Children realize
the typical answers
neither bestow
salvation nor
worship.
Maybe children
love passion,
and we elevate
these things
only when it’s convenient.
//Convenience
//Collette Kristevski, 3/28/2019
This is an original blackout poem. Photo taken by me and edited with PicsArt.
Follow me on Instagram @paradoxandpaschalia for more original poetry and art.
The burden and cares laid aside.
Hear the flight
of the beasts of man –
his pride, sin, despair.
Renew
the heavenly things.
Restore
that which was lost.
//”It is finished”
//Collette Kristevski, 3/28/2019
This is a blackout poem. Background taken from PicsArt.
Follow me on Instagram @paradoxandpaschalia for more original poetry and art.
I was like the caterpillar,
prolonged within cocoon.
So long,
I became unrecognizable,
like a distorted figure
shifting in the shadows of longing.
That well-worn shell shed off,
but slowly, achingly,
and then all at once.
And yet,
unwaveringly, I wonder
when will I become something new?
It’s like there are all of these lives
I am not yet living,
and my wings are being crushed
under the weight of this one.
I am carried along ceaselessly,
but only by the ache.
//Ache
//Collette Kristevski, 3/17/2019
Follow me on Instagram @paradoxandpaschalia for more original poetry and art.
It was a healing pain,
a cleansing pain.
One last gasp,
and a life came from a death.
Death of the selfish,
of the self.
I am mother,
not because I gave birth to life,
but because of what was birthed in me:
a healing pain,
a cleansing pain.
And here,
before his wise innocence,
I die everyday,
and am birthed again,
again,
through a healing pain,
a cleansing pain.
The paradox of motherhood:
sometimes he is the child,
and sometimes I.
//Healing, Cleansing Motherhood
//Collette Kristevski, 3/16/2019
Follow me on Instagram @paradoxandpaschalia for more original poetry and art.
Window shoppers scrutinize
the divisive diatribe,
the preachy, pithy egoic lines,
memes of a world disorganized.
Shiny projections,
filtered (im)perfections,
enslaving mankind to contagious counterfeiting –
an invisible insurrection.
Get a glimpse
of their carefully curated museum minds
through windows the size of a palm.
Everyone is the other,
and no one is himself-
masquerading authenticity.
Even these words,
at first ignited somewhere else –
a subtle mimicry.
//Curated
//Collette Kristevski, 3/12/2019
Follow me on Instagram @paradoxandpaschalia for more original poetry and art.
We pontificate on the Divine,
philosophize the Cosmos
and moralize the Other.
But we ourselves
are the entities to be analyzed.
We are our only philosophical problem.
We are problem enough.
//Problem
//Collette Kristevski, 3/5/2019
For more original poetry and art, follow me on Instagram @paradoxandpaschalia.
There used to be an innocent child
resting at the peripheries of my heart.
Upon seeing it’s malevolence,
he believed he had been enlightened
and never returned again to rest.
Enlightenment
Collette Kristevski, 3/7/2019
*art and words are my own*
For more original poetry and art, follow me on Instagram @paradoxandpaschalia.
Sometimes we say the sane,
but we mean the absurd.
Only our shame
can keep us from the Truth.
//Censorship
//Collette Kristevski, 3/4/2019
*art and words are my own*
Do you hear that?
Your children’s children
are prophesying existence
upon the latent mending
of your unexamined life.
Heal yourself,
and you will heal them.
//Generations
//Collette Kristevski, 3/2/2019
*words and art are my own*
I.
In infancy
we did not attempt to utter unutterable things.
We knew without knowing how we knew,
and we let ourselves dwell there,
in that sort of meaningful magic.
We knew to doubt the doubts.
So we lived fierce and free,
suckling the bosom of that odd Truth.
II.
It was not until
they ripped us from those arms of peace
and sat us under the tree of knowledge
that the magic became monotony,
that we forgot how to rest.
Our unsettled minds
now living in invisible chains,
but knowing not why it is hard to be free.
III.
In fear,
now we only love meekly,
when we mean it violently.
Our minds becoming dull day by day,
straining for knowledge,
but resisting Wisdom;
desiring rebirth,
yet resisting the Spirit.
IV.
We have grown old by sinning.
//We have grown old by sinning
//Collette Kristevski, 2015
*art and words are my own*
Ortho-paradox-ia 