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Three Works By Lise Whidden



Summer's Boy, Winter's Man


Growing against the trunk of a juniper tree,
 the vine turns to gray in cold light
 until the flight of spring azures
 when maple mimics the arrogant pine.
 We lived alone until you were three,
 my conversation child.
 Struggle's baby with hands looping thread
 you made a mother with your becoming.
 Wishes belonged in our whispered stories
 and the lines of your fingers make me weep.
 I wanted to create you,
 but you came knowing such things.
 I gave you a kind but un-gentle father
 with my thinking, what could we do?
 Now a man stares at me in the broken light
 that fades where the shadows allowed,
 and I know on this earth, I am never to be.


Humor Wears A Black Coat But Never a Tie...


 Sally walks gravel roads allowing
 small stones to mark her bare feet.
 I've asked her to find some shoes,
 she laughs at the cost of comforts.
 We meet for coffee, but we need a drink.
 She binds her hair with a black ribbon
 and her smile is the glossy red of taillights.
 On a napkin, she has written the words, 'I've enjoyed the ride'
 It's the most enthusiastic suicide note I've ever read.
 She's in an AC/DC mood where young men shout
 and I am in extremely good mania as we stir coffee
 with metal spoons, imagining grassy paths.
 She butters her lips with red and I smile when I ask,
 "What will the reaper think, when you ask for a kiss?"


Pieces of the Mosaic 


 Where are you Elena?
 Lost in the patterns of a broken Kaleidoscope
 where butterflies sip the pale candy flowers.
 Are you smiling in the cold sunlight?
 Do you wear your jacket or wrap yourself in blankets?
 I hope there are no tears in the corners of your thoughts.
 Can you feel the rustle of wind on your skin, Elena?
 Memories return but you may only be dreaming.
 Do you still have tantrum's smile?
 Is supper served on time and blessed by the words of a boy?
 The moon remains your plaything, bright and bouncing in the frightened dark.
 Do you hold your brother's hand as he grows?
 Whispering to him in lamplight's glow of how horses sound when running
 and why earth smells wet in arenas made of life.
 Does he laugh golden ?
 Close your eyes Elena, there is a river flowing to the sea.
 Gliding sails can make the passage home to where your edges begin.
 Does the boy ask of you? Do you answer in the voice of women?
 Have you taught him to draw a heart in crayon?
 I am holding Christmas in the back room; there are ribbons aching to be untied.
 Sunshine reflects the gold of cornsilk and I am still here Elena. In this  garden
 made of earth's bounty I wait for you to break this world apart.

LISE WHIDDEN shares...


LISE WHIDDEN lives in North Carolina with her husband , a Boxer bulldog, two cats and two horses. "Although I am a machinist of sorts by trade, I find great solace in words. Being compelled to write, I am always enrolled in a writing class or poetry workshop somewhere."


Summer’s Boy, Winter’s Man... When I was young I always assumed that time would change me, but it was my son that helped me discover the meaning of myself.

Humor Wears A Black Coat But Never a Tie... A friend is someone who laughs you through the serious things.

Pieces of the Mosaic... There is a sound in the wind that some think is the whisper of leaves moving, but it’s actually the cry of those who miss a child.