Author: poetryfest

Submit your Poetry to the Festival. Three Options: 1) To post. 2) To have performed by an actor 3) To be made into a film.

LIFE Poem: Life!, by Trajada Jackson

Paralyzed, confused, hurt
All come to mind when I think of fear
Fear is one of my only constants in life
It holds me hostage
Stops me from reaching
Trying
Caring
As I grow older
I see the world continue without me
And I grow more and more exhausted
Exhausted of staying on the sidelines
Saying no to friends
Hell, saying no to myself
Is this what life is?
Constant heartache and fear?
No!
I refuse
I want to be happy
I deserve to be happy
So what if it sounds selfish
I am the only one who lives my life
And I have yet to live it
So I am deciding
Today
Right now
To be selfish
Yes
Fear will always be with me
But so will happiness, kindness, and love
The qualities that make me
The me
I’ve always wanted to be
Always deserved to be
And those qualities will scream for me
Louder than fear ever screamed against me

ARTIST Poem: “Stab Art to Death” or ‘Paint this Poem Red’, Lucien R. Starchild

You want to make something immortal?
Then grab the knife, not the brush,
let the canvas scream crimson,
let the gallery lights flicker
like a failing heartbeat.

No more soft metaphors,
no tasteful still lifes,
just the wet truth of the blade,
the way it parts flesh
like a critic’s tongue
dissecting a lie.

Art is too polite.
It begs for approval,
wears its pedigree
like a gilded collar.
But violence? Violence is honest.
A slash doesn’t apologize.
A wound doesn’t ask
if it’s avant-garde enough.

So ruin it.
Ruin all of it.
Let the paint run
like a gutted confession,
let the frames splinter
into kindling.
When they ask why,
bare your teeth and say:

Because beauty should hurt
or it isn’t real.
Because I’d rather be a wound
than a whisper.

Now watch the critics flinch
as the blood dries
into something
they’ll call genius tomorrow.

A Poem on RELIGION: R.K. Singh

MAHAKUMBH

i.

The Ganges condescended
to flow down from Shiva’s matted hair
with white laughter
from the Himalayas to Kashi
it shone so pure and bright
but failed to quench
the earthly thirst
or cleanse the human heart
their sinful mind
the goddess couldn’t change
I clearly see in its apparent grace
missing all turbulence
so necessary to wash out
the ills of ages it seems
it’s lifeless now
impotent to set right
the rotten state of man

ii.

The morning’s withered flesh
and swollen skin of the day
by bloody nullah in smoke
tears shade tomorrow
like today, everyday they cry
but nobody hears groans, or sees
dark eruptions on naked walls
that hide maps of bones
and skeins of dreams piled
beside broken hearth fate
is a luxury of helplessness
they won’t believe or accept
if there is a hell on earth
it’s here, it’s here, it’s here

iii.

Sacred map
no sense of direction
lost again
the message in numbers
the way in 434*
the twin flame—
missing the connection
scary world
feeling isolated
yet hope to get better

(*One needs to unlock the spiritual meaning of the number, the numerologicalsignificance of each digit, says a sadhu!)

iv.

Who sees the smoke
of the thumb-sized flame
the body burns
the ashes of silence
float on the holy breast
tears pollute

–R.K. Singh

COMEDY Poem: Mount Washmore, by Darren Stein

My family have nicknamed our laundry basket – Mount Washmore,
Not that it bares the graven images of four American presidents,
But rather the dirty garments of four domestic residents.
No matter how hard we try to scale its lofty spire,
Its summit always seems to grow increasingly higher.
It often vacillates between unwashed laundry or its clean, unsorted state,
Thus leaving us crushed beneath Mount Washmore’s mighty weight.

ODE Poem: Ode to Lala, by Corinne Wagner

The mother to my mother,
And Lala to me,
The greatest story ever told,
In my family.

A sweet old lady,
With wrinkles on her skin,
Each telling a story,
That we wait to begin.

Her voice pretty shaky,
Whenever she spoke,
Yet somehow strong,
Like the roots of an oak.

When I was first born,
She was seventy-nine,
Her fourth and last grandbaby,
She’d ever hear whine.

She sent me sweet, silly things,
Like coloring or a crossword,
Maybe she thought I was eight,
Which was a bit absurd.

Growing older into high school,
She sent me different things,
Like photos from long ago,
That pulled on some heartstrings.

Whenever she wrote something,
Her handwriting was iconic,
Sometimes it was hard to read,
And sometimes it was ironic.

I sent her emails and texts,
And she didn’t always respond,
But that was very normal,
Because there was still a bond.

When she did text back,
It was usually the same,
But each time it made me happy,
Whether it’s exciting or tame.

She was nothing but good to me,
And I love her so much,
Though we weren’t very close,
I miss her just as such.

RELIGION Poem: A MEDITATION ON TWO JEROMES, by Mike Bemis

Jerome of Stridon, in an ancient age
Alone in the desert, life of the mind
Writer, historian, translator, sage
Ill clothed, ill fed, burned by sun nearly blind
Jerome of Saint Cloud, my father’s brother
At home in the world, wherever he went
Philosopher, poet, builder, lover
His time and talent was freely lent
Former gave man the Bible in Latin
Latter gave family his tools, verse, and things
Memories embroidered, silk on satin
Creations of both, new life to them brings
In what we leave behind for all to see
Achieves a kind of immortality