Being Greek

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

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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

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The Fire of my Storm

Inside my chest

is a raging child

she buckles up her seat belt

and waits for the accident

it is coming

it always does.
I remember her at six

how the piano freed her soul

and anger burned her wings

in burial grounds

where her mother met her fate.

This storm inside her at sixteen

tore apart all her friendships

these addictions to people

taught her about toxicity.

Now at thirty-four

she sleeps alone

and waits for the shores

of her youth to be

taken by the roads she missed.

She is a calm wave

waiting for her destiny

and lightening.

Healing Hugs

 

Everyone needs some healing hugs

that connect us all

without a touch.

One body to love

so hold onto

your mystery

clasp it like a lost key

embrace the wrongs

don’t make them right.

Let your soul flow like your hair on a naked body

want no one

ask no questions.

Sleep poets and dreamers,

do not ask why, do not,

don’t let the bastards get you down.

Are you aware? Are you asleep?

Keep driving, don’t stop at pit stops, they suck you up and never let go of white souls

-Christina Strigas

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Photo by @antoniodjanikian ———————–

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In the Middle

Once I was at the end of the love song

crying for years because it was over

before it even began. We were caught

loving the wrong person. I immersed

from my drowning and swam to the

beginning of the line. I sailed across

your poems and floated on your words.

You sent them to me by mail, on out-

dated postcards, you wrote them on

the back of my hand with your

fingertips. I sent you magic and

illusions with one needle on your

arm. We lived in a movie and

recited Shakespeare naked in bed.

You were not even close to being

who I thought you were. I was

too much for you to handle back

then, wanting to do everything

and doing absolutely nothing

about it. I climbed Mont-Royal

in heels and you laughed at

my absurdities. I was spontaneous

and explosive, until I wasn’t anymore.

I bent backwards on words

and the power of your hands.

Now I’m in the middle of something

that will change me forever.

I will never bet that girl again.

I have to be someone I thought

I would never be. Life throws you

these wicked curveballs

and I am catching them,

ready to be stuck here

hoping that it will not get

worse. All this hope

for songwriters and poets

but for a regular woman like me

it’s a waste of my time.

Misunderstanding

I have to take off my bracelets to love you

but I keep my ring

to remind me of all the misunderstandings

in modern love and romance. First

one is the texting,

then the replies

then the emojis

the silence.

Then the waiting around

to be misunderstood while

waiting in grocery lines

and examining faces

lines, reactions.

Smiling at strangers

in real life, on the internet,

in the cafe line.

I am sick of it all.

I would rather lie

down and masturbate.

I want to be sad

over all the times

you never made love to me.

This hole in my heart

is what keeps me going.

I need it

to write.

I love my randomness

and your demands.

I live for the music

the dream

the petals.

No one can control me either,

trust me,

but I always come back

I never leave

I’m not the type

to leave the walls up for long

and what I love about you

is that you

are exactly like me

and yet

not like me at all.

Dichotomy of love

of sex,

it’s eros.

I love you for never giving up

on all the misunderstandings

just driving on and on

and even when you are angry

you tell me

and again I fall in love

with you.

 

 

Metropolis

I mostly watched the singer

shake away his age

as it caught up with him

and nothing seemed to impress us

anymore besides one hundred dollar bills

and vodka shots. The youth left us

with our past. Our ten percent shot

at another night of bringing back the

days. All the drunken sailors

tried to get their hands on us

but we have to try so much more

now and drink so much less.

We’re getting sick of the city

and the dirt and the envy.

We’re getting tired of the puddles

and the hurt and the  five dollar coffee cups.

We’re getting upset with the fake news

the killing sprees, the hiding

of ugly humanity. I swear I want

to leave this place and never

look back. Never think about

what language I should speak

first, second guess someone’s

authenticity. I like the vast sky

the view from my window

on my quiet street, for years

I wanted to run from it

and chase the night. Now

I want to sit, enjoy my moments

and never look back to who

I used to be before I met you.

 

 

Discussion

I don’t fall into categories

I prefer to create them

make them shine on my skin

so only lovers with no thoughts

can see them. Leave chat groups

that are toxic for the soul and

create an affair with words

you adore. I discussed poetry

and words and how I have always

been writing, only now it has

controlled me, I can’t contain

it in a beer barrel anymore and

put a lock on it for happy hour.

I can’t shut it off and go to sleep.

I wake up with it and walk around

with these words on the tip

of my fingers and my tongue.

Here they are discussing the

way we move in and out of bed,

the way we talk, with respect

and patience. The way you ask

questions and wait for a reply.

No one ever cared for the same

reasons. Discussions of the soul

with no words are the ones

I cherish. The way we communicate

without words

that first brought us together

and will eventually tear us apart.

I can see the story, I can write

it, I can direct it, I can begin

and end it. I know how to

do it all

for I am a dreamer

and so are you.

Featured Image -- 6065

 

 

Physical Pain

I met you at a time when I felt lost

and all the physical pain

collided with my emotional state.

You were the last person in the room

to approach me, and the first to notice.

I told you a story about how lovers

were stuck between all the worlds

they created and you rolled your eyes at

me. Oh, God, you said, another poet.

I’ve never met another one, I said.

Don’t fall in love with him I told myself.

Although I knew I would be the first

to fall for your dark eyes before you

even noticed mine. They were

as dark as my thoughts. You’ll

break my heart and I’ll lose count

of all the ways you want to love me

and other stupid thoughts kept

pestering my brain. shutthefuckup my brain.

I just want to get over someone

so badly, you said.

Me too, I said because it didn’t sound

so pathetic as (well step right up handsome

I’m the one). It’s funny how my mind

says one thing and my mouth another

or my mind thinks one thing and I type another.

No one really knows me then.

They just think they do.

I went to the bathroom and you were gone.

I thought that was just perfect.

A perfect ending to an awful night.

I had concocted all these ideals

that you were  the one

and other such bullshit

but in the end

you were  another character in my poem

I never knew.

I scared you with my witch eyes for sure

and other such nonsensical thoughts

raged my brain

of why men leave me.

 

 

 

 

Poets

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.

 

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