Words & Pictures East Coast, LLC

[Home] [Bookstore] [Gallery] [Poets/Artists] [Fun Stuff] [Vital Links] [Contact]


Art Gallery

Poetry & Humor
Lots of Poetry
Featured poem
Humor/Light Verse

Professional Services
About us
Writing Services
Art Services
Web Services

Visual Artists

Local Events

Fun Stuff
Free Samples
Free Art Lesson
Experimental Stuff

Vital Links
Writing Links
Art Links
WEB Info Links

Email & Address Info

Liss Robertson

Liss says, "words are my favorite toys and poetry my favorite way of playing with them."

During WWII, she left Reed College to work in the mailroom of the Army Transport Service. While there, she was catapulted from limericks into real poetry by a young soldier poet who stated, "Writing poetry is easy, anyone can do it. Just pick a subject and put words to it. Here, you try it." She explains: "He handed me a pencil. To my delight I found I could."

In the ensuing sixty years, she has written poems off and on. Dean has been encouraging her for the last twenty-five years. Recently, when a journalist friend added his conviction to Dean's, she finally decided to stop being a closet poet and "came out" about eighteen months ago.

Since then, she's given two readings (after which people crowded around asking for copies), won first place and second honorable mention for traditional poems in an annual, county-wide contest, and had her first submission to a poetry magazine published in "The Lyric."

Liss welcomes feedback. E-mail: liss219@viclink.com

Laughing Alone

in an empty room
is a strange experience.

The sound echoes unimpeded
from the walls,

until laughter's tears
become tears of loneliness.

Laughter is meant
to be shared.

Developer's Progress

Shadow bouquets from wildflowers destroyed,
Pot-holed country road now asphalt smooth,

Creek where deer drank trapped in culverts,
Ravine buried by tons of rock and clay,

Trees replaced by metal street lights,
Returning swallows find no nesting place,

Inhabitants of burrows trapped,
Crushed by monstrous machines,

Land flattened, featureless except large sign,
"Autumn Ridge 78 new homes call..."

There is no ridge.


As we walked the woods,
You took my hand
As naturally as a child.

We reveled in flowers,
Touched ferns and trees.

Then from a hilltop,
We touched the horizon,
My hand still in yours.

It's Sickening

Pills and potions,
potions and pills,
we're bombarded with nostrums
to cure all our ills.

We should take them
each morning, at noon,
and at night. There's even a tablet
to make sex go right.

If we don't have the latest,
no hope for a cure.
To cost there's no limit
when health is the lure.

If we're already healthy,
we should think of our pets.
According to TV, we must see our vets.

Forget pills and potions,
and potions and piolls,
I am sick of the nostrums
to cure all our ills!

To avoid all this nonsense
(I wish it would pass).
I will dodge the whole issue,
go out and eat grass.

Stolen Honey

Stolen honey, stolen hours,
the sweeter for their transience,
linger with me.
Courting, we dreamed of endless nights
of wild delight.

Now, from implacable tyrant time,
we steal our precious honeyed hours.
Unbidden, the though of you
creeps into my computer days
and meeting'd nights.

End of school day --
children scatter
like bright leaves
in an autumn wind.


Early darkness.
Candle floating
in cut-glass bowl,
creates patterns of light.

Early darkness.
Slender flame,
light to bring light,
conjuring its return.
Winter solstice magic.

Autumn Change

In autumn,
a moment comes
when a feather touch of air
will cause a tree
to drop its leaves.

Standing here,
I watch a tree undress.

Yellows, apricot, reds,
and multicolored,
briefly unscattered,
its garments recreate its shape
around its foot.

A gust of wind, leaves fly,
the moment is gone.


Down falling,
white making,
sibilant softly.

Tree limning,
form blurring,
scene changing slowly.

Sky filling,
light floating,
spell weaving gently.



Once I saw a winter moon,
Misty through angular branches
Of a leafless tree.

A cry rose within me,
A yearning
I did not understand,
"I want to go home."

But where was home?
I did not know,
Nor even
Where to search.

Later, the feeling was lost
In marriage,
And a world
Of children

With time, it returned,
Still a passion,
Clear and unadorned
As those winter branches.

At last I know.
I am my homeplace,
I am my home!


Last Updated: June 3, 2005