Landing in Incheon

The white, silent moon has grown bleak,
Half of a focal stone in the burning red crown
Of the horizon's slow transformation,

We descend into the cloud bank, foreboding,
Windows suddenly dripping with condensation
For an instant, I mistake the wing beacons for lightning

I feel my pulse quickening in fear and elation
Do not others feel trapped in this halfway emotion?
Shaken, this new world takes hold of me again

The warm, thick fog deceptively swirls about us
When I leave this casement, what should I do?
Instantly at peace, yet still at war with myself 

The landing, how I embrace it, over and over
Deep inside my being, recalled more clearly than first love,
Some form of reawakening, some rebirth, must surely exist there.

-Argentia Krystofel

Grandmother Said

"Find yourself a good ole American boy,
With bright young eyes and nice hair,
Who is tall and broad-shouldered,
Believes in the Lord and would never swear."

These are the words my grandmother says
In an effort to control all which she can
Her personality flaws glaring with every word
As she tries to find me her perfect man

Every mistake she made when she was young
Reiterated each time I made mention of you
"That blood is bad, mean as a stripe-ed snake,
That man will leave you up and out of the blue,"

I could shoot back pretty words, elaborate poetry,
"I believe in true love, I believe he's a good man, just you wait,"
The usual "well, you'll see" echoed in my mind,
Critique morphs into doubt, and left me in a broken state,

Irony is it's own form of justice, though heartless,
"He'll leave you for one of his own, trust me, you'll see,"
I can picture her pretty eyes, small face, and dark hair,
Faith shattered, and he was saying "you don't know me,"

One bad day will not ruin my whole life,
I'm not that woman who crashed her chariot of dreams,
Over a single rut in the road of life's journey
No turning back for broken hearts, no matter how sad it seems,

Regrets are always lined with hope
And there are things taught by lost love,
But I know all grandmother said isn't true,
Instead, in dark times, I pray this to God above:

"I want a respectful, adventuresome boy,
With sparkling dark eyes and a creative mind,
No concern for height if he's sincere,
Believes in Your promise, is both faithful and kind."


-A.K.

When I Was Your Age

I believe in the calm, cool gray
The morning sun blocked by cloud cover
You, sleeping soundly, never any blankets
Fearing warmth, hating the cold
Somehow I can behold your blissful existence
Lost in your quiet dreaming,
"When I was your age..." is repeated.

-Argentia Krystofel

Preoccupations

Your eyes, in their own passionate way,
Grasping for something, I am not sure why,
Oh, how those eyes gaze so intently,
Who hurt you? Who hurt you?

Among the buzz of conversation, across the airwaves,
Through the space, so full, yet so very empty,
You have seen all, it is realized, though your eyes unrevealing,
Who hurt you? Who hurt you?

In our lives, we have various connections
Formed much like the lines drawn by the ancients
Stories made of the numerous, random points in our vast, dark sky
Who hurt you? Who hurt you?

In your boundless kindness, you make pictures,
Stories are written, legends arise, hearts believe
And sometimes they break.
…who hurt you?