Author: poetryfest

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

I grew my fingernails from
scratch and dug them into my
eyeballs. It took three weeks;
resisting the urge to rip my
fingers off at the cuticle. I was
told it was gross to be so
ravenous. I was told to find
something else to do with my
hands.

I grew my fingernails from
scratch and dug them into my
eyeballs. Chunks of innervated
jelly slide loose, getting caught
in the rims of my rubbed raw
sockets.

The chunks trampled over my
eyelashes, tumbling downward.
Blood and plasma sweat down
my neck, crusting behind my
ears, nipping them fiercely; left
then right.

My collarbones filled with the
viscous liquid, dribbling hot
down my chest. I sucked in a
breath as what remains of my
eyes trailed downward like a
wide gelatinous tongue. Cool in
comparison to my blood.

Pirouetting in the poignancy of
my pain.

Spinning sharply on sensation, I
balance atop my
sadomasochism as if it were an
axis; as if I were bound to
return here forever.

I grew my fingernails
from scratch and dug
them into my eyeballs. I
convulsed. My arms
flailing, strobing into
otherworldly shapes,
bending and breaking. I
was transported into a
flashing pinkish
elsewhere. Gummy and
bright.

Crying stickily, my tears
make everything real.

I interpret my fluttering rib
cage as an epiphany; as an
unborn idea waiting to be
birthed from my stomach.

If only I were to push
farther.

I grew my fingernails from
scratch and dug them into
my eyeballs.

I press as hard as I can.
My fingertips reading the
grooves and bumps of my
brain like braille.

Searching desperately for
something legible only to
find patterns beyond the
oppressive grip of
organization.

I became coated in myself,
at once penetrated and
enraptured.

Opaque for the first time.

My flesh finally growing
bones.

The bell rang
And we all leaped to our feet
Crowding the hall
With dreams of days filled with rivers
And fires, and bikes, and naps
Our excitement hardly contained
Could be felt amongst each other
School was out for summer!

The buildup was pressurized
With many a day spent
Daydreaming and planning

There was that week we spent
Chopping down trees
To build a raft
To float down the river
Like Huckleberry Finn
The crazy plans included:
Cooking on a fire and
Bathing in the dirty river water
sleeping under the stars
and using a stick to push off from the bank

Blisters were medals
Mosquito bites were trophies
The dirt behind our ears
Evidence of adventure
Legends we were
Pioneers
The saplings were magic sticks
Of ambition and dreams had

And even now, when I pass trees
Small enough to be chopped by hand
I think of the old days before
Life’s complications and funerals
The bookmarks of a boy’s summer
Now mark your passing and
I’ll never forget those carefree days

this year began in quiet pain,
same tired sun, same windowpane.
i woke up numb, then woke up late,
the calendar felt like deadweight fate.
i watched my dreams collect some dust,
and learned to stand without much trust.
doors closed so fast, i lost my grip—
each “maybe” turned to “not this trip.”
i prayed for rest, then called it grace,
while smiling through a stranger’s face.
i told myself, “just hold on tight,”
but healing never came overnight.
they said to shine, i dimmed instead—
too many thoughts inside my head.
but even shadows shape the light,
and not all wrongs deserve a fight.
now whispers spread of power’s return,
a name that makes the country burn.
i fear the laws, the loss, the lies—
the red hats hiding in disguise.
the rest of this year might not be gold,
but i’m still here, and still not cold.
i’ll keep my softness, guard my peace,
and give my guilt a small release.
i don’t expect the storms to cease,
just hope they end with some release.
and if the world forgets my name,
i’ll still spit poems through the

with your hands that are mine
drag my warm body into a lake
naked heals plowing the mud, i’m still awake
submerge me gently while i’m wearing your dress
pastels and summer, repetitive flowers
clean my sins with passion, baptize me with death
i’m John, i’m first, i’m a fair breath
the water is a cold bed, but your locking grip
is safe, but anxious to wash the words on my lip
it’s a shrift between two foreigners, no common language
i scream while water fills this mortal carriage
while you open my rib as a rite of passage
gutting this fish with a prayer made of whispers
i bleed into your nails, now this becomes your canvas
my eminence, cut away this cancerous psychosis
take away this sinking ship, this belligerent mortality
drown me in these black waters
or be my witness and drown with me