Author: poetryfest

I am a mosaic of everyone I have ever loved
Every story I have ever told
Every time I flew like a dove
Every time I held fast against the cold
Every time I just was someone
Every time I was so bold

I am the tiles of forgotten faces
Every smile I gave to the universe
Every time I cried in silent places
Every time I watched my heart disperse
Every time I fought until the sun blazes
Every time I broke my own self worth

I am undefined
Every note leading nowhere
Every time I was carried on by time
Every time I fought to care
Every time I reached for a hidden rhyme
Every time I was just dramatic flair

I am a painting by a thousand different painters
Every hope and fear cascading
Every time I didn’t fit within a container
Every time I felt hope disintegrating
Every time I was the entertainer
Every time I let tears out when it’s raining

I am every chip and every crack on my glass skeleton
Every fall bound for the ground
Every time I was left so sudden
Every time I stuck around
Every time I had a kiss that meant somethin’
Every time I was lost in the stars and never found

I am every word I have ever written
Every revolution and revelation I have ever heard
Every time I was one in a billion
Every time I was a part of the herd
Every time I left a feeling unwritten
Every time I won and death left me undeterred

I am a thousand and I am one but most of all
I am Dax Kvaal

Written by a young person at Echo Glen Children’s Center

My mother was supporting and helpful
with everything and what I did
I love her very much.

My father was gone.

Every noon me and my mom
would hangout
and do activities.

Every night me and my mom
would watch TV.

I was happy and thankful.

I learned about how much my mom
loved me.

The first time we met
I had no idea
That you would be important to me
Making an impact on my life

I had no idea who you were
I never heard about you at first
But the impact you had on me
Was everlasting

Even though we came from two different worlds
You turned out to be someone I’ve ended up looking up too
Someone that I can learn from
Someone that I can rely on

You reminded of someone that I used to know
Giving deja vu vibes
That first meeting we had
Was all too familiar

Overtime as we got to know each other
Turns out we’re similar
Even though you’re way ahead of me in life
Which gave me motivation to do better

I felt like I could tell you anything
And open myself to you
Which was strange at first
But it felt right

However,
We cannot be together
Even if we want too
Again,
We come from two different worlds

Society would frown upon us
If we were seen together
As a couple
As one

Rules had been put in place
For us to not be together
And not only that,
You’re tied to someone else

You feel something for me
But cannot pursue
Due to faith tying you to someone else
While I can only watch
Which hurts me on the inside
But I refused to show

The mutuality is there
The feelings between us
But we cannot be together
As it is forbidden

We walk two different paths
And faith brought us together
But we cannot actually be together
As it is forbidden

So I stay quiet
And life goes on
As you go with your person
But we both know deep down
That we were meant to be
But again,
It is forbidden

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.