Birthing a poem

Two on the high wire
in exchanging of songery.

They’re rising the sky with
the voice of the ancients, in
this ritual reverie.

He bows and she curtseys
through the cloud’s choreography.

Somehow, this Saturday
on the wings of the sparrow
a poem will be born.

Swirling in syncope

They’re not letting me in today.

No floral designs or palatial
ponies. The unicorns, castles
and carousels, quiet. Erased of
the night sky, those midnight
epiphanies, clairvoyant trilogies.

The tea leaves are swirling in
syncope, unclear of a read. Stone
faced, they offer no glimpse of
that peekaboo heaven today.

Mirror of miles

Stenciling the sky, a wallpaper
of branch over branch
in remiss of its color scheme
draws Winter’s grand still life
through the mirror of miles, riding
longside the 7:09 out of midtown
as the snow’s working overtime.
Even the sparrows went home.

No longer “her”

Of that world, that I left
I return now, haunted by
remnants of pennings once
relevant. I shall shred them
to pieces, no longer a chance
to decipher or rectify.

Those poems are now
strange to me.

I am no longer “her.”

When rain comes to town

Of each to the other, an
echo, a stir on the skin
a repetitive knock on the
shutters of love and deception.

When rain comes to town
and the heart beats of lonely.

When not writing poetry, Emalisa Rose enjoys crafting and birding. She volunteers in animal rescue. Some of her work has appeared in Adelaide, Mad Swirl, The Rye Whiskey Review and other wonderful places. Her latest collection is “This water paint life,” published by Origami Poem Project. She can be reached at