Riverwind - General

Inspiration

I do not need a large oak desk,
a custom-built computer
or a study loft with a skylight.

All I require is a laptop, a coffee maker,

and a window to watch the seasons change.

Yes, a view of the ocean would be nice,
a little harbor with a lighthouse

and a sprinkling of sailboats.

It might inspire a novel of romance
on the high seas. “I Once Loved a Captain”
would make an excellent title.

But my current view of the river
and skyline of trees suits me,
considering I only write poems
about weather moods, mostly.

And now I feel suddenly inspired
as an evening rain taps lightheartedly
on my window pane,

beckoning me to turn off the laptop,

take the umbrella for a brisk walk,

or stay cozy by the window

with a cup of milky cappuccino.

I love the literary life.

By Lisa Lindsey

Cincinnati to Disney World

I want to fall in love with a man

who loves my writing more than I do,

who can find something useful to do
while I spend endless hours
pounding Pulitzers on a laptop,

a man who tolerates my multiple cats
and fear of flying, who doesn't rip up
my train ticket to Disney World,

a summa cum laude
from the School of Gourmet Chefs,
who thinks my big feet are sexy,

who won't insist on teaching me
how to drive, nor would he criticize
my passenger-seat instructions.

I want to fall in love with a man
who is totally unlike the last man
I fell in love with,
and the man before that,

who tolerates my multiple cats
and my tendency to repeat myself,

Girl in a Restaurant

As he watched her
she did not look up from her magazine,

and the day before when he watched
she did not take her eyes off
her romance novel,

for she was blind to real romance,
where young men groom their hair
in restaurant window reflections,

she was blind to the romance
of an adoring stare
over the clatter of food trays
and lunch conversations.

So she continued to ignore him,
securing her heart behind menu and book
without a glance of encouragement.
She spared not one tender look.

This could have been the start
of a beautiful friendship,
but she felt safer befriending Harlequin,

afraid of what her clumsy smile
might reveal to him.

By Lisa Lindsey

Lunchtime in Garfield Park

Today as a warm intermittent breeze

ruffled through the city, I found a bench

for me, my book and my tuna bagel

in the center of Garfield Park,

where the statue of President Garfield

looked down from his high granite

pedestal with a lofty expression,

indifferent to the lunch crowd

who came out to see him, unbothered

by the pigeon perched on his head,

or the many that fluttered loose

from his presence to wobble and bob

among the bench sitters,

who only ask for 30 minutes of peace

while eating their sandwiches

and reading their books.

I tossed a few golden crumbs

to a mob of gray feathers

cooing and rubbing against my ankles. . .

Tomorrow I vote to eat lunch at my desk.

By Lisa Lindsey

The Hat Lady

By the bus stop

was the bench

and on the bench

the Hat Lady,

sculptured against

the steel gray day,

a Rodinesque Thinker

with her face fixed

on the bobbing pigeons,

but for the one fondling

the feather on her head.

By Lisa Lindsey

They who live in my books

They who live in my books
never age or tire of their adventures.
Just turn the page. . .

Huckleberry is as happily insubordinate
as he was in the beginning,
still unwashed in fluttering rags,
ready to outwit another pirate
in his endless search for hidden treasure.

High up there on the topmost shelf
Captain Ahab stands vigilant at his prow,
bearded and fiercely browed,
his thirst for blood never satiated,
while Scrooge keeps trying to convince me
that he really hates Christmas.

Now and then Scarlett O'Hara peeks out

between two volumes by Dumas,
her cheeks rosy as ever,
her lips carved in a smug smile
that promises a sequel.

By Lisa Lindsey

De-jeweled

No raindrops of amethyst
nestle in her curls,
her teeth are not pearls,
no diamonds like timid stars
twinkle in eyes of sapphire,

and if you look closely you'll see
that her lips pale to rubies.
In fact, they're not even red.

I don't mind that you're with her,
I am over that --- but I still wonder
why you never compared MY
facial parts to precious stones,

why the only diamond on me
was the hard one I twisted
from my finger and flushed
down the commode. . .

Oh, not all was lost.
I kept my emerald green eyes
brightened with tears,

and your memory remains
as untarnished as the gold
in my dental fillings but let it
be known, for the record,

I was always partial to the garnet.
It's my birthstone and rarely
does it show up in bad love poems.

By Lisa Lindsey

On the Inside

I may be over fifty,

buttoned up and granny gray

on the outside. . .

but on the inside

I am driving

a cherry red convertible

with the top down

while the wind blows

through my very long

and very brown hair.

By Lisa Lindsey

Meanwhile, at the Piano Bar

Nighttime in the city.
It's raining neon pretty
as the lipstick on my cocktail glass.

I am the solo survivor
of the nine-to-fivers
whose blur of business suits
have long dissolved
into his-and-her bathrobes
headed for their double beds
in houses with two-car garages.

But there is romance
in the jazz singer's smoky voice
and in the bluesy baby grand,
in the saxophone man who
blows my favorite song like a kiss
across the room.

By Lisa Lindsey

Play it again, Valerie

She plays Gershwin

on a badly tuned piano

but who’s listening?

Certainly not the boy

sitting beside her – aware

of only her fresh washed hair,

still damp, a hint of rosewater,

painfully conscious

of the bouquet of freckles

on the slope of her delicate shoulder.

Though he never acquired

a taste for music, after all these years

he still shows up at her door

with a bottle of rosewater,

a bundle of roses and groceries

and -- for old times’ sake --

for a duet in Chopsticks.

By Lisa Lindsey

Portrait of Elsa Hall

Her sable hair

in gentle brushstrokes

frames an angel's countenance.

Primary colors of yellow

and gold envelop her.

She is another mystery

in oil and canvas,

inviting the viewer to walk

through the midnight in her eyes,

to ponder her wisp of a smile,

and the thoughts

she must have entertained

as she sat in stillness for the master,

shifting with fugitive sunlight,

anticipating the last agile flick of the wrist.

Her smile surely widened

when she saw the finishing touches.

A Mona Lisa in her own mind.

By Lisa Lindsey

He Tipped His Hat

He tipped his hat, Methuselah,

as he passed me on the street today.

His toddling steps, escorted by the tap

of a cane came to a halt, unable to employ

walking and hat tipping in chorus.

I acknowledged him with a nod, kept going,

faintly amused that his old heart clung

to such courtesies long outdated,

and I was three quick strides beyond him

when I turned around and saw him

still clutching the hat’s brim with gnarled

and trembling fingers, still struggling

through the lifting process,

and a warmth rushed over my being.

I felt suddenly a lady, suddenly lovely,

suddenly someone worthy of the energy.

So I walked back and stood my presence

in his eyesight until he had completed

the hat’s full ascent and descent – until

a gentleman’s smile slowly emerged.

By Lisa Lindsey

Carousel of Clouds

I promised myself I would stop writing

poems about the shapes of clouds –

how the imagination, or the lack of it,

can whip them into a carousel

of all creatures fluffy and white,

like the little stray lamb floating by,

and the French poodle chasing the swan.

I don’t want to bore you with visions

of polar bears sliding into snow banks.

But I must break my promise and tell you

that today, while eating lunch in the park,

I saw the tall powdered wig of Marie Antoinette

appear over a billboard advertisement

for some catering company, and now

I am wondering if you are even listening,

and why I bother to mention that the poor dear

lost her head to one of the polar bear clouds

who mistook her for a wedding cake –

who must have worked up a vicious appetite

After all that frolicking in the snow.

By Lisa Lindsey

Loose Threads

We couldn’t wait
for crisp blue denim
to wash white

and fold like liquid

over thighs and knees.

Loose threads followed,

pulling to the rhythm

of an energetic courtship

as the will power

to keep clothes
in one piece

snagged.

You still do it to me
after all these years,
in jeans of faded blue
or shreds of flannel.

The threads of propriety
keep unraveling,

spinning to the wheel
of your ever nimble fingers.

By Lisa Lindsey

My Sexy Poem

This is my sexy poem,
the one where I grab your attention
by using the sex-word in the title
and then hoodwink you into reading
when all I really want to tell you
is that tonight in the woods
a few whippoorwills were calling,

and that I saw a star falling,
and that at one point the moon’s
halo appeared over a moving cloud,
and that it was beautiful and mystical

and I'm sorry for misleading you,
but if it’s any consolation I did consider
taking off my clothes and doing a ritual
moon dance sky-clad.

By Lisa Lindsey

Hands

My hands have long fingers,

crescent moon nails yellowing with age,

knuckles ringed like tree trunks.

Turn them over and note the palms smooth

from moisturizer and lack of labor.

They never did get dirty enough.

Greenless thumbs kept them far from gardens.

They have never knitted a sweater,

painted a picture or created a soufflé.

These hands have never pulled soldiers

from trenches or fetuses to the light of day.

They have never worn a wedding ring,

but on occasion have joined larger counterparts,

fingers laced in dances and sunset walks.

When I was a kid they rocked the cat

in the cradle and tiptoed across a piano.

Today they tickled a baby’s chin,

wrote this poem and they prayed ---

they remembered how to pray!

Sometimes I hold them up to the sky

and they look mystical and holy.

Almost useful.

Almost harmless.

By Lisa Lindsey

If I can’t be a Catholic…

Let me be a Quaker,
warmed in the real presence
of my own inner light.

Let me walk cheerfully in
the world, helping my neighbors
of all creeds and colors.

Let my sons passively resist all wars
and live to be old men with
white hair and soft hats.

Let me sit in a plain room
in a plain dress and be quiet.
Sing the silence.

By Lisa Lindsey

Boys from Mars

I don't think they'd abduct us.
What would they learn?

We like diamonds,

chocolate, the ballet,

and multiple lipstick shades.

What more is there to know?

That when Earthman loosens

his gaze and his grip

we sink into bad love poetry?

What pearl would they uncover?

We take up knitting

until football season is over?

I don't think they'd abduct us,

but I bet they'd expect us

to make them a sandwich.

Boys. . .

By Lisa Lindsey

Iridescent

He said he dreamed

we were Aquarians,
carefree on a London stage,
sparkling, iridescent,

holding hands with all manner
of hairy people, our nakedness
exposed in an eddy of psychedelic lights.

But in his eyes I saw the fire
of a typical Scorpio,
and my saturnine reflection
sparkling, iridescent.

By Lisa Lindsey

As Only a Mother Could

When I looked into your tiny moon face
for the very first time, I knew this moment
was as fleeting as a newborn baby's dream,

that never again would your breath
be this soft or your soul so unblemished,
that never could I protect you from
all the monsters in the offing...

the fallen bicycle and the chipped tooth...
the bully on the playground and the tears...
the unrequited valentines...the broken heart...
the job promotions that never came
and the numerous projects that failed...

and would you ever know the rapture
and the terror of gazing down at
the perfect little face of a child of your own?

And then I gathered your perfect little self
into my breast and held you close ---
held you as only a mother could.

By Lisa Lindsey

Oh, Waitress?

Of all the restaurants in Charleston

you chose the one with the view of the bay,

the one that served the best crab legs
in the world and the fluffiest key lime pie
that ever melted into our mouths,

that employed the friendliest waitress
east of the Mississippi.............the one
with the very low cut pink blouse
and peaches-and-cream accent,

who couldn't turn her eyes
(which you described as angelfish blue)
from the bulge in your pants pocket...

I'm referring to your wallet, where the cash
kept flowing like the Cooper River,
because we both know she assumed
you'd be leaving the tip.

Of all the restaurants in Charleston

you chose the one where etiquette
did not require me to not make a scene,

and after she flew to the restroom
to wash the key lime pie out of her hair
and the butter sauce off her cleavage,
it was I who went home with you and

guess who didn't get her twenty dollar tip?

It could have been worse...
I could have stabbed her in the eye
(which I described as shark blue)
with the nearest crab fork.

By Lisa Lindsey

She learned about hands then

She scooped them up in bare palms,

felt tiny faint flutters, featherless, weightless.

She pulled grass, sliced thumb

in the process, scratched

her knuckles braiding a nest,

tunneled her nails through mud,

cringed as she slipped greasy worms

into gaping mouths,

moved her fingertips

over fuzzy wings and laughed,

cried when wings trembled full feathered

and she had to let fledglings fly.

She learned about hands then,

about the grace and the wounds,

how to be gentle, when to let go.

Now the birdcage sits empty

beneath the trees full of song,

this love no longer hers for the touching,

but for the listening…

She learned about ears then.

By Lisa Lindsey

You Who Never Arrived

I can hear you play the piano
in my classical FM radio station,
and I can imagine your eyes
gazing up at the same summer stars.

I picture you in the white thunderbird
that passes my house every morning,
where I watch through parted

curtains and coffee clouds.

You are there on that afternoon street
that I stroll along – with its bakery

and fruit market and Chinese restaurant.

Yours is the face in Hunan's window,
the man at the table studying the rose
in the vase - while the woman across from you
hides her indifference behind a menu.

By Lisa Lindsey

Ohio and this here nose

Somebody once told me that Paris, France

smelled like chestnut trees. . .

But these two nostrils know for sure

that Ohio smells like sweet, fresh dairy milk,

because that was my grandmother’s perfume,

until a trip to the bakery powdered her

in crumb cake and cinnamon.

Christmastime offers a tangled bouquet

of snow and pine needles and tangerines,

while summer camping by the river bank

reeks of wet fish and burning kerosene.

Most intoxicating on my list of Ohio fragrances

is Skyline’s secret recipe chili, sprinkled

with diced onions, topped with a long

grainy belch from the Hudepohl Brewery. . .

Of course, I wouldn’t mind sniffing a chestnut tree

in Paris, France --- just to prove to Ohio

and this here nose that the story is trustworthy.

By Lisa Lindsey

Ragged Cinderella

I have made peace

with my ragged Cinderella,

grateful for my step-sisters'

hand-me-downs.

I have grown fond

of the ashes in the hearth,

and the pumpkin and white mice

in their ordinariness.

No belle of the ball am I,

but I dance with a new confidence,

with or without glass slippers,

with or without a prince,

and I don't need a helicopter

fairy godmother

to throw cautionary advice

at the end of the day.

Who wants to be home by

midnight anyway?

By Lisa Lindsey

Maybe I Love You, Woody Allen

Maybe I love you because I, too,

imagine life as a street in Manhattan

with an ever-present camera,
a split screen so I could view every angle,
and voice-over commentaries
accompanied by an all-Gershwin score.

Maybe I love you because I know

the perfect date would occur in a diner

sharing a kosher deli sandwich,

discussing jazz, death and socialism,

the advantages of living in New York,

the ever-expanding universe and sex life of a housefly.

Maybe I love you because I’m another Annie Hall
in baggy chino slacks and oversized shirts,
tired of chasing runaway leading-men types.

Maybe I love you because I’m as insecure,

flighty, and neurotic as you and don’t you dare

turn me into a late-blooming Pygmalion

who is mature, focused, thoughtful,
and no longer self-obsessed.

Okay, Mr. Allen, I'm ready for my close up now.

By Lisa Lindsey

Answering Barbara Walters

If I could be a tree I might be an oak

or a sugar maple. Every autumn

I'd shake my fiery hair until it fell

at my feet in burning clumps.
A bald madwoman.

But it might be fun to be a pine tree
flaunting my green sleeves all year long,
enshrined in spring, smelling of Christmas,
my attitude growing very tall.

I could definitely see me as a silver poplar
trim and twinkly in the sun, scattering

my starry leaves to the nimble-fingered breezes,

or maybe I'd make a pretty willow
lazing by the lakeside;
let my limbs cascade over tangled lovers,
picnic baskets, beer coolers
and other icons of summer.

After I died I would not end up
in the old farmer's fireplace.
Are you kindling me?

I hereby bequeath my wood shavings
for packing breakable, beautiful objects
like a porcelain vase or a lamp from Tiffany.
Till then, keep your hands off my apples.

By Lisa Lindsey

Leaving in the Rain

I'm leaving in the rain
with clouds in my eyes
waiting for a runaway train

not a soul at the station
but me, my umbrella
and my suitcase of memories

containing one pair of boots
my favorite jeans
and a few faded photographs

and a silver locket once given to me
still beautiful, even with scratches

and an old love letter on yellowing paper
torn apart, and taped back together

and a few other things
I could never part with
but packed too tightly to remember

and the only bathing suit
I've ever owned
to wear when I get to the sea

I'm leaving in the rain
with clouds in my eyes
waiting for a runaway train

By Lisa Lindsey

Night Train

I love living near the railroad.

At night I can lie in bed and hear

the train whistle blow.

Its mournful cry sails through

my walls with its memory

of myrtles and silver beaches,

Virginia moon and Carolina breezes.

Mostly it reminds me of places

I have yet to see – and will see

when I can afford the luxury,

when the conductor calls all aboard

and the rhythm of the rails

melds again with my soul,

when the rising heat of desert plains

and the cool mountain air

and Pacific blue waves

blow as near as the night train’s

lullaby, and the softness

of pillows and prayers.

By Lisa Lindsey

Charleston Twilight

Twilight and Meeting Street.

Little golden baskets of sweetgrass.

Gullah women, weary-eyed under

beautiful headdress, collect their wares

along a ribbon of cobblestone.

Twilight and Market Street.

Pastries, peanut brittle and coffee.

Last chance bargaining. Dessert

and evening paper under a palm tree.

Twilight and East Bay Street.

Rainbow row houses of dusty hues.

Disabled artillery line the seawall

aimed at passive waters, pearl blue.

Twilight tours, tired feet, smiles.

Gaslight and ghost walks, smiles.

Carriage ride. Mossy lanes. Home.

The creak and clang of a wrought iron gate.

By Lisa Lindsey

San Augustine

It is good in San Augustíne,
exploring old Spanish missions,
discovering fountains of youth.

It is good in late September
when the sun is mellifluous

with sea blue breezes

and white arabesque sails.

If you are a woman
it is good to wear a gauze skirt,
a soft blouse and floppy hat,

compatible with sipping

afternoon tea on the veranda
of the Orange Street Inn.

It is good to bring flat comfortable shoes
for miles of beachy strolls
and endless shopping sprees

and if you are a man
it is good to bring your camera,
lots of spending money,
and me.

By Lisa Lindsey

Maid across the Orchard

The table is cleared

but for a basketful

of sun-ripened apples

freshly stolen from his orchard,

good for pie-baking,

a backdoor invitation

for dessert and coffee,

conversation a la mode,

leading to a bistro

and menus of innuendo,

Brazilian music floating

on minestrone air,

leading to a disco,

delighting in the manly scent

on his collar, feeling elegant

in his green thumbs...

Oh-oh. Here he comes,

huffing across the orchard,

wondering where all his apples went.

Better slip out of the apron.

Fluff up the hair a bit!

By Lisa Lindsey

Credo

I believe in angels,
not all the time, but sometimes,
like when I walk in the rain
and barely get wet,
or get a compliment from someone
when I most need it.

I believe in God, too,
not all the time, but sometimes.
I have heard him in the trees.
I have smelled him in the sea.
and sometimes, for no reason,
I have felt praise welling inside of me.

I believe in love,
not all the time, but sometimes.
Maybe love is not meant
to outlast the sun.
Maybe love is like a shooting star,
short-lived, but no less beautiful.

And I believe in myself,
not all the time, but sometimes.
It's just that sometimes
I have nothing believable to say.
Sometimes I guess we all feel that way.

By Lisa Lindsey

Blue Things

Thank God for blue things

for today's seamless summer sky
for tomorrow's parade of rain clouds

for robin eggs nesting under the eaves
the powder soft feathers of parakeets

Kentucky grass, rows of cornflowers
forty shades of denim trousers

for baby boy blankets, David's eyes
the Smurfs, the Ulysses butterfly

the bar of soap scented in lavender

five o'clock twilights tucked in December

for sapphire waves on a moonswept sea

the shimmer I feel when Billie Holiday sings

Thank God for blue things.

By Lisa Lindsey

A River Runs on Laughter

A river runs on sorrow...

I read it once, a line in a poem.

But the river runs on me,

brown as the mud-caked flower

dozing on sunned waters,

wild as the rushes in springtime’s

thaw, mysterious as winter’s

shawl of mist rising over it,

tall as the fish-tale whistled

through foggy breath

and rural Kentucky twangs,

slippery as the fish that got away

while the waves slap gentle

against your Porta-bote.

Can you hear me laughing?

By Lisa Lindsey

Evensong

Evening arrives

on a back porch breeze

stirring windchimes

into vesper bells.

The lullaby of the whippoorwill

meets the laud of an owl

and the swelling litany of crickets.

Children chant

“ghost in the graveyard”

while my own child voice

fades into obscurity.

It’s then the sadness hits me.

Another sunset slips like

the prayer beads through my fingers.

Another day gone with

no repeat performances,

no second chances.

I am left feeling motherless

until the moon, cradled

in spindly branches, greets me

with silence and sudden beatitude.

Behold, I make all music new.

By Lisa Lindsey

Saturdays with Emily

Yesterday the big yellow

school bus came

and took you and your

box of crayons away,

all except the blizzard blue

which colored my world.

But today is Saturday.

Tickle me pink

and I'll sit beside you

and watch you draw,

breathing life into your

magic mint mountains

and fuzzy-wuzzy lollipop trees,

Your canvases of simple fancy

will brighten my refrigerator door

for a few fine years.

By Lisa Lindsey

Animal Crackers in the Sky

It was the finger of God
that stirred the clouds today,
mixing and moving and sculpting them
into a menagerie of oddly creatures:

a bear with a king's crown,
a winged cat, a stallion with fish tail,
an elephant minus his trunk.
And I smiled and thought:

This time He builds an ark of silence,
pairing seahorses with flying tigers,
all floating before me
like an empyreal freak show,

all of it meaningless except to say
that the finger of the Creator was at play
again, chiseling animal crackers
out of clouds in a sky of blue soup
for the entertainment of whomever
might lift his eyes and look hard enough.

By Lisa Lindsey

His Sister

Now I know why I met
your sweet handsome brother

we loved madly and for a while
I thought he was "the one"

but in meeting him, I met you
~ His Sister ~

truly "the one" whose life was
destined to entwine with mine

through leafy autumn strolls
over butter rum candy

countless cups of cappuccino
and the best conversations
my heart ever knew.

Life can be surprisingly
simple sometimes.

By Lisa Lindsey

Silver

Silver is soft like stars on water,
like the sheen of a river's surface
under Kentucky moonlight,

as simple as flatware arranged
thoughtfully over a table for two,
smoke rings and quiet glances,

as delightful as dimes and quarters
saved for a rainy day show,
misty eyes and Greta Garbo,

comfortable as an old gray woman
wearing her favorite locket,
dulled by time, dulled by touches,
still beautiful, even with scratches.

By Lisa Lindsey

Morning Glow

Dawn arouses dreams

of fresh bread and the aroma

of flavored San Giorgio.

Bare feet tingle at the floor's

first sensation, linoleum

cool from the morning chill.

Stiff bones and sore joints

hang elegant in flannel,

no wrestling with hosiery or heels,

no alarm clock crowing the time,

no traffic reports barking from the TV room.

Sweet silence blends

with the gargle of a percolator
and you snoring from the bedroom,

with the soft spread of sunrise

and my afterglow.

It must be Saturday.

By Lisa Lindsey

On the Couch with Catholic Classics

I stretch out on the couch

with St. Francis de Sales
and his “Introduction to the Devout Life.”
His voice is soft and patient,
a pillow for my lofty education.

Thomas Merton's

“Seven Storey Mountain”
is about four stories too high,
more than my groggy spirit can climb,

and I get lost in St. Teresa's

“Interior Castles.” Too many rooms.

My mysticism is best suited

for interior condos.

It’s too early in the day

for John of the Cross
and his “Dark Night of the Soul”

and the “Confessions” of St. Augustine
keep sliding off my lap.

Time to curl up with a proverb

and take a nap.

By Lisa Lindsey

Smoke and Mirrors

It isn't the mirror that startles me
into near cardiac arrest.
I look at my reflection and see
a young Carly Simon looking back,

all those teeth, velvet complexion,
thick auburn mane and you're so vain,
you probably think this song is about you.

But it's the camera that chastens me.
All illusions of lingering beauty
fall faster than the Reds at the playoffs
when my image is burned in a photograph.

Who is that unblinking lump of gray?
The dentures look familiar, vaguely.
No way does that jamboree of wrinkles
sing my name. . . I'm so vain.

By Lisa Lindsey

Charm Girl Blues

It was my art that made you love me,

that's what you said anyway,

my poetry and creative energy,

the way my nose twitched when you kissed me.

My humor, too, set me apart from the rest,

that's what you said anyway,

my sense of play and slapstick silliness,

how my eyes misted up when we slow danced.

And lest we forget, my softness.

Oh, yes, the famed softness

that made me most irresistible of all.

I am the epitome of femininity.

At least that's what you always told me.

Well, here I am... singing solo in my coffee

with femininity dribbling down my chin.

Last time I looked I was still artistic,

and my nose still twitches even when

I'm not kissing,

In fact, I'm the safe old playful,

pie-in-the-face silly, soft me,

only now you are gone,

leaving me with all this damn charm,

and I just can't change for the life of me.

By Lisa Lindsey

When Her Blue Eyes Close

When her blue eyes close

and her smile finds a pillow

and her thoughts begin

to feather into dreams,

she will float long away

to a cloudless day

of blue skies, blue grass

and blue streams,

a reflection will bear

in the pools of her stare

someone there

with a bonny blue rose,

and a love that is clear

and as real and as near

as a dream

when her blue eyes close.

By Lisa Lindsey

Dear Legs,

You’ve been running
toward life’s finish line
since you first learned to walk.

At sixteen you wanted to go dancing.
Prom nights and silk stockings
whispered your name.

Now it’s time to slow down.
Be patient with a woman
who bears you on aged feet,

who understands your need
for mobility as you understand her aches.

Soon enough we'll be free
and, unencumbered by flesh

and mortality, we’ll dance on air together,
after all it’s our nature,

to kick a football, to climb a mountain,
to run through foggy-breathed mornings
where the road has no finish line
and the prize is the race.

By Lisa Lindsey

Franklin and Eleanor

She was not the woman he chose

to sit with in the soothing sunlight

at Warm Springs, massaging his legs,

spindly and pain wracked from polio.

He was not the man in whose presence

she chose to relax and be vulnerable,

to dare to fumble through secret dreams

of “ugly duckling” high society girls.

But she became the graceful wind

to his soaring albatross soul, wedded

to a cause higher than themselves,

higher than even the Roosevelt name.

Together they were the love story

of Franklin and Eleanor – a love that lifted

a nation, beat the Great Depression

and almost won the war.

By Lisa Lindsey

Moving Day

Good-bye, East Window,
I am going to miss you,
and your curtain of dawn
rising over the sky
as I yawn at my coffee
with the sleep still in my eye.

Good-bye, South Window,
I will surely miss you too,
for your hours of day shine
and warm benediction
over these rooms humming
with everyday living.

Good-bye, West Window,
I will miss our cozy
late-afternoon naps,
and the kiss of your tilted sun
scattered through the blinds,
raking brilliantly over my bed quilts.

Good-bye, North Window,
where threadbare limbs
of the old oak tree
knock eerily at the glass.

A Pale Horse.
Thundering hooves.
Twilight is passing.

By Lisa Lindsey

The Conversation

Strange hearing your voice again,

your Jersey accent leaden with depression.

I wanted to gather you in my arms,

felt small comfort running my fingertips along

the phone cord --- twisting you around my thumb.

After rehashing man's inhumanity and the horrors

of widowhood---after realizing we couldn't solve

the world's problems in a thirty minute conversation,

we flirted with laughter a la Barbara Walters:

If you could be a tree, what kind would you be?

You are the Elm, I said, once handsome

now gnarled with the cankerworm of worry,

or a Weeping Willow for obvious reasons.

And you, heaving a deep sigh, agreed

and assured me that I am the Pine Tree.

I have always been the Pine Tree

withstanding the wreckage of seasons,

my arms outstretched, sleeved in green,

the color of springtime, smelling of Christmas.

Speaking of Hanukkah, where will you go this year?

You could always spend the holidays in Ohio, you know.

You knew---with a returning lilt, your voice a little lighter.

Best to hang up a telephone on a pleasant sound.

By Lisa Lindsey