Olga's Poetry & Thoughts

Some people are in our lives Meant to be loved from a distance There's nothing wrong with that It's just that we're too different Or perhaps even too alike Two north poles repelling each other A couple of lone wolves mingling A dog barking at its own reflection The same blood runs through our veins But we are not meant to know each other We're just meant to co-exist  On the same planet, but ignorant of the other A colourful scaled fish roaming the seas While a spider sits in its web in a barn One wholly unaware of the other But needing the other in some way For earth to reach an equilibrium Not everything is meant to be held forever Some things are meant to be let go Like the old school pencils at the bottom of the drawer Or the Barbie dolls in the back of the closet They're loved, but loved at a distance Admired from afar

When I was a little girl, My parents were sacred Each word they uttered was a prophecy Every action was to be replicated They were as close to gods as I could get They fed me, housed me, educated me For that I am forever grateful When you grow older  And have a life of your own How do your parents fit into the picture? A precarious relationship needs to be rewritten Roots dug up from the ground and replanted It is a painful but necessary process For if the parents never let go And keep their adult child rooted too close to home Resentment will fester, grey mushrooms and fungus will grow In place of bone white lilies Parents, strong oak trees, providing shade and shelter Can also cloud over and suffocate their flowers Trying their best to bloom in their shadow When I am a parent, I will know when to let go To let my offspring blossom Into a purple lilac on her own

I'll never forget the warmth of my grandma's old gas stove In the cramped two-bedroom apartment that always smelled like smoke My grandpa would sit in his room with a cigarette in his left hand Stroking his coarse grey beard while solving a crossword puzzle My grandma would be shuffling around in her kapcie , house slippers Baking and cooking and frying and banging pots and pans Boiling strawberry jam with fresh fruits picked from her dzialka , yard And pickling cucumbers and cabbage and mushrooms in glass jars I'll never forget the sweet smell of nalesniki wafting from the kitchen In my paternal grandfather's loft, up on the fifth floor Cottage cheese crepes fried in oil, dipped in jam It was my favourite breakfast as a kid My grandpa's dog, Grot, would wag his tail and beg for crumbs Then we'd go for walks to the old town  Strolling along the cobblestoned streets of Olsztyn, my hometown The sun warming me up on a bright summer day I'll never forget my gre...

Dear Mother: Although it is difficult for me to imagine you as a messy haired twenty-something-year-old listening to Nirvana, it recently occurred to me that, before my existence, you had your own rockin’ life filled with studying and partying and embracing your days as an adult. Then you decided to have me, without knowing what I would turn out as- if I’d be a boy or a girl? (Both have their highs and lows). A dunce or a genius? (I’m somewhere in between the two, so I hope I didn’t disappoint you). I guess parenting is a tricky gamble and is arguably one of the hardest things to do in life. But I’m really grateful that you didn’t give up on me, even when I was doing annoying things, like refusing to eat my potatoes or drawing on the walls in marker.  In my preteen years, I’d get mad at you for not letting me use the computer or go out past nine because I thought you wanted to rob me of my freedom; in reality you were just disciplining me into becoming the well ...

I came back home crying to my mother one day She asked me why my eyes were so sore But how could I speak when my lips were deserted? For they hurt from not being kissed anymore Each breath was a mission I was not willing to take A boulder heaved down on my bones Everything was so difficult; all emotions deployed It felt so familiar to be safely alone My mother looked at me solemnly and told me, “Adolescence is by far the most complex stage At times you’re ecstatic, for you’ve succeeded! But unfortunately, most times you fail at this age” “Uncertainty is an irritating rash That seems to linger, unable to heal Curiosity is juvenile, yet stabs your core ‘Till you question if heaven is real” I pondered on this and I dreamt that night I dreamt about hawks circling me ‘round They gracefully sliced the air above me Without a squawk nor vigorous sound The thoughts poured like an oil spill into the sea… Who am I? Who will I be? What is the future holding for me? The ...

On a solitary tree branch, at the top of the hill A mama bird has found herself home She tends for her egg through darkness and light Protecting her precious from starving alone The egg has hatched, feeble young beak Desperately pricks for a breath of pure air Mama bird teaches the young one to fly Oh tell me, why wasn't papa bird there? In fact, where has papa bird been all this while? Left poor mama bird handling life on her own She raised the youngster to be fearless and bold She nurtured it until it had grown No troubles arise, the youngster is free He has been brought up well and feels good Though deep in the roots of this bird's tender heart Are emotions of betrayal, being misunderstood No, this sapling will not ever be the same He is not normal, as from others, he has learned Penetrating through crusts of hatred and remorse All he ever wished for was to hug papa bird