Author: poetryfest

In the family room Aunt Betty devoured the dry toast,
I watched on, repulsed, as the crumbs clung to her beige cardigan.
She shoved a foam cup of sugary tea into my hand, almost burning me,
I took a sip to shut her up and felt the bile rise to my throat.
One by one they filed in,
Like cows trudging to the milking parlour.
The tattered sofa squeaked painfully,
Knowing what was to come.
Four white coats, one set of eyes.
Staring at his name badge,
I wondered how many times he had done this,
And how he expected me to react.
Aunt Betty plámásed him,
And whimpered like a puppy.
With her eyes, she begged me to cry.
I withheld my tears to spite her.
(I still don’t know why I do things like that)
Waves lapped gently in my ears,
While the others wept and wailed.
I tried to fight the urge to drift,
But couldn’t find my voice.
Aunt Betty’s sticky hand woke me up
(Another reason to loathe her)
A blue pillow had been placed under my head
And my legs were upward against the wall.
One of the white coats had returned,
The one with the soft face.
He knelt beside me,
As if to confess his sins,
Behind him, Aunt Betty sniffled theatrically,
The ceiling tiles absorbed the news, without even flinching.

grey walls
scratched until white
the bars are black
and blacker —
minatory the
long descent —
ill air exhaled

the nothing in the
still
stares at me and i
stare back

do not look at the red light
at the bottom
do not look at it or
it will find you
the
eyes?

All that remains of this hollowed church,
in the Sonoran Desert,
are two bas-relief angels
plastered to the wall above the sacristy door:
wings spread, arms lofted
heavenward,
eyes focused on the redemption
written across banners they hold
above their heads.

The collapsing roof isn’t pierced
by a divine beam
come to lift them
from these ruins.

Will they lower their eyes, one day,
to the emptiness at their feet
and weep?

Where is my home?
My home is in the mountains
Reaching ever deeper, every higher
Caressing the heavens with their wizened fingers and
Dipping their calloused toes in underground rivers
That rush fervently to aeons passed.

Where is my heart?
My heart is lost amongst the waves
Thrown overboard by the rolling of the sea
And across the oceans, freely it wanders
Finding a place to rest
On distant beaches and lagoons.

Where is my soul?
My soul cascades with the current
Ever flowing downstream, searching
And like Moshe’s cradle
It is tossed to and from, looking for its palace
In which to settle and exalt.

Where is my mind?
My mind wanders amongst the highest clouds
And tries to peer at the Earth
Revolving far below
To trace the movements of migrating birds, to fly with them
And the shift of wandering continents, to crawl with them.

Where is my place?
My place is sought for but never found
It eludes like dawn’s shadows
Retreating from the rising sun
And it rests for a moment behind a looming poplar
And is gone
Leaving a speck of gold as reminder
And encouragement.

Where is my love?
My love is like a raging wildfire
Contained within an earthenware vessel
Simple clay, raised to consciousness
And driven ever onwards, by Divine decree:
“To love the other, as you love yourself”
And then to dust return.

The cold cup of tea sat lifeless on the table in front of me.
I touched it, and felt the cold ceramic meeting my warm hands—
the silent dismissal of drinking it echoing through it—bland.

The tea film floated silently atop the liquid,
the tea leaves quietly settling down at the bottom.
The once warm and soothing embrace of the beverage,
now cold and biting.

I lifted the cup of the black liquid,
once that felt calm—
now sad and livid.
I brought the rim close to my lips, meeting the icy drink.

I took a sip, the dead and cold feeling sloshing through my mouth.
I set the cup down again—
a soft thud, almost uncaring,
ringing a sense of doubt.

It was rather a second face of the coin:
a drink so warm and comforting
never could have been imagined
this dead and unfeeling.

I stared down at the cup of dead ashes before my eyes,
almost like I thought I saw
the turmoil of emotions—
a storm raging inside the cup of tea.

Wanting is like
Choking on an anodyne
Not letting go of hope
Not having the readiness to die

Each day a piece of tranquilizer
Slips down the throat
So the dilution of will
Seems more justified

What could have been
Minutes of explosion
Extended to lifelong enduring

The vilest of all sins
is to make madness recognized

Circles my least favorite shape
no voicemail box
chronically digesting news on the brink of no corners
my eyeballs fucking shedding
and the edge of my unconscious seat
begging corners that are not there to soften the defeat

Keys are some type of flag
stone that was never really apart;
my teeth shards of glass
and a mouth that is too full of heart and pounding arteries.
Gum more in mouth than not
the chewing grinding away at what was meant to not dissolve
same thing as your glare
your dull hands
and my dimmed mind,
and the way I can never say goodbye
even after that iron taste.

She is not me.
I am not her.

Yet you cling to her memory,
the artifacts she left without knowing how soon she’d be gone,
and you force me to gaze upon them.
You believe showing me proof of her existence will inspire me to be like her.
You think I’ll admire her and the things she left behind.
You tell me that is who I’m supposed to be,

and I don’t understand it.
I’m actually content with the person I’ve become.
I don’t get why you want me to be someone else.
You pray my indifference will give way to ambition,
and completely fail to notice:

I can’t be molded to your vision.
I’m living for myself and the ones I love, not you.
I don’t give a shit who you want me to be.

I am not her.
She is not me.

You’re the kind of love
that’s always there,
the kind of comfort that never asks questions.
If you have them, I never know.
Whether you’re in my arms,
in my hands,
whether you’re in the corner or
on top of the cover.

I reach for you,
trusting my first mind
more often than the second.
You’re always there,
the last place that I left you,
but the first place I think to look.
Your button-like eyes
searching me.

I don’t know what quite to call you.
You’re not loud,
but you’re also not quiet.
I sometimes wonder if you go to sleep,
choosing to stay up with me all times of the night
regardless if it’s the same story
you’ve heard a million times,
or if some of the things I say
require more patience.

You never take a deep breath.
Those button-like eyes stare at me
as lovingly as they did the day
you were introduced to my life.
You’ve changed my perspective
on a lot of things
how deeply I can hold on to things,
sometimes even fold.

And you do it all by being yourself.
By being real.
You don’t pretend to save me.
You don’t tell me things

just to shut me up.
In a world where we’re taught
to put away childish things,
I am glad that I didn’t listen.
I am glad that you never left.

It was one tuesday long ago.
The birds were squealing.
And the oceans were shallow.
As the sun stopped revealing.
My dog said hi, and I fainted right there.
My mother said I was insane.
But I didn’t care.
So she took me to therapy that day.
The doctor was a moose, and he spoke to a llama.
They spoke of the news, and sang the drama.
Mrs Hippo was a singer and fell down the stairs.
So they buried her in the backyard.
And she blew up the secret lair.
And so her soul and the llama sparred.
Then the moose looked me in the eyes.
You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.
You may be a mind reader in disguise.
My actual name is llama Moose.