Posted on by Christina Strigas · 9 Comments

Here and Now

It is how the poem never ends

when you write about how

you loved her so much

in such a brief time

with so much passion.

It is how my poem always ends

when I write about how

he loved me very little

with not enough passion.

It is how you let her

close enough to hurt you

and how I let him too close

to burn me

and he certainly did.

I suppose as she burned you

with her fire.

He had this way of making me feel

like a poet

and nothing else.

Never keep up with stranger’s intentions

let them all walk on broken glass

as we sit and watch the show.

We will talk about how they

knew nothing about poetry

and French philosophers

and designer cafe lattes

we will turn the tables

on them

and watch them fall down

or be brave enough to sit and discuss

what we are even fighting for

when all the fight in us is long gone.

In the here and now,

I will let you close enough

and be prepared

for your desertion.

 

Posted on by Christina Strigas · 13 Comments

June second

the lights are red, but i want to go up

into the sky. drive right through

the pink and purple all night long.

this is my porn. you text me

your naughty, i’ll dream

in the fucking clouds. it’s june

second, two thousand and fifteen,

remember the 80’s? i relive them.

another full moon? do you

really care all that much? stop

howling. i feel it in every cell.

you’re fucked up.

I think my imagination

is so wild

even you

would run away.

but, you stay, you

make me believe

that the sunset

was a masterpiece

and the darkness

its palette.

the moon controls us

like love, we’re

helpless

to its pulling effect.

catch me tonight at

nine pm…its’ my son’s

award ceremony,

but i’ll still be falling

from the sky.

don’t forget to look up

and extend your arms,

even if you don’t see me.

Posted on by Christina Strigas · 14 Comments

long ago

long ago you came to me

with broken wings and sexy words

you made me smile

brightening up my day

with your jokes

enlightening my nights with your hands

you said all the right words in all

the right lights

daylight, nightlight, afternoon delight,

you grasped it all

as I slept naked

and woke up to your grip,

the beginning you said

is worth the end

and kissed that spot on my neck

no one cared to

the back of my neck

I hid from

you found the tracks of my veins

with fuel

in your engine

full for me.

I know I disappeared

did not mean to

but the sky

called out to me

when I ached.

I know I hate you

did not mean to

but you pulled

me in so hard

I fell on you

and I let the love unfold.

Even if it was a change of

a pillow case

or a shake of a sheet

we lay in it for a while

and your scent

is what I miss most.

One day in another life

we will meet

and you will find

all those places on my body

that you missed.

Posted on by Christina Strigas · 14 Comments

Sonnet #1

Let us think of a road far off our path,

where we could walk holding hands in full view

and not feel the hatred of other’s wrath

while the letters remain in my pocket too.

Love will be aflame along the grey road

and a subtle caress will become law.

On your back you will carry my full load

sensing the drive in me is purely raw.

The streets will be silent full of false hope,

while our fingertips travel each other’s skin.

If we walk away we will stop at the rope

reach the line that tells us we can never win.

Here is one last wanting thought for your ears

there never was a road filled with these fears.

Posted on by Christina Strigas · 11 Comments

sky

Every day is a different state of mind

do you see the difference in the sky?

It is a speckle of molecules that transpire

into dust, gone before you even see them.

Words.

Pain.

Wind.

Spring.

A mere wait in line at the coffee shop

download the app from Starbucks and get

the free latte, get the royalty card and free

underwear, join the list and free eBooks,

upgrade your car, and free hubcaps.

No vacation this year?

I escape, I have my ways

concern yourself with your own child

your wife, your husband, I have nothing

to do with that boiling pot.

Sex is still hot because I make it that way

he can turn my body into a poem

his hands into sonnets

and I recite the masters

with ease and such fucking grace

you’d wish you were a fly on the wall.

I am no one that special

have been drilled to believe

just that

so all this means absolutely nothing.

I believe the poets more than the politicians.

One day I will write a poetry book

with a title that you will

truly understand

with some emotions

that will cascade on you

like a waterfall.

I will wait for you

as you drive by

I have been doing it for so long

as the sky watches me

in all its shades.

Posted on by Christina Strigas · 14 Comments

Floating Above My Deadline

If you want fire
light up a smoke,
it’s been too long
since I inhaled
your toxic words.
I am lounging
around, letting the cold air
fill my lungs.
Dragged from one city
to another in a state
of loss. Loss of the
astute ways you nudge
my knees apart
from the outskirts
of your town. Walls restrict
and leave me to build
fondness
admiration
of your fossilized words
that can bury me
under the frozen rivers
of this province.

I dreamed that you loved me
as you were meant to,
that you spoke to me,
as you would like to,
clearly
I saw your lips move
first in front of mine
soon after they traveled
along my frontiers.

It seems uncivilized to chase
a fox
yet honeyed words
will make most women
contradict and fool
even themselves.
She should stop.
She should go.
She should stop and go.

I teach my son how to drive
how to treat a woman
how to love
how to surpass men
and reach out and touch a soul.
He can do it. I have faith.
I cross my fingers as I wait
to see if my breasts
will continue to bring me
joy or pain.
I float above all my deadlines
punching numbers
and faces of years gone by.
I suppose it is best to dig up
the skeletons
tell you
how they sleep.
Best to add mortar
to my brick walls
peek through a crack
as I fade
paint
a new landscape
from my third eye.

Old past loves
never wave good-bye.
His last true words
carved into my heart
like the couples’ initials
forever on Mont-Royal.
Ink my name
on your skin
you talk about it so often
just do it
so you can be
reminded of how
I broke your heart.
Share a drink with me
one more time
give me everything in one hour
to last
years
meet me at the corner of Rue d’Amour
and Rue Je t’adore.
It exists
somewhere
we have never been before.

Posted on by Christina Strigas · 4 Comments

Magic Hands

You play the songs

say the write words

get me inside out

understand my coffee stops

late night alcoholic binges

cigarette traps

eternal fights

then you throw me on the bed

and all is forgotten.

You know all the thoughts

before I speak

yet still there is always more

to want and need

as one kiss remains

surmountable

climbing up that hill

every day

to get to this

point

of magical hands

all over the flesh.

I never listen.

I chase my own demons

and entrap them

with my wit

as even they 

confuse my day and night

my night with flight

my pain with joy

as words build invisible

love affairs

so do love affairs

build sweet heartache

to continue the words

that save us.

077

Posted on by Christina Strigas · 17 Comments

Books not written

It will always feel

like you are losing me

as soon as you get too close.

Today I wanted to stay home

and write all day

and tomorrow

the same

but what silly thoughts

are these?

Trust me, that as soon

as you need me

it’s time to let me go.

Can you cut off

all the media?

All that noise?

I can.

I have.

I will.

I must.

Can you track me down

to see how I feel?

Can you close in on me

from everywhere?

Surround me with your strength

disarm me with your gentleness

the gap between the two

obscure

wide and approaching.

I see it from all angles

of this square

or that circle

or whatever you want to

call a shape within my mind

within a form

within an outline of my love.

For if you have my body

it comes with a soul

united.

Others can separate the two

discuss politics like sports

stir wet and dry ingredients

simultaneously

but I can save the day

with my frosting abilities

my inner sparkles that shine.

Soul and body

not that hard to disconnect the dots

that are invisible.

Reading Little Prince

again,

it appears life needs no explanation

while I was boarded up

with nails

until  you

resurfaced me.

Believe me, I have always

known how to walk into a room

full of people I know,

the trick is to do the same

with strangers.

I have always known

everything about me.

He reads my eyes and

that in itself is another

book

not written

(yet).

IMG_7743

Posted on by Christina Strigas · 8 Comments

My Assignment

Is the day over yet? How

I want it to be so over,

this damp cold day

how your words are on

constant replay.

My theory is:

I’ll meet you in the bedroom

in the backseat, deep in the night

on the hood of a car

in broad daylight

on the pool table

after we locked up the bar

meet you at 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

any time we need a fix.

The paragraphs are:

kilometers become steps

on a street

a drive becomes a walk

in the forest

a pre-dinner meet.

Catching up, I need catching up.

Breaking up, I need breaking up.

Your hands in mine (or theirs)

or his or hers.

Take me off of that list.

Take me off of that pile.

I might want to live in constant denial.

I might want to wait to find my own dial.

I have my own classroom to teach

I have my own lessons to learn

children to preach

but then you throw me a fish hook

in the middle of my day

and I bite.

I like your stars

your flowing river traps

you like

my late afternoon naps.

Conclusion:

Don’t analyze a poet

I believe nothing

until it comes from your lips

the next is just a story

unfolding.

I know how a poet thinks

blinks

drinks

I know how we confuse

reality with dreams

dreams with reality

stories with broken seams.

I know how artists

stare at the sky like pornography

erotica, read it like literature,

I know how I go out of my way

to step on crunched leaves.

Do you?

I know how music

is my muse that weaves.

I’m not that young and naive

not that blind to love

but I’m tired of all the pretense

the shaded color of my fence-

I can come to you

you can come to me

we can come to each other

right above the sea.

Did you grade me yet?

Am I a good pet?

I am too old for games

just write me something

that will blow me up

into flames

until I’m a ghost

and you bend at my grave

remember the walk

the talk

the skin

the breath

the scent

the way we fit so well.

I’m a poet

dramatic/visual/erotic.

How did I do?

Posted on by Christina Strigas · 2 Comments

Your version

I think your version is my favorite love poem I’ve read. I think you captured the moment far better than I ever could. I let my tears show me the way, but then the song Take Me To Church plays and I get trapped in my mind. I want to give you all of me on a silver tray and ask you to be gentle and tear away at me. I think you are a true gent from a time long gone and a lost generation. It’s not in the way you held my jacket, or the way your eyes slid up and down my body, but the way you held it in that drew me in. I can’t do justice to any of it through a poem, or a story, but I will try. I think that attraction exists to pour out the demons to one another; the dark, the light, the in-between blurry parts. I could be playful, silly, spontaneous, strong, and

you may think you have me pegged me, and that’s when

you haven’t

but it’s weird how every day I wake up and I could feel differently, except not really for you.

I sleep and wake to you.

I turn the sheets inside out for you.

I think you can meet me half/way or all/the/way or no/way; I think you have me confused with someone else, someone who you’ve met, but mostly I think you’re just as shocked as I am that we are actually kind of normal in a place where that rarely exists.