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With Hearts Divided
by Donna Swanson

The story of a survivor, her family, and her journey to wholeness...  
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Recent poems by INNOCENT AGBO
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Kristine, you’re the reason I

sit up late, with my eye,

glued to this screen


Kristine, I knew you as “Ara”,

but the cast has taught me,

to call you Kristine


Kristine, I know you may never

 See, the poor passion and pains

that I now convert to ink

 and pour, on this white island


 Yet, Kristine, this titanic dream of mine

began, just the first time

I saw you behind this screen


Kristine, I am only a poor poet,

pouring deep passions on the stanzas

of this song;

My  only laurels are the words on my

tongue and the pen in my palm


Kristine, a single glance

on the screen, has made me your captive and

you, my Captor, and now I

dwell, within the walls of your heart


Kristine, your country

must be far from my village

I see that from your fair skin, blue eyes

and your pristine pair of crescent lips


For this reason, Kristine, I

may never meet you before my dusk.


But, Kristine, I sit up late

every night, and pray the retiring clouds

to carry my tears to your door


Kristine, your name is

written in my tears;

the tears of my slippery dreams


Your name, Kristine,

is the crimson mist, splashed,

on the petals, of this hibiscus in my heart



Kristine, we may never meet

face to face, flesh and blood, and who knows,

if you’ll ever hear this song?

Yet, I will sing and sing and sing and sing


Kristine, your love, has

stuck in my throat like a fishbone,

Refusing either to go down or come out


Tell me, Kristine, can

the racing wheels of time; the flying

wings of age and the yawning palms of

distance, ever let you see or hear this song?


Kristine, I came out last night, and

stood long, listening to silence, and

 gazing into the full moon,

hoping and praying that you did the same


But you did not, Kristine,

for the moon would have reflected your

face, and what a beautiful moon

we would have had?


If only I could sail with the winds,

I would come for you, Kristine

and there would I live and grey and rust


But, Kristine,

I have no wings,

and my feet are manacled, to the

Trunk of the palm in the homestead


How can I sing, my queen of the screen,

Kristine, how can I sing for you

with the dust in my throat?


Kristine, as kids we were taught; that

“we see in the dream, what we face at dawn”

But I have dreamt and dreamt and dreamt and dreamt


Yet, my dreams are slippery, Kristine,

ever fleeing but never living, like

morning dews at the wake of the sun


Kristine, fear grips my throat

as I gaze upon my ghost,

approaching from afar


Fair Kristine, can your eyes,

which stare from this screen,

see the pains, of a hammered  heart?


Kristine, can they pierce this lame chest,

and feel, the throb of this love, that burns

under my shirt, beneath my breast,

in the womb of my chest.


Dearest Kristine, I have become your prince,

as well as your prisoner,

As long as you live, then,

I deserve life.



















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Reviewed by Amor Sabor
Beautiful stanzas each and every one and the romance pours like wine from a crystalline jar into the heart of a true poet. Well done with this masterpiece of writing.
Reviewed by Edward Phillips
I could not write like this if I tried for
a thousand years. What talent!
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Greta, Across The Prairie by Elizabeth Dunaj

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