Lent

March gives us Lent – 

which gives me an excuse

to eat more pasta with scallops,

to love the hot cross bun

that makes its annual appearance

in the bakery window,

to don the only green sweater I own

and break my beer fast in honor of

Saint Pat chasing the snakes from Ireland,

to recall Ember Days, and the chocolate

candy egg I was not allowed to touch

until Easter Sunday morning broke open

the Alleluia – and the red and yellow

tulips popped out of their graves,

until we baked the honey glazed ham

and flew our kites in the park –

to fix with a string a cross in the sky.

By Lisa Lindsey

Grace on a Rainy March Day

Let me find grace
on an aisle of rain-swept cobblestone,
grace on a rainy March day. . .

I am a monk
under my black hood umbrella,
delighting in the chant of my galoshes,

the surf of traffic,
the occasional spray of puddle
and rumble of cloud,

washing me of all my impurities,

washing me and the shreds

of black snow,

stirring the incense of tree limbs

leafing out promisingly,
like tiny thumbs of olives
in God's heavy hand.

By Lisa Lindsey

All I Need

All I need is a Trappist cell --

bare walls and a few furnishings

not worth mentioning, except

for the little hickory table I bought

from an Amish carpenter,

and a TV to watch Downton Abbey --

a world of baroque chandeliers

and staircases of flowing marble

and fancy dinner invitations.

There's a window that faces

a small garden between the buildings

with a few barely sprouting trees.
Soon will come spring with its riot

of blossoms and birds.

Today all I need is that window

to spring -- an invitation to patience --

to be empty before sweetness fills me

like wine fills a jeweled chalice.

By Lisa Lindsey

As Spring Peeks In

Everybody’s waiting

for springtime's

annual surprise party,

waiting to be startled

by a sneak of light

through the crack

of heaven’s floor,

by the red robin

whistling his whims,

tiny mouse buds creeping

from tree limb to limb

as spring peeks in.

By Lisa Lindsey

Shades of Green

Morning breathes emerald rain

over the new spring grass.

Irish saints paint the day kelly.

The pine-scented candle

freshens the March afternoon

with a few Christmas memories.

By evening I’m humming Green River –

a song that rolled continuously

through the Vietnam years.

I still have his old army jacket,

tonight I crawl inside it,

my arms dwarfed in his sleeves,

my hands shrinking in his pockets,

wrapped in durable, invincible

Old Army Green.

By Lisa Lindsey 

The Shamrocks are White

The shamrocks are white

and woolly on this snowy

Saint Patrick's Day,

and the tender young leaves

seem to giggle beneath

their blankets of suds,

and the marshmallow trees

with their puffy sleeves

look gay enough, lining

the streets in a soft parade,

while the spirit of spring

prevails down at Kelly's Bar,

dispensing cheer through rounds

of green beer and frothy song.

By Lisa Lindsey

With Apologies to Mr. Weatherly*

Oh, Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes

are barely audible over the tornado sirens.

The widow's wail is lost in the wind.

And down at the opera house the baritone

is swallowing thunder. The soprano has left

the stage, her Valkyrie horns blown away.

And hither go I, tossed in a storm

of flying hats and twisted umbrellas.

The sky bears the bruises of winged debris

and a fresh line of funnel clouds.

Alas, where is my soft spring meadow

and hushed valley? How can the road rise

to meet me when it's buried under six feet of rain?

Oh, Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes,

I can hear them calling now.

Say an "Ave" for me!

Say an "Ave" for me!

*Frederic Weatherly wrote the lyrics to Danny Boy.

By Lisa Lindsey

A carol for Carol
 
Just as the blue eye of morning
peered through thinning
curtains of night,
 
and dawn's rosy fingers
extinguished one by one
the lamps of stars,
 
just as all calendars
circled the 20th of March
with a hopeful heart,

Carol said goodbye.

Death saw her daughter
go softly by sunrise,
like the halo of swallows
in the spring, bells ringing,

pilgrims singing.

Ave Maria

She was incurious of Herod’s intent,

oblivious to Pilate’s ascent.

She only knew that water

must be drawn from the well

and that her blue dress had a tear

in need of mending.

The light at her window

must have seemed ordinary

that unruffled morning in late March,

before the light flamed into an angel

whose Ave awakened her destiny.

Her Fiat, a gentle trumpet,

awakened history.

By Lisa Lindsey

The Homecoming

Give me an abandoned old house,

a shell of a house

longing to be lived in again,

to have a woman humming

at its stove, and a boy

reading poetry by its fireplace,

a house that groans

to feel its tired porches

freshened with white paint

and flowering azaleas,

whose eyes are the many windows

of broken glass, watching

for visitors that never arrive.

Give me an abandoned old house

and I’ll paint it white,

fill it with flowers and light,

wave heartily from the window,

welcome another son home.

By Lisa Lindsey

Metamorphosis

I never linger too long,
there in that deep, dark silky

cocoon of hot chocolate

and chicken noodle peace.

Energy levels rise.
I toss the comforter aside,
poke my head through a door
and suddenly realize

that my shoulders have wings,
I am blending into spring,
out shopping for Easter clothes,
helping the little flowers grow,
watching for rainbows after the rain,

living life in full color,

like a butterfly again.

By Lisa Lindsey

Every Spring

Every spring is the only spring,

and I come back to simple things:

blushing pink clouds and blue skies,

the snow of the white-winged butterflies,

laughing with elves, a blossomy breeze,

you waiting behind the dogwood tree.

By Lisa Lindsey

Sandman and the Butterfly

We creep around like caterpillars,
proud of our fuzzy sweaters,

like droopy-eyed Linuses

clinging to blankets,

trying to sound intellectual

while sucking our thumbs

and fighting bedtime.

But inevitably we surrender

to the Big Sleep. Death bundles

us up in its shroud-cocoon,

taking our warm woollies

and security blankets away.

Laugh and tell me
that when we close our eyes
it shall be only for a brief time?

That upon awakening

we shall move graceful in glossy wings
and silk kimonos?

By Lisa Lindsey

Spring Lambs. . .

as seen from a train window

They traveled with me for miles,

the same cows spread over a pasture,

hay rolled up meticulously,

red barns peppering the hillsides,

and woven through meadows

like little white flowers

the spring lambs were grazing,

oblivious to Easter or Passover,

mindless of psalm 23.

The unknowable Lord is their shepherd

and they praise him by simply being.

By Lisa Lindsey

Breaking the Alabaster Jar

I could dance Salome-like

for the head of a baptizer

on a golden plate.

I could writhe in fear,

an adulteress who waits

for the first cast stone.

I could wash the master's

feet with my tears,

dry them with a towel of hair,

break the alabaster jar

full of costly perfume. Nobody

ever accused me of waste.

I could pour out the oil of frugality,

empty myself that sorrow and joy

might flow lavishly,

find the Magdalene within me.

Break the alabaster jar!

By Lisa Lindsey

The Pattern

flowers on the bed
and sprigs on the pillow
cross stitched along the border
in spring's favorite colors
and hers...

embroider her dreams
as the soft thread of a rain breeze
pulls the morning curtain
whispering April's return
and his...

By Lisa Lindsey

Splash!

April opens the show

with a chorus line of clouds

and a ballet of many umbrellas.

Come clean with laughter, child.

Let your soft-shoe be splashes of rain.

Let your song be of flowers in May.

By Lisa Lindsey

April comes like a gypsy

April comes

on little gypsy feet of fog

rising faster than a child’s lost balloon.

April comes

playing a wind chime song,

a tambourine sun and mandolin moon.

Rain shawls

and mist veils come again,

stormy eyes peer through a clouded arch.

April comes

on little gypsy feet of frost

running back to March.

By Lisa Lindsey

April and Mondays

I miss you less and less these days –
except when it’s April and Mondays,

except in the mornings when I awake
in the arms of a tangled bed sheet

and the radio alarm is playing “our song.”

I hardly think of you at all –
except for sunwashed June afternoons
and Tuesdays in the park – a roomy bench
and bag of popcorn to myself –

Love at First Sigh

It must feel like this –

like lunch at a Viennese café,
 
sitting alone at a corner table
facing the street, watching
 
the human parade and the dogwoods
on the square burst forth suddenly,

when suddenly it was springtime

and the bitter coffee tasted sweet,

suddenly the drone of the lunch crowd

became a concert by Boskovsky,

and as they turned and saw the other

between the waltz of the waiters

and the busboy ballet,

two sighs rose as from a single heart

and Vienna was never the same.

By Lisa Lindsey

Tenebrae

I can still hear my shrill young voice

and the clear notes of my comrades,

rising over a darkening church

toward the vault in unison..

O Jerusalem, Jerusalem.

Jeremiah’s lament was ours

though we were barely

old enough to comprehend.

We could not tear our eyes away

as tiny shadows lessened..

Ad Dominum, Deum tuum.

In an ancient liturgy passed down

from the Church’s earliest ages,

we bore as many candles

as psalms that night were chanted,

extinguished one by one

until the last candle,

the Light of the World,

was carried away.

The grief that swelled

within me then, comes again

at Tenebrae.

By Lisa Lindsey

Holy Thursday

The grief was in me,

and through the open stained-glass window

I could see the beautiful spring sunset,

clearly as I could imagine a beautiful

twilight climbing the steps to the cenacle,

hear a hymn winding through Kidron Valley

escorted by torches, friends full of wine.

Too many Thursdays have I walked

that procession to upper rooms

and dark gardens of my own,

where kisses betray and voices

fall silent but for murmured denials,

where the last of the stars

fade one by one as friends scatter,

leaving Friday naked and alone.

By Lisa Lindsey

remember me

remember me
when you come into your kingdom
when sun purples the lilacs
and April winks her big green eye

remember me
in the restlessness of springtide
when I tried keeping vigil and was
distracted by the butterfly

remember me
when you come into your kingdom
and the day of my deliverance
stretches my arms wide

for I am but a good thief
reaching for paradise and you.

By Lisa Lindsey

Even the Stones Cry

Michelangelo took a mallet

and a chisel and a lump of marble,

the hands of a lover and the heart

of a visionary and all its scars,

and formed THE PIETA --

the pyramid of love and agony,

the Woman and her Son hewn

between the cross and the tomb,

to rest at last in the cradle

of her lap, no deeper grief

memorialized than in her eyes,

fulfilling the scripture that

should the human voice fall silent,

even the stones would cry.

By Lisa Lindsey

Easter Happening

It's Easter -- thousands of miles

from Rome and Jerusalem,

and only steps from the playhouse

in the park where the hippies,

now in their sixties, still come,

to find a holiday happening

around the lawn chairs and craft tables,

the series of faces like charms

on a bracelet, flowers in a bouquet,

the patchwork in a quilt,

to link arms with the troubadours,

proud of their gray pony tails,

to become one again with the jugglers

and face painters and balloon makers --

to be a player in Godspell.

By Lisa Lindsey

Not So Beautiful Ohio

THIS IS NOT A WELL-MANNERED FLOOD ---

the newspaper headlines reminded the city.

As if the city needed reminding

as front yards turned into swamplands

and basements into mud ponds

and streets into smelly canals.

But the evacuees remained calm,

bar one staunch piano teacher

whose Baldwin would not be budged

from her flooded apartment.

She played “Beautiful Ohio” just once ---

then climbed to the rooftop and wept loudly.

By Lisa Lindsey

Eloise Moore

She lost everything in the flood of `97,

everything but her life and the lives

of her children. Praise the Lord.

She was also able to save her mobile home.

Jesus saw fit – and she was thankful.

But she couldn’t help bemoan

the loss of her mother’s paring knife,

the ashtray from the World’s Fair,

photographs of faces she’d never see again,

and the baby’s Teddy bear.

In the flood of `97 she lost everything,

and it was the little things

she talked about the most.

By Lisa Lindsey

Under a Rainbow Sky

The world floats

like a clean bar of soap

under a rainbow sky.

Shimmering breezes

swim softly by.

Nobody welcomes the sun

more than I.

The heat on my skin

feels like slow dancing

with God.

By Lisa Lindsey

When the Sun Shines after the Rain

When the sun shines after the rain
I am born, newly baptized again
loving aimlessly, shamelessly
washed of all blame
when the sun shines after the rain

I can conquer the world in my bare feet
or at least make a splash as I pass
dripping diamonds in leaves
and emerald grass
when the sun shines after the rain

I can pad along warm wet sidewalks
where my toes explore silky puddles
kicking rainbows through gutters
and sapphire streets
when the sun shines after the rain

I imagine that God's face is smiling
with gold flecks in his watery eyes
loving aimlessly, shamelessly
washed of all blame
when the sun shines after the rain

By Lisa Lindsey

Bonding with Christopher

April 16, 1973

Congratulations! It's a boy!
Didn't we say that all along?

Ten fingers. Ten toes.
Everything looks good so far.

Eight pounds of pink creases!

Whadda little bulldog!

No hair. That's okay.
He'll grow tons of curls someday.

Two slits for eyes!
How can he see?
You want me to hold him?
Already?

Mmmm, he smells yummy!

Such a soft little tummy.

A mouth like a bow, oh

His eyes are opening!

And they're blue too...

Hello, you.

Christopher. James. Lindsey.
It's me...it's mommy.

Falling in love was never
this easy.

By Lisa Lindsey

Once upon a time, when

happiness fell like raindrops in April

and sunbeams in May,

when the carousel never stopped

and the cotton candy never melted,

when stars were still something

wished upon and snowmen

sprang to magic life,

when elephants flew like the wind,

and two thousand fairies danced

on the head of a pin...

well, maybe not two thousand,

and maybe the moon wasn't really made

of cheese... but we chased our dreams,

a few ice cream trucks and fireflies in a jar,

and came as close as we could

to a once-upon-a-time kind of childhood.

Didn’t we, my lucky star?

By Lisa Lindsey

A Spring Romance

A musical breeze

and a song of apple blossom,

a balm for my soreness,

that’s what you are.

Starlight by Aries,

moonlight by Taurus, swirling

to the aria of my heart’s sigh.

Bravissimo!

Oh the comedy

of April-almost-May,

a season within a season,

a play within a play.

Stay with me awhile

my all-too-fleeting Spring.

I can wait for the finale.

It doesn’t have to be grand.

By Lisa Lindsey

May is a Merry Bore

Who would dare pluck the laurel crown
from May’s pretty head?

Artists oblige her with brushstrokes
of the brightest colors.  Poets
gather her lyrical rosebuds
while gardeners do her dirty work.

Look at her --- high and merry
on her sturdy white horse, galloping
past the rival claims of other months.

May's enchantment fails me,
being yet in my post-Easter haze.

There are still-edible delights
in my basket; chocolaty morsels
nesting in green bowls of fake grass.
They'll all be gone soon. . .

I'll waste the rest of her time
missing April and dreading June.

By Lisa Lindsey

Sun through the myrtles
 
I forsake my northern legacy
and refuse to let winter’s gloom
nurse me.  A sweeter spirit

tends me with her breezy smile

and Carolinian charm.

She reaches for my arm
beneath a flowery canopy,
along aromatic walks
she guides my fancy
where sun dapples softly
through the myrtles.

By Lisa Lindsey

Dandelions

Mother never told me they were weeds.

Her hands moved slow and thoughtfully
as she arranged my golden bouquet in a glass of water,
placing it in the kitchen window where the sunlight
huddled all day. It was a perfect shrine for
our dandelions, and mother called it "Radiant!"

Then she told me the legend of the dandelions
that did not get picked; that ones that lived
in our backyard until they turned to magic white fluff.
She showed me how to "make a wish and blow.."

We watched the fluff scatter into seeds
as a breeze fairy carried them away, far away
to a secret garden where all wishes come true,
where all windows enshrine the sun
and baby dandelion suns of golden radiance.

Mother never told me they were weeds.

By Lisa Lindsey

No Wine

They have no wine, she whispered

into the Galilean breeze,

into the ear of the leaning rabbi

seated beside her at the wedding feast.

Do whatever he tells you, she whispered

as waiters hurried to and fro

filling waters jars to the brim,

trusting the intervention

of that woman whose eyes peered

soft and darkly through her veil,

whose quiet utterance rolled away the stone,

launched miracles.

I have no wine, I whisper

when my jars are empty and my soul thirsts

for I, too, have a Jewish mother.

By Lisa Lindsey

Whistler's Mother and Mine

Dear Mom,

If I had the gift of keen vision

and steady hands,

if I was an artist of Whistler's fame,

I would paint you into an

Arrangement in Grey and Black

(or its equal in color),

so that many years after

your green eyes had closed

and your buckled brow

relaxed from life's worries,

other generations would see

an icon of motherhood as I do now

(minus the lace head cap).

By Lisa Lindsey

Morning Person

Colombian brew --

dark roast jolts my senses,

a burst of hazelnut cream

splashes the taste buds.

Add a squeak of orange

and squirt of pineapple.

Push a button and the blender

hums happiness, while

frying pans harmonize.

The shower waits.

My skin applauds, buffed

in silky spray and velvet froth,

anticipating a date with Terry Cloth

followed by an eight hour affair

with a spring tweed suit, a scarf

(strategically fanned over one shoulder)

and matching heels, avocado green.

Good morning

and get out of my way.

I'm off to carve my niche

in the 12th of May,

embraced in dewy ambiance.

By Lisa Lindsey

Mislaid Glasses

I had lost my reading glasses,

and after turning over every movable item

in the house, I found them parked crosswise

over a page of Robert Frost's poetry.

Now there's a picture, albeit blurry, I thought,

the specs of a penniless poet resting

on the words of a Pulitzer Prize winner,

a happy bookmark, relishing the company,

absorbing the power of a snowstorm

in Vermont, the beauty of a cornflower,

the universal truths romping through

New England countrysides.

I positioned the glasses back on my nose

to observe the poem I was reading when

the barking dog and whistling teakettle

called me away:

"AMERICA IS HARD TO SEE."

I shuddered at the odds.

By Lisa Lindsey

Air Poetry

Sometimes when I'm alone
in the afternoon light of the garden,
I open my notebook and uncap my pen,
raise my face like a flower to the sun,

giving myself permission to feel
----what’s the word?----a friendship

with the outdoors which is very----

give me an adjective----very green,

which beckons me to remove my socks
and wiggle my toes in the very green grass,
to watch the birds, to bask in the experience
of-----how would you say it?----air poetry

not bound in any notebook,
certainly not in mine, the pages lifting

like many wings in the breeze.

By Lisa Lindsey

When Spring Comes Again

When spring comes again

I hope to be here,

for the merry moon will be here,

and the stars will be here, near

as the blossoms on plum trees,

stirring beasts and brilliants alike,

enchanted dance in endless May nights.

By Lisa Lindsey

After the Storm

Rainbow blossoms,

broken blossoms,

trickling from a parade

of rain-washed trees,

cover the sidewalks

like confetti, like crayons

melting in the sun.

By Lisa Lindsey

The Divorce

Let’s walk the divorce around the park,
a little sunshine and tree therapy.

Let's get you out of the house

and away from the radio.
Stop listening to the oldies
or you'll never stop crying,

all those love songs, the memories,
your first kiss on the "Stairway to Heaven"

dancing to “More Than A Woman”
at the wedding reception,
November 19th, 1977...

You can shrug at my lame attempt
to encourage a smile out of you, but I still
love lying on the grass, don't you?

Like this, eyes closed,
hands locked behind our head,
no Zeppelin, no Bee Gees...

only the sound of my voice
and your justified sniffles,
and way over there some girls playing kickball

like we did when you were ten
and I was eleven,
May 23rd, 1967.

By Lisa Lindsey

Ascension Thursday

Must I celebrate the last time
your feet touched solid ground?
Poor earth! I understand well
the desire of the everlasting hills.
 
Still present in sacrament,
transubstantiating your way to us,
I often long for a simpler Host,
a sit at the hem of your robe.
 
Fueled by the great promise

I know that you are with me always,
but today I find my gaze lifted,
searching the empty clouds.
 
Oh, Feet! Come like thunder!
Rain down the everlasting dew,
for the hills are thirsty
and is too long since I bloomed.
 
By Lisa Lindsey

Sacramentals

Holy water in a wishing well,
baptized fingers drip
the Sign of the Cross,

a quick plunge in the Jordan

as the scapular climbs the flowered
mountain of Carmel,

and the rosary becomes a ladder
to Lourdes where useless crutches
hang from church rafters.

Sacramentals are so gentle,
no windy sermons or heavy rituals
muddling the pathways of lesser pilgrims,

Gypsy

She wants to be a gypsy

when spring flirts with summer,

when fifteen feels like twenty. . .

She wants to see the world

through moving windows. The old van

is splashed with fresh green paint,

Shasta daisies and symbols of peace.

She wants to be gypsy

and comb the sugary beaches,

a sugary blond, free spirit,

fluttering with the sandpipers

in shawls of sun-laced foam.

She wants to be a gypsy

and dance the Flamenco,

chasing the bonfire as her

tambourine twirls, moonlight

nestled in raven curls.

She wants to be a gypsy

when fifteen feels like twenty,

when fifty feels like twenty,

when spring flirts with summer,

when she starts making dandelion

wreaths to pass the time.

By Lisa Lindsey

Broken Pearls and Promises

Here comes June

as reckless as May goes,

vanishing in a flurry of

broken pearls and promises,

like a bride fleeing the church

on her wedding day.

Elaine in “The Graduate”

chasing the bus.

Ghost flowers fade again.

Torn lace gloves her fingers.

What remains of her beauty

escapes every year.

By Lisa Lindsey