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Seanathon Apr 2018
The universe puts her headphones on
And plays her favorite track
The raindrops in the meadow burst
And soak the earth
And with her feet up on the world
She smiles from ear to ear
And plays it back
Random I know. No words. BUT WOW! Poem of the day (for 05/18/18) is an honor for me. Thank you so much! And to show my appreciation, you can now listen to me read this poem live on SoundCloud. Just follow the link and have an awesome day!!!

https://soundcloud.com/user-433755196/her-favorite-song-1
Seanathon Mar 2017
I will let the enamel rust
If that's what it takes
To remove
The enamored me
Southboud... The rhythm... Help me continue to count our.
Seanathon Mar 2017
Dissolve the ceiling above my head
With an outstretched arm
So that I can speak to the stars again
Not to say goodbye
Or to say goodnight
But to welcome them back into the darkest corners of my life
So that I can lay here and not feel flat
With my head tipped back to catch the slight
That way I could be in line with you
Underneath the distant stars tonight
How... Is such a thing even possible God???
Seanathon May 2016
This day is like the pouring rain, heavy falling and hard to swallow.
Dark as the memory of an old embrace,
Cold and mellow, like the cousin of a summer day.

Yet within this rain we are unchanged, just not the same.
I see the water as it cascades,
And floods the streets, to wipe the dogged dirt away.

It’s in my ears, it's on my mind, like a booming sigh.
The raindrops on the soggy ground.
Flooded I am washed away, but not far enough to leave this town.
Sometimes storms really creep up on you...
Seanathon Mar 2018
Knowing a name
A face
A distant friend
Isn't enough to say
That you can
Because you cannot
Until
Do so much
As pretend
Because you have not
Yet since
Been invited in
Mhm... It is what it is. All I can do, is be. Me.
Seanathon Apr 2018
Foolish to revive
Anew on an April's day
Stormy sentiments
Devoid of such rainy eyes
But full of such snowy woes
Snow in April? Like a true northerner I am neither shocked nor surprised. Just wonder when the Springtime will finally be upon us. (:
Seanathon Dec 2017
The strength I have, will fade.
The moment at present, is past.
The second I win, I’ve lost.
And the instant I live, I'm dying.
That is not to say.
That the moment of hope, is hopeless.
Or that the second you find, you'll be found.
But that there always is truth and the opposite.
And the grace there within to be found.
Without his grace and mercy...I'm nothing.
Seanathon Apr 2018
She is starlight cold
The kind which radiates me
And I am mere glass
Formed by timeless sandy days
And iridescent are we
It's takes more than one jewel to make a crown. And when I'm here. I'm yours in mind.
Seanathon Jan 2018
When did our altered
   culture decide
     that WE
       would be happy
         with our little screens
           and such little stillness
             within our lives
               ?
Sad really
Sebastian Macias Jan 2017
We must've spun around about 78 times
The morning was a majestic disaster
Broken glass on the floor,
Paired with fallen curtains,
Scattered reading material,
Chocolate wrappers all over the rug

There was a sense of expired enjoyment
All over the living room
My eyes were all beat up
And the pain laid quietly beneath them

There was a tremble in my hands
All I could think about was
The window that doesn't open
Sean Daley's depression as a happy mess
Knowing today needed a mute button
L B Sep 2017
My grandparent's house
ten-kid-large and sinking
on the corners of remembrance
Remodeled now, to
...tenements

Honeycomb
...the remnants

Irish immigrant and Scottish orphan's child
She sang on the ferry
He fell in love
"The rest is the history of us...."
Wide
as the Connecticut River, grieving--
in their sunset....
____

This-- chair
is his

I am afraid of it-- of his learning
of the shiny badge pinned to his coat
of his dying...
Golden leather of it
soothes
his memory--
of another continent
of the once warmth-- of a distant hearth
so darkened now--
where his head once rested
...his hands
and,
I fear--
his mind....

I will not sit in it
as if he will come back, to take his place
I am afraid of him--
with his chair--
all worshipful and empty
like a high place, abandoned
to the heart attack
not for grandchild play
Seat of Authority
still stamped
beside the standing cold--
brass ashtray
Pipe smoke imagines itself
against the ceiling in the words
of Yates and Milton
He read to them
and somehow--

Paradise is Lost....
_____

This house is cold now-- even in the summer-- cold
Worn as only large families wear
The War
of waiting shadows
--four brothers who were spared

Anna Mae, in charge, too young,
worries in abrupt dark
of dinning room
Her face, haunted--
an archway-- ever empty
by the large and ghostly table
covered by its web of lace--
a bridal veil
of Catholic impossibility...
Anna Mae, held hostage by her thoughts
of darling, Sean...

Aunt Lil's “breakdown”
with cigarette and thorazine  
quaking quiet in her corner

Aunt Nell,
as blind as smart-*** hell
ironing, darning
with threads that thatch
the wounded socks
Holds it all together, scolding--
Brought the welcomed jelly donuts
sneered as Yankees clobbered Boston
all-- while drinking yellow ale

Uncle Eddie-- laughing hoarsely
cracks nuts over a wooden bowl
Both of my grandparents died a year apart in the midst of The Great Depression, leaving four of their kids below the age of twelve.  The family struggled through it and WWII that followed.

My Grandfather was a police officer as were a number of his descendants.

The house enfolded them, sending their stories like flares across the generations.
Francie Lynch Jun 30
A posthumous letter came today:
My Dear Brother Fran;
I assume it began;
Your Loving Brother Sean.
It ends.
I'll never read those lines;
I know what's down between his lines;
His words and thoughts would break me.
His ink would stain my hands;
Leached through lines with real tears,
Dropping like time's sands.

He'd wax on our youthful days,
Wane on years we let slip past;
I don't need to read the words,
You know all things must pass.

I'll not sit to read his letter.

I'll recall how we were before,
When he was six and I was four,
Skating on the basement floor,
Or sliding down the new clothes line,
As pennants waving in the wind.

He taught me much of what he knew,
Just doing what big brothers do.
And always had my back.

I don't recall, but I'm pretty sure
We had our dumb-*** quarrels;
But I remember hitting *****,
Kicking, catching, throwing curves,
Rackets, sticks, clubs and bats,
Our cruel crew cuts beneath our hats.

He raised my game in everything;
Said I could do anything.
I'll remember his glance in the mirror
Going out the door.

If I ever read that letter,
I surely would regret forever,
Miss saying, I Love You too.

No, I'll never need to read his letter,
To remember Sean in his prime;
To recall the days when we two shined.

Lace the blades, Sean.
I'll be fine.
Painful times.
Sean died today
Francie Lynch Dec 2017
You've heard this tale
A thousand times,
Take one more spin,
This version's mine.
And this telling tale
Is its first time.
My theme is fitting,
The message sublime,
For the Season of giving,
And gifting one's time.

For my first Christmas
I was three,
But the warmth on that night
Never cooled,
And indeed,
It was
A cold Christmas Eve.

We stuck branches of pine
In a bucket of sand,
That's the snapshot I've got
Of our Christrmas tree then.
Here's the memory that Eve
Of a lad of three,
Yet this story is true,
It's a family heirloom.

We weren't many then,
There was Mammy and Daddy
And six children, soon seven.
Daddy was an Operator
Of cranes and loaders
Dirt packers and graders.
He was working North,
Far North,
Manning a dozer,
Distant from family
Near the Quebec border.
That's where he was
Days before,
When his pant-leg caught fire,
When the diesel was spilled.

We were only three months
In our chosen homeland,
It was 1958,
And fresh from Ireland.

No way to get to him,
Nor him to get home,
No car,  no friends yet,
Little money, no phone.
Yet somebody knew
We were out on our own.

And the snow started falling,
It was Christmas Eve,
I stood at the window,
Saw the snow fill the trees.
I was still and staring,
At what I don't know,
But I remember quite vividly
All that I saw.

Like a scene from a movie
Starring Barry or Bing,
A fire-engine red no-top
Stopped and parked with high beams,
Highlighting the snow,
On that Christmas Eve.

A big man in a red suit
Slid off of the trunk,
Literally carrying a sack,
And calling, **! **!
The family joined me
At the window to see
The big man's helpers
Carry a big Christmas Tree.

When they entered the house
Kevin, Sean, Gerald and I,
Cowered and crouched
Behind the second-hand couch.
We must have resembled
Three monkeys plus me;
I hadn't a clue,
I was dumb-founded and three.

In through the front door
They clattered and sang,
Unloading their boxes
Of food, clothes and toys,
*****, bats and dolls
For two girls and four boys;
And I'm sure there was something
For the coming bundle of joy.

I don't remember their departure,
Or where he went,
But they called Merry Christmas
And left all else unsaid.

Mammy understood
Some good persons had called,
Who'd heard of our plight
And couldn't be calmed
Til they knew for certain
We'd some peace in our storm.

So, that's my first Christmas,
Since then this my creed:
The gift of giving
Isn't under the Tree
.
poetryaccident Sep 2018
I’ll protect the innocent
even while I may proclaim
my deep regard for who they are
controversy may be exclaimed
guiltless stated for my friends
this word is used at its most broad
when all children of the divine
deserve their refuge from abuse

even while I seek to proclaim
my admiration for their grit
stepping outside confining realms
leading the way for this questing one
on the shoulders of the perverse
this is how the public may respond
declaring wisdom I don’t share
when I see threads of commonality

in my heart I know we are the same
seeking power in our own way
being true to ourselves
while expressing how we live
humanity searching for a voice
I’ll add mine to the chorus
admitting that I’ve fallen far
while ascending to the heights

spectrums ranged in pursuit
my honest nature at last found
though at first I wrongly thought
I was alone when I was not
the free spirits led the way
I wish my voice could exclaim
and still I hold back my breath
protecting innocent like myself.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180909.
The poem “Protecting Innocent” is about my inability to properly attribute my praise and respect to the free spirits of the world.  Society always has some sort of box that it wants people to live in, and when the boxes are breached, the reaction is one of judgmental attack.
Francie Lynch Nov 10
You’ve had fifty fantastic years,
Many were there but now not here.
And many are here
That were not there.
That’s how life unfurls over fifty years.

Let’s celebrate these decades
Of devotion to one another;
For around us we have familiar faces,
A family of sisters and brothers,
Aunts, Uncles, Fathers and Mothers;
Grandas, Nanas, Papas and Grams,
Daughters, sons, nieces and nephews,
Granddaughters and grandsons,
Cousins, in-laws, and step-laws too.

We are family.

A tribe that began with the original six,
Then Danny met Maura to add to the mix
With Colleen and Sean our clan's enhanced,
And since many more are heaven sent.

So let me end with a toast and a wish,
That we continue to multiply
Like the loaves and the fish.
On the occasion of my sister's fiftieth wedding anniversary.
Rolling down St. John's Heritage Highway
after Sean, my grandson's birthday party
I belt out my pioneer song with vigor
echoing across the vast beauty,
wide open, sacred spaces
pristine vistas

Norman Rockwell cows grazing
in bygone pastures happily
moo along

Driving past the yellow deer crossing sign
Florida woodlands giddyap near the edge of the road
long brown antlers prancing to
a timeless rhythm

I hope and pray that I can somehow
kindle a spark of appreciation
in my niece and grandsons
so that they may behold
the baffling greatness
and mystery that is our universe

These young'uns are mighty attached to the
virtual reality, world and landscape
of computer technology

A sprinkling of cowboy stars flash
an omnipresent wink
Sunset bonfire explodes across
the frontier horizon

Turning the corner onto Emerson Drive
smoldering scarlet orange embers
reflecting lights
shoot fireworks, launch rockets
through an ever expanding field of vision
Jesus I can’t hear you enough,

I don’t hear your name enough.

I’ll repeat it a thousand
Times more, louder
.
What of my Godmother,
Godfather
Who stood over me?

What about the crush on the boy who was from Detroit,
We two teens -  Sean and I, up in Vermont in bunk beds

Who could have been the love of my life,
Except for his orientation?

I’m an American. I’ve transplanted
Myself
to the birthplace in Boston, MA.

Who invented
The pursuit of happiness? I bet

I had something to do with it.
Big Virge Oct 2014
Folks ...
It is a ... " Fine Line " ... !!!
that ... Clearly ... Defines ...
the road that I ... Walk ...
with words that I ... Rhyme ...

cos' ... words that I ... talk ...
may see me ... in ... Court ... !!!

without ... " Sean " ...
or ... " Just Cause " ... !!!

because of YES ... " Them " ...
Those in ... Governments ...
and Those ... who they ... send ...
to enforce ... " Poor Judgements " ... !!!!!

but ofcourse ... They'll Contend ...
That ... My Wordplay ... OFFENDS ...
and may well stir up ... " Trouble " ... !!!
and cause .... " VIOLENCE " .... !!!!! ....

But ....
It's okay for ... THEM ... ?!!!?
to say ... " What They Like " ... !???!
and Declare ... Their War Fights ...
as forms of .... " Defence " ....
when plans they ... Design ...
keep causing ... PROBLEMS ... !!?!!

Well ....
It doesn't seem like ... ?
their actions are ... Right ... !?!
When ... Every ... News Night
The Things ... In Our Sight ...
KEEP ... Showing Us ... VISIONS ...
of people who ... " DIE " ... !!!!! ...

Now ....
That's A ... "Fine Line" ...
I have ... Re-designed ...
from Princes' ... " Great Song "...
The ... " Sign 'o' The Times " ...

So ...
Don't get me ... wrong ... !!!
My lines are ... " Refined " ...
and Clearly ... "BELONG" ... !!!
where fine lines ... recline ...

Each line that I write ....
Proves my mind is ...

...... " Inclined " ......

to write about crimes
affecting .... Our lives ....

and it is a ... "Fine Line' ...
that helps me to ... FIND ...
a way to ... " Express " ... !!! ...

My ... " Anger and Stress " ...
About ... How We ... TRY ... !!!
to do ... what is ... "RIGHT" ... !!!!

But .....
What does this mean ?!?
in a world so ... "Unclean" ... !!!!!

What do we stand for ... ?
when going to ... WAR ... !?!

We should take a .................
.............................................

...... Pause ..............

and ... THINK of ... Our Cause ...
Is making .... Blood .... POUR ....
what we're ... Really here for ... ?!!!?

If you're thinking ... "YES" ...
Are you .... " Really Sure " .... ???

How would you feel ?

if the blood poured
was ..... YOURS ...... !!!

or ....
Someone ... YOU LOVED ... !!!
and Really ... Cared For ... !!!!!!

Well
As these lines ... State ...

It is a ... "Thin Line" ...
between YES .....

" Love and Hate " ...

but ....

"Hating" ... For REAL ... !!!
Won't help us ... Relate ... !!!

These days ...
it's quite ... CLEAR ...
The Dangers of ... FEAR ... !!!!!

But ...
That's ... Nothing New ... !!!

The past's given clues ...
of how ... IGNORANCE ... Fuels ...
individuals to ... USE ...
Torture and ... "Abuse" ...
Through crews filled with ... FOOLS ...
who think ... Hatred ... IS COOL ... !!!!?!!!!

Well ....
Hatred Profiled ...
Does NOT ... !!! ...
Lead to ... Smiles ...

It leads to a ... place ...
That's Not ... quite so great ...
and leads us ... though leaders ...
who like to .... DICTATE ....

Like those around .... NOW .... !!!
who want to ... "Clamp Down" ...
on people like .... me ....
whose wordplay's ... So Neat ...

That .... Our Poetry ....
Gives Policemen ... " A Beat " ...
That makes them ... RETREAT ... !!!!!

See what I mean ... !!!

My ... Poetry Seams ...
are ... Suitably ... Clean ...
and walk a ... Fine Line ...
of ... " Quality Rhymes " ...
that ... Bypass ... Extremes ...

because they're ... Inclined ...
to .... " UNIFY " .... minds ....

See .... that's how i'd like
My Wordplay ... DEFINED ... !!!!!

Speaking ... Your Mind ...
Should ... NOT BE ... A Crime ... !!!!!

Unless what you say ...
Divides and spreads ...

...... " HATE " ..... !!!!!

I'd rather spread ... " LOVE " ...
Through ... " Kisses and Hugs " ... !!!

while most now ... Indulge ...

In Acting like ... THUGS ...
and taking ... HARD DRUGS ...
when they've .... had ....
...  " Quite ENOUGH " ... !!!!!    

People like ... THESE ...
make me want to ... CUSS ... !!!!!!!

But ....
These days i'm ... TRYING ...
to ... Rise uP .... ABOVE ....

These ... " Wannabee Thugs "

Who spread talk of ... " Dying "
cos' their words ... NEED ... !!!

....... " Refining " ....... !!!!!!

Things you ... Put Out ...
Come back son ...

.... " Don't Doubt " .... !!!!!

Now, that's a ... Fine Line ...
that's got ... Lots of ... CLOUT ... !!!

So think ... CAREFULLY ... !!!
before ... Running Your Mouth ... !!!!!

Fine Lines ... that I write ...
of ... Upsetting Designs ...
are ... NOT to ... Start Fights ... !!!

So ....
REMEMBER ... That Line ... !!!!!

They may cause ... Offence ...
and may cause ... Arguments ...

But ......
USE .... " Common Sense " ....
and ... REJECT ... " Violence " ... !!!

Keep a ... " Cool Head " ...
Like ... "Des Dekker" ... said ... !!!!!

Then ... Pick up a ... PEN
rather than ... Make Attempts ...
to bring me .... DISTRESS .... !!!!!!!

cos' you ...
want to ... SUPPRESS
A view i've expressed ...
that's left you ... UPSET ... !!!!!

That message is ... SENT ...
to those ... " Jealous Gents " ...
Who Think they're the ... BEST ...
at writing ... Fine Lines ...
with words that they ... Rhyme ...

Well ... CLEARLY ...
They're ... "BLIND" ... !!! ...
and ... Out of Their ... Mind ... !!!!!!

to think that ... Their Rhymes ...
are ... Better Than ... MINE ...  ?!? ...

Those causing us ... STRESS ... !!! ...
are those in ... " Governments " ... !!!!!

They ... Plan to ... DIVIDE ...
NOT ... see us ... " UNITE " ... !!!!!

THINK ... about that ...
before starting ... FIGHTS ... !!!!!

" Black On Black " .... crime ...
has been ... " Long Designed " ...

Don't You  ... think it's time ...  ?!?

We start to fight ... THEM ... ?!?!?
and their ... " Bogus Systems " ... !!!

That's where .....

I will ... END ...
This simple ... Poem ...  

cos' ...

Words in ... " Those Lines " ...
May ... cause me ... PROBLEMS ... !!!!!

Even though ....

Their JUST ... Rhymes
that flow ... and ... DEFINE
How the words ... I Transcribe ...

REALLY WALK ... !!! ...

.... " A Fine Line " ....
My words do walk one .....
♡sally rojas♡

Cuando estos pilares
Sean derribados
Serás tú quien
Lleve la corona

y

Yo te lo
deberé
todo a ti

¿Cuánto dolor ha
tesquebrajado
tu alma?

¿Cuánto amor
Te haría completa?

Tú eres el
Relámpago
Que me sirve
De guía.

No puedo encontrar
Las palabras que decir,

Llegan
demasiado
tarde

He recorrido
La mitad del mundo
Para decir

Que
Te pertenezco

Entonces ...
Ella me ataca
Como una Leo
(signo zodiacal)

Cuando mi corazón
Está dividido
Como Río de Janeiro

Pero te aseguro
Que mis deudas
Son reales

No puedo encontrar
Las palabras que decir
Cuando estoy confuso

He recorrido
La mitad del mundo
Para decir

Que
Tú eres
Mi mu(sa)

¡Ah! ¡Responde,
responde a mi ternura!

¡Vierte en mi!
¡Vierte en mí la euforia!

¡Responde a mi ternura!

¡Responde a mi ternura!

¡Ah, vierte en mí la euforia!

¡Vierte en mí!

¡Vierte en mí la euforia!

Responde a mi ternura
Responde a mi ternura
!!!Ah, vierte en mí la euforia¡¡¡

Pertenezco...
Solo te pertenezco a ti

No puedo encontrar
Las palabras que decir

Llegan demasiado tarde

He recorrido
La mitad del mundo
Para decir
Que te pertenezco
BJ Donovan Nov 2018
The Puberty Years

  Oh, Christ! A catholic boy traversing
  travels through puberty. My voice cracks
  and I have body hair and I smell off and
  I can't stop thinking about ***. Just me.

  There's not always an end in sight. I'm
  in endless time with my awkward trials.
  I see 007 and fancy me secret agent Bill.
  I want to see a ****** up close. I fail.

  I'm left hungry and determined and I
  meet Kathy. West Side Story Maria.
  She and I have Katie, then Sean. I
  fall over the edge of this flat earth.
A desire is enough
to set identity to a course
even though the journey’s end
defies the place it all began

while the clock asks no due
the start and stop are fluid
neither set for the whole
instead the traveler has their own

defying milestones on the path
stones erected in the past
become the lies for the self
even as their truth prevails

integrity is then transformed
as a need leads the way
with no regret in the now
what the sun may shine upon.

2019. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20190222.
The poem “The Sun May Shine” is a glancing look at identity.
poetryaccident Jul 2018
First the letters
then the words
forming thoughts
of the absurd
put to page
formed in blood
an invitation
to hear my tale
asking nothing
for urgent pleas
wanting more
than I’ll accept
declaring less
than what’s true
omission's lie
is far more grim
inquire in person
to hear the rest
I’ll share my thoughts
beyond these words.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180721.
The poem “Beyond These Words”  is about the mix blessing and limitations of poetry.
Her baby was buried
in a grave alongside 827 other babies.

Who knew no mothers.

Her mother thought it best
to let the nuns help her sell the child to the Americans.

The babies would have had names like Dermot, Aoife, Sandra and Sean

"Would have" isn’t an awfully good thing to think about.

It was a typically miserable November Sunday
When they brought her over there
after that last mass.

Unrelated to this, there is a launderette named the Magdalene
in the city I live in, which is nowhere near Tipperary but in the East of England.
In fairness, it is located on Magdalen Street, without the second “e”,
A once rough and tumble but now up and coming kind of place,
where among the students and young professionals getting their whites cleaned
the only ones likely to take offense at this are students of history or the named émigré children of
Irish parents.
I’ve been told it’s now a chain of launderettes, but I imagine the owners have enough on their mind
without constantly Googling their services.

When they let her out of the home for troubled girls,
it was the warmest July she’d ever seen.

Some days the baby’s name is Michael, others it’s Matthew, recently, it’s been Corey, Ryan, even Sean.

But she never wishes that it would have been a girl.
The Fifth Interim Report of the Commission of Investigation into Mother and Baby Homes in Ireland was released to the public yesterday, April 18th 2019. These "Homes" facilitated the birth and adoption programs instituted by the Catholic Church in Ireland, with the purpose of incarcerating women who fell pregnant outside of marraige. The mother and babies who did not survive life in these non-hospital envoirns were buried in mass graves in sites such as that of Tuam, co. Galway. The full report can be located here https://www.dcya.gov.ie/documents/mother_and_baby_homes/20190416Mother&BabyHomesBurials5thInterimReport.pdf
poetryaccident Dec 2018
I became a poem to realize
the hidden depths both good and bad
that dwell inside my twisted breast
both victim and so much worse

below a surface many see
lays a monster seeking peace
the die is cast by its own hand
along with wounds from other men

this sum that borrows from the soul
asking dues that none pay
with the rub that all must give
more than fairness would see fit

to those ends I press letters
like sad bodies of butterflies
against the page as if to blur
where I stand against the rest

hiding in the midst of prose
there is wisdom in what’s shared
if only the muse would point
to the parts that mean the most

perhaps some others will disclose
how these apply to my world
when the poet becomes the poem
they are lost within the words.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20181228.
The poem “Become a Poem” was inspired by the quote by David Carradine: “If you can’t be a poet, be the poem.”    Poets who write A LOT will place themselves within the resulting poems.  To what end?  Sometimes they may even listen to the advice given.
Francie Lynch Dec 2018
You've heard this tale
A thousand times,
Take one more spin,
This version's mine.
And this telling tale
Is its first time.
My theme is fitting,
The message sublime,
For the Season of giving,
And gifting one's time.

For my first Christmas
I was three,
But the warmth on that night
Never cooled,
And indeed,
It was
A cold Christmas Eve.

We stuck branches of pine
In a bucket of sand,
That's the snapshot I've got
Of our Christrmas tree then.
Here's the memory that Eve
Of a lad of three,
Yet this story is true,
It's a family heirloom.

We weren't many then,
There was Mammy and Daddy
And six children, soon seven.
Daddy was an Operator
Of cranes and loaders
Dirt packers and graders.
He was working North,
Far North,
Manning a dozer,
Distant from family
Near the Quebec border.
That's where he was
Days before,
When his pant-leg caught fire,
When the diesel was spilled.

We were only three months
In our chosen homeland,
It was 1958,
And fresh from Ireland.

No way to get to him,
Nor him to get home,
No car,  no friends yet,
Little money, no phone.
Yet somebody knew
We were out on our own.

And the snow started falling,
It was Christmas Eve,
I stood at the window,
Saw the snow fill the trees.
I was still and staring,
At what I don't know,
But I remember quite vividly
All that I saw.

Like a scene from a movie
Starring Barry or Bing,
A fire-engine red no-top
Stopped and parked with high beams,
Highlighting the snow,
On that Christmas Eve.

A big man in a red suit
Slid off of the trunk,
Literally carrying a sack,
And calling, **! **!
The family joined me
At the window to see
The big man's helpers
Carry a big Christmas Tree.

When they entered the house
Kevin, Sean, Gerald and I,
Cowered and crouched
Behind the second-hand couch.
We must have resembled
Three monkeys plus me;
I hadn't a clue,
I was dumb-founded and three.

In through the front door
They clattered and sang,
Unloading their boxes
Of food, clothes and toys,
*****, bats and dolls
For two girls and four boys;
And I'm sure there was something
For the coming bundle of joy.

I don't remember their departure,
Or where he went,
But they called Merry Christmas
And left all else unsaid.

Mammy understood
Some good persons had called,
Who'd heard of our plight
And couldn't be calmed
Til they knew for certain
We'd some peace in our storm.

So, that's my first Christmas,
Since then this my creed:
The gift of giving
Isn't under the Tree.
Repost and a Merry Christmas to all my friends at HP.
poetryaccident Sep 2018
Consider if this is my best
the end result of life progressed
I’d deliver this short essay
to describe the tacit peak
a spiral is the best account
sometimes up, sometimes down
of the journey through the years
not yet ended if I’m here.

Declarations of made by ghosts
some still living in shared space
most have passed to the void
home of angels and devils both
this recital of the past
suborned by doubt of my own
locked in dungeons of the soul
still the light shines far above.

A moment like no other one
stating heights from which I’d fall
perhaps this fortune has occurred
I’ll find out by narrative
judgment passed to discern
the apex just out of reach
could this be the last tract
where I shine when ink scribes.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180922.
The poem “Best Version” was inspired by a two-part meme.  The first panel had one character telling another, “I want you to be the very best version of yourself that you can be.”.  The primary character responds with the statement, “What if this is my best version?”
It lingers in the ruined air
that atmosphere now lost to tears
raining down when the drips
are turned against the one that rants

the clouds once held the angst
considered pure without regard
for a world beyond the cell
a prison made by the self

when the coin is flipped around
the saddest turned to towards the self
a desire to end the pain
betrays the one who feels the same

where the vespers were thought pure
even though the end was near
an ally with answers
now reality has shown its hand

the deck was stacked the whole time
only showing some face-up
lulling the grieving one
to believe the game was set

until another flipped the rest
to show anguish that would result
assurance gone in that flash
now the ruin is present.

2019. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20190218.
The poem “Ruined Air” was inspired by a Tumblr posting.  The original poster stated, “One of my best friend tried to commit one (suicide). And i have to tell you, from the other side it’s the most terrifying, scariest, saddest or heart breaking thing in the world. One of the worst experience I’ve ever had. Now I feel stupid, cause I understand how hard it is for other people even if they’re not part of the closest family. ”
If we were villains
the world would topple
in tears embellished
with contrite sorrows

drowning the ruins
six fathoms under
while life disperses
above dim waters

the moon remembers
how the light lingered
before the sun left
spread of the heavens

now the staid headstones
markers of memory
stand in the darkness
aside calm marshes

perhaps gods forget
wrongs done in anger
when outcomes linger
past best intentions

the bones are scattered
in perfect hindsight
remind all of outcomes
if we were villains.

© 2019. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20190101.
The poem “If We Were Villains” was inspired by the title of the novel, written by M. L. Rio, by the same name.   Sometimes the world is left that much worse because of actions not intended to have the outcome experienced.
Hold the sky lest it falls
when beauty pulls the clouds
crushing walls that project
to save the world from itself
allow light to pour within
with revelations few admit
still the brilliance will persist
as resistance is suppressed

two columns meant to preserve
decorum based on best intents
crumble when the comeliness
presses charms without regret
fay innocence displays a range
blue to pink with in-between
flow to violet as pillars fall
leaving want to mark the way

the sun and moon become one
androgyny is for the best
when the globes are conjoined
to see the grace at last combined
allow the sky to tumble down
beauty comes in many forms
denying walls that most may view
with pure desire as reverence.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20181231.
The poem “Hold the Sky” is about the beauty of androgyny.
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