by Trish Cozart

When life gives you lemons
They say
Make lemonade
I don’t even like lemonade
There isn’t an aid
That can turn lemons into something
Not lemony
Watered down

Life gave him lemons
He threw them
Hard lemonade

Life gave her lemons
She pretended
Lemons were good
They weren’t

Life gave sugar water
To some
Or so it seems

Be glad you have lemons
Lemons are a gift
Lemons are your fault
Lemons are not that bad
Just add sugar and water

But…I don’t even like lemonade.



by Trish Cozart

We cannot see
as the bird sees–
the cambers and turns,
which make the journey change
and cut sharply.
How hasty or
extended our steps
before we must
turn again.
We learn to fear–
anticipate the next
corner even before
it comes. As if a monster
stands behind each
wall ready to state the end
instead of embracing
the whole journey,
as only the bird does.


At the Car Wash

by Trish Cozart

First a pitter patter
Then the water starts to pour
Dripping down the windshield
And then onto my floor
Cleansing all the battered places
The dents and cracks accept the rain
Knowing it will be washed clean
Free to shine again.

The Blessed Hurricane

by Trish Cozart

See something shiny on the track?
Maybe it will remove the pain
Bend down and pick it up
Only to meet a passing train

Work and sweat to clear the ground
A fresh start to make things grow
Build something beautiful
And watch it fall with just one blow

Climbing far into the mind
Trying to govern what I suppress
Let it out and lose control
And find perfection is a mess

Where’s the truth in the pain?
Where’s the rose in the hurricane?
Where’s God in the mix?
It’s not something I can fix.

Take it from me – take it now
Release the cuffs and chain
Lift the weight from my back
And should I try again…

Don’t linger long to knock me down
Don’t’ hold the rain from falling
Don’t wait to show me my own toil
Answers not your calling.

A Petal in a Puddle

by Trish Cozart

A petal in a puddle
gently turning round and round
an oasis for thy final days
a peaceful grave upon the ground.

The wind breathes upon you
and you try to float way
but you find your boundary much too small
and fear that you must stay.

Those that see you marvel
at the beauty of your sight
sparkling water under a tender shawl
they do not realize your plight.

But fear not, your dying is not for loss
your sweetness remains, however subtle
you are the hope of every Spring
you are a petal in a puddle.


by Trish Cozart

My chest aches from anticipation
of the unknown

I query to discover what is not mine;
what is mine I wait to use.

Desires postponed by youth
dreams and time…fading
My body trembles with
excitement — with impatience

To be more than I am
To know more, to taste more, to say more
To see through the eyes of many
and submit to Nature

My chest aches inside for
I both fear and embrace
my own creation

Sonnet 1

by Trish Cozart

Gazing from an eagle’s lofty window
at sky with such a varied hue,
A dusty trail of rosy clouds aglow
have never boasted so grand a view.
Soft rays of newborn light gloss the ice
revealing hidden jewels upon the Earth.
These diamonds will not sell for any price.
Their treasured value is only beauty’s worth.
A cirque unfolds as shadows disappear,
time’s glacial monument for patient work.
Nature through the window pane seems so clear
Why must we, still, behind this glass fort lurk.
And while we try its beauty to possess
Destruction shows – the more becomes the less.

The Land Between

by Trish Cozart

I wander through the wilderness
The wild, cruel wilderness
I climb rocky cliffs
I slip and trip on roots and push through branches
When I finally stop and look around
I see 360 degrees of beautiful, breathtaking land between

I limp through this land between
Sinking into the course grains
They pinch and pierce my foot
Trapped between the bindings of my sole
When I finally stop and set myself free
The land between runs warm and soft and smooth between my toes

As I move through this land between
I find myself in tears
They trickle down slowly until there are so many
They form a puddle on the ground
I watch as they fill the cracks and replenish the land between
Springing forth new growth

Oh, this wretchedly beautiful land between
My Earthly home
This place where I trip, stumble, fall, and cry
This wonderful place
Where I find that I have all I really need
And that joy comes from the Spirit

…wandering, still wandering, in this land between

My Life Is a…?

by Trish Cozart

What does it mean…my life is a poem?
It skips along in iambic pentameter.
It tip taps tenaciously in time
making rhyme
and reason of a complexity of words
and interactions I dare to understand.

What does it mean… my life is a song?
It flows like a melodious tune
drifting from time to time
from place to place repeating its
rhythms, like a simile, or making
ghost notes that no one hears.

What does it mean…my life is a prayer?
That I live with my heart wide open
for all the dust and dirt to blow freely
upon it. Beating wildly for the world,
only to realize it is broken. Crying
desperately to fix that which I have no control.