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Lucie M. Winborne




Lucie Winborne is an author, blogger, poet and freelance writer in Central Florida. She received her B.A. in Creative Writing from Eckerd College and her work has appeared in such publications as Avocet, Open Minds Quarterly, the Orlando Sentinel, ReMIND, and Chick Ink: 40 Stories of Women and Their Tattoos. The Soundness of Broken Pieces is her first poetry collection.







FROM MIDDLE ISLAND PRESS:

The Soundness of Broken Pieces (2013)
By Lucie M. Winborne
Chapbook; 57 pages. $7.

(Contact middleislandpress@yahoo.com to obtain copies.)

Savoring the sweetness while extracting palatable humor from the occasional bitters of being, The Soundness of Broken Pieces is the poetry of life as observed through the eyes, grasped through the tactile sense, and purified through the light of Lucie M. Winborne. Join with her in this mosaic of poetic moments worth remembering and sharing.

(A browse upon pages 14 and 32…)

“It’s Not Really About the Tea”

This is how I’ll think of you, and when:
in the kitchen with an unchipped cup of green or red
or blue, depending on my mood. With a fragrant
brown river emptied from a spout, hot, though I don’t
see the steam. With a purring Siamese that nudges my pen and smudges
my page. But first there will be tea, too cool to steam
and too warm to drink, so I’ll study its pinhead bubbles instead,
like a crowd of tiny faces. I’ll think then of the first man
with that first cup of tea, the emperor in China who sat beneath
a tree while the winds of Heaven blew leaves into his cup.
Then I’ll taste, and close my eyes, and think,
this was worth a revolution.

It is only when the cup is empty, free,
and I stroke its naked symmetry,
recall the color of the brew was the earth-hue of your eyes,

only then that I will think of you, only then
that I will write.

“Moss in Florida Streetlight”

Spanish grandees
ride out each night

their whiskers curled
with years of wisdom

swaying with laughter
at their fanciful name

Barbe Espagnol

at me
in hurried care

who stopped to gaze
at lamplit shades
of summers spent

and summers to be born

that lilt like notes
of Spanish song

in bars of southern sky



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