As I recall, my first attempt at writing was a story about my grandfather who grew a mustache and shaved it off because I, his nine-year-old granddaughter, didn't like it when he kissed me. Simple enough? Simplicity has been my trend in poetry ever since.
These days I am writing more Appalachian and "regional" poetry----poems about Ohio and the river that nurtured me, and the surrounding territories: Kentucky, West Virginia, Indiana and Tennessee. As one gets older she gains a deeper appreciation for the land.
Why do I write? I write because I can, because I must. It is the air that I breathe, it is cool water for my tongue (yep, a line from one of my poems). I would love to write for a living, but for now I better keep my job as church secretary. They seem to need me.
Sometimes
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 Fate.
Not all the time, but sometimes.
I think Christopher Columbus
Believed in Fate too
And he probably did a lot more than I do.
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 simply have
Nothing important to say.
Sometimes I guess we all feel that way.
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The Piano Teacher
The old stairs creak
and the smell of furniture polish
fills the airy rooms,
and through a washed
window the sun shines hospitably,
warming the walnut bench
of the parlor piano.
Do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-do!
Her voice slides up
and down the scale
without effort or thought,
as I notice the age spots
on her thumb and baby finger
spread octave-wide on the keys,
C to C... G to G.
Do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti.....
Poor Miss Lutterbie,
if she only knew she could have put
her sheet music away,
and my poor parents could have saved
themselves a fortune in lessons, you see,
I played the piano by memory.
And though I never learned
to read one note,
I still recall with a lump in my throat
the old creaking steps,
and the lemon polish scent,
and the sun when
it warmed the walnut bench,
and the withered hands that made
music so gracefully,
and the smile of an old lady
who loved me.
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For the Love of Art and Andrew Wyeth
I am a lover of art for art's sake,
a lover of its pure essence and expression.
I love the artist's fascination with
colors and shapes and shadow and light,
and I love the mysteries behind
why an artist uses oil or pencil or chalk.
I love pictures of fruit bowls
and vases with flowers.
I love the exquisitely detailed fingers
and leg muscles of Renaissance sculptures.
I love cave drawings.
And I love Van Gogh's stark landscapes
and blunt haystacks,
and Monet's French countrysides and lakes
splattered in watery pastels.
But only a few paintings have stunned me;
made me feel like I wanted to crawl into them,
to step inside the frame
and become one with the canvas...
Like those images sketched in the mind
of Andrew Wyeth.
Perhaps it is the sight
of an abandoned old farmhouse
on a lonely hilltop that moves me so;
a shell of a house longing to be lived-in again,
to have a woman humming at its stove,
and a child reading poetry by its fireplace.
A house that groans to have its neglected barns
teeming with smells of hay and manure and animals.
Yet there it sits with its windows boarded up
under an overcast sky,
with no explanation given to the art lover's eye.
Then suddenly I turn the corner
and it is springtime; the sky is blue,
the farmhouse has a fresh coat
of white paint
and there's a curtain breezing
in an opened window,
an apple pie cooling
on the window ledge.
I turn the corner again
and there are tulips lined
in a tenderly cultivated garden bed,
and the sound of a cowbell can be heard
over a distant hill...
and I am Home.
This is Art.
This is Love standing still.
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The Song of Saint Germaine
I never saw beauty before
I saw the face of Saint Germaine,
ascending like the scarlet dawn
over my Appalachian summer.
Mountain paths rose and fell
in her lusty stride,
wind and woods brushed her hair,
the scent of Kentucky pine.
And when I passed her one day
cool and faintly aware
she looked down from her
tree-branch chair,
crippling my steps in the story
of her stare.
And I never heard music before
I heard the voice of Saint Germaine,
winding through waterfalls and river caves
over my Appalachian summer.
The banjo hummed
while her fingers strummed,
ancient song streamed from her throat
without thought.
And when I passed her one day
with my lofty refrain
she smiled with a gentle nod,
and stilled my tongue in the presence
of God.
Top of the Page.
The Man on the Porch
I'm saying a little prayer
For the man on the porch
Who sits in the soft April dawn.
Coffee-steam rises like incense
From his cup.
His face, now age-worn,
Still looks up
And sees miracles in the sun,
And goodness in everyone.
Tennessee Papaw,
Mountain Father to all.
Darn rare do you find men
Who stand this tall.
So I'm saying a little prayer
For the man on the porch
And for a hundred more soft
April dawns.
Top of the Page.
Just Me
I
I have brown hair
with gray roots
I have never plucked
my eyebrows
I have green eyes
and crooked teeth
I play the piano
I rarely catch cold
I like the smell of wine
and the sound of coffee
when it's perking
I like to go shopping
downtown...
But my teeth are still crooked
and my eyes are still green
and my hair will not always be
brown.
II
I have straight shoulders
but my breasts are not firm
but then they never were
I am going through menopause
I cry for no reason
I laugh all the time
I am insecure
I was selfish as a child
I love the warm weather
I once lived in Florida
I don't have a mate...
But I still laugh all the time
and cry for no reason
and my shoulders won't always
be straight.
III
I have olive skin
and big feet
and long fingernails
that break regularly
and I write poetry
regularly
I smoke cigarettes
I've been told, "like a chimney"
I used to read Shakespeare
I used to flirt
I used to think I was
a beautiful woman...
But my feet are still big
and my nails still break
and though I may not always write poetry
I might start reading Shakespeare
again.
Top of the Page.
Charm Girl Blues
It was my art that made you love me,
that's what you said anyway,
my poetry, and my creative energy,
and the way my nose twitched
when you kissed me.
My comics, too, set me apart from the rest,
that's what you said anyway,
my sense of play and slapstick silliness,
and how my eyes teared 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 incarnation of femininity,
at least that's what you always told me.
Well, here I am...alone in my coffeehouse
with creativity dribbling down my chin.
Last time I looked I was still artistic,
and my nose still twitches
even when I'm not kissing.
And my eyes tear up sometimes
when I don't slow-dance.
In fact I'm the same 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.
Top of the Page.
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.
Published in "Eternal Portraits"
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St. Brigid's Day--February 1
She was inseparable from the flowers,
inseparable from the sun
and the dawn and spring,
clearly the heavens smiled upon her.
Snow dissolved into puddles
wherever her saintly footsteps passed,
and in the heat of her prints sprouted
green hairs of nursling grass.
Long before the groundhog
crawled from his burrow
and cast his shadowy
or shadowless predictions,
a bed of straw for Brigid lay
near the thresholds of those
who followed the Old Ways.
A sign of disturbed ashes
in the hearth
or a smoldering candle
on the window ledge
meant that Brigid had risen
from her wintry grave
and was afoot upon the land
once again.
Letter to the Author: Lisa Lindsey