Home » Poems » Best » Rose Losey » Best Rose Losey Poems

Best Poems Written by Rose Losey

Below are the all-time best Rose Losey poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Rose Losey Poem

The Meteor Shower

The changes started,
With meteors falling from the sky,

I stared at the raining lights,
Feeling small,
Feeling connected to everything.

As I feel my soul move within me
Expanding like the universe above

I forget 
past sins and burdens,
because

At this moment,
I could walk on water,

Catch the meteors in jars
like lightening bugs on a summer night.

I feel the future rushing toward me,
I close my eyes and smile,
Taking a step forward,

And so it begins.

Details | Rose Losey Poem

Inspiration

Tony Kushner wrote plays as a telephone operator,
Kafka wrote stories at night after working as an insurance adjuster,
Grisham penned court room dramas religiously for three years before
being published.

These playwrights and novelists and poets,
Lived a dual existence-

By day,
They lived an ordinary existence,
Maintaining a 9-5 or overnight shifts
While balancing obligations like
family, grocery shopping, taxes, rent or mortgage
friends, bills, lovers

At night, 
Undercover, 
In their precious time-

They were on a lonely, thankless journey,
Only their desk, the lamp and their pen and paper/typewriter/computer
 as company,
Communing with their muse,

Creating, Rewriting, editing, repeat

Telling stories for the mere pleasure,  to satisfy an 
Incurable hunger for their words, thoughts, voices

To be expressed, considered, read,

Without the guarantee of money, fame, recognition or success..

I remember them when verse rushes through my mind 
like an angry, swollen April river,
That I forget the words as quickly as I conceive them,
or I compose long winded poems
with no direction, shape or grace.

I remember them when procrastination and writer’s block
Prevents me from writing for days, months or years,
or when I hear that my high school nemesis is a doctoral
Candidate in poetry 

I remember and thank them for giving my inspiration
To continue.

Details | Rose Losey Poem

I Can Help You

The Russian healer, 
who once kissed me in a New York restaurant bathroom,
 pulls me aside after  meditation class
and tells me I am broken,

My voice and words,
Lift and fall, halt and rush,
Peppered with question marks or blank doubt,

When I debated another student that 
Psychotherapy can help people as much as numerology

Apparently, I am driving down the road of life,
Without a map or GPS,
I am lost and tripping over myself,
Wandering in infinite circles,

But, HE CAN HELP ME,
By offering affirmations, meditations,
Hands-on healing where he channels Godly
Light and goodness that

can glue, sew, nail
My fractured soul, low self-esteem, inconstant faith
Back together

(for a fee of $125 per session).

Maybe he can,
I see the earnestness of his sky blue eyes
Illuminated by the street light overhead.

And, if I believe, truly surrender,
It could possibly work.

I nod and listen and question,
and then tell him I have to meet someone for dinner,
Walking away,
I ponder how my psyche can be so shattered
When I am starting to feel whole.

Details | Rose Losey Poem

Snow Day

There was a blizzard the day I heard you
were getting married.

The morning news reported-
Roads covered in black ice and
widespread whiteout conditions.
Work closed.

Mid-morning, I ventured out,

The storm's alabaster glare blurred my vision,
I recalled the lifespan of our relationship.

Thick flakes stung my cheeks,
I recalled what it is like to miss you

Landscape painted in black and white,
I tried to be happy for you.

Later, snow blanketed the skylights,
Leaving my flat in shadow.

I turned on the television and lied down,
and wondered why your good news caused nausea.

I closed my eyes and
envisioned spring.

Details | Rose Losey Poem

Another Saturday Night With Her Friends

Where the floor meets the wall,
She stands in her usual spot,
Craving a cigarette,
Observing, processing, psycho-analyzing,
Another Saturday night with her friends.

Their forced civilized exchange of small talk, 
Boasting, intellectual competitions and back handed compliments
Vainly covers the tension of secret love triangles,
Unspoken resentments, jealousies, and
Bruised egos until the alcohol takes effect and
 people start going to the bathroom in groups.

That is when someone puts on jazz album,
And suggests a game which
brings out the "realness" in everyone:
They tell stories, make confessions,
Share moments of tenderness before
Declaring war
Shattering several expensive wine glasses and 
Dissolving into fits of hysterical laughter or sobbing
Until
a fight is taken outside 
a couple is having sex in the basement, 
 and someone is vomiting  in the kitchen waste basket.

Except her,
Lightly buzzed by some cheap white box wine,
She will  comfort and offer sage advice to
the  histrionic  and  the clueless
which they will soon forget or dismiss.
Refill the pretzel and chip bowels,
Break up a fight between two romantic rivals,
Pour countless whiskey shots and shake 20 mean Vodka martinis, 
Nurse the drunk and clean up the mess in the kitchen.

Years from now, these alleged group of friends will
Rewrite this night filled with fun and merriment 
Where the drinks, drugs and conversation flowed,
and the fire never died,

While she will accurately recall every detail and wonder
Why she allowed this group of sparkling, beautiful, broken  people 
To cast her as their resident 
Gopher
Maid
Bartender
Unpaid therapist
 Keeper of secrets
Enabler…
 
What was her incentive or her reward?
Beyond their peripheral acceptance.

Details | Rose Losey Poem

Three Hikers

They came home crying tears of joy,
Hugging their parents and loved ones,
And showing off an engagement ring as they
Smiled wide into the snapping cameras

They reluctantly gave interviews about their ordeal,
Their story of survival,
Choosing their words carefully, deliberately, 
to maintain political correctness
And delicate diplomacy:
All they wanted to see was the Ahmed Awa waterfall,
Nothing more, but somehow they wandered
Across the invisible line that separates Kurdish Iraq and Iran,
Then, they were arrested by Iran border patrol and called spies,
Then they were imprisoned for two years.

I saw them shake slightly on TV
Retelling this story over and over,
I wondered:
What were they doing there anyway?
What made them want to venture so close the border
Of an oppressive country that has never like Americans?
Will people ask them that question for the rest of their lives?

During those long days and nights a claustrophobic one room cell
Under the careful eye of an armed Iranian guard:
Did they pray? Consider going on hunger strike?
Become engaged to out of boredom?
Regret taking that hike or curious how well the
Pictures of the waterfall came out

Did they yearn for home and think that 
Will America with her apple pie,
Celebrity obsessed culture,
Widening class gap,
Broken political system,
Bring relief, recovery, solace
To their traumatized psyche?

Maybe dark, dank memories will disappear and 
Fade into a dream as they consider and negotiate
The book deals, movie rights and all consuming question:
Who will play me?

I turn off the TV and  wish them well,
And wonder if there is more to the story
That we will never know.

Details | Rose Losey Poem

Another Poetry Festival

Another poetry reading.
I arrive late and drop my phone in a workshop.

I capriciously retrieve it and slink to the corner,
My notebook and pen
Poised and ready
For my muse to be resurrected after
A long hibernation.

This is why I am here,
To absorb through omosis
Inspiration and guidance
By the brilliant featured poets
(clearly stated in the festival program)
Who grace us amateurs with their
Published verse and professional advice.

That is the reason I tell myself
And everyone else,
But, I also have a secret agenda
Which causes  me to compulsively
Scan the faces and profiles of each
Audience member 
In workshops, open mikes and  the main lecture hall
For one specific person, 
an ordinary man,
With dark hair and eyes

Who I once loved.

It has been three years,
But the need to see him makes my mouth dry

I want to have an awkward conversation
Peppered with stilted small talk and profound subtext
Which my posture, eye contact, tone of my voice 
Clearly indicates:

I still look good, don’t I?

I don’t want a reconciliation,
Only an endless moment
(Like a scene from  an old movie)
Where we wistfully stare into each others’ eyes, and 
Fused with old love, regret,  longing 
I telepathically communicate:

I am so happy we were together once,
Even  though it ended with us acting like 
Two toddlers throwing tantrums and telling lies,
It took me a long time to move on, but I did.

Day passes into evening,
My heart leaps and sinks in my chest
With hope and despondence whenever I glimpse a man
Who has a similar jacket, hair color or hat

But, he isn’t here 

Instead, my notebook fills with quotes, notes and poems.
My thoughts become occupied with 
composiing chap book  of poetry and 
Taking a writing class.
I finish the day
With relief  and confidence that my muse is alive
and I can write again 
and that is enough.

Details | Rose Losey Poem

Looking For Answers

What do you do 
When your spirit is pacing inside 
Your body like a caged animal?

You are uncertain what is preventing you
From making a choice
Any choice

Maybe fear of falling?
Leaving behind the cocoon of friends and family 
Predictability?

When you reach the end of a road
Do you take a weed whacker and forge your own path?
Or continue down a familiar boulevard?
Or distract yourself with something silky,
Shiney and soft and that leads you in circle?

How do you refine truth from illusion?
Your own intuition from others’ expectations or
Wishes that you stay “safe” and “nearby.”

How do you distinguish between practicality and excuses
When all your thoughts, feelings, urges, intellect
Are spinning like coins on a table top?

How do you get to the calm eye of your inner hurricane,
And become quiet and still,
Where are my answers?

Details | Rose Losey Poem

Prelude To Disaster

Space travel in ordinary time,

The woman tries to concentrate on her book
on change and the power of positive thinking.

She is not succeeding because 

Her seatbelt is cutting off her circulation,
and the guy with the headphones has taken hostage
of their shared armrest.

A man snores across the aisle
surpassing the volume of a beached whale in labor,

A two-year-old three rows back gives
a war cry when his Elmo DVD dies,

The woman stares at a woman of massive girth
sipping her coffee seated two rows ahead,

Breathe in, Breathe out,

She closes her eyes and journeys inward,

Breathe in, Breathe out,

The plane dips and rises in rollercoaster fashion,

Breathe in, Breathe out,

Turbulence, she hears from somewhere,

She opens her eyes and looks out the window,
Twilight blue sky,
Cotton candy pink, grey,purple monolithic clouds
look like an alien city.

Breathe in, Breath out,

Blue and yellow lightening flashes between the clouds,
Thunder crackles in the distance,

The plane bops up and down like a boat on rough sea,
The woman can taste her stomach acid,
The fat woman seated two rows up spills her coffee,

Turbulence, a voices say, Stay calm-

The lights goes out,
The snorer wakes up startled and begins the swear,

The plane becomes a victim a gravity, G-force
Falling

Lunch trays, laptops and cups go flying,
The two year old begins to cry,

Picking up speed
Falling

Turbulence, a voices says again, Stay calm-

Outside the window the clouds are rising fast,
Falling

The voice is drowned out by passenger screams
as oxygen masks fall to their laps

Breathe in, Breathe out,

Her body tenses and prepares for impact
The arm-rest stealer grabs the woman's hand,

Falling and tumbling through space,

Breathe in, Breathe out,

The woman prays to an unknown God
as the plane makes its rapid descent-

Details | Rose Losey Poem

First Draft

You’re waiting for inspiration to hit you like a lightening bolt,
As you doodle smiley faces on the corner of your paper.

You stare out the window
Becoming mesmerized by the river of white and red lights
from the interstate.

You pace the perimeter of your room,
As invisible Demons and Angels whisper clashing messages of
Encouragement and failure.

You close your eyes and say Omm to center your fractured self. 
Returning the pen and paper,
You question how creative writing had once come so easily.

Without a thought, 
You begin…

And write and write and write,

Until every last word 

is emptied 

from your soul.

Your pen drops to the floor,
You restrain your manic-inner critic’s compulsion 

To edit and edit and edit..

And flee into the autumn night,

Half content and half tortured,
You breathe crisp air and stare up
at the star studded sky.