Author: poetryfest

Can you see
A little tree
Somewhere by the water
Oh, a pond or creek
I mean, that’s important later
But this tree, you see
Is a special thing
At least, I like to think
That it has a story
For us to share
Sometime along the way
About how its branches
Grasp at the sky
White, little flowers and
Sharp green leaves cut
And twisting against the
White and blue
Of the sky
And like the sky
Does often fall
So too, do the petals
Drift slowly down
To rest upon the
Grass and stone
Now the grass
It may be tall, or
Depending, kept a little short
Like the tree
But still, it’s there and grows
Ever presently beside the stone
Although, the stone itself
Well, that does not grow
But petals and moss
Find the grooves of the way
The stone is shaped
Shaped or made, well
Who’s to say since we
Can’t see what they say
But down the hill–
Oh, I forgot
About the hill–
Well, can you see
The tree upon a hill
Where the petals drift
All around and find a way
To rest upon the pond
Oh, there it is, the water
Just below the hill
Where the ducks sit
Just beside the petals
I’m sorry it’s not a creek
But not every part
Of what I say
May be, as we’ll see
All that true, trust me
Beacause what stones
Below a tree, covered in moss
Do you often see
But looking at
The ducks and the tree
I wonder really
To be free
Must we go
For paradise to
Finally be seen

You drift beneath the arches, dressed in black
I wear my finest dress, my truth unveiled
The requiem sends shivers down your back
“This wedding is a funeral” you exhale

Our graves are side by side, we tempt the line
The scream of silence carries through with chill
And still we try to unmeet our eyes
“That could have been our vow” it spooks me still

We haunt the ballroom where the party sings
The revellers all shine beneath the lights
The crystal ball that hangs above now spins
And finds us glowing in funeral white

This night becomes the graveyard of our past
At least we’re here to lay ourselves to rest
Forget our vows, we lost them in the dark
Two phantoms find closure within their death

This is how to wear lipstick: twin smears on apples of the cheeks, tip of noise.
[Blend with pinky in vaseline.]

This is how to moisturize: greasy coats of baby oil and cupcake coconut butter.
[Repeat till skin is soft and slippery, i.e sweet-smelling eel.]

This is how to take a bath: boil water, rock salt soap, charcoal body scrub.
[Scrub till skin is a raw, red thing, really clean.]

This is how to have dinner: stuck in traffic, in car he ordered, [President’s in town, streets barricaded,] the restaurant, Italian, Upper East Side is empty. You’re alone and relieved because he’s Mr. Prince, 69, from New York, and the old Sugar Baby account you never took too seriously.

This is how to throw up: in restaurant bathroom, regurgitate shrimp linguine, brown chunks of balsamic mozzarella, sun-dried tomatoes, anchovies, delicate red apple crescents, go back to the table, polish off bottle, wash down with whiskey digestive. This is how to go back: to his place for dessert wine, so sweet, like apple juice, but not the watered-down kind for kids, listen to him talk about his kids with learning disabilities, kids older than you now, medicated for over two decades, he was so proud—They caught it young.

This is “how to disappear” plays over the speaker. He has put on Lana, a condom, and by the chorus, you are all done.

You could ask me anything
And I would say yes
Just to see your eyes glow
And light up my world
To see your teeth glisten in the sunlight
As your lips turn upwards into a smile
Nothing would be too much for me
To make you happy
Ask me to cook dinner, and I will stand
In the kitchen for hours
Want me to fold your laundry? I’ll say…
Yes honey

But all of the enthusiastic servitude
Has spoiled you
Has broken me

You wish for me to be a quiet girl
So I stop sharing my opinion
Want me to dye my hair?
I know you’ve always liked blondes more than brunettes
If you need a hand, I will remove my dominant
When you feel alone, I can reach into
My chest to hand you my heart so
You feel loved, anything you
Desire until I am half
Of a human
Half of a
woman

Before
The early October evening
when cool air stirs whispers
from the tops of the still green trees.
Flowers hold on to bloom
vibrantly refusing retirement.

I drink in the cool starry skies
my core still warm
from furnaced summer air,
and I deny what is to come.

After
The weeping red oak in my front lawn
sheds tears of orange that become
mottled brown and mixed with ashen dirt.

My dog’s weathered paws no longer
pad the beaten trail to the lake
and the wind hisses with an icy sting.

We buried her in the backyard
with promises to plant a lilac in the spring.

The nights are long.
The cold has set into my bones.

Twice, I see you up there, perched on the lamppost.
I know the omen said in folklores,
yet I feel nothing but liberation wash over me in the prairie evening breeze—
as though freedom might arrive with the morning light.

In the breeze, I hear the indigenous songs and howling—
the stomping and drumming pounding the earth beneath.
The omens foretold, and the ceremonial dancing to stave them off—
a crow to witness from above all that humans know of divine worship.

From a distance, I vicariously surrender to higher commands.
The messages were clear as they cried,
the expectations unmistakable as they sought deliverance.
No man shall suffer alone in disgrace.

You tried to rule the gods’ land, and fell hard into the caverns of deep truth.
You vowed vengeance against those who wronged you,
only to find the soulless act void of levity.
You cannot soar with the weighted morals of an iron anvil.

No human escapes the sentence of a biological origin.
An expiration is stamped, with no alterations to extend—only to shorten.
No more robust than God’s will for your protection.
A final end — will we return to the womb of the earth?

The crow knows.”

I choke on the finger I gnawed off my hand.
I took my false, gap toothed smile
and put my teeth to use
breaking my dry-ass skin
blending the fresh blood with my mucus and tears
and letting it drool from my lips like the rabies infected mutt you could’ve bred me to be
I pierced my muscle with my canines as she massaged your collar
and ground through the bone as your tongue slid down her throat.
I suctioned my lips round my index,
red sputtering from my traumatic amputation
before enclosing it within my trap.
My tongue fondled it like your hands on her breasts
and my nail skinned the roof of my mouth but I didn’t speak a fuckin’ word.
As you plotted your next outing to my ringing inner ears
I attempted to swallow my digit and countdown the days until your betrayal was drawn in
caricature
alas, it lodged in my windpipe
and I choke on my pointer to prevent from pointing out the traitor
because God forbid I hurt you,
God forbid I face you and let the blood beckon your tears.
I once would sooner stifle my gasps and die to baby your self-concept
than let you waste words on my pathetic pain you inflicted.
No More
let me shove my gut against the back of a kitchen chair
to heimlich up my finger and recover my speech.
Now face me,
and let my blood and spit sputter from my lips
as I say
Congratulations.

The bugs don’t care that you’ve died.
They still crawl over rocks.
The birds still sing.
The butterflies still fly.
The bees still buzz.
The fish still swim.
The moth still flutters.
Water still moves.
The moon still glows.
Leaves still fall.
The snow still comes.
Flowers still grow.
Trees still know
what once was ….

Throughout my childhood,
I looked up to strong women,
hoping to be just like them.
I feel a sense of despair when I realize
that I will never fill that role.
All those years of wanting
people to stare in awe at “how
strong that young woman is”;
knowing now that I will never be that woman.

I am just another man.
Man.
One syllable that carries so much weight.
As if being a man makes me toxic.
Makes me angry.
Makes me passionless.
Makes me temperamental and heartless.

But when I lay in my bed at night,
hidden by the cover of darkness,
I think how I want more than anything to look like one.
To be tall and muscular.
To have a chiseled jaw dusted with
The beginnings of a beard.
To speak in a voice with a
Timbre I can recognize as my own.

And more than that,
I want people to look at me and see
the softness of my heart, and
kindness in my eyes, and
love pouring out of my skin when I bleed.

I will never be a strong woman,
but I will be a decent man.

Alas, in happenstance, what I should see
But the bluest moon that shines for thee

No deeper tearful sorrow’s call
Can dull the waning evenfall

Hanging gently pon’ the stars
A lonely sight so ever far

Speaks to broken promise kiss
Paints the moonbeams gloomy bliss

Yet, hear the lies we lovers’ tell
Upon a hopeful wishing well

The love we give is ours alone
Can turn a broken heart to stone……