Author: poetryfest

BUzz of the fluorescents, hummin’ like bees
with a mortgage,
Socks shuffle down linoleum like jazz in slow
motion-
Midnight’s long fingers tap the window screen,
Time don’t walk here it leans.

Gertrude’s got a halo of curlers and gin,
She’s got lipstick older than orignal sin,
Tells the story ‘Bout Brooklyn again and again,
Says, “Kid, I danced with a ghost once… he
dipped me real mean.”
Time don’t walk here it leans.

The coffee’s burnt, but the stories are steeped,
In scars and medals and husbands who sleep
In places the nurses dont go after dark,
But Earl hums Stardust and flicks his spark-
The smoke curls up like forgotten dreams,
Time don’t walk here it leans.

There’s bingo on Tuesdays and pudding on
trays,
And love letters yellowed from wartime
delays,
There’s dentures that click in a Morse-cpde
praise
While the clock-ticks loud like it’s gnawin’ a
bone.
Time don’t walk here it leans.

One woman whispers to walls that don’t
answer.
A name like a prayer, a curse, or a cancer.
The TV’s a preacher with popcorn for teeth,
Selling salvation beneath a plastic wreath.
Death wears slippers and drinks caffine,
Time don’t walk here it leans.

The janitor’s mop writes poems in reverse,
Each swipe a stanza, each bucket a verse.
He says, “We’re all just ghosts with a checking acount,”
And the light flickers once, like it’s tryna
recount-
How silence hums in old machines…
Time don’t walk here it leans.

Midnight’s the loudest hour you’ll know,
With coughs in rythym and nurses in tow,
And the smell of cologne from a man long
gone,
Still lingers like lyrics to a forgotten song.
The hallways moans in minor keys…
Time don’t walk here it leans.

You want the bridge? It’s cracked but holdin’.
You want the truth? It’s bruised but golden.
You want the beat? It’s limpin’ but clean.
Time don’t walk here it leans.

and at last the vulture, the last chain, succumbs

,becomes a smoke thatched soft and meat
wasting vegetable smelling in the grass.

earlier in its years a’gyre, a bird mapping ends, abounding over and—
eyes—leather poignant smelling eyes—the way stethoscopes learn breath—
the eyes—pink-flowered—black-seeded—scan delicious slippery after-hours.

and attunement
to that scent.
proclivities of sun
safe eggs, babies
pierced in mud,
learned again
at each left behind
just-screaming heat.
dung and spoils
learned again.

earlier still the down child, the learn to fly
a recompense for hollow, learning descent, just finest feathers. a fool. it went both ways.

it all began as
an entirely unremarkable

egg.

After “Mock Orange” by Louis Gluck

It is not the sun, I tell you.
It’s these purple orchids
meditating along the verde pond.

I am in love with them.
Love like its petals
were sprinkled in my tea.
The orchid seeds ring
in my ears– signifying
life into my ovaries.

The sound of the pond,
running like the sound
of tea down my throat,
is the same. Resting
in my intestines–
the satisfied gasp
of a quenched thirst
leaves my lips. I lick
them– washing away
the remnants of turmeric
and ginger.

This is bliss. The herbs,
the florals, and the pool
in which they reside.

Grief is like reaching into the dark
and closing your hand around a sharp stone.
It cuts without warning.
You don’t know how to hold it – only that it hurts.

But over time, your grip changes.
The sharpness remains, but no longer wounds.

It becomes a part of a garden of memories,
still jagged, still real,
yet you now turn it gently in your hands –
a precious stone, treasured with care.

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.”