Author: poetryfest

The trick to being the
popular girl this summer is:
sign a lease to a New York high-rise
with a pool.

In this sweltering
waves of heat,
suddenly,
friends and strangers want to be by your side.
By the poolside.

Watermelon chunks.
Citrus slices.
Sparkling water.
Chatters over the platters.

We stay friends
through the winter,
so we can do it all again
next summer.

The Big Mean Welderbeast charged
at maiden and man alike, it did not care
Its eyes blared white with rage!
Get out of my way, I am coming through
… it dropped its nose … I will not stop for you.
So the crowd scattered, all except one,
a matador who was not afraid
of the monster. He stood his ground,
But still the creature bore ahead
until at the last possible second it came
to an abrupt halt, mere centimetres
from Don Quixotic. Its eyes blared
white with rage! It snorted, it roared …
I’m coming through … get out of my way!
But the matador stood his ground!
The Blasted Mechanical Wallywodge*
owned the road … it did not care
that steel was pitted against bone,
muscle, soft sinew. They could wash the
blood off the hood, and straighten the dents.
Its eyes blared white with rage! But it had
stopped – the best of Bremen Motor
Werks had stopped. It honked. It hollered.
Its eyes blared white with rage! Then the
Matador bowed and said, next time
don’t stop – I’ll end up your ornament
… hood … say hello to the devil!

* wally means foolish, wodge means thing.

But soft this moon lit night
Sits gentle atop the bay
Opposed by Cassiopeia’s might
It whispers … whats it say?

Look down upon its mortal men
Far shores reached by handsome few.
It circles earth but once again
before this month is through.

It brings the surges, mighty wash
to cleanse the kindly soul.
Upon emotive shores are tossed
the gallant, strong and bold.

Betwixt the twenty days and eight
wild ostriches and elephants do roam
Those games that men and woman wait
to play get written up in poem.

The stars do twinkle oh so bright
Each and every one so named.
Their passion do draw us fright
then calmness once they came.

That little death we die
for our two fortune’s sake.
Once more again we try
and pray our efforts take.

So near yet distant can it be
the gentleness of newfound youth
when seventy and two hundred days,
sees grand issuance of human truth.

The other side we dare to hide
we cannot find the words.
In emptiness our hearts abide
the pitied, barren and the hurt.

Yet soft, a moon lit night
sits gentle above the bay.
Behold such beauteous sight
Blue eyes … cast newborn gaze.

n the hush where the mycelium dreams,
Beneath soft loam and twilight seams,
There breathes a pulse, damp, low, arcane,
A whisper sung through root and brain.

Mushrooms bloom like tongues of lore,
Wet lips upon the forest floor;
Their spores drift slow in secret rites,
Laced with dusk and appetite.

A raven calls from branch to sky,
Eyes like wells where shadows lie.
They know the names you do not speak,
The ones that twist when you grow weak.

Red fox slips through briar and mist,
A flame with fur, with hunger kissed.
Their step is stealth, their stare, command,
The forest bends beneath their hand.

And there, where cypress leans and sighs,
Where moonlight drowns in dragonflies,
The swamp witch waits in scent and skin,
Their breath a prayer, their gaze a sin.

They stir the air with clove and rue,
With ash and blood and devil’s dew.
No book can cage the charms they weaves,
They rise like smoke from dying leaves.

They speak in moss, in feathered rune,
By serpent coil and swollen moon.
Their hands are mud, their heart is flame,
They love you, nameless, just the same.

So enter soft, or not at all,
The Green Veil hears, the roots recall.
It takes your truth, your ache, your ache,
And gives it back as something wake.

Dark and velvet, wild and deep,
Where secrets grow and bodies sleep.
Nature’s temple, cracked and raw,
The occult mouth, the endless draw.

My words kiss you without using my mouth
The blank page is the bed, as white as fresh sheets
Imagine: your grip on my waist, navigating me
See me through the words I’ve typed
Are your feelings as palpable as my mine?
Warm my skin with the palm of your hand
Read between the lines, and between my . . .
Mind

I find refuge in an aloof type of love.
It’s finite, like everything that I have ever learned to love in my life.
One day my parents will orphan me,
and the day will linger on,
like me dragging out a vowel
when saying a name
to make the moment longer
never fading
everlasting.

I find safety in an aloof type of love.
Permission to flake when the ship starts to sink.
No guilt. No strings.
Just a surface level exchange
a nod
a stroke
brush by our lips
and then we part ways when the wax hardens
when no one can pretend any longer any of this is normal
to be with one another
without ever getting to know each other.

But then I think of what we could’ve had.
Don’t you want to experience Strasbourg with me?
Do you see the hills out from Hecksher and think
of how much I would’ve loved it?
How much I would’ve loved being there with you for it?
Or the slightest bit that you might want to be there with me
for just one ordinary afternoon.
Rainy or sunny.
Bright or dimmed.

When I visited New Zealand, I thought of an aloof type of love
like a ghost
that follows me
I needed the ghost’s company
more than the ghost would care to haunt me
to make sure my memories are alive
to make sure what we had is real
was it ever real?
Bloody rugby, green trails, and flat white
I wish you were here to rejoice them with me
but we never get to experience that
Just when we scratched the surface
you backed out.
That was enough for you
to know you don’t want
any of it.

Then comes VICE,
a summer in Marina Del Rey
A sunny beach town
yet everything was gray.

I don’t see dolphins in the oceans,
I see an ocean without you.

I don’t see a start to my career,
I see a future without you.

I don’t get to live, really.
Because I kept thinking about how you were missing out
on this part of my life.
On the parties.
On the phony producers.
On the people pleading positivity.
On all the gluten-free meals and fake spiritual gurus,
that claimed to love everyone but only ever loved fame.
You would’ve scoffed at them with me.
So, why were you not?
I seem to forget that you’ve always had the choice
To reconcile,
to rekindle,
But you chose not to.

Life is a choice.
We embrace options
both the road less traveled and worn down paths.
Until
I’m not chosen
Until
I’m forgotten.
Then I protest
in silence
with this poem
that will never meet your eye.

Then I learned more about everything irrelevant
as I grow
How to throw a volleyball
Or to buy stocks and invest in crypto.
I even picked up free diving
tumbled in shallow water
held my breath in the deep end.
And finally learned one thing relevant,
that no one has ever loved me,
Nor have I ever loved anyone.

If I ever want to experience a love
that’s not aloof
I will have to sacrifice
parts of my world
in exchange with parts of someone’s world
even though
it might once again
turn into an aloof kind of
love.

The universe dozes at night and sleeps
And I remain awake, guarding your dreams
So that you don’t see anyone but me
My love doesn’t yawn from boredom
For it deserves the time of clarity
Oh features of the girl of dreams
I searched in the faces of all people
For a beautiful face that steals my breath away
Like yours, I found none
I searched and returned empty-handed
From everything except you
And my longing for you knows no bounds
You are a woman from whose branches
The petals of paradise hang down
Oh, you whose words are a river of excellent honey
I am mistaken; I did not learn the mathematics of love
I did not gaze into your eyes to learn the science of astronomy

t wasn’t very long ago, and it wasn’t far away.
This happened in America, just the other day.
A clown ran for President, and when the day was done,
And all the votes were counted
We found the clown had won.
Where did he come from?
One story is told, a Clown Car turned over,
Spilling clowns in the road.
His face was bright orange, his eyes were white circles,
He wore a long red tie and his jacket was purple.
Cotton candy was spun into a nest on his head,
Some days it was yellow, other days it was red.
He had a terrible temper. Very bad for a clown.
He was mean and ornery, and he put people down.
But he knew some clown tricks and he wore the right clothes.
He had all the makeup and a big red nose.
He sold hats and sneakers from the back of a Rover,
And he could lean really far forward without falling over.
Eventually the people deplored his behavior,
His unfunny ways, his asking for favors.
Many of them began turning away
And they voted him out, but he wanted to stay.
So, he gathered his friends, and he had quite a few,
And he said to those there, here’s what we’ll do.
When the time comes to leave, I just won’t do it.
I’ll stick in my place like I was glued to it.
Here is the message I want you to bring:
Tell the people to make me their King!
The Generals were horrified!
He expects to be glorified?
He colored the flag wrong! He botched up the anthem.
His only real skill was in throwing those tantrums.
He’s not related to anyone royal. Even to us, we can’t say he’s loyal.
But none of it matters, because here’s the thing,
The United States does not have a King.
We’re a Republic, we have a constitution you see,
That prohibits granting titles to nobility.
But there was no persuading this fake Clown King,
There was no convincing him to do the right thing.
When he was asked to step down,
He said “maybe” like a baby and threw ketchup around!
“Our time here is over” his Vice President said,
To which the clown King replied
“Off with his head!”
“Oh, what have we done” said a woman named Lizzy
And she wasn’t alone. They were all in a tizzy.
Our last King was George the third
And even George got the word
When we said, “Hey George there’s something lacking,
We’re paying you taxes and getting nothing back
And so, we hope you don’t get offended,
But we’re declaring our independence.”
It was July fourth, seventeen seventy-six,
When we and the monarchy called it quits.
There was a big battle, you know the story –
In the end, we raised the Old Glory
We made England take their flag home
And told King George to leave us alone.
So, you see Mr. Clown, here is the thing.
Even if we wanted to, we could not make you King.
Our Constitution won’t let us do it.
So, transfer the power, let’s get to it.
In the home of the free and the brave,
Our ancestors fought, their lives they gave
To guarantee us just one thing.
Nowhere in America will there ever be a King.

This monster of Dr. Frankenstein,
built with spare parts and raised
from the dead, escaped

a mob to kneel and learn to play
with flowers at the water’s edge;

the monster liked the girl’s flower,
learning to throw them in like her
with stitched-on hands;

the mob no longer mattered –
his eyes affixed on the flower
floating on the water.

We are born of fire
Of dust and dream
Rippling in the hush between galaxies,
Where silence first learned to sing.

Your breath is the exodus
Of stars sighing
In timeless sequence
Opening your smile
To my heart-
A flaring comet
Caught in the gravity of your gleam

We are the fusion
Whirlpooled in the core
Of great vastness
As the universe remembers
Where atoms long separated
Begin to dance

I trace the curve of your soul
Like constellations
drawn by ancient eyes
In the night between us
To find every light
That ever dared to shine

We meld into oblivion
Within imploding suns
Birthing a love that sings
Between the lingering clusters
Of stars that fall silent

Folded into flesh
Kissed into utter extinction
Let us burn
Not to end
But to become everything