Knitting together, as sisters
Knit one and pearl two.
Sis made the striped ones,
mine were the cable stitch
while watching TV, during
bouts of insomnia, borne by
the need to do something.
Mom sewed the edges,
arranging the squares into
blankets she’d donate to
homes for the aged or send
to the overseas soldiers.
“See, she would say. In the
the cradle of time, you’ve
created something of value.”
Mom was just like that, as
she taught us of kindness and
of teaming together, as sisters.
She’d save them for years; all kinds
I lay on the table; cold steel, unloving.
My first colonoscopy; I look to the
ceiling, diverting my eyes from the
obvious, as I think of Regina
with her tests, meds and procedures
enroute to a true diagnosis.
It took them too long; a medley of
specialists,therapists and soothsayers
couldn’t unravel her maladies.
Two decades later, at last diagnosed -
three months before, she passed
while in hospice.
Lorraine, with the eyelashes
You read up on it.
First a short blurb or two
then incessantly tackling
a new terminology of a genre
never sparking your interest,
now weaving you into a select
group of those likewise afflicted.
You quick comb your hair mess
and reblot your “party pink lips”
as you look through the room
in the church basement.
Lorraine with the eyelashes, puts
up the coffee, and looks over her
speech, for the group meeting today.
Old lady boots
She was seventy four when she
first reached for my hand, crossing
the sidewalk of serial snowfalls.
Her boots were too high, she said.
“I need a new pair, like the old
ladies wear,” though we agreed she
still had some pep in her step.
But in two or so years, unbeknownst
at this moment, age would come
But for now, holding hands in the
snow, we were laughing like children.
Your tye dyed beret
The draw full of pictures
stacks high with memories.
Decades of stories hang
in hallways of happiness.
There’s one with your tye dyed
beret; your hair swinging with
braids, wearing the sun in
And I’m smiling right back at you.
I hold it with tenderness
as I almost forget we’re not
Your forget-me-not flowers
Climbing the crevice of
asphalt and cinder block, tiny
blue flower frills pop through
the concrete impermanence, with
us in the mix of the filigree.
Strangling, one of the other, we
vine in verandas in double dutch
love changed direction,
even when holding
your forget-me-not flowers.
When not writing poetry, Emalisa Rose enjoys crafting with macrame and hiking. She volunteers in animal rescue. Living by a beach town, provides much of the inspiration for her art. Some of her poems have appeared in KNOT Magazine, Writing in a Woman's Journal, Madswirl, and other great places. Her latest collection is "This water paint life," published by Origami Poets Project.