The dress is mine
It’s red, more like maroon
with sequin spaghetti straps
somewhat form fitting, an
inch up the knee, lace, tulle
and blinged. “Kind of risque
for an old broad,” Rick laughs.
Bought as a bargain, but not
in the basement. Ten percent
off, then another ten, then
etcetera. A “steal,” as Aunt
Betty would say.
So, I’m giving you warning, hon,
three months before we sit side
by side, at that wedding.
We did it as kids, thanks to our
mother, who sewed the same
skirts for us, but it’s now, four
Do not wear the same dress as me,
I’ll take the clouds, most days
“Too many clouds, not enough
bloodletting.” He read through
my poetry, critiquing all I’d once
written, mostly to him.
But I like the clouds. I can feel
safe with them, conjuring them
into all sorts of contortions.
Carousels, waterfalls; the cirrus
are perfect for those wispy white
I’ll take the clouds most days. With
them, I am comfortable, forsaking
the opening of arteries or serving my
heart up, with a side of my spleen.
The Ray days
Missing my Ray. Ray, the barista
with the cherry stone eyes
steaming my mocha
hot filled with latte, with
his wink and his wisdom
surpassing just coffee.
Now it’s Renaldo.
He’s old and he’s cranky
and needs to go decaf.
But I need a Ray
when it’s 5AM starting time
and even the sparrows
The ‘D’ in Dave
With the robin revival, it’s time
to renew all those springtime
festivities. Finally, frost leaves
As we visit the mom and pop
sweet shop on Third Street,
where that same letter ‘D’
on marquise, has been blacked
out for years.
Dave deemed it “bad luck,”
deciding to just let it be.
At that place, where they pipe
in the ‘oldies’, we’d slurp on those
frappes, cones and sundaes.
On our first visit back, today,
15th of March, we see that the
‘D’ was relit.
The new staff took care of it, saying
Dave had passed on, but they’d still
keep the same name and traditions
as ‘Dancing Queen’
played in the background.
I said “yes”
Kind of disheveled, but there’s
still some fight left in them. Red
over easy, in their partytime poses.
It’s been several weeks since
they prettied my doorstep
mid-day on Monday.
I jumped from the shower
hoping that you were the sender.
From the fields, to the table top
they adorned, all those days.
In their gestures of ”get well,”
“I’m sorry,” or “Sue will you
With yours, it was love
and a morning proposal.
3 weeks and thriving, are
your Valentines’ flowers.
When not writing poetry, Emalisa Rose enjoys crafting and drawing. She volunteers in animal rescue, and tends to a cat colony in the neighborhood. She lives by a beach town, which provides much of the inspiration for her art. Some of her poems have appeared in Writing in a Woman’s Voice, Spillwords, Origami Poem Project, and other special places. Her latest collection is On the whims of the crosscurrents, published by Red Wolf Editions.
You can find more of Emalisa’s work here on Ink Pantry.