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Poems by Lonna D. Kingsbury

One Chicago Prosary

Mrs. Anderson

Watching through the panel, the other children safe, she shunned their childhood circle. Outside, she knew rebellion, and finally pressed it past that last grasped lone alternative – she’d not be coming
back. Evading tearful tidings, engrossed by every truth – she coveted her favorite class, her
passion, as she moved. Was she spewing poetry, with hand in air, no rest, in retrospect, escaping,
praying they’d be blessed? Or was she mixing metaphors, holding quick her breath with steadfast
self-deception that one soul would not rest in following the masters’ paths nearer to the grail or
know a light beseeching: follow now the trail. Know truths beyond mere mortal acts, priceless times of
search. Know every deemed imaginable nurturing of worth. She’d taught her well, this favorite, and
here she stood aloof, a hood in plastic leather-look, more cold than feeling cool. She’d miss her
she decided, while holding back the tears, allegories set aside, standing back to peer. Pre-grieving
selfless goodness – she never raised her eyes, just strode in as class dismissed – fast in hard
disguise. Denying any problem, pretending to be high, she fought to keep the parting flip, she signed the
slip and cried.

An Offering

By way of introduction
we offer you ourselves
expressed, enhanced, encountered
escaping through our strokes
from pen and paper inklings
blank canvas breathing life
metals, settings, precious links
chipped sculptings to delight
from each our share of beauty
we freely share with all.
By way of introduction
we offer you ourselves.

Gatlinburg Roadtrip

Too early for the late night
she creeps alone outside
before the others waken
envisioning the sight
fog engulfed, just like her head
who knew how long they talked
and drank
their yearly shopping sojourn
spiritually enhanced
but standing here
at dawn
stark in bas relief
his tellings call her from beyond
and she is one again
with all before and those to come
sharing in their song
whispered softly from the ridge
finally at home.


Stuck here on the Interstate
grab for pad and pen
In between these hills
now home
mind wanders off again
watching mountain yeti
peeking through the brush.
They quash my fears of Algernon
with one mighty thrust
and just like home
of days gone by,
my magic carpet bogs
inch by inch eternally
safely into fog.

In Closing

If I could gift but one word
to ever guide all days
as impetus for growing
or contemplating ways
to conquer horrid demons
or gently hold a hand
to relish in the glories
of knowing dreams obtained
If I could gift but one word
to garner every truth
for each their chosen pathway
I'd gift to you . . . pursuit.

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Biographical sketch: A poet/writer/actress/talk-show host of Countering the Silence - Artists
through Their Art.

Lonna D. Kingsbury recommends:

Heartland II - Poets of the Midwest by Lucien Stryk

Reason: Simplistic honesty.

Recommendations for writers:

Be true to your gift - write what you know.


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