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.

                                 ‘A rose by any other....’
 
Daughter didn’t permit
Granny or Grams or
anything she deemed
‘cute’, so the universal
address was applied.
I remembered
changing Miss to
Mrs., unable to
keep my identity
and took on another’s
name. Now, Grandma,
the classic-usual term
had to be accepted.
Atypical ‘me’ with
straight strands of
ash blonde hair still
growing that way,
and thin frame on
flexible body, is also
joyous and giggly.
I prefer bubble wands
to shopping mall
excursions.
I had no choice
in title, but I’ve
freedom to resist
the stereotype
with grandchildren.
 
 

                                      Sunscreen          
 

Oily liquid spilled into the palm
of my dad’s hand. A distinct scent
mixing ocean and cooking escaped
from the glass bottle.  Gently, he spread
it on my shoulders.  The girlhood swim
suit’s straps slid as grease covered skin.
As a teen, I was given the product to
use at the beach, but protection had
less importance than having full sun
bear down on me as I pranced around
on the boardwalk’s wooden slats.
SPF was future.  Future.  My dad did
not have one when breath left his lungs
at age forty five.  Summer.  Lotions
sit straight on shelves in markets, have
little fragrance, and make flesh appear
chalky with greater blockage.  But
the feeling of my dad’s digits is
stimulated by noticing these products,
and inside my head I’m whispering
‘thank you’.
 

              Did you wear red lip pomade at your 8th grade dance?
 
My washing machine strains
to expel liquid.  Its spinning
struggle competes with the
dishwasher's distress.
Amid these reminders of my
role, I sit at the kitchen
table and attempt to retreat
into the loneliness of writing.
            "Have a profession on which
            to fall.  Forfeit a career
            you won't give up.  Be bright.
            Be inferior.  Stay yourself.
            Change your name." 
Programmed for playing house,
I like it.  I liked anthropology
also.  Why did I get an A
in calculus?  I memorized
atomic equations but can't
write an ad to attract a
cleaning woman.  During domestic
duties, I think of the next work
I'll compose and jot notes on
papers pressed into every apron
pocket.  I might complete a
couple of hundred words before
school lets out.  Out:  I don't
want out...I don't want in.
            Crusading has vanished,
            self-searching stays.
            Middle age is my past and
            the persistent restlessness
            in my present.  Limbo;
            it's difficult.
 
©1991 Miriam Press    

​                                        Junior High    

Middle school.  Caught
between elementary and
high, it’s difficult.
Someone is always
pushed around; another
does the pushing.  
Name-calling, 
being shoved
into a metal locker door
makes learning harder.
I struggle as I’m ‘middle’,
not part of the in-group,
not identified as out.
I am understanding
‘me’ and how I deal
with this limbo time.
Will high school be
better?