When not writing poetry, Emalisa Rose enjoys crafting with macrame and doll making. She volunteers in animal rescue, and helps tend to a cat colony in the neighborhood. She lives by the beach, which provides much of the inspiration for her art.  Some of her poems have appeared in Writing in a Woman’s Voice, Spillwords and other fine places. Her latest collection is “On the whims of the cross currents,” published by Red Wolf Editions.

Deliriously, dandelions

Ready as rain, they stick
to the script and the floorplans
with the debut of Springtime.

Five decades later, they still
render a thrill, first time I see them,

weeks past the frost that buried
their predecessors, over anxious
to flower.

“Make a wish,” Mama would say.

“It’s already come true.” I tell her.

Dime store dahlia

She’d keep it a month,
sometimes longer - that
bouquet from the dollar
store.

A dozen in prayer pose, 
variety’s gumbo from maroon
to cerulean.

Mine would keel over in days -
those 2 dozen roses, she’d send
for my birthday.

But her thrift store collection
kept thriving, weeks past the
call of the coroner. I’d
never quite figure out how,

though I knew it was something
I’d failed to inherit, like her great
gams and her skills in the kitchen -
traits, that were never my own.

Baking with Betty

“Throw in more raisins,” she
said, “You gotta be generous.”

“Why bother to bake, with the
mess and the cleanup, if it won’t
be outstanding. Throw in more
raisins,”she said.

“And it has to bake slowly, you
can’t rush the process. Knead
with your strong hand, get into
the magic of it.”

This one is sourdough; it’s tangy
and earthy; one of the yeasted
ones, she guided my hands towards.

Between the mess and the butter
milk and the surplus of raisins, she
slipped in the news.

“It was malignant,” she said.