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.
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.