Author: poetryfest

May 10th, 2025

After a few aborted encounters on stairs,
promenades, this time you sat holding a
cup of half-finished tea next to me,
craving your eyes, aeolistic ravines,
the targets locked.

Only a week before, had a war with
neighbors, jets dogfighting over Lahore’s skies,
listening to Bollywood songs, drones of intimacy;
beauty and bravery, not love but president Trump
brought us a truce.

Launching a salvo of kisses on the face, stretched like
an airstrip, you made me take a fresh sortie, now
debris and doctrine wait for us when you enter
the room, we sat together; the ceasefire sneaked in.

I. The Ritual

The oil that anoints the sick,
The oil slick gleamed, darker than blood.
The same potion consecrating the altar—
Guess the parallels stay.
Of sacrifice and devotion,
God or the motherland.

The priests once raised their knives in prayer,
Now generals sign their names in ink.
Both call it sacrifice, both promise salvation,
Both leave the altar slick with ruin.

In a world where goats were once baited to lord
In the hope of prosperous lives—oblation—
With goodwill came bitter, perpetual moans.

II. The War Machine

With firearms in hand, soldiers deployed as decoys
In a hoax of victory, moments falsely sweet.
What’s the point if no one’s left to taste it?

The lambs were once bound in silence,
Now the young are sent with hymns of war—
To die not for gods, but for gold,
To bleed not for faith, but for fields of black fire.

We march, though darkness clouds the sky ahead,
A dream of glory, now in ash and dust.
The flag of pride, now torn, its colors bled—
In endless war, we seek to place our trust.

Each footstep on the earth, a mournful sound,
As hollow cries from hollow souls resound.
For what is victory, when all is lost?
We die for peace, but at what final cost?

III. The Aftermath

The fields lie barren, souls with eyes askew,
No home to return to, no place to rest.
The scars of battle, worn in shades of blue—
Marks of broken lives, hearts torn from their chest.

The streets, once vibrant, now echo with loss,
A nation divided, counting the cost.
What is the price of peace, we ask,
When it’s buried beneath a bitter mask?

Behind each rifle, a kingdom stands tall.
Beneath the iron, women’s whispers fall—
A flash of fabric, rebellion wrapped tight,
Yet stitched to save, in wartime’s fleeting light.

The fabric scarce, yet worn with thought,
A thread that saved, as history fought.
Now draped in prints, its freedom caught,
In waves that drown what once was sought.

From cans of meat to snacks on every shelf,
The hunger’s gone—yet the hunger prevails.
From bullets fired to brands of newfound wealth,
The taste of war is swallowed, yet it stains.

IV. Benediction

Peace may be right, but it’s out of reach
In a world where war is bought and sold.
Morality’s a banner, torn and breached,
As leaders trade their truth for power’s hold.

The streets cry out, but still they’re left unheard.
Peace may be right—but not in this world, I fear.

To those who stood and gave what they could spare,
In fields of war, with hearts and souls laid bare—
Your courage, silent, echoes through the years.
Hail the ones who protect their lands,
We thank you now, beyond our pain and fears.

Creature,
You beautiful,
Holy,
Creature.

I pray to the dips in your back,
Your smile like a warm amber glow,
Adonis has never looked so good,
Until he found himself in your complexion.

I am an unworthy Narcissus,
The mirror in front of me,
Decaying like autumn leaves,
And yet you allow me to stay in your embrace,
Basking in the morning glow.

Tortured poet,
Beautiful muse,
My creation lies in your willing open palms,
I will keep my kisses light,
And my voice soft,
To show my unwavering appreciation,
Of Your Divine.

I sit and I ponder yet I also wonder in these reminiscing thoughts of everything that broke me . As if I was tree in fall losing my leafs and branches slowly … I still have sleepless nights when I lay there and wonder what did I do to deserve this type of sinister type of love from you . I guess I will never find the correct remedy nor melody to this madness…

You must of loved the bittersweet taste of my misery . While you watched me from a far . Just like a that tree in fall , slowly watching my leafs change colors and become more brittle. Slowly watching them crumble just like the branches breaking away only a few usually stay . You must of hated when winter finally let up and that cold brisk air started to disappear. A gentle warmth crept back, promising fragile hope amid ruin.

Yet every time dawn shimmered on the horizon, the fear of another frost lingered, tightening its hold around my worn heart. Still, I gathered the fallen pieces, uncertain if they could ever be made whole like it once was before . If I could I would wish upon every shooting star. I have yet to see one, its seeming the night sky remains stubbornly empty of any celestial hope, denying me even the smallest spark of granted wishes. I’m
starting to feel more hollow .

I sit and ponder, quiet and still . My mind a storm I cannot will. Each thought a shard , each breath a sigh . Of all the ways you slowly watched me die . I lay awake through nights so long , still wondering where I went wrong . What cruel design, what twisted fate could have birthed a love laced with hate ? I can hear you slithering in the distance , I should have known it was you from a far . Just waiting for me to break , fall
to my knees begging and pleading for the sweet bliss taste of the warmth of the light that I so dreadfully need to survive.

As the hollowness begins to grow slowly seeping into my heart . I plea while I’m down on my wounded knees begging for one small sign of hope, but the darkness answers only with silence as if even compassion has turned away. Still, somewhere deep beneath the ache, I sense a fragile ember that refuses to die, stubbornly guarding its warmth against the encroaching chill.

The weight of reality crushed down on my shoulders with every passing second. How can one pull themselves out of this darkness. The flashlight is slowly flickering I keep tapping it and shaking it hoping that the light wont go away . Hoping it will guide me through this . Please just give me one sign of hope. Yet that ember, flickering weakly, endures the relentless storm of sorrow.

~ Britney Daniel ~

I can still feel your soft lips,
Guiding trails of shivers,
And soft words.

I can still hear you call my name.
Softly, still, and sound.
Your tongue speaks for me.

And when you taste me,
Do you taste our love that once was?
Or did you rekindle the fire that was inside you?

Does your heart still beat for me, I wonder?
Do you still of me when I’m gone?
Or am I a fleeting memory, a forlorn pleasure,
A thought alone in the depths of your mind?

Maybe you will see me and ponder,
About our unfortunate love.
A pact broken by silence,
And a misplaced heart.

Maybe you will see that I loved too,
Just not in your way.

You taste like mango,
awfully sweet,
staining my shirt.
May you be my guava?
For vanity wears red,
Jealousy hulks in green.

Nurture my body
with your nutritious leaves,
show me your plums,
muddy brown,
pregnant with seeds.

Do not forget my pineapple,
its bright tint painting
the plate of my heart,
splashing joy onto the cutlery.

Our mulberries,
nature’s lipstick,
crafted for my plump lips,
while oranges and bananas
find their way
into our careless words.

From the first hello to the most recent goodbye,
I can’t hide my smile when you look in my eyes.

A sweet whisper-like melody,
Every word sings quixotically.

Sideways glances from across the hall,
And all the times I can recall
Of anxiously hoping to run into you,
And wondering if you ever had a clue…

You had me from the first day.
These words were once so hard to say.
I just hoped you’d find it a surprise
That I can convey a lot with my eyes.

There is something about the way you are
That makes it difficult for me to stay far.
And even though I always poke fun at you,
Know it’s a unique way to show my love is true.

So take my hand and twirl me around,
And we’ll lose ourselves in the stars that surround.
And even though you hate to dance,
Always know you’re worth the chance

Lisa Sagardia Shapiro

I.
She was a difficult person, too smart for academia perhaps
and reluctant to self-promote
and angry that she was unsung unlike her acclaimed grad school chums.
As Little Edie said she was a “staunch woman”
and the world—or her particular subfield of art history—
just didn’t like that.
She told me about the numerous friends and infrequent lovers
who had wronged her,
so I knew our friendship had a time stamp on it.
But O how we would kiki and make fun of our straight colleagues
(and how some of them deserved our bitchy ridicule
after all the phobic behavior they smugly presented to us queer folk!).
She was so witty and so lonely too.
Her lovely apartment on East End Avenue was covered in dust.
Sometimes she wanted an audience more than a friend,
other times I was her trusted ally, seeking and giving out advice, providing camaraderie.
And then I never saw her again.
Years later I found out she died from cancer.

II.
We had a stormy, silly romance.
I needed something time-consuming
to avoid focusing on my dissertation
and he certainly gave me drama with his erratic, if ardent, behavior.
He wasn’t working
and I noticed letters from the management company
for back rent piled on the kitchen table—
He lived in a doorman building, and I lived in a tenement.
But I paid my rent. And had money to take us out to dinner at the diner.
He had been a model for Valentino and was trained as a classical singer.
He was funny and loved to laugh.
He loved to call everyone Miss Thing,
including me.
He planned to become a Heldentenor
but he wasn’t quite ready he said to be on stage to sing heroic Wagnerian roles.
So he continued his voice lessons.
One day I noticed his back had mysterious spots on it.
He tested positive for HIV and I tested negative.
I pledged that I would stand by him
no matter what.
But then I never saw him again.
Years later I did a search on the Internet
And saw that he was married
and teaching voice at a college in the state where his mother was from.

III.
My mommy was a regal German-Irish feminist from the Bronx,
A strong swimmer afflicted with polio when young.
She was also a cry-baby like me and when we watched Old Yeller together, we sobbed,
and then laughed at each other.
She cried too when Bewitched was interrupted to announce that MLK was assassinated.
I tried to comfort her but couldn’t. No laughter then.
Later when I thought I was grown up, I started calling her by her first name.
She smiled each time I did this, as if to say,
call me what you want—
I know you are still my baby boy
and no matter what name you use
inside you are calling me Mommy and you always will.
Mommy was your first word and it will be your last.
O Jean. O Mommy. I have so much to tell you. I have a husband and a dog and I’m happy.
Well, most of the time.
I am taking care of your house, and its land, which is mine now, but it is still yours too.
And it turns out, I’m not crazy after all, but the world is.
In her last days she was in hospice care in her rented apartment in Brookline.
Though she was ready to be released from her shrinking body,
she took a turn for the better
and I jumped on the Amtrak train at Back Bay to resume my NYC life, if only for a few days.
But before the train pulled up to the Route 128 stop, my father called sobbing.
And then I never saw her again.

IV.
Sorry, but I refuse to sum up.
Yet I must confess
I have attempted the disappearing act too

October 18, 2024

t’s fucked up
and i mean that in the best way, in a way that you would say holding a neice or nephew for the first time. in a way that you would say skydiving or bungee jumping or storm chasing.

it’s fucked up
and i mean it in the way that i could sleep forever with her in my arms. i mean it in the way that im obsessed with her

it’s fucked up that this is a new kind of happiness. in the way that i’ve experienced new emotions in the past couple months. in the way that i didn’t have to be fucked up to fuck her, in the way that it didn’t feel like fucking

i’m fucked up
in the way that i’m not sure how she’s picked me. in the way that all of my insecurities have become static. in the way that i understand all the bullshit people say in the honeymoon phase. in the way that i’m fundamentally changing.

i’m totally and utterly fucked up. in the way that i’m shedding 21 like a snake. in the way that this girl is changing my life. in the way that i’m becoming. and becoming. and becoming.

Maezy Reign

We are not the same, not exactly,
And yet.
And yet we see one another mirrored
When we lay
Eye to eye.
Tit to tit.
Legs and arms and ribs and hair.
Strip me bare and you will find that once upon a time I was just as you are now.
Let me
For a moment
Take comfort
In the quintessence.
We are not the same, not exactly,
And yet
We have shockingly alike horror stories.
We have been violated in many of the same ways.
We have known the same monsters
All our lives
Though we call them different names.
We are so very nearly the same,
And yet.