This is my tribute to Rosie, the flower girl, who sat every night on the corner of 55th and 3rd Ave., NYC, in front of famous P. J. Clarke's.
~ ODE TO ROSIE ~
On the corner of 55th and Third
Where the fierce wind hollers
There's an old Babushka bag lady
Surrounded by buckets of flowers
Feeble, fragile and hunched over
Sitting there 'til the morning hours.
Appearing small in the gritty, tinsel city
She never begs or cries for pity
Some say she's been there since '41
No one knows where she's really from.
Was she ever spring time young?
Pretty with long, silky hair?
A lover to share her sweet song?
Anyone know? Anyone care?
All night long, people come and go
They come fast, they come slow
But it's the lovers she likes most
A toothless smile, a soft hello
She offers a red rose - for free
To lovers, like you and me.
When winter snow blows bitter and
Batters cruel through tattered clothes
The bar takes her in to warm the old soul
A cup of soup, a soft bread roll
Thawing fingers and frozen toes.
As years pass and seasons unfold
Alone in the wave of humanity
You would never know from Rosie's grin
The closing years are looking grim.
(c) 2011 Lora Mitchell
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
SOMETIMES...
..."sometimes the greatest secrets lie in the middle of things you can't quite explain..."
Steven Spielberg, film director
Steven Spielberg, film director
Monday, December 26, 2011
SEEKING SOLACE....
SEEKING SOLACE
Oh, soft cradled bosom
Nature's secret womb
So fresh and cool
Among the golden maze
Beneath blue velvet eyes
And misty dew, she lies
Quenching her thirst
From morning rays
Escaping beyond
Harsh worlds of gray
Exploring the web
Of tangled dreams
Caressing the flute
Of sparrow's song
Shaping some hope
Within the seams
Peering through
Tender, naked toes
Seeking to soothe
What wrings her soul.
(c) 2011 Lora Mitchell
Oh, soft cradled bosom
Nature's secret womb
So fresh and cool
Among the golden maze
Beneath blue velvet eyes
And misty dew, she lies
Quenching her thirst
From morning rays
Escaping beyond
Harsh worlds of gray
Exploring the web
Of tangled dreams
Caressing the flute
Of sparrow's song
Shaping some hope
Within the seams
Peering through
Tender, naked toes
Seeking to soothe
What wrings her soul.
(c) 2011 Lora Mitchell
THE SINGER ~
THE SINGER -
No matter -
Far beyond
Her prime
Overweight
Shaky, off-key
Open, vulnerable
Brave, proud
Standing on stage
Singing her song
Sweet and loud
What nerve
What ego
What guts
Yet here I sit
Fifth row center
Still in my prime
Comfortable, fit
Aching to do the same
But playing it safe.
(c) 2011 Lora Mitchell
I AM A WRITER ~
I am a writer
Who fills many pages with
Ink prints of my thoughts
Hoping that someday
You will read them
And recognize yourself.
(c) 2011 Lora Mitchell
Who fills many pages with
Ink prints of my thoughts
Hoping that someday
You will read them
And recognize yourself.
(c) 2011 Lora Mitchell
ON FIFTH AVENUE...
ON FIFTH AVENUE
On Fifth Avenue today
I saw your face
Well, not really
There was a trace
The nose, the chin
The forehead curl
The unusual whiteness
To the skin
My gaze strong enough
To burn the day
But he saw me
And forced my look away
For a split second
I thought I had found
The missing piece
Torn away so long ago.
On Fifth Avenue today
I stroll the street alone
Melancholy and blue
Wonder what you would say
If you knew - like a fool
I still search for you.
(c) 2011 Lora Mitchell
On Fifth Avenue today
I saw your face
Well, not really
There was a trace
The nose, the chin
The forehead curl
The unusual whiteness
To the skin
My gaze strong enough
To burn the day
But he saw me
And forced my look away
For a split second
I thought I had found
The missing piece
Torn away so long ago.
On Fifth Avenue today
I stroll the street alone
Melancholy and blue
Wonder what you would say
If you knew - like a fool
I still search for you.
(c) 2011 Lora Mitchell
WRITING A MEMOIR ~
"An intractable phenomenon of writing a memoir is that you begin to miss some of the people you are writing about."
John Irving
John Irving
Sunday, December 4, 2011
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