If you felt in your beautiful bones
Your sister’s despair
How it’s crushed her own bones
Would you run to her, or from her?
Would you dress up pretty
Invite her out to play
To only creep slyly at night
Or instead to dance boldly at rush hour?
Tag Archives: Poetry
My Carolina Days
Joy was my best friend, ever
A passionate Southern accent
Kind, though
Clear blue eyes and a reliable car
“Clutch,”
It’s a compliment
The only one who came through
Who showed up
I hope her boyfriend made things right
There was nothing he was doing
More important than Joy
Joy told me the best joke
An immature, juvenile joke
The kind you still giggle about at 50
Maybe less a joke than advice
“Shave your butt and walk backwards”
It’s a compliment
That you made someone laugh
Especially at them-self
There’s not enough of us doing that
These days
I want to laugh with Joy again
Be the Giant
Will you mind, God
If I slam the door
On the life before
Will your ears think me discourteous
Given the paths you let me trod?
I’ve such grasping hands
Wrapped ’round the doorknob
Brass-cold but so familiar
I must let it patina, I know
And find my way to other lands
Each Of These
From the dusty nearby corner
An isosceles scrap-wood of a thing
Unintentional it seems
Crammed in its acute condition
‘neath the uneven crack
The lumbering, commercial door
Drafty on cold days
Chipped-paint, metallic creak reminding
Facilitating
Nothing more than standard deliveries
9-5, Monday through Friday
Plus angry employees
No special deliveries here
Only sweat and swear-word tears
I am
Of the field: A haiku
“I Love You,” conceived
In the approaching twilight
Of the longest day
pathic: A Haiku
Your mind’s back corner
I know I’ll find myself there
Or else I’ll not seek
Right-angle
So shallow sun
You’re on your way, I see
I, unwittingly lingering at the South end of the street,
Noticed you
And remembered, too
The promise of That December day
Also on its way
Whence I became oh-so-able to endure your tallest morning shadows
The Truth Is
Yesterday felt like that strange, suburban taupe that fleeing people paint their houses.
As if to differentiate they made it out from the color, as if that is the goal.
The brass-ring door knocker the badge displayed, front and luke-warm center.
So as to say only some are welcome to come a-knocking.
Dare to spend the sweat to tear down the white-washed fences, to bring in the yellow.
To draw the eye from the curb to the threshold, to inside where the warmth is golden-brown.
When should we gather, finally gather, at a light-lit table and see the truth is black and white?
Today feels like that.
Nervous Tics
I’d never ask you to be invisible with me.
The impossibility of it.
Though, I sometimes summon you silently, then think better of speaking aloud.
But we both hear me, don’t we?
We both know it ends there.
For your magic is more.
Different than my magic is.
You make the good appear.
I make the bad go away.
We Keep Hope
Winter and alone
Unbearable uncertainty
God what will you do
When wind forces its way to the door
Carrying icy-cold information
Crystalizing shut
The truth after all
There’s no school today
Hooray
LisaRosier.com 