Poetry: Emalisa Rose

A simple “sorry”

Rain on the sycamore
metaphorically syncs with
the meeting of mourners.

The circling of silver gulls
sketches the sky in the
pop art of prophecy.

We both could have said it -
a simple "I'm sorry."

Instead, I watch graveside,
as diggers stand by, shovels
in hand, ready to bury you.

O sister, dear sister.

Forgive me!

There.. I just said it,

the clouds, bearing witness.
****


To where do you go, scarlet songstress

Having just watched your night flight,

to where do you go
scarlet songstress?

It’s eight degrees cooler, this
pre-autumn morning. The sky
shirks the chill, having played
escort, to your southern bound
sojourn.

I imagine you’re resting, paused
on some shoreline, not far from 
these sands that once hosted you.

Here, as I window watch,
spinning scenarios

when you need be away
from me.
****


The haunting of loose leaves

Equipped with a toolbox of
retrospect, whifferall, sixth sense
and post midnight epiphanies.

Determined to flee from the season
of something, I’d struggled to shed
from my psyche.

Let’s digress to the sycamore. 

Moonfulls post Autumn, yet springtime 
still clings to both bough and the branch,

in dangling remnants - pale pinks
pallid purples; leaves on a limbo.

I blinked twice, edging miles past
the harvest’s finale.

Little leaf twirls metaphorically,
then sheds itself free from the hold 
of the mother tree. 

Everything passes.

You can no longer haunt me.
****

Bio: When not writing poetry, Emalisa Rose enjoys crafting and hiking. She volunteers in animal rescue and tends to cat colonies in the area.  She leads a birding group through the neighborhood trails bimonthly.  Living by the beach, provides much of the inspiration for her art. Her work has appeared in MadSwirl, Writing in a Woman’s Voice, The Beatnik Cowboy and other great places. Her latest collection is “On the whims of the crosscurrents,” published by Red Wolf Editions.

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