I am so excited that Coffin Bell Journal chose my poem, “Dead Wife” for best of the Net 2020. I am attaching the link to it. Please leave a comment. https://coffinbell.com/dead-wife/
i made a path for you to walk into
but you send me cryptic messages
i can’t understand. i’m not that smart
i think in beats, rainbow schemes,
i want to finish writing this poem
before he gets here and breaks my
silence into too many questions
i avoid answering. i removed my
poems for you, made you walk
straight into my heart and pull
it apart with my own weakness.
i never should have trusted you
with that one secret, you haunt
me with it, pass it around my
air like a ball. you’re playing
with my vulnerability. i tell
you to fuck off instead of good
night and in the morning you
wonder why i left for work
so early and we don’t talk again
until the following day
where we start over and forget
the past. it’s what we call
staying married these days.
Every day is a blur of the one before
and the one before that
and the one happening now.
I am changing the date on my journal
to keep track. For a while there,
I felt darkness around the
days of the week and months.
I feel this abyss will never end.
I don’t know what will save me from
the days. Nothing really. My coffee is warm.
The longer I stare out my window
at my lilac tree, the colder it gets.
You wake up and want my attention
you make me coffee. You know how
I get weak when you speak my
language of love. It’s still a cloud
in my heart. It could be grey one
day, blue another, white, moving
silently and then you crack the mirror.
I’m out of my skin, I’m shedding
a new layer of your anger.
so I have to drag myself out of the earth
and walk on planks.
You want me
to love you and I do. In the way
I should not. I know better by now
but the clouds never leave, they hover
and expect me to be my best self.
I’m writing and spinning out of control
over hatred, you’re making me tired.
Let’s stay naked in bed
create our own clouds
dissipate the anger with our skin.
Even fantasy has holes
we refuse to mend.
everyone is wearing them now
before this pandemic we wouldn’t even know
the truth from the lies
how lovers should understand more
how lovers should never be bored
with each other. with their skin
yet here we are in masks worn thin
and we have not even left the house.
You’re on my mind, like a song that plays
a guitar that keeps bleeding.
a flower constantly blooming
all the impossible events
like skies that cry
words that matter.
You know what I mean
when I don’t mean it.
Yet you make me feel like a coccoon
stuck in one phase
or a glass butterfly
that never changes;
a gift from my birthday
you never wrapped up.
You should have done all the things
you meant to do.
not merely talk about them
drunk one night
that doesn’t count.
a rush of adrenaline
straight to the soul
whether you like to admit it
or not, drinking is the solution
to reality. guilty of feeling
too much for you. guilty
of loving too much of you.
all that is apparently true
is not. I know what it means
to feel your sting of jealousy
when you mean to be sweet
and delicious. It’s not me–
it’s you. You have it all wrong
when I promise nothing.
I can make you love on the
balance on your
bed with one foot.
all the tricks you
asked me to do
I didn’t even want them
all I want
is what you can’t give me.
Listening to subscribed channels about loving myself
is probably more harmful than actually loving.
You can abandon people and they are still in the dark
even if I research the best methods of unloving someone
it can’t be done. Rooms wait for people to walk into
and as long as I wait for you, you can’t come in
to see me. It’s fine. I prefer it that way. Death beds
are such beautiful places to end up in. Heaven
is a place you described once, while I wasn’t
in the room. I can see you there talking to her
and pretending I don’t exist. It’s fine. It’s not fine.
I’m absent from this part of the story.
You can use me up until I say no more. It’s coming.
That day you dread. Death sucks up love at will.
You can go about your silence. It has no guilt.
It’s been such a long time I haven’t seen your face
maybe you don’t believe in the same books anymore
I see a garden stopped growing
journals overflowed with moss
I am giving up on this whole
we got so much time
because honestly, we don’t
time soaks us with truth
and keeps on creating death
to remind us
that we won’t live forever
even if you sing about it.
Hello beautiful people,
It’s been too long since I wrote on my blog. I miss you guys. I will be back soon. Just a quick note to tell you I love you and I have missed you.
Thank you for publishing my work!
Watching the sun rise is one of the most trusted things.
I’m old school. Old soul for shining love.
In Greece, the sunrise overlooked the ocean,
in Canada, the sunrise overlooked Park Ex.
When I was eight,
I saw Greece in your eyes.
I understood what the word immigrant implied.
All the looks, questions,
Where were you born?
I’m Canadian. I’m Greek.
I’m nowhere to be found.
I mostly feel like a sea animal—
it adored my Canadian skin, its delicacy
flapping my fins in the air.
Olive complexion, dark hair and eyes.
Oh, you look Greek or Italian.
You have an accent.
Did you know the ocean grave is so silent?
There is no grandiose ocean here.
Canada is civil. Makes no war.
Canada opens up its arms to immigrants like us.
View original post 475 more words
Thank you for this lovely review of my poetry book, LOVE & VODKA.
Love & Vodka
a book of poetry for glass hearts
By Christina Strigas
Canada Cataloging in Publishing Data
Ms. Christina Strigas dedicates this book Love &
Vodka to all people who believe with their hearts and to angels in her daycare that
showed her the true meaning of a miracle. Poetry, to me the reader, is an art
form that produces emotion and stirs the pot of imagination, and I thought it
was poignant to mention that here.
Contained within this book are 88 total poems set up
in “chapter style” parts with beautiful and intriguing heading titles like:
“I loved you for a thousand years and missed you in
all of them”
and now I want to keep turning the pages.
As a reader and a writer myself I am feeling the
angst of this prolific poetry writer, as she explores with us the…
View original post 736 more words