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Poetry by Carol Lynn Grellas 

Pushcart-Prize nominee Carol is the author of A Thousand Tiny Sorrows (March Street Press), Litany of Finger Prayers (Pudding House Press) and Object of Desire (Finishing Line Press).




© 2009 Carol Lynn Grellas




Best Friends Forever



My friend asked me to write a poem

about her. I could say she’s a lot

like me except for those long black


lashes, because they’re really dark

and thick and mine have never been

as lush as that. I could say she’s hilarious  


the way she throws her head  back

and her boobies jiggle like a pretty

Barbie-girl, how all the men in the room


turn from whatever it is they’re doing

just to hear her murmur a few lines

of this or that as she spins a laugh


around you in a nonchalant manner; 

a giggle that demands attention ─even

the leaves of every plant, including


the poinsettias curl up in unison

from the experience of her comedic

routine. I could say she has the brains


of ten men who’ve graduated Harvard,

because I’ve dated those Harvard types

and I know genius when I see one, but she’s


got more than a high I.Q., she’s got a dose

of moxie with a thimbleful of grace that’s

made her what she is today. And if you


asked me what that means, I’d bat my

less than black, long lashes and jiggle my

little, Barbie-girl boobies and tell you


she’s what you call a BFF and I’d  

bet she’d say the same.






A  Furniture Hoarder’s Confession


It’s hard to say why a bare room makes me weep

the sight of vacant floors and windows stripped

or drape-less. The unoccupied space and reminder

of moving one too many times with unscrewed

bed-frames and the endless setups from place

to place;  the opposite of a vagabond, my shopping

cart is full of kitchen sinks and countless pillows

in silk brocade, my grandmother’s piano bench

where she lounged on Christmas eve, the étagère

with beveled glass and Ange’s maple leaf cups,

the French provincial breakfront with its homey

touch that crowds the birdcage with no apologies,

though the parrot hasn’t complained.

There are the high back chairs, the leather

ottoman where I’ve sat a thousand times

and sipped my cognac from its Waterford

crystal bowl, the Persian rug with fringe frayed

from careless vacuuming with company arriving

any minute. Oh you could say it’s a overdone

that less is more and I need to Feng shui

myself into open space into long hallways devoid

of perfectly made benches flanked against

wainscoted walls where pictures hang in gallery

style order, row after row that require straightening

endless times a day, but I’d say more is more,

cram me in tight like Tutankhamun with glints

of gold, and pots that hold macramé plants swinging

from chandeliers canopies braided from an apex

in the ceiling  hanging over me like fast moving

clouds where each corner saves a spot for something

more special than before, if  only to me,

where every night I can sleep and dream

of a turquoise  settee, sitting tête-à-tête

while I hold down the fort with an eye for

design and a heart formed with loss, so we

might be trapped here forever as close as sardines.







All work is property of Carol Lynn Grellas.




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