Biography of michele kostelnik
In junior high I started writing short stories. Soon I abandoned it all for fun and fast thrills. We were a group of rebels. It all changed in high school and business school. Poetry, books, paintings, and just the love of any type of art took over. How I miss those days. I have some poems published with poetry.com and others but have not gotten a book of my own yet. Bohemians, I mean real ones, are hard to find these days. I love Dylan, Baez, and most folk singers. One thing I would have loved to do was stay for a month at the Chelsea Hotel in New York. Loneliness comes when old friends drift apart. Lots of hard knocks in life come but people like me never really change. I do like Dorothy Parker somewhat. Regardless of any relationship we just keep on writing and reading.
michele kostelnik's Works:
Poems with International Poetry, Nobel House U.K., American Poets and others but never my own book yet.
Sometimes I wonder about letting people use your poems in their books.
michele kostelnik Poems
How best should I remember you? I think of how fast lives pass... No choice but to weep, soon or last, be lost or caught-
It is sad to see a child's eyes in a morning light crying out but no bread in sight Possessions are few and time is brief The parents-beyond reason wait with grief
All pits of life have gone by. Your soul is the only thing that will not die. Beneath ground are these black caves
I've watched you from a distance. There's a child I can see in back of your eyes.
A Nut Out Of Her Shell
It felt so warm at the top of the tree- until a hard wind blew the branch off of me.
the strangeness of others even your sisters and brothers is a responsibility to overcome-
Souls Of Old
The burial ground came out of the past. A spinster a blacksmith and courtesan all seemed downcast. Time had stood still with their names
It was a small New England town. Tiny streets summer homes, and soft sounds of waves whispered to me. From my bed room window I could
Never a creature or bird did perch upon the tower of that big church. As I gaze from my bedroom window, upon a hill,
where has my love gone? the absurd warmth leaves me. where is the longing passion?
Where have those real people gone, you know, the ones who were bohemian born. Put that in your pipe and smoke it
Is like a caged bird- Be it canary, parakeet, parrot- Freedom being the open door to the cage-
There will be no second appearance for mankind. Is it because we've been so blind? The beauty of a lake with sun upon the snow
Your ways, sometimes unkind, always loved wildly. Spontaneously, as you did everything, you loved me. A flame inside you burned and we were driven to it. I was happy for the wild passion that I needed and
he walked boldly across that big floor
then took my hand saying-lets explore
we were face to face defiantly so
his arms came around me as we danced so slow
posing no difficulty we glided with ease