301 Memoir
Memoir
.
.
by
.
.
Jennifer Cahill
.
.
.
.
Chonburi, Thailand.
GoodSamaritan Press 2010
* * *
GoodSamaritan Press
Chonburi, Thailand
Jerome Brooke, Editor
c 2010 GoodSamaritan Press
Kingdom of Thailand
* * *
* * *
* * *
* * *
* * *
* * *
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
* * *
* 1 *
* * *
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
* * *
* 2 *
* * *
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
* * *
* 3 *
* * *
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.
* * *
* 4 *
* * *
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
* * *
* 5 *
* * *
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
* * *
* 6 *
* * *
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
* * *
* 7 *
* * *
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.
* * *
* 8 *
* * *
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.
.
Summer House
The sea through polished
Glass, sparkling behind him
I could not listen
* * *
* 9 *
The GoodSamaritan Press 2010
Memoir