On 7th Street Just Before Dusk


Under that frayed coat;
that weather beaten hat,
stands thirty-eight years of struggle,
one-hundred forty pounds of flesh,
like yours and mine, but kinder,
gentler. A heart,
underneath three layers of cotton/polyester
with a button missing
beats softly, more meek than a lamb,
and right on time
with the music that sighs in the night,
chimes with little white church bells;
hums with fireflies that encircle weeping willows.
There is a passion lying beneath the surface
that we don’t often stop and listen to;
a breezy, ocean-like blue
that only those in tune
can hear.




~~(I am penning a poem a day  from November 24th through December 25th, 2016 to celebrate the birth of Jesus. This is day #19)


Love Letter #19: To Friendship

Call on me, my darlings,
not only in morning,
or in midday sun,
but at the break of dawn, high noon,
or be my muse at 2:00 AM,
when my soul weeps words.

Come to me,
not only in laughter and song,
but in mourning
so my hands can lay daffodils in yours,
and smile upon your delicate faces.

Pray with me when there seems no hope;
our fingers interlaced
until the warmth fills two souls,
as one.



Syllables and Glue

I know now
why you sound so familiar

crushing hearts in February;
needles still stinging
from the pine you forgot to take down

before you left.

I still see you kneeling
in maiden grass
with words of compassion,
but, I hear Sylvia when you speak,

especially at the end

when words went from mellow
to melancholy
when no one was looking,

but, I came looking
with soft syllables in tow
and love like glue

because I knew

and I knocked and knocked
but you never

let me in.




Open the skies
and let them in;
the weary, unsettled,
aching wanderers.

Let them dance
upon fertile ground,

love without fear
of persecution,
laugh fervently
in colors
to soothe a troubled soul

We could join hands;
soar, wing to wing;

sovereignty, a candle,
an afterglow
in life’s fickle fate.

Pass the torch
and we’ll put out the flame

with sweat, tears
all of those human things
dreams are made of.


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 ❤



The clock is always ticking,
ticking somewhere
and I keep running
on someone else’s watch.

That telephone,just sitting there;
the elephant in the room
toying with my emotions

and the ticking never stops

I can see them; hear them in my sleep
like chapters, forming;

the single mother, waitressing
while latch key kids grow up too fast
on frozen dinners
and one sided conversations
with animated companions

as the guy holding a cardboard sign
in the corner of Eastchase and Interstate 30
swallows his pride
while people avoid making eye contact
with their worst fears exemplified.

There is a young executive
climbing the corporate ladder
long nights, lonely weekends
at the keyboard;
her biological clock ticking-
visions swirling in her coffee cup

and the ticking never stops
as these syllables play in my dreams,
lining up in stanzas

just waiting to become a poem.



The Reality of a Sunrise

I only saw his eyes;

this gentle soul
legs tangled,
head wrapped in dreams
lost somewhere
between daylight and dusk;

a once clean shaven,
smiling thing

who slipped between the cracks.

The whispers, mumbling,
grumbling of passers’ by
awakened him,

but, there was never a grimace;
not a word spoken

only a smile-
an innocent curl of lips
from one content

just to see the sun.

I looked at him, unshaven,
dirt smudged face
in tattered clothes
and worn out shoes

but, I only saw his eyes;
his loving, peaceful,
innocent eyes,

and I smiled back.