Olga's Poetry & Thoughts

I want to howl at the moon And be wild, be free Take these stilettos of my feet And feel the sand in between my toes Chip my nails and let my hair grow long Sing from deep within my diaphragm  Not caring how bad I sound  After all, only the bluebirds can hear me I want to spend the day drenched in the sun's heat The evenings scavenging for berries Then fall asleep under a canopy  Of a thousand twinkling stars  Is this what freedom tastes like? Sweet nectar and earthy moss? Fuzzy caterpillars tickling my ankles As I'm picking mushrooms that are safe to eat And throwing them in my basket To be wild, be free To live in the forest is a dream A landscape in my mind A regression to a time before I was born Where we didn't wear stilettos 

I dreamt that you and I were beneath a cherry tree (The one that you planted in the dark soil for me) The earthworms slithering at our feet The taste of the black currants so sweet I miss those days when the world seemed grand Even on the smallest, humblest slice of land Who needs TV when you’re lying with me Underneath the shade of the brown walnut tree? Running water and light are mere luxuries It’s like the human race has caught a disease We’d all be happier on the earth with the beetles The grass prickling our skin like small needles The smell of the carrots, tomatoes, and beets Tingling our noses in the dense summer heat Let’s go back to when simplicity was at its prime When we had no worries, and only had time Image source: https://www.saatchiart.com/art/Painting-Pastoral-Scene-Cows-Resting-in-the-pasture/868810/3618067/view

I woke up, again, with sweat drenching my back, gluing my night shirt close to my body. I had a nightmare, the same one I've had many a time: in the dream, I am sleeping in my bed, but when I look down to my toes, I can't see them, because I have a very bulging, very pregnant stomach. I gasp for air, panic, cry. Then I wake up. I'm not from another era- I know perfectly well how to avoid unexpected pregnancies. Yet this is a fear that has burrowed into my psyche and which springs up when my body is trying to rest. Perhaps the fear is not the pregnancy itself- it is the fear that I will never want a child. It is the fear of...babies. While other women my age already have this maternal instinct, a drive to squish chubby cheeks and fantasize about cribs, I am ambivalent about babies. I can't fathom what drives a woman to momentarily give up her body, to sacrifice a portion of her career, and to devote her life to a crying blob without a formed personality, without hopes or...

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