Author: poetryfest

Bury me in a blue sequined dress
with a plunging rhinestone neckline
to be looked upon in a bedazzled open coffin
lit by a hot pink spotlight under a white tent at night.

Prepare me to sparkle for eternity
a joyful unceasing beacon in the afterlife
restore the light that was quenched from me
release me from the dark.

In a faraway land of epicurean delight
Lived a legendary man who made sandwiches right
He would travel the realms to prepare for kings and queens
For what he put inside the bread were magic and dreams

His sandwiches piled high with meats from ceiling to floor
No one had ever tasted anything so glorious before
Hero to all for his marvelous belly stuffing treats
No one could challenge him or his incredible feats

At home he had a beautiful wife with golden hair
As well as a boy and a girl so cherished, oh how he cared
So lucky he was why would he ever want to venture out
Many wished they had such a beautiful family to tout

Yet restless he was wanting even more fame than he had
Was he willing to leave behind being a husband and a dad?
But ego and greed can be such a terrible lure
So, one day he set out saying he would be back for sure

From home he would roam to uncharted islands unnamed
He was looking for a mythical ingredient to enhance his fame
Searching near and far he would leave no bush or rock unturned
For he knew the fanfare, which he would receive upon his return

This ingredient he sought a rare spice he hoped to locate
Hundreds have tried but no one returned or knows of their fate
He knew he was the one to solve the mystery ahead
So onward he went “fame and fortune will be mine” he said

As he was wandering around an ogre stepped in his way
As he tried to pass, the ogre said “you are here to stay”
Inquiring “what do you mean please allow me to go by”
The ogre held firm “you are trespassing on sacred land is why”

This amazing sandwich maker was beginning to get scared
He knew he was in trouble by the ogre’s evil stare
For the first time thoughts of his family entered his head
Why had he left behind, all which he loved for glory instead

As the ogre took him away and locked him in a cell
The sandwich maker longed for his family back in the dell
What will I do he said, how will I escape to get back home?
Or will I be left here out of false pride to die all alone

They will think I left them with no intention of return
All I wanted was to be rich giving them all that I earn
Now all that I wish for is to go home to my family
Ogre I am begging, I learned my lesson, please set me free

What lesson is that the ogre said with a curious glare
All that matters in life is the family I left there
I thought Fortune and fame would provide their wildest dreams
But I have now learned our love is all that matters he beamed.

The ogre’s eyes now dampened drenching the land with his tears
Said to the sandwich maker go home right now, get out of her!
Hurry away before I change my mind and never let you go
Be what you learned, tell your wife and kids that you love them so

So, as he journeyed back to everyone, he’d left behind
He wondered what type of reception at home he would find
Would his wife become mad that he came home with empty hands?
How about his children with no gifts from this faraway land?

There before him the dell, as his house came into view
His wife on the porch so pretty, he was ever so thrilled
Their eyes met, falling into each other’s arms, holding so tight
His children joined in making everything so magically right

The Sandwich maker grateful with his family at his side
He went back to making his delights for all who stopped by
All along he had everything anyone could ever need
Family, love, and respect from all, on that he would feed

POEM:

In the sole required text for that Intro to Western Civ
State-college course I took as a freshman, in the chapter
On the 19th century Industrial Revolution in England,
I saw farmhands by the dozens streaming up the street
From a black iron gate, their agricultural work rendered
Obsolete by mechanization, migrants from fields of grain
In the West Midland countryside who’d sought employment
In the city to support their families, creased hands and faces
As smeared with soot as the chimney-sweeping children
In William Blake’s Songs of Innocence and of Experience,

No longer rewarded for their labor by a soft pink layer
Of cloud on the horizon, in a dimness lit by oil lanterns,
In grimed bib overalls, black boots, and flat cloth caps,
Clogging the thoroughfares of the first big city to build
The “Satanic mills” derided, in Blake’s anthemic “Jerusalem”
For spoiling the beauty of “the green and pleasant land,”
Only to emerge, in the grainy black and white photograph
On the facing page, from a gray mass of slurry and steam,
In silhouette in the cobbled street like a herd of black sheep
After the 12-hour workday in the Birmingham factory—

Predecessors of my grandfather, my uncle, and my father,
Who lathed sheets of metal and labored in tool and die
For a coal-mining machinery company in Columbus, Ohio,
For more than thirty years each, who showered at work
And shot the shit with buddies in the locker room before
Car-pooling home in one or another of their shiny sedans,
Entering the house by the same door they’d left by at dawn,
Leaving behind in the locker at the shop clothes as greasy
And yellow safety helmets as hard and bright as those
Of their African American and Appalachian workmates:

Fabricators in the shed, forklift operators, and shippers
And receivers on the docks who routinely lost their fingers
Or got bonked in the head with a beam swung by a crane,
Yet who remained as proud of the things they produced,
Shovels, dozers, scrapers, loaders, excavators, draglines,
And universal cutting machines for fossil-fuel exploitation,
In spite of the deleterious eventual effects of pollution
And the unknown connection of coal to climate change
As the rough Brummie blokes at the end of the workday were
Of the practical things they made in those Birmingham mills:

Textiles made from the cotton of slave-camp plantations
In Asia and the Americas, cast iron from the coke of ore
Mined in creek-beds and forged in coal-burning furnaces,
Steam engines that “freed the manufacturing capacity
Of human society from the limited availability of hand, water,
And animal power,” sulfuric acid, a hybrid of copper
And iron known as “vitriol,” responsible for the modern
Chemical industry as we know it today, for the DuPonts
And Dows, the Chevrons and Monsantos, that make such vast
And inexpensive quantities of indispensable necessities,

Fertilizer, detergent, insecticide, and batteries, antifreeze,
Rust remover, petroleum, and paint, if not also responsible
For the raging epidemics of cancer that began to ravage
The reproductive organs, the breasts, endometria, cervixes,
Uteri, vulvas, vaginas, and ovaries of women, not to mention
Their lungs, livers, pancreases, lymph nodes, stomachs,
And brains, when the Forest of Arden, celebrated
As a retreat from civilization by Jacques in Shakespeare’s
Comedy As You Like It, was surveyed by greedy speculators
And clear-cut, like North America, for firewood and lumber.

Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

I heard your voice
like thunder through the air.
Before I could think,
before there was a flinch
you appeared.

The storm doesn’t scare me,
especially when it sounds like you.

Regardless of what things look like,
you soak through my skin.
I don’t care how heavy my clothes get.
I don’t care how hard the wind blows.

It doesn’t push me back.
Whichever direction I walk
they all point towards you.

Like I belong in the middle,
somewhere closer to you.

I walk in you
until I am the only thing you see.

Before the thought of flinching
at the sound of your voice,
I remember
you are what and where
lightning kisses.

Before every storm,
there is a breath
that caresses my face
sweet and warm.

Soon after,
you appear.

I eagerly wait
for the sound
of your voice.

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.