Author: poetryfest

Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

Let’s take a walk
You said.
Okay, I said.
And here we are
High above the East River
On a pedestrian walkway
On the Triboro Bridge
Hiking from Astoria
To Randall’s Island
As rush-hour traffic
Streams by.
I hate my life
You say.
And I know
You’re not joking.
I wonder if you’re
Thinking of jumping
And what I would do
If you did.
It’s a long way down
To the tug
Pushing a barge
On fiery waters
As it disappears
Beneath the bridge.
Should I grab
For your arm
And probably die too
Or simply admit
I want to live
And let you fall.
It’s late afternoon
When we finally reach
Our destination
Descending a cement
Stairway that deposits us
Onto a parking lot
Near the Manhattan
Psychiatric Center.

II.

We’re both too tired
To turn around
And walk back
Over the bridge.
The only other exit
Off this island
Is a narrow
Pedestrian overpass
That connects it
With Manhattan
But to get there
We have to cross
The grounds of the
Mental institution
And blocking our way
Is a guard in a booth.
You’re reporters!
He shouts at us,
Trying to do
Another fucking expose!
No, we protest,
We just want to get back
To the city so we can
Take a subway home.
He pats us down
And searches our bags
Then grudgingly waves us on.
It’s early evening now
And large bright lights
Come on, illuminating
Everything surreally.
We can clearly see inmates
Through plate-glass windows
In 1ow, ranch-styIe buildings
Watching TV.
If it weren’t
For the barbed-wire
You’d almost think
We were in suburbia.

III.

Beyond the last building
The underbrush thickens
And the asphalt path
Is cracked and broken.
It’s pitch black —
A hot, humid night.
Indistinct shapes
Dart into the bushes
In front of us —
I take out
My Swiss Army Knife
All two inches of it
And flick it open
Just in case.
And, like that
We come upon
The other guard booth
Burnt out
And abandoned long ago.
I’m not feeling too good
But you grab my arm
And motion
To a string of lights
Rising above the trees
And I realize
It’s the footbridge.
As we step onto it
We’re almost swept away
By a wave of humanity
Swarming from Manhattan
Onto Randall’s Island —
A never-ending procession
Of shopping bag ladies
Sneaker kids, junkies
And sodacan collectors —
And we the only two leaving
Tired and relieved
And even perhaps vaguely
In love with each other.

Performed by Val Cole

Poem:

If only I could see

with a mind without

Distractions.

what would I see

would I see me

what would I do

would I take a knife

and then take a life

would I see

clarity

Would I be

Free

Or are the distractions in our

lives the only thing keeping

us : alive, awake, moving, and Breathing

I Care not to Care

but by not going there

Am I impaired?

a Pair of pears

leafy limbs, barky trunk.

dangling tucked

Together

the two

Their branches Bonded

and

the

Bonds of time

simple as a pear

unravel when we Sleep

we escape

Reality when we sleep

Why steep in sleep

Revel in a bottle

waggle and wiggle

giddily giggle

Your awake,

drown

Your senses to sleep

Don’t Be Weak

Don’t Sleep

Keep to your feet

Drink and you can

Sleep Then

Forget

I forgot if it was

worth

Remembering

anyways.

Is any of it?

Worth anything?

at all?

Can it be true? Or, is it a rumour?
Boris has said we can come out sooner!
don’t hold your breath but could it be happening?
Is it to stop the economy collapsing?

Can’t even begin to hope it’s true
After everything we’ve all been through
we may be back to normal by spring
before we are well and truly unhinged

What do we do? How do we act?
are the odds against us stacked?
Can it ever be the same again
No one is certain a 100 per cent

we’ve been a long time in isolation
with no human contact or conversation
will have to learn new social skills
and come off all our anxiety pills

We’ll never forget the start of the twenties
Panic buying and toilet roll frenzies
The incredible science behind our jabs
Working wonders in their labs

It makes you wonder did this actually happen?
It’s hard now really to imagine
Pfizer and AstraZeneca the big tech brands
Our lives literally in their hands

We’re now getting jabbed in all sorts of places
Sharp eager eyes behind masked faces
So very lucky we live in a place
affectively saving the human race

This strain is bad enough – it’s been stated
It’s the new ones coming which have mutated
If we don’t eradicate it from the face of the earth
I feel the fatalities will be far far worse

we now see the light shining at the end
It was hard at first to comprehend
we have to wait – it’s been really tough
that day can never come soon enough 💕

Of the many pastimes, that I play at sometimes
My favourite thing is the writing of rhymes.
I’ve fiddled with riddles, since I was but little.
A bad one’s a sad one, a good ‘un fair chimes.
I grill and I thrill, as I bend to my will.
It’s fruity, it suits me, it’s lemon and limes.
Unbidden, the words spring to life in my head.
I grab one, I stab one, before they have fled.

They won’t go away, they’re determined to stay
And dance, in a trance, in a sashay display.
The rhyme in the stanza, for me is the answer.
Each Haiku that I do, a bonny bonanza.
A bee in my bonnet, as I sing my sonnet
To use it, is music, to lose it is chronic.
I’m impelled to, compelled to, I must do, I need ter
Search, nay research, for some rhyme in my meter.

I’ll play all the day, for some words that just may
E’en shift me, uplift me, a roll in the hay.
It’s easy, it’s peasy, it’s what poets do
It sneaks in and peaks in, while I’m on the loo.
Sometimes sensational, oft inspirational
Frantic, its antics, my Little Boy Blue.
I’m in it, to win it, I don’t often bin it
When my wit, is unfit though, I might have to thin it.

If I get marooned, in the mid-afternoon
By a girl in a whirl, or a dame in a swoon
Have a nail in my pail, catch a thorn in my prune
Anchor my Tanka, before it balloons.
Then I mean, to be seen, to make it a rule
To read to the readers, my audience who’ll
Say Hobbo’s a laddo, he’s nobody’s fool
He’s sunny, he’s funny, the drool in my pool.

So for humans with lumens, with light in your pen
And actors with factors poetical, then
Stop fighting, get writing, through dictionary roam
Desire to inspire us, and sire us a poem.

Submitted by Hobbo of http://www.hobbospoems.com

Ions we use to impress an electrical current that others will ride, making the current become an event, feeling alive.

First impressions sometimes give people drive but seeing things on the surface can at times be a disguise.

The pressed ions explode and become vaporized, hopefully leaving remnants that will not keep blinding your site.

Beware of the current events you choose to ride, the slope can be slippery, and you can slide.

Slide into what lies beneath and see the things they were trying to hide.

The truth will always come seeping through from the inside.

Remember, what you see on the surface sometimes is far away in distance from what resides, so use your frequency to check out the vibe.

http://www.inheritthebeautywithinblog.com

A year has passed
Times have changed
The world stopped…
Then kind of started again

A year has passed
Keeping our distance
Washing our hands
A new sort of normal

A year has passed
Did we learn?
Apparently not enough
The numbers still grow

A year has passed
No job, no money
Government funding is slow
Bills to pay still come fast

A year has passed
The struggle is real
Life goes on…
But only for some

A year has passed…
The pandemic has not
The future is unclear
But we still have hope

http://www.JoLinsdell.com

I search for you.
I look you up in this world,
Amongst the footsteps of time,
And I try to remember
How it feels not to be
Longing for love.

I search for you.
And the snowflakes fall
Like the petals of a flower
By the end of autumn.
Like the petals of a flower
From the summer of my heart.

I search for you.
I enclasp the petals of love
But I know those petals are
Snowflakes of the winter of my body.

I search for you.
I still hold in my palms
The melting snowflakes;
And my love is lost
In drops that keep on dripping
And hit with hollow sound
The earth of this world.
I search for you. But you are nowhere to be found.

© 2021 Carmen Silva

Why is it that the good times never last?

A home of aqua, as organic as it gets,
warm, wholesome, wonderful and wondrous.
An enclosure of bliss, a place of love – no, no, a place
made of love.

Suddenly, out of nowhere,
like a thief in the night,
like a menacing phantom,
it comes,
the end of hospitality,
the earthquake,
the catastrophe.
It’s like the fate of my own personal planet Krypton:
I’m sent off while all behind me falls to pieces.

I travel to the light, unwillingly,
It’s so very intense and much too bright.
The big squeeze into another world that seems way too large
and wide and weird and alien.

Well now, this cannot be right…

I try to mourn my loss in silence when some bastard slaps me for no good reason.
Ugly faces smile at me like idiots as the last link to my safe haven is forever cut.
Crying seems the only sober, sane and sensible course of action left at this point.
And boy do I cry. I let it reap, I don’t even give
a shit. I’m wailing and bellowing away for all it’s worth.

Abruptly, I’m lifted,
I am embraced
by hands that hold me tightly
and safely upon a soft bosom.
Unlimited love emanates from this person that looks upon me
with the sweetest of smiles and I can’t help but melt into the embrace.
Hell, this is not such a scary place after all.

You never knew how beautiful you were because you were naive and young.
You never knew how beautiful you were because no one ever told you,
but I knew.

Hate you for how you look.
Hate you for just being you.
ALL YOU KNEW WAS…
hate.
Ostracized and crucified because you didn’t look like them.
Uncle…
sweet Uncle, loved you in a way that he shouldn’t have and that was…
hate disguised as love.
And that became a problem.

No one protected you from darkness.
All you wanted was love and to be LOVED.
Self-hate was ingrained in every fiber of your being.
You were sent away and disregarded like an old dilapidated dog ready to be euthanized.
Forgotten about and swept under the rug like crumbs on a dirty kitchen floor.
Out of sight.
Out of mind.
Your problem became me and I was the secret with no one to blame.
HUSH CHILD!
No one was willing to accept or acknowledge me and I hated you for that.
Wailing non stop because I knew I couldn’t stay with you.
And you didn’t want me too.
You didn’t want me.
I know you.
I am you.
I arrived and I wasn’t invited.
Swept out of your arms without hesitation or regret.
Self-hate resonating within me and I can’t even talk.
Where can I place the blame?
You? Him? Them?
I blame myself.
Me?
Me.
Ostracized and crucified because I don’t belong.
I don’t belong to you, or them.
Who am I? I don’t know.
I reject love.
How can I love when rejection is all I know?
Darkness.
I carry my hurt, my pain, my shame with me everywhere I go.
Like an imaginary friend ready to be introduced to the world.
You left this world too soon and with a lot of things left unsaid.
My heart aches for you,
because you were the one person who I thought could have saved me.
How could you save me when you couldn’t save yourself?

is a mighty big leap
too careful for the carefree
too cautious for the risky

From blindness to mindful
is more than hide and seek
or so it seems
resting here in fugitive shadows
where knowledge
is naughty
and shameful is lost

where beauty is measured in
shouts and frets
and to go against masters is
the game
while equipped only
with a simple child’s aim

The ancients know the mystery
laughing now in holy death
a tremendous roar in near silence
that barely the wise may hear

where knowledge is naughty
and shameful is lost
where wild becomes tame
where the adage is never aged
saying always what will be best
is simply to keep that
child’s aim

Oh so you say it’s a poor poet’s plea
hidden in common rhyme, lost in
daily meter
where reason taunts with rawness
scaring and scarring some seasoned tales
of make believe comfort
where acceptance reigns regal, where there’s
no need to blame
where a simple child
has simply lost his aim