poetryfest

Read Poem: THEY WERE EATING LIVING THINGS, by Nicole Marie Kupper

And the food-stamps were cut off

Three months or more

The children’s eyes were

Stuck in the black of their pupils

And the doctor said wait

And the CPS officer said wait

And JFS said take a hike to the FREE STORE

And the chicken they got there got real hot

Came alive in the old oven

And blew up.

And she said

Mom, the food’s alive

It’s eyes are seeping

A sunrise contraption

Green cucumbers

The color of grass

The blades are strangling me

Chocolate like mother earth

The vegetables on TV dance so happily

Then why can’t we buy any food

Colors are everywhere why can’t we eat

Shh.. the mom said, you have a fever

Then in the store at the top of her lungs

The girl began to scream.

The hungry children

Stood brown on the unsuspecting road

Walking up

Crossing at the stop light

They saw their mother sell their toys

And they would try to stop her

On the hot, black tar

Of the Cincinnati road.

Read Poem: Bright Creation, by Constantine Argiropoulos

In the vast universe
a fragile human heart
beats outside exposed
for the first time,
billions of stars
mark the unique moment,
it is so bright
everyone must
shield their eyes,

the umbilical cord
is cut with precision,
a cry emanates to every
corner of human existence,
there are tears
mixed with joy
so much to absorb,

to celebrate
the special occasion
poignant refined music
emanates from
the lips of an artist,
each universal note
feels like a warm caress,

time recedes,

the future is a
dancing silhouette
stark like a skeleton
as full as a
bucket of wet kisses.

Constantine Argiropoulos
April 30/2018

Read Poem: How to Write a Summer Poem, by Marta Knobloch

Slip time from your wrist.

Feel the pulse of the day become your heartbeat.

Curl into the nutshell of this moment.

Float on a sea-glass sky.

Breathe July’s green sweat.

Bathe your eyes in shadows.

Grow deaf to the thrumming of bees.

Watch a breeze stir ripples in your nether-mind.

Wait

http://www.martaknobloch.com

Read Poem: Leaves During the Fall, by Dallas J. Short

Silent screams echoing throughout my soul,
turn to white noise after a while,
constructing impenetrable walls,
yet unable to crack a smile.
Happiness such a memory,
if it was ever attained at all,
lied to by heart and brain,
as the trust leaves during the fall.

Genres: Depression, Divorce, Alone, Hurt, Emotional, Strength in Vulnerability

Read Poem: MORONIC MOTORISTS, BY JOHN ROSS HARVEY

Driving is a skill; it requires math, and reading.
Being a motorist is not skilled because math and reading are not performed.
If you block an intersection, you lack brain function.
This is kindergarten level geometry.
You don’t fit don’t be a twit.
Engage your eyeballs before your feet to not be an ass.
Left is not right
One is not two
The only people who turn wrong are motorists without an IQ.
You don’t have 18 wheels, you don’t get two lanes, taking them is proof of no brains.
That’s how moron came to be, because they don’t know the difference between one and three.
The zipper merge is a fantasy of great proportions.
Your rectangular car does not fit in a triangular space simply because you ignored the diamond shaped road sign.
The hundred feet behind me are easier to merge than the ten feet in front of me. Learn geometry.
No lights at night are no brains in sight.
No lights in rain are not using brain.
Snow is the worst motorist problem because it creates the highest amount of stupidity. Morons with a complete inability to see.
They are the Three Forces of Evil:
Mobile Snow banks, Defroster Dunces, and the Wipers Only Brigade.
Wipers are not a snow removal device.
Elbow grease is.
Brush and Scrape and stop being impaired by stupidity, ice and snow.
Your filled wheel wells will not allow you to go.
Clean your roof, before it kills somebody when it slides off as a sheet of ice.
Drivers are more skilled, and far more nice.
Nobody dies from patience, only impatience.
Impatience is stupidity.
Stupidity is bad for mobility.
Be a driver, read and do math.
If you don’t, you’ll hear my wrath.

Read Poem: Broken Heart, by Farin Powell

“You’ve broken heart syndrome,”
the doctor says.
Such a poetic title
for a sickness that can’t be cured.
Little veins break,
around your heart, you don’t see the blood,
but you feel the burn.
The cells die, then,
they revive when you breathe.

***

Years ago, he left home
without a word,
leaving me with a broken heart.
I’m traveling on a train,
but the images travel with me,
the sleepless nights
when his fever reached the roof,
the first day of school,
his prom night, his college years.

***
I get off the train & go home;
some one has painted his face
on the pane of the windows,
on the wall,
on my pillow.
I put my hand on my chest,
feel the heartbeat and wonder:
how much more broken can it get?
Why don’t you let go?

***

I look at the closed door of his room,
I can still hear his voice.
I miss his laughter,
his jokes…
The dreams I had
die one by one;
I won’t be seeing his wedding,
I won’t be watching his child grow,
instead, I’ll be asking why forever.

Read Poem: Babalonshi, by Robert Meacham

A louder wind fanned through a coppice gate.
Above the crypt hung a cloudy canopy
And in mysterious form,
There you stood unveiled,
Whispering dark caresses.
A sky scored of specter gray
Belched angry storms
That rang clear with madness-
The pleasure of chaos.
Mute spirits summoned the black festival;
The four squared altar and roughly hewn
Held intolerable desires.
Your body lay in flames of infernal fashion,
A labyrinth passion fed.
Your petals bloom the scented flower of death.
Assailing from your pure and perfect eyes,
And bending from your fervid lips,
A slow sweet breath of yearning,
As a celebration of your birth swept the skies.

Read Poem: Prophet, by Arthur Rosch

Oh lord, oh lord,

what has befallen me?

That which I hoped to make straight

becomes more twisted.

That which I should understand

only becomes more strange.

How did I land on this unexpected shore?

What am I to make of the walking wreck of myself?

I can still think, still work,

still speak in poems

in the sleepless time of the night.

It is a mixed gift, this life, it is hard

to feel so completely lost

in complexity I don’t know how I made.

I wanted to be a radiance

but I am more like a garbage can

tipped by a starving animal in predawn hours.

I pick myself up,

I sweep my contents

into a tidy pile,

but each time I think to rest,

I am again overturned.

I speak to you, o lord,

like the wounded Jew,

like the baffled bloodied prophet,

like the broken fated sage.

I take help from any quarter,

even those with dangerous denizens.

I take comfort with the scorpion,

I sleep with diseases,

I’m astonished that I’m alive.

Oh lord, what has befallen me?

You see, I have nothing but questions.

It could be much worse, I freely admit.

It could be much better,

I ruefully entreat.

Pieces of me have gone numb.

Whole continents of my psyche are submerged,

drowned, forgotten.

I am the world I have made.

I am a man, dreadfully incomplete,

unwilling to meet the terror,

reluctant to behold the fire,

shrinking always from the worst case,

taking the hand of any wiser being,

like a lost child who needs to be led home.

I shall try now to snatch a bit of sleep

from the bottom of the night’s cup.

I’m glad we had this little talk.

I thank you, awkwardly,

like one who has opened the wrong gift

at the wrong party.

Oh, is this for ME?

I’m not quite sure it fits,

I’m not sure how to use it.

I’ve broken it a little

but it still works. See?

I’ve tried, I’ve hopped on one foot,

I’ve danced insanely.

I’m still here,

waiting for your soft voice

to bring me peace.

Read Poem: PRETTY BLACK GIRL, by J. Lathen

A lil Country girl was she
Her skin was smooth and chocolatey

She would walked to preschool with her Daddy right by her side
Ummm she remembers the smell of the early morning breeze

Oh my that was a good memory

Pretty black Girl didn’t have a care in the world
In Girl Scouts she was the only lil black girl

Pretty black didn’t give it much thought like most would
She was happy she got to go to an upper-class neighborhood

She was called the N word at school
By a white girl
The word rolled off her tongue so effortlessly but it shattered Pretty black’s world

Although Pretty black didn’t know what the word meant at such a young age
It seem to be powerful because the white girl said it with such rage

What a dreadful memory

Umph! Pretty black really didn’t pay it no mine
Because it was very few there of her kind

The Teacher would say, “repeat the pledge of allegiance after me”
Pretty black didn’t have a clue she wasn’t in the land of free

Although mama & nem had limited education
They made sure pretty black went to school everyday without hesitation

Pretty black would go to work with her mother whom she adored
Only to watch her clean white people houses and scrub their floors

Pretty Black vowed that she would never be nobody’s maid
The image of her mother cleaning houses have never strayed

Pretty Black felt the need
to do what her Parent’s couldn’t do and that’s go to school and succeed

PRETTY BLACK GIRL

WINNING COMEDY SHORT SCREENPLAY – MARRIAGE COUNSELING 101, by Mark Engberg

WILDsound Festival

Winning Screenplay – MARRIAGE COUNSELING
Written by Mark Engberg

CAST LIST:

NARRATOR – Becky Shrimpton
WOMAN – Cassandra Guthrie
MAN – John Marcucci

SYNOPSIS:

Genre: Horror, Comedy

“Romancing the Stone” meets “Friday the 13th.”

Get to know the writer:

What is your screenplay about?

“Marriage Counseling 101” is about couple fighting in public. Some people can’t handle it and seek privacy before the argument gets out of hand. Some people could care less about the embarrassment. But innocent bystanders are the ones who seem to suffer the most.

What genres does your screenplay fall under?

Due to the amount of dialogue, Comedy. But it could easily be a horror story if the characters didn’t speak.

Why should this screenplay be made into a movie?

It’s an easy and inexpensive location that would only require three actors (2 speaking) and a brief CGI special effect for the ending. As far as…

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