Author: poetryfest

A Mutual thing,
just scrolling on the app, then I found him,
hesitation runs rampant,
but that first date sparks flew.

So much in common, but also not,
Legos, Star Wars, adventures, common.
Guns, anniversaries, planning,
remembering flowers and favorites, not.

There is love sometimes,
that stomach gurgling,
and anxiety-breathing kind of feeling,
the kind that knocks you off your feet.

Other times the kind of love is known,
out of convenience, wrapped in lavender,
to get our parents off our backs
because they think we’re someone else.

There are things that I don’t like,
things that I push through,
I don’t think I can change them,
I’m scared of change anyway.

Too much anxiety and dread creeping up,
in the end we decided, it was,
A mutual thing.

I still think about what to do
When I cannot control the circumstances
Alike waiting for nothing in some thoughtless queue

Combatting the shadows with fists anew
Can put us into different kind of trances
But ‘tis likely you’re waiting for nothing in this queue

I gather there’s something you’ve been through
Knew it when we exchanged glances
You’re conjuring up plans about what to do

Believe me, I’ve been there too
No need for the anxious, defensive stances
When you’re waiting for nothing this queue

Broken at home with a sickly sort-of flu
Contracted at the fall of a romance; is
There something you need to do?

Just take a seat and let it happen, due
Is your rent; while you take some chances
And time to think about what to do
Because all you must try is wait for nothing in this queue.

Maybe there’s no baby waiting at the end
of this mile-long string of months,
lining themselves up into years.

Perhaps I’m supposed to buy
a velvet couch to match the cat’s eyes,
pass my days scouring vintage shops
for an Issey Miyake dress I heard mention of
on an abandoned corner of the Internet—

our open nights spent swaying
together at whichever concert
tickles our fancy that week,

your thumb making circles against mine
on the quiet car rides home
after Mother’s Day brunches.

One day I might
get that ginkgo tattoo I imagine
on my forearm, the state of my body
no longer having to be pristine.

And I would be free of all the math!
Morning cup of coffee plus afternoon tea,
ovulation strip times basal temperature,
hours ’til my period no longer
minutes to midnight.

Is it so bad
that the hands of our alarm clocks
may always be drug down by sleep
and the promise of bagel sandwiches
on Sunday mornings?

Would I rather a lifetime
of skirting the globe as we wish,
adding mementos from varying cities
into our living room decor—

Manila for dinner,
New Orleans for dessert?

And nothing but time for the only other
who can understand
the quiet devastation we share
instead of a daughter;

Maybe that’s the gift.

The two of us doing magic:
missing the thing
we never had.

She mentions she is a Scorpio as if I should understand
as if that explains her cigarette fingers and sanpaku eyes.
White clouds surround the irises of the mountains.
I drive toward her on cruise control until I panic,
tap the brakes because the road winds in ways unfamiliar,
because I am a fearful person
and not a Scorpio.

Maybe I should learn to let the roads have their way with me,
the way the wind has its way with the leaves it coaxes
to dance, long after the foliage has gone brittle, brown.
Maybe I should ash out of the open window like a lesbian in a movie
not the kind of girl who drives only five miles over
the speed limit because she is a fearful person
and not a Scorpio.

It was a quick connection, a glorious fire
and it burned out slowly but completely
Sick without a cure, the embers lost their spark
Hooked up to the life support machine
Barely with the ability to gasp for air
and begging for somebody to pull the plug
Yet we’re both still clinging onto it
and hoping it’ll be awakened and rekindled
Because it’s all we’ve known for forever now

When I first saw you
it was instant connection.
We hadn’t yet met
but our eyes sought each other
and that’s how it began.
So we played flirting games with our eyes,
and in that way we did meet
through the little moments of time
when no words were needed.
We saw the things in each other
that others failed to notice;
little minute gestures
small but meaningful looks
pain and stories untold.
And at some point, people started to notice
and the invisible string between us
became tangible.
And with those realizations
came pressure and influence;
expectations placed on us without consent.
Our relationship shifted as if with the tide.
It ebbed and flowed;
our connection swelling and then shrinking.
sometimes it was as smooth
and lovely as sea glass
and came in waves, soft and peaceful
as caresses across my skin.
But there were times it became choppy
due to my fear and uncertainty
and my broken pieces inside.
Because the storm within me had begun.
And with it, brought a frenzy of confusion.
Waves of varying height and force
from all directions,
pulling me every which way.
And then I knew
that not just your eyes were on me;
there was another, eyeing me from a close distance.
This shadow, my trauma,
in the form of the eye of a storm.
Something I didn’t yet know
had such supreme affects on me.
But it was there,
watching and waiting to take me
to drag me in, straight into a whirlpool.
And yet still I knew
my feelings for you were pure and true
but deeper parts of my mind and vessel
were being overtaken by the storm.
So I pushed you away.
in some way thinking I was saving both of us.
Because I was a sinking ship
and would soon be towed under,
dragged into the darkest waters.
And I was scared.
Not by the depth of the water
but rather the depths of your soul.
For I saw this softness in you;
your kind heart,
your deep feelings,
your thoughts and actions full of compassion.
And your eyes,
your eyes that I knew would soon see me.
Not the shell shown to the world,
but the vast emptiness inside.
You would soon notice
what everyone else had missed.
You would ask questions
I wouldn’t have answers for
until over a decade later.
And so I let the storm take shape,
fully at its mercy; a bystander.
For I knew I was too hardened and damaged
to receive your softness.
It scared me; I was filled to the brim with fear.
More frightened of you than the storm within.
For I was not yet near understanding
or accepting what had been done to me.
And I was even further from healing myself
and being capable of returning softness.
Instead, I unleashed that storm within
and at the same time,
I bottled up everything else
and buried it deep, deep down inside of me.
And I continued on,
my outer facade in place.
A shell to protect and hide
what was truly inside.
And then I chose.
Not the opposite of softness,
but something else.
Something less capable of seeing
the lines and scars within me.
I found someone who picked up this shell
and believed my self-placed mirage
of beauty and normalcy.
I found someone
who wouldn’t dig too deep
to see the truth of my authentic self.
See, they took up spaced I needed filled.
At that time I needed someone less soft.
Someone louder and bigger
to be the focus
to distract and detract from me.
In a way that would protect me
from being discovered.
So I could continue to deny
and reduce myself down.
To hide real and sad and hurt parts of me
under my shell.
And I stayed down there, alone.
Way down deep in cold silt.
There I was, drowning,
burrowed in the sand.
And somehow,
slowly, oh so slowly,
I began digging myself out.
Without even realizing,
I peeked out from that lonely and artificial
safe space of my own making.
The shell cracked and started falling away.
To finally reveal my core;
a unique little Pearl.
Strong and shiny and made of every color.
A Pearl that is now ready
to see and be seen.
The Pearl was always hiding
forced to be small and concealed.
But with the passing of the storm,
once it stewed and brewed, and cooled.
After it ran its course,
and a sense of peaceful calm remained,
the Pearl was revealed.
And she is ready to be discovered,
so she begins looking for a soft dwelling.
And the Pearl knows.
That you’re not that safe resting place.
For that ship has sailed off
into an idyllic sunset you created.
But the Pearl is fully formed
and knows its value now.
She’s ready now, open to receive.
So she’ll patiently wait to be found
by a new One with that same softness;
the One with love and kindness
and eyes that see.
Because now the little Pearl can also answer
that kindness and compassion
with tenderness
and her own eyes that see.
She knows.
That One will find her.
And hold her close.
And will gently lay her
on a plush cushion
Made of soft velvet.
One meant just for her.

A cut-up verse
still drips from the veins of Amir,
flowing through the Fīn bathhouse—
where echoes scream
from the pulled syllables on cold stone arches.

▐ 10 dollar ▐
Is this the entry fee—
or the price of his blood?

▐ No Dogs Allowed ▐
Lest claws sink into memory
and return with the scent of the corpse.
Beware:
the guard cannot offer Amir’s bones
to satisfy every dog in Kāshān.

In a museum corner,
a boutique displays torn textiles:
“Made with one hundred percent natural dyes—
especially in liver-red, in charcoal-black.”
You, a suitable skewer—
your polished metal mirrors scorched memories.

I lift the burned shreds,
and on its shiny edge
my face is impaled.
I peel it back—
and find the cloth Amir once chose for his shroud.

Blood has learned new ways of seeing;
it circles,
weaving dead ends
through every fiber of cotton.
It fails—
but still,
his blood breathes through the weave
and clots along the museum’s wall.

Should I remove it—
the blood awakens hunger.
Who will it feast upon?

One hand sinks into wool:
a slaughtered sheep’s memories
shiver in my touch.
I can’t tell—
is the warmth from fleece,
or from the blood?

My other hand
slides through linen—
tainted with pruned softness
and the cotton fields
once watered by a farmer’s
two-thirds bodyweight in sweat.

Time’s boutique
has arranged its sacrifices
for consumer delight.

Now, drip by drip,
from the museum’s upper gallery—
these drops once washed blood away,
they witnessed murder
but were never called to testify.

Their reward:
to dwell atop the fountain.

There,
a spirit struggles—not yet released—
from the choking loop of self-harm.
It begs
from all still-possible moments
to suspend this one.
Perhaps it longs
to reclaim the breath
it lost
in the endless exhale of the fountain.

Perhaps
between the curls of arabesque,
it hopes to find a vein
that once belonged to Amir.

But the spirit,
fragmented across droplets,
remains lost—
for the fountain
is a failed connection
between pool and sky.
—
Aref Moallemi

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.