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Lady Makeover

First line from Shakespeareís Sonnet No. 22

 

My glass shall not persuade me I am old

when with tinting subtle and color bold

I can a decade or thrice erase

from the canvas of my face.

 

Be gone, thou frowning lines of doom

that seem to drag me towards the tomb.

Away, thou lizardly patches of pelt

sired of all sunshine Iíve ever felt.

 

The mousy gray from my hair I chase

with pomades powerful and full of grace.

Those blemishes and moles I do espry

From my pots and potions fly.

 

As for the rest: the soggy sinews, the belly flab,

the scraggly hairs upon my chin,

the lumps, the bumps, the oríall drab,

the hard time-fight no one can win;

these larger miseries Iíll put away,

to remedy another day.

 

Lisa James

 

In the Midst

 

Tumbled, sand-scoured, wave-heaved

†† with the seaweed and debris,

the breaks and ebbs upend my heart,

†† silt the connection to that greater Ocean, the one where

walking on water is like breathing air.

I canít ptonounce the drowning womanís name,

†† not when sea and sky and land

†† break boundaries and shift shapes.

I nag my hope on stalled tides, stilled seas,

†† flecks of foam glinting rainbows in the sunlight.

 

Lisa James

Poetry master class participant,

winner of the 2002 Northport Poetry Contest.

On Reading 50 year old Poems

 

Paper with edges

crumbled and brown

neatly typed words

formed long ago

 

written for a poetry class

taught by a poet

I did not know

was famous

 

words flash and burn

tearing away years

a young and troubled me

emerges

 

beating against blackness

drowning in self hate

sad and young

and very alone

 

Iím touched by this other me

glad not to be her now

 

Evelyn Kandel

Pronter, formalist poet, dramatic performance poet

 

Wearing Something Silly

 

I see a young girl

wearing something silly

tears fill my throat

Iím not sure why

 

Itís not as if my youth

was all so wonderful

though I do remember

wearing something silly

 

a polka-dot hat

with gloves to match

a full Dior skirt

with pinched waist

 

I was young and could wear

silly hats and bright lipstick

drive in a convertible

with wind blowing my hair

 

and not care

and not care

 

I sae a young girl

wearing something silly

my throat filed with tears

 

Evelyn Kandel

She Was Seven

 

She walked like a princess in disguise,

her limp, striungy hair held with a string.

The stale dampness of her clothes hung loosely,

with uneven hems that swayed as she walked.

At school no one would sit near her

or include her in their games.

 

She sat like sphinx in the desert,

on a throne of her own,

happy, warm, smiling.

She tucked her soiled sock

behind her worn shoe

keeping her best shoe and sock forward.

 

The day went quickly. After school she lingered,

picking up treasure of paper and sorted things.

She held her books closely,

wearing them like jewels.

She ran, leaped, and skipped to a car

in a maze of rubble: home.

 

Her books, her fantasy, her first day.

 

Jeanette Klimszewski

Teacher , coach, clown, Taproot writerís group member, many publishing credits, one book published

Performance Poets Associationģ

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