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Lana Evans Poem
These rustling humans, how they jabber!
With their smudged and crinkling ink dabber
I lie here resting while their investing
Their moments in this blabbered pestering
I've seen their pages scribbled in rages
Of inspiration by their sages
I hear the parchment, crisp and crackling,
Depicting marks pronounced in cackling
And wheezes of a breezes sighs
Read in secret by her eyes
Here in this secluded corner
This one was sent by a foreigner
The rounded man, all clad in fur,
Hears some code, it makes him stir
The thinner man sprouts in his chair
Which creeks beneath his squirming dare
The glamour creature, thin and frail,
Seems neutral about the true tale
I hear a fist pound on the table
Shouting that this could be a fable
"What if it's true?", the other asks
While in fascination he basks
They analyze it for a clue,
This letter, to learn if it's true
The chamber, while closed, is secret, airy
While echo's this secretary
The scribbled riddles held in hand
Are esteemed to be so grand
I might chew them if I could
For I bask in my puppy-hood
Copyright © Lana Evans | Year Posted 2008
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Lana Evans Poem
Never a crescent but opalescent
This globe, suspended and always present
And the Wolf cannot be flesh or bone
In this void in time's dim desert zone
The Wolf drinks water by frozen moonlight
Tween slurps She's panting with all of her might
Behind Her is cool, clear space, not a sound
Only the dream, the moon, the pond, the ground
Before Her, Her own urge to lap abounds
Wet shadow animates Her slurping sounds
As She's prowling, the dreams of human minds
Resume here, and secret voices She finds
While the Wolf lingers in psychic powers
None shall wake, but quake, for several hours
Their minds in this clearing, none can hide
Into this stretch they've strayed, some petrified
Sleeping souls, unseen, drift round Her shadow
Longing to escape to some green meadow
Gathered souls meld with Her strange oasis
Their liquid ripples squirm like their faces
In each warm, active mind synapses spark
Captives perceive images as they arc
Meanwhile, the Wolf; in spirit world She drinks
A united sea; thoughts each dreamer thinks
Her lips draw in the collective spirit
Of their curious nature; they fear it
In Her belly flows their merged collages;
Impressions of their entwined barrages
The Wolf's clear as glass, exposing patterns
In colors blazed like Neptune's, like Saturn's
From Her drinking head down to Her wagging tail
She's made of dreamers captured by sleep's spell
Copyright © Lana Evans | Year Posted 2008
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Lana Evans Poem
It's another mild day and the sky glows white
The air is still and cool as the midday light
Admirers giggle, perhaps at a young caller
One hunches over, the other stands taller
They don't look wealthy, yet they don't look poor
Perhaps trusted servants, but what can't they ignore?
They've taken jolly notice, as if on a whim
Of a miming youth who should be pruning a limb
Posted at the window the younger one peers
At this croaking lad, flattered by what she hears
Hunching near the potato patch across the way
He waves in a fluster with a few word words to say
He's glances side to side, behind the wall, stepping back
Emerging again from a passageway's crack
Between the tool shed and the gardener's house
He sneaks with the startle and twitch of a mouse
She remains calm, though tickled by his manner
For he might as well wear a bright purple banner
The older woman chuckles in faint squeaks
Hidden by the shutter around which she peeks
The younger one looks quite near seventeen
With floating white sleeves rolled up yet clean
Her girlish neckline, cut wide and low,
Displays to her suitor how well she can sew
Her hair is tucked with a bow on one side
Her grin is reserved with her eyes opened wide
Could her silly boy still have his pruners in hand?
Is he skilled with the saw and tilling the land?
Two women at a window, quite content
Is this how many of their moments this day are spent?
Copyright © Lana Evans | Year Posted 2008
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Lana Evans Poem
Fragile paper, white and quite a shaper rolled into a round
On a rod of plastic, tumbled gently draping to no abound
In the toilet room; a violet bloomed where stray peddles were found
Upon the windowsill the sunny feel was warm and peddles browned
Grandma's bathroom, powder, perfume, and a glass for stray old dentures
Was softly messy, cluttered, prissy, and layered with eye-squenchers
Such as brassiers hooked on brass spearhead hooks and dental cushions too
And a girdle. Yet, handpicked myrtle and blue rugs brought my ease through
The shower curtian caught the spurtin' water from the showerhead
In the tub a scrubber club with soft bristles hung tween silver knobs
In the thick steam the echos carried as I showered before bed
Sometimes the streams would mist the tissue then it would come off in globs
Copyright © Lana Evans | Year Posted 2008
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Lana Evans Poem
Her knuckles bend, they don't pretend, beneath her head plopped in pale dread
Tucked tween these both an ear relieved from being grieved, both eyes near dead
Slouched where she dreams she merely leans, foreign sounds invade the fable
That preoccupies her state of mind as she reads near the table
The palm with which she grips adventure now lies limp upon her lap
It's hostage near released, with spine all creased, yet private flap to flap
Upon her cheeks no glimmer, tightly drawn lips dimmer than dry sands
Her whispering twin tornado tunnels funnel huffing reprimands
What draws her sight, what steals an ear and makes pompous this quiet girl?
Why does her charm befall decay; why does bitter a prude unfurl?
Her grace befalls corruption by a swiftly knocking eruption
Followed by brassy squeaks twisting, breaching thought; this interruption!
Copyright © Lana Evans | Year Posted 2008
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Lana Evans Poem
She's strikingly fair in the purest of red
Pearls grace her neck, a band on her head
Enthroned on a seat plush as is down
I just can't get over her brilliant red gown
Gazing like Jesus, her cheeks softly pink
She smiles like Mona, oh what does she think?
She reminds me of my dear Cicely
Somewhat straight forward, somewhat a mystery
Perfect her posture, graceful her arms
Banding her wrist a bracelet of charms
At least that's what my Cicely would wear
In ten-year-old elegance, smiling so fair
God! I can't get over how it looks like her so!
Oh where, oh where did my Cicely go?
Copyright © Lana Evans | Year Posted 2008
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Lana Evans Poem
Time's pages are turning; folks are churning
A better butter, worth bread's hard earning
Its unmistaken; bacon is burning
In thin, cheap, tin pans but we're all learning
Somehow, minimum wage is "all the rage"
Scavenge or squander, for this is the age
The century turns and the mass discerns
That our taxes smoke and our money burns
Hard work for many, enjoyment for few
Makes us unseen; faded! A weak, frail blue
Of collars while we passively earn our dollars
Of greens dimmer than wind's grimmer hollers
Don't stutter in the street, fluttering fleet!
Ban that bullying bureau thunder beat
And drum for the sum of a good , fair share
And a sequel of equal value and flair
Copyright © Lana Evans | Year Posted 2008
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