Poetry
Roadside Youth 1969
Lonely am I, on a winding road.
Seeing only streaks of white
with flying specks of black rounds.
Thumb out and head down,
wondering who might be kind.
Holes in shoes, pack in ditch,
spaced on where to go.
Seeing scampering mice, heading for home,
the sun making patterns on their backs.
My thoughts heavy, stomach not full,
hoping to find one so beautiful.
Lonely am I,
Thumb out, sign in hand,
watching the sun dance shadows on the sand.
Spare Change 1970
Infinity beyond the stars of now
A child walks in the spirit of the future
Looking beyond the clouds
Kicking stones with bruised feet
Thinking of the elders trying to defeat.
Hands in pockets
Asking for spare change
Trying to explain
but mind is detained
hearing a song from a traveling band.
Hands in pockets
dreaming of infinity
but not of past
Asking for spare change
walking too fast.
The Girl By the Side of the Road
You have seen her there. Thumb out. Smiling a weak smile. There were thousands of these girls across America in the 60's. I was one of them. These are the poems from that time of my life.
THE WOMAN IN THE WINDOW 3/9/2025
Lynda DuBois
I catch my reflection in the storefront glass,
tilt my head, squint a little.
For a second, I expect to see
the girl I used to be,
the one who walked with a swing in her hips,
laughed too loud,
and wore heels without regretting it.
Instead, there’s this woman.
Her eyes have a touch more wisdom,
her laugh lines are well-earned,
and her hips? Well, they have their own opinions now.
Just beyond the glass,
a group of young women twirls past—
all long legs, easy laughter,
and that reckless glow of thinking time will never catch them.
I smile.
I was them once.
And one day, if they’re lucky,
they’ll be me,
standing here, watching,
smiling at the way life turns full circle.
I give my reflection a little wink.
She winks back.
Still got it.
I walk on,
not quite as fast as before,
but with a swing and a rhythm all my own.
In this poetry series, I explore the quiet turning points that have shaped my life as a writer. For years, I lived among unfinished pages and forgotten notebooks, not yet recognizing that I was approaching a threshold. Publishing my first book marked a subtle but irreversible shift—one that transformed writing from private habit into a living presence. My characters began to feel like companions, and language itself took on a deeper urgency. Now, writing from later in life, I find not a closing, but a renewal—an energy that resists the idea of ending and continues to gather strength.
4/2026
Before the Spine
Winter lingered in my drawers—
stacks of yellowed pages,
script fading into memory,
journals holding small stories
I had already forgotten.
They waited without asking,
quiet witnesses,
corners softened by years
I did not think to count.
I called it habit,
this keeping of almosts,
this tending of sentences
that refused to stand upright.
Outside, the trees rehearsed green
but did not commit.
Inside, time settled into paper—
and in my sixty-eighth year,
the pages, at last,
became part of me.
I did not know
I was leaning toward a threshold,
that even stillness
can gather speed.
The First Binding
It did not arrive like thunder.
No sky split,
no choir of astonishment
just paper learning its edges,
ink settling into decision.
A small, audible click
somewhere in the bones of things.
My name
no longer practice
stood without apology
on a spine.
And that was all:
a door not flung open,
but closed behind me.
After, Everything Breathes Differently
The house grew crowded
without adding walls.
They came quietly,
the ones I had made
pulling chairs to the table,
finishing my sentences,
aging beside me without permission.
I learned their habits:
one prefers dusk,
another insists on rain.
Paper multiplied like weather.
Spring no longer asked,
it entered.
Even silence changed its posture,
sat closer,
as if it knew my name now
meant something it could not undo.
No Retirement Here
They said seasons turn toward rest,
that autumn knows
when to loosen its grip.
But something in me
misread the instruction.
Roots went deeper, not quieter.
Branches kept their arguments
with the sky.
I have become unreasonable
with time,
stacking new pages
on years meant to settle.
The characters still arrive,
unannounced as weather,
calling me back to the desk
like kin who refuse distance.
There is a rumor of ending
I do not believe.
Look
how the leaves burn brighter
just before they fall.
Look
how I do not fall.
