Bare Trees

Through bare trees
I can see all the rickety lean-tos
and sheds, and the outhouse
with the crescent moon on the door.

Through bare trees
I can watch the hawk
perched on a distant branch,
and so can its prey.

Through bare trees
I can be winter’s innocence,
unashamed needfulness,
the thin and reaching limbs
of a beggar, longing to touch
but the hem of the sun.

Winter Sparrows

It’s New Year’s Day, 

the first day of 11 more weeks of winter.

The shabby little bushes

along the edge of the yard

hold a dusting of snow

and a pair of brown sparrows,

whistling their whims to each other,

and all the stores are closed

because today is the day

to watch the Rose Parade,

to dismantle the tree

and box up the ornaments,

to get a head start on our taxes,

or we could opt to stay in bed,

unfazed by the significance

of the date on the calendar ---

by the pile of post-holiday credit card bills,

content to rest like winter sparrows

chirruping softly beside their mates,

grateful for a little shelter –

be it ever so humble – from the cold.

By Lisa Lindsey

Attic Ghosts

It's raining on my birthday.
The attic ghosts come out to play,
the diaries veiled in cobwebs,
the love letters yellowed with age,

a chest of Septembers,
a fishbowl of Junes,
a coffee tin of Februaries.

Much was said then of wine and roses
when in truth I adored carnations
and wine made you sleepy.

But you remain my favorite attic ghost,
haunting me when I feel nostalgic
and a little drizzly...

a cigar box of Octobers,
a scrapbook of Januaries,
carnations crushed
between musty pages.

By Lisa Lindsey

A Child’s View of Winter

Ask the little Eskimo

who wobbles

chin high in boots,

buttoned coat

and turned up collar,

who skids through the door

into a world of diamonds.

She sees 

abundance in simplicity,

clarity in starkness,

crystals of purity

and snow angels winging,

igloos in the making,

white hills and belly whoppers,

visions of hot soup and chocolate.

Magic in each moment.

By Lisa Lindsey

A Work in Progress

Deep in the winter of my intellect
are thick books with adventurous titles,
hoping to find a life on your coffee table.

But for now I chisel baby poems
and snowflakes, ice chips of moments
from a January afternoon,

the web of frost on the window,
the boots in the corner,
the lemons on the counter
and the hot teacup,

my charade of Emily Brontë
warming her hands by the fire,

just before she writes something significant.

By Lisa Lindsey

January Embers

November came gathering the tinder,

eager to christen the sacred fires.

December warmed the hearth

with wine and blazing pine logs.

January embers are the heart coals

wearied of winter and revelry,

smoldering like the love that left her,

that launched the blue in her eyes.

Is there nothing to do now

but huddle like chimney birds,

blackened in smoke-wreathed skies?

Leave her to February

with a clean snowdrift memory,

embers of sunlight, the promise

of bold flame blossoms.

By Lisa Lindsey

Stork Feathered

The January sky

could be described

as "stork feathered"

on a day like this . . .

when snow falls softly

outside the nursery window

and the rocking chair is

draped with a swaddle

lovingly crocheted

and finished just in time.

By Lisa Lindsey

Snow Day

The sky is raining diamonds

for the winter wingding,

dressing the hillsides

in glittering white gowns,

children in woollies

and rosy cheeked smiles,

dolling them up

for another Snow Day.

By Lisa Lindsey

What a Way to Spend a Wintry Day

Layers of Southern accents

rise from the centuries.

An apple is carved

with Lowcountry ease

as I curl up with a book by

Anne Rivers Siddons.

By Lisa Lindsey

Saint Agnes’ Day

Fresh snow falls

upon your day, Saint Agnes,

steady and silent,

lambs before the shearers.

Your elms seem sad

in their coats of fleece,

their limbs pointing aimlessly

and in frozen reach,

as if to recall how lonely

sainthood can be.

By Lisa Lindsey

Walking on Water, 1977

Temps were minus thirty

when the mighty Ohio froze over,

just like it did when Margaret Garner,

Kentucky slave, crossed the ice on foot,

skating her way to Ohio and freedom

and American folklore.

Despite the creaking and groaning

beneath our boots, despite the warnings

all the daredevils were out again,

scooting toward the other shore,

far enough to say, “We walked on water.”

Kentucky is one blue breath away.

Miraculous – even when spring thaws the ice

and summer spreads her goldenrods

across the land like billowy yellow blankets,

when honeybees cavort around wand-like stems

and we cross the river by ferry again.

By Lisa Lindsey

Walking into the Sun

Seasonably dressed

I join the umbrella brigade,

people whose destinations

I don't believe in,

except for the young couple

ahead of me

sharing the one umbrella,

whose purpose seems to consist

of simply walking together

through the January rain,

whose feet move out of step

with the floating population,

as if to the beat of some music

known only to them,

making me miss my old traveling

companion, our own misty walks

and rainy strolls leading to nowhere,

and now that I've had a good cry

I shall cheer them on to a place

etched in sunlight, a wedding in June

or its most romantic substitute

and not only them, but all the inhabitants

of this miserable winter day.

By Lisa Lindsey

January at thirty-one

Wrapped in blizzard white,

in the blankets that she loves,

January kisses the moon goodnight.

Sleeping with one eye open

she slips casually under

February's camouflage of covers,

grinning smugly on her queen-sized

bed of clouds, plotting

tomorrow's new snowstorm.

By Lisa Lindsey

Groundhog Day

It doesn’t take a weather prophet,

with or without a shadow, to predict

that winter will be with us for a while.

We know we haven’t seen the last

of the snow shovels and ice scrapers,

that it will seem like forever

before the sun breaks through

the cloud-burdened sky. 

There are no groundhogs here

in the city – no sign of the first robin

hopping along the frozen grass,

and yet I feel strangely uplifted,

suddenly like it’s a holiday,

the way you feel when you open

that surprise valentine.

Even tonight when I sip my hot soup

I will delight in the thought that

Punxsutawney Phil is out of the cold –

that he is falling asleep

with a prosperous pot belly

and toothy smile.

By Lisa Lindsey

The Snow Moon

She wanted to be the “Honeymoon”
but, alas, true love was reserved for June.
So February waddled away in her snowy gown,
her frozen frown, settling for less.

This isn't so bad, she confessed.
For she ruled the realm of the mighty groundhog

and other minor-league weather prophets.

Her palace was strewn with candy hearts
and dainty assorted chocolates.

And she governed the cherry grove
lined with severed cherry trees,
axes planted in their stumps.
Yes, she owned all the honest Presidents.

Mostly she ruled over the snow,

and her scores of subjects who salted

and shoveled and shivered and sniveled

and wearily sighed, yearning for April.  

Ingrates, all of them.

By Lisa Lindsey

February Blues

February fancies herself
playing a blues guitar,
accompanied by the familiar
acoustics of rain on the roof,

fooling me into melancholy minus
the blistered fingers, minus
the Styrofoam cup of black coffee
and the fugitive train whistle.

Entice me, Eric, with your magic.
B.B. thrill me when the thrill is gone.
Strum your music through my hair.
Take me down the road with you where

there is only "the blues"
and a train heading south.

By Lisa Lindsey

Frost Feathers

The frost feathers on the window,

scattered crystals of February’s

spent pillow fight, won’t stay long,

any more than he will stay locked

in his study, bent over his desk

in silence, a blurry ultrasound

hidden in a drawer.

My shaved head

won’t stay bald forever.

What was I thinking?

I guess I felt the need to make

visible a mother’s loss.

I am patient.

I can wait for hair to grow back

and frost feathers to thaw,

for February to spill into March,

for April, sudden acceptance,

and his smile.

By Lisa Lindsey

Cold February

It is this time of year --

when valentines promise the moon

and spring teases the air

that I starve for one more glimpse

of the lapis sparkle in your eyes,

to be wrestled again to the sofa,

to know the burn of whiskers

and deep-deep kisses.

Winter grows still, my love.

By Lisa Lindsey

The Valentine

Thigh deep in snowdrifts
the mailbox seems a mile away.
I risk frostbite and possible gangrene
for a message of love and spring.

Nothing from Hallmark today.
no American Greetings with its signature rose,

no pink and red envelopes stickered

with lopsided hearts,

only a bill from the heating company
showing a sizable credit and zero to pay,
a valentine from an anonymous donor.

I limp back to the house
and shake the snow off my pants,

do a happy dance,

crank up the thermostat

and Vivaldi’s “Spring” on classical radio.

By Lisa Lindsey

On the Sun Coming Out

A peek-a-boo sun plays in

my window, highlighting

the stain on my curtain

and the fingerprints on my wall,

the hangman of cobwebs

dangling from the ceiling fan

stagnant since September.

Winter will never end

and even the sun mocks me,

a lazy housekeeper.

By Lisa Lindsey

Landslide Revisited

Our young hearts were echoed

in the love songs of the day,

mirrored in that mountain

snowcapped against a blue Aspen sky.

I was Nicks to your Buckingham

and lace to your leather.

We put the rock in the Rockies

and "Landslide" was our anthem.

We moved a mountain then,

and we can do it again,

before our souls and bodies blend

with the gray plains of winter.

By Lisa Lindsey

The Hunter Poet

You curse winter

because it severs you from the hunt,

the mountain air and prairie sun

and musky scent of antelope,

and I, instead of grumbling with you,

should laud this dreary season

that keeps you cabin bound,

hunched over your writer’s desk,

a dull light filtering through a lampshade

while you pen your latest love ballad,

while you listen for Orion's call

to set your Winchester free,

freeing me to ponder my emptiness

without your words, searching

through your notes, rereading

your essays on Colorado wildlife,

your favorite poem by Ferril,

your latest love ballad.

Winter... I have waited for it.

By Lisa Lindsey

One Morning on the Tank

He carried a bus transfer

and an organ donor card,

the lottery page from the Kentucky Post,

the smell of medicine

and an unsociable cough.

She carried illusions

of becoming a famous novelist,

a library book, “Follow the River”

by Thom, expired,

and a mild scent of spearmint.

She started with Mary Ingles

in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

He started to cough.

He coughed all the way to Dalton Street

and chapter three.

She was on the verge of the O-y-o River

when, exasperated, she gave him

a spearmint flavored cough drop.

She moved to sunwashed valleys

and the back of the bus.

By Lisa Lindsey

Coffee Generations

Each morning great-grandmother

made a potful with a lump of chicory.

She reheated it for lunch and dinner,

bitter but never wasted on chilly days.

Grandma poured fresh-perked

and condensed milk into wide rim mugs,

perfect for dunking those delicious

Dutch almond windmill cookies.

Mom sips a dainty cup of decaf

for the sake of formality, while I keep

Starbucks in business, my left paw

curved around my Java Queen thermos.

Daughter haunts a coffeehouse

called Zen & Now by the university,

contemplating the blend of soul and body

with a creamy turtle mocha --

the cosmic dance of a straw and spoon.

By Lisa Lindsey

I am not bipolar

Today I lie on my stomach.
I scribble in my notebook. . .

I am not bipolar,
I am an outcast, a misfit.
My moods are based on life situations.

I have demons, unmedicated,
that howl in the night, my proverbial
closet skeletons that never decay.
I write them into submission.

I am not bipolar.
I am, however, a victim

of Light Deprivation Syndrome.

I need summer-green grass
and silver poplars, sun-kissed,
twinkling against a blueberry sky,

walks along sunwarmed copper sand,
beach umbrellas, brightly colored,
filigreed by shadows of plumed sea oats...

Nobody understands me.
I close the notebook.

By Lisa Lindsey

Buttermilk Days

Winter, your buttermilk days are dwindling.

Soon these sun-starved skies will feed.

The birds will have their fill of berries

and bees their nectar and I my breezy iced tea.

By Lisa Lindsey

Another Wintry Poem

Windowpanes keep crying winter

in their rattling. The woods

are dusted white and brown

with huddled wrens in snowy brush.

Same old scene, until a blue jay

finds his way to my window ledge,

croaking like Poe's raven.

I imagine he's scolding me

for writing another wintry poem.

Nevermore! Nevermore!

By Lisa Lindsey

The Color of Love

If I could choose a color

to define my love ambition,

I would be Carmelite brown,

a nun's dusty sandal,

so neutral that when

I stood beside you I would make

your Kwanzaa look greener,

your Purim lipstick redder,

your Mardi Gras gayer than ever.

I would be John the Baptist

scapulared in camel hair,

dividing myself so you could multiply.

Now that would be a plan.

By Lisa Lindsey

Ash Wednesday

Today the snow dissolved,

and I saw my front yard

for the first time since Christmas,

so I shooed the cat from the window,

threw open the sash, caught the feathery

fire of the first robin, whistling

his whims from the picket of a fence.

But even if robins failed to show

and I had no calendar to remind me

that today was Ash Wednesday,

I would know spring was coming

because of the way the cat sits hourly

at the window, her tail swinging

like a clock’s pendulum,

because of the way her head tilts

and her eyes fold softly,

like she's revisiting an old friend

in her cat-sized memory.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,

winter is over, winter is done,

and I take it all in with the sigh

of an Old Soul while, with the old cat,

I wait at the window.

By Lisa Lindsey

Another Ash Wednesday

I could limit myself

to the window seat with the cat,

watching the flash of the first flock

of swallows in the sky,

I could follow my nose

as far as the parish fish fry,

a hike through the slush

on a stark and meatless Wednesday.

I could carry in my flesh

what I bear in my soul, symbolized

by the celebration of ashes

that star my forehead,

mysteriously linking me with all wanderers

of the world-desert,

past, present, and yet unborn.

Today the journey begins again.

By Lisa Lindsey

Thoughts on a Dying Pope

He was in the twilight of his papacy,

a long and glorious twilight

when I noticed him struggling

at a Wednesday audience.

Now comes another Wednesday

with its messy reminders that

we are dust and to dust we return,

and the pope seems to carry

in his frail and broken body

all the ashes of the world.

By Lisa Lindsey

A Strict Catholic Girl

If I say I'm a strict Catholic girl

you might ask how strict...

and I'll tell you about fumbling

through Latin class and chasing grace

in pleated blue skirts long recycled

into clothes for the poor,

how the smell of Friday's fish

still burns my eyes, and it'll be a cold day

in you-know-where when I'm caught

passing out fliers for Planned Parenthood

because that's what I think you want to hear.

But plaid jumpers and cheese pizza

parties, catechisms recited ad nauseam

are shallow witnesses of the past,

and at 50 birth control is a dead issue,

while all I really want to tell you

is that Christ is my life...

and when they sing Panis Angelicus

I cry...

and there are times,

between slamming doors

and foul-mouthed teenagers,

I think I could have made

an excellent nun.

By Lisa Lindsey

March, Be Not Late

Entering on foggy roads
in chalky dregs of February snows,

I'll bring my umbrella
if you promise me rainbows.

Show me your moody temps
that pedal my energy
and I'll hop a bike,

rope the clouds with my kite
before April's lambs tame me.

Old story that you are,
your early roar has a ready taker.

March, be not late.
I can conquer the world
in a hooded windbreaker.

By Lisa Lindsey

Fifth of March

I was not expecting a ghost today,

not even on this ghostly March morning.

I hadn't thought of him for years,

until his photograph appeared

among the cobwebs of spring cleaning,

and I remembered that today

was my grandfather's birthday.

Forty or so when the camera flashed,

his banjo and beer on the table,

and on his lap a wee child, a milky smile,

and I remembered . . .

There's a sorrow that comes

with the twilight of winter

and milky mornings, banjo winds

and baby blankets of snow,

and birthday wishes to ghosts

of auld March long ago.

By Lisa Lindsey

The Last Spring Snow

My Sunday coat buttoned,

my purse full of nickels,

led by the white gloved hand

of my Irish grandmother,

I welcomed the early spring snow,

the clean-smelling air and wet asphalt,

the frosted branches

of walkway trees, planted

to beautify the streetscapes

that wove through these old

ethnic neighborhoods.

We climbed the steps to St. Mary's

without slipping. I dropped a cold roll

of nickels in the bread box for the poor.

It would be the last rite of spring

for me and my grandmother,

this manna from heaven,

our last spring snow, the last time

she left her white glovess in the pew.

We loved winter and laughed

all the way home.

By Lisa Lindsey

Last Spring’s Snow

While I inhale. . .

waiting for the labor pangs

of writer’s block to subside,

before I push my next poem

into existence I’ll tell you

about last spring’s snow,

how pretty it looked

when it blew against buildings

and powdered the trees,

how quickly it melted

when it touched the streets

too warm to hold its whiteness.

But in the air it lived!

A veil dance of angels so frenzied

I forgot that winter was leaving

and that I, mere flesh,

could neither exhale nor

breathe its life into poetry,

not then or now, a year later.

By Lisa Lindsey