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The washing machine rumbles in quick wash mode
I pause my poetry for awhile
for things to be done, a day to go by

Plates, pots, pans sulk in the kitchen sink, staring in
demand
The milk comes to a boil, I stir the bubbles
they rise, swell and spill out making a scene
again.
The washing machine gives a loud tumble roar
Ants take a detour as I scrub off the warm milk stain from
the counter
but it has seeped into the crevices of the cold marble,
where you had put me down and taken me
Gentle and wild at once
In sweet warmth of wet skin
Sugar grains on coarse salt

Soak, tremble, spin, and drain
With one last groan it is done
aloud beeped the washing machine
A perfect wash to my poetry

‘Thinking thoughts of joy and
Happiness overflowing with love
I am living the best life
Rating it all on the stars
The hundred thousand million of them
Year on year adding more.

This is what life is all about
Happy little simple moments
Reaching always for positive light
Energy moving and constantly growing
Every single year.‘

Kind Regards

Charlotte
charlottefay.com
Instagram/Twitter: @charlofay

The plans I had, baby a man can only dream
A life time it seemed
Now, I sit here and wonder, what if
I guess letting go was your special gift
No remorse for my feelings I see
At the bottom of the barrel you left me to be
Yet there was nothing to pull me back
Now for your love, the ambition I lack
Watching this fire die gave me a memory
Now realizing why the emotions have a dull sensory
This goal I had for us was clearly deferred
They said don’t push, she’ll come around
Be patient, build her up from the ground
Tune in and listen to love a wonderful sound
Wrap her up, watch her blossom and bloom
With all your work, she’ll shine as the brightest in the room
Go above and beyond for that woman they said
Treat her like a lady, they beat into my head
Make her the happiest or the consequences you’ll dread
Clearly this book of love is completed fucked
Because in love we do soooo much and what
Yup you guessed it, a swift kick to the butt
Oh yeah , You was right, bingo we have a winner
The starter kit to love, right for a beginner
Sadly, when you get to where I am,
you’d rather sit to the side

WHY?

Unfortunately, the love I had took me on horrible ride
Trying to shake the thought of you,

ha,

no where near easy
Replacement after another, yeah it seems sleazy
Same ol song but I was tired of the familiar tune
Reached out for help and told me the demons would release soon
Did I let go the day I drowned my sorrow
Shit at this point a new heart I’m ready to borrow
Shawty girl caught me lacking, got a damn ring
Now I’m here stuck, certain songs I can’t even sing
If this was a treasure hunt, I think someone hid the X
I say that because it seemed I was preparing you for the next
A spot marked for another, yet at times it seemed so right
Then at times our future seemed so bright
Now look at us, distant as fuck no rekindle in sight
That’s the game of love and my ass was player fucking one

And just to think…

when I smashed that bottle

I THOUGHT I was done….

-Laye Da Writer

Performed by Val Cole

READ POEM:

I am waiting
for shrink-wrapped facts to fall from the bellies of planes
while gators slide across water and insects roar.

I am waiting
for a country-western singer without a pickup,
for a horse bounding
through grasses flung like long hair in the wind.

I am waiting
for unstandardized tests
that measure empathy and intuition.
I am waiting
for ravens to play on a wind shear,
fly into it, get flung skyward,
bank, turn, and float to the ground.

I am waiting for Orcas to swim up the Columbia,
for grizzlies to hold clam bakes,
and for hummingbirds to outclass helicopters.

I am waiting for my horoscope to apologize for being wrong,
for bull snakes to stretch full out across a dirt road,
and bask in the sun.

I am waiting for Gandhi, Jesus, Mohammed and Abe
to dance with the Blackfeet Buffalo Women,
laugh and joke with the Motokiks.

I am waiting for the original Americans to get back their land.

I am waiting for feminist Mormons to start a new religion,
for white male alcoholics to stop talking and listen. Listen.
And for Pipe-Fitter Barbie to make union wages.

I am waiting for wild bees to swarm to a new hive.

I am waiting for justice to heal the bereaved.

I am waiting for the bathwater that holds all the babies thrown out with it.

I am waiting for a Luna moth
at a gas station
in Cherokee country.

I am waiting for camp coffee
and a Dutch oven breakfast
on a gravel bar where the river divides.
I am waiting for a quiet boat
in the current
where the river comes together again.

Performed by Val Cole

Read Poem:

Leroy my neighbor had some lottery luck
But he went off and blew it all on a big old monster truck
Now he can’t afford to drive it
The gas cost too much
Leroy’s old lady she packed and left
She was pissed that Leroy was only thinking of himself
But if I know Leroy
He wasn’t thinking at all

And I’m just sitting on the front porch getting high
Watching my street passing by

Wendy Lou the widow lives across the street
She keeps bringing strange men over for something to eat
I don’t know what she’s cooking
But you never see those strangers again
She invited me for dinner just the other night
Said she was in the mood for something tasty and white
But I politely declined
For reasons clearly obvious

And I’m just sitting on the front porch getting high
Watching my street passing by

Tommy the mailman weighs over four hundred pounds
Everybody’s amazed how fast he makes his rounds
He says the secret to his speed
Is all in his shoes
So I went online ordered fifty-three pair
One for each week and one to spare
But I don’t move no faster
Cause I ain’t going nowhere

And I’m just sitting on the front porch getting high
Watching my street passing by

Little Bobby Jenkins is the kid that lives next door
He’s a mean little bastard, the kind you can’t ignore
He throws rocks at my windows and tries to lynch my cat
Before he gets much older, I know what I’m gonna do
I’m gonna get me a pit bull
The kind that likes to chew
Little bastard kids
And their bastard parents too

And I’m just sitting on the front porch getting high
Watching my street passing by

Sad Old Henry lives in the gray house to my left
But no one ever sees him
He keeps completely to himself
He has everything delivered
By a man dressed in black
There’s a rumor that a woman broke his heart in two
And fifty years later He’s still got the blues
Man, I wish I had me a memory…half that sweet

And I’m just sitting on the front porch getting high
Watching my street passing by

Freddy Jones the salesman is a very proud man
But he lost his job a year ago, now he’s living hand to hand
And the bank where he does business
Doesn’t care or understand
So Freddy Jones and family are moving out next week
Corporate downsizing has kicked them in the street
And the rich get richer
Everybody else just moves

And I’m just sitting on the front porch getting high
Watching my street passing by

I used to be a soldier stationed in Iraq
But when I lost a leg or two
They had to send me back
I ain’t bitter
I just don’t dance as cool
Now the goverment sends me money that barely pays the rent
I guess it’s just their little way of showing some repent
You know “support the troops” and all that…stuff

Now my neighbors all around me stop by to pay respect
They wanna to see those medals hanging from my neck
But I gave ’em all to Leroy
So he can buy some gas
Sometimes this world is beautiful, sometimes this world is mean
It all depends on how you look at everything you’ve seen
And I’ve seen plenty
On the street where I live

And I’m just sitting on the front porch getting high
Watching my street passing by

The Note Pinned to my Heart Reads…, by Mark Kirkbride

I have been struck by lightning, twice,
once in the neck, once in the Trossachs.
I crawled out of a crash with whiplash
and made a bleeding, limping dash
across the border. Armed guards fired.
I’ve stowed away on boats and planes
and jumped from high-speed, foreign trains.

You keep the curtains closed all day
and never come out before dark.
It’s a wonder we ever met.
I found you wandering the streets
like Aphrodite in a nightie.

I’ve been in fights, been read my rights.
I changed my surname by deed poll
and still got chased by Interpol.
I’ve phoned from every call box,
mailed cards from every post box,
just to tell you, ‘I’m on my way
and getting closer every day.’

When I crawl up your garden path,
your mum tells me to go away.
I can’t go on, I can’t go back.
When you wake in the morning
you will find me dead on your doorstep.

Young girls are what you seem to deem,
Smooth, unaware of their pristine.
Flat to bone, spines forming rocky paths,
Easy footstools for you to pass.

No weeds have grown forth to block their kingdoms,
So you fantasize at night,
About riding in as their knight.
A saviours touch turns one into victim.

But I’ve turned my ribs into piano keys for you,
Play an f-sharp and I’ll lash lips in nylon for you,
Crawl on collarbone, peroxide curtains for shelter,
You would do anything to make me feel better.

And I’ve dried up my insides for you,
Fornication in formaldehyde to stop the peel,
Watch veins vacillate, illustrating your world view,
Stuff, stitch, then give me the seal.

Dead leaves on the trees.
Dead leaves inside of me.
But we’ll both get swallowed into the ground eventually.

Forget this mask, it can wait it out
In a cedar box, wrapped in furs,
It only gathers strength unseen
Buried, it might sprout
Might send up concentric rings of shoots
like a circle of whips
lost in the forest that will come to be
Or it can wait for generations
just hanging on a wall
Disguised as art,
as relic,
as curio,
as bric and brac
as time out of mind

Hanging and waiting,
Like a hawk hanging on the still air,
waiting, watching
At no time anticipating the plunge to earth,
talons spread

That’s the way it waits
A shaft of cedar,
a hank of hair,
a feather,
a bone,
a length of cord
Because a time will come

And in that time a very young member of the family,
too young to know a disguise from a miracle,
will open the box

And unwrap the furs
like Christmas morning
He will dig in the forest of shoots
with his toy shovel,
Knock off the clods,
wipe off the dust and mold,

Blow away the decay
with soft, tentative breaths
Or just climb up on the mantelpiece
Finally old enough and big enough
To reach what’s taunted him for years
–the cord.

And when he pulls on the cord,
the great beak drops open at last
The old wooden skull splits in half,
showing the clever way the cords attach inside.
And there is no time to worry about disguise,
or even art
Or even birds.
Because inside the wood is slick
and hard with red paint.
Inside is the graven face of God,
scowling with ineffable love.

The thrust-out tongue of God
supports the broken back
of an enchanted child,
like a fetus, but with eyes wide open
The child lies touched by the teeth,
between two red arms
that reach out from the face of God
along the inside of the halves of the skull.
Two red arms
holding small human bones.

The mouth of God
holds polished human teeth
But nothing human in its eyes
And nothing human in the glimpse,
beyond the teeth and tongue
of an open throat.

What perhaps he suspected all along
But now knows for certain.
Probably he flees
From the room,
the box,
the living grave.
Into the dark
Into his adulthood
Into disguise

Later an adult will come
and see the mask open,
the cord swinging back and forth
as if to tease a cat.
He will smile, and gently close the beak,
turning the mask back into a bird of prey.
Back into a piece of art
He will look around, still smiling,
for the child.
He will touch the cord,
roll it in his fingers.
Wearing a smile

Lowing, she is jolted. Free roaming once, now branded

“Triple SSS” ranch. She masticates new grass,

Her bell clanging a song she longs to escape.

Up in San Francisco, the young flourish, workforce warriors

Pray like hell to survive, to preserve back, wrists, eyes.

Tied to screens and cubes, tey brandish

Salesforce backpack, Twitter snow cap, Uber baseball jacket.

Google thermos, Facebook key chain, Apple everything,

Logos of belonging. They relish their bells, glued to notifications,

Texts, mail. They munch power bars, Ninjas in their crowded fields,

Take the searing poker bravely, weigh tradeoffs.

Paycheck, health insurance, babies.

A chance at the payoff, a wild ride, early retirement.

At dinnertime, they taste the hint of something

Burnt under the sniff of grassy air, hear the faint

Jangle of the chain, the distant sound of bells.

THE SEA

1.
The faint chirp
of rubbing balls
-empty basins of
fearful eyesfor that engulfed
by the foam,
the roar of the sea
the howl of the water.
Force.

2.
How he gets mad
how the man howls
when looking back
his footsteps
erased by the wind. Beach
whipped by the naked whip
smooth shore like teeth,
Oh, very clement!
Wild.

3.
Smile slightly
the captain of the Caine
and the stale celluloid
conveys the feeling
beyond the sea screen,
near our wrecked souls,
beyond the empty seat
from the beautiful cove.
Pallidness

4.
Fear of the sea.
Testimonials speak of dread,
kind appearances
warped pretenses
behind the captain’s back.
Other witnesses
make unfinished threats,
bloody insults,
strange incantations.
Fear.

5.
To Jorge Peris
Whenever I dream the beaches
I dream them alone, lifeless.
Just with a star
That you left on a shore.
Whenever I watch the waves
I imagine that one day
you looked them in the eye
watery Dawn
in your tired loneliness
In your empty youth.
Whenever.