Four Hours


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Four hours to travel to that little café not far from the Vatican

Four hours to drink my coffee and roam through the halls of another’s life

Four hours to read Wendell Berry

Four hours to talk to Alex, my son, my mom Grace before she puts on her face

Four hours to rearrange words like a puzzle that never completes

Four hours to rescue the children from a heartless empire

Four hours to listen to the hollow sound of the wind, the hum of my computer

Four hours to rub blueberry jam on my bread and wake to what’s old and what’s new

Four hours to Sunday.


2018 This work is copyrighted.

(If you are interested in more of my work, check out my book, Tao Flashes, available on Amazon.) 


Children of Neptune

The children, see how they are growing,

palms in air, atoning.

They are arising.


Neptune’s offsprings,

they water our lawns with tears

and carry our conscience in their levis.

Not far from the mother’s breast,

they dream

of undoing what’s been done.

Voices, raised like thunder,

they pluck and plunder

the rot they’ve been fed.


Sweet day, our children have come to charm us,

disarm us with our own mirrors.

They live in borderless towns, they do,

 stepping in tune

to times that are not.


Marching over yesteryear,

yellow tape,

they come to police profiteers of pain

with their sweetness,

a lethal weapon.


The children, see how they are growing.

Palms in air, they are arising.

Ruby-throated hummingbirds,

they carry the jewel and the nectar,

 the peace offering,

the means for the end of it all.


This work is copyrighted and cannot be published without permission.

 (If you are interested in more of my work, check out Tao Flashes, available on Amazon.)


Independence Day

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Liberate the truth,

unbind Her from the corset

that has cinched her flesh and breath,

cracked her ribs, and

           created curves to please the eye

at the cost of truth.


She is a        hostage

held in sacrilege,

              a body most high.

A body of water reflecting sky’s longing,

but also its clowns, and eagle shaped clouds

                               that curve and shapeshift truth.

That turn Her into a paper doll,


manufactured from our longing

for super heroes, white horses.

Liberate Her        from all this nonsense.


Let us see Her wardrobed in idealism,


let Her reflect the truth of who we were,

             who we          are

and finally, who we want to be

                 naked, in our mirrors.


Let sunlight impress itself on


and let Her reflect back its gold glory

           but in truth as borderless as sky.


Let Her be uncloaked from lies

that have choked Her neck of expression

                            with the fat fingers of history.

Let us see with eyes        anew

the shadows we cast

so we can open wide the window of this day

to greet the birds of despair with new hope.

I am                              free,

you are                free,

together we uncork this truth

and drink of         it.


Give Anger A Facelift

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Like so many, I have been in a fog, a wet haze, as I have watched the world turn itself upside down. I have retreated, withdrawn myself from the madness and mayhem in hopes of reconnecting with my own knowing. This takes time and discernment…and the grace of fortitude to keep me from the fray.

I have been following sage Buddhist advice by walking away from the spectacle. At this time, there is no winning in discourse, no matter what righteous side or angle your view. Even the most righteous today drink from the well of anger.

It is inevitable that anger begets more anger and as we are exposed to it, we spread it generously like cream cheese on a bagel. It’s nuclear. So picture yourself walking around with dandruff-like nuclear particles which have rained down from the atmosphere.  We are becoming radioactive.

I know it, I feel it. In these months of quiet, I have listened, watched and read the anger and righteousness out there–and I can tell you both have the same energetic intensity. So within, so without. As we digest a daily diet of anger, bubble and percolate in our nasty stew, we begin to express it ourselves and it takes shape in our world.

We are all giving IT permission to exist. We may dress it up real pretty in politeness or  righteousness, but anger in candlelight is still ugly.

What do we do?

To paraphrase the sentiments of Forrest Gump and Keats, beauty is what beauty does.

Be beauty. Do beauty. Take your anger and your convictions and give them a facelift. Turn them into action, into grace. Leave the drama, the spectacles, the talking heads invested in stirring anger, and go and create from your calm.

Create from your passion, your convictions, your love– not your anger. When you create from fear and frustration, what you create is rooted in that. Stop spreading the seeds of anger, inciting hate disguised as something else. Your thoughts have power. Your words are instruments of love and destruction.  What will you create with them?

The world is sideways,
unsure what to do in rain.
Every crevice of earth,
damp and fertile
is ready for planting.
Do we allow anger to mold into ruin?
Do we spread fear like peanut butter and pack it for lunch?
Or do we plant lilies and restart our clocks?
The womb is wet and warm, seeded for life.
The climate, fertile for growth,
either way.
I think I will plant lilies,
dropping seeds like my favorite jelly beans,
and watch the sweetness take root.

–Lisa Froman (If you are interested in more of my work, check out my book, Tao Flashes, available on Amazon.)

The Way

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My lungs dilate,

weighted with love for

               the way

the crepe myrtle flirts with the birch,

              the way

the dawn greets the grass with wet kisses.

It is too much for my lungs to love.


My lungs dilate,

weighted with love for

             the way

the cobweb hangs on a dare,

            the way

the lizard turns invisible on stone,

            the way

the vine climbs the trellis with no arms.

It is too much for my lungs to love.


Still, my lungs stretch for more,

more purple skies, more black birds dancing on a wire.

More spiders weaving their way.

My lungs are forever


for that is 

           the way.


(Lisa Froman, 2017-copyrighted and cannot be reproduced without my permission)

If you are interested in more of my work, read my book Tao Flashes, A Woman’s Way to Navigating the Midlife Journey with Integrity, Harmony and Grace, available on Amazon.


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We built temples to house

our attraction to gods.

Worship we did not

the fish-filled seas, the green carpet laid bare,

the heat that warmed the tundra of our being.


Instead, we built towers to glorify

green, weigh gold.

Worship we did not,

the tears that watered our valleys,

nor the love that bloomed like a lily in spring,

the places where worship 

should first begin.


This work is copyrighted, 2017. Lisa Froman



Ode to A New Year

Let us raise our glasses to days of ordinary.
Let us toast, I say, to resilience,
To truth that rushes out in four letter words,
And to new years fierce with longing
And daily rapture.
Let us call it all in–
Let us trumpet in tomorrow,
The sounds of dogs in discourse,
The cloudless skies, dry of rain,
And the sweet, sweet hum of ordinary days.
Let us begin.


(Check out my book, Tao Flashes, A Woman’s Way to Navigating the Midlife Journey with Integrity, Harmony and Grace, available on Amazon.)