Author: poetryfest

How can I still want you when i Know you’re toxic?

But when I’m not near you I can’t help it.

Hearing from your sweet voice makes my heart skip a beat.

For you…

I’d drop everything..

But…

would you do the same??

No..

you just leave the line to ring…

Unresponsive text messages and nights of the unknown.

Makes me question…”who you were with?” that you can’t answer your phone.

I know you deal to get by…

And liking you could be my demise…

Feeling so high when I’m with you I know I’m addicted.

Am I not enough for you to even send A simple text message.

I’ll forgive you again because in the end..

We are only just friends.

But..

boy you really got a hold on me..

And right now it’s hard to control these feelings.

Bear sets up a spike camp
closer to the fire.
A high meadow where lupine still bloom,
A meander between Ponderosa pines,
stately elders with corrugated bark
fragrant like caramel.

Bear fells a pine, limbs it, saws board lengths,
lines them atop crossed timbers
tables at waist height
so jumpers don’t have to crouch to eat
after digging fireline for hours, nights, days

Bear carves seats with backs
from the trunks of downed trees,
places them in conversational groupings.
Chainsaw aria.

On the west side of the meadow,
he ropes together bark-covered limbs
to make shower stalls.
Rigs bladders of water above them,
sunshine and gravity do the rest.
On the south end he drags away
elbows of deadfall,
elk scat, and stray rock,
to make
sleeping quarters on smooth ground.
Sets up a book exchange in an ammo box.
Free library in the woods.

At the center of spike camp,
he builds a bulletin board
where incident news gets posted.

Downwind, a good distance away,
Bear sets up an outdoor toilet
with its own graffiti board:
paper, Sharpies,
wood and carving tools.
Spike camp is better than home.

He was lying
from day one.
I was blind
all this time.
Regret the day
that I saw that guy.
There are wounds
in my heart;
they’ll leave scars for a lifetime.
Everything has its price
and I was charged
way too much.
For something that I never
intended to buy.
Four years of nothing but lies.

I carry with me

A package of tortillas

Made from the hands of my aunt

Those traditional loving

Flat pieces of flour

Which cover my soul

With the most delicious scent

I put on top of it

My sorrow of loss

My mother’s kisses before

Going to school

And the last hug I gave her

On her departing sleep

I can’t forget the guacamole

Inside what will be

my most delicious taco

And the idea

That being Mexican

Is eating tacos

Because there is no other way

Either taco, mariachi, sombrero

Poncho, margarita, and Cancun

These elements define me

They flavor my tortilla

With the ideas from outside

But what Mexico really means to me

Is the smell of the wet soil

In a misty morning in Cuetzálan

Walking in the paving stones without even seeing my legs

The eyes of the jaguar in the jungle

Yellow as the dawn in Oaxaca.

Canela and piloncillo

In my morning coffee

What it truly means to hold

Someone for more than five minutes

The essence and spice of hearing te amo

And the candles

That light up our hearts

Inside the cemetery

Where we left our hearts

Where we lost our souls

Where we believe still

That we will re-duplicate

That embrace

I take a bite of my tortilla

And see her eyes

I hear her voice

And the sound is so sweet

Like honey dripping

Down my spine

How I miss you my land

How I miss you my womb

And the butterflies

Who follow my walks of the world

Hand in hand

With cacao and water.

By Tessie Herrasti

It takes form as weakness
Its shapes vary in sizes of all kind
It grows, it flows, and gets nourishment from the weak
It affects the young, old, and the people we cherish
It can penetrate through the bones
It hovers around cells
It can cause heartache
It is your worse headache
It can cut off body parts
It can cause blindness
It sometimes cannot be seen
It can temporarily disappear
It comes in stages and is ageless
It stops for no one
It waits forever with no time limit
It doesn’t discriminate
It runs rampant through bloodstreams
It affects the graceful and is elaborate
It waits there for just the right time to standstill
It kills

When my father died I dressed
in the clothes I had on
and waited with my
mother for the crematory staff
to come and take his body,
stiff but no longer sore,
cooling, but not yet cold.
When my father died
I pulled the arrow
from beneath his wing
saw the blood seep
onto his red feathers
before he flew away
skittering along,
for he could rise
no higher searching
for a safe place,
and I wept for him
and for myself.
When my father died
I pulled the trigger
that sent the shot
into the bare limbs
where sparrows
land in spring,
to rest,
and shelter.
When my father died
I pulled the hook
from his taut lip,
slit his belly,
slid my finger
up his opened gut,
pulled out his heart,
laid it in ground
moist with piss
and ate the flesh.
I heard the steel drum beat once
when my father died,
carried him
to the high grass,
dug a shallow
grave in the rain,
gave him
his last rites
and left his bones
to dry.
When my father died I saw
his body take three shots
rolling away with each
as if leaping out
of harm’s way,
but the damage was done.
his meat was inedible,
his pelt, like his death
of no value.
When my father died
his body went to heaven
but I don’t know where
his soul went
because I didn’t see it
leave.
When my father died
I saw his body
on the altar
and knew his soul
was already in heaven.
When my father died
his grandsons dug
his grave.
When my father died
the cannons fired,
the flags waved,
the doves flew,
and the night wore
sequins on her dress.
When my father died
I cut the grapes
and made the wine.
When my father died
I moved on
but never left.
When my father died
I heard the heart
within give up.
And when my fathers
all had died
I was left
to clean up
what was needed
to be done,
and did,
but how the years
flew by.

the morning you left your
damp towel still hanging
onto the shower door

the last drops of warmth gliding
down the glass wall
has slowly been wilting
since the day i put them there for you
to smell as you wake nothing but
thorns

left
a droplet coffee next
to the cup next
to the glass next
to my bed

the last bit of your lips lingering
in my room
apart from these things
i will not be not moving
for days
i was home alone again
@found_poet

“Donner Dinner” Robert D. Carver Copyright © 2018
IF EVER TO A DINNER PARTY BY THE FAMILY KNOWN AS DONNER YOU’RE INVITED,
IF I WERE YOU, I TRULY WOULDN’T BECOME TOO EXCITED.
IMMEDIATELY UPON YOUR ARRIVAL, YOU DISCOVER THAT THEN YOU HAVE TO DEAL
WITH A HOSTESS WHO WILL BE MORTALLY OFFENDED WHEN YOU REVEAL
THAT YOUR STAY WILL NOT BE EXTENDED—
YOUR DIETICIAN RECOMMENDED YOU ONLY EAT A VERY LIGHT MEAL
AND YOU LEARN YOU ARE INTENDED AS THE MAIN COURSE ON THE MENU—
AS A GOURMET SUBSTITUTE FOR A FILLET OF MILK-FED VEAL!
YOU’LL BE SERVED UP WITH BOULIABAISE PLUS A GARNISHEE’
AND ALLSPICE, IF YOU DON’T HEED MY ADVICE AND VERY QUICKLY FLEE!

THE DONNER FAMILY DINNER PARTY HAVE A WELL-HONED APPETITE
THAT IS QUITE HEARTY, ESPECIALLY FOR LONG-PIG, AKA HUMAN FLESH,
THEY ARE ALL FOR CONSUMIN’ IT WITH SPICES SUCH AS CUMIN—
BUT ONLY WHEN IT HAS BEEN BUTCHERED FRESH.

THEY PREFER IT WHEN IT HAS BEEN WELL-STEWED IN A POT,
FOR DINNER, LUNCH OR AN AFTERSCHOOL SNACK;
BUT THEY’LL DEVOUR IT WHETHER IT’S COLD OR HOT,
THEY START TO DROOL AND THEIR LIPS THEY SMACK.

MY MUSCLES WELL-BROILED AND BRAZED UPON A ROASTING SPIT OR RACK……
WHEN I ENCOUNTERED THE JUNIOR BONNERS IT WAS NO CHANCE MEETING—
IT HAD FOR A LONG TIME BEEN THEIR CHERISHED GOAL—
I SHOULD HAVE QUICKLY FLED AT THEIR FIRST GREETING;
THOUGH AT FIRST GLANCE, IT WAS MERELY FLEETING.
I COULDN’T HAVE KNOWN THAT I WAS FATED TO PAY A TERRIBLE TOLL.

ANY ATTEMPTED ESCAPE WOULD HAVE PROVEN SELF-DEFEATING;
THEY WERE DETERMINED TO EXECUTE THEIR CHOSEN ROLE;
EACH TO PERFORM WITH GUSTO—NOT TO MENTION LUST, OH—
WHICH ENTAILS MY STEAMING ENTRAILS BEING SERVED UP IN A BOWL;
MY BODY FLAYED, MY HEAD DISPLAYED UPON A SHARPENED POLE!

THE DONNER FAMILY DINNER PARTIES HAVE A WELL-EARNED REPUTATION FOR MASTICATION…
MY LIFEBLOOD IN A BEAKER WOULD HAVE BEEN BRIMMING,
AFTER STRAINING AND SKIMMING THROUGH A SIEVE;
THE AUVOIR DUPOIS, AFTER TRIMMING, WOULD HAVE BEEN CONSIGNED TO SUET;
WHAT THEY MIGHT HAVE BEEN THINKING AS THEY WERE DRINKING IT—
LIKE A CHAMPAGNE SPLIT—

BUT I WAS DETERMINED NOT TO ALLOW SOME CANNIBAL TO EXERCISE HIS MANDIBLE,
WHILE HIS THIRST HE SLAKED,
THEN TO TOP IT ALL OFF WITH A CAKE OR PIE IN WHICH MY SWEETMEATS HAD BEEN BAKED……

INSTEAD I VERY QUICKLY DID A FLIT!

THAT WAS THE WORST NIGHTMARE, EVEN AFTER EXTREMELY LIGHT FARE—
I’M REALLY GLAD I DIDN’T DIE—
I’VE COMPLETELY LOST MY APPETITE!

was not born on a hot summer evening
no sunsets to be felt or seen
through clear glass jam jars on a patio table

was not born on a warm spring day
no Blue jays sang or sat in trees among
amber monarchs butterflies fluttering

was not born in a brisk autumn morning
no sound of crispy cranberry maple leaves being stepped on
no lingering pumpkin spice, cinnamon and nutmeg lattes in the air

born during cold, gusty winds
white blankets covered all dead things

where my father’s numb fingers peaked through torn gloves
when my mother was induced to save us both

it was during a time where all things would soon resurrect
return, bloom and given a second chance

Can death be sweet, like trick or treat,
When your whole-body aches, even your feet,
There’s nothing to do, to silence the roar,
You want to let go, so your body can soar.

The pains just too great, to stay alive,
I know most, just want to survive,
Just remember that term, quality of life,
means nothing now, it’s just a sharp knife.

Why should I care, why should I stay,
my life doesn’t matter, to most anyway,
My kids turned their backs, they think I fell,
Into the center of Earth, to a fiery hell.

I loved them so much, I gave them my all,
Yet when I’m hurt, and ready to fall,
the phone doesn’t ring, no knock on the door,
They couldn’t care, if I’m flat on the floor.

The pain in my heart, the pain in my soul,
is far worse than my body, will ever know,
I want to scream out, I want them to hear,
the damage they’ve done, but they have a deaf ear.

So don’t preach to me, about letting go,
You don’t know my pain, I put on a show,
the drugs can do that, I live in a haze,
my mind never clear, my eyes in a glaze.

So when my eyes close, for the last time,
Just dry your tears, and open the wine,
Don’t cry over me, I’ve had a good life,
Much of it happiness, along with the strife,

All the ups and the downs, life’s a journey for sure,
No room for regrets, no room for a cure,
When my peace finally comes, my new journey will start,
My soul will fly high, I’ll have peace in my heart.