Dr. Linda Sonna
Psychologist - Author - Artist
Poems
- REAGAN'S RECIPE
By Linda Sonna
In a brimming bowl of racism,
Simmer segregation until hardened,
And set aside to cool.
Fill a white ceramic pot with love,
Add ads, blend in bitters,
And bring to a roiling boil, stirring often.
(If the greed becomes too thick, dilute with drugs.)
Line a nation-sized dish with millionaire dreams,
Dust with corruption to prevent sticking, and fill.
Skim off excess compassion and discard.
Season with sprinkles of entitlement,
Garnish with grated bootstraps,
Best when served on a warm planet
With a side of tyrant.
• Meets the daily nutritional requirements of an oligarchy.
- SCULPTED BY TIME
By Linda Sonna
What do youngsters know of art and beauty?
Only Time, the master sculptor,
Can fashion couples from raw love.
It takes years
to etch soft creases onto velvet skin;
to weld fine silver onto silky strands;
to carve true wisdom in two winsome hearts.
We were lovely once, caressed by life, awash in youth.
But now, chiseled by Time, adorned by love,
How beautiful we've become!
- LOVE FEAST
By Linda Sonna
Hungering for thirsting eyes,
She caressed his love-sweetened dreams,
He nuzzled her honeyed hope.
A lap for the little girl,
A breast for the little boy,
Love-food for the soul,
How they feasted!
They suckled the foolish fantasy,
Then drinking too deeply,
They sucked it dry.
How hungry the little girl,
How thirsty the little boy,
Their craving devoured their souls -
But, oh! How they feasted!
- THE CUP
By Linda Sonna
He pretends not to see me
on the street corner,
but I am through with games.
Cornered, I heed his hearty voice
“Hey, Good-ta-seeya. How-ya-been?”
His body slides sideways, his left arm rises.
Apparently we are to hug.
I searched for his scent
When he lay beside me, swathed in sheen,
marveling at the mystery of odorless love.
Now, as he tosses his arm around me
I’m careful not to inhale
just in case.
“My coffee cup?” he asks.
I nod, my bitter laughter long reduced
to a fleeting smile
I’ve imagined the scene behind his cabinet door
eight dishes, saucers, bowls placed a half inch apart
but only seven cups.
Chaos unleashed in his cupboard,
the hole where I should be.
He drives to my house to retrieve
The Cup Left Behind.
I’m glad to give it up--
No more lips curled on rose-colored porcelain
as I sip creamed coffee laced with sugar
floating on dregs
Instead, we curl our lips around the silence,
Cloaking its nudity in words.
“My hernia,” he says.
I’m not good at glib, but give it my all. “My poems.”
“My stocks.”
“My publisher.”
“Next month.”
“Who knows? Maybe even go to China.”
“China!” he exclaims. He skips a beat, then recovers. “Fancy that.”
I place The Cup
In his large bony fingers
It is right to smile, so I do.
He strides toward the door.
“I won’t tell you I’ve missed you,” he says.
Then, “Come here, gimme-a-hug.”
Front forward this time, two arms rise,
hold me hard
his blond head finds its home in my neck
and he inhales.
My love had a scent.
“Gimme-a-call sometime” he says,
laughs, colors, then adds,
“To say ’bye when you leave for China.”
He needs me more than a cup
to fill his cupboard hole.
Or maybe not.
That one completes the set.
