LAKE COUNTY — The following poems are from local writers who participated in Local Author Month at the Lake County Library.
Pears From My Mother’s Tree
Yesterday
still bitter and hard
red, yellow together
the branch weighed low
angry with life
Today in blue bowl
an artist’s rendering
one leaf
still clings to a stem
they cuddle akimbo
and soften together
Tomorrow
the knife
meets no resistance
slices sweet
and smooth
to grow inside
this woman pear.
— Mimi Whittaker
True Sight
What do you see
when you look at me?
Do you see my white skin?
Do you see my frizzy hair?
Do you feel my insides
bursting with love
with dreams of galaxies and never giving up?
Do you hear my heart thump
of anxieties and fears that I can’t seem to shake?
The trees and I whisper, and have conversations
of the joys of being in one place,
of being so free that nothing ever hurts,
and that being so present and still
can be better than running away.
So what do you see?
Because I do care. Tell me.
I promise I will listen;
I will not judge.
I have done that enough to myself
more times that one can fathom.
So, once again,
what do you see?
I am just me
and
that within itself is plenty to be.
— Jordan O’Halloran
The Runaway
The rain slowed to a gray drizzle. Beads of water gathered and moved along the branches and leaves of the overhanging trees, building into droplets that hit the tin roof with a light sporadic plinking, drumming out a lonely melody that stopped and started with the shifting of the wind. A young boy shivered as he crouched in the corner of the small wooden shed staring through the gaps between the boards at the rivulets of water dropping from the corrugated metal troughs toward the ground. He was not warmer, just less cold. His wool skull cap was soaked through as were the cuffs and collar of his leather jacket. Now relaxing into a corner he felt the wetness creep into his hips. Tucking his knees under his chin he hugged his shins tight and listened to the steady thumping in his chest. His rain-soaked jeans soothed the welts that had swollen against the denim. The barking quieted. A rusted nail-hole let a drool onto the ground at the pointed tips of his boots as the last gasp of daylight closed over the unfamiliar yard. It was time to move back into the rain.
— R.V. Schmidt
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The Creative Expressions column is a space for local Lake County poets and writers to share their work with their community. Creative Expressions is supported by the Lake County Arts Council. For more information and to submit a poem or short piece of creative writing, email rvschmidt2@gmail.com.
