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Karaoke
The drunken hustler in the muscle shirt
Finishes his awkward rendition of "Desperado."
Applause and relief follow him
To his table of cohorts
Where he receives slaps on the back
And empty praise.
She emerges from the smoky recesses
Where her only friends were
A Beam and Coke and a
Half-empty pack of Marlboros.
She stands before the mic,
Gray eyes full of sadness,
Her smile looking
Unfinished, incomplete.
A gaze round the room
Takes in the patrons:
Another Saturday night
Gathering of souls looking for
Identity, comfort, escape
Acceptance.
The DJ begins the music;
The singer's voice, carrying years of anguish,
Rushes through the room.
As the volume increases,
Talk diminishes,
Until all focus on the
Slender girl in the torn jeans
Standing in the spotlight.
Drinks forgotten,
Conversation silenced,
Even the waitress pauses in her rounds.
More than melody...
More than words...
Her voice is the journey
Of a life hard fought,
Fraught with pain and
Battle scars.
Under the cocktail tables
Hands reach for comfort,
Consolation.
The song ends and she retreats,
Oblivious to the catcalls and cheers.
The chubby girl, posing at the bar,
Decolletage revealing her only charms,
Moves toward the mic,
Ironically to sing "Respect."
The moment, forgotten,
As another round of alcoholic
Dreams is purchased
At the Karaoke Bar.
String of Pearls
Covered with the road map
Of a life well-lived,
Her tired, soft hands count the
Pearls knotted onto the string in her lap.
Her eyes, blinded by age,
See the memories
Filling her head, her heart.
Her lips move silently
Mouthing the names
Of loved ones lost,
In a prayer-like celebration
As she counts the pearls
Before her.
Her mother, who loved her first,
Her father, who loved her protectively.
Her husband, who loved her faithfully.
Her children, a son and two daughters,
Who loved her timelessly.
Friends, from childhood to old age,
Who loved through good times and bad.
A minister, who loved her as his
Bible taught.
A neighbor, who loved her, sharing
Conversation and coffee.
Grandchildren, who loved her
With simple honesty.
Each name dearly recalled as
Her fingers slip over the nacre's
Smooth surfaces.
A string of loves
Tied into the endless circle
Of one woman's life.
True treasure.
Skinny Dip
Giggles in the moonlight
As fireflies dance overhead,
Mimicking the movement
Of the children below.
Clothes, discarded carelessly,
Lay 'neath the sweet-smelling mimosa,
While water laps softly on the shore.
The children drift
In sparkling, dark water,
Too young to understand
The sensuousness of the
Warm liquid on their skin.
Completely entranced with
The freedom of their nakedness,
They are innocently unaware of adult dogma.
Skin glistens whitely in the soft glow
As a child breaks the surface... bottoms up.
"I see your heinie!"
One calls amid the easy laughter
Of the other swimmers.
The air cools and the group
Streaks quickly to their clothes,
Dressing behind the pump house.
Silently they slip back into
The house where the adults,
Drunk on rum and Coke,
Lost in a haze of cigarette smoke,
And sexual innuendo,
Sit unaware of the adventure
Shared by their offspring.
Respite
The cleansing smell following
The rain permeated the air.
Steam rose from a ground
Dotted with puddles
And escaping earthworms.
Three boys emerged
From the mist
Rejoicing in the respite
From the summer rain.
They sauntered up the
Street, shoving each
Other's shoulders as
Only good friends can do.
Their laughter joined
The caw of the crow,
Keeping a lookout
Atop the church tower.
The boys delighted in
Every puddle,
Attempting to jump
Them into dry canyons.
A shaggy dog shadowed the trio,
Tail held high,
In his joy at the excursion.
I watched from my bench,
Smiling at their innocent
Happiness in the moment,
Longing for such easy joy.
The pick up truck,
Gleaming in the sun,
Crept near the boys.
I watched with concern
As the young, redneck boy,
Barely older than the
Three on the street,
Spat his hatred out the window,
"Git out of my way, niggers!"
Laughter fell out of the
Passenger window - his cohort.
The boys moved to the side,
Their dog, hackles raised,
Followed quickly, keeping
A watch on the truck
As it finally rolled down
The street, carrying its
Evil out of the sunshine.
Silence. Even the crow
Had quieted his voice.
Then one boy pushed another,
Evoking a brief giggle,
The third jumped into the next puddle.
Soon they were making their
Way up the street again.
Three boys, enjoying
The respite from the rain.
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God Provides
On bruised knees she prays
Again
For God to make him love her.
"I ask for happiness, Lord,"
she pleads in desperation,
Thinking he is her only chance
For contentment.
A routine, executed daily,
As she hopes
To keep her faith,
Waiting patiently for God to provide.
The child, bruised and battered, prays
Again
For God to make them love her.
"I ask for happiness, Lord,"
She pleads in desperation,
Thinking they are her only chance
For contentment.
A routine, executed daily,
As she hopes
To keep her faith,
Waiting patiently for God to provide.
The runaway and the woman, hurt,
Again
Find each other in the shelter's chapel
Praying for happiness.
God lifts the scales from their eyes --
Together they pray for the other
Finding their faith
Where it always resided,
Finding their happiness
Where it always resided.
Realizing the miracle prayed for
Is not always the miracle received.
God always provides.
Modified Circus Maximus
The air is heavy with anticipation
And the smell of grease and oil,
As the crowd waits anxiously
For the battle to begin.
The preliminary ceremonies
Are nearly missed in the
Cacophony of voices raised
In support of each fan's
Favorite warrior.
The watchers proudly wear
The colorful insignia
Proving their loyalty,
Daring others to speak ill
Of their particular hero.
Divisions are forgotten briefly
As voices unite in the anthem
Reverberating through the arena.
Silence follows as all eyes
Focus on the flagman
With the Caesar-like power contained
In his choice of colored standard.
He finally waves the emerald
And the thunderous roar
Of engines begins.
The onlookers arise as one from their seats
To cheer the drivers onward
Round and round and round.
Dirt and mud fly through the air
Sprinkling those closest to the course
Where the battle filth is worn
As a badge of honor.
A misjudged turn and the din
Of the crowd briefly overpowers
The sound of the racing engines,
Excitement soars as the first
Driver is eliminated from the contest.
Other drivers begin to fall to the side
As they prove their inability to compete;
The resulting herd members still battling
To be the leader of the pack.
One final turn and again the crowd
Rises, screaming, waving,
As the winning car rolls under
The fluttering checkered flag.
Pats on the back, handshakes
Praise for the conqueror.
A pretty girl with a golden trophy
For the fair-haired boy.
Just another Saturday night at the dirt track.
All-American Face
What is the all-American face?
Some say it's white --
Others argue it should be
The face of a Native American --
Others say it's the faces of
Their children, sweet and innocent,
Or the svelte model
On the cover of the sports magazine --
Or maybe the smiling basketball star --
Or Norman Rockwell's subject
In a Sunday-go-to-meeting suit.
I saw the all-American face today.
It was worn by a soldier
Dressed in desert camouflage.
He/she was white/black/brown
He/she was smiling
Waving at the camera
Telling his/her spouse/mother/child
"I love you!"
"I'm OK!"
It was a beautiful face
An all-American face.
Small Joys
I could see his curly head
Bobbing side to side,
And hear his little hands
Clapping gleefully.
His laughter carried on the air,
Sweetly adding highlights
To the birdsong from the boxwood.
On this dandelion day,
Among the scents of daffodils
And tulips, he sat
Smack in the middle of the
Front step,
Legs sprawled,
Intent on something
Hidden from view.
I edged secretly around
The yard like a spy
To steal a glimpse
Of the wonder
That had captured him.
Curious about the
Treasure he had found,
Only to discover
He was enraptured,
Happy just to be
Watching the
Earthworm.
Protect Us
I remember the child
Dancing in piles of fallen leaves --
Red, gold and brown partners
Swirling around her feet.
The barking dog joining her
As she laughs, simply
For the joy of a warm, fall day.
Her parents, tucked away inside,
Coldly, quietly, watching the screen
For news from the Cuban shore.
The woman's heart overflows
Understanding how the parents
Protected her, kept her free to laugh,
To dance among the leaves,
While they endured the fear,
Carried the weight,
Of impending catastrophe.
She makes her entreaty,
Echoing her parents' prayer:
"Protect us, Lord."
Copyright © 2003 Leysa Robertson
All rights reserved
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Leysa Robertson has been writing short stories and poetry for over 30 years.
As a mother of four children and grandmother of two, she draws much of her
inspiration from her family. Currently residing in Hot Springs, Arkansas,
Leysa works for the Hot Springs Convention and Visitors Bureau. "Writing
became my private passion," she explains. "At age 45 I decided to explore
sharing my poetry and prose with others." She has been published on various
Internet sites and will be featured poet in the soon to be released "Poetry
Pages : A Collection of Voices from Around the World." Her poems are available online at