©1997 Susan Noyes Anderson

I’m old enough to clean my room.
I’m old enough to weed.
I’m old enough to go to school
and old enough to read.

©2018 Susan Noyes Anderson

There once was a woman, grown older,
whose man said her love should be bolder:
“In a romantic sense,
your libido’s past tense.”
His reward? The bold, icy cold shoulder.

©2018 Susan Noyes Anderson

image by Mosoianu Bogdan on Unsplash

We sit.
She, burgundy chair.
Me, blue leather sofa.
Like so many times
before, days of yore.
She used to watch me,
claim me, eyes love-lit.
I’d blush. You’re staring, Mom.
But I put up with it.

©2018 Susan Noyes Anderson

image by Zac Durant on Unsplash

The spirit finds home
inside warm flesh and bone,
taking ownership,
giving direction.
Should the formula fail,
appetite will prevail,
driving action
without due reflection.

©2017 Susan Noyes Anderson

His spirit crawls a lowly road
with little will to rise.
Leaves falling from the trees reprise
tears falling from his eyes.

©2017 Susan Noyes Anderson

 
image by Warren Wong on Unsplash

I used to have a firefly inside me,
a certain spark against the dark of night,
her wings translucent threads of hope and dreaming,
her glow as magical as soft starlight.

©2017 Susan Noyes Anderson

My kitchen is a clone of me,
and at its very heart
hums one cold, stainless giant,
covered in graffiti art.

©2017 Susan Noyes Anderson

When my own tides are at low ebb,
I stand beside the sea.
Bright waves of truth I used to know
come washing over me.