Author: poetryfest

U.S. Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth
poured another drink from his half-empty bottle,
turned his attention back from placement of his next tattoo
to his notes for the forthcoming Congressional hearing, and read aloud…

“To a man our brave and lethal American fighting men…
(No ma’am we did not ask the fighting ladies for their opinions)…
have insisted that we boost their morale by restoring base names
in remembrance of the Confederate generals who killed so many of their
Brothers in Blue during the historic Civil War.”

In his mind’s eye Secretary Hegseth envisioned his Congressional enemies
dumbstruck by the lethal eloquence of his argument, then continued…
“What other son of the American colonies has ever led a suicide charge
As glorious as that of General George Pickett on the last day of Gettysburg?
Gettysburg. Wow! Pickett sure does deserve to have his lethal name on a fort.”

Secretary Hegseth made a mental note that his next tattoo should be of
General Pickett sword in hand leading the charge up Cemetery Ridge.
Then he went back to his notes…

“And who knew better how to keep our black brothers and sisters in line
than slaveholders like Robert E. Lee and Braxton Bragg and Nathan Bedford Forrest?
We must free our lethal military from DEI nonsense and restore these lethal leader’s names.”
In his mind’s eye Secretary Hegseth visualized the amazement on the faces of
Congressional representatives who had clearly never thought of things this way.

Secretary Hegseth took another sip and looked over his roster of other
great military commanders who had played such a memorable role in
shaping the lethality of today’s lethal killing machine and who also deserved to have
their lethal names emblazoned on an American military facility.

At the top of Secretary Hegseth’s list was Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto,
without whom Americans would not celebrate Pearl Harbor Day every December 7.
To make sure that we never forgot that Day of Infamy, Secretary Hegseth determined to
rename Naval Station Pearl Harbor to Port Yamamoto.

Knowing that the greatness of a commander is determined by the greatness of his enemies
and that without Field Marshal Erwin Rommel, General George Patton would be a footnote of history,
Secretary Hegseth determined to rename Fort Irwin (whoever that was) in California’s Mojave Desert
to Fort Desert Fox, a sexier name for his lethal desert commandos.

To help us remember the Italian campaign of World War II Secretary Hegseth determined to
rename the Armed Forces Recruiting Station in Times Square, almost next door to Little Italy, to
Fort Kesselring, the German Field Marshal who did so much to get Italy out of the war
By killing so many Italians.

In appreciation of the fact that some of his Commander-in-Chief’s most staunch supporters
hailed from the Lone Star State of Texas, Secretary Hegseth had also decided to rename
The Alamo to Fort Antonio López de Santa Anna, the Mexican general without whom
“The Alamo” would be just another decrepit old mission building forgotten by time.

But why stop with just military bases?
Secretary Hegseth smiled at the brilliance of this lethal new insight.
Didn’t we also need to be reminded of the people who toughened us up from the inside?
He poured another drink as his warrior mind raced across the battlefield of possibilities.

In Birmingham Alabama he would rename Martin Luther King Jr. Drive to
Bull Conner Freeway in remembrance of the lawman who had a thing or two
to teach the wimpish liberal lunatic law enforcers of Blue American cities
about how to handle a mob with fire hoses and attack dogs.

Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth polished off his bottle and drifted off to sleep
into his recurring dream of the Big Beautiful Parade that would celebrate renaming of
The Pentagon to Fort Pete Hegseth in honor of his loyal service to
Commander-in-Chief-for-Life Corporal Bonespur.

for when the world grows smaller

The doctor said
“peripheral field loss”—
like a pasture
gated off.

I no longer see
from the corners.
The light comes now
through a tunnel,
a white veil
settles at the edges—

the peripheral gone,
like old neighbours
moved away
without goodbye.

It’s called
Giant Cell Arteritis,
an inflammation
that can steal sight
in a single flare—

at any time,
sometimes while we sleep.
There’s not always a warning.

And yet—
I found the yellow lens,
lemon balm
for the eyes.

Clip it on—
and the world exhales.

The shimmer of paper,
the edge of a bowl,
the clink of a cup—
return
with gentler purpose.

The blur is not banished,
but bathed—
in color
that cradles
what remains.

I turn my head
more than I used to,
tilt toward sound,
toward movement.

There is a way to see
without pushing,
without pain.

Through yellow,
I do not mourn
what has narrowed.
I widen inward.

I see in other ways:
the flicker of motion,
the pull of contrast,
the story
a shadow tells
when it thinks
I’m not seeing.

I am still seeing.
Just differently.

Author’s Note:
This poem reflects my experience with peripheral vision loss from Giant Cell Arteritis—an autoimmune condition that can steal sight without warning. My loss began during a flare while driving a back road to Scotland, just after visiting the Derwent Pencil Museum in Keswick.

The yellow clip-on lenses I now wear bring unexpected clarity and comfort. This poem marks a turning point: from fear to adaptation, from loss to a new way of seeing. It’s not just about what’s gone—but what remains.

Dedicated to the mellow, almost powerless sun of sweet springs and dreary falls.

The ghost of the sun, is a haunt, a haunt,
A specter, in the midst, of an everlasting night,
The night never takes over, not completely, filling in it’s face gaunt,
Misshapen and defeated, and taken over by soft mists of fog white.

Powerless, against the might, of the veils of the earth,
Some laden with dust, some smog, some reeking of the remains,
Of long lost reptiles, and gold, gold in worth,
Burning into besmirched skies, off mountains and plains.

The ghost of the sun haunts, reduced to a mere spectacle,
A dimmed kite, a mere trinket, not a ray touching the surface,
Floating between nothingness and a shivering presence, apoplectical,
Dipping into curtains of haze, losing, or losing harder, existing subsurface.

Can be seen, but the touch doesn’t smother,
Offering no warmth, no rays, barely slivers of light,
Sending into deep melancholy, and dark places, tother,
The leaves shrinking, colorless, and the grounds drying, into a blight.

A blight of the heavens, and of the oceans, rendered grey,
And the birds, that do not know if day or night, or perpetual twilight,
Burdens upon burdens, stones upon stones, down they weigh,
Upon the skies, and, the sun a haunt, in a perpetual night

I want you to leave the skillet stewing
and listen to the poem I am holding

you may bring yours after you finish
squashing sheets and steaming shirts

our pact need to be revised off and on
ironing words too is a domesticity,

to go lyrical with impulsive kisses
inside kitchen or a serenade on taps,

not crammed with ingredients your
recipe; knead fingers, mope hands

over a rattling kettle and a toaster
rinse cups and towel their dampness

by the time the taste eludes palettes
embracing in front of a burning hob.

I always catch myself thinking of you
My tears caught up in the one thing i could never have.
I pushed and found any excuse to lose you All because I couldn’t accept
who I was with you
My hands stained with red from eating the same berries you would pick and
send pictures of

Everything i do is a reminder of you.
I can’t listen to my music anymore
Now all the tunes have to be about you.
From one tale to the next I guess this is ours.
Every late night call i have just reminds me of the calls we had
Each giggle and laugh
Just replay in my head
Wondering why I couldn’t love you instead.

Moving on is lie
I’d hoped by now I would’ve
But the truth is easier to run away from then to face.
I’ll find any excuse to text you and then erase the words and close the
app.
But at my finger tips all I can think about is you.
And that makes me blue.

Things were over
like a snap of my fingers.

I felt like a flower bed
carefully curated
next to a grassy yard,
overgrown and needing a cut,
but the lawn mower,
instead of trimming the too long grass
ran over the beauty
of yellow, red, and blues,
textures fuzzy and fluid,
whacked down without remorse.

But with a wry smile,
by you.

Prior however to the flowers being killed,
promptly every week,
They were cultivated with the most care.
they were watered and weeded,
they were even talked too,
so was the massacre some kind of mistake,
or was it premeditated?

And then I remember the wry smile.

Either way the why doesn’t matter
he decided to chop down our flowers,
and despite me being left
sitting in the remains
of chopped petals and crushed stems,

I got up,
and went to the grass adjacent,
that had been left
to grow tall with weeds,
and I slowly, with care,
began the long journey
of recultivating my own field.

Today I am mud
Slow moving stain of a soul
Waiting to dry out

1. Pine tar, peppermint,
old smoke, and new sweat, your scent
intoxicating

2. Arm over my chest
as you hit the brakes and curse
sweet seatbelt lover

3. Spends tip money on
disposable cameras
fills them in hours

4. Smile that seems to shout
here I am upturned and wide
let me change your life

5. Takes dictionary
sketches us under lovers,
meaning on his face

6. Calls himself painter
calls himself work in progress
calls us masterpiece

7. Tells me to do it
his hand on back a promise
Is love just belief?

Maybe one day I’ll be able to stop writing
about you,
And my inky blood will stop pouring out
onto each and every page, clotting
like bursts of pain, seeping out into the Silence
of this world.

Maybe one day I’ll be able to stop writing
about you,
perhaps your name, an imperative, will soften its edge
Fading from the lights it once glimmered in.