Three Poems by P. Christine

Hope #2 (out of order)

If it is going to end - this is how I dream it - not with a bang - nor a whimper - it ends in long drawn out fears of neighbors - infiltrators - hate-mongers - they win - this is how I dream it - a dog lacks the timidness of a cockroach running from the light - the roach is the devil - the small, scary unacceptable presence - it permanently lurks - poison fills the air to destroy it - it survives - forever - breaches walls of fortresses - the diner of a campground - school cafeterias - evil is everywhere hope denies - and I watch - thinking this is how it ends - a build-up to a finale no one sees coming - hope denies it - but I am hopeless.
I Am Striving
I am striving to glimpse the greatest sunset.
I am striving to comprehend time.
Why it is backwards -
Why there is so much hurt to remember,
Happiness to forget.

I am striving to understand a world
Countlessly more complicated than
Numeric formulations unraveling universal laws.
I am striving to overcome challenges.
I am striving to be considered
Alongside all society’s throw-aways.
I am striving to avoid murderous
AR-15’s pointing toward my home,
My neighborhood, my community.
I am striving to find an honest politician.
I am striving to avoid unbearable heat
Which kills summer // begs winter’s return.
I am striving to stay afloat
In a world of inflation and fixed incomes.
I am striving to make a difference
Speaking to the deaf, writing to the blind.
I am striving to walk forward
Within backward cities and suburbs.
I am striving to avoid my plastered saint
With a belly of piety and pretense.
I am striving for sanity
In a mediated world.
I am striving for honesty,
Hiding words not fit for truth.
I am striving to be kind to my neighbors
As their dog pees on my lawn.
I am striving to understand
Forces of nature versus forces of humans.
I am striving to be blessed
In a world forsaken.

I am striving for
What I cannot remember -
What I cannot forget.
What I cannot find -
What I cannot lose.
The Pendulum

Society is tilting,
As my mother’s world tilted,
As her brain deflated
Devoured by cancer.
The slightest movement and she tilted.

The earth tilts every 41,000 years.
Wobbles back and forth,
A bit to one side,
Until it tilts back -
Blue marble rolling to and fro. 

Society tilts.
Eggs burn too hot in the pan.
Jerks like earthquakes,
Cracks in solid concrete.

Jupiter eats planets -
Apparently lots of them
As if Jupiter is alive and earth malnourished.

Perhaps it is true -
We cannot balance the pendulum of peace,
Of harmony,
Of consideration,
Of love,
Of respect.

Lost on humanity
Now and forever.

Pendulums swing -
Doors open and close.
Wait patiently for new guests
Who have swallowed their words -
Waiting for the earth to tilt,
A door to open,
A sway to jerk,
Welcoming them in.

One good, the other evil.
The bells toll,
Cracked and sour,
For those in power did not consider
The righteousness of those clashing the bells.

P.Christine is a handi-capable, lesbian poet. Born in California, she currently resides in the suburbs of Chicago. Her poetry evokes emotions about loss, philosophy and social justice. She has been published in rez Magazine and The Fib Review. She is the recipient of two Sparta Open Mic awards.

Editor-in-Chief Laura Lee Washburn is the Director of Creative Writing at Pittsburg State University in Kansas, and the author of This Good Warm Place: 10th Anniversary Expanded Edition (March Street) and Watching the Contortionists (Palanquin Chapbook Prize). Her poetry has appeared in such journals as TheNewVerse.News, Carolina Quarterly, Ninth Letter, The Sun, and Valparaiso ReviewHarbor Review’s chapbook prize is named in her honor. She expects her next collection, The Book of Stolen Images (Meadowlark) to be out in a few months.


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