Blue

Distance grows

months become seconds gone by

I see you so rarely now

I forget your likes

and dislikes

or at least I pretend I do

till sanity slaps me

reminds me of your play on words

and

allure.

 

 

 

Book cover reveal

Dear readers.
This is the book cover for my soon to be released poetry book. For everyone that has stuck with me along this publishing to self-publishing ride, all I can say is :I thank you. I curtsy and applaud all writers who self-publish. It’s hard enough to put together a book, let alone publishing it. I pulled my fucking hair out along the way so many times. So many hours of staring at my laptop wondering what the fuck did I do now? For instance, clicking on accept instead of revise and somehow or other led to some scammers and hackers…then my husband took the phone and told them where to stick it as I sat there wondering I thought I was talking to kindlepublishing sales team.

Drink a bit more.

Then praying that my chapbook is formatted properly because I clicked the wrong button. Refusing to pay someone 1,900 dollars to do it for me. How hard could it be?

Hard. Then not so hard.

Now I am doing it all over again. This book is edited and waiting for final print format. Waiting is fine. A relief actually to let others do their thing.

When you trust a publishing company to publish you, when you give them your money, your words, parts of yourself you can’t take back, it hurts when they disappoint you and the writing community. I don’t care about the money I lost, I care about integrity, loyalty. Twenty-four year old bosses who take advantage of poets, who promise them dreams and take them away. I received a paypal amount but no sales report, no termination letter, and on and on how the lies piled up for me and my fellow poets under this company.

It’s never water under the bridge. You just learn to swim because drowning is not an option.

Hence my title, In My Own Flood.

I will keep you posted as to when I publish my full-length poetry book, not much longer now…and I thank you for reading my work.

A huge thank you to Kate Theodosiou for the illustration. My sweet soul sister I have never met.

Best regards,

Chrissy x

 

Chapbook

Hello my dear readers & writers,

I am severing ties with my publishers and hence have to sell my chapbook old school. You can dm me on social media

Facebook, Twitter or Instagram

and I will sign & mail you a copy of my limited edition chapbook.

I appreciate your support for poetry and my work. I never thought I would ever publish my work. I thought my notebooks would just pile up in my closet like old neglected clothes.

This chapbook would not have been possible without your belief in me. I doubt my ability every day and this is my writing process before you.

This chapbook is raw and unedited, a preview of my poetry book. These poems will not be in my poetry book.

Thank you again.

 Chrissy

Excerpt from my chapbook

My chapbook is sold here: http://gold.upstreammerch.com/products/your-ink-on-my-soul-chapbook-by-christina-strigas

And here is an excerpt from my chapbook. I am also doing a book signing in Pointe-Claire at Chapters Indigo on Sunday, April 10th from 11-5 p.m. Starbucks upstairs, so come and meet me.

My poetry book is going to be released in June. All illustrations in my poetry book by Kate Theodosiou.

Follow me on Instagram to win a free signed copy of chapbook. c.strigas_sexyasspoet

Thank you so much for you support & much love.

Footsteps yet taken

I suppose when you think about someone’s life

and its variables

you can make an equation

as to its sum of all matters.

I am not a pianist, or a mathematician,

I do not even claim to be a writer. I feel

inadequate at the most. When I think my

worst work is my best, I still

close my eyes. I listen to

instrumental music to block

out all lyrics, all of his poems

that keep me grounded. He says

I am everything and nothing

in the same sentence.  I can

turn to dust on all the footsteps

yet taken. Turn around from the

walk on the beach

and enter the snowstorm of the

year. Play you a song you will

never forget. Write you a poem

you will read over again.

Not from a book, or a blog,

but from my heart.

The ones that make you

think more than you ever

wanted to. The poem that

blends into the next.

The one that refers to the

same person you never

forget.

All these paths

lead me to the same

entrance.

Freedom

I wrote it on the beach

while staring at the ocean

but forgot to send it

deleted it somehow

and poetry faded into

the sand under my feet.

I hear what you say

but I’m nodding at the sky

it’s talking to me

so be silent.

listen. i told you to

stare and you did,

listening to the wind

and how the earth moved

with the clouds.

You breathe deeply.

she was the one

who never got

away from your thoughts

and she was the one

that reminded you

of me. no spells

required. it was

word play. tricks

that poets perform

on cue. i trust no one

but my lover

who knows every

mole on my skin.

every beach is different

yet the same,

and every man is you

and every woman

is me.

That freedom of

saying you’re mine

or I’m yours

or other lovely phrases

that confuse the horizon

are Purolator express

packages of signed poems

I sent to Pakistan, London,

Lebanon, and other exotic

places that poets meet.

Remember how we ruled

the scene with teased hair

and duMaurier cigs

no line ups, no hash tags,

no texts, no pictures?

You just wanted to

get next to me.

That was all

that mattered.

Now everything matters.

My shoes, my hair,

my fake promises.

Yet you see nothing

but what you

have always seen

and that is one

of the myriad ways

that I love you

in every song.