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The Last Czar

This is a poem I wrote in the summer of '98 after reading a Newsweek article about the last Russian Czar that was killed in the early 1900s, preceeding the Russian Revolution. Because I was born in the USSR, I felt guilty for not knowing enough about the royal family of my country. It is a sad story, but my poem will explain it all. 
 

I read a story about a czar, he lived in a land not too far
He was executed along with his family.
His son and daughters had a future, but the bad men took it all away.
They were awakened in the dead of the night and to the basement is where they went.
Eleven men burst into the room and shot them all like unwanted criminals.
Their bodies were taken to the woods, and for sixty years no one would
Find the bodies of this Russian czar, and the rest of the clan were not too far.
Little girls were told that it was all very magical, that one daughter had survived.
Her name was Anastasia and she fell in love. But it was all a lie.
And even then it took thirteen more years to let the word out that the bodies were there.
Now they have finally been laid to rest, but we cannot change the past.
Many people might have been at fault, but it does not change the fact at all.
Eleven innocent people were massacred that night, and nothing will ever make that seem right. 

If you would like to read my historical fiction story on this topic, go here.


The Risk

Weighing the risks of asking someone out around X-mas '00.I>

They say listen to your heart, but what does that mean?
Mine only whispers under fervent screams.
Its message is cryptic, muffled, and fast,
Providing two answers to the question I ask.
But the pain itself lingers like a stale, nasty smell.
My voice becomes silent as I cry and I yell.
My body is hurting, the bones feel all weak.
I'd do anything to get rid of this disgusting reek!
Battle it with certainty is what I need to do,
But risk making a choice that to my heart is untrue.


High Expectations

A poem written in late 1998, it still rings true. Actually it's a poem that will probably always ring true. Do you agree?

As much as you wish for it, you'll never find
One perfect human, body, and mind
You are your own model of right
Comparing, contrasting, the width and the height
You friends and your lovers will never be
The ideal person you highly seek
The great times you've spent are a good memory
But these days wash away quickly, indeed.
The wonderful thoughts are parts of the highs and the lows
The rest is below it, fine times at most
They are not perfect, but neither are you.
Be true to yourself, that is all you can do.


Stronger

I wrote this poem as a submission to a Women of Strength and Inner Beauty poetry contest, but like it enough to add it here, as well.

Pick at my fleshy skin
Pound me with your stones
I'm not afraid of your cruelty
Torture me alone
Your darkness will not penetrate;
I harvest light inside
You cannot pierce through my bones
Or get into my mind.
I will not be brainwashed
Your might is weak on me.
Don't confuse me with your banter
Or pursuade me with your pleas.
Every time you put me down,
I'll crawl out of the hole.
While you'll be sore and tired,
I'll be strong and whole.


Sunday Afternoon

My first poem in two months (January 2003)...I'm moving to a different place with my writing.

Be it guilt trip or boredom
I've been talked into staying for the Ukrainian Christmas concert
And I put aside my plans of basking in the last few hours of the January sun:
wasting time on-line or catching up on my reading

The decorations are tacky
though almost effective
plastic plants - I've seen better
but I ought not to take it out on them

The combination of old world stench and religion
makes my skin itchy
not that I can make out
most of what is being said
but I catch faith. the lord's son. salvation.
and want to run for the exit
or at least the nearest restroom

The children's segment is more pathetic than I had feared
I can forego the bad acting
But they don't even understand what they're saying
Not that I do
Primped and rehearsed
to spit out four lines
so that their parents can pat themselves on the back
for passing on the culture

The adult American ensemble that follows is more convincing
The songs are
subjectively familiar
and objectively lovely

Then the chorus begins
and I realize why I am here:
to hear beautiful music of my forefathers

What a special treat -
my favorite carol
And suddenly cold tingles wash over me
and my eyes swell up with tears
Straight to the heart

And then I'm out in the world again
Passing some of the kids,
jabbering away in English
And the sun's still out
Perhaps I have some time yet


Mirage

I must have been in some twisted mood when I wrote this in January 2001. I placed it on this page because every time I get to the end, I can't help but laugh.

Swayed by every little move,
She takes in a breath
and faints from the sweet air of his promising words
To touch the fire that glows from afar
would only burn her fragile soul
She has no knowledge of this world,
Knows not if she is to believe
His voice could belong to any man
She cannot judge him just on that
She feels a comfort,
It draws her in
But it is surely a mirage
Tonight is not the night for this
It is not she, for she is I


Illusion of Green

This is a different kind of poem for two reasons: the style and topic. This is one of my only non-rhyming poems thatI just let go and ignored establishing a rhythm. This makes me kind of shaky, in my opinion the poem is less solid and therefore not as good, but I still think it is nicely written, so it can survive without the rhythm & rhyme. The topic is the environment, something I care deeply about. I wrote it while walking to class one day in early May 2001, watching everything bloom and the grass green, but also two roads on either side of the road. It kind of scared me that there would come a time when the grass would no longer be there, but the asphalt would remain. Then I thought about how true this was when applied to the Earth as a planet.

I walk the lane, grasses abound,
To my left and to my right
The concrete creeps, plotting its takeover,
I feel the grassland disappear
I close my eyes and block it out
Create an image of a land, luscious and serene
Feel the breeze from outside and the warmth from the sun
How long may I deceive myself
Of the planet's suffering?
Until the rays melt my eyelids shut
And from the pollution I suffocate.


Heart-Shaped Frame

Some of my friends really liked this poem, probably more than me. But I wouldn't have added it if I didn't like it even a little.

They tease me, that is all they do
Prancing around, sprinkling this charm on me
I become woozy with fantasy
Placing a new face in my heart-shaped frame
It’s all the same: I must fill a void
So is it fair for me to place them so?
To assume they have a void for me?
And if they do, is it the same
As I would be for them?
What is the point
Of being stuck behind glass
If you cannot breathe?

Watch the memory fade away
As photograph
Turns to painful reminder
I must keep watching my clock
And not get discouraged
‘Cuz when it hits me
I won’t know what I am in for.
And no one will be able to remove
The heart-shaped frame
From within my mind.


Mother

This is a somewhat melancholy poem inspired by my relationship with my mother. It also borrows from astrological thought, describing an Aquarian Moon mother-daughter relationship (which we have.)

I know her not
She is here with me every day
But I do not see her
She speaks and smiles and shares and hugs
Why do I not know who she is?
So many people go through life
Searching for this woman
I hold mine in my hand
And look beyond her to when I am gone
She has taught me self-dependency
And how to cherish my true friends
This gift she gave me in my life
May have been a curse for the two of us to bear


Tears on the Pillow

Written to calm myself down during my most depressed state ever, in early December 1998.

                                  Tears on the Pillow How Sour are Thee
                                   Tears on the Pillow You Set me Free
                              From Oppression and Anger, Frustration and Pain
                                   Tears on the Pillow I'm going Insane 


Ambition

A poem written in May of 1999, when I was at a creative low. 

As close to a perfect life as I get,
So how come in the world am I not happy yet?
I have good friends, a stable job,
A perfect bod, my parents' love.
I'm one of the smartest that I know.
My personality's quite strong...although
I still lack the ambition to go on.
Realizing I'm not the only one,
But why can't there be more for me?
Or maybe there is, but I can't see...

I used to think, once I get a life
I'd get away from restlessness and strife.
And now I've gotten out, I can even drive.
But what ever happened to the will to survive??
My singing's good, my writing's great,
Yet somehow I lost my drive to create.


Slut

A poem I wrote late in 1998 after being so fed up with our sex-drenched society. I definitely don't walk around with these feelings day in and day out, but I will continue to stand by its words until my mind is changed.

Who is this woman of the 21st century?
A space age prostitute
They want me to become her
I will give in to none of it
Sex used to stand for privacy
Now it is anything but

Walk into a lingirie store
Surrounded by satin and lace
Do they seriously expect me to wear that
in case I don't end up alone tonight?

Children are taught all the wrong things
What ever happened to real romance?
How is this slut fit for a king?
A kiss shared between two people
does not need to be the opening scene
of a TV show or movie with a family theme

Don't speak about your oral sex
Stop using the word 'whore'
Your cleavage I don't need to see
Keep it all behind closed doors


[Untitled]

I wrote this poem in April '02 about a small rendez-vous that didn't amount to anything.

amazing tingles
as you run your lips across my neck
and rest your shoulder between my cheek and shoulder

i cling to you
not for dear life
but for fear if i let go,
i'll break down
and every tear i've ever held back
will carry you away with its current

you look at me
and do not stop
i look away
so guilty
so afraid

you touch me again
and i want to freeze this moment
and fall asleep
with you in my arms
but my racing heart
won't let me rest
so then you leave
you're so good to me
you tease


RunAway

I wrote this poem in the early part of 1998, when I was feeling really depressed and I didn't feel like my life was going
anywhere...something I think anyone can relate to.

There's nothing here
Don't know what's there
I cannot leave
Don't want to stay

I still go on from day to day
Each new day hitting like an ocean wave
Can't see behind, can't see ahead
Sometimes I wish that I were dead

They're all the same, nothing has changed
The same old faces
The same routine
I wish I could take off and leave
Without regrets
Without fear

Life is so lonely and so strange
I shouldn't feel like this for years

Life isn't bad
It isn't painful
It's full of boredom, tranquility, composure
Why can't I just be mixed up in something?
Why can't I be a runaway?


Lovesick Poem

I wrote this poem in early November, 1999, to get out some boy-related frustration. It helped...a little.

How do I know that it is true
How do I tell if I love you
Is it my mind that is playing games
Or are you really the man I come to claim
I want to know if I'm feeling alright
Should I be thinking of you and crying all night
Should I just forget you and move on from this dream
Or are things truly what they seem
Are you worth all this trouble I'm creating
Or will in weeks thoughts of you be detonating
How do I know if I need you or not
Will you still wait when I start listening to my heart
Can you forgive me for not getting over you
Do you have a notion of these things that I do
What will it take to get me away from here
Oh, won't you come and get me, I'm waiting, my dear

E-mail the author.  Read some of my stories. Go back to the main page.

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