LOIS GREENE STONE - POEMS

​Lois Greene Stone, writer and poet, has been syndicated worldwide. Poetry and personal essays have been included in hard & softcover book anthologies.  Collections of her personal items/ photos/ memorabilia are in major museums including twelve different divisions of The Smithsonian.  The Smithsonian selected her photo to represent all teens from a specific decade.​​

​Stationery 

​Inside the drawer, scented with
cherry-aroma pipe tobacco,
was personalized writing paper.
His identity, etched on granite now,
had no need to appear as a letterhead.
Bittersweet choice:
to use one sheet and envelope,
or to use-up all that remains
with his name.
 
 
July 2019   Eunoia Review

​Lo Mein not included   

Crunch.  I slid the paper strip from
the broken cookie.  My fortune was
clearly printed.  No, this wasn’t a
prediction, or some silly universal
horoscope shown in daily papers
everywhere, it was baked inside the
odd shaped treat, and was truly mine.
Unlike a Ouija Board where a
question must be posed, this crumb-
coated rectangle waited for my hand
to release it.
Coins were inserted into machines
where a mannequin moved and
indicated my future.  While I could
never be serious about that device,
I so enjoyed inserting money.  A
girlhood magazine had a monthly message
but wasn’t really private and special.
Wishes on stars were, well, wishes.
This pale brown crunchy treat, sitting in
a wooded bowl, waited for me to pick it;
I placed the predicted circumstance
in my purse assuming when ‘such’ revealed
itself, I’d smile and then affix the written
words to an empty spot on my desk blotter.
Halfway through young adulthood, I
accepted the folly.  What’s been fortune,
fortunate, fortuitous has little to do with
cookies or Ouija, rabbits’ feet charms,
yet there’s a temptation to ‘believe’ when
I feel that cookie give way, erupt to
allow a thin stip of magic to appear. 
 
 
published September, 2016   Halfway Down the Stairs 
reprinted Spring 2019   Shemom

​Priorities

                        
Did it matter
that it rained
for our outdoor party?
Did it matter
that humidity
wilted our garden plants?
It only mattered
that we laughed,
held hands, and
as a family
shared.
 
 
 
spring 2005    Shemom
 

​Everything Leaves Traces

Crosslegged she sits
watching me wash my hair.
She doesn't speak when
fragrant foam covers
my head, nor as I rinse
and towel dry.  Reaching
her tiny arms upward,
I lift her, and as we
leave the room she
whispers into my moist
hair: "Mommy, you smell good."          
           
 
 
 ©1994 Green's Educational Pub.
Reprinted: 2001 hardcover book anthology  Harmony/Random House, “Mothers and Daughters”
reprinted spring 2019 Westward Quarterly
 
 
 

Ribbons and Spools
​

Rubber platen rolled.
Keys often stuck.
Fingers turned
red and black
when ribbon
spools were
inserted.  Ding.
I shifted a line.
Oops.  Forgot
to notice I’d
typed too far
down the page.
A relic.  My young
days went through
the passageway as
newer technology
was created.
 
No ding, platen,
ribbon, nor
margins to
constantly
observe.  How
might I kiss the
inventor of my
first PC with its
9-pin dot matrix
machine?
Run-off pages,
I commanded
the computer
as it figuratively
laughed: the printer’s
out of ink.
 
Published May 2017   Indiana Voice