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.

​Last Fall

What would I've done
Differently?  Grey
Granite faces offer
Only silence though
I search them for
Solution and solace.
Accumulating golden
Leaves disturb me.
Names and dates are
Unbothered by autumn's
Clutter.  Anger and
Awareness accompany
My enigma...What
Would I've done
Differently?  Nothing.


©1988 Green's Educational Publication 
 Reprinted spring 2008 Shemom

Gowns
​

Taffeta fabric swished
sounding a rustling noise
as she pranced about. 
Next, she slid satin over
raised arms noticing the
yellowish glow as light
caught the heavy material.
Only her indecision giggle 
signaled choice-confusion
for the forthcoming bride.



©1991 Green's Educational Publication

Wicks

Dripping along colored spirals
hot wax fuses to icing;
time to celebrate is swift:
blow out display
before decorations melt.
  Death has no calendar.
Is this why memorial candles
cling to glass containers
and flicker an entire day?



©1991 Green's Educational Publication
reprinted 2009  Poetica 

Quiet appreciation
​

Sunlight warms my skin,
while raindrops remind
me of summer sprinklers.
Snow on my eyelashes, and
autumn leaves clinging to
sweaters make me smile.                            
Cloud patterns constantly
change.
Inside myself, as seasons
mark time, I stay the same:
content, and grateful.                 


published Fall/winter 2006   Shemom
reprinted 2016  Whispers   

A bright yellow trumpet

How does a daffodil bulb
survive snowbelt winters?
My slender fingers with
unpolished nails nestled
a plump bud into inches
of soil. Unlike me, it
needs no food or love,
but, like me, it silently
accepts decades away
from familiar. On
schedule, its happy
color pushes upwards
as a message to notice
the beautiful cycles,
rhythms I do have control
over. In my garden, it
reminds me that my
season is short and
people make up my
place, and place without
my loved ones would
just be a layer of earth.
.
©2015 The Write Place at the Write Time

handwork

Tiny cotton ball dabbed
transparent oil paint on
black and white photograph.
My fingers held a small
sable brush only for eye
hue.  Color film was
expensive, and fading
happened after many
calendars changed. A
process, learned at
my grandpa’s studio,
was permanent.
Technique is obsolete,
and it’s assumed old
color photos placed
in my living room
are from a shutter’s snap
and not my fingers
that transformed
grey into glowing.
​