Author Archives: Lisa Rosier
FlowersAnd All The People Said
Let the sounds in — all of them!
Have them ramble around, bouncing off the humidity-coated walls
See which ones bust through stop signs and find rhythm with bird songs
Find which ones look like quiet conviction and calls to action
Then mull about together, dialogue, and make sense of this world with them
Create order from disorder and call it good again
At the end of the day, we must
For the Birds: A Haiku
We sit, as a cat
In this window, affected
Uncontrollably
Traction
For me
Whether it be storied and short
Or miles long
Sweet sweat
At twilight time
When the day’s taken all it can
Yet, I’ve much, much more to give
To me
Blossom: A Haiku
I’ll arrive on rain
That I’ll sooner quench your pain
As a love letter
Into Saturday Night
I awakened him with a soft exhale
One that was on purpose
Long
The timing of which had nothing to do with anything
Except fate and skin and the sixth-sense that is subconsciousness
And though this was his Sunday
That blessed day of rest
Seemed unnecessary, he said
As we sank back
Into Saturday night
Feverish
Poetry Not Worth Your Time
Confounded by this imagery
Exponentially excellent
Poignant to the third power
Sunny, yellow, song-filled years
Their brilliance blinded you
Splashed across the cover
Much, much more than metaphors
Words you no had time for
This that you never wanted
And couldn’t be bothered to invest in
Yet might’ve someday deserved
Will always want you
To read with
To rhyme with
Dog-eared, these glorious pages
This book of Days
Your Balls
It has been raining irreverently for 36 hours and it has no plans to end soon
It’ll be morning again before it thinks to knock it off but at least during this time realization poured too from the sky unto me long enough to stop or at least slow down my use of expletives
For how long we’ll see
I stand drenched in the new-found understanding that you never had the balls to tell me that I didn’t understand you yet you could tell me that she understands you and this confuses me
Let’s not talk about that I haven’t been able to breathe since August and I have fallen in love with the thought of bridges with knives with scrubbing my kitchen floor using my tears with metaphors to protect me and others from the truth that I don’t see the fucking point anymore
Whoops
Changing the subject clearly she’s empowered you
A thought that makes me happy for you
And for your new-found balls
I left my lover girl, that busty girl, in Some Grand Place
I am amazing