Category: Poetry Festival

Read Poetry: Pasta and Parmigiana, by Al Glendinning

You may stand with your arms outstretched, as if a crucifix bathed in the glory and warmth of the Italian sun.

Barefoot, you walk upon the cobblestones that lead toward the milky road as you stride toward reward, where new lovers will soon become, as one.

 

Flushed with the colors in the haze of a European windswept morn. That is as sharp and shrilled, as a high-pitched whistle blow.

We all need to feed upon illusions that have a little imagination, to travel

the ravaged wastelands that create a matrix and allows small thoughts to   grow

 

from the devotion of jurisprudence and the dogma that can set minds free. A woman with diamond cut facets, means you can be what you want to be,

Not just an airbrushed image, for glamour, controlled by the council of stone.

The ages of love are like the summers that burn hot, so that single does not mean alone.

 

Just as Pasta and Parmigiana, just as the moon moves the ocean and tide. Sexiness and sensuality, is synchronized by both body and mind.

Mascara, red lipstick and perfumes are enhanced, by a décolletage, well exposed. Man’s eyes may be drawn to the neckline that is natural for Haute Couture clothes,

 

But as you wander through the hillsides and the valley in between,

You discover there’s a cultural landscape, of the likes that you’ve never seen That stands proud in celebration of the hunchback poet of Recanti town.

How much do you love me, is the question I ask now.

 

No Spectre from a past will ask, how you will remember me, my love.

There is no compromise or choice, to choose between the common coot and dove. Does a composer in the forest undergrowth, always score the tune you want to hear? Is the special day more than a memory that forever is sincere?

 

It’s nice to be loved. Not under suspicion, as the velvet darkness of evening falls.

To invigorate renaissance, so the glow of love reflects its light within the confines of the castle walls.

As you stand with your arms outstretched, and gaze up to the crucifix,

you will recall this evening prayers, when the sound of every church bell calls you

 

from the air, so fresh that the evening already feels just like a wild Italian celebration where one kiss is irreversible, once the beat of the aching heart has gone.

The love, La beauté du diable may one day, fade away

But you’ll enjoy a cappuccino, in the piazza, wave to friends and smile. At a cool Italian street   Café.

 

Read Poetry: Into Hiding, by Brian Wake

 

Hiding from me at bedtime, my daughter

sneezes and giggles from inside the wardrobe.

I wonder where she is, I act. Pretending

not to see her four small fingers clutching 

the door but, fearing the dark far more

than she does me, she surrenders. I gasp 

in mock surprise. Soon she will be sleeping.

 

In Germany once

whole families hid in cupboards

while friends pretended not to see.

But, seventy years on, most would say

forget, forgive, let ancient horrors be.

 

Me? I am reminded tonight of the mother 

who, on hearing footsteps on the stairs, 

hurried her children into hiding; four hearts 

thumping in a wardrobe.

 

Like mine, perhaps her daughter

would have giggled had she sneezed.

Sneezed and giggled, giggled and sneezed,

sneezed away four lives.

 

I smothered her so the others might survive.

It was Thursday, the ninth, in nineteen thirty 

Nine. November, she says, I remember, thinking 

even then how all her little movements

were as earthquakes when matched against 

the stillnesses to come.

 

 

 

 

Read Poetry: Love and Words, by Butch Dias

Your love and your words,
Encouraged my heart.
You saw me broken,
And falling apart.

I was so broken,
I was a broken man.
But you told me I was special.
And that God had a plan.

You brought me up,
When others cut me down.
You said I was one in a million,
When they said I was a clown.

You sent me a huge hug,
When I began to weep.
You walked with me,
When my mountain was steep.

You encouraged me,
In every step.
You dried my tears,
When I hurt and wept.

You were there,
Every step of the way.
And built me up,
And by my side you did stay.

You sent me a picture,
To give me some hope.
Your words of wisdom.
Gave me comfort to cope.

Poetry Reading: 03:00, by Selah J’ne

Performed by Elizabeth Rose Morriss

Get to know the poet:

1) What is the theme of your poem?
The theme is pain through the night.

2) What motivated you to write this poem?
I had lost my little sister her lungs collapsed and i was really depressed so the poem really expressed my pain.

3) How long have you been writing poetry?
I’ve been writing poetry since the 3rd grade when I learned what an Haiku was haha.

4) If you could have dinner with one person (dead or alive), who would that be?
If I could have dinner with one person it would have to be Maya Angelou she’s my inspiration.

5) What influenced you to submit to have your poetry performed by a professional actor?
It was a leap of faith and dedication to show myself that my work could actually go somewhere.

6) Do you write other works? scripts? Short Stories? Etc..?
Yes, I write short stories, scripts, life hacks, etc.

7) What is your passion in life?
My passion is to become a positive influence to young artists no matter what their form of art is.

Poetry Reading: If You Could Fix Me, by Melissa R. Mendelson

Performed by Elizabeth Rose Morriss

 Get to know the poet:

1) What is the theme of your poem?

They say that what doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger, but what about the pieces, the scars left behind? What about the harsh memories that chase you when you try to sleep at night or the absence of time that you need to heal, and do we fully heal? Or are we just damaged beyond repair, wanting to be fixed, but knowing that we can’t be, no matter how hard we might try, but we still try, which inspired me to write this poem.

2) What motivated you to write this poem?

“If You Could Fix Me” was written years ago during a time when I tried to pull myself back together again. All I could see were the scars, wondering if they would ever go away, and if the damage could be fixed. The poem was originally longer and more raw, but I revised it and cut it down. And then I added it to my book of poems called, “Fragments of Yesterdays Past.”

3) How long have you been writing poetry?

I have been writing poetry since maybe eighth grade. I used to write a lot of poetry, but these days, I write more short stories.

4) If you could have dinner with one person (dead or alive), who would that be?

Stephen King

5) What influenced you to submit to have your poetry performed by a professional actor?

WildSound has always delivered on their performances, giving voice to my words.

6) Do you write other works? scripts? Short Stories? Etc..?

I have been writing a lot of short stories recently, and some of my stories have been published by Sirens Call Publications and Dark Helix Press.

7) What is your passion in life?

Writing first, Photography second.

Read Poetry: Super Geezers, by Bob Grant

Super Geezers – Just some Teasers
Civilities rambunctious Sneezers.
Belch at any Time of Day,
no Concerns of What they Say

Have no Time for Politics,
Pick their Noses just for Kicks.
Speak their Minds without a Care,
take a Nap most Anywhere.

Cranky if They want to Be,
Dirty Jokes and Laugh with Glee.
Dot to Dot on their Age Spots,
Hide their Trash in Flower Pots.

Reminisce ‘bout Fond years Past,
answer Questions never Asked.
Complain about the Younger Age,
Read a Book to Feel the Page.

Thumb through Photos in their Hand,
Skip their Meals if they’re Bland.
Talk about their Aches and Pains,
to Heck with Staying in their Lanes.

Super Geezers have the Power,
Certainly their Place and Hour.
what Remains is Up to You,
Do just what You want to Do.

Genre: Aging, Senior Citizens, Seniors, Geezers, Life, Death, Relationships, Society, Senior Centers, Retirement, Independent Living, Assisted Living, Medicare, Old, 65 and Older, Social Security.

Read Poetry: the Tunnel Performance Society!, by Bob Eager

Old Vision : “This is What It Is”
Just a space for bikes to pass through ;
Next to the Underpass cars passing by it seemingly bland and irrelevent,
Practical place but inconscpicous.
Darkly lit at night families ride bikes through it in the day and others pass through it at night.

New Vision : “This is What It Could Be”
Seen through a new lens this place becomes a Unique experience;
Darkly lit ambience becomes something else entirely,
Not an afterthought in a coffee shop or poorly planned night with chairs turned
in the wrong direction. Creation of an open “UN” Mic!
Party for Creative’s….
Express ourselves however we choose poem, dance or song.

In the tunnel, we own the event. It is all about the art not a forethought or afterthought but the only complete thought needed.

Join Our Movement

——–

The Ringmaster Bob Eager invites you to join a new innovative performance idea. As artists shouldn’t we challenge the conventional thought of where a performance should. Join us in challenging the boundaries of what we call an artistic space.
Bob’s work appears also in Stray Branch, The New Beatnik, Oddball Magazine, Indiana Voice Journal and Tuck Magazine.

Read Poetry: LEAVE ME WHOLE MOTHER, by Pat Ashinze

leave me whole, mother.
let my body sing pristine symphonies,
like seraphs praising the Holiest High.
let my shell be coloured in glazing spectra,
like the eonian beauties of space
let my thighs bleed for the will of nature 
and not for the sick myths of men.

 

leave me whole, dear mother!
for i remember the yells and screams. 
i remember the gagged pains of my sisters.
i remember how they succumbed in naivety.  
i remember the blood: fresh and fleshy.
i remember how they described the knife
that the elders used in ‘purifying’ them.
i remember how you marred portals
with diseases and superstitions. 

 

leave me whole, i plead and pray.
let my spirit pray for you in mirth.
let me enjoy the loving presence of man.
let me feel him flaming as he fills me.
let my passion flow in his motion.
do not let them make me one-eyed –
a girl with a mutilated honeycomb;
a woman with half-demised tentacles;
a fire with no heat and no smoke;
…a Saturn without rings!

 

 

Written by: 

Pat Ashinze.

Read Poetry: Fight!, by Young Deuces

Frustrated!
Frustrated at the actions of the people who’s supposed to protect/
Frustrated that right now my skin makes me a logical suspect/
Frustrated that it’s 2016 & there’s still white people who will view me as a threat/
Frustrated that it can be me, my dad, my brother or my mother fucking seed that is next/
And please I apologize of the vulgar nature of my words/
But I’m frustrated at the fact this injustice still occurs/
I’m frustrated at the blind eye, the back and forth on my timeline/
I’m frustrated that we yelling but still our voices never heard/
Ignored by the system who says me as a person has rights too/
But how can you fight for a system when the system rather fight you/
Ignored by the media who sees first hand where the verdict may fall/
And instead of speaking with common decency they say “well the video doesn’t tell it all”/
Ignored by the cops aka worlds most dangerous crew/
Cause right now the crips don’t look like the worlds most dangerous blue/
Me being a black man, gives me more reason to be scared to get slained by the blue/
They say follow the guidelines and you’ll be safe I say shiiiiiitttttttt
How can I follow the guidelines when you keep changing the rules/
They scream…Hands up, I’m like nope don’t wanna get gunned down/
I can’t have a bag of skittles without getting gunned down/
I can’t have a hair brush in my pocket, if you ask me for my ID, I can’t reach for my wallet/
I can’t sell my mixtape, I can’t sell a cig wait/
I can’t sleep I can’t breathe I can’t be in my church or my crib/
I can’t be face down in the pavement with 2 cops on my back holding my hands, I can’t live!/
Grimey!
Nah I ain’t talking NORE I’m talking police/
Who has it in they mind it’s open season to in us down in these streets/
Grimey
Nah I ain’t takin Nore, I’m talking the news/
Who always got an excuse for them boys in blue/
Grimey
Is my own people going against my own people when all we need is unity/
My own people saying negative comments about my own people fighting for this community/
Grimey
Is denouncing your race just because your shade made differ/
Cause in they eyes, light medium or dark we all still niggaz/
Help
No matter your race now is the time to speak/
All lives matter yes, but right now black lives is catching the heat/
The police need help, help w/ training or maybe a better course/
So they can learn the gun is not your first option and should be the last resort/
Help,
Because the tv gone paint us as the villains/
Say our reaction came w/no cause to distract the world from the killings/
And I know You hearring our cries for help but instead of responding back/
You just sit and watch and wait for all of this to just pass/
But think, if you just stand up and say “This must stop, we gotta do better”/
We can stop the downpour and Prepare for the weather/
Think of the impact, if the police spoke to us all/
And said “those policed failed to do there job and will be punished by law/
Think if a judge took a stance and said enough is enough/
And didn’t give light sentences only ones that was tough/
Think of right now, and the trends that we see/
And how the law may say it now but it’s clear we ain’t free/
Think fight
Not with guns, but with a voice that’s clear speak
Think fight
Not with your hands but To wake people who is sleep/
Think fight!
Not the physical but for the right to live free/
Think fight
I’ll fight for you,so come and fight with me/

——
Video Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VaZeJ6ligeI
Twitter/IG: @Young_Deuces

Read Poetry: The River of the Soul, by Mikho Mosulishvili

‘By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept.’
– From ‘The Waste Land’ by Thomas Stearns Eliot.

 

If you, 
Weary of the dim, 
Harassing life decide to spend some 
Of your miserable time at the river, 
It will surely bring along your corpse. 
But where are you going to be then? 
Still on the bank 
Or will the Soul River drift you away?

 

 

Genres: kōan*, philosophical, personality

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* A Kōan is a fundamental part of the history and lore of Zen Buddhism. It consists of a story, dialogue, question, or statement, the meaning of which cannot be understood by rational thinking but may be accessible through intuition or lateral thinking.