Author: poetryfest

the raven’s song ceased,
a tarrying silence.
a tickle of wind teased,
willows waving in remembrance.

freed in stale air
a rose petal drifted,
the dance to forbear
an atmosphere shifted.

a radiant wreath
the rays shone aglow
upon newly unsheathed
chiselled headstone.

‘une vie honorable
est une vie éternelle’,
etched in the marble,
fervent tears in farewell.

hyper paradise —
another season unearthed
today in headphones.

one leaf that is gone
now is the intramural ring
of the rising sun

harvesting the heart —
identity cannot split
the unfound flux.

a palm tree trunk
arched over classic stucco —
views within a park

unknown shadow —
its insect twitched in air
and through grass it went

sounds of steps behind —
bordering the path I sat
to ease my day

Will you meet me down in
the dingy part of town
near Dunsinane
and the Burnham Bar
where we’ll suck cold wine from Evenflo.

Will you meet me in that basement
under the piano factory
where the silence begins
and the bodies float
where we’ll create new words with our hands.

Will you meet me in that doorway
sealed up with brick
in the discount alley
on that souledout street
where we’ll look for deals in the dumpsters.

Will you meet me in that phone booth
at the end of electricity
on the All World Party Line
and tubular highway
where we’ll talk about greening and systems and cyber-touching.

Will you meet me with your candlesticks
in that lonesome graveyard
on the boulevard of tombs
among the spidery footpaths
where we’ll trace our names and place pebbles on our graves.

Oh my grungy one
with the dust in your hair
and patchouli on your neck
We’ll ride by dusk and discover hunger and
what it means
to starve.

Do not speak ill of the dead for they have left you songs, joyous in sound, praying on the wine of my body that carried them as they passed.
Do not speak ill of the dead for they know what you see, how you now perceive, a gift a lyre gives to the received deceased.
Do not speak ill of the dead for after me, constructed into me, my sublime unity, frequency resides:: this time music, your ascription of “after”.
Do not speak ill of the dead for the living they mock will tether to your being, this fates undoing of your good, marking you with the scent of unluck.
Do not speak ill of the dead, make it a prayer over poetry, this a paradox of the arts, how they speak of the dead.

We met in heat,
The kind only Haiti knows.
Heavy air,
Light touches,
A man who said I love you
Before I could decide if I believed him.
I waited.
He waited.
We slept next to each other,
Naked but untouched.
Somehow, that was the closest I ever felt to him.

We moved in.
A dog followed.
We made a life of
Mango trees and miscommunication.

He wanted a woman who
Gave orders to staff,
But I was raised
Washing my own plate.
I stumbled with the household
But loved him hard.

We made children.
Two boys born at home
In our love island.
One after another,
Like prayers that landed
Little feet.
Our love represented in them.

Then came Florida,
Poison in my babies,
Not knowing from where.
Stress that outgrew us.
Bills, nights with no sleep.
Another baby born at home.
This time in America.
No midwife could catch
What was unraveling between us.
The man who once whispered
You are mine and I love you
Spits in my direction now,
Calls me names I don’t recognize.

The man I thought would never hurt me.
You don’t destroy the ones you love.
His rage, his hate,
A fire I didn’t start
But still burn from.
I tried to douse it
With patience,
With apologies,
With silence.

But silence did not save me.
It only taught me how to
Disappear without leaving
The room.

I miss the man who
Held my door open,
Who held my hand while driving,
Touched my growing belly,
Ran his fingers through my hair.

I miss the man
Who made me feel chosen
Without needing to be perfect.
Who made plans with me.
Not just for a day, but for a life.
A garden.
A family.
A home.

Now I live in the ruins
Of what we dreamed,
Tiptoeing around broken pieces,
Because the sharpest ones
Are made out of words.

And still, after everything,
After the silence,
The shouting,
The ache that settles between us,
I want to find our way back.

Not as strangers,
Sharing blame.
Not as roommates
Passing off the children like
Time cards.
But as we once were.

Lovers.
Best friends.
A team built on touch and trust.

I want to return to the version of us
Who held hands with hope,
Made love quietly
Under mosquito nets,
And believed that softness
Could last forever.

I don’t want what we’ve become.
I want who we were
Before pain pulled us apart.

I want whole.
Not perfect.
Just whole together.

You breathed be mine—
and just like that, I was yours.
At your disposal, at your mercy—
to hold, to tame, to unravel.

My undoing as your conquest,
thread by thread, laced in silk and sin.
Tattoos of bruises you kissed on my wrists.
Cramps from my shakes made you come for more.

And just like the fire meant to burn,
we melted—locked in embrace.

Now that I’ve built my sanctuary under your warmth,
is it selfish to keep you quiet?
Call you mine?
Maybe too reckless and callow
to end up in shackles
by the right being too shallow—
to divide twin flames burning for another,
send one spiraling across dimensions,
and poison a haze over the other’s core.

Unbeknownst to all,
the greatest stories are rewritten—
because epic was always their destiny.

Stone upon stone,
bone upon bone,
the moon shining into the watch room,
the flame burning through the gloom.

Wave upon wave,
grave upon grave,
the water threatens the voyagers’ trip,
the beacon beckons the approaching ship.

Scowl upon scowl,
howl upon howl,
the keeper counting every boat lost,
the captain flaunting the vessel’s cost.

Jolt upon jolt,
volt upon volt,
the lightning shatters the calm illusion,
the galleon crashes among the confusion.

Smoke upon smoke,
bloke upon bloke,
the divers searching well past dawn,
the wives believing everyone’s gone.

I never knew
that the price of my feelings,
could be the brokenness of my heart.

My angle has always come
from a child’s eyes
who never asked for help,
even at the darkest moments
watching a parent disappear.

I did not recognize the line
between love and obsession
never learned that falling
is a part of life, too!

I have always had a destination
never occurred to me…
that every new possession,
could be the loss of an old desire.

Dreams are overpriced
and I never realized that achieving them_
means losing reality
never noticed that reaching goals_
marks the end of the journey.

Here I am today
lost between the moments
stuck in time
one foot in the abyss of the past
one foot in the abyss of the future
and I stagger,
catching the charming present.

I never knew
that the price of my thoughts,
could be the destruction of my mind.

It would never be
too late to learn
if I only had,
once more reachable end.

Bitter hoppy drink
Foam slides over the edge
Brought by an overworked mom
Caring for me more than her own

I drink but I don’t think
Of the cost to myself, to her, to children
What of my liver? What of my work?
Can I get you another?

Full bodied and malty.
She scrubs tables and takes orders,
her children lie in bed hungry
craving something hot and salty.

Bubbly in the head I drive
home to bed.
Instead another bartender
leaving for home ends up dead.