![]() What happened to the good old days? When you could tell a friend “Give me a sip of that,” and they would. When you could sneeze… or cough… without setting off a panic. When you could just walk up and shake someone’s hand… or hug them around the neck. When you could sit around a campfire pass a doobie to the one seated on your left… or right. Did it matter? When you could joyously dance unencumbered in a crowd of strangers. Lisa H. Owens
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![]() This morning I heard good old Lynard belting out the lyrics of Free Bird. So few words with so much meaning made me want to fly fly fly so far away. Just like Jen-nay, I thought about escaping-- getting out of this one-horse town, and how sometimes there just aren't enough rocks to break all the windows. Windows allowing one to see what's out there just enough of a glimpse to peak one's curiosity. I pressed my face to the glass wanting to sniff the crisp winter air. I spied a lone cardinal. She looked plain from afar, but if you looked closer, you would see her elegance. Three minutes into the guitar solo, I turned away. Searching for a rock, wanting to shatter this pane and fly fly fly so far away. To join this elegant bird and soar. Lisa H. Owens Shhh. Not a poet! ![]() Reincarnation Trepidation I get a strange sense of deja vu; I've done this all before. The crime. The time. The rhyme. Is it possible the poem was written in another life? Or a dream? A dream of a crime I am destined to commit over and over and over again? Throwing caution to the wind, you pushing buttons that only you know exist. So many buttons for your amusement, until it isn't funny anymore. A strangled laugh turns to a strangled cry turns into a crime of passion. Only that's not true. The passion was dead a long time ago. Lisa H. Owens Shhh. Not a Poet! See poem on Spillwords , published June 9, 2022 Nominated for June author of the month for poem, Reincarnation Trepidation ![]() Green leaves transform into an explosion of color. Autumn's rainbows slowly fade-- drying, withering, blowing in the wind. Dropping. Floating on a gentle breeze toward upturned faces. Windburned cheeks with Cheshire smiles twirling into piles of crispy leaves. Leaves, serving a purpose. A soft place to land. Lisa H. Owens Shhh. Not a Poet! 10/24/2021 Is This Poetry? This is a poem I have created, in order to be reinstated, into the good graces of the group. Please don't block me, keep me outta the loop, just because I snoop-- reading other people's poetry. My poetry is quite frightful, not too insightful, or even delightful, I think that I might pull a fast one on you all… By calling this a poem.💖 Lisa H. Owens Shhh. Not a poet! Created for "The Poets' Narrative," a Facebook Group October 18, 2021 One little step in the wrong direction. Texas, you are breaking my heart.💔 And so begins the insurmountable resurrection Of an antiquated law not meant to be broken. Who could have seen that coming? We were focused on our southern border And our troops evacuating—following an order That was a grievous crime against humanity One we'll agree to disagree A leader showing a timidity One might call rigidity. Not willing to roll with the tide Change the order, save the allies Throwing the G-7 under the bus Leaving behind terror and mistrust. Not taking any responsibility For actions that didn't have to be Devastating to the democracy That was twenty years coming. Who will be our friends now? With friends like us, who needs enemies? Back to Texas… What a waste of time To focus on the decline of the woman's right to choose When there are people dying Across an expansive sea. 9/11 is nearing. Can you see... why my heart is broken?💔 By Lisa H. Owens September 7, 2021 The Inner Dialogue of a Dancer |
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