A Poetry Showcase for Christina Strigas -new poetry & republished poetry

The Future is Blind

There is a revolution
in my dark mind.    
A diverse population of women   
in uniform 
chanting about transforming
waving flags and drinking Dom Perignon
lying about their age
surrendering to Botox and lip injections

into an advanced age of technology
where dandelions stop growing
where wildflowers become condos
swim across concrete walls
open up your own bank account
you can’t rely on the past
washing machines stop listening to you
detergents no longer do their job.
men named Alexander never stay 

Perhaps you are more comfortable 
with all the shades drawn in the middle of the day.
Taking shots of vodka behind modern blinds
the blogs want sameness
with a modern feminism
the dictionary no longer supports
burn the books
forget your library membership
fall in love with your medicine
stop texting your ex-lover to save you

your womanhood is always on the verge
of new breakdowns.
You can make it real
but none of it is a poem,

I have telepathic eyes
I can see
how it's a war
on equality

A future where men
Still make more money
More poetry books
More doctoral positions
More artificial intelligence
More robotics
Futuristic philosophy
A grave full of books
Dead weeds where trees 
Were touched by your sisters

The only question left to ponder
How do I hide my greys?
Do i go blonder or do I dare
Become ash red?

Black Coffee

my eyes swollen from crying
my heart slashed from denying
all of my doings and undoings,
never enough for any man.
                             Love is not important 
                  in this poem’s recipe.  

I never want to go back to cream and sugar.
be authentically me
raw and naturally bitter
dark and full of desire
addictive and lively potent
I’m alone in some one room apartment,
       to be staring at my beige walls

As far from love as possible,
with a new bank account.
no borrowed money and
staring at my purple rain album
feeling love and freedom
like a solved crossword puzzle. 

                         How long can one live
                         with dread in the pit of one’s stomach?
Our hopes are constantly 
filled with empty alcohol glasses. 
                        How many masks can one own?
One face for every event
a tight red dress and amber lipstick
Black leather pants and heavy eyeliner.
Ripped jeans and rock t-shirt
so many sides to this story.

I move from coffee to red wine,
eat a bit of this and that,
just to sustain

type all hours of the night,
day, mid-day, forget to pay my bills.
but I write, 
oh, how the words spring forth like April tulips—
oh, how the lines burst forth like weeds between cracks

each poem a different hue of spring
in the middle of winter,
each poem
a snowflake, melting before as it touches the ground.

Weather and mornings have me tapping away
writing fluid lines until the sky turns orange
crossing and adding words with my HB pencil
shutting and closing old dictionaries.

My daily start of black coffee, silence,
lies and truths combined
My beige walls need a new paint
I can’t decide between earth tone or van Gogh blue
pink trees
and empty coffee cups
in the dishrack—
                          But I do know
home is where words go
that never die. 

Brothel of Poets

I’m as fragile as a piece of crumpled paper
as tough as an outdated hard book cover.

I have been day, afternoon, and night drinking again
finally finished two wine bottles now

hid them in the recycling bin. 
I’m talking to my poet friends 

about how selling your mental illness
and body shame is a new foundation of lies

of selling poetry books.
Whatever happened to raw talent?

How some poets think they can claim
words as their own

and no one can use them again?
I was never an ugly or pretty princess

I bought my own shoes
listened to music before it was popular

cried day and night to get my life back.
I read Sexton in the middle of the day

awake and alert at all the bus stops.
I heard that people like to break you 

before they love you.
I heard that love bombing is a thing now.

I never knew love until you took me 
under the Montreal moon.

I gave you myself
either way, you took me

like an unwrapped gift 
at least you thanked me

for being your slut. 
You’re always creeping into my poems. 

Collecting Corks

The more I stay away from your lovely lettering,
The better I write
or so I think

It is the despised loneliness
the sipping of you until the glass
needs no washing
my lips licking you

I wait for you like a mother 
waits for her child to sleep
so she can smoke a cigarette
am I a good mother? 

I listen to you pour, I watch your 
patience, tempting me
anticipation is fiery between us

a wicked black love

I know how this suffering flows,
It becomes shiny glassware,

Wake Up to Morrissey

I eat up their shovelled words,
ringworms in my stomach.

My sin is full of fungal infection
I stretched my legs too far—

my arms shrunk
my brain fell prisoner to cells

of meds and beds for the outlaws
sinners of generation X.

It got so pitch black that night
the ominous night of unwanted hell

we thought we were kid smart
to outrun the hidden world

on an empty tank of gas
yet we got our quick bang.

I still eat you up and cough you out
I have feminine power in my body. 

Proof of your existence on my ironed clothes
get it right, predict the future

with the guts you deny;

I ate you 
swallowed you
spit you
loved you—
    back to a dead life. 


I’m used to him now
speaking to him on a daily basis
his songs, a morning call. 

It’s nice to say kalimera Baba 
to the open suburban sky,
in his house 
one last summer.

The summer before the end
of a lifetime of gardening,

building kitchens, DIY tiles,
demolishing walls.
creating new childhood bedrooms,
parties for every occasion:
holidays, birthdays, name days;
Everyone is sleeping,

except me and the old clock.
I tap, tap, tap
He ticks, tocks, ticks.

our own beat
of forty-two-year memories.
It was 1976, the drive felt longer—
everything moved slower then.
You were always in it;

running around not being found
getting lost and no one looking.

The old Buick was long,
fitting all three of us.
In the front, no seatbelts;
three in the back—
Pappou, Yiayia, my brother. 
A family of six,
three left. 

We made codfish
with fresh garden herbs;
mint, parsley, celery, dill
tarragon, basil,
I chopped them up, sprinkled
their love, crunching on the stems,
I was supposed to discard.
added water, oil and tomato sauce.

I’m not a prisoner here,
I like it.
I am sleeping too long
chilling with no motherly guilt,
cooking Greek meals
and lemon meringue desserts
on my summer vacation
of peach memories

making more, 
with whoever is left
to kiss goodnight,
and drink hot coffee
in the humid mornings
without rushing, to work
to teach, to prepare.

I tap, tap, tap,
he ticks, tocks, tocks—

This is how time traps writers.
This is how time traps grief,
This is how we create poetry.

How Deep Inside a Gun Are You?

It is mostly the way you come at me
from afar—
treat me so differently up close
pretend that the clothes I’m wearing
are irrelevant;
I was as poor as you

as rich in feeling like you
as lost in spirit as you.
I guessed you played with life
as players do.
Manipulations are over
mind games are dead
mothers are older
children are taking over
that love you are holding onto
is growing weeds—

you think that seconds mean worlds
that cutting up my sanity
is a game.
Perhaps you drowned once
I never did
I keep floating
existing in this joke.

Open your mouth 
speak, don’t fire. 

At A Party

At a party with a priest
I used to smoke outside with
At the hospital where we worked 
At a time when smoking rooms existed
When smoking was not bad for your image

At a party with people I don’t know
Pretending I remember 
How we talked back then
How we loved less
Read more

At a party trying not to slur
Or flirt with the wrong man
Remembering a time 
I wanted to forget
It was the tragic old ladies
With pink lipstick
And peach laugh lines
Who asked me to tie back
Their hair with silk fuchsia ribbons
When I was there to clean floors
Wipe dusty tables
How did I end up reading passages
From an old book?
Or talk to them about nonsense
To feel someone cared
It was the empty beds
Cleaning them and wondering
What death meant at all
How it came and went
And I was twenty
Wondering if I should break up 
With my boyfriend
Go to Peru
Or cry for an old lady I barely knew. 

At a party
Listening to Taylor Swift
And loving her more than I should. 

I Wrote Nothing For Days
originally published in Rhythm N Bones Lit Issue 6 : Love

Trying to find emptiness
in a tall glass of midnight madness.
My thoughts on the slow, dark time
of your words.
Open up your closed book
eat the crumbs of cake off my hand.
I fed the wrong man
old tattered thoughts
in ancient chains
while I sunk in mythological mud
up to my ankles
washed your fake love
with aloe and coconut
but your European veins and musky scent
are alive on my skin
like birth marks and moles
no matter how hard I try to rub you off
no one can see your penetrating marks.

Aren't We All Monsters
originally published in Dark Marrow (Rhythm & Bones Lit offshoot mag Issue 2 Survivor

Monsters are the loneliest creatures...
We're not all under your bed
or in your head.

we're all looking at you
straight in the empty eye,
in your mirror
in your head,
lift the covers or just stop checking.

You still love her,
never forget your tiny feet.
One enemy is enough.
Go ahead -
Call her to tell her
you think about her every day,
then go back to hating her.

Conversations with the Dead

originally published in Dark Marrow (Rhythm & Bones Lit offshoot mag Issue 2 Survivor

Never followed Dad's advice.
Wish I did now.
In '89 thought his words archaic,
In 2017 I'd say he was
Pretty damn smart.

My daughter will roll her eyes,
One day remember ancient adages
Maybe in 2050-
Finally agree, nod her intelligent head
And remember this like me.
This is hindsight:

The unanswered phone.
Black Bell phone on the kitchen counter,
ringing endlessly, going to voicemail
no one checking again.

I can hear his voice from the dead-
it's rough, yet gentle
faintly forgotten.
I press play.
I thought you were home. I hate these damn machines.
His broken English sounding perfect to my ears.

This is the cycle;
My mental tangerine peels,
my form of existential awareness
an endless study of the silenced voice
playing back recordings to remember

Because tombstones
Cannot talk back. 

A Book Review of “Love and Metaxa” by Christina Strigas

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Christina Strigas

From Avalanches in Poetry writings & art inspired by Leonard Cohen (2019) How Leonard Cohen Kept Evading Me by Christina Strigas

Christina Strigas links:

By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1


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