Author: poetryfest

Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

Their moment had come where the truth was told…
From that point forward nothing was known.
All that remained is the constant flow
that stained their minds that had come to a close.
Their minds bestowed only what is allowed.
Allowed to be harvested at the time of the burial shroud.
The shroud erodes as the moment draws close,
but the lingering effects seemed to beam the most.
They stumbled many times, many times did they trip.
They tripped on the steps that they thought that they missed.
They missed the steps that they thought they had took,
They took the steps that they thought that should.
Too many times did they take the clear path.
The clear path calculated with all of their math.
Their math did not equate to the sum of the goal,
so they sold all they had and all he had was their souls.
They decided at that moment that they would no longer trip…
Trip on the steps that they had already missed.
The goal was in front, and they continued to fight.
Fight for their freedom in each other’s mind.
His mind held him back, for it told him the lies.
The lies that he repeated made him fall by the wayside.
She cracked and crinkled each time that he fell, but will no longer for
she
has escaped from that hell.

Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

Whether you pretend to see me,
or you actually do
eventually, eyes betray
and look at what they really want.

In an attempt to know myself,
I know you.
What it means to know beauty.
To find a moment you hope lasts forever.
A smile that forgets how fragile
we really are,
and forgets how long it’s supposed to last.

How fast eyes can swell with tears,
and how ashamed we can be
to not let anyone see or know.

Knowing these truths
is to admit that everyone gets tired.

I extend these roses to you.
Each rose a release
that loosens the weight in our chest
not to interrupt your routine,
or even stop you from where you’re going,
but a pause to remember that we are human.

That in this escape,
it’s quite possible
you need these more than I do.
To ease the dirt that’s rested under your nails
from a long day of work.
To be the pause that stops and thinks
of something other than self.

The only peaceful thing we know
that dies with dignity.

But before it wilts
and bleeds in silence,
it’s filled with water
and planted in a vase
and remembers.
As one of the only things
That made you smile

Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

(Church of the Nativity of Our Lord Jesus Christ)

I.

In a small Eastern European town,
A painter swiftly walked on through the square
Of the city, past old roofs colored brown.

There was a metallic smell in the air,
Caused by the rain, once it had ceased to fall,
And there were shallow puddles everywhere.

The steeple of a cathedral rose tall
Above the cold, rigid cobblestone ground,
And statues of saints stood over each wall.

Each day before Mass, the bells would resound,
And summon the townspeople from their home
To gather and worship from all around.

They left their farms, and stopped plowing the loam,
To praise the Lord beneath a spacious dome.

II.

As the painter entered through the front door,
His eyes met the dark, and the air was cold,
And a soft light reflected on the floor.

The candleholders lined up past the old
Wooden benches slowly guided his view,
Through the daylight, to an altar of gold.

As he walked down the aisle, past the front pew,
He looked up above the altar, and saw
The colored glass gently sparkled with dew.

Admiring the altarpiece with awe,
He saw a statue of his Holy King,
Which was crafted without a single flaw.

He looked up at the cathedral ceiling,
And a choir of angels began to sing.

III.

With the first strokes of his brush, he began
Painting an image upon the plaster—
Envisioning a beautiful woman.

Diligently, he kept working faster—
As her heavenly form was developed,
He painted with the skills of a master.

Throughout each day that he labored, he hoped
For this to be his finest work ever,
And made sure his scaffold was safely roped.

As he painted her clothes, he was clever
In how he had selected each color—
The whole process was quite an endeavor.

Every day, she came to life even more,
And he worked harder than ever before.

IV.

With the Blessed Virgin now completed,
The artist began constructing Her throne—
Where She would remain peacefully seated.

A young child soon sat in Her lap alone,
Reigning as the only begotten Son—
The pair had taken on lives of their own.

Once the two angels above them were done,
The painter crafted a star to be seen,
And the Three Magi soon joined everyone.

They all surrounded the Heavenly Queen,
To bring gifts and adore the newborn boy,
Recalling the art from the Byzantine.

The painter looked at the scene with great joy,
And gave a silent thanks for his employ.

V.

The painter gently lowered his scaffold—
Once he reached the floor, he looked back up high,
And watched the Nativity Scene unfold.

The Christmas Star lit up the late-night sky
Over where the Madonna and Her child
Were seated—Where the peaceful angels fly.

All who had come from near and far were filed
Up in lines on each side to praise their King,
And the young baby Jesus softly smiled.

Each of those who approached held gifts to bring
To His Majesty on this holy night,
And their prayers rose above each angel’s wing.

As the painter’s eyes scanned from left to right,
He reveled in its ethereal sight.

VI.

The bishop arrived the following day,
And the clergy were now allowed access,
To view the painter’s new work on display.

At each future service they would address,
They knew the painting would always hold true
To them, and all the townspeople they bless.

The sight of Mary dressed in white and blue
Brought hope for miracles to be restored—
Causing their faith and their peace to renew.

Each Sunday, their prayers rose up toward
This large painting of His Majesty’s birth—
As they all gathered to worship the Lord.

A constant reminder of the true worth
Of good will towards men and peace on Earth.

VII.

The painter’s new work had been met with praise,
And after he walked out, waving his hand,
The people’s excitement went on for days.

As worshipers came from across the land,
To see what others were talking about,
They were greeted with a feeling quite grand.

People continued to come in and out—
Every time the painter walked down the street,
Some people would clap and joyfully shout.

And he would shout on the tips of his feet,
“The glory is His! It should not be mine!”
These very words he would always repeat

For those who patiently waited in line
To eat the Lord’s bread and to drink His wine.

Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

A stag leaps across the board run,
ditch to ditch, thorns to thorns,
muscles, music, obsidian eyes focused
to aspens beyond his landing.

Those blessed to see such things once,
and never again, carry the frames
of that motion into the story of their days,
compare the totality of all other beauty
to the flight of dun fur across the November
sky, a late afternoon ballet, a dance
that never ends in the mind’s open eye.

Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

I met her on a Tuesday.
But it wasn’t an ordinary Tuesday.
Sort of lukewarm, but heavy.
One of those just get in the car,
cut the music on and drive
kind of Tuesdays.

She was at the gas station,
wearing Beats headphones.
Not the discreet ones that fit
in your ears,
but those big-ass ones
that go over your head
mouthing the words
to what I guess
was her favorite song.

Moments like these happen quick.
All it takes is a look.
When she looked at me,
she looked like I interrupted a thought
she didn’t get to finish.

Some people just have a look
the sort of look that’s far from soft.
The look I reflected back
was one that wanted to know why.

The thing about her is
she talks like a puzzle.
Not a full one, already put together.
When she opens her mouth,
imagine 10,000 pieces flying at you
all at once.

If you can imagine that,
I don’t trust you.
Like at all.
I am laughing but I am serious.
Because you’re another one
that sees things
the way you want to.

At some point
especially dealing with 10,000 pieces
a few are bound to get lost.
But I like that about her.
She makes you earn those pieces.
Consider it delayed gratification
in separating intention.

It’s not really the pieces that speak.
It’s the silence between the words.

You learn she’s the type of woman
who shuts down at the slightest octave of your voice
whether you’re too excited or not.

At restaurants,
or even at the movies,
she counts all the exits,
knows where every door is.

She’s not really a match that’s been struck
but soon, you pick up
that many have watched her burn.

When she loves,
she tends to hold on to it
ultimately burning herself.
But she tries.

I, myself,
like a good rattle every now and then.
Nothing like the taste of splintery wood
soaked in gasoline,
melting in your mouth.

I live in my own world.
So it was an adjustment
learning how to wait without asking,
how to listen
without trying to fix anything.

She might have been burnt,
but she isn’t a victim.
Understandably, there may be a ghost or two
that keeps her up
but she faces them,
even calls them friends sometimes.

Some nights,
she cries
without so much as a single word.
A single tear.
Even then,
I just hold her
the same way people hold their jewelry.

Doesn’t matter.
Real or fake.
No judgment.

Everyone needs something to believe in.
Something to ease their mind.

Not everything is made to last.
The important thing
is to let it breathe
Rattle around your neck
Until it gets comfortable
but ultimately,
you protect the things closest to you.

You don’t ask about the scars,
the burns,
or the bruises.
Not even the names
of all the flames
that were fought
just to survive.

When I met her,
she told me she doesn’t believe in forever.

I looked at her and said,
“That’s cool.”
Then I told her
I believe that not all short people
should carry sharp objects.

I can only imagine
what ran through her mind.
But it couldn’t have been too bad.
Enough time has passed
to memorize the things she never says.

How she’s always intentionally early,
just to avoid talking
when everyone else arrives.

How her favorite foods
are the ones she couldn’t have growing up.
How she always wanted to travel,
but never had anyone to go with.

I think to some extent,
we all want to be touched
just don’t know the right words.
After all,
in certain states,
that’s a charge.

But more importantly
the memory of those who took
and kept taking
is still there.

All of that,
I get.

Then, on a random Tuesday,
it hit me.

While it’s a beautiful thing to witness
I realized
I am just standing still.

Breathing, nonetheless.
But I am standing still.

She disappears and ventures off
two, three days.
I am standing.

She forgets to call.
I am standing.

She forgets my name.
I am still standing.

Eventually,
I become a stranger.

Some days,
a smile casually strolls in.

Turns out,
she actually is a match
a match that forgot how to breathe.

I realized this some time back,
but didn’t know what I was looking at.

Eventually,
she’s going to learn how to breathe again.
And when she does
she’s going to burn everything down.

She doesn’t even talk to her ghosts anymore.
Then again,
the scars,
the bruises
they all make sense.

In her language,
The one she speaks between words.
Maybe she doesn’t believe in forever
not because she doesn’t know how to stay,
but because a fire always moves
suppressing,
devouring,
everything it comes in contact with.
Everyone needs something to believe
In

Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

I would let you eat me alive,
Devour me whole, and
Digest me completely.

I would let you set me ablaze-
Bright lights engulfing me;
I’d burn to a crisp.

You could carry me to sea,
Drag me down, drown me,
And I’d still thank you.

You took her first,
So far away…
If I went next, from here
to Her,
I’d go.

Oh, wrath of Death,
My body’s yours.
Take me- your plaything –
Don’t hold back now!

Swallow, sink or smolder,
Just stop my sorrow.

Swiftly send me to my heart.

Performed by Val Cole.

POEM:

My beloved Great Aunt Ruth
Fed her children good gray truth.
Great Aunt Lisa, whom I prize,
Raised her brood on bright red lies.

Filthy cupboards, cockeyed doors,
Spotted carpets, sticky floors,
Rancid odors, saggy plaster. . .
Lisa’s house – what a disaster!

Aunt Ruth’s dwelling – narrow, smaller,
Repudiated Lisa’s squalor.
Here, a thorough search, I trust
Would not have found one speck of dust.

At Aunt Lisa’s splayed old manse,
I learned to sing and learned to dance
And shamble after rare perfumes
Through littered, smoky, dusky rooms.
Lisa, sprawling, shouted, “Sport.
I hope you’re not the god-damned sort
Who simply can’t abide a lie.”
To which I said, “No, Aunt, not I.”

At Aunt Ruth’s my name was Lad.
Aunt Ruth talked with Mom and Dad
While her children (she had two)
Did the things they liked to do.
The older, Brick, thin as a taper,
Worked the crosswords from the paper.
Sue, his sister, did her nails
Or practiced, at the keyboard, scales.

And while the grown-up talk droned on
I would stretch or scratch or yawn,
Or sit beside my cousin Brick
And listen to the hall clock tick.

Lisa’s family, on vacation,
Traveled to some foreign nation.
Lisa’s oldest, Crazy Harris,
Told me they had been to Paris.
“Not true,” said one sister, Nina.
“We went down to Argentina.”

Another, Mabel, yelled, “Peru!”
I’ve no idea which one was true,
But Harris lumbered to his feet,
Waved his hands and shook his seat,
And with a sort of filthy glance
Did a comic Can-Can dance.
While I, in league with cousin Mabel,
Tangoed ‘round the kitchen table.

Brick and Susan both attended
Camps their pastor recommended.
In later years, Ruth still displayed
The braided bracelets they had made,
A sampling, also, or assortment,
Of their prizes for deportment,
Telling me, as great aunts do,
I could win such prizes, too.
“Work hard,” she said, “and never lie.”
And I said, “Yes, Aunt Ruth. I’ll try.”

After I was graduated
Time, for me, accelerated.

This job. That job. Wife. New schooling.
Babies bawling. Babies drooling.
Busy me, I lost the trick
Of keeping up with Sue and Brick.
Bikes and braces. Little League.
By the time my kids were big,
Except for Christmas cards and such
Lisa’s three and I’d lost touch.

So I was shocked when from the blue
Who shows up but Lisa’s crew,
And after pleasantries had passed
(“God knows,” they said, “when we met last”),
Harris, with his whiskey breath,
Told me of their mother’s death.

I attended calling hours.
Great Aunt Lisa, banked by flowers,
Looked like some cherubic sleeper
Who had cheated the Grim Reaper.
At the house, the food and liquor
Sparked to life a little flicker
Of that fierceness without measure

I had early learned to treasure.
Falsehoods, lies, inventions, fable
Flew from Harris; flew from Mabel.
Great Aunt Lisa, in their telling,
Still resided in that dwelling.
Laughter, stories, jokes and din
Wouldn’t let the truth sink in.
Then, down to beer, the whiskey gone,
They shouted, “Put more music on!”
And punching out our cigarettes
We danced a dance with castanets.

The hearse that bore Aunt Ruth away
I followed on another day.
“Thank God. . . Thank God her death was quick.”
So said Susan. So said Brick.
They’d come to town to give to others
Things that once had been their mother’s.
Not her carpets. Not her jewels.
The kitchen gadgets. Garden tools.
The stuff you’d call the bagatelle.
Things they figured wouldn’t sell.

Susan’s lately written me
To say she’s on the faculty
Of Harvard, or perhaps it’s Yale.
Harris, I’m afraid’s, in jail.
Nina’s found a brand-new diet.
She’s doubtful but she plans to try it.
Brick’s a genius CEO.
On and on and on things go.

In honor of the good gray truth,
I named my first-born daughter Ruth.
In my old age, she cares for me.
Blankets. Broth. And steaming tea.
And when the days are warm and dry,
When evening’s colored up the sky,
When a slant of mellow light
Suggests the coming of the night,
She calls for me, and she and I,
On our rambles, we’ll stop by
The narrow house of Great Aunt Ruth
And listen for the hymns of truth.

Good Ruth. My Ruth. – Well, just the same,

Lisa is her sister’s name.
And Lisa’s visits – random, hectic,
Come with battle. Come electric.
Brief. That’s as they ought to be,
Or else they’d be the death of me.
And yet I beg, before she goes,
She dress me in my finest clothes
And, neverminding rain or sleet,
Drive me to Aunt Lisa’s street
Where, unbeknownst to daughter Ruth,
I shuffle off my clothes of truth
And, naked under vicious skies,
Dance in praise of pretty lies.

The edged cliff face glimmers.
Opulent light
dances through moss fields.

Deers charge
through golden blades
of natural life.

Lakes extend
toward the grand hall.
Vast interiors.
Pathways open
to cherub paintings of old,
to veiled, enchanted sculptures—
naked bodices
calling out the nuance
in this grandiose abode.

Curved marble
surrounds your charm.
The flow of soft robes.
The tremors,
fragments
of an enriched heartbeat.

I am arranged
through stock.
Beneath your glacial gaze.
Held there.

You play piano.
One keystroke,
and the aristocrat in you
spreads through the garden.
A vast fountain,
a hush of carved stone.

No formality
can stop your eyes
on mine.
As I run.

Through floral fields,
leaving the gold-foiled dining halls
to history.

In the distance:
a horse-drawn carriage.
The moors are no match.
But I know
the shortcuts
to vanish.
To blur from your sight.

Is it lust
you see in me?
A gaze like centuries
have passed
between us.

Or is it longing—
destiny entwined in our soils.
No lineage
can hold us back.

Is it love?
Is this love?

It is early
when the birds call me
to the misty fields.
Where pollen breathes.
Where wings stretch open
in morning glory.

I walk.
You wait.

We bind our hands
and speak it all.

My rags.
Your riches.

Nothing
can part us—
evermore.

—

Genres:
Romance, Romantic Escape, Class Divide, Nature and Beauty, Longing and Destiny, Freedom and Rebellion.

How many more sighs must
Pass ere my words be stitched into thy heart,
Thy very being — a masterpiece painted by the Lord’s gentle breathe.
Ebony pools of the deepest sea, doused in the purity of milk,

“I drown in your gaze, turn thy sight from me,
For you have overcome me”,
Deign to converse with me; thy voice is a song I yearn to hear.
With a longing that yearns with the entirety of my fondness,
For this matchless butterfly, fluttering through grace.

Her elegance decorated in virtue and fealty,
Endowed with a mind of equal splendor;
Compels me to linger upon the path that guides to her.
I beseech the Sun/Son to allow me the honor of basking in her radiant warmth.

My endearment, doth neither stray, falter nor wane, indeed,
It was not difficult to discern why one was enamored of her,
For she was akin to aged wine, matured under the heavens of countless nights,
Or a blossom whose bloom is sprightly.
Love blindeth one, and within my heart, no tenderness resides but for thee.

Each time I take a breath it is harder than the last.
I try to focus on what you did without thinking of the past.
You once were there every day.
I never had to fear what I could say.
I trusted your intentions
until I began to feel the rising tensions.

You defended me.
You cared for me.
But I soon found out it wasn’t for free.
You said you were my best friend,
but that was only your means to a twisted end.

The delusion you created,
that you and I were fated,
telling everyone you were in love—
and then push came to shove.
Cursing my name and going insane,
you began inflicting pain.

When I didn’t want to have sex,
you tried to fight my ex.
The night you tried to replace me with another girl,
you made yourself so sick you had to hurl.
I watched you destroy the bathroom with your fists.
It wasn’t about me you tried to insist.

“Nothing is going to happen between us.”
You began to shout and cuss.
The shattered mirror and the broken you,
and everything we went through…
It led to this disaster,
and to cope you had to get plastered.

That night you popped a few pills,
and turned to the thrills.
Lines of cocaine,
and smoking Mary Jane,
downing vodka like water,
your temper only growing hotter.

The injuries you self-inflicted,
because to me, you were addicted.
You forgot about the cuts on your hands.
You chose to ignore my demands.
“Get out of my room!”
I felt the impending sense of doom,
as someone I once loved stripped me of my safety.

I tried to fight you back bravely,
But your strength was overpowering.
Over me you were towering.
I tried to resist,
but you had to persist.
My body against the wall shaking it entirely—
I had to escape vitally.

You chased me through my home.
You took away from me my phone.
“Help me I’m in danger!”
My last cry for help to convey your anger.
My escape was swift and sudden,
but behind me I could hear you coming.

Dodging left and right,
the objects you threw at me that night.
Finally I was hidden.
Of you I had finally ridden.

The following night I laid in bed,
with all of these thoughts racing through my head.
As you laid in jail,
Awaiting to hear bail,
I wondered if you had regrets,
Or were thinking of more threats.

Every day my fight grows stronger,
and the lack of sleep makes each night longer.
Still I wish for you the best,
and I have a deep ache in my chest.
For to care for someone who hurts you,
but have charges to pursue—
It will break your heart.
It almost tore me apart