​The time has come,
the time has gone,
dreams of yesterday,
fade away thru the years.

What could have been,
if not for what has occurred,
given a chance,
would we have succeeded.

Going thru life dreaming,
was it easier, being what we have been,
instead of being,
what we could have been..

To be what we could have been,
instead of being, what we should have been,
did we try to be, what we were meant to be,
or did we just become, who we did not want to be.

Mentor's and Surrogate's, along the way,
wanting us to be, what they have been,
attempting to prevent, us from becoming,
what we wanted to be.

To be what we wanted to be,
meant not being, what we were meant to be,
preventing us from becoming, what we should have been,
becoming someone, who became someone,we were not meant to be.

So to be, what we want to be,
meant not, being what we were meant to be,
or what others, wanted us to be,
then who are we.

Sit and wonder what,
it would have been,
to be someone else,
instead of being, what we have been.

        Far, Far, Far away, there was a time,
                 when you were older, than you are today.


                  A time so long ago, it hides from you,
              yet faint memories, haunt you through the day.


     Remembering when you might have been, a soldier marching on Rome,
           or possibly a ancient mariner, anxious to return home.

         Working on the pyramids, or making pots of earthen clay.
      were we there once before, and have we ever passed this way.


  How many times have you felt, that you may have been someone else,
      at another time, another place, it was you yet not yourself.
 
    Ancient thoughts and forbidden times, arouse you deep inside,
    a product of the ages, can't remember how may times you died.
​

      I just found a shiny nickel,
                     alone on a curb,
                    did someone somehow lose it,
                    or was it casually tossed away.

                    You may be just a nickel,
                    yet how often were you used,
                    silver once considered valuable,
                    now neglected and abused.

                    There once was a time,
                    when you were of a great value,
                    now you just sit hidden away,
                    deep inside someone's pocket.

                    How many miles have you traveled,
                    ignored out of sight,
                    passed around from one to the next,
                    you no longer bring delight.

                    Once you bought a newspaper,
                    or a visit to the candy store,
                    but that was oh so long ago,
                    at a very different time.

                    A nickel many years ago,
                    could get you on a bus,
                    that nickel had many other uses,
                    put in a church basket, declaring in God we trust.

                    There was a saying long ago,
                    if you're called a nickel and dimer,
                    success and fame and fortune, just wan't yours,
                    you were always considered to be a small timer.

                    A nickel is a nickel,
                    and two of them equals a dime,
                    i just found you on the curb,
                    lost by someone, now you'll forever be mine.


​

​It is a country on the southernmost tip
of Africa, and it`s a proper name
that has the word Africa in it.
 
Some of that Southern African nation`s
official languages entail: Zulu, Sotho,
Ndebele, Xhosa, Venda, Tswana and English. 
 
This African nation is separated by the Limpopo River
from a landlocked country in Southern Africa whose political,
historical, cultural factors influence its linguistic landscape.
 
That both countries share historical, cultural and linguistic
similarities is no debate, for instance, both citizens speak:
Sotho, Ndebele, Xhosa ,Venda, Tswana and English.
 
It is a country on the southernmost tip
of Africa, and it`s a proper name
that has the word Africa in it.
 
What is improper is the lack of respect
for the sanctity of life, brutality and criminality,
whether perpetrated by a citizen or an immigrant.
 
 
African leaders have a duty to serve the interests
of their nations and citizens in a total and true fashion,
anything else is inexcusable, unfit and unacceptable.
 
What is also inexcusable, unfit and unacceptable
is to slay another African citizen by virtue
of that he was an undocumented immigrant.
 
How sad that the words Africa, African
have lost their essence in a heartless pool
of Afrophobia, Xenophobia or Anti-Africanism.
 
In both countries, one can find a Dube, a Khumalo,
a Mudau, a Ndlovu, a Nyathi and even a Dlamini –
does their brotherhood diminish by virtue of borders?
 
How sad that artificial, colonial boundaries have
overridden historical, cultural and linguistic affinities  
and humanity and haunted, blinded brothers like ghosts.
 
Indeed there is a race for wealth, jobs, power and survival,
but what boggles me is that an undocumented non-black
African can live in there without hassles or eyebrows raised.        
    
It is a country on the southernmost tip
of Africa, and it`s a proper name
that has the word Africa in it.
 
Is there something UnAfrican? 
 
 

​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.​​

​Scattered, as confetti,
a handful of color
spreads touching
humans.  Corona
cares little about
climate, country,
technology.
Difficult to sweep
away, as are bits
of paper dropped
at parades, we
wanted to believe
most would have
been gone in 2020,
or 2021. Another
calendar year.
Perhaps 2022
might vacuum
Covid’s last strain?

​Being alone is like flying up in the skies
Without wings
Just letting myself go
There where the lyrics of my favorite song
Bids me to go!

Being alone is enriching
It bids me to be as I wish 
In a world which is as I want it to be,
Either a queen ruling my own island
Or a doll meant to be pampered generously!

Being alone
Is like being a talent in itself
Standing on a stage, praised and lauded
By thousands of thrill seekers
All moving to the beats of my tempo
All seeking the relief that I pass on to them!

Being alone
Is dangerous,
It not only opens wings
But it has me giving the world
A look through my own eyes
And smile when I wish to 
Or cry if need be
Without having any bogus
Or void rules imposed upon me
Thereby bidding me to not be me!

Being alone
Is what I am
Being alone
Is the medium which allows me
To live as would a poetess!

​I left my heart somewhere
In the middle of nowhere
Letting it feed itself and survive
Or die, 
If it so wishes!

But the power of life pitied me
And picked it up
To take care of it,
Watering it as it willed
So that it would bloom 
Into an enchantment!

With time,
The pity that it held for me
Grew into love
And this love approached me
As would creepers do in a garden!

I let the love of Existence
Invade my whole essence
And merge with its spiritually
So much 
That now,
Nothing matters anymore
Except singing to its growth
Which has already started
And which shall give fruits of love
Somewhere
In the celestial arena
Somewhere
Where the human eyes and 
The human mind cannot conceive of!

​In a half filled glass of wine,
I chose to drown!

Indeed, standing on the brim of the glass,
I took a deep breath
And dived in
Merely to find myself
Floating in its poetic mass,
While having, all around me,
Songs of all sorts,
Songs, glorifying life
And its cruelty
As well as its warmth
And its comfort!

In a half filled glass of wine,
I realised that life meant more
Than just living for the sake of it
Or for the sake of societal rules
Or for that of the uncertain future even!

Yes,
Life is itself an intoxication,
All that it requires from us
Is to love it
As it presents itself to us
As this remains the only way
Through which it would love us back!

​There's a virus in the air, but I can't see it.
People are dying around me, but I can't save them.
There are spikes pierced in my back,
spasms, but I can't touch them.
Heartbeats, hell pulsating, my back muscles,
I covet in my prayers.
I turn right to the left, in my bed, then hang still.
Nails impaled, I bleed hourly,
Jesus on that cross.
Now 73 years of age, my half-sister 92,
told me, "getting old isn't for sissies."
I didn't believe her--
until the first mimic words
out of "Kipper" my new parakeet's mouth,
sitting in his cage alone were 
"Daddy, it's not easy being green."

​Leaves, a few stragglers in
December, just before Christmas,
some nailed down crabby
to ground frost,
some crackled by the bite
of nasty wind tones.
 
Some saved from the matchstick
that failed to light.
Some saved from the rake
by a forgetful gardener.
 
For these few freedom dancers
left to struggle with the bitterness:
wind dancers
wind dancers
move you are frigid
bodies shaking like icicles 
hovering but a jiffy in the sky,
kind of sympathetic to the seasons,
reluctant to permanently go, rustic,
not much time more to play.
 

Wind chimes.
It’s going to rain tonight, thunder.
I’m going to lead the group tonight talking
about Rational Emotive Therapy,
belief challenges thought change,
Dr. Albert Ellis.
I’m a hero in my self-worship,
self-infused patient of my pain,
thoughtful, probabilistic atheism
with a slant toward Jesus in private.
Rules roll gently creeping
through my body with arthritis 
a hint of mental pain.
Sitting in my 2001 Chevy S-10 truck,
writing this poem, late as usual.
It’s going to rain, thunder
heavy tonight.
 ​

​Drawings, then poems flip over to fiction; 
the flash girl rides this ghost of the invention.
Insecure in youth, switch girl from drawing
to poetry, extension flight, outer fiction space,
yours is a manner of words at work. 
Mercury is a god of movement.
A new skill set, brain twister, releases 100 free plays.
Life is a version of old times, fresh starts, torn yellow pages.
I focused on you last night; I watched your head spin
in sleep, a new playhouse of tree dreams, high shifting.
Changes are leaves; I lift your spirits to the gods of fire,
offer you thunderbolts practice your shooting in heaven
or hell, or toss back to earth.
Change is a choice where your energy flows.
No computer gods will help this poetic journey.
May you cry out loud on route to fairytale creations.
You are the chemist, the mixer girl shifting gears.
Creativity is how the gallery of galaxies cement.
Flash fiction lines cross stars.
 

​Below the clouds
forming in my eyes,
your soft eyes,
delicate as warm silk words,
used to support the love I held for you.
 
Cold, now gray, the sea tide
inside turns to poignant foam
upside down separates-
only ghosts now live between us.
 
Yet, dreamlike, fortune-teller,
bearing no relation to reality-
my heart is beyond the sea now.
A relaxing breeze sweeps
across the flat surface of me.
I write this poem to you,
neglectfully sacrificing our love.
I leave big impressions
with a terrible hush inside.
Gray bones now bleach with memories,
I’m a solitary figure standing
here, alone, along the shoreline.

​ 
Man there’s cold wars ,
There’s civil war’s ,
Fam wars ,
World wars -
Always wondered if they just pulled straws,
The one with the shortest one the draw.
He could unleash his idea
Even if their was a major flaw .
 
Reflecting on past is a natural action -
The bigger the terror the bigger the transaction,
Don’t want to put you in these shoes but imagine
Being a soldier in the war is like being in an open coffin.
Vigorous facade , death path awaits
Soldiers brainwashed to win the war ,
When they're all wishing now to withdraw ;
Wars are never fun and so also says the Son .
 
You want proof of all I say ,
Look towards Wilfred Owen
And he went through the pain .
Yes, the old lie Dulce est decorum est pro patria mori
His poem tells a monumental story ,
Contains sadness and no glory .
 
But if you still managed to win a war ,
Yourself turns bitter and you collect new memories ;
Wanting to unforget but can’t and failing
Try to spend family time, trying not to look so dark and sweaty
My friends wars come with horrors ,
Wars cause tears
Wars could make you broken or stutter ,
Wars bring you fears that never end.

​From up above
I look down at
The stacked condos
 
I see the lives
Lived
Adjacent
Us
 
A cat with white
Paws creeping
Across a table
 
A woman setting
An alarm
Perhaps
To cook
 
A girl
Sleeping
in the remnants of
The early November
Morning light
Her hand curled
As if to hang on
To the remainder
Of yesterday
And all its potential
Had there
Been any
 
I hear a shout
From afar
A truck crawls
Up the street
Doors slam
And open
Sailboats float
In the Aegean
They offer
A bit of consolation
For now I know
I am not the only
One
Floating 

​There were five kids who liked to play
In the nearby park everyday;
Their favourite was going on the swings
It made them feel like they had wings;
But this park didn’t have a slide
Down which they all could whoop and glide;
For they thought it would be very fun
And suddenly, one day, the park had one;
The slide was long, yellow and steep
The kids always played on it, even in their sleep;
The next bright morning
The yellow slide started moving;
Flinging the kid that was on it
A mile away, the ground she hit;
The slide now stood tall and strong
It had been a giraffe all along;
Mad at the kids for disturbing his nap
The giraffe decided to give them crap;
At their sleep over he peeped through their window
And laughed an evil laugh eerie and low;
He chased them all down the street
Which was too much for their little feet;
He terrorised the kids during their class
By throwing, at them, shards of glass
It seemed like it would be forever
Before they could escape the giraffe’s terror.

​Are your jeans tattered and torn?
Because you fell down and broke a bone?
Well, this is an easy challenge to face
Just pop that bone back into place.
 
Did you accidentally stab yourself
While getting the knife from its shelf;
Just leave the knife in and you won’t bleed
This is all the medication you will need.
 
Feel like you damaged your brain after a meal
When you fell after slipping on a banana peel;
Do not call this brain damage
Instead say you’re speaking a secret language;
 
If your eye rolls out of its socket
Make sure you don’t put it in your pocket;
All you need to do is rinse it in kerosene
Before you put it right back in.
 
Of my home remedies, these are a few
Perhaps I should make a part two?

 

​We swim the river,
shoot the stream,
swept along
by desire for the sea.


Pools,
rapids,
shoals,
rocks.


Inlets,
marshes,
channels,
dreams.


Waterfalls that plunge
in violence,
mists that envelope
in seductive kiss.


Deltas that scatter roar
into meander,
mud flats that ingest swamp
and make remembrance.


We swim the river,
we are the river –
stream desire,
dream fire.


We plunge into
the quenching sea,
where question ends
as we.

Return to the young groves
that are ancient,
where ancestors lie fallen
and silent.
My life is a spare set 
of their recording rings,
each glorious nation and notion
a hiccup in redwood memory.


Their wooden days 
are dwindling
if days are counted in eons.
The fog they bathe in
has retreated,
the inland seas
where they once waded
drained by shifting geography.


Before the hands
wielding chainsaws,
before the papers
claiming property,
they were a lawn
of red and green,
of whisper in the wind,
of canopy in the clouds.


Before the natives
gleaning and praying,
before the gigantic beasts 
sheltering in their sweep,
they were a memory 
of continents drifting,
of glaciers sojourning,
of oceans restless in dreaming. 


But this morning 
in fog and breeze
as branches sway and rub,
they do not think of history,
of riches or of misery,
of conquering armies
or violent religions,
or of striving after things.


This morning 
in shroud and leaf
they sample again
what’s warm and what’s wild,
give shelter without rancor,
revel in the beak that pierces,
in the owl
that sleeps and strives.


This morning in mist
they dream
of stars that once made
different pictures,
of an age of snow
that put them to sleep,
of fires that cleansed them,
of people that ravaged them.


This morning in mist
they dream –
the sap that wends,
the claws that climb,
the earth that caresses their feet.
The wind that sings eternity –
at the last
their shortest sleep.


​

​Apples in the branches,
once green as leaves,
now are yellow as the sun.


What miraculous process
makes color from air
and million mile light?


What genius strand
thought up
that chemical way?


Pigmentation blooms
deep in the cell,
youthful in the fruit.


Till age and ripe
plunder the color,
deluge the dance.


And firm flesh
is flooded
with soft and rot.


Call it death,
call it vinegar,
call it cider.


Call it fallen,
call it compost,
call it begin again.

Butterflies and birds -
cute and fragile,
tough and agile.
We watch them
flit and whistle
through shingle, 
leaf and thistle.


We buy cards,
share pix,
print their delicate,
flying images
on fabrics,
wind chimes,
summer dresses.


But twice a year 
the gossamer 
and feathered
launch on
epic journeys
without ice chest,
cell, or GPS.


From arctic to tropic
they soar and skip
over white peaks
and white caps,
across frozen tundra,
desert dune,
and night’s black.


Through predator
and pesticide,
hunger and hunter,
smog and typhoon,
some veer and fall
while millions more
hold true..


Beside these wonders 
the macho we
with our loud trucks,
our weapons, drinks,
shouts, and road rage
are pale, and wan,
and sedentary


We bluster
in our macho,
they hear the call
of ancient,
we break down
in curse and fight,
they give all
and take to sky.

​

​We surely must follow Christ, learn from him,
unquestionable master of love and tolerance.
Son of God, yet a brother, he bequeathed us
divine words and deeds that survive forever.
The way he loved us, great and pure,
no one had or has ever equally leveled.
His sacrifice on behalf of humanity,
that of then and of coming times,
unworthy and infidel ones, perhaps,
just by this,  
took him to redeem us from bitter destiny. 
But, aside from his Divinity, his grandeur,
do not forget the passage of Matthew 21-12,
when he entered the temple of his father.
Then, not by a conversation or dialogue,  
‘He cast out all them that sold and bought’,
 ‘overthrew the tables of the moneychangers’.
I love this Christ, so human and so brother,
who did not conceal his anger, as one of us.
By now, in our time, to honor our Lord,  
we have failed to call up one Saint Fury,
just like that day.
 
 
 

​Sometimes I venture to make an odd journey.
I go to the past, long ago, distant and perilous.
The road I take has been built entirely by me,   
in very hard a way no one at least dreams of.
Rough a path and full of so many deviations,
that even me, well used to, I go so timorous.  
Now, I see that there were no other choices,
for only this way would lead me where I am.  
Where and what I must be ever since I was.
In this visit, I see friends, lovers, enemies,
grandfathers and cousins, see also myself.
Then, undoubted alive, they talk to me,
ask for news, and, like old comrades,
absent for so long, soon we are laughing.
On leaving, one or other intend to follow me,
but I don’t feel safe and go home alone. 
I suspect that past is jealous of its deeds
and always hides how has woven them. 
I think it must be visited as few times                                              
as one is capable of.
 
 
 

​It was a sunny day, only I felt the gloom
that accompanied it.
No one noticed my agony and my despair,
neither heard my sobs nor saw my tears.
I know they inhabit their castles of indifference
and selfishness, daily toasting to their goddesses,
some I never wish would be mine. 
Tears that healed my body’s wounds,
smoothed my soul and comforted my spirit,
pouring out all my sadness.
A prelude for the days to come, 
whose story I am obliged to leave written,
which will be judged by our creator,
besides all of those who crossed my path.
May it be lines to justify the season I passed
through this world, a testimony which worth
the redemption of my entire being,
showing, at least, a little bit of the sacredness
from which we must never abdicate in this life.
 
 

​My dead, those I loved in life,
I do not bury them.
They remain forever unburied,
at least as long as I can stay alive.
When I die, they will be buried beside me.
I am sure they know this, knowing also 
I am still counting on their help and support.
We talk about everything and everyone,
we laugh, weep, love and hate;
they rest with me at night and give me strength,
at the dawn of a new day. 
Every victory of mine, they applaud and rejoice,
as faithful crowd, that accompanies their team.
Morbid desires, unnatural cravings, some will say.
But no, it is just great and honest one love, a pure one, 
that understands and consoles me on certain days.
Days full with doubts, shadows and ill feelings,
those that fate has marked for me,
which, by sure, I will not be able to avoid. 
 
 
 

​Plowing the fields and producing wheat, oats and beans;
rising sheep, cows and pigs;   
raising and spreading children and instilling in them
those dreams we were not able to turn into reality.
Throwing rails, roads, bridges and ports,
cities, skyscrapers, churches and cathedrals,
always leaving fences and borders;
creating worlds only ours,
incapable and fearful to cohabit the one
that has been given to us in full.
Boasting and toasting in life’s daily feast,
trying to write our history, which has begun 
in that sixth day of the divine journey of creation.
Someday, somewhere, this history will be told,
and few will be able to understand, for has been lived  
on days filled with passion, hard struggle and suffering. 
History developed from our human nature, not paired
with the undoubted greatness of our Creator,
whom, although absent, we learned to venerate,
and, some of us, still to love.