Poetry Month – April 30, 2022

I am ending the month with a haiku, tipping my hat to Liz Scanlon who asked me to join the celebration of Poetry month several years ago by writing haiku . Thank you, friend.


A very long thread
looped pulled and tightened. a knot
tied on the last day.

©Lindsey Lane

Poetry Month – April 29, 2022

There is less birdsong. There are fewer honey bees. Wildlife is in decline. Global warming is very real. As our homes and our lives become threatened by tornados, floods and fires, we have created our very own Solomon’s choice: what will we save: ourselves or the world around us?


One black bird
Wheels and glides
The grey sky

One black bird
Scans and drifts
Naked empty branches

One black bird spins
Without its flock
A motionless earth.

©Lindsey Lane

Poetry Month – April 28, 2022

This poem was written after the Healing Trauma Class with the Truth Be Told Facilitators. We were asked to draw what love looked like then, now and in the future. Because I suck at drawing, this…


A trapeze act
A highwire escapade
A jitterbug dance
Swung from the rafters
Sometimes caught
Sometimes dropped
Always jumping in
For another twirl
Another step into
Arms hands lips
Back arched
Closer, closer, closer
Oh yes

A slow dance
A hip swaying
Fine Swing
Center of the floor
Hip to hip
Close but not too
Hand in hand
A stroll
An easy tour
Always able to look each other in the eye
As we walk
At day’s end
Into each other’s arms

A banked fire
Winter outside pressing
On the window panes
Curling around each other
Like smoke
Like silk
Like worn fleece in slippers
Padding upstairs then down
With tea, with cookies, with ice cream
With little gifts everyday
To see that smile
That one smile

©Lindsey Lane

Poetry Month – April 27, 2022

Obviously, my sister did not see this poem before she died but I think she would have liked it.


My sister called them the weather terrorists
She’d rail at how
They’d whip us into a frenzy
make us hide in a cellar
Stay at home
Peek out windows in fear
And pffffft
One flake
One drop
Not even a good blow.
Drove her nuts
It was the last thing she said to me
As I made my way from a gully washer in Texas
To a thunder bumper in Ohio
Don’t listen to those damn weather terrorists, she said.
You know what their problems is?
They get the ass end of the eight-minute news spot.
All they have is a map, a pointer stick and sweeping gestures.
So they make the weather sound worse that it is.
Attention getting nitwits.
She watched a lot of weather rush by her bedroom window
While the storm of cancer circled her uterus
And marched up the inferior vena cava like a slow-moving front
Eventually she had a stroke
The barometer in her brain
Couldn’t regulate the flood of chemo
or the high tide of cancer cells.
When I kissed her say goodbye
She couldn’t speak
There was only a tear
One tear
Rolling down her face.

©Lindsey Lane

Libby 1946-2011

Poetry Month – April 26, 2022

Sometimes, when you are lucky, a poem slams into you. Like this…


It was in the ice crystals. The clouds that swirled over me had ice crystals in them. Someone said they were from the hurricane that lighted candles in New Orleans and sizzled wires in Queens. Ida, they called her. A short name for a long storm. Now she was here spinning herself out above Vermont, rushing up the side of its highest peak, flash freezing me with ice in August. A baptism of frozen water and clouds. Thank God. I don’t thank Him often. But thank god for an air cold enough and an edge high enough to spark a fire inside me.  Burn away the longing, singe the lust, obliterate the patience of waiting. Each crystal hissed on my skin, accelerated the rage that used to be an endless kiss. Odd, isn’t it? This temperature inversion. A volcano under a blizzard. A scorched hole in the frost. The air was blind with clouds but the ice crystals held me tethered to the edge. There was no danger of suicide. I was finally burned clear of you.

The remnants of Ida above Vermont