Woodnotes

Last night I fell asleep

before you came home.

I dragged the dog out for a walk

but he hates the cold as much as I do.

He pissed all over the kitchen floor,

he despises being alone.

He ate snacks before bedtime

wallowing in loneliness.

You wanted to have sex

while I had creative writing on my mind.

My blue journal sprawled between

my thighs,

I want my head there, you said.

My pens took precedence

Patience was playing from my phone

I ignored you. I fought your lights.

You take it personal, but I’m a writer

and you know that I can’t interrupt

my flow. Sex came and went,

making love is for another lifetime.

I took the kids out for dinner

ate avocado rolls

veggie burgers

St.Louisbourg burger

with onion rings.

I said, it’s hard to be an artist

to be in a relationship,

I am preparing them

for the heartache, but it’s

Too late.

If the one you’re with

does not understand what a woodnote is

or what defines you.

It’s a natural musical tone

or the song of

some bird

no one cares about trees

nature is becoming extinct.

The young and old have their heads

filled with useless information

school shootings

young wolves writing poems

academia taking the back seat

poets knocking on your door

I am locked in;

dead children

another statistic.

Here we are sleeping together

never at the same time

chaos in our fear.

Writing prompt: word: Woodnotes

#februaryfalls18

Date

I want this date to last more than hours

but you never even made it to the restaurant.

It is so fine with me, I would rather eat alone

and dip my fries in sauce and eat like a pig

and not be judged for using too many conjunctions.

I want you, I really do, but I am changing

every day into an evolved woman. Not yet

married, divorced, separated, cheated,

I am only a young girl wanting someone

who I can never have because then all

the morals written in my chest will be

broken. I will feel broken in this city

we can never see each other in. I already

see the future of Sundays turning

into every other day.

You are so close to my house

and even if you drive by

I will have aged like a dog.

You will have had a multitude

of women while I am hooked

on one life line. It is this way

for I drive my own car and

let no one guide me.

I know which walls to put up

and which ones to let you in

but remember a date is

just a time and place

when two people

either show up

or decide otherwise.

Either way, it’s a date.

 

 

 

 

The Arch of 2016

 

It wasn’t up until the year ended that I thought of all the things I replaced you with. It was how the sun sets from my balcony

how the sun sets when I drive

It was how the day never ends early enough. How the night is so long that even sleep does not help.

I have been writing before you existed and when I do not reply to the calls,  I have stopped the sucking of my soul.

I hear the crying, but lock myself in rooms and escape. Make fun of me,

joke about my art

watch me drive on black ice

never  buy my book

you were the first

and the last

typical cliche

horrible poetry being written

on the other side

and sometimes I compromise

other times I stand tall.

Why didn’t you kiss him hello? I’m moody.

That’s not an answer.

My daughter tries to get me

but she questions my motives

I have no reply sometimes.

I don’t conform sweetie, that’s all.

She breaks the rules

and here I am

trying to guide her

in this mess.

No answers to the arch of 2016

but do not want to see death

this year

want to bury the past

and conjure it up

in fragments

in poems.

Never challenge me

I break down

too easily.

Change my mind

like the Montreal weather.

You deplete me

with your absence.

No more fight in me.

Focus on my books

and bury the year under the rubble

of regret.

People on the other side

of the screen

mostly want

to bring you to your knees

and point fingers

at your weakness.

it’s toxic in here

in my head,

in my world

but it’s a new year

and I must charge up

my battery

or I’ll be drained by

the scavengers

that hunt for the art they can’t make.

 

 

Sunday morning portrait, 2015

You may wonder

who I am

or who you are

or who we are together.

or apart?

leading highway lives

from the end to the start.

I saw you first

you were talking with friends

embarked on your high horse,

the room was hazy,

smoky, jazzy, of course.

Did you forget your desire?

At first glance,

was there a burning fire?

Were you in a poetic trance?

or a real life dance?

I am no one you want to love

been there and done that,

let my need float up above

blend with the sky

I fall out from

like a gift from the Greek gods’ nectar pie

here to ease your numb

feelings from life,

the blended coffee strife…

which to choose?

I forgot, you take no cream,

you never lose,

you are high above all the sports’ teams

the judgement call

you like to watch me fail, fall –

admit it –

nothing would please you more

than to hear me

moaning

like a paid whore

You do not have to put

your hands in your pockets,

I am free, I need no wallets,

no words of lies

please wear your secret lockets

and cover my eyes

in seductive disguise.

I should be asleep

but the words are heavy, knee deep

in your sweet-smelling mud.

I like it

when I am drowning

in my own flood.

Not any closer to who I am

just take my fucking hand

eventually we will land.

Twelve steps to waiting

1.

Waiting

for handwritten notes

to be gently placed

into the palm

of my tiny hand.

2.

Waiting

for your poems

like a drug addict

in the depths

of the need.

3.

Waiting

for your inspiration

to take full control

of my thoughts

and leave behind

my car

in an abandoned parking lot

to find your crumbs.

4.

Waiting

for nothing to happen

but Silence

as my mind

reads yours

through distance and time

along

graveled 1920’s train tracks.

5.

Waiting

to be divided

by a doorway

stepped on clothes

as you fling

my body across

your shoulder

and spank my naked ass.

6.

Waiting

for the breakdown

to pass

but you must know

how I can breathe

freely

underwater

like a true mermaid.

7.

Waiting

to create

sensual art

with your fingers

as brushstrokes

and my body

your blank canvas.

8.

Waiting

to be undressed

slowly

and

thoughtfully

by your picture

smooth hands

clasping the wheel.

9.

Waiting

on years

and decades

for something

so romantic

candles and ghosts

will feel.

10.

Waiting

for old poetry lines

and lovers

to burn

as others can’t

compare

to the desire

in our lair.

11.

Waiting

for the cold snap

to pass

and the heat

from within

to bring you closer

to my wanting love.

12.

Waiting

is my secret

in peace

as a comfort

to my thousand year old soul

that knows yours so well.

Await

There was a title to my love
story. I changed it about
as many times as you left
then came back with
those images that always
worked before. Before him,
that is. The title is in the works.
In my deep mind of altered
dreams. You are inside me
now, like the poems I write. You
write. I sleep. You sleep. I dream.
You dream. We meet. We part.
I want no answers. This is my
main problem. No solutions.
Most girls want it all. I want none
of it. All the things you can’t see
this is what I want. I need to
disappear, even under the sheets
will do. With or without you. I
recite Bono too often, claiming
this time I have tricks of bravery
up my sleeve on bristol boards
of love. I will run to you.
What else will keep me going
from one frozen day into another
as doctors call my name in
waiting rooms and I create
some kind of poetry that wakes
you from sweet daily slumber
and boredom on your screens.
Head on the desk, claiming
the flu has caught you again.
The headaches they’re back.
This stays within me. This long
drawn wait for the inevitable.
Health. Love. All this I claim none
of.
All
This
I
Await to read
screens of destiny.

Happy Holidays

Dearest readers,

I start out by thinking perhaps I’ll write you a quick thank you for reading and blah blah blah but then it’s like lightning strikes and a poem evolves. Inspired by my friend who wants to go see Father John Misty in February and suddenly I’m listening to every lyric as if my life depended on it more than it did on shopping. Should be at the mall, but I’d much rather be here listening to how he writes a novel and how I have a poem. Here goes.

I wrote a novel

it’s not the first

it won’t be my last.

In just a few weeks

you’ll read it too.

I want to thank you

all for connecting

reading

commenting

inhaling each word

as passionately as I tap

them out

late at night

or too early in the bloody morning

spewing words like coffee beans.

I can’t possibly read everyone’s blogs

or words

but I try. And I thank you

ENORMOUSLY

for stopping by

loving the energy. I’m full of that.

Hardly sleep or eat. Still

in the same body as my teens

don’t ask how God made me this

way, but who knows how the mind

and soul empties its contents

onto this page and how the body

reacts to age. The soul though

it never dies. Relives. Sees more

than we ever can.

I unloaded my truck full

of clothes and food

and cried. Off to charge

thousands on the credit card

and roll around in debt and wine

on my name day.

Well Happy Holidays

my friends and let’s

hope peace is on

everyone’s mind for 2015.

I highly doubt that,

but I know that doubt

is one of my slow killers.

Shine on with your words

and thanks for reading mine.

– Christina Strigas

Once

I was burning something
(I think the meat sauce)
as I wrote that short
story that I suck at writing.
I don’t believe in
short stories
short cuts
short fuses.
In a long line up
I read urban
dictionaries for
the fun of it.
If I don’t make you
nod your head
at my flakiness
then you do not
know me yet
nor do you want to.
My sense of humour
is on the tip of my tongue
as it lands in your mouth
and you catch
the innuendoes
dark humour
tragicomedies

Hence my really short story:
Once there was a boy
who called me every night
as I sat on my green carpet
twirled the telephone wire
as I played song after song
holding the phone
in the air. Of course, he
did the same. Trying to
outdo me; he wrote
me the most beautiful
card, with two tickets
to a rock show.
In English class,
he shared my book
and we read Romeo
and Juliet in unison.
He liked to call me
and tell me bullshit
stories about love
and rock songs.

I love your energy, he said
and so I asked him
to go to the show.
He said he was busy
and the very next day
he asked out Anne.

Twenty-five years later
he remembers the dance
at my party
Remember when we grinded, Chrissy?
Fucking prick, I thought.
I remember everythingI said and suddenly he shut up.
Everyone at the table
looked at me,
I could be dramatic like that.

Sophie winked, and Daniel smiled.

New boys
that everyone wants
and can never have,
that was Andre,
and if he reads this now
who gives a fuck?

No one could hold on to him
because we were similar
like that
Yet not.
My short story became a poem
I wouldn’t submit anywhere
for
who has the will
to drive down a new road
of detours and disappointments?

Things I love to look at

-light pink roses
-second hand books
-you
-notebooks

you were walking around
with grey shorts
and blue sunglasses
your chest was bare
I pretended I did not know you
but how
your presence disturbed me
still I wanted you to stay close
closer
you entered my bedroom
like a knight
and stood around
to challenge anyone
that came in your way
of me.