Category: Poetry Festival

Read Poem: The Long Road, by Shobana Gomes

At first glance, it seemed easy,
I, the traveler on a weary road to perhaps fame,
I tamed my mind to think in ways one would want to impress,
But like a toddler taking baby steps,
I fall, struggling to get back on my feet.

The route I took seemed all too ready to steady that feet,
Through stumbling tears, I made my smiles just as effortless,
I cried first, then I laughed,
Isn’t laughter sometimes created from tears?

The road was long, the road was windy,
The road took me to eternity,
I wondered at some point if I would reach eternity, yes, eternity,
But stop I did not, I traveled through time, I traveled through eternity.

There were days when I thought “not a second to waste”
Until one day I realized that it took time to reach eternity,
It was the long road I had chosen,
Through much travail, none of which man can know or hear of.

I trudged with time on the long road to eternity once,
Right now, I face, I stare ahead,
I have not seen the end,
No, there is no end,
I have only been on the trail to the “beginning.”

THE END.

Read Poem: Darker than Death, by ~~Shree~~

Darker than Death
Is now a bonding,
Which was supposed to be
Sweet and simple,
Lucid and natural –
But not anymore, sadly.
It has become increasingly
A threat to my existence,
And intimidating to my respect.
There exists no more purity,
No more genuinity.
Alas I have to hide in disguise,
And wear a plastic smile.
Although my heart aches
Like a carbuncle
Filled with rotten pus and blood.
I am always pushed
To match the criteria
Of so-called “good human being”,
Where I find nothing but
Arrogance and hatred.
Where love is ignored.
What matters is performance
To meet the bottomless expectation.
Care and compassion is not valued.
What is valued is the sound of silver.
Sad, very sad I am….
I should not have to prove
What I am.
Love should flow automatically,
But unfortunately it doesn’t anymore.
All my tries are shunned,
My best feat
Is never enough.
I am brutally blamed
For anything and everything.
Strings are now gossamer
Like fragile feathers.
I am more scared now,
Because darkness looms over
My feelings and emotions,
Where there is no respect
But a bitter spin of my words.
Although I was compelled to
Express my sorrow,
But then they were trodden
Like unwanted pests.
Punishing the trust
With major upheavals.
Dead… darker than death
Are now my apprehensions.

© Shree 24th November 2018, Houston USA
Inspired by the famous quote of Paulo Coelho
“The world is changed by your example, not by your opinion.”

Read Poem: A fairy’s face, by Jeanette E. R. Cook

I listen to the fairy stories

Of my aunt’s and I envision

Their garden,

Enchanting with the pastels

Of growth and the swaying

Blooms spreading the fragrance

In the bright light of morning

After the dew is gone,

Where a perilous journey

Is hidden from human eyes,

The stars are uncounted

And a fairy can’t be caught

But they have their own

Net of words that they share,

They memorize me in the garden,

As I digest their world,

The view is beautiful and untouched.,

Where they love so much without

hate,

Opinions buried and not shared,

A fairytale world,

Joyous and with all happy endings

Celebrated inside their group,

Grace in their land with hardships

Overcome through teamwork,

Usually comforting all,

Witnesses always helping out,

They can

Not be unmasked or sequestered to a

Box by us,

It is blistering difficult to be patient

To steal a glance at them,

Unaware of my presence

And they let me see them.

–J. E. Cook © 2020

Read Poem: THE DARK WEB!, by Vijetha Shenoy

GENRE: Dark

She was young, naive and innocent! He was in his adolescence…
He was fond of her and she was fond of his presence…
She aged less than a decade but he was older to her by more than a decade…
She played with the dolls but he played with her, unafraid…
She was swayed by his candy treats unaware of his intention…
He had the little kid’s attention as he had created admirable impression..
He weaved his web in a pleasing way with a strong blockade…
Andthere she was, his fun prey to his worthless beak, dismayed…
The Child in her thought it was a fun game of tickles…
It was too late when she realized that it wasn’t just about laugh and giggles…
His sleazy trap was desperate for a toy to try-on…And she was a fresh and free coupon to tread on…He was like a camouflaged snake in the beautiful green grass…
As he tried but not succeeded to crush her courage like a broken glass…
She wished she was a bit older to act upon then…To break his nib and put a stop to his playpen…
She may try to forget as she grows older and stronger by the day…
Yetthis haunting memory make her nerves fray every single day…
Her heart says to forgive that deficient boy who is now a middle aged sad man…
But there is a desire deep inside of her to unfold this sad story to his clan…
For, he may have young daughters and she really hopes and prays…
That they don’t get caught into this desolately woven dark web of dirty play…
©VJ

Read Poem: Pacific Theater, by Michael Ventimiglia

I’m swallowed in soil, engulfed in a trench
On shorelines where I outlive better men.
Does that sense of resentment get to them?

As rounds fall in sand and the ocean breaks
Blood red is distilled in the tide and the wake
Immersed in the water where waves pummel my chest
My feet sink in sand and I struggle to tread

For every step that I take is traced by guns
And fire and blood fill up in my lungs.
I stumble. I choke, so damn desperate to breath
The fresh breath that stationed me overseas.

I pick the pockets and bags left on men
For whatever scraps of metal are left
With names and numbers still etched in them

Then orders reach my men and I
“Collect what you can. We’re leaving tonight.”

So many were left mangled in Earth
Their bones eroding into the dirt.
Soon no relics or remnants of their hearts or souls
Just folded flags for their widows to hold.

Forget the intent that garnished those days.
The pride and the glory of those who decay.
The flowers and medals can never repay
The honor that dug so many graves.

Read Poem: Raging Ocean, by Ramone

I am like a ship sailing atop a raging ocean

The high waves are thrashing, hindering my motion

I have a destination in mind: to it I have great devotion.

No, not any port in a storm will satisfy

I am predestined for greatness by and by

Yet these waves are getting bigger and I miss the blue sky

The storm is surging as though I am the bad guy

Getting cursed for evil deeds or maybe that is just my conscience

Playing tricks on me.

Am I my generation’s new face of failure. Such thoughts take all my glee

Some may think I am just lost at sea

But I have a destination in mind that I will get to at any fee

And it shall be, I decree.

https://ppaspera.wordpress.com/2018/03/24/raging-ocean/

Read Poem: Singles Awareness Day, by Hiker Angel

Categories: Love, Hurt, Painful

The Darkest heart of winter’s chill
chokes out the hollow monstrous day,
its tendrils slithering to fill.

Rapacious, snaking, gasping gill,
in waters deep where wicked prey,
the Darkest heart of winter’s chill.

Its teeth plunge, victim’s cries so shrill
with lurching, wheezing, rending play,
its tendrils slithering to fill.

Her movement stops, it has its swill
the nasty piper sucks its pay,
the Darkest heart of winter’s chill.

Vestigial quarry’s heat distill,
blood’s dulling red becoming gray,
its tendrils slithering to fill.

Her hope to wed, its gleeful kill,
this Valentine’s, fourteenth long day,
the Darkest heart of winter’s chill,
its tendrils slithering to fill.

Villanelle
Rhyme: A1 b A2 / a b A1 / a b A2 / a b A1 / a b A2 / a b A1 A2
Meter: iambic tetrameter

Read Poem: Cold, by Linda Jordan

Stealing along a darkened road; it’s path crooked
Fleeting around trees, leaves shivering in its wake, grass frozen mid-bow in homage
Inspecting, watchful, it’s purpose clear
A lone traveler comes; hungry for warmth
A house in the darkness; to the porch, peeking into windows; a door ajar
Cold sees an opportunity
Leaning in like a party guest offering unwanted advice, seizing the moment to enter
Quickly occupying every nook and cranny; nesting, rooting,
Inching forward through every carelessly cracked window, down every open chimney flue
Seeping along the floor, hugging corners
Inspecting cupboards, trying on boots and gloves
Filling closets and testing bed sheets; searching
Halting in a darkened corner, cold utters a sigh; glittery breath frosting windows in the vacant night
Uninvited visitor, unwelcome guest in the quiet
Faintly, the sound of voices tug at the fringes of its weary consciousness;
Lights flicker on interrupting its blue reverie; the rising sound of laughter assaults it’s crude senses
Suddenly feeling exposed, resolve melting, Cold hurriedly gathers it’s things, shoulder’s its frosty rucksack, and dissolves into the baseboards and walls, hiding
Whispering down halls, tendrils collecting its belongings along the way, cold escapes out the door as a warm body enters, door shut rudely at it’s back
Indignant and disheveled, Cold collects itself, shrugs its pack into place, and starts once again down the road trailing winter behind it

Read Poem: Can’t you see?, by Mary V. Saenko

Title: Can’t you see?
Author: Mary V. Saenko
Genre(s): dark, long, sad, painful, hurt, life

I want to be liked.
When I look at myself in the mirror,
All I feel is shame.
I am ashamed of what I look like,
But more than anything,
I am ashamed of who I’ve always been on the inside.
I am ashamed when I open my mouth,
Why do I have to speak?
Can’t you see?
I, too, don’t want to be this annoying!
I can’t help but say stupid things,
Why can’t I shut up?
Why can’t I just be like everyone else?
I don’t want to be me.
I want to be someone else, somebody just like everyone.
You can tell, can’t you?
That I really want you to like me,
Really want you to like me so I can like me too.
This desperation is pathetic,
Irritating,
Repelling,
Appalling,
Disgusting.
Let’s stick two fingers down my throat,
So that maybe yesterday’s bottled up regrets after yet another failed conversation
Will come out
Along with today’s special course:
18-years-worth-of-self-loathing mucus
Clogging my throat and my ears and my head and you,
Do you gag like me?
My tragic attempt to be friendly and likable
Does nothing but highlight my obnoxiousness.
Its filthy.
Does it make you gag, too?
Just say it already!
You hate me, don’t you?
Your words can’t hurt me.
You see, the overwhelming desire to dissapear
Is already my dearest companion;
Its hobbies are joining clubs
Just to feel like you don’t fit in,
Listening to sad songs
Just to cry,
Attending events
Just to feel unwelcome,
And by far, my favorite,
Talking to people who you hope are your friends,
Who you want to connect to,
Who you wish you were,
Just to feel unwanted,
Just to be unwanted,
Just to be alone.
Just to always approach others to start a conversation.
Just to go home by yourself on the last day of school.
Just to squeeze right in the corner of that group photo.
Just to avert eye contact knowing you will always be picked last for a project.
Just to know that if you weren’t here, everyone would be happier.
You ruin everything.
“Why did you show up?”
Can’t you read the room?
Nobody wants you here.
I don’t want to be here.
I just want to be liked.
Will someone else ever like me
When even I don’t like myself?
I can already tell what you are thinking,
Don’t worry, I won’t make you say it out loud.
But it doesn’t bother me,
I think this is something we can both agree on.
And if you say “I don’t like you,”
I will laugh
“Check mate!”
Because in this game, I always have the high ground.
And if you say “I hate you,”
I will exclaim
“Me too!”
If hating yourself is an art,
Well then call me Picasso,
For nobody can hate me
As much as I hate myself.

Read Poem: Parlors, by John Glass

My neighbor was a member
of a gang, the Latin Kings.
My neighbor sits to my right,
but had lived downstairs.

My neighbor reminds me
of Junior, real country folk,
who attended my great-uncle’s wake
back in Bama, some twenty years.

He wore overalls, Big Country,
to raised eyebrows, even there,
a reunion, though teary
as with this shabby funeral home

that I now attend
a wake for a mutual friend
my neighbor and I, catching up
a good guy, someone said.

But Victor wore a bandana,
and liked to say yo.
It was known that he’d killed someone,
back in Quitó.
He stayed but a few minutes
but his bandana remains with me
just as Junior’s denim
too remains with me.

I crunch-step through frost to the train
in Spanish-soaked Queens,
thinking of tonight’s dusty parlor
and that ancient Southern evening.

I shiver, thinking Victor
is okay, going to make it.
And I wonder if Junior is still alive.