Victorious

You are in another year

time travels separately

into a victorious collection

of seasons that cleaned up

words into banned secure

parking lots of trash.

I would never meet you again

do not question

why, when, or how.

Count your six trophies

the four naked ones

add them to your collections

of home invasions

and move on to the next

forget the one before.

Look away from the railing.

#februaryfalls18 #writingprompt #christinastrigas #poetry #poetsofig #poem #poet #writer

Tagging a few to do the challenge @fallspoetry @breath_words_ @aseawords

Photo by @cocoluna___ ❤️

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Point and Shoot

There are two-sided arrows

pointing toward my

spotted heart

one for the lover

of the cracked night

another for the one

who keeps

running faster

than my thoughts.

No one had it better

than my black shoes

I stepped on you

with pointed claws

ragged brilliance

stop pointing your armour

shooting your mouth

I feel half-dead

from life’s blows.

#januaryfalls18

Poetry prompt

Driving in the Country

I much prefer the city

the bright neon lights

the apartment windows to peek at

the cafes to drive by

the places to point out at

and refer to as the past

never escapes.

I am a city girl

and if you entrap me

by driving in the country

I will think the trees

are magnificent

as you are.

I will breathe in the oxygen

as I breathe in your cologne.

I suppose wherever you

want to drive me

is fine

as long

as you are laying

your hand in my lap

at all the right songs.

Renaissance

If I ever had writer’s block you would see me dead

at some corner in a bar with your typical

bottle of Jack and burnt notebooks. I swear

if  I lost the ability to think through poetry

and write about my ripped up demons,

my past haunts, my future encounters,

then I would be dead inside for sure.

I can barely breathe now with how

real life sucks up my soul in conference

meetings, evaluation of employees,

frustrated children, parents who

neglect, my faults piling up

as I see how awful I could be

when confronted with life,

car crashes, headaches, aging,

poems pouring out like coffee

from a pot.

I took a class at Concordia

called The Renaissance

the History professor

proved that all these statues

had a story, all these white perfect

Roman gods had the same life

as the Greeks, changed a name

deleted a column, added an arc

and revived humanity.

If only I could do the same with poetry

make it my battle

rebirth

to the art that few protect.

Grab your pen

paper

raw words

and create

a new renaissance.

What else is there to do

except your nails? or your hair?

or your membership at the gym

needs renewal,

don’t forget to post pictures

of you and hubby at so-so restaurant

yes, I’ll be over here,

writing poems

and showing you my heartache.

You never knew I could write.

I know.

You thought I was just another wife,

but you saw it in my eyes.

You told me that once

I remember everything.

 

Tears and Confetti

I stopped thinking about how you would

react to something I do years ago. The red

cardinal bird reminds me all the time

of the brown color of your eyes. Death descends

and takes away hope. It takes away

all the achievements you have missed

while sleeping. If only I could

combine my tears with confetti

to celebrate your death and my life

in one afternoon. I could sit

with your ghost and tell you

about all the stories you missed.

Besides myself, first thing I would

tell you is thank you for protecting

my son from being hit by a car,

from his injuries, I know it was you.

(and so does he)

Thank you for watching over us

and wiping my tears when I drive.

I know it was you. Thank you

for reminding me of what is

important even when I cannot

hear your voice, it still echoes

inside me. Thank you for the

realization that being your

daughter made me proud as well

and when people came to

tell me what you have done

for them over the years

I saw you in another light

that brightened up my world.

All these facets, I miss.

All these journeys we never took.

That time you stopped the car

on the way to New York City,

took picture of the fall trees

in the middle of the highway,

Mom shouting we would get killed

your arms around my back

smiling at the camera.

I know it was you.

 

Less you, More me

From above if you were watching through

a fine telescope

my wise ass remarks

would help you to understand

that it means nothing

to die. One life to create memories,

one breath to forget. Then Alzheimer

kicks  you and sets you on fire

with nonsense. I try to laugh

to cover up my turmoil of

uneasiness at these awkward situations

when the brain ceases to speak,

when the mind is muddled with

words you never thought

would make you cry.

 

Hold on 

to that patience, you will need it.

 

There was a time I lost everything in you.

Now I speak to my soul and repeat

less you, more me.

All this to convince myself that I still matter

somehow, before the memories fade

or the cancer grows

or the breasts disappear.

It’s Hawaiian day at work

and I will wear my hula

tell all the teachers how I appreciate

their soul

hug a child

and try to forget about the telescope.

 

Hold on to your soul,

you will need it. 

 

Chasing Wanderlust

The most important part of poetry

is how it makes you travel through time,

place. I have my spacesuit on ready

to touch stars. meet me at the ocean.

you’re so ridiculous, did you see i did the dishes for  you

love me now

fill up my glass

oh, how i love you now

the way you come through the door

and kiss space with two grand steps.

telling me how my beauty is so deep

even you have to dig

that’s why you love me

because every day i give you the shovel.

living and knowing you has been the best part

of my life

how could i have done anything without you?

this is my poetry

how quotes mean nothing

until i whisper them in your ear.

remember when we went to Puerto Plata

and i wore those fuck me boots

and short shorts? remember the party

in the basement with strangers

everyone grabbed our asses

we laughed and touched each other

in the back seat of the cab?

we keep on chasing wanderlust

in the front seat of sanity

with our seat belts off.

speaking foreign languages spreading love

through sand castles,

it’s the 70’s

and my foot went right into the Tupperware

when the car crashed and our necks snapped.

 

you know the grammar rules

now try to apply them

to your life.

 

 

The Smell of New Possibilites

She had a thought to open up a boutique

in her garage. Put some hooks on a wall

line up the bikes and skates,

organize his tools in alphabetical order

put up a cool Japanese divider

with artistic flair. She thought

the mid-forties women at the gym

would buy her knock off dresses

for forty bucks. She’d make cards

and pass them around, maybe

even announce it on her Facebook page.

Her husband hated the idea

so this helped her in establishing

its authenticity. She took a flight

to Toronto and met with her friend Stacey

who sold second hand bags in

large bins out of her garage. China.

That was the magic word. She spent

two days researching Ali, China, merchandise,

ex-high school lovers that Stacey and her dated.

They drank Pinot Grigio and fantasized about

Christian Gray scenarios. The smell of new

possibilities excited her so much that

she had an orgasm on the plane

while texting her ex-lover.

This kind of thing she told herself

happened every day.

She became part of

a modern

love story

and would die if she ever told

anyone.

Maybe she would paint her garage pink.

She always wanted a pink room.

 

Brand New

Every dress she wore

had a hole in it. She used to sew

but they always came apart,

she was never as good as

her grandmother. Now it is

a stand she takes

to break down

the hold he has on her waist

on her tight fitting dress,

she refuses to make it

brand new

preferring the tattered one

for it is the perfect shade of black

she paid five-hundred dollars

and still has the receipt.

It never fades. Everyone knows

she loves that dress,

but his jacket covers her moles.

He could buy her more,

but having names on her ass

means nothing to her

if it is not poetry.

She believed in old hockey cards,

the ones she found in his attic,

The Rocket

close to his heart,

she competed with dead hockey players,

he competed with dead poets.

She found his hockey skates

in a crate dated 1977

an expo hat that his uncle

from Greece left behind

in a rush to get back to the olive trees.

He found nothing of hers 

ever

this pained her

this idea that he would discover her soul

in death,

this burial of all her poems

only to be unearthed by him.

If only she had driven him that night,

he would be here

reading her words

and not under the frozen earth

and she using words like

Forever

Always

and meaning them.

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.