"marlene" poems
Brigid was born on a flax mill farm,
Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan,
At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road,
The last child of the Sheridans.
The sluice still runs near the water wheel,
With thistles thriving on rusted steel.
Little's known of Nellie's early years;
Da died before she knew grieving tears,
They'd turn her eyes in later years.
She's eleven posing with her class,
This photo shows an Irish lass.
Her look is distant,
Her face is blurred,
But recognizable
In an instant.
She was schooled six years
To last a life,
Some math, the Irish,
To read and write.
Her Mammy grew ill,
She lost a leg,
And bit by bit,
By age sixteen,
Nellie buried her first dead.
Too young to be alone,
Sisters and brother had left the home.
The cloistered convent took her in,
She taught urchins and orphans
About God and Grace and sin.
There were no vows for Nellie then.
At nineteen she met a Creamery man,
Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan;
He delivered dairy from his lorry,
Married Nellie,
Relieved their worry.
War flared, men were few,
There was work in Coventry.
Ireland's thistles were left to bloom.
Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy,
Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin followed,
When war floundered to its end,
They shipped back to Monaghan,
And brought the mill to life again.
The thistles and weeds
That surrounded the mill,
Were scythed and scattered
By Daddy's zeal.
He built himself
A generator,
Providing power
To lights and wheel.
Sean was born,
Gerald soon followed;
Then Michael died.
A nine year old,
His Daddy's angel.
Is this what turns
A father strange?
Francie arrived,
Then Eucheria,
But ten months later
Bold death took her.
Grief knows no borders
For brothers and sisters.
We left for Canada.
Mammy brought six kids along,
Leaving her dead behind,
Buried with Ireland.
Daddy was waiting for family,
Six months before Mammy got free
From death's inhumanity.
Her tears and griefs weren't yet over,
She birthed another son and daughter;
Jimmy and Marlene left us too,
Death is sure,
Death is cruel.
Grandchildren came, she was Granny,
Bridget, Nellie, but still our Mammy.
She lived this life eduring pain
That mothers bear,
Mothers sustain.
And yet, in times of personal strain,
I'll sometimes whisper her one name,
Mammy.
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 5:09 PM UTC
He carries her purse on his arm
without awkwardness;
His comfort shows he must have been caretaker,
for some time.
Yet awkward she does feel.
He carries her purse on his arm
as if it belonged there.
Just another parcel to be handled
with care; yet not a care
to what this stranger thought.
This old woman hobbles
ambling behind;
a footfall - thrusts her forward,
one more step.
Doesn’t he understand she wants to go forward -
no more? One step closer
to the grave,
she can sense.
The cane catching
and holding her steady;
The pain, catching
and holding her firm.
She follows his lead; always hitting the mark
with her blue veined hand
wrapped around that staff
in her grasp.
Her gait, unsteady,
wobbly at best
As he carries her purse on his arm,
She follows his lead
one step at a time
A crooked cane
her only assist for the
ambulatory impairment she bears;
as he carries her purse
on his arm.
© 2010 Marlene Dunham
Jul 20, 2010
Jul 20, 2010 at 9:11 PM UTC
Seeds of the Dandelion
appear intertwined;
Tightly woven tendrils
weave and hold
in close bond;
Stretched fingers
offer anchor for each other,
though hesitant.
When the time is right
and the slightest wind blows,
seeds of the dandelion
go.
Parachutes of white snow.
A moment in time
stalk stands naked in the wind,
having lost everything;
Though the taproot runs deep
and in reality,
millions more will seek
a new birth.
We may think it a waste,
unwanted seeds being placed
hither and yon.
But what about the Dandelion?
Some call this **** a ruderal
this “lion’s tooth” with the long taproot
feeding bees and butterflies.
With detoxifying properties,
this plant has seen atrocities
of prejudice, bigotry and intolerance;
But it just goes on to do it’s job
holding on as long as it can
til the parachutes of snow
go
and the cycle of life repeats.
© Marlene Dunham 2010
Jun 26, 2010
Jun 26, 2010 at 12:07 PM UTC
Bridget was born on a flax mill farm,
Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan,
At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road,
The last child of the Sheridans.
The sluice still runs near the water wheel,
With thistles thriving on rusted steel.
What's known of Nellie's early years?
Da died before her grieving tears,
But burn her eyes in later years.
She's eleven posing with her class,
This photo shows an Irish lass.
Her visage blurred,
Her eyes look distant,
Yet recognizable
In an instant.
She attended school for six short years,
The three R's, some Irish,
And a Doctorate in tears.
Her Mammy grew ill,
She lost a leg,
And bit by bit,
By age sixteen,
Nellie buried her first dead.
Too young to be alone,
Sisters and brother had left the home.
The cloistered convent took her in,
She taught urchins and orphans
About God, Grace and sin.
There were no vows for Nellie then.
At nineteen she met a Creamery man,
Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan;
He delivered dairy from his lorry,
Married Nellie
To relieve their worry.
War flared up, and men were few,
So the work in Coventry
Left Ireland's thistles to bloom.
Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy,
Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin were carried.
When war floundered to its end,
They shipped back to Monaghan,
To work the flax mill again.
The thistles and weeds
That surrounded the mill,
Were scythed and scattered
By Daddy's zeal.
He built himself a generator.
And powered the lights and the wheel.
Sean was born,
Gerald soon followed;
Then Michael died.
A nine year old,
His Father's angel.
(Is this what turns
A father strange?)
Francie arrived,
Then Eucheria,
But ten months later
Bold death took her.
Grief knows no family borders
For brothers and sisters, sons and daughters.
We left for Canada.
Mammy brought six kids along,
Leaving her dead behind,
Buried with Ireland in familiar songs.
Daddy was waiting for family,
Six months before Mammy got free
From death's inhumanity.
Her tears and griefs weren't yet over,
She birthed another son and daughter;
Jimmy and Marlene left us too,
Death is sure,
Death is cruel.
Grandchildren came, she was Granny,
Bridget, Nellie, but still our Mammy.
She lived this life eduring pain
That mothers bear,
Mothers sustain.
And yet, in times of personal strain,
I'll sometimes whisper her one name,
Mammy.
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 2:49 PM UTC
there once was a woman named Arlene
who had an older sister named Darlene
their youngest sister was named Karlene
and her twin was named Charlene
the ladies of (lene) had a matriarch named Marlene
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 8:44 PM UTC
I tripped over
the eggshells
again.
I’m supposed to tiptoe
but sometimes
they are scattered
where I don’t see them
or I didn’t think it mattered;
or they just appear
where a moment before
they did not exist.
So the path that least resists-
is taken.
Sometimes I forget.
(I have not seen them
for so long)
A simple conversation
turns –
There’s neither right nor wrong
but the eggshells emerge.
Decisions are made
on the spot
or not.
Depends.
To walk upon them
or confront them head on;
Turn my back,
(avoid confrontation)
or keep on track,
(Defend my reputation).
What will cause least disruption
in the end.?
I tripped over
the eggshells
again.
I could just walk on top
but then pay the price
of broken eggshells
in my life.
And start all over
or stop.
© 2012 Marlene Dunham
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 11:58 PM UTC
The ball goes down the lane
it clinks on pins
and down they go,
the shoes fit just right
and everyone you know is in sight,
being taught how to spell the letter R
of your name by your great aunt Vi,
seeing your funny aunt Marlene,
being with your grandma Ross,
and going to Sammy's Restaurant
for grilled cheese,
and the pharmacy for pink Trident gum,
all this under one roof.
I run to the lane
the ball goes down the lane
I run to the counter in time
shut off the lane
and CRASH!
no pins fall
the sound of the ball ricochets
from one end to the other;
my mischievous ways fulfilled,
and God I loved the Fanta pop
which my dad, the manager I was
proud of, readily supplied,
the place is now gone
but it's life still goes on
the pins crash even louder,
the disinfectant shoe spray still as smelly,
the oil of the lane still slippery,
and the grilled cheese still as good;
and carried on to the current day...
Georgina would have been proud!
http://www.robross.ca
Nov 23, 2009
Nov 23, 2009 at 11:46 AM UTC
One simple thought
goes astray,
away -
beyond the limits
of decorum.
A mind
goes blind;
Descends
to the realm
of madness.
When reality
is the brutality
of suffering
against all odds
and logic;
The mind’s on
a pivotal perch
of distortion;
Sinking to the depths
of despair.
How to escape?
Where to travel -
unravel?
Thoughts create,
minds negate.
Oh, to make things clear;
to again see
flee -
the insanity
of actuality.
What is real?
how to feel?
shall I kneel
and pray
for forgiveness?
for my mind
to find
its home?
But to whom do I say
my incantations?
Why do my thoughts go beyond?
Who’s to say what is wrong?
What is right
I am strong!
Not insane.
© 2010 Marlene Dunham
Jul 1, 2010
Jul 1, 2010 at 8:51 PM UTC
Volcanic eruption
corruption
unemployment
recession, depression
Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan
Earth quakes
rumbles
Wall Street crumbles
Haitian children wail
tidal waves prevail
Global warming
fiction or warning?
Taxes, health care
how to handle
the next scandal
Hawaiian birth
takes precedence
over incidents. Coincidence?
Arizona immigration
discrimination
Oil spill
of gigantic proportions
contortions
in the Gulf
causing strife, ending life
Bomb in Times Square
where? not here!
just sit and sip your beer
watch the world go by
with a wink and a sigh!
Sometimes we are powerless
nothing we can do
our head in the sand,
don't understand
not care, or dare
to question?
What is our place
in this space
our destiny and fate
to help our world continue on
so our children can survive?
The world is spinning out of control
Iraq, Iran, Afganistan
Quakes, Rumbles, Crumbles
Global Conservation, Preservation
Distortions, Contortions
Bombs and Beer
Dare to Care
Frenzied
© 2010 Marlene Dunham
May 22, 2010
May 22, 2010 at 8:46 PM UTC
Love the name.
Got upset
When the man called out, Seen.
Stupid man.
It's Sean, and not Shawn.
A year older than Gerald.
Two younger than Kevin.
Two older than me.
That's Sean.
Daddy wrote home about us.
Maura was working at the hospital.
Sheila was finishing highschool.
Kevin won the Science Fair.
Sean plays ice hockey with the All Stars,
All over Canada and the U.S.
I found the letter, penned in '62,
A jagged European cursive. They tend to write the same.
I've seen the words, run together to hide the spelling;
With JMJ's and TG's sprinkled like manna throughout.
The last page was missing,
Just when Daddy'd write about Gerald, me, and Marlene.
Gerald with his Beetles haircut.
Me, mimicking ( probably mocking),
Some unknown priest, to my father's delight;
Marlene, the wee pigeon, he missed most when he worked
Away from home.
Jimmy, The Bruiser, wasn't here yet.
The last of an Irish brood settled in Canada.
I discovered it in the spare room at Granny's and Frank's.
There was no mention of Michael, Eucheria or Particia.
He exaggerated about the harsh, six-month winters here,
And our proximity to the North Pole.
Suggested Frank try putting copper wires around Granda's wrists;
The Egyptian mummies didn't exhibit signs of bone deterioration.
Daddy was hard-pressed to be proven wrong when he concocted.
Sean had a drawer full of ribbons, medals, trophies and plagues,
And a large S, his Senior Letter.
He also had sideburns, a much smaller nose, and, smelled
as good as he looked,
The Elvis dip-curl, the Connery swag, the Selleck stash to Clooney cool.
Sean kept a disposition of hidden pains secreted for others.
A heart of tears.
A spirit of adventure.
I love Sean, I recall.
He is always welcome here.
Drops by sometimes.
It's always a great surprise.
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 1:09 PM UTC
The year following
Jimmy's death
(my first encounter,
and my little brother),
I smothered myself
In every read on
Parapsychology,
Astral beings,
OBE's, NDE's,
And plasma projections,
Reincarnation and all
Aberations.
I awarded myself
An Honorary Doctorate
In ******** (Ph. D.B.S.).
Then I met ****** Mary,
As the police called her.
Her keen abilities
Recovered bodies
And the snatchers.
She had a dead-on reputation.
She spoke German and gesticulated
Wildly while she oracled.
Her husband translated simultaneously.
Her sun-room shone,
There were plants on
Every table. No candles.
Perhaps I was mesmerized.
She had one message for me
From the other side:
Tell Francie to leave me alone.
Marlene
(my darling little sister,
And my next encounter),
Had a dream the very same
Day I saw my seer.
She dreamt Jimmy
Was alone,
Crying at home,
And through his tears
She clearly hears:
Tell Francie to leave me alone.
****** Mary was free,
That's right... no fee.
She said her gift
Was for sharing,
And she shared
Her gift with me.
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 8:12 AM UTC
The ugly poetess
Over the housetops,
Above the dry blades of the sugar cane husks
I have known fear, I have known hunger
I felt the pain of a nail wound deep in my foot
I belted out the blues like Nina Simone
An era of reform: the moments of truth,
On top of the hill, lies a village in Barbados
Acid rain, rooftop leaks on to my bed
It was a rough year:
only food sources were rice and breadfruits
We lived through it all:
It was my destiny:
To love and to hate them:
those old fruit loops
Through the eyes of a uprising poet
The curving of his pen,
Somehow, he made amends, he purge
the smoky air,
the disgusting sight of the pig pens
out of his mind
lack of personal dental hygiene,
the elders lost their teeth
Grinding down on sugarcane, while they
awaits the big meal of the day
Supper!
With innocent eyes and achy feet
I read so many books for inner peace
My stomach was empty,
but my mind was at ease
To dream big while aiming high
Marlene, Delores, and Linda
Known as the vanishing three
Migrated to North America
Where a Barefooted child
like me wasn’t supposed to be
Eventually, I know I would have followed
I have woven my feathers,
while looking upwards,
In my little corner under the old rusty galvanizes
.
At the old country shop the vanishing three mothers
told me that I wasn’t pretty enough to leave the island
Words of hatred, mere words of discomfort
I felt my wings tighten against my rib cage,
My tongue, glued against my jaws
From that day forward the poet smile against stupidity
And spitefulness, she too had come to
Eat her words, the old shopkeeper
The poetess enter another line from that era
Uncaring beauty without brains
Where are they now?
I walked with confident down that street
The misty air moist my skin
The poetess return to the Island of Barbados
Without the sugar in her blood..
.
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 10:51 AM UTC
I won't accept the end
Gently or gracefuly,
But begrudgingly,
In private anguish:
That is truth;
Unadorned,
And sure.
I've not dealt with the vanish
Of comrades in battle;
Or happened upon
A loved one
At the end of the rope.
I've felt the tug,
The smell of CO,
The hardness beneath
The Bluewater Bridge;
The bottle, blade and pill
On the frozen faces of friends,
On family:
Michael, Marlene, Jimmy, Eucheria.
The family innocents
Whisked off
In the maelstrom of bounding youth.
*But you must know your father lost a father,
That father lost, lost his, and the survivor bound
In filial obligation for some time..*
Claudius speaks the cold hard truth,
But Claudius was childless;
Such guileless advice.
And Shakespeare's kids were playing
In the yard
As he penned his tragedy.
But,
Bury a child
And have an eternal membership
In the
****** for Life Club.*
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 5:45 PM UTC
4:11 am - The nighthawks are starting to resemble pigeons.
Train station is deserted.
An employee checks the bins as the tunnel fills with the ringing of a distant bell, heralding the arrival of the morning train.
42 minutes till my train.
I can smell the acrid fumes of the Ferny Grove train.
The behemoth pulls away-
empty.
At least I'm not existential anymore.
There is an installation of a coffin made from old bits of railroad,
"Not everyone makes it across the tracks"
This reminder of mortality is strangely fitting in a place of transit.
The true face of memento mori is shown.
Remember that you too will die, and everything will come to pass.
It's times like this that make me wish 'The Sound of Silence" was never written.
For its perfection in this moment comes as a burst of pure divine bliss.
The kind you wish would never fade away. But inevitably does.
And all we are left with is a memory of that bliss,
everytime we hear the song (after the first time).
As if we are recalling the curves of an old lover from the shadow of yesterdays gone.
Dancing beneath our fingertips, always out of reach.
Memory is never as divine as the moment that burnt it in.
----
4:29 am - It was ephemeral.
The trainyard announcer has a cultured voice.
----
4:41 am - I fear the muse has left me, beauty fled.
DEAR GOD - PLEASE LET THERE BE A CAB AT THE STATION FOR ME.
Selection 11 gave me the water i desired.
11 minutes till the train.
D.O.B. 11/2
Aquarius, 11th sign of the Zodiac.
Will I see the dawn rise from the train?
There is no light at the end of the tunnel from where I sit.
Inexplicably: I recall the cool river air that bathed us as we lay naked in your apartment,
the smell of cigarettes on our skin, the evening peppered with
scurrying, fighting possums
that danced upon your balcony.
I recall being inside you.
(Then I imagined you being eaten out
by a woman
her lips inside yours,
her curled tongue
inside your hot, bald
golden ****
And I came.
Warm and glorious
my children of pleasure
caught in a latex coffin.
Your heaves of pleasure pushing against my chest
with the rhythm of waves.
----
4:46 am - On the train.
Fluorescent lighting is the devil.
Everything is garish yellow.
We pull up to the station near where you lived.
Your blue rose lives in a Chinese vase
and no longer smells
of Marlene Dietrich.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 1:59 AM UTC
Big boiled blood,
Boiled big blood
Blood boiled big
Black soot, thousand flies
They're headed for your eye
grinder teeth sagging eyes
Busted ear drums
only seen here on top
of the pile of brimstone over there.
The blood boiled
over the pan, too high.
Carlos! I got Marlene.
II
Moldy muddy maze
muddy moldy maze
maze moldy muddy
Tomato stained imperative notes
nails bitten, tied the tongue
Grease stains, hand and feet.
Yellow Teeth and nacho cheese
The teeth's termites
Don't let the shoes come off.
Rotten eggs, spoiled cheese
The bread is rock, crusty;
Mold muddy Maze
Jan 30, 2012
Jan 30, 2012 at 11:16 AM UTC
Alone
at the bar, in town;
down the road to the right.
I was afraid
At first
But then,
at the sight
of the warm firelight
In the hearth
thru the window pane
It seemed safe
And beckoned me
to come in, though alone
Laughter filtered
Through the night air
The camaraderie,
good cheer
(perhaps it was the beer?)
spilling over into the hearts of all
that were here, this night
Heady days of my youth
in the old neighborhood
I would never give pause
Or turn and go home
because I was alone
Those folks were family and -
Everyone knew my name.
No difference tonight
Walk in and sit down.
remember your worth!
don’t feel old!
be bold!
Look, there’s a seat
by the fire.
Instantly - I belonged!
not a solitary soul
or mere spectator.
I was the majority,
part of the sorority,
of revelers and folk,
though nobody knew my name
all the same
I wondered why:
had I hesitated at the door.
Did I think I was too old
had I lost my nerve?
To enter the frey
Because they
Were strangers?
and so was I?
Alone,nomore
at the bar, in town;
down the road to the right.
The next stranger I see
enter through the glass doors
with a hesitant stare
I will smile, I think
and offer a drink
and try to share that feeling
of belonging!
(c) Marlene Dunham 2010
Jul 21, 2010
Jul 21, 2010 at 9:08 PM UTC
Childhood should be carefree.
The hardest thoughts should be -
which tree to hide behind
So they won’t find me!
Colors of chalk
on the sidewalk.
What to draw today?
Which frilly dress
from the old wooden trunk will I pick?
Which bobble of beads from mom’s jewelry bin
Shall I loop around my neck and spin
like the ballerina atop a music box.
Running free on the water’s edge,
chasing sand dollars down the beach
as far as the eye could see and within reach.
These are what memories of childhood should be.
The jingle jangle of the ice cream truck
on a sunny summer day.
We immediately stop our play
and run;
First to mom for money,
then to the street to beat
the neighbor kids and be first in line
for a treat.
Childhood should be unfettered
of burdens and worry.
The qualms and cares of the world
in a hurry to destroy itself
should burden the shoulders of others.
Not brothers
or sisters.
Not the children.
Not the children.
I was their protector,
defender, guardian and guide;
They trusted me, to be their god
who would heal and deal
with pain and strife
of life;
How could I know
That I was not protecting them.
Enough?
© 2010 Marlene Dunham
Jul 8, 2010
Jul 8, 2010 at 7:18 PM UTC
Memories linger, like a gentle breeze;
days of youth, those feelings of desire,
like heat from a burning kiln when fired;
The pottery glaze blisters as it frees
the finished sculptured work of art with ease.
Yet, the gentlest of touch is still required,
so this masterpiece can be retired.
If you, oh just once more, could hear my pleas!
I’d beg for one more chance at love this time
Though our bodies wracked and broken,
simply old
I long to feel the touch that I remember
Intoxicated by your breath near mine;
One day before life ends and I lose hold
To have you near, once more, I would surrender.
© 2010 Marlene Dunham
Jun 6, 2010
Jun 6, 2010 at 8:16 PM UTC
"Mommy, daddy said he is making me a stick horse,
just like the Indians use to ride!
"What! Oh that man...
"What did I tell you? You never tell, not ever!
"What's wrong with being an Indian, mommy?
"They think you are ***** they call you, savage!
"My kind, white people, won't let their kids play with you.
" They hate Indians, they call them stupid and *****
" Do you mommy? I look into her eyes and see nothing.
She has left me again and gone to her safe place.
I hear her whisper very low, "just go play and don't ever tell."
Little girl behind the rocker, so sad, so ashamed, so scared.
Don't tell my only friend? She will hate me?
Does my white grandpa know? Will he stop loving me?
Scared little girl, so sad, so many tears, softly saying, "I'm *****
" What are you doing? You just took a bath before bed!
" I'm getting cleaner, so they won't call me *****
" They won't because you will never tell!
" Now get out of there and go to school.
"Marlene, what will you not do at school?
" I won't tell, never tell...
So confused, so alone, so ashamed.
Walking with head down now, slowly disappearing.
Voice is almost gone, silent tears falling on her old used coat.
Look at all the flowers on daddy's grave.
Everyone liked him and has come to say goodbye.
"Daddy, don't leave me! I'll be just one little Indian, all alone.
"Don't put him down there, it's dark and it will get him!
Little girl behind the old rocker, so very sad, so very quiet.
All her joy and wonderment taken from her by hate.
She listens to her mother and minds what she says,
"Don't tell, don't ever tell!
But every morning, while everyone still sleeps,
You can see a little girl running to the old garage,
Then, hair flying in the wind, as she rides her stick Indian pony!!
Silently saying, " I love you, my Indian daddy". And
Someday, I will tell the world!
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 9:57 AM UTC
Take me first.
I stood witness at the bed
As Mammy withered
To a stick, so small,
She couldn't cast a shadow.
Take me first.
I was one to agree
To stop the whirring machine,
And stood there
As Jimmy flat-lined.
Take me first.
Marlene asked me
If she was dying.
Thirty-nine is too young
To give an answer.
Take me first.
Daddy left in a hurry;
No good-byes in life
Or in death.
If I'm not taken first
Before my girls,
I will surely be second.
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 9:59 AM UTC
Every day has a pain attached to it.
Monday=Liza
Tuesday=Marlene
Wednesday=Jackie
Thursday=Jessica
Friday=Forget them all
Saturday=It's all over now, drink some more.
Sunday= It didn't work
All the names become days.
All the days become names.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 5:33 AM UTC
Brigid was born on a flax mill farm,
Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan,
At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road,
The last child of the Sheridans.
The sluice runs still near the water wheel,
With thistles thriving on rusted steel.
What's known of Nellie's early years?
Da died before she knew grieving tears,
But her eyes will burn in later years.
She's eleven posing with her class,
This photo shows an Irish lass.
Her visage blurred,
Her eyes look distant,
Yet recognizable
In an instant.
She attended school for six short years,
The three R's, some Irish,
With a Doctorate in tears.
Her Mammy grew ill,
She lost a leg,
And bit by bit,
By age sixteen,
Nellie buried her first dead.
Too young to be alone,
Sisters and brother had left the home.
The cloistered convent took her in,
She taught urchins and orphans
About God, Grace and sin.
(There were no vows for Nellie then.)
At nineteen she met a Creamery man,
Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan;
He delivered dairy from his lorry,
Married Nellie
To relieve their worry.
War flared up, and men were few,
A Coventry move would surely do.
(and thistles bloomed as they grew.)
Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy,
Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin were carried.
When war floundered to its end,
They shipped back to Monaghan,
To work the flax mill again.
The thistles and weeds
That surrounded the mill,
Were scythed and scattered
By Daddy's zeal.
He built himself a generator.
And powered the lights and the wheel.
Sean was born,
Gerald soon followed;
Then Michael died.
A nine year old,
His Father's angel.
(Is this what turns
A father strange?)
Francie arrived,
Then Eucheria,
But ten months later
Bold death took her.
Grief knows no family borders
For brothers and sisters, sons or daughters.
We left for Canada.
Mammy brought six kids along,
Leaving her dead behind,
Buried with Ireland in familiar songs.
Daddy waited for our family,
Six months before Mammy got free
From death's inhumanity.
Her tears and griefs weren't yet over,
She birthed another son and daughter;
But Jimmy and Marlene left us too.
Death is sure,
Death is cruel.
Grandchildren came for Little Granny,
Brigid, Nellie, her names are many.
She lived this life eduring pain
That mothers bear,
Mothers sustain.
And yet, in times of personal strain,
I may invoke her one true name:
"Mammy."
May 10, 2025
May 10, 2025 at 9:55 AM UTC
The mysterious answers eluded me.
Friends left on bikes,
Went to Expo,
Had backyard tents.
I stood, palms pressed, waiting.
Then Marlene and Jimmy died
And I knelt before the maze master,
Looking for an exit.
All, I am told, are answered,
But the lines of communication
Seem crossed.
Does he get the ways of man
As well as we get the ways of him?
I supposed your prayers were realized
When you left,
Yet the same rain and sun drenched us.
I should expect a summative explanation
When I get
My commuted response.
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 10:37 AM UTC
the memory of
a movie
the first glance
at Mona Lisa
the first echo of Marlene Dietrich
singing,
where one time
thrills were really in the back seat
of a sixty four Buick. my sedition
almost fictional taunted,
attracted me ultimately to another realm.
a sphere of passion to be
more than reality. A vision where I could
dream up what was needed in an instant.
a menage a trois of sight smell feel:
blinds pulled: a slave to imaginating.
conveniently fitting my insanity,
my ****** passion energy
alone with flickering Universal
glamour girls. I then fell for
Marilyn. Oh god it was on.
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 11:55 PM UTC
I cried when Jimmy died
I fell in love with Ky
I wanted to be Marlene, or Lynn maybe
I fell in the snowbank with Charlie
I disappear like the Cheshire Cat
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 12:35 PM UTC