Lois's Web Site: http://loisparkeredstrom.com/

Poem from
A Fragile Light

Through Barn Doors

Sunshine through barn doors,
gathering spring trilliums, picking
plump blackberries that seem
about to burst, awakening
to a rooster’s tribute to morning,
wading in the creek, polliwogs
in stages of becoming—
a transformation that completes itself
while I feel unfinished, wrapped
in questions from which I’ve never
emerged. Yet that may be the proper
sequence. Some say the quality
of answers you get depends
on the questions you ask.

Perhaps we are all trying to recreate
the good parts of our childhoods.
After a week filled with heavy
obligations, I found myself
at my father’s grave
and it was as if I could lay down
my questions, just be a child again.

Poem from
The Language of Tides

ORDINARY MORNING

You could say it’s an ordinary morning,
except it isn’t. The sky opens like a hymnal
and summer sun streams into our tiny town,
blessing the cove and burnishing the shops
that perch on the bluff.

This sleepy town awakens to the light,
stretches its arms, ready to welcome
early risers. A shopkeeper adjusts
the sign on the bookstore. Folks
find an outdoor table at the coffee shop,
greet friends that gather there each morning.
I stop at the bakery: molasses oat bread,
warm and fragrant, placed into my hands.

Years ago, tall ships sailed into our cove,
exchanging goods and stories of distant places.
Historic homes still line the hillside.
You can almost hear the voices of early settlers
and sea captains falling in love with the island.

Nearing home, fog spreads a froth
of white lace in the inlet and skims
my skin with freshness. From a neighbor’s
roadside stand, I raise a lavish bouquet
of sweet peas to my face, breathe in
all the sweetness of this not quite
ordinary morning.

Poem from
The Lesson of Plums

The Quiet Core of Chaos

We live amid chaos whether we recognize
it or not. I choose to live on an island
away from the blare and glare of the city

yet our island emerged from a violent birth,
rising from the depths of the sea, its craggy
face presenting a few miles distant from its

mainland mother. Volcanic eruptions
scattered agates along the shore,
a sudden disruptive upheaval.

The revelations of wind, the epiphany
of stars burning from the inside, blinking
their ancient stories into the shifting air.

Truth is always a bit odd. How meaning
may be found in the midst of chaos if
we listen, open ourselves to the risk

of what we might find inside. And isn’t this
what art is all about?

Poem from Glint

Changing Times

Some days speak a language of contentment,
words of abundance, a song that pulses
in rhythm with my heart.

This summer morning, I need nothing more
than to walk to the market in sunlight, linger
near the peaches, nectarines, corn, baby lettuces,
arugula, and tomatoes mounded in outdoor bins.

The earnest young man arranging the fruit smiles,
as if the day is a gift wrapped in pleasure
and he the grateful recipient. I choose purple plums,
add a baguette, a sausage, a wedge of brie,
and chocolate for the picnic basket.

In the checkout line the woman behind me watches
as I write a check and I smile when I hear her say,
How quaint.

Poem from Night Beyond Black

Tamarack

I travel east into the Cascades
to a small town my parents
came to as newlyweds,
follow double yellow lines,
the road too treacherous for passing,
search for a small cabin
where I was conceived. More gold
than yellow, the center lines
mimic the hue of autumn tamarack
released of its evergreen pretensions.
The tamaracks flare
above a scud of clouds
draped over the valley,
rise
toward snow-topped peaks.
Carried out of these mountains
curled like a leaf
in my mother’s womb
I unfurled in a different place.
Return is like seeing the negative
from a long time ago,
a bright image that remains
for an instant
after you close your eyes.
    

Other Poems Online

• Cookie Bakers in Literary Mama