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/

 

https://prolificpulse.blog/

 

https://twitter.com/ljtomey

 

https://www.instagram.com/prolificpulse/

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