Author: poetryfest

Feminism by definition is equality of the sexes by right
There are good guys wiling to fight
The sun shines bright in the day, the moon at night.

Wo-Man, Fe-Male have unfortunate masculine tendencies for her
Unfair sexist innuendos can hurt and deter
Strong independence, sharp mind are weapons for sure…

Our bodies are different, but united they create life
First step is to court, love, then become a wife
Most Men promise not to cause her strife…

We are a separate gender this much is true
This should not forge inequality for me and you
Many years of suffrage, not to misconstrue…

To vote, to drive, to work is all they desire
Pull their weight, if qualified then hire
Equal wages will be baptism by fire…

As many years have passed us by
We should have learned not to turn a blind eye
No more excuses, if unsure, then ask why(?)!

Softly, quietly

Smoothly flowing inside.
Softly, softly
Quietly flowing ever.

Fragrant warm shadows
That call throughout the night
In serene even tones
And redundant compulsion.

Ever so smoothly in even means,
In quiet lanes and lilac fancies
And hushed violet strengths
To flow forever so smoothly
Into the darkness.

The river at night,
The quiet babbling brook.
The place not to be
In the middle of the darkness.
The closeness of death
And the quiet soft brook.

The smooth even rock
In the primordial forest.
Oh how we hope
There are not, there are no…
There are
High-flying screams
Of lurching pterodactyls
Flying in the gathering night.

In the graying dusk
Their terrified screams
And petrified trees
That stand on bleak edges
And wait for the life
That waits for the death of the night.

Black evil strength
That forces from them
And terrifies the night.
The smooth even flow
Of the ancient pterodactyls.

With wings
Whisking horribly in even tones
In quiet ravines,
In primordial forests
That are marshy and green.

By soft tinkling streams,
Waiting for the blackness of their cry
And waiting throughout the night.

We wait by soft tinkling streams
In ever-lush forests
And hear not
The cries in the night.

Does it get any easier I cried with grief in my eyes?
He tilted his head and sighed as he caressed his throat and his lips began to curl.

Then out came a lamenting reply, mumbling a subtle no and a nimble hand to my shoulder.
An overwhelming embrace and as the tears welled the truth became unveiled.

He explained, this is it kid better familiarize yourself with the elusive side of life.
Elicit your interests but not just for momentary instants.

It’s time to make up your mind and defeat your strife.
Realize your potential and forget about the adverse memories that cause affliction interminable.

He took a step back and held a curious smile. We aren’t much different you and me.
They come and go, the cheerful laughs and unwilling sorrow.
The only difference is I’ve found relief.

You’ve been all glitz and glamour up until now, don’t hold out on me let me know how.
A brief pause and a silent inhale, then the solution was expelled

Put down your tongue and open your heart, for the internal war isn’t finished,
but has only begun and you’re toe to line at the start.

Your advice has been cut and dry and has given me something to ponder. Do I know you from before?
He extended his hand for me to shake and said, my child more than you think.

I am you and you are me. As I grasped his hand in wonder, he dissipated into an electric mist
holding the remnants of a memory.

I’m only longing for connection.
It’s been like this for over two years.
I used to run in dreams direction,
But now I’m simply walking down the stairs.

I haven’t lived that long but been through plenty.
My journey has begun so long ago.
I write these words to keep grasp on my sanity.
Not sure how much of it is left to show…

I’m desperately longing for connection.
For somebody to see just who I am.
Not stereotype of foreigner reflection,
Not just a wife in shadow of a man.

No human should feel like less of a person.
No soul should feel it lives in golden cage.
No heart should live hiding true emotions.
No mind should scream in burning rage.

I’m drowning, longing for connection,
I’m walking on the mirror’s edge.
No longer see my own reflection,
It has been stuffed behind the stage.

I’m building castles and they burn to ashes,
I’m fighting air flows and typhoons all by myself.
I built, adopt, rebuilt and yet again it crashes.
Will ever be a hand there when I fell?

I’m mourning days when I have felt connection.
I’m missing times when I have felt alive.
I’m done. Enough! I must regain possession
Of making choices and living my own life.

Like Phenix rising from the ashes,
I once again intend to rise and stand.
My eyes will once again regain bright fire flashes.
I’ll fight for life until the very end.

by Polla-Ilariya Kozino

Transformation Map

An over- 50 women who is controlling and unable to trust others…

An over-50, women who has not had the courage to follow her dream…

An over-50, overburdened, compulsive caregiver whose identity is wrapped up in saving her dysfunctional family…

An insecure woman, who is obsessively saving her dysfunctional family, gains insight and confidence that she cannot change them…

A 51-year-old women who is preoccupied with saving her dysfunctional family gains clarity of her powerlessness to change others who don’t want to change, by finally pursuing her dream of making a documentary film uncovering the facts around her sister’s death to an opioid overdose.

You can say
what you want,
you’re totally free
to say
what you think,
that I’m not able
to speak with you,
that I’m not able
to have a good
relationship
with anyone,
but the true is
that I’ve been alone
fast all my life,
so I’m afraid
to say
that I’m tired.
Can you come here?
Shall I arrive there?
Nothing more.

Monfalcone, (Go), Italy, 8th April 2021

When the gasping finally ceases
and all is still.

Miracles begin, despite the halt
of arterial pulsations

life persists, plucked from the stem
like chlorophyll green

or scented blossoms.
Cell by cell are the living forged.

Euthanasia a false doctrine,
cell by cell shall life depart

and then rebirth, suicide offers
no succour

just an agonising waste of time
this is the promise of seed and soil.

When the heart stops ticking
nothing ends, immortality reigns.

As death brings decay a colony
thrives of microbes and sprites

within the dark shimmers
an obscure radiance

waning day after day
sprouting roots morphing forms.

Another scene upon this stage
pulp to seed, pollen in the winds

gliding with no wings
running streams, silent screams

death and rebirth
is the same moon or sun.

Let the rains come, in perpetuum
they return, like the sea breezes.

We are caught in the infinite
cycle of life.

Ladi Soyode (c)

With full berth and tethered sail I ventured on consignment
To cross high tide in heavy wind for sympathetic climates
My crew agreed to navigate the Austral Seamount Chain
Negotiate the Cape Of Horn and Polynesian Bay

Tribulation seized us in the Equatorial Current
Leaden sky, gale force wind, wall of sea like turrets

The first to fall, our medic, followed by my sextant
Crucial to the nauticals of any expedition
Next the sea claimed tragic men strung upon the mast
Pitched them through a tempest with an icon’ s fervent wrath

Abdication calmed the beast, roaring in respite
Content with soulful mariners, kindled by their lives

The sea, my only mistress, exotic, without fault
Faithful as her trade wind belts, loyal as her calms
The sea, my jealous temptress, struck at me in vain
When I sailed upon her tide pursuing fiscal gain

3 years volunteered earned Midshipman rank
A decade passed, ambition grasped the chance to re-acquaint
The need to heed desire’s seed, wealthy Alderman’s daughter
Product for sale, short shelf life, across uncharted waters

Paternal loans secured, my ship sailed out to sea
Where faithful men held sway upon windbound geography

The sea, my gentle temptress, exotic, full of splendor
Luring me with fantasies of sensual adventure
The sea, my elder mentor, filled me with ambition
When I sailed upon her tide with hope, longing, conviction

More desirable than silver, more valuable than gold
The consignment stock remained unharmed deep within the hold
Ten days since our reckoning the sky still gave us pause
Behind its charcoal canopy hid the Southern Cross

No wind to stir the sails, no star to guide the ship
In lieu of maritime allegiance my vessel lay adrift

The sea, my spiteful mistress, righteous in degree
Vengeful as her distant wind, shallow as her streams
The sea, my wicked temptress, burdened me with strife
When I failed to heed the beacon in her turning tide

Luck had not foreseen the storm, fortune held no sway
Nor would the sea concede envy to its helpless prey
Promised compensation, benefit to forget
Desperation filled my crew with a fool’s regret

Portions turned to rations, fear to destiny
Ship leaks in the hold, nearing mutiny

The sea, my angry widow, under your enthrall
Lead me to your gentle breeze, fury, transom, squall
The sea, my wicked jury, judgment pardon me
For I surrender to your deadlight infamy

The first to fall the Shires, workers, taught with length
Next, the wild Pintabian, known for speed and strength
Afternoon drew down the sun, horses fled the hold
Halfinger and Clydesdale, submerged to lighten load

Sacrificial sacrament, equine drowning near
Brought the wind once again with force enough to steer

The sea, my gracious savior, righteous in degree
Traded survival for a promise of economy
The sea, my elder mentor, tutored me condition
Never barter life while sailing her rendition

– James Grayford

Obsidian locks, speckled with snow.

A ruffian’s beard, dark as a hidden alcove.

Candle-lit eyes, deep as star stricken nights.

A visage a beauty, an emporium of delights.

Glaciers jut out, slicing the wind;

Those cheekbones of yours, cutting diagonal above chin.

The icy claws of this wintry house,

Leave me needing your touch and wanting your mouth.

Your lithe, svelte body: an image of grace;

Angling the heavens, honouring your face.

Your arms are safe havens, never-ending and strong.

The embraces bestowed are more-some and warm.

Your hands can hold the entire universe,

And balance on your pinky, our own little earth.

You walk among Gods in your towering stance,

As you weave through life, gifting your charming dance.

Genres: romantic, nature, life, love, relationships, peace

She smoothed faint creases from the clean, white square,
placed it across the scarred top, hiding that corner
where the woodgrain splintered and the clumsy repair
still showed ancient traces of our grandfather’s tools.

‘I found it in the shed’ my younger sister said,
‘Had to rescue it before the clearing sale’.
Our Grandmother made scones on this table,
Leaving flour embedded in cracks. I lift the cloth to see…

I recalled other foods, shelled peas, stringed beans,
and the chop chop chopping of tiny purple onions.
Misshapen carrots, potatoes and bunches of salad greens
from garden to table, this table, their table, my sister’s table.

I then remembered another clean white square of cotton.
Standing, eyes level with the tabletop, grandmother beside me,
baby powder scents the air. How could I have forgotten
her changing the baby, clean after a bath, on the kitchen table?

My sister pours a cup of tea, serves scones, dusted with flour,
and I sit in her kitchen, gently letting the years return.
Babies grow, grandparents age, and tables have the power
to let memories be born again.

©Yvonne Gluyas