Lorene Kinsey

Lorene Kinsey Poems

The words haunting, comforting,
A fragment of my past drops in
Makes her random visit
To shake my once fragile world,

Showers down like broken glass
Upon the girl who weeps
Life as known changing fast
Cannot escape in dreams.

Leaves of green are turning fast
Another wonderful year has passed
Bigger now than the one before
Learning everyday more and more.

Sense his eyes peering over my words, imagining
My curls falling over the page as the blue ink
Bleeds my thoughts, envisions them blond, soft
Today he is wrong. Turn my ring back to the light,

On a trip down memory lane
Stumbled into my past of pain
Looked for the words that stained the walls
And the homemade faces Aunt Rose made for dolls

Had a minute to jot this down
mark our evening together.
Like to write a poem before or
after memorable occassions

Speaks of her, the mother of his children,
The team cheerleader, the only woman
Foolish enough to ever love and leave him
With such disrespect and ill intent

Pressed flowers or pressed fairies,
it’s all the same to me,
a dream inside the pages of a book,
screaming to bring back a memory.

Burned my eyes like shredded onions
Scavenging through my car
Searching for a napkin or cloth
To hide my shattered heart.

I remember how she used to tell me what to do,
Always pushing me to choose what is right and proper
Bored me with her saintly ways when all I wanted
Was to lean in for one more kiss, for the feeling to

Slip into my office for
a moment to close my day
Slipped carefully off pink high heels
To give my pigs a break.

I think daily of making love to you
embracing, fingers wrapped in yours,
heart races at the thought of your smile
can’t believe I have been so long without


Wrestled as most buddies do
Grunting, elbowing and head butting too
All of us were taking turns
And I was winning as often he

Once thought an obsession
In more naïve times
I later learned kept my
Heartbeat in rhyme.

Early to bed for a Saturday, broken,
too depressed to be a mother, woman,
Desperate to feel loved, whole,
Wishing for desire to fill the


Quiet, girl, you talk too much!

Tied tightly her hands against her
Thrashing body, can't sit still.

Try not to pour my soul out anymore, to leak,
Hardened from the aching of the past few years
Never know when love will take advantage,
use the weakness that such emotions force

I’ve seen you turn your back on me,
far too many times.
So if you’d like to know the truth,
I want you in my life.

'dem mutts found some months ago
digging in the trash
savages of the dumpster world
now domesticated pets

Voice whispers through the speaker,
confirmation—I am an addict again,
frustrated at this grasp, peacefully content
then instantly withdrawn as my master commands.

Lorene Kinsey Biography

I have been writing since I was in the 4th grade. I hated to write, but there I was, scratching my pencil across the pages one, two, ten. Only two required and yet I could not stop myself. It was not the writing I hated, but the editing, rewriting, by hand each of my words then melting them into sentences again. This uncontrollable writing started at 9. During summers, I would begin writing as my family filled their beds and I would sit at my entertainment center which was large and move the t.v. elsewhere so I would have a 'desk' to write. My room had no windows so I would lose the night and find myself resting as my aunt would wake for the day. I was 11 and 12 and 13, and now at 28, I find myself reading, writing and editing away hour after hour then collapsing into bed only a few before I would rise again for another day of insurance, my career. I am a writer. Not because I am the next Teasdale or Emerson, but because this thing lives in me so wildly that it has a life of its own. It is not my stolen innocence, mundane sounding career or the love I have for my precious daughters that defines me, but mostly this love of words. This love I have for them is the one constant and large thing that has been in my life the last two decades, almost as long as I have learned to write at all. My little is now 7 1/2 and I pray that of all the gifts I have to offer from my telling blue eyes and large smile, tender heart, crazy curls and kindness, my love for words is the one I pray that she will inherit the most. With the support I did not have, I pray that I can give her wings to use this gift to take her to other worlds anytime she needs to go.)

The Best Poem Of Lorene Kinsey

“i Still Think About You Every Day”

The words haunting, comforting,
A fragment of my past drops in
Makes her random visit
To shake my once fragile world,
But I am a stranger to her now, cold,
Untouchable. Absorb the memory,
Then tend to homework, dishes,
Chores distracting, physical focus
Controlling minds desire
To be swept away to that place
In our playful history.

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