301 Memoir

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Memoir

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by

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Jennifer  Cahill

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Chonburi, Thailand.

               GoodSamaritan Press                  2010

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GoodSamaritan Press

Chonburi, Thailand

jeromevbrooke@yahoo.com

Jerome Brooke, Editor

c  2010   GoodSamaritan Press

Kingdom of Thailand

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Memoir

To witness an unforsaken love

No sad words, lyric or one despising

A hand to hold, a need to rise above

Life consumed, its grip is expiring

A knowledge yet to be discovered

Despite for centuries progress so swift

Has yet to resurrect the beloved

For gone is a smile to uplift

No broken spirit, ‘tis only body

Unscathed thy soul, a candle that burns

With timelessness not forgotten

A sinner who at times, yes, still yearns

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Host

A little ghost

Who is a host

‘Tis a harrowing

Force barreling

Towards thy self

"Tolling the bell"

‘Tis seduction

Benediction

A trickery

Unto only me

Street Corner

City streets dampened shine

Lonely walk slightly blind

Reflect lights shadows seek

Shelter warmth cower meek

Embraced wounded time

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An Irish Memory

Downtown lights glimmer off in the beckoning distance

I watch them twinkle a dewiness as I lay

Safe and sweet in the fresh softness of the Irish linen

Watch then lights reflect starry halos off the deep dark bay

I take with me dreams into the hushed cover of the night

Dreams, wishes and visions of the journey of the next day

I wake to the dawns birthing of a glowing hovering light

Unwrap myself to welcome another moment of play

Ornaments of hand blown crystal now clutched in my fingers

A butterfly, dog and a shamrock to delight to relay

Recollections of the nights glittering, lingers

As I admire, clasp my newest gifts, as I stray

Towards an Irish pub to make merry on the fringes

Of the lateness, evening of a warm and rainy Irish day

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Hummingbird

Hover a tiny bird, he brings

My thoughts to a distant sea.

Small and fragile he tries to sing;

I feel no one hears but me.

Relentless, yes is he, though

Beckoning others to my shore,

Flutter of his small wings, so

He persists, silent no more.

For him, finally a song

Not for me, I always will know

His gift could never be wrong.

Yet lest he comfort, I will go.

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A History of War

Imprinted on paper

Footsteps on the shore

Wash away the traces

Atropos of lore

Scattered are the words

A city left to burn

A gathering, yet before

A life takes it turn

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Abandoned Farm

Tall grass unkempt

Broken tractor

Leans aside

Wooden shed.

Rusted sides

Dented; one handle

Dislodged; a door

Is unhinged.

The other

Is sunken.

Light sifts through cracks

In rotted wood

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Coca-cola

In the painting sits a weary spouse

One who harbors a willing to espouse

A way to leave his broken house

And in this house with the weary spouse,

His seat the sloping porch, cluttered yard, view

So monstrous, so intrusive no one doubts

His words his eyes will convey he knew

Of lost years lost dreams, loss of self, hope

Time, a passing elapsed, so to speak

However, yes, a willingness to cope

He remains, week after week after week

The house, sagging frame, dim light, a host

To worn out smiles, gestures, tired frowns

His solitude really a ghost

His one true wish: to not be around

Porch beams they are so tilted

Their paint so very wilted

His home will surely sink into the ground

His life buried under one small mound

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 Pond

Rowboat linked to shore by rope,

Coiled to bend ‘round knarled tree

Aside the waters still only

In morning, the hot sun breathing

Fire atop the waking

Bold are the ripples creeping

Spiders crossing sticky surface

Above the depths, homemade raft

Rust color inking blue center

Buoying a lofty presence.

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 Bloom

Splash color; my winter's retreat

Yet trickery the final feat

Rose knows thorny violence

Buttercup betrays an alliance

With a dusty fading, so mean

No warmth sunflower, I must dream.

Violets mimics the blue of sky

Yet will never beckon stars; my

Carnation's billowy bursting

Close to thy heart, my sad yearning

Discarded so carelessly

Will never remain, despairingly.

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Summer House

The sea through polished

Glass, sparkling behind him

I could not listen

 

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The GoodSamaritan Press  2010

Memoir