New poems by Andrea Lewis



Singing songs for babies


Many tiny heads like buoys

bobbing in a sea of toys.


Baby face screwed up tightly

Teary eyes shining brightly.


Lolling head and bubbling nose

scab pick fingers, grimy toes.


Burping up on mother's breast

such a delight, aren't they blessed.


a line, (a black one)



First friends


In a room full of incense

we kiss pillows

and dirty dance all night.


Spinning spirits to the Pachanga,

we flip pennies for dares and

stare at magic eye pictures.


Rolling teabag joints

we grate nutmeg on our tongues

and trip to the bass.


Sneaking under the star bedspread

we share innocence and

sink into an ocean of new.


Slipping through smooth corridors

and into awakened worlds

we whisper till the sun rises.


a line, (a black one)



The adult


This room where within the air and the dust

exists a quiet control, a place to

find an order for her mind, while needs must.

A sanctuary in this time of blue.


It holds a shelf of non-portable books

several perfectly placed, pressed white vests.

A woman of several lamps she looks

just so. She is the lady, not the mess.


No pin board picture crumpled, stuck to wall,

Framed photo sits in cabinet of glass.

Mistress of tidy drawers and hoovered hall

committing every ounce to tricky task.


While shoes and shelves retain their order well

Heads and minds in wrought iron wreckage often dwell.


a line, (a black one)



Old lady haiku


glazed wrinkled eyes full

of romantic memory

time to live again


a black line

More poetry from Winamop

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