Emalisa Rose

Knitting together, as sisters

Knit one and pearl two.

Sis made the striped ones,

mine were the cable stitch

calicos,

while watching TV, during

bouts of insomnia, borne by

the need to do something.

Mom sewed the edges,

arranging the squares into

blankets she’d donate to

homes for the aged or send

to the overseas soldiers.

“See, she would say. In the

the cradle of time, you’ve

created something of value.”

Mom was just like that, as

she taught us of kindness and

of teaming together, as sisters.

Health matters

She’d save them for years; all kinds

of reports.

I lay on the table; cold steel, unloving.

My first colonoscopy; I look to the

ceiling, diverting my eyes from the

obvious, as I think of Regina

with her tests, meds and procedures

enroute to a true diagnosis.

It took them too long; a medley of

specialists,therapists and soothsayers

couldn’t unravel her maladies.

Two decades later, at last diagnosed -

three months before, she passed

while in hospice.

Lorraine, with the eyelashes

You read up on it.

First a short blurb or two

then incessantly tackling

a new terminology of a genre

never sparking your interest,

now weaving you into a select

group of those likewise afflicted.

You quick comb your hair mess

and reblot your “party pink lips”

as you look through the room

in the church basement.

Lorraine with the eyelashes, puts

up the coffee, and looks over her

speech, for the group meeting today.

Old lady boots

She was seventy four when she

first reached for my hand, crossing

the sidewalk of serial snowfalls.

Her boots were too high, she said.

“I need a new pair, like the old

ladies wear,” though we agreed she

still had some pep in her step.

But in two or so years, unbeknownst

at this moment, age would come

find her.

But for now, holding hands in the

snow, we were laughing like children.

Your tye dyed beret

The draw full of pictures

stacks high with memories.

Decades of stories hang

in hallways of happiness.

There’s one with your tye dyed

beret; your hair swinging with

braids, wearing the sun in

your smile.

And I’m smiling right back at you.

I hold it with tenderness

as I almost forget we’re not

talking.

Your forget-me-not flowers

Climbing the crevice of

asphalt and cinder block, tiny

blue flower frills pop through

the concrete impermanence, with

us in the mix of the filigree.

Strangling, one of the other, we

vine in verandas in double dutch

rhyme, as

love changed direction,

even when holding

your forget-me-not flowers.

When not writing poetry, Emalisa Rose enjoys crafting with macrame and hiking. She volunteers in animal rescue. Living by a beach town, provides much of the inspiration for her art. Some of her poems have appeared in KNOT Magazine, Writing in a Woman's Journal, Madswirl, and other great places. Her latest collection is "This water paint life," published by Origami Poets Project.