TWO KINDS

[There's a line that goes, "Two kinds of trouble in this world Living... dying". (Lindsey Buckingham)]


our destiny
we are born, we die
our choice
to laugh or cry

he conforms
to please a crowd
she rebels
to free her spirit

some rot
sink into the mire
others live
and embrace passion

they lose
a sense of self
we win
freedom of spirit

you hate
a caged soul
i love
and fulfil a promise

* * * * * *

Copyright © March 2002 FIONA KRISCH.

THE GHOST BEHIND

And so he follows

But sometimes he leads in a rage

Other times

He's a story for another page

There are days

When he's right there with me

And nights

When I know he will leave me

He's two people

It seems, but actually one man

And whose fault?

Who knows? But I do what I can

And so I see

That his manner is crippled

He drowns

In a glass, the dark surface rippled



Copyright Fiona Krisch May 2002.

Flying

Let's go flying, you say
As the words fly
From fingers to keyboard to screen
Then sub-editor says fix this, rewrite that
And down you go
Into the reality of what is
Your story.

You cut and paste
Tighten and polish
Until the words flow smoothly
And once again you fly
The story ready for publication
Proud of a job well-done

“Dear writer, I don’t agree with you
On point A, B and C.”
I can live with that, you say.
Dear writer, I think you suck
And your words should never
Have made it to print.
Can’t please everyone, you say
But deep down you wish
You could.

Dear writer, I loved your article
published on Magazine X
I’d like to reprint it on Magazine Y
Would you consider writing a column for us too?
Once again you have wings
Let’s go flying.

Footnote: The poem was inspired by dark but vague criticism from a reader of my work. I wrote a story that my editors told me was very good. We worked hard on it to polish it, and it made lead for the publication.

Then one reader commented by saying that he did not go beyond the first sentence. ( He did not say why).

It make me feel crappy, especially as I started out feeling particularly proud of the story. I started wondering if I could have gotten the facts wrong, if he disagreed with the viewpoint provided by my sources, or whatever. Anyway, that sinking feeling that came from the criticism inspired me to write the poem.

Child of my heart

I know sometimes you wonder
If I love you as deeply
As a mother loves a child of her body
The short answer is
Yes, I do

The longer answer is this:
You may not be the child of my body
Blood of my blood
But you are the child of my heart
Mine in all the ways that count

I may not have carried you
Borne you after nine months
But I chose to care for you
Grew to love you
Child of my heart

There are times when I wonder
If I would love you more deeply
If you were a child of my body
Blood of my blood
The short answer is
No, I wouldn’t

The longer answer is this:
As you are not of my body
Blood of my blood
I know what my life would be like
If you were not mine to love
Empty, barren

I thank God everyday
That you are mine to raise
Each day you are with me
Is a blessing from God
Child of my heart

My father's love

I knew
With unquestionable certainty
that he loved us.

We could take our battles, big or small
To him
And like a warrior
He came to the rescue

He lived away from is family
Working for a better life
Worked his fingers to the bone

Home every Friday
After a four-hour drive
Bearing little gifts
You could set your clock by him

He listened
When you wanted to talk
Taught, argued and encouraged

He used reason
Other times discipline
Always under-laid by the certainty
Of his love

Now I look at him
Sick, tired, waiting for death
I miss the man he used to be
The vibrant, energetic man
He used to be

We speak on the phone
As much as his health allows
I visit him every weekend
Spend time with him
Still I miss him

The man he used to be
Is fading away everyday
A shadow left behind

My heart shouts: “Why him!”
Why not someone else father
Someone who did not love his family?

I want to reverse the clock
Bring back the man my father used to be
Ask one more question; argue one more time
I miss my friend

But now is the time, to give my father the same love
And support he gave his family
So I sit on the edge of the bed
Tell him one more story, call forth one more laugh.

I want him to know
With unquestionable certainty
That his was a life well-spent
That his family
Loves him just as deeply.

This poem was written on the 9 May 2002, about a month before my father passed away. On that same day, I also wrote an essay about my father, his illness and impending death. I think, that was the day I came to terms with the fact that my father was dying and began the grieving process.

Two more poems from Sam

Some of you have read some of the poetry I'm putting up here. Enjoy.

Cheers,
Sam

...................................................................................................
1. I have decided

I have decided
To ban all well intentioned resolutions

No more
New Year and
Birthday resolutions
No list of ten things to do
By the end of the year
Or before I die

I have decided
Diets and gym memberships are out
Somehow I end eating more food than normal
Swamped by guilt for paying a gym
I’m not using.

I have decided
No twelve week exercise plan
That leaves my knees rattling
No arbitrary deadlines to get published.
Chuck all shoulds and have tos
To focus on what is and can be.

This ban does not mean
That I’m giving up on life
Or getting lazy
This ban does not mean
That I’m planning
To live without drive or purpose

I have decided
To live well, work hard
Say what I want to say
Take care of my body
Spirit and soul

Spend time with people I like
But always, always
Remember that
Today is the only day I can be sure of
Who knows what tomorrow will bring?

2. African woman

Skeletal and defeated
Staring out of dead, hopeless eyes
That is not who I am.

Hunger, war and pain-ravaged
Carrying an assault rifle
That’s only part of the story.

Half-naked, sitting on uncovered soil
Baby sucking on a dry sagging breast
The pictures don’t tell the full truth.

The other side of me:
Is a tall, well-fed woman
Living life as best as she can

I love and I hate
I experience joy, stress, PMS
I laugh, cry, dance and sing
I am more like you than you thought.

I get bored, work too hard
Argue with my partner
About who’ll take out the dust bin.

I give birth, raise a family
And like you
I hope for the best for my children.

Shed the stereotype
Of who I’m supposed to be
See me for who I am.

Disregard my otherness
And you will see
I am more like you than you thought

I love and I hate
I dream and I plan
I experience joy, stress, PMS
I laugh, cry, dance and sing.

I love, mate, raise a family
And like you
I hope that my children
Will have a better life than what I had.

Youth

Youth is
A smooth, unlined face
No anti-ageing cream required.
A slim and supple body
No creaking bones and aching limbs.
Youth is
A chest full of treasures.

Youth is
Clothes chosen for cool factor
Not to hide bulges and sagging skin.
Love, life and career
A future full of promise
Youth is
A box full of shining treasures.

Youth is
The beginning of career success
Be anything, do anything
Work hard, play harder
Spend moolah as fast as you make it.
Youth is
The 3 Cs: Cash, car and a cellphone.

Youth is
Falling in love
In lust at the drop of a hat
Enjoying every heartbreaking moment
No calluses on the heart yet
Youth is
Not being ready to meet your soul mate yet.

Youth is
A trunk full of possibilities
Treasures and dross
To be cleaned and shined
Their real value yet to be discovered
Youth is
Assuming you’ll live long enough
To unwrap the hidden gifts in the trunk.

The sun on my face

I have worked hard,
Focusing solely on achieving goals
Too afraid to look up;
Too afraid to stare failure in the face.
Never feeling
The sun on my face.

Writing endlessly
Too afraid to submit
Too afraid of rejection
Hoping to get good enough
To be published.... someday.

Too afraid to see
The foundation being laid
To build a writing career.
Too afraid to feel
The hail and rain of rejection
Instead of the sun of acceptance
Warming my face.

“Bang!”
The fruit of my labour hit me on the head.
I couldn’t help but look up
Despite the fear of rejection.
A warm rain of acceptance,
From editors and readers
Taking me places
I didn’t even dream of going.

The writing journey is still long
Hard work and perseverance is needed.
But this morning
I am looking up, without fear.
The sun warming up my face
It’s a wonderful feeling.

It's worth the blood, sweat and blows
writing endlessly
Taking the blows of rejection on the chin
When I look up.

I wrote this poem the day I found out I had been nominated for an award. I hope it encourages other writers to persevere. I have a sneaky feeling i'm a seriously bad poet, and I realise is no form or structure to this poem, but I felt it was an appropriate form of self-expression in this particular instance.
Sam

Across the sea, a poem by Sam

I have a warm and friendly feeling
As I think of you today.
I wish that we could visit
But you are many miles away.

Separated by the ocean
But still close to my heart.
Your phone calls bring you near
Through the miles and the sea.

Still your face I want to see
For your soul shines through.
Your friendship become most dear
Everytime we speak.

I wish we could visit
But you are many miles away.
So I will pick up the phone
To reach you through across the miles and the sea.

This poem is dedicated to my friend, Susan Davies, who immigrated a number of years ago. I haven't seen Susan in 11 years, but when we speak on the phone, I still feel like the she's good friend I used to giggle with in my youth.