs his axe to dispatch the rot.
The head he doth detach.

Now a job’s a job and a man’s a man
And a hero’s just the same.
So it is for Patrick H. McGahan
And for too many more to name.

“Language is like a river
Flowing from there to hear
From mouth to ear
From heart to heart
From God to word

And sometimes rivers dry up
Like coffee in a cup
And sometimes they just get tired
And lay down to sleep
Where I can’t find them
And sometimes they float away
For someone else to say and keep

I feel the flow slowing down a bit
I see some words moving away
Like pieces of an iceberg
Suddenly set free and floating off

And it’s all okay,
It really is
Because all I really need
Are two words I have not yet forgotten
And hopefully never will…

thank you.

The crystalline pendulum vaults in its quotidian indifference as

the frog swollen with ego, a cajoling Chimera in apparitional

Voice

Beckons the bedeviled and searching Komodo Dragon and the Kaleidoscopic Salamander to

Follow along the phantasmagorical path to the kingdom of jewels and

Vegetables

A three-day trek through the muck and mire of a philosophic

Expedition through the Mountains of Surreality

Our pioneers find themselves paralyzed deep in the vortex of melancholy

Strangled by the tentacle bowels of confusion

Oh, high frog what happened?

Did your sidereal cartographers miscalculate?

Are you a weak servant of mortal suffering?

You incredulous dwarf nestled under an umbrella in a fountain of

Purple medicine “We only sought to follow the chameleon

Over the rainbow, we saw him run past but so quickly

We lost his trail in the fleeting gleam of a porcelain fog

Under the night sun

Now we must return to the cavernous gnomes to study pataphysics

And the incomprehensible blueprints of the Lemurian Architects.

By

TJ Mancini

(from my collection ‘A Handful of Leaves: Poems and Anti-Poems’)