​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.

Pretending indifference,
I stared.
My mother's pleading
provoked me.  It's
my hair!
She curled, combed,
sprayed, smoothed,
smiled.  Expressionless,
though inwardly satisfied,
I did not acknowledge
her accomplishment.
 

©1986  Christian Board of Pub.

You always said, “Be Careful”
when I left the house
and I responded by acting
defiant, telling you
I wasn’t a baby that needed
to be told to be careful.
You still said, “Be Careful”
the very next time even
when I just took my
bicycle a few houses away.
“Yeah.  Sure,” I replied,
sounding cool, indifferent.
Now I understand what
you meant when you said
“Be Careful,” it was
your way of expressing
you love me.

 ©1999 Skylark

“Game recognises game”                                             Leather corsets
                                                                                    Knee-high stiletto
Popular saying                                                             Heeled boots
Used in some                                                              Were kept out of
Black people’s                                                             Those photo shoots.
Conversations 
                                                                                    Bunny believed that
Normally blurted out                                                   The female form 
When one sees                                                            Could stand on its own
Their best qualities                                                      And that was no lie
In another.
                                                                                   Considering the sometimes
Example given:                                                           Pin-up had Manhattan’s
                                                                                   Reigning queen pin-up
Back in the 1950s,                                                       Queen Bettie to work with.
A Florida                                                                    Potential best seller
Cheesecake model      
Didn’t want to                                                            Who could flex
Limit herself to being                                                  Into any pose,
Before flashing cameras.                                             In many guises:
So she switched positions.            
The camera                                                                A housewife,
Was in her hands                                                       A vixen,
For a change.                                                             A splashing 
                                                                                  Beach bunny,
The amateur                                                              A female
Photographer                                                            Tarzan in
In this tale—let’s                                                       Leopard skin,
Call her Bunny—                                                      A fisherwoman
Was found by                                                           On a boat reeling in
Her other self:                                                          Her catch in the raw,
A New York                                                             Decorating a small
City model                                                                Christmas tree with just
Visiting Miami                                                          A Santa hat & a wink--
On holiday—let’s                                          
Call that one Bettie—                                               “Game recognises game”--
                                                                    W: 4.25.18


​

He was allowed                                                            Underground favourite
To have his                                                                  Top model Miss Page
Freedom outside                                                          Seductress—Saint
Prison walls                                                                  Naughty—Nice
On the condition                                                         Paradox on 
That he destroy                                                            Spiked heels
His life’s work,                                                             Under flames
End his business                                                          Bubbling
Of making & selling                                                     Melting
Pics mail-order.                                                            Decomposing
Such was the deal,                                                        Beauty and bondage
Faustian bargain,                                                          Disappearing
Irving Klaw                                                                  Nowhere as searing
Made with                                                                    As the fire
The federal government,                                              Estes Kefauver
Relentless, on the hunt                                                 Tennessee senator
For perverts,                                                                Presidential wanna-be
Juvenile delinquents                                                     And their Senate
And menacing Reds                                                     Sub-committee
Hidden under                                                              Built for poor Irving
People’s beds.                                                              And his camera
Glossy                                                                         Snapping sister.
Monochrome                                                              Three-fourths
Four-by-fives,                                                             Of the photos, the
Eight-by-tens,                                                             Worst of the worst,
Film negatives                                                             Were ashes.
“Harmful matter”                                                       Paula Klaw, fortunately,
Disposable bait                                                           Kept the last fourth,
Fed to                                                                         Saw future
The fire                                                                       Selling potential.
Roaring in                                                                   Thank goodness for 
A metal rubbish bin.                                                   Crafty little sisters.
                                                          W: Gay Pride Day 2018


​

The black-haired former Tennessee Tease
Flashing country girl smile that could melt a man
And a figure sure to please

Left New York City for cold Canada land--
So we’ve been misled--
Maybe slinging hash in a Texas diner was her plan

Or maybe she’d married a man royalty-bred.
Wrong again. It’s much more uncouth.
She died under fire from Mafia lead.

Becoming a Christian born again was the only truth
Out of many swirling wild rumours.
The cross she wore, Bible she held gave us sure proof.
W: 7.30.18

​

As the yellow-orange sun crests the horizon,
we wake, in the stillness of dawn.
Cool, crisp, and clear; the air beckons
in harmony with the Robin's song.

A stirring breeze captures the melody,
and the echo calls my name.

Prepped and ready, we sway;
my dog's anxious dance of late.
She stays faithfully by my side,
joining my light-hearted gait.

One quick bark leads the way,
and her echo calls my name.

Spring buds burst forth in hues:
red, pink, and purple, bright with dew.
Scented with color, fresh and new.
The clear sky, so boldly blue.

With hope, flowers begin another round of life,
and the echo calls my name.

Children's distant laughter rings merrily,
I smile at the sound.
Running, jumping, and playing games of joy,
their feet barely touching the ground.

Peals reverberate into the day,
and the echo calls my name.

Sizzling grills of pungent smoke,
families join for a feast.
Crisp greens, watermelon, dripping ice creams.
Tendrils of hickory: North, South, West, and East.

Aroma of BBQ, crowds gathered near,
and the echo calls my name.

We sit by a stream, my girl and I,
my line cast into the swirling depths.
Wavering water and rippling rocks,
sun-shimmering diamonds that sparkle where it's wet.

Silvery fish amplify the sound,
and the echo calls my name.

Heat-soaked we rise, then splash and play.
The day's catch in hand, we roam.
The journey back, we happily stroll;
making our way back home.

Sunday's memories bring peace to my mind,
and the echo calls my name.



​

Jumbled webs of confusion harness my thoughts.
Fogged ideas tumble and swirl, like a swaying light-bulb behind a dark grey veil.
Thunderous black clouds crack loudly, echoing distorted voices of insanity.
Irrational heart beats race as fear enters my mind, sheer, unimaginable terror grips tightly,
like a vise with incredible strength.
Scenes of horror flash dramatic pictures of heart-wrenching reality.
I am held in place, unable to move, forced to watch unmistakable acts of evil.
Death approaches in many forms, chasing my subconscious into a surreal stratosphere.
Loved ones are hurt and crying, strangers plead for help.
Closet-monsters leap out, performing illusionary dances of darkness.
Unprotected, I fear I will lose my life to an over-active imagination.
Suddenly, I wake. The sounds of my screaming throwing me from a Hell-bound roller-coaster ride.
The morning sun greets me; as happy as I to meet the new day.
Yet, we know the distant dusk fast approaches, making ready once again the stage of sleepers,
where the never-ending play begins the next act.
We must prepare for these on-going movies which shred our mentality;
for when we fall under the spell of exhaustion, we land hard, and defenseless.



​

Canada's history
relies on people; our staple
whose roots are strong and deep
like our trees of Maple

Our seasons are aromatic and unique:
they're not for the feint of heart.
We turn on heat and A/C the same day;
we don't always end where we start

The picturesque geography
is a wonder to behold
Beauty reigns East to West
Santa lives at our North Pole

We stop for funeral processions,
Police, Ambulance, and Fire, too;
Community support can be found
in what we say and do

Quick to apologize;
we're sorry every day
Keeping the peace matters,
because we are Canadians, eh?

​

a walk spanning several blocks

morning doves shuffling
along front lawns as
cardinals recite poetic
verse in flocks of three to five

the smell of burning
firewood follows my
stepfather and i around
every bend

before we turn onto the street
corner where my mother and stepfather live, 
i spot a massive
tortoise carved out of wood

large rock for a shell
front arms raised

the quiet conductor
of this radiant spring evening

​

call me an anchor
finding its hook in this page
grand harbour of contentment

my thought processes guiding me
to the greater unknown

the largest portions of my life 
are still ahead of me

i have yet to kiss
my own baby’s face, but have
lived long enough to have
kissed my niece’s cheek, and it
was soft cherub’s kaolin

a skin coated psalm that will
reverberate throughout the next generation

​

aperture in the bathroom curtain
sunbeam cracking through 
the neon windowpane, rectangular

stray hairs pivoting in the midst
of the radiant yellow luster
a ballerina at the end of a salient denouement

performing her graceful dissent,
eventually latching on to a line
between the tiles on the floor

neil young’s twang
echoing brackish earth
on the sound system
gettin’ dooo-ow-own

flush

​

You and me," He said, "we aren't eternal."
However, this moment,
this small lapse of time that
may be a mistake or
may be an act of faith - I honestly
do not care which-it's real.
It is heartbeats and
stuttered breaths
and soft skin and
so, so very human.
And when I met him, it seemed like
the world had finally
granted my wish,
and carved my happiness
in the shape of him.
He came to me with stars
in his eyes; waiting to be jotted
into constellations, and galaxies
hidden deep in his soul;
waiting to be explored
and loved by me.
But maybe that's the thing about
true love, it ends tragically.
i tried to paint over the
memories of him, camouflage him
in colors of green and gray.
but he is still here.
on my mind, always.
and even though the paint
has begun to fade,
the image of him, with me, has not.

​

​it is as permanent and vibrant
as ever. Or maybe you were the
stubborn ocean blue paint, that I
couldn't get off my hands
no matter how hard I try or
maybe you were the water,
the river, a sea of forever
that will never be mine.
Maybe it was love at first sight.
Or second. Or maybe it was
the third one that stroke me the most.
I felt butterflies in my stomach.
Or lions. Or maybe it was the
undeniable fear of the anticipated
hurting your departure
would feel like.
And when you left i wrote,
i wrote and i wrote, until there were
no more tears that
could be turned into ink.
at that moment, i sensed the
deepest void in my chest
because i had managed to spill
on the white pages all of my feelings
so now i lie here, as empty as these words I wrote.

​❝Solve my equations of dark maths hidden in pulmonary vein/ of my what my heart not might / not a word I want, but your presence to reach a feeling of paradiscial delight/ fall in love with me , just as waves fall for the moon every night/ tranquillity will surround our mind when we will stare at these pink stained skies/ undress my mind with your euphonic words just as moon dresses the night/ let's break boundaries of space and time and perform the astral travelling of mind/ and when the scent of love will spread its wings for a panoply to shine/ that's the moment when Shakespeare will write about our cosmic love in the hidden diaries of his mind/ let him write about how our souls will conflate to quench thirst of our soul and mind/ about how planets will collide with sun in one strike / about how stars will drape themself in supernovae light/ about the end game of universe, splitting itself into a million atoms/ consuming all science/ about the end game of universe, splitting itself into a million atoms/consuming all science❞

​you don't love him anymore
but sometimes when you look at
the sky it seems to be the same shade of blue as his eyes. 
you don't love him anymore
but sometimes when you are driving alone in your car, switching the radio stations and hear the song you two used to always sing together,
you get this overwhelming
ache deep in your chest.
you don't love him anymore
but sometime you catch
a glimpse of him laughing
and a knot forms in your
throat because it used
to be your favorite sound.
you don't love him anymore
but sometimes you catch yourself thinking about him and all the memories you made together.
you don't love him anymore
but sometimes when you drink so much that you can not even remember your name, you remember him.
you remember the way he held you, the way he kissed you,the way he made you feel special. 
you don't love him anymore
but sometimes you drive through
stop signs because it hurts too much to stop at one, especially the one where he took your hand, looked
into your eyes and told you he loved you for the first time.
you don't love him anymore
but sometimes when you are in class, or in bed, or watching a movie, or listening to music, it hits you that
he is gone and you cry
and cry but you swear
you do not love him anymore.

​heartbreak is crying
because they left and they
had your entire heart.

​it's having trust issues
because they promised
they would never leave
you but they did.

​it's crying in the shower
with water pouring
over your crippled body
wishing that the pain
would wash away.

​it's all the thoughts
wondering if you will
ever be able to love again.

​it's wondering if anyone
will ever love you.
it's them leaving but it's
not just as simple as crying.

​it hurts because when
they left they took away
the best parts of you.

​because that's what happened.
they brought out the best
of you and took it with them
leaving you with no love,

​♡not even for yourself♡

​You are not your name
nor your age.
You are not a weight
or the size of
clothes you wear.
You are not the color
of your hair or the
dimples in your checks.
You are all the books
you read and all the
words you speak.
You are your croaky
morning voice
and the smiles
you try to hide.
You are the
sweetness
in your laughter
and every tear
you have cried.
You are the songs
you sing so loudly,
when you know
you are all alone.
You are the places
that you have been to
and the one you call home.
You are the things
you believe in
and the people
that you love.
You are the pictures
in your bedroom
and the future
you dream of.
You are made
of so much beauty,
but it seems that
you forgot when you 
decided that
you were defined by


all the things you are not

My right foot breaks something
My left foot gets sticky

I don’t duck i hit my head
I duck and i don’t see something

I can sit at a T intersection for minutes
Unable to  keep going straight
Or get a coin out of my pocket to flip

When i don’t want to use either hand
Or both reach out and get in the way

Sometimes i think i’m standing in the middle
But take one step and find the edge

A time to be paralyzed through dispersion
A time to lash out uncontrollably
Months of several prescriptions

​

​Everything sun through
when nothing right is left
i look out what used to be a window
how am i standing on a third floor 
   with a tide of thick wind pouring under through
not lost, not wandering, numb & hungry
finding the 30 year old inside the 61 years of
   packaging, notes, pressure-gems, seeds 
   of which 1 per cent might sprout

The rain is my dibble, my confessor, my cookbook
the sun is an alarm clock, revealing shadows
my thermostat stays one step ahead
the difference between a paved field and very large intersection
dry surfing, dry silence
even when the windows open no one tries to get in
crows checking on squirrels, possum planning tomorrows menu,
songs it never gets quiet enough to hear

​
Pay what you want but you have to eat all of it
the server doesn’t know the ingredients, not even
the blindfolded chef opening the braille-labeled meal-packs
boiling on the inside, steam without water, light without glass

><><><><

The keys spending most of your time indoors alone
away from people not looking where they are
assuming physics doesn’t apply, momentum equals right of way
my clothes reveal a lack of legal counsel

><><><><

As if those who died in the womb chose to, as if most people have a choice 
about parenting, and genetic transfers not a time-space phenomenon
beyond our biologically limited perspective--
i didn’t know there was an elevator til the wall slid open;
i thought the only direction was up

><><><><

We’re all invisible sometimes
intuiting when not to look in a mirror
or to try and pick up a solid object
i can only get so far, a line my hands shouldn’t cross
if i screamed not even i would hear me

Roots in the air
fog at my feet
cars still in bed
bare bulbs intimidated by the moment
breath slowly climbing my wind pipe
i fold my wings under the pillow

I smell coffee, which hasnt been invented yet
a dozen brown bags on the floor
the ceiling doesnt want me to see it ripple
my pants say im late
in my peripheral hearing is news from the capitol

So much changes the moment you crack an egg
what if the faucets not ready yet
is it strike a match monday, move your ass monday, mutation monday
between my teeth are clues to dinner
i dare the phone to ring, knowing it wont hear me

​

The wind-driven rain at 4 am sounds like a brook
when all the long buried springs resurrect 
to lose their identities in  a river
as the Willamette loses itself in the Columbia
a typical one way marriage, not pulling out new names
marriage as conversion, where 1 plus 1 breeds fractions

Later the cars parade to school, delivering and departing
most kids unable to walk either way coz never have,
always driven the few blocks strapped in the back seat
mom/dad on the phone as kids go out one door and in another
removed from the temptation of windows 
to where the teacher is the sun—no breeze, no rain, no soil

The traffics heading south with hunger, heading north for better taxes, 
wanting to change the compass so it spells WHEN instead of NEWS, 
i keep looking at my phone to see if its now yet, to see if i have 
a destination, a motive—the key doesn’t fit but the doors not locked
the cat doesn’t care who lets it in, mewling to 
get out of the rain predicted but not yet here

Pressure can wake us, any time of day: bladder pressure, fiscal need, 
waves of bodies flicking back sheets and rising, water pressure, 
the heat of rising thermostats and boiling time, as one layer of clothes 
is stacked on another, as doors open and close, air thickening with 
emissions, drive-throughs, news unread and unheard
so many working to focus us—no, these are NOT my glasses


​

​Sometimes I miss the rain
and sometimes I even miss other people
not too much though.
but an occasional smile would be good
a little hug would be even better
but I guess I gave up on miracles a while ago
after all we all get what we deserve.

I choose this half-fisted-narrow-walkway.
One day rolled hot into another until life was like
a pile of melted living, A too quiet shaded moss
on the side of town where everything else blared
like the stuck horn on a junk-yard car.
I listened to the cicadas call as they resented
my eavesdropping, I wondered how they
landed here in scattered trees that guarded
broken sidewalks. One cannot help but notice the
copy-cat-like wave in their message, pointless as
a pail-of-chuckles. And learn, it’s better to be alone
than follow any crowd. They exist like the people
tucked in these old houses. A soundbite of songs passed
from one generation to the next. In one phase or another
of overcoming plastered expressions and stiff wings.
A smile on their face and hope in a fetal position. All quiet on
the kept-up-front. Where the air is thick and the drowning; easy.
Here is where one learns the rude between raindrops and how
To spell humble. I discovered it’s all right not to have all the answers.
As my tears fell, I reached up to reminds myself; no matter where I
stand, no matter how heavy the heart or chapped the hands, the
sky is still the limit.
 ​

There is something about morning that
can cause new growth to show itself;
new pain to throb freely. It allows tires to
flatten into a pancake and blemishes to bold
themselves from where they may have hidden,
just hours before, in the not-yet-morning
shadows. This still-waiting-place conceals
all we would never want to wake up to. It is
the fever blister surprise followed by an
“Oh-no” frown’s crinkle.
Two left feet in misstep that allows
the hands on a clock to tick timely into
“all thumbs.”
 ​

​A no-brainer of bumps and walls.
To walk where darkness has led then
bounce to its hard percussion.
 
When one’s view Is claimed by the
tar of blackness and moaning is no longer
a rare language, how wide is empty?
 
When faced with such a question, some
become like zombies. Air is just a conduit
to smell available flesh. An assistant
in a hunters-state of pre-consumption.
 
They reach out in both; fear-of and a
desperation-to touch. The chase for contact
Itself becomes survival. Soft memories of
Merri-go-rounds fade down into dew drops.
 
A room without windows can be like eyeglasses
selected with black-out shades that cover the view.
A room where one’s own hand closed a door,
then found themselves on the trapped
side of a lock.

​Lovable ones, pray friendly and leave corners
to their chaos. You are not how some
envisioned captors. There’s unfitting
to fret over and loose dirt to stumble
through. Like a child, hungry for
 
knowledge and at war with the answers
given. Remember, each step questions
present patterns of formation. Be patient,
determine to keep your laughter. Remain grateful
there is ground to walk upon, however sharp
the gravel.
 
Slow punches can also reshape the world into a
new structure. No matter how bruised this big
blue circle, it will continue to spin. Regardless of the
projections; faces that float and frowns frozen within
steel, trust the filter of your heart’s internal eyes
and release yourself from worry.

​ditched fridges know there is a grave problem
beyond mechanical and electrical harassments
 
beyond the decaying food and dented drugs
beyond being underutilized and abused daily
 
cold plates know there is a grave problem
beyond the nonavailability of food & money
 
for someone's culinary skills are sludge
a mockery of decency and delicacy   
 
students can't follow normal study schedules
phones have to be charged outside the country!
 
the TV knows that there is a serious problem
it sympathises with viewers and licence payers
 
for not getting value for their time and money!
it says the whole saga sucks big time ,souls!
 
it says viewers' lives have been messed up
who pays for nonavailable power?--it queries!
 
for you just go off  when they order you to do so
you go off and plunge homes into utter confusion
 
into darkness, into  boredom, into silence & misery
you dump decency into helplessness, into coldness
 
each time you disappear someone  wonders --
wonders when the madness of power will end
 
the madness of power leaves innocent souls
drowning in powerlessness and frustration
 
the root of their misery is nothing else                                                              
but a power problem, a perpetual syndrome ...