Christy Zutautas - Poetry

Frosty Homecoming

The air is crisp
as I trudge home,
to see tiny palms
on frozen glass.
Watching as
the darkness falls,
across the snowy lane.

By Christy Zutautas


Winter Waltz

The wind lifted me
up into the trees.
Where I danced
to the rhythm
of the evergreen.
Swaying to the tune
of the northern
breeze, frozen
in timeless melody.

By Christy Zutautas


Sarah Bright - 1692

She’d stroll through the village,
eyes fixed on the ground.
When greeted, the girl
scarcely uttered a sound.

Since her parents death
a few years back,
she’s lived on her own
in no more than a shack.

Her hair as red
as the fire of hell,
in the thoughts of men
her innocence fell.

They’d follow her in
the light of day,
besot by her
peculiar way.

They’d leave their wives
in the dark of night,
to spy as she danced
beneath the moonlight.

One woman swore
by God that she witnessed,
her reading a book
of magic so wicked.

No wonder her husband
held such foolish notions.
Possessed by this witch
and all her love potions.

When questioned, the girl,
she could not tell,
what power had she,
if not by spell;

Could take hold of man,
lead him into temptation,
if not by witchcraft
or some incantation.

Her persuasion rooted
in evil they deemed.
Her protest heard
by way of her screams.

When they put her inside
the old metal pot,
it’s with the will of the devil
himself that she fought.

They said she might
find absolution;
if her body withstood
such an execution.

With bibles in hand
they gathered around;
together they shouted
while watching her drown.

As she went under
she struggled for air.
Sinking, the child
who had fire for hair.

Redemption then granted,
her sins pronounced clean,
by the men who condemned her,
to death, at sixteen.


By Christy Zutautas


The Blaze

Set fire to my pen,
ignite my words
until they’re seared
into your memory.
When emotions smolder
and paper turns to ash,
sift remnants for lyrics,
pull verse from remains,
until inspiration sparks
and my pen is lit again.

By Christy Zutautas

Previously published in
Winterblue Thunder Magazine


The Weight Of The World

If I sink, deep enough
into, the lining of this couch,
meshed with foam and wood,
I too will become soft.

By Christy Zutautas


Little One

Your kisses soft
like angels whispers,
melt into my cheeks,
giving me a saintly glow.

By Christy Zutautas

Previously published in
Wynterblue Thunder Magazine


The Snow Angel

Downy flakes fall swiftly past
the glow of the streetlight.
A sprinkle of white flurries
cast against the dark of night.
The snow crisp, the stars bright.
I spread my arms and I take flight.
Wings fluttering as I fly,
up into the evening sky.

By Christy Zutautas


The Spark Of Adoration

Her red hair burns
like the rays of the sun.
I see her, and I’m lit.

By Christy Zutautas

Previously published
by WTF Magazine


Her Room

Her dust is nestled
between the sheets;
where she used to read
herself asleep.
Now I lie with her
and her books,
grieving the scent
of her pillow.

By Christy Zutautas

Previously published
The Cynic Online


The Rising Tide

Words swim
inside my head,
as I drift into
the lyrical sea.
Emotion flows
in rhythmic waves.
Diluted thoughts
flood the page.
Paper drenched
in melodic verse;
passion surges
and I’m submersed.
Drowning in
inspiration, as ink
drips from my pen.

By Christy Zutautas


The Legend Of The Jack O’Lantern

I once knew a witch who stood by the road.
Selling fine pumpkins, many she sold.

Another witch, a witch that I knew,
stood by the road but sold very few.
For hers were all rotten with holes in them too.

One fall day those witches met.
Now that’s a day I’ll never forget.
Witches scuffling way up in the air,
pumpkins flying everywhere.

In the end they were tired and bruised,
surrounded by pumpkins no one could use.
They had no other choice but to make amends,
some even say those two became friends.

They put their witch heads together
and gave it some thought,
then carved faces in pumpkins, some scary, some not.
After working all night to hollow them out,
they learned what teamwork is all about.

They sold them as lanterns on the side of the road,
and to their amazement, every pumpkin was sold.
Today those jack o’ lanterns are still burning bright,
guiding our way each Halloween night.

By Christy Zutautas

Previously Published in
Tickled by Thunder Fiction Magazine


The Local Vagabond

I’ve seen you around, russet eyes.
A cross between a bedraggled
stuffed toy and disease infested rat.
Nobody gives you a thought.
You roam, pillage, tunnel through
garbage. An antisocial vagrant.
Some hideous beast. Sometimes
violent, always grotesque. Who
can blame you? I come home to
find you eating a donut, your
winter coat puffed, orange plumage.
You run into the wall, clearly insane.
I leave a treat, wait curiously by the
window. Gorging, face bottom of
the can, you sense me, stop eating,
and stare into my eyes. I imagine
you’re asking for help. Only one
phone call away from permanent
sedation. I can’t take your life. I
can’t save you. A huggable sort of
parasite in the shape of an alley cat.

By Christy Zutautas


Rain

I am the rain
gently patting
the rooftop.

The drop
sliding down
your window.

I glide
past the glow
of your lamp,

Clinging
to the warmth
of your fingertips,
as they press
against the glass.

Losing grip,
I slip away.

By Christy Zutautas

Previously Published
In Wynterblue Thunder Magazine


High School

Wide corridors
smelling of disinfectant
and bagged lunches;
turns my stomach
And I fit like a square
peg jammed in
a circular hole.
Tough as nails,
soft on the inside,
Sinking into floors
As hard as concrete
I walk head up,
heart down, finding
absolution in the face
of a clock.

By Christy Zutautas


Coming of Age

Twenty one and I bring her home,
tightly swaddled, the butterfly bonnet
covering a patch of orange hair.
The two of us alone in the tiny
apartment. We spend hours staring
into each others eyes.

Who would ever think
it could be this hard?

And I stare,
and I stare,
and I stare.

My friends want to go out,
drink, get drunk, and drink
again. They don’t understand
her like I do. How could they?
They waft in and out like the
tide, they drift. I don’t miss them.

And I stare,
and I stare,
and I stare.

I became a mother, selfless, sacred,
and scared. Twelve years later, the
apartment, the bonnet, the isolation,
an agonizing and beautiful recollection.
Her hair as bright as the afternoon sun,
a fire blazing in her cerulean eyes.

Who would ever think
it could be this hard?

And I stare,
and I stare,
and I stare,

into the eyes
of an angel.

By Christy Zutautas