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.

 
 
 
                                     Recipe Required
 

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Why isn’t a ‘play on words’
a production, in a theatre,
and actors before an audience?
Aren’t performers in a play?
Dialogue deals with words.
Words in sentences create
scenes imagined by the playwright.
There’s no ‘playwrong’ so even
‘right’ isn’t really right.  But
play is what school children
do at recess, yet mothers tell
offspring to go out and play.
Board games are played, as
is an instrument.  So language
confuses us.  A poem about
‘play’ seems impossible
without specific guidelines.
 
 
 
                                               Beginning                   
 


Did I ‘start’ at birth
or childhood when
memory formed?
Was a point of
origin when script
was slanted across
clean paper and I learned
to write?  Learning.
Did I ‘become’ as
tassels were turned
and degrees acknowledged
my formal education?
Maybe ‘me’ originated
when my last name was
replaced with my mate’s
on a government identification
card.  Something began
when my body held humans.
“I’m originally from” lingered
as circumstance had me move
hundred of miles from familiar
and family. With pre-paid
cemetery papers, and less left
than what’s behind, my origin
and conclusion will combine.
 
 
 
 
                             Remember desk blotters?
 

Liquid ink slid silently
across the legal document
as a fountain pen allowed
my signature to stain the
surface.  Living Will:
a paper proclaimed
my dying should
not be prolonged.
Script is no longer a
school subject, and few
know what a fountain
pen is; there was no way
to protect these from
becoming a thing-of-
the-past.  A piece of
paper with my hand-
written name might
eventually also be
discarded when I
cease.  Living is
a gift from parents.
Why can’t I ink
‘thanks’ on the
formal official
decree to not
let my death
linger.  I’m
living now;
this is my will.
Life is a privilege.
There’s no dotted
line for that.