christinastrigas

Being Greek

Posted on by Chrissy

Being Greek means learning how to be clever

before you.

Learning about language and ancestry as a bedtime story.

Living in modern times

with an ancient soul,

in the Corinthian earth,

ghosts

talk

talk

talk

about me.

I make up my own rules

eat words while you sleep

awake before the birds

hunting poems out of my skull

bones

under my olive skin,

kissing my trinity girls.

#5minutewrite

for My soulsistas @jwprebich @lexmeehan

#streamofconsciousness #noediting #amwriting #christinastrigas #poeticsighs #poetsofig #wordporn #poetrycommunity #poetrylovers #poetryisnotdead #poetryisart #canadianpoetry

tag you’re It

from my Instagram

Advertisements

It Evaporates​

Posted on by Chrissy

You never lose a word from under the sheets

it can evaporate into desire within lightbulbs

of dark fiction. You tend to write about them,

blue octagons of your nightmares, the

lined frames of wisdom you neglected

to admonish. All these poets, they

love to see you crawl through utopian

skies. They love to see you die

a poetic death, make sure theirs

becomes immortal while your vampire

stories die under golden

Greek suns. I have unimpressed you

with bath time fun

you stopped playing mindless games

showed me your grey hair.

I can still cross my legs

be a drunken listener.

Poets

Posted on by Chrissy

Poets want everything

that you can’t buy

so please don’t be a beautiful fool

full of that deep ache

you label

either love or anxiety

confused with what your brain

tells your heart.

poets should inspire

hurt, reveal, cover up

use foundation on rhymes

but we tend to float

between lives

and we know it takes skill

shallow waters

and observation of the highest calibre.

use a gun on my thoughts

destroy the need to get in my mind

and settle for my body.

fill it up with your elbows, knees

beard, shoulders, lips

any part that the sun kisses.

sigh a bit over my drum beats

red carpet humanity

don’t be ashamed of who we are

be proud

be brilliant

in this poetic grace

only the few like us

survive.

when I left you the last time

we met

I tried hard to not look back.

don’t  you find poets

look back way too often

in real life in  pretend?

some questions are better

left unanswered.

there is a riot

in our minds

and hugs and kisses

to all of you

who love how words

kiss us and kill us

in unison.

 

https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=poets+the+tragically+hip