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.

mama     ​

Folding shirts in half, I insisted do
in thirds.  She was helping after my
second baby.  Straightening the
medicine cabinet arranging items
by type, I complained I understood
my chaotic shelf and I’d never find 
what I want easily.  Not my way,
I asserted, forgetting she loved
me unconditionally, and I was
acting like my teen decade but
should have grown up. She, 
who was always ready with 
hugs, advice I didn’t have
to take, repressed her widowhood
pain that began in her forties to
make everyone else’s life more
comfortable, was seldom told
of her value. Caring and
kindness were just ‘her’, so
I didn’t compliment or thank.
Left with ashamed sensations
after her death, releasing myself
meant stripping away layers of ‘me’
until I was able to begin to forgive
myself.


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​Disillusioned

I gave you
patience, understanding
sympathy, encouragement
I offered you 
kindness, love
tenderness, strength...
Why then am I
so surprised
you took?

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Invisible    ​

Though pavement pulsates
    from heavy heat,
and empty cups, once confining
    Italian ices, appear curbside,
I enjoy sunshine glinting off
    buildings’ frameworks,
Open umbrellas poke through
    circular tables in area
skaters’ blades glide in winter.
    In confines of a cool
store’s dressing room, I stare
    at formal gardens above
Rockefeller Center’s complex;
    from the street this
refuge is invisible.  Pigeons 
    loiter on air conditioning 
cylinders greenish with age.
    Like me, now... no longer 
resident;  only my youth is native.
    The ache to return is
camouflaged with feelings:                    
    invisible.

summer 2012 SNReview   ©2012 Lois Greene Stone 

​Holes in the Bottom

Pine box.  Looked like
it should be storing tools,
or be a long hope-chest
for accumulating bridal
linens.  Except for the
raised religious symbol
on its smooth lid.
Soil, on the shovel’s 
back, hesitated,
reluctant to drop.
Tumbling such depth,
sounded like gunshot
when striking its target.  
Mourning has become
personal


©2012 Poetica

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