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Best Famous Lisa Zaran Poems

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by Lisa Zaran | |

Go On

 Born woman.
Go on.
It's farther than it seems, but okay.
Credit card's been stolen.
Go on.
Above all, remember, whenever you cry, husbands roll their eyes, and children worry.
Go on.
The father that was yours gets killed by a lung disease.
He loved you, at least you think so.
Go on.
Drink, smoke, do drugs.
Go on.
Drag your crippled bones to work.
Hate your boss behind her back.
Smile to her face.
Go on.
Eat.
Don't eat.
Get fat.
Get skinny.
Go on.
Time fragments.
Space fractures.
Lives intersect.
Wombs bloom with new life.
Go on.
Wait.
Hold on.
Originally published by Dicey Brown, Winter 2006 Copyright © Lisa Zaran, 2006


by Lisa Zaran | |

Talking To My Father Whose Ashes Sit In A Closet And Listen

 Death is not the final word.
Without ears, my father still listens, still shrugs his shoulders whenever I ask a question he doesn't want to answer.
I stand at the closet door, my hand on the knob, my hip leaning against the frame and ask him what does he think about the war in Iraq and how does he feel about his oldest daughter getting married to a man she met on the Internet.
Without eyes, my father still looks around.
He sees what I am trying to do, sees that I have grown less passive with his passing, understands my need for answers only he can provide.
I imagine him drawing a breath, sensing his lungs once again filling with air, his thoughts ballooning.
Originally published in The Rose & Thorn, Summer 2004.
Copyright © Lisa Zaran, 2004


by Lisa Zaran | |

Girl

 She said she collects pieces of sky, 
cuts holes out of it with silver scissors, 
bits of heaven she calls them.
Every day a bevy of birds flies rings around her fingers, my chorus of wives, she calls them.
Every day she reads poetry from dusty books she borrows from the library, sitting in the park, she smiles at passing strangers, yet can not seem to shake her own sad feelings.
She said that night reminds her of a cool hand placed gently across her fevered brow, said she likes to fall asleep beneath the stars, that their streaks of light make her believe that she too is going somewhere.
Infinity, she whispers as she closes her eyes, descending into thin air, where no arms outstretch to catch her.
Originally published in Magaera, Spring 2005.
Copyright © Lisa Zaran, 2005


by Lisa Zaran | |

Leaves

 I went looking for God 
but I found you instead.
Bad luck or destiny, you decide.
Buried in the muck, the soot of the city, sorrow for an appetite, devil on your left shoulder, angel on your right.
You, with your thorny rhythms and tragic, midnight melodies.
My heart never tried to commit suicide before.
Originally published in Literati Magazine, Winter 2005 Copyright © Lisa Zaran, 2005


by Lisa Zaran | |

Lingering

 after, when you are driving 
75 miles one way just to get to her 
and her wind-touched hair, 
bleached white by the September 
sun, the gray sky coughing up clouds, 
that is when the doubts surface, 
hard as stones.
it is late afternoon by the time you arrive, the storm has already been through here.
you are not in your own element.
you are a runaway.
but, then she is there, standing right in front of you, wet with rain, slender as a branch.
you watch as she makes her way over and your heart gardens, rupturing red.
Originally Published in Lily, Volume 1, Issue 8, July 2004 Copyright © Lisa Zaran, 2004


by Lisa Zaran | |

Love Is Believable

 love is believable 
in every moment of exhaustion 
in every heartbroken home 
in every dark spirit, 
the meaning unfolds.
.
.
.
.
.
in every night that sings of tomorrow.
in every suicide i carry deep inside my head.
in every lonely smile that plays across my lips.
love is believable i tell you, in every scrap of history, in every sheen of want.
what can be wrong that some days i have a tough time believing.
and in each chamber of my heart i pray.
Copyright © Lisa Zaran, 2006


by Lisa Zaran | |

Tenderness

 All around me, the sky with its deep shade of dark.
The stars.
The moon with its shrunken soul.
Can I become what I want to become? Neither wife or mother.
I am noone and nobody is my lover.
I am afraid that when I go mad, my father will bow his downy head into his silver wings and weep.
My daughter, O my daughter.
Originally Published in The 2River View, 10.
1, 2005 Copyright © Lisa Zaran, 2005


by Lisa Zaran | |

The Blues Are All The Same

 ~for Jackson C.
Frank It seems almost too far fetched really, too difficult to believe.
This unassuming moon shining like a copper plate.
These milkcrate blues.
This soft trellis of sound wobbling through the wind as if pouring out from the window of some lonely house on the hill.
How beautiful it is, the ghost of your voice, haunting this empty valley.
Originally published in 2River View 10.
1, 2005 Copyright © Lisa Zaran, 2005