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.
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.
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.
Old lady haiku
glazed wrinkled eyes full
of romantic memory
time to live again
More poetry from Winamop
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