Category: Poetry Festival

ABANDON LOVE, by Joanne Rowe

So rich man you think you’re gonna survive?
Leaving the rest of us to die.
Buy your ticket to outer space,
watch the rest of us spinning in space.
You measure time by your own insignificant place

Mother Earth is starting to wake
We can feel her moving – Under our feet
Dancing but nobody is watching

She is screaming in the whirlpools of abandon love,
Drowning in the pools of blood,
Crying in the dirty rain,
In the clamour of the wind and rain,
how many lives have fallen?

We have rend her garments –
Emptying out her oceans
leaving her in disgrace,
and just plain destroyed this place.

With our lust for power and greed to have ever more,
Lies and deceit riding on the backs of the poor,
leaving them to eat dirt while
using our abandoned pets as live bait.

Oh all for the good life,
for we are gonna have a good time.
No one’s manning spaceship earth
to busy fighting and dying
while we are spinning out of control.

Oh sweet love divine
where do we go from here
oh sweet love divine
where do we go from here.
You seem to have abandon this place

For why complain –
we are riding on the crest of sensation,
oh for we all have a good life,
oh sweet love divine

Gaia is opening up the book of change
bringing forth massive amounts of
anger, sadness and despair
For we have abandoned her
Now chaos sets the order of the day.

And when the morning sun has risen –
I will walk outside this world of dust
Watching
Mother Earth shed
her garment of expression,
awakening the deep strata of my soul
and sets it dancing with my shadow wondering,
where we will go from here?

After the tears – a gentle rain falls
One can sense a presence
to a life’s sustaining ocean
of a love that is freely given,
not bound to any one person or thing

Asking mankind to wear a coat of compassion
To hold on to what is good, —- All you need is love
For All Life!

In gratitude we wait for a new day to begin.
poem written by Joanna Rowe

“Be the change that you want to see in the world.”
Mohandas Gandhi

Live Dream Love http://thedowsersdaughter.blogspot.com/
joanny

The corona quiet, by Alison Hramiak

So quiet the land –

the lanes, the paths

the leafy glades.

Where in the air

viral shadow evades

surgeon scalpel blades.

Corona cripples cursed confused countries,

Crying out for medicine and medicals.

Rage against a parasite

That Earth itself has sent.

Covid 19 coursing, carousing, carelessly carefree

through the blood of this us –

This dominant species.

Powerless to prevent

As we carelessly collectively collect on corners.

Will we die of ignorance?

Or heedlessness ?

And as smoke rises from the ashes

of what is left of us

like a

mad mocking double helix

of the virus

that claimed

us…

How we will move on?

© Alison Hramiak

23rd March 2020

Home, by Cecilia Morales

I remember the clear blue skies
the chilly rainy days
the cool October winds signalling the end of the school year
the cicadas crying for rain
the butterflies bringing spring on their wings
the ancient green giant watching over us
his warmth barely contained under rocky dark blankets.

I remember the sleepy towns
our hideout in the foggy mountains where I said ‘I love you’ for the first time
and the wild waves we used to ride on the weekends
our skin angry and red and salty and peppered with dark sand.

I dream of many faces
all of them smiling as they pass by
golden brown, kissed by the sun
infinitely patient at my silences, my anger, my disappearing acts.

I hear their laughter as we walk together on dirty sidewalks
passing by tall walls lined with broken glass
and barbwire
pretending to ignore the vague black threats tagged on doors
and the suffocating hand of uncertainty behind the smog
wondering what safety even feels like
wondering which one of us will be next
performing death in the newspapers
under white sheets
because what else is there to feel
other than fear and disgust?

I am haunted by her sunny smile clouded by the plastic bag around her head
by the bullet that stole his eye
by the ghouls that drove her away from home
by the corpse I stumbled upon on my way to the gym
by the crowds cheering wildly at the emperor’s cries for blood
by the deafening hatred making us turn against one another
devouring each other on our way out.

By Cecilia Morales – twitter.com/mulberryink

Originally published at https://notesmetro.substack.com

Feed the Wolf, by Ben Hramiak

Weather is bitter,
sitting on chair, smoking.
Pipe allows small, dull
Embers to be spewed forth.
Tiny specs of dancing light
Hurt my eyes. Wince at them.
Think of spouse, thoughts
turn to her without
clothes. Berate self
inwardly and outwardly.

Frown, chunter, growl.
Grit teeth, teeth turn to fangs.
Don’t question this.
Know what will happen.
Welcome it,
welcome the fur and
claws, the tearing of
my muscles.

Wait in the dark for her,
laugh to myself – a growling cackle
escapes my newly formed maw.
Don’t worry about the mess I made.
Will deal with it later.

Sensory overload: smell
a hundred thousand
different flavours dancing
along the air. Meat, sweat, dust,
old paper from old books, smoke –
the smoke burns my nose,

I wince at it.
Hear her car enter the driveway
like a boulder being
dragged along the ground.
Her key clatters through the lock,
her shoed feet clomp along the carpeted floor.
I grin to no one in particular – frenzy brings with it an invigoration –
and wait in anticipation, claws scraping the arms
of my armchair – leather ripping to reveal the
woollen innards.

The feelings of lust mix
with something… older.
I salivate, my thoughts turn red
for a fleeting moment. She enters the room and gasps.
Tall, business suit, brown hair.
Sensible. Picture her without clothes again,
begin to grin even wider. Brain barely
Forming words, mouth nearly incapable of
Making sounds other than growling.
Everything is red.

I CAN’T BREATHE, by Pendullum

For years you’ve suffocated me with your hatred and malice,
You’ve pinned me down with your racial prejudice,
Dishing out your warped brand of justice,
Forced me to drink from your poisoned chalice,
Now it’s gotten so much that I can’t breathe.

Your injustices keep pressing me down,
You only care that my skin is brown,
All you want to do to me when we cross paths is to go to town,
You get your gun out and burst open my crown,
I guess it doesn’t matter to you that I can’t breathe.

This same shit happened to George Floyd,
I guess his skin colour made his human rights void,
All his dreams and ambitions you guys just foiled,
You see a black man and you immediately get buoyed,
It didn’t matter to you that he couldn’t breathe.

Even without cause, you treat us like criminals,
Time and again, you spill our blood like animals,
We are not safe in the streets, subways or bus terminals,
We get victimized just for being different, for being radicals,
Yet it doesn’t bother you that your hate won’t let me breathe.

Black, white, red – we are all human,
Whether you are educated or a layman,
We are all born of a woman.
So if we are all human,
Then why doesn’t it matter to you that I can’t breathe?

© Pendullum.

I’ll See You Again, by Famela Marie

I’ll see you again when the sun comes out in the morning
like nothing has happened and I wasn’t crying.
I’ll see you again when the rainbow shows up after the rain
as if it is telling me to throw away all the pain.
I’ll see you again when I’m done whispering to the moon
that I will be able to forget you soon.
I’ll see you again when I hear the songs play
and it already means nothing to me.

I’ll see you again when that day comes
and I can see that smile again on my face
and thinking about you doesn’t make my heartbeats race.
I’ll see you again when I see a shooting star
and not wishing to have you in my arms.
I’ll see you again when the evening comes
and I’m not crying at 3 A.M.
I’ll see you again when my heart still remembers you
but never recognizes this feeling I once had for you.

I Am Not Depressed, by @Therapy Poet

They said pain is indescribable
I didn’t understand, until I felt it,
The feeling it brings is so unspeakable
All the same I had to keep fit.

I’ve had a few bruises
Huge scars that can’t be hidden with glues,
Memories filled with hunted streets
Layers of pain; life filled with secrets.

For years, I made my bed on self pity
Tears were the only liquid offered for me to drink,
It was so because the hurt sank in deep
Time came when I had to admit…

I am not Depressed!
Maybe life was so unfair to me
Keeping me in places I could not forget
Crushing me to the point of no respect
But to this effect,
I will protect all that I have left.

I am not Depressed!
That is a statement you should ingest,
This time I totally refuse to be suppressed
This is an issue I have to address
Because unfortunately, you have transgressed.

For the last time,
I am not Depressed!
Life knocked me down just one-time
Now I’m set out on a quest,
A quest to reinvest in myself
I do not seek your opinion neither do I want you to be impressed,
But get this one sentence into your head,
I am not Depressed!

Written by
@Therapy Poet

Number 87, The Fountain, by Bill Mumford

The snib string was pushed through grandfather’s door
Well-worn by the tug of neighbours’ hands.
Let out during the day, pulled in at night
Hefted children, weans, keen to explore.
“No going to the Bog Side or Creggan”
“No cheeking old man Walker- he’s not right”

Tribal childcare, fed wherever we were
Never any trouble: “we know your ma”.
And god knew everything we were thinking-
Even before we did. We were wary.
Found places that were under the radar
Feral- until the string was pulled in.

We snook over to see Derry City
“Avert your eyes from the graven imagery!”

The Keening Curlew, by Bill Mumford

Hail, blown by Artic Maritime wind
Stings. Westmorland whitens, all sound freezes.
I take shelter in a silent lime kiln
Stone cold. No fire here, all warmth has been mined.
Pulled my dog close- wary with unease
Numbed. Quiet, waiting as the cold seeps in.

Steam of light cuts through an icy veil
Glimpses of a silhouette, then the lament
As a curlew keens his incantation.
His lovelorn song tells such a sad tale
Memories of moors filled with enchantment-
His thoughts turn- for hope and expectation.

They say: birth chimes bring the sick belief
Moment of joy in a landscape of grief

Through The Screen Door, by Dominique Doutre

My favorite color only happens once a day.

It’s that moment right at sunset as the sky changes from blue to grey.

The light that kissed the treetops has faded from the leaves, pulling away his warm fingertips.

The color can’t decide if it’s blue or grey or simply light, tiptoeing the edge of night and day.

The color feels like solemn emptiness and acceptance that the day is over. Do we rejoice? Or am I full of dread? Of emptiness? Can one feel full on emptiness?

I sit watching the day wind down and listen to the birds through the screen door, all while my favorite color sits in the sky.

While the sunset oranges and blushy pinks cling to the clouds for brief moments and then vanish, my favorite color watches quietly.

And for one moment, once a day, right at sunset as the sky changes from blue to grey, I feel a little less alone.