Poetry dance

Originally posted on Writing & Poetry by Christina Strigas:

You ask me to do the poetry dance
as my hands are tied but never free
diving into a dangerous chance
to unwind the words of the sea
make them twirl
bend to our whim
let the pain unfurl

for I am always aching for him
that illusion of hope
living on the edge of Broadway
refusing to hand over that rope
mixing up my night with my day
my poems with reality.

Let us dance and swallow our moving words
like we did on scraped knees way back when
embrace the sky, fly like birds
for we are far to gaze into each others’ eyes
too close to sleep a whole night through
toss and turn me with burning lies.

I am not like them. I do not scrub
bathtubs until I am heart broken.
I do eat men while I walk to the cafe.
I do not see…

View original 223 more words


in simple words

Some people think
writing poetry
is a waste of time,
others absorb words
like young pupils,
still others have their hat on
and
walk right past us.
It may seem like a breeze, a simple tune you hate, that may have taken days
to compose in the heat of the muse.

All these wonders,
most of Them skip tracks on life;
you do not need to hold my hand too closely, I’ve always seen it.
So perhaps it’s time to tell you
that,
I will always love you,
it may be simple to say,
but we both know
how writing this
and saying this
are polar opposites
in both worlds.

It is somehow in all these places
on earth,
we visit,
reminding us of
the one we love
no matter
which ocean
we look out from.


unknown

In the damp night
your kiss
would take away
all the ache
of yesterday.

In the light sky
right before the sun rises
your arms
would caress the scars
which lie invisible to the eye.

In the twilight
your body would possess
mine
begin where I end in time.

In the middle of the day
your words
would make all
the mundane disappear
a smile from ear to ear.

In the time between time
your mere existence
would be all I need
to get by my blocked fence.

In the universe
I could be the clouds
and you the sun
and I would not want
it any other way
even if you argue
digress about my dress
our minds are above
each other’s
in the grips of
the unknown.


The Road

I read no more,
as I once did,
the love you take,
is on my sleeve.

I see it all,
so clear to me,
you think you hide,
but I see through.

I know you want
me on my knees,
to give to you
what I refuse.

You soon will walk,
forget my soul,
I see the road,
before you go.


One thousand

In one thousand eyes
I could search for you
the purple sky
right at that time
when you can’t
take your eyes off
the colours
even photos
cannot capture
the life
of one thousand souls
to reach you
I could take the dark
keep it close
lose myself in its arms
but your thousand songs
comfort me more
I was born one thousand times
and all the while
it was you
I met again
to only meet again
under the thousand stars
that divide
us and connect us
Bold or bittersweet
it has brightened
my universe
into one thousand poems
for you.


Lovers in memory

Some madness
is at our fingertips
the most surprising
inexplicable energy
can only be felt
by lovers
when they first
stare into each other’s
eyes

even then it will be foggy
unclear to most
until years later
when the intensity grows
the storms within
rage
the windows rattle.

Time, Place, Memory
explode into darkness
while the sun rises
and the sweetness
of the skin
is what the lovers
recall
and ache
that madness
they took from the shelf
baked it
together.

Love’s phases
lust’s cravings
combined in the pot
stir it up
and take a first bite.

Yet like a film
it is played over
and memory
keeps it rolling.


For you, The Reader

Not sure about the quota
the stats
for the day
but I cannot switch it off.
My Reader says,
I read you breathlessly
eager to ingest
every word
like hard liquor
burning my insides.
(And here I thought
I was nothing special
full of self-doubt
and betrayal).

Do I excite you? In what way?
To hold me close
to smell my skin
to part my legs
and feel me from within?
I know about the phases.
I read Neruda’s sonnets
the morning, the afternoon, the evening
and I feel his currents
sweep me into his waves
that crash against my body.

I’m truly a romantic fool
yet so alive
with wonder
like a little girl
lost in a shopping mall.

When I see the wicked words
I want to bathe naked in them.
Can you imagine such a scene?
Shredded paper in the floating water.
I am sure you would comply
if I ask such strange requests.
You open up my soul
these words
come out like waterfall
with no self-control
no edits.

I stop washing dishes
forget to eat
all to get this cough of words
stuck in my throat
to you,
whether you read me or not
others need it too.

Now I get stopped in the street
my identity no longer hushed
I love your poems
I read them every day
Please keep them coming

so this one is for you, my Reader
the ones that connect
the dotted lines
into their very own
heartbeat.


Soul tapping

It is the tap of the soul
that ignites the mind
the body close behind
and when the paper runs out
the words never do
in my sleep they scream
and shout
always on the united screw
of the interlocked worlds
scouring about.

It should not take much
to spread her legs
those words, one touch
you got her entrapped in your webs.

At least she knows trauma
spreads her internal drama
all over the kitchen table
in sexy New York aprons
with no underwear
and tons and tons
of unmarked cars peeking in her lair.

He loves the show
and makes her dance
she shakes her hair
in a stoned trance.

She has to cook
buy protein shakes
read her favourite book
with nipples erect
continues her bakes.

And the soul
keeps on tapping away
waking her up.


my gift

If I had a way of controlling the morning sun, I would rip it from the sky and place it just above your bed.

Upon opening your eyes, your first sight would be the colour of my love.


Honesty

Perhaps you thought

it did not matter

that you changed

a simple no to ru

but all the little deceits

are grand masterpieces

of woven lies

in a name

that should exist

to prove we breathe

freely.

My instincts, my third eye

even if I never knew

it would not bloom

for your walls are

much higher

and magic

is just an illusion

and fantasies

they are just in our mind

and reality

is a misplaced puzzle

with lost pieces

we refuse to search for.

This is how

I shut down

again

revealing

a skin of words

along the inside

of my blood.

I thought

you were

a stone

that I would pick up

and keep in my pocket

or a wave in the ocean

I would let caress me

and the metaphors

never end

yet this poem must

even if it seems obscure

all we have is trust.


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