LISA TOMEY
Author Feature - October 2021
Lisa Tomey is a poet, writer, and artist from Raleigh, NC. Publications include Heart Sounds chapbook, several anthologies, Heart Beats, and several literary publications. She edits for Fine Lines Literary Journal, is a Gold Ambassador for Garden of Neuro, and manages Prolific Pulse Press LLC.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IStz8udfb-g&t=28s
https://www.prolificpulse.com/
FEATURED BOOKS
ADJUSTING LENSES
humankind's nature
often means brisking each day
keeping steady pace
what happens when it changes
when the leaves of life falter
as the elder man
finds the keys don't play as well
hearing notes less clear
it's an evolvement of life
requiring tune ups often
when grandmothers cry
because their children are old
no longer in laps
still wanting for the snuggles
take them back to the time when
as life slows way down
keeping in mind the goodness
days when suns are high
looking to the skies for hope
seeing joyfulness each day
adjusting lenses
early in the children’s lives
seeing and learning
each day is perfectly made
for any age to delight
__________
MAY I
As I see you crying
Tissues are in my hands
Shoulders are open
Arms reach out
As you walk crumbled paths
My elbow I will offer
I’ll fetch you a cane
Plants wither
New growth may or may not come
I can bring you flowers
Apples, tea, ice cream
A kitten
Perhaps a lullaby
A meditation
Or I can sit in silence
Here for you
Whatever you need
I desire to be
Your silver lining
May I?
__________
THIS IS NOT A POEM
This is not a poem
from the moment I lay in the warmth of her womb
protected from the world--I felt her love
the songs she sang and the way she walked
carrying me within I knew I was loved
This is not a poem
but an anthem of sorts
When I entered the world
the air touched my face and I cried
she was the first to hear
this is not a poem
it's a record one could say
mom used to tell the story
of my birth day every birthday
of how she counted my fingers and toes
and I was her beautiful child
this is not a poem
it is the closeness of my mother’s heart
and the iambic pentameter
of her heartbeat