Born into circumstance little different than others, I have a mother and father, a sister. I conquered childhood with stick swords and lined paper wide enough for well practiced script. I was the smiling girl in high school with wide hips and terrible fashion sense, writing in a spiral school book in every spare second. I once favored pencil over pen, perhaps afraid of my own voice, but as I grew ... more »
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Lisa Nickle Poems
The woman draws SUNFLOWERS in the vain belief it will draw her closer to the Son. That something in their nature
A Pilgrims Prayer
God spare the heart of those to wander though their feet know where they go their souls are broken pieces that only angels know
To You Above All
Could you write your fingers bloody and would you want to try. If only so you could have page upon page to splatter your walls
And she sings as though he heart were never broken and Hell is just the memory in her back pocket
Wind Blown Pages
That summer, it was our solace and salvation, giving us adventures to dare together and quiet moments in sunshine.
Blow wind! Blow! Crash and thunder Ring and crack but you aint ever
On the Edge
We live our lives on the edge the edge of a coin poised for flipping. Will today be a good day or a bad day?
This is like grilled cheese on Sundays and dancing through Monday because it is the only way to go. Tuesday keeps its own time and wonders
It is a perfectly painless process, having your heart stolen. So much so, you barely feel it. Yet when you try to take it back...
Oh to see myself as in the portal of your eyes. To be the woman your pupils encircle.
I Make Love...
I make love... No I am incapable of such a creation I can make chaos
Not in Vain
Not in vain do I with racing heart and fearful step go forth
I am a tangle of hair drunk on sleep limbs heavy rooted to silken sheets
I Am a Battlefield
Little and yet all I know of war amounts to casualties littering my chest desire and piety
Comments about Lisa Nickle
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
The woman draws SUNFLOWERS
in the vain belief
it will draw her closer to the Son.
That something in their nature
could inspire her to have faith.
But these flowers follow so blindly
this body giving them life.
How could THEY
not dare to question why
all things depend on one such thing?
Many would call this foolish
Perhaps, some would chime in ‘bold’
and yet here she is
pen to paper praying
for divine deliverance
from blind submission.
Yet there she has it
at the tip of her quill.
Her faith is not blind at all
by an ...