Poetry: Selections from Claudia Wysocky


When it begins to sink—

When it pains me to believe

that something won't change even though you try,

And all your words mean nothing

all these words are tossed aside

—And any light I may have carried, drowns

It was a phase we all need to go through.

Some of us learn sooner, others later—

but we will break out into the other side of this.

Take it step by step—

for it's not easy walking on your own.

But it helps to know that the sun will rise

no matter what happens tonight.

—Except certain death.

Maybe it's my sadness hitting me

maybe I'm too afraid to move on.

—Or maybe it's the lights in front of me—

blinding me from what's real.

But don't worry about me.

I'll be fine. I promise.

I know you'll find your way in the end—

just breathe it all away

and know that nothing lasts forever.

—I should probably get off the road.

—Sooner yet, I should find my way back home.

But I'm not lost. Not anymore.

I'm just finding what's real;

And for now, this feels so right.

—The car's gonna hit me, isn't it?

Little Rose

Are you lonely, Little Rose?

Call me. I shall listen to you.

Somewhere in the distance,

the birds chirp through heavy rain.

Are you lonely, Little Rose?

Call me. I shall hold your hand.

A cool touch, soft skin, and hair that smells of rain—

Are you lonely, Little Rose?

Call me. Where are we?

We are far beyond the clouds…

That's the furthest distance I've ever been before.

A friend that follows,

You never judge me—

I love you, Little Rose!

So then, what would you like?

A chocolate bar?

I'll buy something later,

You’ll never leave me,

You have your place—

On the green hill by the lake.


I do not know what he wishes me to write, but I do not know what he sees

when he looks at me

for he stares quite differently.

He raises his face and makes me shy

  —I see him as he speaks.

  I hear not what he hears, but I see all he feels.

His eyes are a purple flash

   Strong as steel.    O' colors unknown

  —And I see beyond them well.

His voice is a ribbon of sound

   Waiting to be kissed, or cut.

  —Here he is changing before me.

His nose is broad and cold,

  But his voice is sweet and high

   —his mouth twists and he strains to cram in words

Yet I am so deaf to hear

  —I merely stare.

But I see still,

His hand— His hand is cold.

He's dead.

— Since 1985.

Claudia Wysocky, a Polish poet based in New York, is known for her ability to capture the beauty of life through rich descriptions in her writing. She firmly believes that art has the potential to inspire positive change. With over five years of experience in fiction writing, Claudia has had her poems published in local newspapers and magazines. For her, writing is an endless journey and a powerful source of motivation. Follow her on Instagram


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