Susanna Lee
Susanna Lee's poetry has been published in The Stillwater Review and The Red Wheelbarrow. Her first book of poetry, Sunrise Mountain, is now out of print, but many of the poems reappear in a six-volume set of Lee's collected works, the Cubist Poetry Series, published by Rose Mason Press. Great Blue Heron is a collection of 5-7-5 haiku arranged in mini-chapbooks on themes such as pop culture, nursery rhymes, and art history. Other very short poems, most no longer than a sonnet, appear in Twisted Carrot. Poems longer than one page are in God Laughs, and her one-page poems are in My Husband's Roses. Snow Balls consists of short stories, many autobiographical. Lee's family recipes are preserved in Fluffy Muffins, with instruction in kitchen basics for new cooks. Each of the books may be purchased separately, while together they give the reader a cubist view of the poet's vision.
Buy My Books: www.amazon.com/author/susannalee
After My Grandson's Visit
I watch snowflakes
fill his snow angel.
If Bashō Wrote Today
Picture window.
Flying bird.
Splat!
Poetry Practice
Strolling
the halls
of my father's
nursing home,
visiting
comatose strangers'
unlocked rooms,
leaving
love haiku
on patients'
whiteboards,
blessings,
in erasable ink.
Shirt
I don my favorite well-worn 100% cotton tee shirt.
The fabric feels so good, and it's so comfortable.
The Kelly green brings out the color in my eyes
and reminds me I have Irish roots on my mom's side.
I'm grateful I can wear this shirt, even with its memories.
I'm okay with its stretched-out neck and rip in the armpit.
No one notices enough to care to ask why it's damaged.
I would hope everyone could have such a thing to wear.
It fits, it's something I love to touch,
and it reminds me of my family and of my history
and that imperfections and traumas of the past
don't matter quite so much when you own them.
Sussex County Llama
The Sussex County llama winks his wooly lashed lids
while wandering, sure-footed, over grass clumps
in the flat pasture next to his red barn.
He ambles over to the feeding trough
filled with Purina Llama Chow,
the best llama food American farmer money can buy.
He dreams of leaping, lightly from ledge to ledge,
easily meeting any rocky challenge,
calmly placing one unshod hoof after the other,
deft toes catching firm footing on each random craggy patch,
circling the Andes mountaintop, a home he will never know,
bending low, delicately nibbling,
tasting his fill of indigenous plants in season.
The Hiking Trail at Dawn
In quarantine,
no hugs.
On the hiking trail at dawn,
a dead dragonfly.
Your Baby Song
Sing to me your baby song
again, in my dreams.
Tell me our tomorrows dance on fluffy clouds.
We'll shimmy up rays of sunshine,
slide down rainbows,
fall into buttercup meadows
and land on toadstools.
We'll pet fawns and fillies,
pick Queen Anne's Lace,
fly like hummingbirds,
splash in puddles,
hopscotch on lily pads,
and catch turtles and frogs.
