Author: poetryfest

ANGEL the ANGLERFISH swims toward the ocean surface.)

ANGEL the ANGLERFISH:

They say I’ve got a face only a mother could love, but if that’s true, where is she?
Mom? Is that you?
Ha! Just kidding.
It’s just another rock approached from an awkward angle.
Might be surprised how often I do that—come at things all wrong.
A bit ironic, don’t you think?
An anglerfish who never quite understands the angle.
Always expecting the best from others, only to be met with disappointment time and time
again.
Always lured in by something bright.
A smile. A laugh.
Only to be rejected because of my own grin.

Ocean’s a scary place. But it’s easier to survive if you have teeth.
It’s crazy how many times I’ve been used by others to deflect the unwanted attention of
an overeager suitor. A deranged ex. A predator.
Used like some kind of guard dog. A friend with no benefits.
Ocean’s a scary place. A lonely place.
Especially if you have teeth.

Mom…
Do my fangs jut just like hers?
How would I know? We’ve never met.
She laid her clutch of eggs and ran.
Ocean’s a scary place. Why try to navigate it while being weighed down by family?
My siblings and I hatched in darkness.
Were swallowed up by it, or by things lurking in it that are far worse.
For all I know, I’m the only one still swimming.
Does that make me the strongest? Or the luckiest?
Because I certainly don’t feel lucky.
To live in shadows. To be a shadow to happier fish.

Tell me, when do I get to be somebody’s light?
Not just a silly, deceptive trick.
But truly.
When can I be what helps someone to see the world at its best?
With a face like this, would the world ever care to show me its best?
Do I belong in the dark, with the unseemly and grotesque?

Ocean’s a scary place. Things even eerier than I am call it home.
Take, for example, who—what—I encountered today.
At first, all I heard was a chuckle. Sounded like it could be from a new friend.
I followed the laughter. Discovered its source.
A fissure in the seafloor, glowing red, pulsing warm. Ripped open by last night’s quake.
Tectonics have been busy lately.

Ocean’s a scary place. The giggling—it came from within the gleaming tear.
It came from a face more jarring than my own.
A massive, blanched face, attached to something larger than a whale.
Something impossible. Something trapped but almost free.
Not a friend. Absolutely not a friend.
Though, it pretended to be one.

“Hiya,” it said from between crimson lips. “How nice of ya to say hello!”
But I didn’t say hello. I didn’t say a word.
“Fun’s almost here,” the thing said. “Circus has come to town! There’ll be lotsa lights.
Lotsa cheer.”
And then it cackled. A horrible sound. Not friendly in the least.
Sure, I’ve heard of a clownfish, but this… This was a monster fish.
Rotten fish. Nightmare fish.
Not even a fish.
“Want a balloon?” it asked, reaching out to me with a claw.

I swam away as fast as I could, wanting nothing of what it offered.
But “balloon” gave me an idea.
Don’t know why I’d never thought of it before.
Up.
I could go up.
I should go up.
Up, up, up!
Ocean’s a scary place. But maybe less scary up there.

Should’ve tried this a long time ago.
But that’s the thing about darkness.
Once it gets its hooks in you, it never wants to let you leave.
It fills you so completely, you forget anything else exists.
But now I’m looking up.
I’m swimming up.
Moving on up.
Up, up, up!
Changing my perspective. Trying a different angle.

Trying to see Mom.
Untethered. Without anchors.
Duties fulfilled, wanting something other than a lifetime enveloped in gloom.
She’s light, heaviness discarded beneath her.
Lifting higher and higher.
Maybe she’s up this way, where I haven’t ever looked.
She’s out of the black. She’s a part of the blue.

And, now, so am I.
No longer a shadow.
Finally, shining. Rising.
Giggling.
Part of the blue.

But there’s also green. Yellow. Orange. Pink. Violet.
A vibrant palette. A circus to escape and explore.
Ocean’s a scary place.
But there’s beauty here, too.

End of monologue.

The words do not reach me in the last pew.
The preaching is as sonorous and unknowable
as the Latin intoned for centuries to illiterates.
I would guide my behavior on what is said
but can grasp only fragments of phrases.
Does the failing of my hearing or listening
leave me vulnerable to sinning in ignorance,
or could I be saved by spiritual resonance?
My pew has the trappings of Limbo.

This monologue is from my full-length play entitled Clarissa Buys The Flowers Herself, which is an adaptation of Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway. In it, Clarissa remembers and laments the 1918 Pandemic.

CLARISSA

How did he kill himself? Why did he do it? (writes in journal) Death is defiance? Death is an attempt to communicate? Is there an embrace in death?

SHE parts the curtain and notices an old woman in a nearby window. THEY stare at one another for many beats. THEY both put a hand up to the glass as if to connect.

What is this fervent insistence to move forward as if nothing ever happened? How can everyone forget about all the illness, death, and destruction? Where is the human regard for everything we lost? I never met you, young man, but we’re so much alike. Fear no more the heat o’ the sun / Nor the furious winter’s rages / Thou thy worldly task has done / Home art gone, and taken thy wages / No exociser harm thee! / Nor no witchcraft charm thee / Nothing ill come near thee / Quiet consummation have / And renowned be thy grave. (pause) Four exact rhymes and one slant rhyme. Is life just one epic contradiction? (pacing) What is it about tonight that makes me question everything? Who am I to be the wife to an upper-class man? Why did I chase social success? I compromised my passion and my soul when I married Richard. (wiping away tears)
That young man preserved his soul by choosing death. I must come to terms with my life. I must come to terms with who I am today … pale … thin … weak … tired … I’ll come to terms with all of this and endure. I am Mrs. Richard Dalloway. Maybe life isn’t something to be celebrated. Maybe it’s something to be endured.

Copyright © J.M, DiPasquale

A reception’s start,
Who could have known it would tear apart?
That last day,
To hold your hand,
To steal one more smile,
To embrace you, not just for a while.

A photograph remains,
Us, by the table,
Your eyes, a silent plea.
Did you have to leave so suddenly?
Not your choice,
I know, you’d never condone.

Later that day,
No one had a say.
My biggest regret,
Leaving early, only to be called, you had passed away.

I cried, I sobbed,
I was falling apart.
The anguish,
The pain,
The strain of it all.
If I stand, I’ll fall.

Blindsided, robbed, torn,
Broken, ripped apart.
How can I restart?
Grief smacks me, this very hour, leaving me sour,
Oh, what a blight.
Always in my mind, but out of sight.
The hurt, the torment like no other,
My heart hollow, she is gone

The water will sting your eyes at first—
I wish I would’ve said.
The chlorine will stain your youth,
Strip away the layers of childhood,
And bury you in your thoughts at night,
When sleep taunts your tired eyes.

It will be challenging,
I would’ve warned—
But you’ll make friends
Who understand the fragility
Two breathless minutes hold.

They’ll share your tears when you cry in anguish,
Because nothing is ever good enough.

You’ll hate it sometimes,
I would’ve cautioned—
Are you ready to give up peace?

The rush of cold water
That once soothed your mind
Will now enrage your indecision,
And spark constant conversation
With those piercing thoughts of doubt.

Years ago, I would’ve cried
When my hand scraped the plastic dividers,
And my eyes mistook the walls for space.

But I was molded from chemicals,
A stopwatch, and brisk mornings
Spent in a chilled pool, moving in clockwise circles,
Monotonously pounding the water’s edge
With arms slowly dying,
Desire crying out.

No sleep for those with heavy shoulders,
Weight pressed down by memories of the past.

A past
I wrote a story about once

About the heartbreak of childhood ending
And the truth that learned things can’t be unlearned,
As easily as they spring new life

When ingrained within a thought.
But I changed the ending,
Never read the story again—

Because you said I was being unrealistic.
Still, the water flows onward,
Carrying all the words I never said
straight into the ocean.

Voice over by Val Cole

Editor & Visual Design by Adam Bilyea

Produced by Matthew Toffolo

POEM:

A special place is where I sit,
A seat made just for me.
A seat I earned, but never wanted,
While quietly mourning what should be

I take my place in the chair,
It cannot possibly be meant for me.
I sense the eyes of onlookers
While I feel nothing, but grief

They feel something different,
As if they lost a prize.
They fume in the backseat they earned,
While I slump down in mine.

I would give up my seat if I could
I would happily take any other.
But this seat is something I earned
Through the love of another

Now her casket lay closed in front of me
And my phone buzzes in my bag
The salt of my tears sting my lips
As I look to my right and see the face of a sister she once had

Those behind me wonder who I am
And wonder how I earned my spot
Not many sit front row at a funeral
And I’ll tell ya, it takes a lot

So please, don’t waste your time
Pretending to know the dead
Because my best friend is in there
And I know she would be seeing red

Because if you look to the screen above,
You’ll see photos of her with me
For I earned my seat,
You got yours for free

A special place is where I sit
A seat made just for me
Because to sit in the front row,
Means you have a front row ticket for Grief

10
i have always been a naive soul.
once i dared God to take away
a vessel of His and see
if any glory would emit from it
but the Potter broke
the pot anyway

9
trice has death
yet powerless stolen from me
and though i waited a miracle
all were saved
in
the sand

8
i followed my kin
to my father’s grave
and she cried & hoped that
she be there another day but
the grave had her in few days

7
a shoe a Bible a bag
and my kin laid on a weaved local mat
in a store
i stepped into the place
and she smiled at me
i was confused
she looked younger like an high schooler.
someone said she would look so
when we meet again

6
my phone rang on a noon
my sister told me
the doctors speaking not
like the mortals they are said
our kin will soon be with our father
somewhere in the heavens and
six feet underground
I will not forgive them for that

5
my kin was a believer
so was i
we left what we know
for what we believed
faith is negligently trusting
what can heal or deny us
now only I remain.

4
a prophetess my mother
my kin & i sat in a sitting-room
the prophetess gave my sister
a white soap
she gave me a card with a cross
on the face
a mustard seed within
& said we read some psalms into water
she swore she was of God
& not of tradition
today i am without the card
& my kin

3
i went on Facebook & screenshot
my kin’s youthful pictures she laughed
as she went through them
i reminded her of a time
i had given her a welcome card
which i had made with her sketched self on it
I heard she cried when she saw it
she was 35. i was a juvenile
five years later i saw her
age and picture
on an obituary

2
i was in a motor with my sisters
& their friend
i met my mother isolated
from the burial & i threw myself
into her laps
my sisters could not stay calm for long
& ran wild. i was gentle
like a shadow but some old men
sent me out of my kin’s bedroom
& i became a mad man
we drove away and saw the posters
of my kin’s obituary. it said
“celebration of life”
my sister alighted & and tore them off

1
a thousand times had i
rebuked reality thinking it was the devil
but what could i have done when all i had were
faith love & video calls
I guess all that were not enough
to keep a drowning candle burning
I guess no one actually has the right
to tell death Not Today

The recent hospitality arouses Mouse.
For two days, the sweet aroma of
chocolate chip cookies welcome him
and the morning cheese tells him to stay.

Day and night–cookie crumbs, cookies
when humans aren’t looking, and so much
cheese! The powerful stench fills his nostrils.
Teal tints the ten o’clock sky. “One last cookie

before bed”, Mouse thinks. Warm milk, a sugar
coma, and a slice of breakfast cheese follow.
After moments of shuffling and clicking,
Mouse’s quest is fulfilled. His sugar coma

is shortened by the flickering light. “Is God
casting His finger over the moon?” Mouse
thinks. Groggy, Mouse wipes the slumber
from his eyes, mixing cookie crumbs

and eye boogers in the process. The flickering
blackened, Mouse decides it’s breakfast time.
Rolling out of bed with an already full stomach,
his eyes gleam at the silver platter. Cheese-filled

coffins wait for Mouse’s next quest. The clicking
turns out to be traps made for Mouse. Enticed
with the cheese, Mouse minds the metal hug
itching to squish him. Reaching for the cheese,

he squeaks like Mariah Carey until his mouth
tastes metallic. If you give a mouse a cookie,
seduce it with gluttony and affection,
your house will stay rodent-free.

—A Poem for the Next Chapter of America

A hush before the trumpet blast,
The ballots counted, dice are cast.
A nation waits with bated breath—
Who rises now from fate or death?

The 47th, suit and tie,
Stands beneath the fractured sky.
Some see hope—a torch relit.
Some see shadows—same old shit.

He (or she?) arrives with practiced grin,
Pledging change from deep within.
“Unite,” they say, “Let’s heal this land,”
While half the crowd won’t even stand.

A sea of flags, both red and blue,
Each waving what they think is true.
One side cheers with clenched delight,
The other curses through the night.

The Good

Maybe roads get built and bridges mended,
Maybe wars are stopped, and hatred ended.
Jobs may rise like morning sun,
And justice serve more than just some.

Perhaps the sick will find relief,
The poor will breathe beyond their grief.
Perhaps the climate gets a chance,
And kids still learn to dream, to dance.

The Bad

But promises are made of sand,
And power has a hungry hand.
Lobby checks and secret deals,
Pipelines forged on spinning wheels.

Maybe tempers flare anew,
As blue and red bleed deeper hue.
Protests swell like thunder rolls,
While leaders chase unreachable goals.

The Ugly

Or worse—indifference takes its seat,
As apathy fills Main Street.
Another year, another lie,
Another child learns not to try.

Democracy on shaky knees,
Truth drowned out by louder sleaze.
TikTok reels and meme campaigns—
Is anything of substance gained?

The Feelings

There’s depression in the working class,
Where dreams are sold for fuel and gas.
Anger in the mother’s cry
Who buries sons with no reply.

Yet happiness might bloom again,
In neighborhoods that once knew pain.
And optimism—thin, but there—
Rides on winds that stir the air.

Four more years, the people chant,
Some in joy, and some in rant.
The 47th takes the stage—
A blank new line on history’s page.

Will it be a tale of grace,
Or one more scar upon this place?
The ink is wet, the time is now—
To break or keep the sacred vow.

So here we stand, unsure, perplexed,
At the gateway to what’s coming next.
The best? The worst? We cannot see—
But we are the story, not just he

I have heard the whistling of songbirds
Beautiful whispers remind me of home
In trees where we played as kids
Where we became pirates
And doctors and whatever else
Where we were just kids

I remember the pet cemetery
In those big, green trees
Reaching out, palms to sky
Praising God for fertile soil
Blackened by moss and decay
The call of the songbird sung
And sung and sung
Every which way

We could hear them high above us
In the dense foliage
When we played in the woods
By my great aunt’s home
Never thinking much about them
But to linger in their terrain
Their own home

Now I wonder if I listen
If I could hear the same tune
And be transported back to those days
Simpler and true
For just a fleeting moment