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In many books and stories of days gone passed, you’ll find the feminine protagonist struggling to contend with her daily life troubles. Suffragettes fought long and hard and did suffer greatly for improvements for women including the vote. It pains me to know it is too much effort for so many women today to make their mark on a ballot.

Being a history buff and reading of women’s rise and their place in the world, I read memoirs and even mysteries of days from yesteryear. On rare occasions there will be one individual that will say, “Yes, do learn, be strong and strive for a better life.” Yet time and again instead of encouragement, they heard from the cook in Downton Abbey to a father’s advice, “Don’t rise above your station.”

Heart Sounds-Lisa Joy Tomey

Poems of the Heart and of Love

 A poem, to honor America’s heroes, the men in the military

Poem printed in the Southside Messanger on  May 29, 2018

A 22 page poem about America’s wars and the men who left home to fight them.

the blue pitcher

arlene s bice

beads, bangles & bubbles are pretty

the words just right can be witty

a pitcher of blue glass caught my eye

to sit on my table alongside the pie  

not enough to look good, but be useful

empty it is worthless, so it will be juiceful.

Leaving at 17 to Get Married

arlene s bice

I leave behind my girlish bedroom,

all pink and burgundy,

but no frilliness,                      never was a frilly girl.

I take with me the memory of a little girl \

sleeping/hiding behind a big Panda Bear.

I leave behind the bed of my youth,

where I dreamed my dreams,

crying out in the night,            because it was scary.

I take with me memories of measles, medicine,

junket and a small green plastic radio.

I leave behind my boudoir chair,

maple bones sticking out,

here and there,                                    a great reading chair.

I take with me the memory of re-dressing it

with wine-colored cotton stripes.

I leave behind my closet full,

out-grown styles worn,

in high school,                         wool plaids/tight sweaters.

I take with me the memory of pretty, silver,

feathered mules, impossible to walk in.

I leave behind my bureau,

the mirror adorned with cards,

and dried corsages,                 from high school dances.

I take with me the memory of the gym,

transformed by magic of fairy dust.

I leave behind the windows,

curtains of merlot matching,

the painted floor,                    round rug kept my feet warm.

I take with me the sound of the tree rustling

against screen, my personal weatherman.

I leave behind walls of pink,

once covered with pictures,

of movie stars,                         some were even signed to me.

I take with me memories of Friday nights

with the girls, looking for the boys.

Good-bye little room, you held me in comfort

as I grew, in the first book of the trilogy,

now it is time for the second book.