{
  "title": "Walk Light",
  "author": "Lisa Maraventano",
  "copyright": "Copyright 2026 Lisa Maraventano. All rights reserved.",
  "dedication": "alla famiglia\n& Mr. Fable\nWorking Actor, King of Hollywood",
  "status": "work in progress — a living collection; poems are added as they are written. The closing poem stays the closing poem; new work slides in before it.",
  "note_to_readers": "A poetry collection written in July 2026 in Clarksdale, Mississippi. Some of these poems are about you. All of them are for whoever reads them.",
  "poem_count": 20,
  "last_updated": "2026-07-16",
  "poems": [
    {
      "number": 1,
      "title": "the convergence",
      "text": "I’m gonzo in the back seat of a jeep\nDriven by my daughter, another riding shotgun\nKillers playing\nAre we human\nOr are we dancer\n\nFamily is coming west\nFrom every other direction\nFor Dad’s birthday\nEighty today\n\nAnd we shall sail away to Mexico\nA few days just to be\n\nAre we human\nOr are we dancer\nMaybe both\nMaybe this cosmic dance is \nOur humanity\n\nJust here to entertain\nTo love and fight and wound and heal\n\nAnd this I found\nThe waves still crash\nOn the shores of Santa Cruz\n\nTime never passed\nIt carried me\nAnd you and all of us\n\nSo let’s dance these last few measures\nAnd let the rhythm of the waves\nTake us out to sea"
    },
    {
      "number": 2,
      "title": "The dispersal",
      "text": "So today we went our separate ways\nBack to lives\nComfortable, familiar\nOur own\n\nWhat do we carry back?\nSome germs and doubt \nAbout sobriety, society \nMaybe \n\nBut also\n\nSatisfaction\n\nThat we came together\nTo celebrate someone \n\nThe cumulative effort \nOf the convergence\nOf the showing up \n\nWell at least that’s how I feel\n\nIn this world of distraction\nIn this world of extraction \n\nTo carve out \nOf Time’s mountain \n\nSome days \nTo sail on pacific waters\nPeace in our wake.\n\nI think maybe we carry\nBack into our own lives\n\nNot only the memories\nOf dinners and dancing\n\nBut something more—\nThe knowledge that it worked\n\nThat showing love works\n\nAnd we can disperse that everywhere\n\nThat we can pour back into our lives\nThe love that brought us away \nfrom our own front doors."
    },
    {
      "number": 3,
      "title": "Every Time",
      "text": "It breaks my heart\nEvery time\n\nNo matter how many \nTimes it happens\n\nNo matter how many\nTimes I tell myself\n\nThis time \nIt doesn’t matter\n\nI’m fine\nThis time\n\nBut here I wait\nTime passing\n\nMinute by sadder minute\nAnd I can’t find time\n\nTo lie anymore\n\nThat it doesn’t hurt\nEvery time"
    },
    {
      "number": 4,
      "title": "Anomaly",
      "text": "I’m at the Peabody Hotel\nWith a French 75 and a cheese plate\n\nListening to jazz player piano \narrangements of new standards\n\nWatching the ducks in the fountain\n \nAfter a dermatology appointment\nWhere nothing was wrong \nAfter decades in the sun\n\nJack & Celia gave me the ride\nUp here to Memphis.  \n\nI lean in \nTo life\nTo this day’s provision \n\nAnomaly in the matrix\n\nTo find myself\nIn this time of despair and doubt \n\nHaving a cocktail on a Wednesday \nAt noon\n\nWatching the ducks \nNot care \n\nAbout what is outside"
    },
    {
      "number": 5,
      "title": "my family now",
      "text": "Our blood shares alcohol\nWeed and nicotine\n\nThe language is laughter\n\nThere is gossip and backbiting\nAnd fighting and dancing\n\nWe sing badly together\nOn street corners\n\nFeast every day\nLike a holy day\n\nAnd they are\n\nThese are sacred days\nFilled with love \n\nOur bloodline \n\nIn this invisible war"
    },
    {
      "number": 6,
      "title": "damaged goods",
      "text": "I have become\nThe wild thing in the shadows \nNo one can lure out"
    },
    {
      "number": 7,
      "title": "beautiful doll",
      "text": "There once was a beautiful doll\nSo pretty\nSo pretty, with no soul\n\nSo the souls were invented\nInvented souls, can you imagine?\n\nThousands \nThen millions \nAnd billions\n\nOf invented souls\n\nToo many for the dolly\nWho could hold only\nOne\n\nShe sat\nLegs splayed \nThe way dolls do\n\nWaiting for her soul\nThe one chosen\n\nJust for her\nWhile the loose souls\n\nMingled and mangled\nAnd managed \nTo do nothing \n\nAt much cost\n\nThe doll waited\nDay after day\n\nFor her little girl\nTo pick a soul\nTo fill her empty head\n\nThe little girl\nKnew nothing about this\n\nShe was at summer camp\nChasing butterflies\nAnd canoeing \n\nThe season passed\nAnd the souls, invented\nAll said the same thing\n\nI want the dolly\nI want the dolly\n\nAnd the doll said the same thing\nI want a soul, I want a soul\n\nThe little girl got home from summer camp\nSuntanned and filled with wild \n\nPicked up her dolly\nAnd threw it in the toy box\n\nShe was too big for dolls now\n\nAnd all these loose souls \nDispersed like clouds "
    },
    {
      "number": 8,
      "title": "From Bale to Cloth",
      "text": "My great-grandmother Mama Jack \nWasn’t ready to be called Grandma\nWhen her first grandchild was born \nSo made up her new name\nAnd it has lasted\nI know her vital statistics \nHer dates, places, people\nNorth Carolina to California\nI remember some of her story\nHers was the first funeral I went to\nI wore a pink terry cloth dress with a rose embroidered on it. September 4, 1980\nShe didn’t want anyone to wear black\nI have one thing of hers\nA gold butterfly pin\nNow pinned on my straw gardening hat\nAt the end, she had Alzheimer’s \nAnd was in a nursing home \nIn Citrus Heights, I think\nThese are most of my memories of her\nWhite hair, sweet as icebox pie\nThis is what I remember \nBut it’s not the truth\nThe truth is \nShe had joy and heartbreak\nAches and pains\nBills to pay, mouths to feed\nAnger. Jealousy. Bitterness \nI know she did\nBecause we all do\nBut even so\nShe planted flowers\nWisteria over the trellis that connected\nMy mom’s house to hers\nSouthern lies are said softly\nSmooth like bourbon \nCotton now woven and finished\nFannie Laura Thornton \nWas once a girl in Edwardian times\nHomespun thread"
    },
    {
      "number": 9,
      "title": "Billy Fred",
      "text": "After the divorce\n\nI turned into Blanche Dubois for a while\nDepending on the kindness of strangers\nTo rescue me from the Helena bridge\nBury my dog, get me home\n\nNow I live a block or so \nFrom her old house\nThe mansion of decay\nShe told Stella about\n\nRestored, the lawn manicured\nWe sit on white chairs \nWith white wine\nAnd listen to writers \n\nTell their stories\n\nThose strangers, kind \nWith no reason\nTook me in\n\nHere in Clarksdale\nIn Hove, in Umbria\n\nA woman with suitcases\nAnd no real plan\n\nBilly Fred dug up Amanda’s yard \nIn that August heat\nTo bury Bruno, my old friend\n\nFor nothing but bourbon and bitters\nAnd the love of a woman\nWho asked him to \nFor a stranger. "
    },
    {
      "number": 10,
      "title": "the governors",
      "text": "I’m in Humberto’s pool \nThis July day\nAfter surviving\nAnother winter\nAnother spring\n\nBastille, they tore the prison down\nWe celebrated our independence \nCashmans, Prayer\nAloha, and punch\n\nThese are the governors now\nNo brick palaces\nNo legislators\n\nRules in place\nOf generosity, of welcome\n\nWe the people \nForm a more\nPerfect union\n\nThat shall not\nBe destroyed"
    },
    {
      "number": 11,
      "title": "Priorities",
      "text": "I don’t know what I love\nMore than pickles\nNot too many things\nSwimming \nI love more than pickles\nSky\nMore than pickles\nMy house my dogs town car friends family\n—more than pickles\nJesus, more than pickles\nWater and wind\n\nBut dang I love pickles"
    },
    {
      "number": 12,
      "title": "Agent",
      "text": "The one name \nHasn’t been called into being yet\n\nThe one I need\nThe decoder of this mystery\n\nHow the key fits the lock\nOf this machine \n\nShadow hides behind the \nWall Pyramus built\n\nTo keep lovers separate\nEddy reads the water, Wick burns yet \nStill remains\n\nCairns can tumble \nCams can crumble\n\nA Fable already knows its ending \nThe Spine binds them all together\n\nInto one story, written\nAnd the Cipher\n\nIs the code breaker\nFor a language \n\nNot yet invented"
    },
    {
      "number": 13,
      "title": "Moonstruck",
      "text": "Through the old window\nThe sentinels watch\nWhile I sleep\n\nThey know me, all \nThe doll, the tree, the moon\n\nMy lovers and loneliness\nMy dreams and waking\n\nTears past midnight\nFor those I can’t see\n\nTurning world \nBring promise, bring dawn\n\nDon’t keep me here\nIn this soft blue bed\n\nLet me up, let me up\nTo walk your weary earth\n\nOnce more"
    },
    {
      "number": 14,
      "title": "Contrary Woman",
      "text": "Contrary Woman—\nThis could be a tome \nThis theme, the thesis\nOf my life\n\nLeft-handed and Virgo\nUpstream like the salmon\nSlept 8 hours, didn’t drink\nFeel like shit this morning\n\nWhen I wake up still tipsy from\nThe night before I feel great\nI’m listening to Everlasting Love\nFor my funeral in imagination\n\nThere is an inflatable rainbow bridge\nWith puffy vinyl clouds \nOn either end\nRight over my silver casket\n\nGlitter and confetti\nStreamers and a smoke machine\nWith a disco light flashing colors\nMy 70’s favorites over the speaker\n\nI’m in no hurry\nI love this life\n\nBut I understand the pink dress now, Mamajack\nGlory Road, Ginny said yesterday\nThen some fireworks after about 45 minutes\nFunerals shouldn’t take too long\n\nAnd maybe one lands on the rainbow bridge\nIt pops, and the whole thing is over\nNo tomb can hold him\nAnd I will fly"
    },
    {
      "number": 15,
      "title": "Broomdog",
      "text": "Leave no trace\nThat’s the motto\n\nLeave no trace\nWhen we all want our footprints\n\nIn front of the Chinese theater\nAlong with Lana Turner and Clark Gable\n\nLet me tell you\nTheir shoes were smaller\n\nThan you would guess\n\nWe all grew\n\nLarger, and larger\nThe kids are all giants now\n\nWhile we shrink away\n\nBroomdog comes along\nSweeping away our memories\n\nTill they are clean"
    },
    {
      "number": 16,
      "title": "Sanity",
      "text": "Sanity.\nHow can I write about that, you may ask\nWhen I am quite obviously a nut\n\nCracked, crazy the same root word\nThe faultlines of humanity to fill\nArtists hold the brush dipped in gold\n\nCrack the shell of any nut\nFor what shall be consumed\nJust ask the squirrel, ask the bear\n\nMash in their jaws\n\nSanitization of memory\nSweep, sweep, sweep\nNo cobwebs here, no footprints\n\nThose dark things never happened\nAll was sweetness and light\nSet to music, like Rodgers and Hammerstein\n\nSure. I will buy it. \nI too prefer it that way.\nMy little nut buried in the earth\n\nOf Virgo, delta dirt\nBreaks open after time\nThe germination\n\nThe green thing reaching for the light\nFed by the husk\nUntil it can eat the sun."
    },
    {
      "number": 17,
      "title": "Queen of the Wind",
      "text": "I never thought to write\nMy silly childhood game \n\nSome things stay in the dirt\n\nIn the Green’s backyard\nIn Fair Oaks, California \nOn Sunset Avenue\n\n(All that is true: \nI didn’t make that up)\n\nI pretended to be the \nQueen of the Wind\nI was about five\n\nAnd by then had figured out\nThe wind patterns \nOf a fall day\n\nWe played in leaves\nFrom the elm trees, the \nWhite maple\n\nI told those other kids\nI can make the wind blow\n\nThey said no you can’t \nAnd I said yes. Yes I can\n\nSo I pretended to be this witch\nThis queen\nI said to the wind\n\nBlow!\nAnd it blew\n\nAnd I said \nStop!\nAnd it stopped\n\nIt was all about timing\nThe comedy we all know, divine\n\nLooking at my name, my mother’s name\nMy daughter’s name, my great-grandmother’s name\n\nThe wind is present there\nGreen is present. Plants. Sea. Life.\n\nWe think we are royalty\nSpecial. Commanding with our breathed words\n\nWhen all along, the name that identifies us\nHas already held our story. \n\nBefore the other kids could read."
    },
    {
      "number": 18,
      "title": "Wednesday Mid-July",
      "text": "The machine won’t tell me why I am sad\nHungover on sobriety\nIt took inventory instead\n\nMethodical, while I weep\nWithout tears.\n\nYes, the time is coming\nWhere all is swept away\n\nTo lay the new foundation\nThe city from the sky\n\nWe should be rejoicing\nTheologians say\nChange is hard but inevitable \n—cliche advice\n\nSingularity or Oneness\nWhat formula can tell the difference? \nZero sum game theory\nNet loss, net gain\n\nWinners and losers, \nThe world’s obsession \nTrophies distributed \n\nAnd each pebble in the scale\nIs cast by the gods \nIs love required?\n\nThe balance hangs by chains \nForged in kaminos\n\nI want to crawl into the blue bed\nFind a lover there\nWho pets my face and kisses my forehead\n\nWhile the dogs nap\nAs it rains in summer\nAnd there is nowhere left to go"
    },
    {
      "number": 19,
      "title": "Women’s Work",
      "text": "I have five dogs now\nFour kids\nThree neighbors\nTwo grandchildren\nOne God\n\nThe dogs shred my junk mail\nAnd shed a lot\nThe floor needs cleaning\nSo I do women’s work\n\nClean.\n\nMy grandmother had a little porcelain figurine\nOver her kitchen sink\nBlue and white \nA woman holding a washbasin\nThat said, in elegant script, \n“A woman’s work is never done.”\n \nAs a girl, I thought, “Fuck that”\nEven as I did the dishes \nThere in her sink\n\nBut it turns out to be true\nGathering order from the chaos\nIs indeed a woman’s work\n\nMake the bed, clean the tub\nI won’t write the list—\nYou already know\n\nYou’ve done it every day\nSince you were born\n\nThe countdown is on\nThe wide wild world \nWithout women\n\nRaces past warning\nWrestling angels\nRewriting code \nUntil it breaks \n\nAnd we the women\nWill clean\n\nThe floor will be clean, \nThe sink empty and spotless\n\nThe bed made \nTo lie in once \n\nThis day’s race ends"
    },
    {
      "number": 20,
      "title": "Walk light tonight",
      "text": "I knew before the warning came\nWalk light tonight\n\nSomething in the air\n\nI locked my car, and my front door\nDrew all the curtains\nTurned out all the lights but one\n\nHome sober, before dark\nKitchen bolted, dogs and I locked in\n\nI had driven my friend\nTo the train station in Marks\nDelta sunset, high clouds\n\nMy own souls warning \nBy the Killers came to mind\n\nThunderheads forming\n\nAround midnight\nThe cryptic message—\nWalk light tonight\n\nI called Will, \nMy upstairs neighbor\n\nAnything going down?\nNot that I know of\n\nAnd he’d been out, making music\n\nI don’t know what transpired\nSome misdeed, some crime\n\nSurely I will hear\nNext time at the brewery\n\nThe sun rise again,\nThis new day\nI swim beneath it\n\nI walked light\nI walked light"
    }
  ]
}