Crackers in Bed (My second book)

My second book “Crackers in Bed” is now available on Kindle for only 99 cents and the print edition will be out by next week. I am very excited to share this next collection of poetry with you!

As always, thank you for the support!

Lynda ❤

Not So Sentimental, Goodbye

It was cold that January
but, not as cold as her

before March
when she spread her wings
and shed fears
tiptoeing
towards some unknown,
unclouded destiny.

Those white roses
changed to pink,
arranged sweetly, like love
in pitter patters of sentiment
sprinkled carefully
upon chapters
of a book

she wished
she had never opened.

~

Leap of Faith

On the edge of a cliff, looking down,
I found those old snapshots Mom lost
in pieces of time, irises follow dandelions
falling in flurries to the bottom of my heart,
with a hint of breeze, and he, the wings.

~

Undertones

She always wore black
even in summer
on tangled hair afternoons;

flips flops kicking sand
between pink toes
parading dreams
of another summer.

Those four walls
made her hate white
longing for flowers of any color

on gray afternoons
with too much shade.

She could skip winter
altogether
kissing dreams of April
in January skies
when light was the only thing

she hadn’t had too much of.

~

Solo

You strum heartstrings in vibrato
counting every chord you play-
soft, then rapid

like the flutter
your lover cannot slow,

never missing a beat;
promises dangling
like hemp from an old Strat
on the top shelf,
itar
crying,

like yesterdays news.

~

Sashay

Watch him fawn over her words,
then dance lightly past, soft
like silk he wishes he could feel;
candy sweet and untouchable.
Be like rain, like pink wet lip gloss
that radiates from across the room.
Let him feel unnoticed, like you did
and whisper his name, subtle as stars.

~

After the Tulips

On some nights,
black,

with a certain kind of envy
only the sky understands,
these indigo ideas whisper

like the dream I had once
of death calling with pointed fingers,
familiar, but too distant
to touch;

these hands,
that want to pull you in,
and partake of the light

that always shines
in pearl white eyes.

They say, don’t get too close
like she has the plague;
something contagious,

but, the hole in her heart
and the soulless words
that linger
holding me captive,
syllable after syllable

will never reach
further than my pen

and my ink will flow,
gracefully, softly,
with too many adjectives,

and die a slow death.

~

Sunday’s Child

I.

My January gift, wrinkled,
ruffled, wrapped in blue,
sweet solemn little bundle, quiet.
Pale, like me, predictable as stars.

I didn’t know why you never cried
or why your eyes wouldn’t meet mine,

but, I sang to you anyway.

II.

At three,

they used medical terms to label you,
told me all the things you would never do.
To them, you were a diagnosis
in a medical book. a statistic,
another autistic child in the system.

but, to me, you were my heart,
my beautiful raven haired boy.

III.

Tomorrow

is your thirty-fourth birthday.
You still brighten my day
with just a smile

and you don’t need words
to say I love you
when that look in your eyes
is a novel in the making,
a celebration of life,
from an innocent’s perspective.
This may not be poetic,
but, you are;

my angel boy,
my January gift.

~

Fickle

I remember Grandpa
on Sunday mornings after church

flipping through a national geographic
in that old brown recliner;
ice cream and peaches in one hand,

me on his lap,
listening to stories about World War I,
school dances
and how he always wanted to play
the slide trombone,

but his Dad made him play the mandolin.

He told the same old jokes
at the dinner table
knowing I would giggle

every time.

With a serious look, he said,
“you need to learn to play the guitar,
You’ll be the life of the party.”

but, I was fifteen and fickle

and, now, here I am,
hiding behind a screen
playing with words;
these syllables, dancing in
and out of hearts,

still desperate
to make him proud.

~

Shaking the Stars

If we could shake the stars
and bring the moon to it’s knees
to see just one sun,
blow out the darkness
from hollow, seeping clouds,
we could just find a soft place
to fall.

That one flower growing petals
in tainted soil, through a crack
in cement expectations
where children hop scotch
tossing pebbles,
counting steps
until that one leap of faith.

She takes it with wings
feathered, flying
barefoot dreamy-eyed fate
painted from spring hue
calm cascading through silk strands
tickling ivory in symmetry
of dancing thoughts,

and here she thought syllables
were wasted
in journals
of glass slipper reunions;
endings, happy, but distant
like dandelions blown south,

and then here he came
windswept, white horse drawn
lover, loving her, this unchanged,
unchained flower child
kissed by the mere existence
of such fondness, this feeling
like lightning
without a chance of rain.

~

The Psychology of Smoke Rings

She took apart the storm
divided bursts of light

from the noise finality makes.

The waves came swiftly
swirling like smoke rings
from trembling autumn lips.

Too many springs passed
sashaying like orchids

more fragile each season

reaching for Saturn
stretching boundaries
with stems that refuse to grow.

~