The Shine Journal - The Light Left Behind

Journeys Through Grief and Beyond

Three from Kristina Jensen




Holding Hands   


While we're sitting here waiting,

let's hold hands.


I feel yours with contentment.

I remember us smelling

fragrant roses,

freshly mown

hay in our hair.


I remember slipping our palms

Into a cool stream at dawn, under

an avenue of punga fronds

while korimako sings above our heads.


I’m going to use my hands to plant you,

as tenderly as you did me, into this

native soil because it is your turn

to be reminded that you are

where you need to be.


So I hold you hand.

Your hand, the one that taught

my hand dirt, seeds and seasons.

Our hands, waiting together.


Packing Treasures


One by one;





all pretty pieces

collected by you.


I hold

each one,

wrapping to


as my father

moves on.


But you

I could

not touch,

not like this,

and you were

not pretty

at the end

into the last box.


Listen To Me


On my right

I have the right to trmain silent.

Through rage I will, but not at you

or to you since you can't hear me.

especially through tears

and they always come,

as hard as I try to remain upright,

water tight, salt seeps through

and betrays my wound.


On my left, I am left out.

You wanted a boy didn't you?

If I didn't look like you

(they all say so, so like your mother),

I would swear I was swapped.

My real mother kisses me,

calls me her angel. Come on, let me

be your angel, lay your head

on my shoulder, accepting.


From somewhere in the centre,

I will make a bridge from earth to air,

for your soul to cross as you die

and die you will. You cannot fight it.

I will do my best to bring the sacred

green-blue wild quiet of my sailing life

into yout fenced-in stiff upper lip pain place.


For I am taught

by freshly dewed leaves 

spinning in a carressing breeze

that nothing holds on.

Nature will claim us,

release you from

having to be




and even you, my mother,

will have to surrender.




Kristina Jensen is a 'poet afloat', freelance writer and musician living a life of voluntary simplicity on a boat in the Marlborough Sounds of New Zealand with her artist husband and home-schooled son. Wild food foraging, sailing and watching the sun rise are her favourite past-times and she looks forward with interest to the ‘drying up’ of oil and subsequent economic and social mayhem that will follow in the hope that people will be more inclined to read poetry and relax. Her poetry has been published in Bravado, Valley Micropress, Eclecticism, REM, Shotglass, Cyclamens & Swords, Granny Smith, Takahe, A Fine Line and by Forward Poetry..

Contact Editor: Pamela Tyree Griffin

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