Lisa Zaran Poems
|2.||Dedication To Those Unfairly Undone||12/14/2008|
|3.||The Troubled Boy||7/21/2006|
|4.||For A Girl||7/4/2010|
|11.||Where's Your Tambourine Now, Sleeping Bear?||7/19/2005|
|15.||The Great Ones||7/20/2005|
|16.||The Men In My Dreams||5/30/2005|
|18.||Love Is Believable||7/21/2006|
|19.||A Dream Of Her Concern||3/5/2006|
|20.||The Blues Are All The Same||7/19/2005|
|21.||The Best Thing||6/13/2004|
|25.||Absolving The Eye||6/13/2004|
|26.||How We Are||5/30/2005|
|27.||Talking To My Father Whose Ashes Sit In A Closet And Listen||7/20/2005|
Talking To My Father Whose Ashes Sit In A Closet And Listen
Death is not the final word.
Without ears, my father still listens,
still shrugs his shoulders
whenever I ask a question he doesn't want to answer.
I stand at the closet door, my hand on the knob,
my hip leaning against the frame and ask him
what does he think about the war in Iraq
and how does he feel about his oldest daughter
getting married to a man she met on the Internet.
Without eyes, my father still looks around.
He sees what I am trying to do, sees that I
have grown less passive with his passing,
understands my need for answers ...
How We Are
Pale scrapings of people
with lipstick ringed glasses
and cigarettes burning,
and laughter trickling up and down
their knotty throats.
What is this,
a gathering of henhouse critics?
My father's voice in the back of my head,