by Lyn Lifshin
paint chips slowly
it’s so still you
can almost hear it
pull from a porch
owls and cats
a man walks out
into fields cold
grass claws like
finger in a
wolf moon corn
bristle he
stands listening
watches as if some
thing could grow
from putting a dead
child in the ground
With Him
by Lyn Lifshin
not life
but an idea
of life
in a flash
like a short
short story
don’t look
for meaning
or much to
develop a
flicker
in darkness
firefly in
the curtain.
He Says Lately It's Not The Same, Hardly Wild
by Lyn Lifshin
the chase isn’t the same,
it’s like being married.
The zebras are just
trucked to you. What’s
the fun without a chase,
without challenge and
danger. How can it
count if you don’t have
to sweat and risk to
devour what you’re
starved for. Safaris
aren’t these days,
more like a glop of oat
meal when you’re
longing for steak, something
full of blood you can
sink your teeth in
She Said It Was At The Drop In Center For The Homeless
by Lyn Lifshin
The night before Christmas
we planned a fabulous
dinner, hundreds of
gifts and arranged a
talent show. One woman.
Lillian, a non stop ranter,
a mentally disturbed woman
who tried even the most
patient, with her rambling
loud prattle, wanted to sing
a little known aria but had
not been picked. But she was
there early and as the hall
was being swept up later,
the others gone with their
gifts and extra sandwiches
stuffed in their pockets
ignored mostly except for
warnings it was time to
leave, the dishes almost
washed, suddenly Lillian was
at the piano playing Silent
Night in the sweetest style
No one could really believe
this though there were stories
about her studying at a famous
music school. Lillian sang
in flawless German. The scruffy,
loony obstreperous old bag
lady was transformed. Out of her
brokenness, this almost
unearthly music. Then she stopped,
began her non stop rambling,
walked out in the snow on
the night some say
the angels sing