Category: Poetry Festival

EVERYDAY MASKS, Poetry by DHERIC Da Poet

Sometimes blue
Sometimes shaded
Sometimes painted
Sometimes faded
Other times you just can’t state the state of your mask.

Genre: Rhyme, People, Life

EVERYDAY MASKS
by DHERIC Da Poet

Sometimes blue
Sometimes shaded
Sometimes painted
Sometimes faded
Other times you just can’t state the state of your mask.

We put on new faces
When new phases appear.
Our smiles alone
Could take the sorrow off one’s tear.

Yet,
Deep down, our souls yearn for joy.
Regretting what our past once destroyed.

Sometimes, deliberate.
Other times, not;
We change the masks so quickly, we forget who we really are.

Our faces become new to us.
Our purpose eludes us: Our path becomes strange.
That’s the point we start believing our own lies.

FB: http://facebook.com/ghpoetry/
IG: thePoet_Dheric
Twitter: @SonOfGod_Saved

 

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TAKE OVER ME, Poetry by CARLY ROSE

Sitting here with my racing heart, no one can hear the thoughts in my mind. Feeling confused and far away, I was crazy.

Genre: HOPE

TAKE OVER ME by  CARLY ROSE

Sitting here with my racing heart, no one can hear the thoughts in my mind. Feeling confused and far away, I was crazy.  Always feeling scared and neglected, ripped of my courage I stand rejected. All that is left is my empty heart and all these thoughts torn apart.  I feel like searching for who I am is the way to go.  I don’t know where my soul will lead me so. Somewhere out there is the place for me, I just have to try and be free. I can’t be scared I need to believe, before these thoughts take over me.

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PAPA’S NEW WIFE, Poetry by Nnamdi Wabara

I had gone back towards the Living Room.

For my School Text, which I had left on the side table.

My Math assignment to be redone, errors rife.

But Papa had a visitor, who whispered with him, like thieves about a heirloom.

Then out of the hushed tones, the inaudible rabble;

Papa said ” Tomorrow, she’ll be here; My New Wife”.

Genre: Family, Life, People

PAPA’S NEW WIFE by Nnamdi Wabara

 

I had gone back towards the Living Room.

For my School Text, which I had left on the side table.

My Math assignment to be redone, errors rife.

But Papa had a visitor, who whispered with him, like thieves about a heirloom.

Then out of the hushed tones, the inaudible rabble;

Papa said ” Tomorrow, she’ll be here; My New Wife”.

 

 

My young legs became filled with copious lead.

I froze to the spot. Enraged, yet rooted.

My heart thundered against my ribs, as if to break free.

And worse. The door opened. It was Revd. Gilead.

Parish Pastor and regular partaker of Mama’s delicious stewed Goat head.

I dodged as he made to pat my head, lest he stain me with his filthy mire.

 

 

That Evening at dinner, I couldn’t swallow even a morsel.

I just sat at the table staring at my plate, while my mind rioted.

Watching him even feed Mama pieces of fish from his soup. The Traitor!

My two little sisters chatted merrily and helped finish my cup of Sorrel.

My parents soon stood and hand in hand, whilst giggling, announced they had retired.

I soon left as well, not having the heart while my sisters washed up, to monitor.

 

 

Sleep that night was turbulent. I tossed and turned.

What could turn a godly man, an avowed Christian, polygamous?

When just the other day, he had railed against infidelity in the Church.

He wouldn’t even shake the Landlord’s hand after the Caretaker’s young daughter became his newly wed.

Gone were his public vows of ensuring his children became famous.

How possible, when the new wife will fight us over even the battered couch.

 

 

Then I wondered if at all we will be in Papa’s will.

Mama’s three daughters’ stood no chance against a new son in the African Custom.

Oh the injustice of it all, as I fell into a fitful sleep.

And I dreamt we were Romans and were gathered to feast on some bounty kill.

Though dressed in Togas’, I could still make out people in the place, including my Grand-Mom.

The Revd. Gilead was called Brutus, and I wished he would remain there as Caesar’s keep.

 

 

The Morning only brought me high fevers.

All sweaty, with splitting headaches. Mama sent word to School through my sisters.

I feigned sleep as Papa felt my forehead and prayed for my recovery. Evil Man!

At noon, I heard Mama’s excited shout; “Nne, come and see your Father’s New Wife”. Gone were the feverish shivers.

I charged out. An ill and weak Nine Year Old. Machete in hand. To ensure justice and preserve the honour of Mama and my sisters.

There she was. A White Volkswagen Beetle. Glistening in the Sun. Papa had bought a new Car. My Sweet Old Man.

 

Nnamdi Wabara, 2016.( newerthots.blogspot.com )

 

 

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1918…Sanctuary, Poetry by Terry Hopper

For as I lay in your embrace,
My breath be shallow..heart doth race,
The trench ,the bugle ,the distant drum ,
Fight for country…defeat the Hun,
So protected in your cocoon,
Daybreak looming behind the moon,
Sleep it cowers and it creeps,

Genre: Rhyme, War, Society

1918…Sanctuary by Terry Hopper

For as I lay in your embrace,
 My breath be shallow..heart doth race,
 The trench ,the bugle ,the distant drum ,
Fight for country…defeat the Hun,
So protected in your cocoon,
Daybreak looming behind the moon,
 Sleep it cowers and it creeps,
 Tears of mine ..i gently weep,
Not tonight …well not for me,
Safe and sound for that I be,
The dark …its cold …a killers friend ,
The night flame flickers ..bows and bends,
 The shadows dance to a pipers tune,
As we did …that day in June,
 The day I marched..with head held high,
For king and country ..live or die,
Young men together … comrades in fear,
Maidens calling hip hip three cheers,
The front …the gas ..ahead barbwire,
The stink ..the stench of gods hell fire,
 Bully beef …and rationed stew,
.Last letters home from me to you,
 Dearest sweetheart …love of my life,
Dearest mother …precious wife,
Signing off with yours devoted,
All my love and sugar coated,
Kisses sent ….a thousand score,
Each one delivered when at your door,
Just let me live please god I pray,
To see my love ..just one more day,
 So here we lay …safe and sound,
Hearts entwined …emotions bound ,
And as the eve does turn to light ,
My candle salutes…. its last goodnight.

Terry Hopper 2015
Copy write

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Read NEW selected POETRY from all over the world

Submit your POEM to the Poetry Festival: http://www.festivalforpoetry.com

Read the best of poetry from all over the word. 

THE WRITERS CURSE, by Ganzart
https://festivalforpoetry.com/2016/01/31/the-writers-curse-poetry-by-ganzart/

MARVELOUS UNIVERSE, by Karina Pinella
https://festivalforpoetry.com/2016/01/31/marvelous-universe-poetry-by-karina-pinella/

DON’T LEAVE ME, by Arian Fatius
https://festivalforpoetry.com/2016/01/31/dont-leave-me-poetry-by-arian-fatius/

WHATEVER NEXT, by Alex Cottle
https://festivalforpoetry.com/2016/01/31/whatever-next-poetry-by-alex-cottle/

LOVE, by Bryan Chan
https://festivalforpoetry.com/2016/02/01/love-poetry-by-bryan-chan/

WRECKED LIFE IN THE GLOW OF YEARS THAT WINDS THROUGH MITES OF TRUTH, by Mimmie Dana
https://festivalforpoetry.com/2016/02/01/wrecked-life-in-the-glow-of-years-that-winds-through-mites-of-truth-poetry-by-mimmie-dana/

GARDEN, by Nadya Raymond
https://festivalforpoetry.com/2016/02/01/garden-poetry-by-nadya-raymond/

ANXIETY, by Shellie Palmer
https://festivalforpoetry.com/2016/02/01/anxiety-poetry-by-shellie-palmer/

SING ANEW O FREEDOM, by Jonathan Baltzly
https://festivalforpoetry.com/2016/02/01/sing-anew-o-freedom-poetry-by-jonathan-baltzly/

BRIGID, by Andrea Connolly
https://festivalforpoetry.com/2016/02/02/brigid-poetry-by-andrea-connolly/

I’M SORRY, by Jaco Potgieter
https://festivalforpoetry.com/2016/02/02/im-sorry-poetry-by-jaco-potgieter/

THE YEARNING, by Rishi Abhishek
https://festivalforpoetry.com/2016/02/02/the-yearning-poetry-by-rishi-abhishek/

MY LIFE HAS 9 ROOMS, BY Dheric Da
https://festivalforpoetry.com/2016/02/02/my-life-has-9-rooms-poetry-by-dheric-da-poet/

 

Submit your POEM to the Poetry Festival: http://www.festivalforpoetry.com

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2015 Poetry Winner – Jane Gill Wilson

The Poetry Festival is proud to announce its 2015 Poetry Winner.

They will now have their poem made into a film.

Paris – The Atrocity 13th November 2015 by Jane Gill Wilson

The Poetry Festival is proud to announce its 2015 Poetry Winner.

They will now have their poem made into a film.

Paris – The Atrocity 13th November 2015 by Jane Gill-Wilson

Gunfire out of nowhere
Bullets ricochet,
Blood shed in the city
On another Parisian day.
Eyes closed in anguish
As the shocking events unfold,
There is no rhyme or reason
As evil takes control.

Armed with Kalashnikov’s
On their killing spree,
Intent on ending life
As victims start to flee.
Mayhem in the city
Bodies on the ground,
Echoing explosion
Causing carnage all around.

The unfolding horror
An onslaught of war,
Is a crime against humanity
One the world abhors.
A nation now in mourning
Struggles to comprehend,
How lives were extinguished
Brought callously to an end.

Holding hands together
United we must stand,
To eradicate the evil
Infiltrating our land.
Drastic measures needed
As time is running out,
The future of our children
Should not be left in doubt.

©Jane Gill-Wilson 2015

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MY LIFE HAS 9 ROOMS, Poetry by Dheric Da Poet

One,
Each passing day I welcome thoughts of her into my mind.
Thoughts I can only hold on to in times of despair.
Two,
I could swear I see rainbows under my pillow each night.
But whenever I trace it to the end, I see no pot of gold.
One of these days, I might recruit a search party.

Genre : LIFE

MY LIFE HAS 9 ROOMS by Dheric Da Poet

One,
Each passing day I welcome thoughts of her into my mind.
Thoughts I can only hold on to in times of despair.
Two,
I could swear I see rainbows under my pillow each night.
But whenever I trace it to the end, I see no pot of gold.
One of these days, I might recruit a search party.
Three,
I eat, sleep, and wake.
That’s the daily routine.
Anything else comes in second place.
I hope the same won’t happen on my wedding night.
Four,
If I ever get married, I won’t say no to anime.
If I have children, I’ll make sure I pass the tradition on.
For what’s life without comic books and cartoon network?
Five,
To the boys who will one day date my daughter,
I started perfecting head shots the day she was born.
I bought a large size plastic bag the day she started school
And I’ve got a silent gun too.
Six,
To the girls who will one day want to date my daughter,
Let’s just hope I have only one bullet left when meet.
Seven,
I’m scared of heights,
So I never raise my hand in class.
I fear the eagles of failure will pull off my hand of hope.
That’s why I keep it hidden.
Eight,
I keep consoling myself, saying
“My time will come”.
What I didn’t realize was the clock of life was actually waiting for me to insert the battery.
Nine,
I call my failures Adwoa
And my successes Abena,
My hopes bear the name Akua
Ten,
I try very hard to keep myself under the carpet cos I don’t want to be noticed.

The Yearning, Poetry by Rishi Abhishek

Oh! Lord, how I have tried to write my heart out,

pouring it out like a waterfall into an abyss,

out on the paper in ink,

and how I have failed

to make it seen,

that which is invisible,

Genre: People, Emotion, Struggle

 

The Yearning by Rishi Abhishek
               Oh! Lord, how I have tried to write my heart out,
               pouring it out like a waterfall into an abyss,
               out on the paper in ink,
               and how I have failed
               to make it seen,
               that which is invisible,
               that which I can only feel but not see,
               and that which is not ought to be shown,
               to them who seek to see
              with privy eyes,
              but to them who can see the soul of others,
              just as they can feel their own.
              That which I try to allude to,
              that which has always eluded me,
              that which others know only
              through great works by great men,
              but none knows, as none sees,
              for they ween theirs to be it.
              And nothing has changed,though;
              And though nothing has changed,
              everything that has seemed so hollow
              has been filled again
              by nothing more than its own vacancy,
              For what is meant to be filled
              never ought to be left hollow:
              the Heart, lest of all things.
              And then, time takes it forward,
              as change takes it over,
              and man with strangeness in his eyes,
              looks at what is familiar,
              that which is inevitable and immortal,
              that which he thought was himself.”

 

 

 

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I’m Sorry, Poetry by Jaco Potgieter

Standing in the ashes of my sorry I dream of what could have been.

Looking at the grey and black I wonder about what came first and last.

How it would have been if I spoke or remained silent a little longer.

What this moment might have looked like if I did more or didn’t do.

In this now exist only the scarred and broken remains of what if?

Touching the torched wood of our togetherness, it crumbles to nothing.

Genre – Dark, Hurt, Love, Painful, Relationships, Sad, Redemption

I’m Sorry by Jaco Potgieter

 

Standing in the ashes of my sorry I dream of what could have been.

Looking at the grey and black I wonder about what came first and last.

How it would have been if I spoke or remained silent a little longer.

What this moment might have looked like if I did more or didn’t do.

In this now exist only the scarred and broken remains of what if?

Touching the torched wood of our togetherness, it crumbles to nothing.

 

Dusty maps in my hands of roads traveled brings no peace, they end here.

Then I cry at the joke of it all, the tortured reality of the path of destiny.

 

I’m sorry.

 

I use the fragments of what should have been to clear a new path.

Then I summon myself to this home of catastrophic annihilation.

I scoop up the remnants of us from the debris with my hands.

I bow my head and with my tears water the green seedling of our new creation.

 

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Brigid, Poetry by Andrea Connolly

Her wingspan shrouded in mystery

The small tortoiseshell rubicund

Ebony and golden forewings

Tangerine surged from chrysalis

A ring of blue, her spell, her veil

Little hands fold hollow reeds

Genre: Fantasy, Life

Brigid by Andrea Connolly

1st of February 2016

 

Her wingspan shrouded in mystery

The small tortoiseshell rubicund

Ebony and golden forewings

 

Tangerine surged from chrysalis

A ring of blue, her spell, her veil

Little hands fold hollow reeds

 

The magical childhood craft

Interwoven square with beams

A Eurasian butterfly with four wings

 

She folds them around blossoms

The little ones, the innocent

Refuge for homeless and landlords

 

She holds them equally at heart

Sainthood flicks wings of grass

 

 

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