Poetry Chapbook

POEMS BY LISA STOUT

Thank You Morrie

—by Lisa Stout written for the character Claudia Karlson-McCloud

Through the kitchen window

I watch frothy waves

crash on the shore

of our Midwest beach,

and sip foam of steamed milk

from fresh coffee.

Oily beans ground earlier

broke the morning silence.

My husband still sleeps upstairs

where our smell of lovemaking

permeates sweetness.

It reminds me that life is fleeting

with every passing day.

His steady breathing comforts.

Nothing can be taken for granted.

 It is Tuesday.

Is it today, little bird?

Gift Senses

—by Lisa Stout written for the character Charlotta Scott

If I ever lose my sight

I think I will miss the flight of geese,

the busy ants’ march

and how beautiful tomatoes grow

ripe on the vine

before I miss the paintings of Rembrandt

which I picture in my mind’s eye

with my eyes closed.

So I practice and sometimes

bathe with my eyes shut. Even

long after the soap’s rinsed from my face.

Blind senses of smell and touch would heighten,

I know,

but to never again watch

as geese glide down

from on high

would be difficult to bear. Yet

I’d hear them honking at one another

just as surely as I would feel

ants file one by one

across my feet if I drew them to me

with sweet honey.

And surely I might learn to smell

the red ripeness of tomatoes, don’t you think?

I have been myopic before in my life,

therefore blinded,

unable to see,

yet all the while having vision visually.

Time has taught me

how foolish I can be,

and have been from time to time.

Still I am learning.

Kerteminde

-by Lisa Stout written for the character Charlotta Scott

It wasn’t the red rooster

cooped behind wire in the yard

crowing before sunrise

that pulled me from my dreams,

but rather the smell of lilacs

flowing on breezes

drifting through my open window.

The mild fragrance reminiscent

of Grandmother who dabbed

flowery perfumes

at her bejeweled throat

and fine-boned wrists.

Delicately caressing

ivory keys of her

ancient grand piano

on the Danish isle of Fyn,

her thin voice warbled soprano

in tune to music

her dancing knotted fingers

cajoled from the instrument.

And I remember her

lilting island dialect

punctuated by poorly-fitted false teeth

softly clicking tales of my father

whose death long past

still wrenches at my heart.

She murmured to me

of birthing him upstairs

upon the narrow matrimonial bed.

A story I never tired of.

I push my head deeper

into soft downy pillows,

inhale sunshine scents

that permeate line-dried linen.

I pull the feather comforter

closer around my naked shoulders

to ward off the pre-dawn chill

and wonder about that baby

born decades past.

My father and his brother,

two tow-headed Danish boys,

sailed on Kerteminde Harbor

in small boats

among proud diligent fishermen

who gathered pails of slippery eel.

Outside in our yard

the rooster’s first crow is hushed,

almost still on the air.

Hens take heed,

busy themselves and cackle.

Dancing pairs of wrinkled yellow legs

claw chicken scratch in sand.

Quarter-moon beaks

peck for remnants

of seed scattered

last evening at twilight.

A sunset feast.

I listen for the recollection

of my father’s deep warm laughter,

look in my memory for his faded green eyes

and am comforted

whenever I see

in the mirror’s reflection

that mine are his.

Chirping martins swoop and dive

purple contrails against the rising sun.

Cawing ravens darkly protest

the invasion of their territorial space.

Geese on Canadian holiday quietly honk,

rousing one another in anticipation

of bathing in chilly lakes

beside turtles that hold their noses

above the waterline.

And I nestle deeper

to better reminisce

before rising.

A Poem

-by Lisa Stout written for the character Alexander Scott

Dinner.

Diner.

Wiener.

Whiner.

Weimaraner.

I’m a rhymer.

Ceramics Class

(published on-line in the March 2005 issue of the now defunct TruePoetMagazine)

- by Lisa Stout

 

Lori plops
a wedged ball
on the bat.
Electric wheel hums.
She leans in.
Cold clay
rises and falls
with practiced ease.
Centered.
Like life
resuscitated.
Now,
coerced by small hands,
delicate opening
blossoms.
Cylindrical walls lift.
She sings
sweet songs, too.
Smoky jazz voice
persuades borrowed earth
to lend shape.
This time
a lager stein.
 

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©2004 Lisa Stout   All rights reserved.   Obtain author permission to reprint.