The more time passes, the more I’m sorry about it.
We did not learn enough from the mission to justify the death of the dog.
—Oleg Gazenko

We pulled you off the windy streets,
crammed you in a windless room,
stuck electrodes to your skin,
then hurled you to your doom.

Black ears alert, brown eyes alarmed,
you fought against the fearsome thrust,
heart overheating, wildly beating,
hanging on to trust.

What was this floating-feather-lightness?
Where was the man whose gentle hand

Lisa Jain Lakeman                                                                                                  Word Count: 157
5776 e 26th St.
Tucson, AZ
E Mail: pinkyscout [at] mail.com (pinkyscout[at]mail[dot]com)
Phone #: 520-245-3217
                                                                                                                                                                           

                                The Smoker’s Cough

They were wanderers, my father's people,
sailing from China to other lands,
hopping from island to island.

My parents, too, left home and family,
a chain of thin blue airmail letters
crisscrossing seas in their wake.

I went as well, first a short journey,
then a longer one: letters, phone calls,
email, none of it adequate.

I remember my mother remembering
how her father once brushed her hair.
Now I'm the one remembering.


(First published in Ship of Fools)

our children are timebombs
so full of hate and rage
with no respect for authority
ready to pickup a knief
ready to shoot a gun
ready to throw a brick
all because someone
cut in line
or stepped on their shoe
and they don't know how
to reason the sitituation out
or articulate their point of view
which makes them madmen
fulll of rage
ticking timebombs.

brine time



The sun bakes the collectors,

Feeding the high-rises to the south.

Trickle-down electronics feed the locals power too,

Bleeding a few watts to each plastic shanty.

Living on brine shrimp

mutated to catfish size

(when we say jumbo we mean it)

And halophytic vegetation,

The power's used to run lights and pump brine

for a little passive cooling.


At certain times and tides,

The shrimp boil purple, green, and gold,

Explode upon our minds,

Affect our vision heart and soul.

As a young child I practiced blindness
walking eyes closed
a game of what if
punishing toes and shins

As a teen I visited blindness
darkness took me
seconds at a time
knocking me down on stairs

As an adult I employed blindness
using skills learned
through stormy nights
of powerless dark rooms

Now I fear blindness
flashes of light
cracking my vision
through trails of sticky tears

published in Postcard Poems and Prose

French was easier when I thought forks
married knives to make spoons,
when I knew the number 7 was a girl
and green, and 8 a sturdy purple boy.

French was easier in Paris, where one word,
fromage, in context, got me a sandwich
of  lettuce and gruyère, not a teacher
prompting, "Je voudrais acheter. . ."

French was easier for promises to meet
that boy at Maxim's, New Year's Eve 2000.
French was easier before I learned
my ancestors were from Alsace.

French was easier before Japanese invaded

Hiding in the trench in the French sand, Indian Singh fights like a British soldier. It seems it is the ending of the universe. Dark curls of smoke rise up - cradles are shattered, and buildings collapsed. Roar of the war planes gobble all the shrieks by the mothers and their mothers in a jiff. Wounds play a sad raga on the strings in the throats of some fallen military men. Indian Singh seeks his sweet lady among the golden corns in a Punjabi wheat field during the horrible silent interval.

It was far too early
When I woke this morning.
Starlight glimmered
In the sky like fireflies.

Yet the clock read ten
Despite the blanket of night,
Flung over the moon's smile,
Leaving no crack of light.

That was when the news arrived.
The sun had just died.
We had but eight minutes
Before the Earth turned to ice.


--First appeared in Space and Time #129, 2017