Poetry: Selections from Emalisa Rose


Nine years reclusive

Annabelle weaves

by the window

watching the moon

and the magpies…

third of December

longing for leaves, as

she waits out the long days.


The carnage accounted for

amid the dust and debris.


Subsequently, the sun returned

lighting the sky,  saving the world

from the cloud collapse.


A garland of geese wove through

the face of the firmament.


And we knew

as we tiptoed the shoreline

we were safe from the storm.


(for now)

Not today

She promised she’d quit

by the next quarter moon or

when robins return

from their southern state sojourn.

Perhaps after holiday when its easier

time for such regiment.


Sneaking her six airplane bottles

into her pocketbook, Jane swears

she’ll stop one day - just not today.

Boy chasing

Jimmy fucked up again, been ‘away’ a few years.

My back is a bitch these days; I live between ice packs

and heating pads, the weed and the celebrex.


Lights out by nine-thirty, can't take the nightly news.

I packed on eleven, fucking Pandemic, can’t lose

and don’t care, but you can’t see me fat again, like

those teen times of pimples, buck teeth and boy chasing.


Dad died, the cancer came back. Mom is still loopy.

We put her away, stopped talking to Sissy. She

took Moma's money, won’t give me a dime..the bitch.


I still prefer felines, rather spend time with them.

I've grown more reclusive; the cats understand me.


With some booze and some side guys and

a preference for quietude, I lapsed into dormancy

and live without noise for now.


Sorry I phased out on you.

It was good to catch up again.

That place

Two times a Sunday he’d visit

his sister in that place for the “wayward.”


Dad gave his speech - “Just a nod and

a smile for both Joyce and the residents

and no matter how nice they appear, don’t

give them change for that soda machine.”


On the way back, we’d stop at the donut king

luring us in with its bright light fluorescence

and the clown with its mouth in a cruller.


Never mentioned was Joyce or the other ones

or the “stuff” that we witnessed.

Emalisa Rose, when not writing poetry, enjoys crafting and leading a birding group on Sundays. She also volunteers in animal rescue, tending to cat colonies in TNR programs. Her latest collections are On the Whims of the Crosscurrents, published by Red Wolf Editions and This Water Paint Life, published by Origami Poems Project.



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