She Is

She Is

She is the silly little girl

With nonsensical thoughts

That ramble and rush

In waxy, inky hues

Coloring a world from white

She is the dreamy headed dandelion

A thousand wishes blossom

That release in a breeze

Humming a song of freedom

Not bound by boundaries

She is the ever phasing moon

Warmth at the core of a frosty, brilliant light

A beacon for far reaching possibilities

The keeper of silent secrets

A generous promise to all impractical dreamers

E.A. O'Connell

Lemmings To The Movement

Dark and wet,

the earth radiates a scent of green

and a metallic taste on tip of tongue

Weathered grasses brush legs,

with touch of an uncertain lover

whose calloused hands reveal life of true toil

The horizon crests in a wave,

threatened by distant lightning,

spurred by the heated atmospheric tension

As the wanderers congregate,

stepping to the edge in unison

oblivious of the age old map above,

unacquainted with lost civilization below

Misguided by voices of generations gone slant

the persuading magnetic pull,

forces hasty retreat

but not before the brief hesitating stun

of perilous possibilities

But then washes the never mind,

and the thought hazing drive,

so head first they die,

an innate diving blind

E.A. O’Connell

All Hallows' Eve

An early Hallowe'en post.

All Hallows’ Eve

The mosaic tide of rusty, golden, and burnt leaves gently coasts across cold stone and hardening earth, collecting like lost trinkets in pockets beneath trunks and posts.  Once waxy and green, the vibrant decaying flesh finds magnificent splendor in its final hours, it’s the smell of nature’s peace with the closing of another season that elicits a calendar of memories; hot apple cider simmering on the stove, warm spices for baking, hills of orange pumpkins nestled in their yellowing green vines, ripe for the picking.  The final October sun sets on the witchy eve, as clocks tick and tock and chime the All Hallows’ call, summoning angels, thieves, fairies, ghouls and goblins to undertake their wicked crawl.  Porches house and windows frame the burning Cheshire cat grins and sinister horseman brows, carved on the plump faces of Jacks, as haunting green scepters trail an alien glow along dark pathways and within dimly lit portals.  Distant howling sets rounded ear on point, as an undistracted focus attempts to distinguish between a neighborhood dog’s desire to be stretched out before a warm hearth and the warning howl that bellows from Hell’s Hounds.  Muted feathery gargoyle guardians perched on high branches and within knotty trunks, cautiously watch with wide eyes as the Shadow People creep and skip, dancing a peculiar rhythm that keeps time with the willowy voices and child-like laughter that resonates under the vellum thin veil that for this one night is lifted, allowing the dead to walk amongst the living and the living to masquerade as the dead.

Soul Searcher

This is merely an unedited excerpt of something I've been writing...it delves into the idea that while we sleep our souls travel.  More work to be done in due time.


Soul Searcher

    

It began on a cool September night, around 1:30 in the morning when I was awoken with a startle from a rather odd dream my mind was concocting.  I was back at my childhood residence, a home where my heart certainly still was, and I was horrified that the once cozy quarters had taken on the look of a fun house.  The foyer’s warm brown sugar carpeting was stripped away, replaced by a cold black and white diamond patterned marble floor.  The walls were papered with a stark white that took on a nearly blue hue and was designed with methodically placed black Rorschachesque blemishes.  A crystal chandelier hung from the upstairs hall ceiling on a long clear chain and hovered only six, maybe seven, feet above the marble floor.  The original front door that once offered a welcoming character to the home’s façade was replaced by a thick black door with three slim, rectangular windows running down the center.  All decor on the first floor of the home was black, white, or transparent. 

I stood on the stairs infuriated by the unwelcome makeover to my childhood home, and started to scream a blood curdling wail that caused my body to bend and contort, my fists to clench and my eyes to shut tight, but not a sound echoed from my lungs.  A young blonde girl with her hair in a prim ponytail and her not much older, much blonder brother with coarsely chopped mane appeared from the breakfast room, and were shortly joined by their agitated mother who couldn’t hide the uninvited fear that had settled so unevenly on her face, in that delicate space between flesh and bone.  She pulled her children to her body in a protective embrace; her left hand clasping her daughter’s left shoulder, her right hand digging in the same manner into her son’s right arm.  Summoning anger to project through her insecurity, she yelled, “You don’t live here anymore!  This is our house!  You must leave now!” 

I looked towards the two substantial windows that lined the upstairs landing and there were no panes within them, just empty space that from my angle looked out on the tall trees that towered over two blocks of homes.  A soothing warm, spring-like breeze swirled around me, luring me up the stairs to the windowless wall.  I could still hear the mother demanding my departure, but her voice grew distant as everything outside the window began to drain of color and lose defining lines.  The entire world had gone white, blinding white, like sunlight that kept intensifying until it radiated through my flesh, making my eyes squint and then forcing them shut, but even under the safe cover of my eyelids the light still penetrated my eyes.  I heard the drone of white noise and just as I felt I might succumb to the hypnotic hum, I felt the floor beneath my feet disintegrate, and I dropped, falling at such an alarming rate it no longer felt like I was plummeting, I felt static.  And as I began to feel the rush of familiar songs, voices, scents, and touches coming over me, and I, just a hairsbreadth from placing my finger on the familiar, awoke with the whip of my neck, now facing the terrace off my bedroom, eyes locked on the tall, dense shadow, darkening the balcony.   

      

I felt no alarm bells going off in my woman’s intuition, no fear.  I just kept my eyes on the shadow, trying to let them adjust and focus in the harsh shades of night that seemed too bright compared to the womb-like protection and shade my eyelids provided mere seconds ago.  I finally broke my gaze and rolled my eyes to the ceiling.  I snuck a quick peek and still the shadow was there, angled into the concrete railing and the column that bore a gaping mouthed gargoyle, who’s accusatory eyes questioned every person, dog, and specter that passed below my twenty-three story penthouse.  Eyes to the ceiling, I exhaled a soothing breath and felt goose bumps alight over my flesh as the cool evening breeze blew into my bedroom from the open French doors, billowing the gauzy curtains that framed the threshold.  I pulled my downy, white comforter over my shoulder as I rolled in the opposite direction, away from the senseless distraction that kept me from sleep.  In my head was a running one person conversation about the ludicrous thought that it could be anything more than a play of the moonlight and the dark corners, embellished columns, and ornamental potted plants that adorned my balcony.  Nobody, nothing, could gain access to my apartment without authorization from more than one source.  Without sneaking another peek, I fell into a welcome sleep.

I could feel myself boiling with rage, trying to express myself through a rabid snarl, that it was mine, it was my home.  I was clinging to the ebony railing, my fingernails embedding into the wood, through layers of stain and varnish.  Her words rushed me with a smug certainty that she could banish my fury.  “You don’t live here anymore!  This is our house!  You must leave now!”  I released the banister and as I turned to curse her, I felt a pull that reached into my body and grasped my lungs, dragging me towards the Rorschach blotch that had deceptively looked harmless, but was morphing in a flipbook fashion; bat, butterfly, pelvis, shark jaws, face mask, skull.  The vacant white sockets took on a sinister, angular shape, staring at me as it bowed forward, its mouth gaping wider, wider, wider, until it was inhaling me with a ferocity that sucked me in with the power of a natural disaster, and as I felt myself being decimated into tiny particles, I could here her repeatedly banishing me from her home.

With a dramatic gasp of breath, I sat up and threw the covers off my body, stepping onto the cold bamboo floor.  I walked into my dark bathroom; filling the glass I kept by the sink with water and swishing it around in my mouth, spitting it down the drain.  I took a sip and felt it bring back to life my arid throat.  Taking another sip, I emptied the remaining water into the sink, placed the glass on the blush marble counter with an echoing clink, and walked towards the French doors that encompassed a majority of the far wall in my bathroom.  I looked up at the night sky, catching sight of Orion’s belt, and as my eyes set out on a quest to map other constellations, I saw the dark mass in the same spot it was however long ago.  I tried to determine if there was anything more to the mass than shadow, but I couldn’t really make out any defining lines or sinews that would betray a well designed veil of deceit.  I shook my head at how ridiculous an idea it would be for a person, a man, to make his way onto my terrace undetected and at such a height. 

I returned to my room and sat on the edge of my bed, taking note that the shadow was still there.  As I climbed into bed I glanced at the lilac Moonbeam clock on my bedside table, the long and short arms marking the time as 2:59am.  I lay back on my pillows and turned one last time to glimpse the shadow before surrendering to a vulnerable suspension of consciousness, when I noticed the shadow had taken leave of my balcony.  I looked to the clock and saw that it was 3:00am.  Only a minute, perhaps even less, had passed since I verified its presence, but by some strange circumstance with either city lighting at this height or lunar glow at that angle, it had vanished.  I went right to the doors, stepping out on the terrace, but there wasn’t a shadow, corner, column, or potted plant that compared to or could mimic the mass that stood here no more than two minutes ago.  I scanned both wings of the terrace before returning to my bed, succumbing to a sleep that came too easily after such an unforeseen manifestation and even more abrupt departure.        

E.A. O'Connell

Nature's Seamstress

Passion Flower.  Lizzie O.  August 2008

Nature's Seamstress

Under Luna's soft glow as the gardener slept

The screech owl’s alarm roused Nature’s seamstress

From the shadow of eaves she silently crept

A most beguiling sight in her white and black dress

She caught a light breeze and with a purpose directed

To the fringy bed of moss that from beneath protected

The summer green vines, the coiled copper tendrils

An occasional bowed head, pollen gilded stamen and pistils

With needle fine legs she spun a gossamer veil

That shone with the light of a shooting star’s trail

She delicately pinned it to silken lilac petals

Where eager Jack Frost fastened radiant dew crystals

A ribbon of first light cast a subtle pink glow

Illuminating a path the eight legged maiden took home

From magnificent heights she spied the lush garden below

Witnessing marriage of Passion flower to harsh wall of stone

E.A. O'Connell

Dark Hope

When I was thirteen I took a gamble and read Bram Stoker's Dracula.  What came from that chance encounter with my first gothic work, was unexpected and mesmerizing.  The spine that seemed to innocently stare back at me from the shelf at the bookstore, would wear down, wrinkled and creased as I read and reread the hypnotizing pages, which awoke an excitement in me that only literature could.  It was the gateway novel, a gateway that I willingly passed through, that led me to Anne Rice's vampire tales.  From there, my mind was constantly searching for gothic works that took childhood fairy tales to a whole new level.  I am so grateful that the British Literature course I took junior year of high school enlightened me further.  My literary soul had found its true loves; British & Gothic Literature, and how fitting that the two romance each other so exquisitely throughout numerous ages.  Long before the 21st century boom of vampire lust, I took my first foray into writing a very short excerpt (if you will) into the genre I am so fond of.  It is a paranormal tale written by a young teenage me, so there is a subtlety to the piece and I opted not to alter it, as I rather like revisiting my younger mind.

Dark Hope

She’s tired of lingering, of the incessant afterlife that stretches days and years into one long hour, one continuous looping moment.  Bored by an existence that thrusts her into the invisible realm, where she must make nice with trespassers and squatters who play house in her home, she finds it hard to remain comfortable with each new guest.

She’s grown frustrated by the distant memory of the mortal touch; her mother’s gentle stroking of her thick amber hair, her father’s lengthy stretch that would sweep her into a caring embrace, the simple stroke from the back of her husband’s finger as it would run down her cheek, hesitating below her chin, lightly imprinting a promise onto her lips.

She is bound by a dark hope, so her sentence must progress.

She now lives in fear that her newest fleshy companion will rear his head in a double-take, his steel gray eyes suspicious, as she navigates new designs, unexpectedly rustling the curtains, absentmindedly knocking over magazines.  He has yet to wake in time to see the impression she leaves on the mattress he unknowingly shares, she laying beside him, casting a chilly spell that spurs his need to draw the sheets up closer, tighter.

He hasn’t yet voiced his acknowledgement that something’s amiss when the sweet, subtle perfume of lilacs in June, delicately laces deep winter hours.  Nor does he frown at the goose bumps that trail from his neck to his stomach with the countless words whispered in his ears, relaying tales of gothic love and excruciating loss, worthy of being bound and catalogued.  She still worries though, that he’ll figure her out and demand she face the light that halo’s the path from which she must take her departure.  

In the solitary, blue hours of night her lament hums above the refrigerator and radiators as they kick on and off, her weeping echoes in the rattle and whine of the aging plumbing pipes that rush fluids to an unseen wasteland, and her relentless trails of prayers on bended knee that knock and rock on the floors as she pleads for time, more time, sacrificing numerous chances for eternal enlightenment and peace in the hopes of laying eyes on her ill-fated companion soul.  All the time spent waiting, watching, longing, is collected chaos that wells up in her eyes and bursts forth as ridiculous laughter that rings, like a moist finger rounding the circular lips of a crystal goblet. 

She will wait, and wait, and wait, never knowing the exact length of her sentence, nor if it truly has an end, putting her needs out of mind, forgoing safe passage to the Holy Father, all for one final taste of the finest sin she ever faced, in the commanding words that her lover issued forth on that last night, their final encounter,

“Our ill timed love has found a nemesis, he who will be your husband in mere hours.  The sun will awaken, summoning my exit, whilst simultaneously bidding the crow from the rooster sealing our fate, as your mortal body will be sealed to his.  Keep my invitation open, just as you will your heart, and my shadow will darken your door once more.”

“Find me a place beside you” she begged.  “Make room for me in your mysterious world, in your life.”

“There is no life for you to breathe in, merely a death you must sacrifice all warm beauty to.”

“Then sacrifice I will.”

Caressing her throat with his long, strong hand he firmly gripped her in his clasp and whispered to her neck that was so elegantly mapped by routes of veins he could easily navigate, “Your eagerness is your undoing, as is your inexperience.  For some reason unbeknownst to me, I am compelled to let you flourish and ripen in the sun’s rays, even if it must be done beside another.”

She fell silent and let herself be lost in his touch, in those fleeting moonlit hours, uncertain.

When all she has is time on her hands, she finds it hard not to think back on how foolish she was to allow him to lull her into submission.  How foolish they both were, for had he claimed her that night she would have fallen from Earth’s pedestal into the arms of one whom she loved and who loved her back, carrying on their love affair for as long as is inhumanly possible, rather than succumbing to a hideous, sickly death that struck her with a forceful blow to the cold, lonely, unforgiving ground no more than two years from their last encounter.  But time also feeds her ghostly mind with the dreadful thought that her undead beloved, who lacks the compass of his mortal soul, will be incapable of seeking out and finding hers; her restless, abandoned soul that knows too well the pain and punishment of holding onto a dark hope.   

E.A. O’Connell

 

The Witches Pyre

The Witches Pyre

The baseless sentencing

Lit her from beneath

She felt it rise up

Singeing through the scales and scars

Every extremity numb

All the words

The violence they throw

Bitter speak from the mere tip of their tongues

Is the toxic brew she swallows

And the combustible cocktail that ignites

Any remnant not alight with fire    

Vile fiend with a lost conscious

And a determined spark

Why utter that one word?

That dangerous indefinable concept

Results of too many complicated fears

He’s the bastard son

The unnamed, bodiless, homeless shadow

Who makes his rounds in twenty-four hours

He’s no stranger to her corners

Forget her name

Cease tracing her shape

That paints the world in long, dark silhouettes

Torture, no more that child of May

The singular hellcat spawned from spontaneous passion

Flames rise and fall

Burning new wrinkles

Strange hues in her flesh

Scarring her bruised insides

Beautifully illustrating her anemic outside

Magnificently damaged

She reduces her boil to a simmer

As the chilly breeze off her heart

Cools her to the core

But their haunting words

And that foolish concept creeps

Rearing its ugly face once again

Chanting to the wind

Witch

A cyclic ignorance that blinds all reason

Succumbing to the fiery pit

She conjures new life

Amongst shards and embers of past flare ups

Casting her spell

Under the owl’s watchful eye

E.A. O’Connell

Blue Moon

Blue Moon

Eerie

misty morning blue

warped pane divides the moon

stolen in the night by the Sandman’s greed

halfway to Heaven

riding rays of pink and amber suede

burned out stars leave black holes in the sky

dew drops fall

crystallizing the cold countryside

cracked pane multiplies the shattered moon

velvet, midnight eyes

watch for the Wandering Jew

lifeless silhouettes frozen in time

daydreams and nightscapes

absent from the mind

infinite footprints stain the house, the earth

eternal soulprints illuminate the heart, the hearth

curious November chill grows loud, grows selfish

dying orange embers pop, crackle, hiss

missing pane, splintered glass

tear stained, punctured flesh

nightingale sings a solemn tune

warped pane, broken moon

E.A. O’Connell

Simple Seed

Simple Seed

Simple seed bears a purposeful life

Complex root systems

Delicate in size and matter

Know the will of His hands

Willing growth, willing life

The fruits of many labors

Shine glorious and sticky sweet

Green warms to pink burns to red

And the temptation that looms

For every man, woman, beast

For a bite of the flesh and suckle of the pulp

Known most intimate by the bee

Dusted with pollen from the blossoms in her hair

A regenerating, germinating season

Comes to a halt in the stealing of flesh from the splintered bone

And the plummet to earth that bruises the divine

Becoming cold gray matter for worms

Burrowing holes of thought and tunnels of trespass

As the Blood and the Harvest Moons glow cider rich

And silver frosted, early snow blankets the ruins

From which procreating heat never halts its crackle

And flames with each freeze, thrash, and melt

In an ageless season’s turn

E.A. O’Connell

If I...

While I had edited this work at one time to reflect the love between a man and woman, it was originally written for my father when I was a teenager.  I think upon my father a great deal and while I keep my writing that has been influenced by him and his passing private, I felt I could share this as an honor to his memory at a time of year that marks the passing of his physical earthly, body, but the everlasting presence of his universal true self that continues to flourish and bring great joy to all who knew him and remember him. 

If I...

If I could map my own constellation

It would be you

I’d find the brightest star and place it at your heart

You would glow golden and guide home the lost

I’d make certain your location was close to home

Above my roof, just above my room

You’d watch over me in lunar light, much like you did in flesh

Easing my pain, redirecting my loss

At times I’m lost

You would be there

Day and night,

Clear or overcast skies

Winter and Summer wouldn’t misdirect you

Spring and Fall wouldn’t steal you

You would be home, as close to home as I could get you

Burning in infinite depths for me, for us

Alive and aging in all your glory

Keeping watch

Keeping faith

In me, in us

Dreamers of the Day

Dreamers of the Day

Once upon a time there was a young girl who dreamt of many things when her world went silent, but it was when her world was alive that her dreams took on new colors of meaning.  And it was in those dreams that she would quietly tip toe behind her mind, shading any giggle with her tiny pink hands so the lilt of her laughter would trail behind her, never giving her intentions away.  On pointed toes as sweet and delicate as new rosebuds, she would playfully stalk her mind, sneaking up behind her as she sat on the lush green, sun soaked carpet, contemplating on this and that, concealing her eyes with a whisper light touch and hands that resembled stars.  Bending so her lips were flush to her ear, she spoke in a downy voice that enveloped each word in fluff as soft as that of a duckling….Be still restless thoughts. 

She would clasp her mind’s hand and let her laughter ring out, as she skipped ahead, leading her mind by the hand to the edge of the lush garden, bursting forth with blooms in the many warm shades of solace and safety.  And onto Zephyrus she’d softly kiss the words…Come, lead us to risks and the peculiarities that fear no absence of light… and his temperate breezes would forge a path, miles ahead of them. 

Her mind would often hesitate, thinking upon and then expounding on the fear and the lost, and the nowhere, and the never was, but that stellar hand would issue forth an affectionate embrace and her words following suit…Fear not nature nor beast, for the wild is far less treacherous, not nearly as expansive, and much easily subdued than all that is conjured and invited to dwell in here… with a raised hand she would direct a singular finger to the central most point of her mind. 

Hand-in-hand, they would navigate the many crooks and corners, tree knots and hollow trunks, uprooting rocks and following the curve of every root, testing the strength of each low lying branch and measuring streams in leaps, uncovering new things and at times the old, but sometimes they’d find the forgotten, and how lovely a spell of reminiscing they would sit.  They’re fairy-like dance drew them deep within the woods, where the landscape became as plush as velvet and as rich as precious gems.  And in this fantastical realm, the honey moon forever glowed and stars were possibilities that would shine brighter the more far reaching the wishes were that were wished, but even in such splendor, her mind would stray to the fear and she would whisper under her breath rapid thoughts about the menacing, unforeseen stretch of dark that lay like an ocean, waiting for the opportunity to pull them off their feet and sweep them out, swallowing their voices, losing them in the revolution….Be still restless thoughts… and with those words the calm set in once again. 

And so on they pursued that dark land where the absence of light spurred a thick, heavy atmosphere that forced their exploration to be grounded in the determination of their communal heart, but one heart wasn’t as committed to being open like the other.  So plucking that insecurity by the scruff of its neck, like a mother cat carries her kitten, she sat it on a blind rock and then with her pink, stellar hands, she spun her lighter mind around and around and around, releasing her in a dizzy and stepping far out of reach.  Her mind swatted at the air and grabbed at nothing, feeling for something solid to lean or sit upon, but that head-sick sensation soon dissolved, leaving her giggling and twirling on her own.  And she went wild, letting loose a great many revelations, conclusions, second chances, characters, and tales not yet told, bursting forth from her at a rate to great to contain or count, and she felt free, so much more free than in the sunny, gated garden contemplating on this issue of the day and that task for tomorrow. 

Soon the stellar hands were upon hers again and the silence told her it was time to return.  So return they did, to the sun soaked carpet, where the worries of this and that began to resurface, so the young girl encouraged her mind to lay upon her tiny lap, falling away to the rhythmic stroking of her hair and the honeysuckle sweet voice stilling her…Awaken.

E.A. O’Connell

Ladders to Heaven

Ladders to Heaven

Oh, how the bells ring out

As gentle spring breezes

Sway the porcelain white cups

The delicate tinkling chimes

Summon the creamy fair clasp

A drink to love’s good fortune

And great happiness

To the heart ever pure

The sweetness and the tears

And protection from spells

Spurred by dark, wicked fears

E.A. O'Connell

The Porch

He asked for a descriptive passage.  He said write something you know well.  Write about anything, just make sure the reader knows how it looks, smells, tastes, feels.
Written for the select few who know...

The Porch

The old, locked French doors reveal a sunny day just beyond the open, uninhabited porch.  Once painted a bright, clean white, the porch now takes on the color of bone, cracked and peeling where rain and snow have seeped in, accenting the wear and tear of many seasons.  The brick and mortar floor is stained green from clumps of moss that resemble velvety pincushions nestled within the cracks, taking on a polka dot pattern.  In the far left corner stands a small stack of firewood with splinters that poke out.  The splinters brandish dead, curled in leaves like medieval shields, ready to do battle with any hand that attempts to carry the log to the stone fireplace.  Spiders of varying sizes and brown hues lurk in the four upper corners, watching over their egg sacks and waiting for their next oblivious meal to fly into their translucent death traps.  The blue-gray slate roof often becomes a makeshift dance floor for the tapping toes of silver squirrels in search of acorns in the full gutters.  A giant yew, a pair of aging azaleas, clusters of earthy ferns, and a sickly hemlock enclose the porch, offering partial privacy.  Just a few feet away lays the avenue, busy with cars, bikes, skateboards, and children on a candy run to the Wawa on the corner.  Night falls and the porch is taken over by the cool, mineral rich scent of soil, the warm, mellow scent of wood, and the savory aroma of onions frying within the corner pizza shop's kitchen, that wafts over in the evening breeze.  The relic of a porch light, encased with dusty warped glass and a black frame has burned out, shrouding the enclosure in a cloak of darkness.  As the night grows older, the entrancing blue moonbeams stretch their way to the portico, casting a thick shadow stain across the floor.  Without fear of man or woman's intrusion, furry, feathered, and cottony winged nocturnal callers pay a visit to the porch.     

E.A. O'Connell

No Words Today

Today I rest
eyes toward the sky
seeking fairy tales in the clouds
and pushing little feet to heights that induce giggles

Words will come
in their own due time
for some days are better spent quiet
meditating on nature
and laughter

E.A. O'Connell

Cat House

I wrote this after an experience at the zoo (while visiting the big cats) where I couldn't help but observe a group of patrons and their children.  Comments that I overheard and actions that I witnessed have made their way into this piece...you'll have to guess where.  I'm not sure how I would categorize this work- not really a poem, not really a stream of consciousness...but not everything needs a label.

Cat House

Thick pane

transparent divider

separated from the uprights

their mechanical violence

where mothers drag young around

in four wheeled hybrids

smothering affection and acknowledgement

with sugary, silencing treats

Privacy

a lost soul wandering the deserts, jungles, plains 

captive to the stares

and pounding fists of the uprights

regal and royal you sun

on hand sown patches

hand blown boulders

vocalizing and terrorizing

the too young to understand

Red clay

a cool comfort,

lost on the straight ones

who see tile roofs

on Spanish Mod row mansions

in a suburban setting

in eastern Pennsylvania

Green

once for leaves that rustled

in gnarly branches of umbrella trees

and clusters of algae

flourishing on puddles and ponds

now lines pockets and palms

denoting status, stature, strength

Gold grasses

swaying in warm breezes

masking the voracious hunters

drowsy dreamers

has been spun into gold cards

paying for jewels and fibers

accessorizing the fronts put on by your audience

Deep pain

a limiting free-range pen

barricading

civilized from uncivilized

lost

in the misrepresentation of habitat

miscommunication of freedom

E.A. O’Connell

June Bloom

There are times that I do write about...or for...the people I love.  This is one such example. 

We stood on the cool slate patio, lulling in the shadow of the great oak holding court in the backyard.  The tiger lilies stood tall, cautioning all who approached the aged, untidy greenhouse like bright orange construction cones.  We spun and twirled, waiting as all impatient children do.  I remember the sun was bright and warm on our shoulders and cheeks.  I had to hold my arm above my eyes to block the white light that glinted of the chrome and glass, as the station wagon pulled up the driveway. 

He opened the door and we ran to his open arms.  When we finally let him stand up, he measured up to the regal oak.  His bristly beard left the slightest sting on our rosy cheeks.  He went through the typical greetings with our parents; hugs, kisses, hand shakes, some hearty laughs, and a cool drink.  But we knew there was more in the car, there in the way back machine, our three big burly friends.  We waited all day for this and could no longer hide our excitement.  Antsy, outside that heavy car door, we danced like children that waited too long to get to the bathroom.  He got the hint.  Asking us to stand back, he opened the door and the three lions once quietly sleeping in the back, awoke and barreled towards us.  The big black dogs, three perfect specimens of the Newfoundland breed, licked our faces and circled us like a hypnotic reel. 

That afternoon we ran alongside the dogs.  We would climb on their sturdy backs, wrap our hands in their long hair, and hug their bodies close as we rode on our loyal steeds with great pride and wildly, vivid imaginations.  We explored the rock garden with our guardians at our heels, pretending we were climbing mountains with our rescue dogs, ready to plunge into the pool of green grass if one of us lost our footing.  We rolled around on the ground and laid on them like pillows when we tired out. 

My sister and I were three and six.  We had no thoughts or plans beyond that afternoon.  We just knew we were inexplicably and undeniably happy. 

As it grew dark we hugged our big bears and he loaded them into their temporary pen.  We blew kisses to each one and as we touched the glass we felt their hot breath.  We told them we loved them, feeling that twinge of sadness at seeing them go; at seeing the day end.  He picked us up individually, kissing us on the cheek and promising our next visit would be sooner rather than later.  He backed out of the driveway, and in the lowlight of the evening the headlights shone so bright.  I had to put my arm above my eyes to block the light.  I waved goodbye.  Reaching down I grabbed the hand of my little sister, who waved and blew kisses.  The headlights veered to the left and then disappeared down the road. 

We stood there staring down the graying driveway, thinking on the day, the dogs, our friend.  But then we spotted the fluorescent flash of the lightening bugs and began our dance.  Running from flash to flash, reaching and grabbing with a gentle swipe of the wrist, clasping our fingers around the bugs like a flesh made prison.  We pet our captors and named each, certain we would remember them by their glow and the red perimeter of their wings. 

The sky was beginning to turn from periwinkle to a deep amethyst, which was our cue to look up for the black silhouettes of the brown bats that mapped a feeding path between our house and our neighbors.’  We would raise our arms and imagine the soft fur brushing against our knuckles, their wings stirring a slight breeze that we would catch in the palms of our hands.  We sang songs we made up in hopes of attracting the bats to our sweet voices, and cheered with an innocent squeal when we heard them respond with a sonic squeak, certain our efforts had paid off. 

The sky folded into indigo, pin pricked with luminescent stars and planets, and as we tried our best to count each one, we made silent wishes.  We put away our bikes, toys, chalk, and jump ropes, and then went inside for the night.  We had our baths and once dressed in our clean pajamas, we stood in front of the air conditioner, listening to our voices take on a robotic echo. 

We snuggled into our beds without a fight.  My sister’s bed was in actuality a mattress on my bedroom floor, at the foot of my bed.  Maybe five minutes passed before I peeled away those covers and crawled to the end of the mattress.  Extending my arm, she grabbed tight to my hand.  With a smile she pulled herself up and we curled up like cubs settling in for a winter’s hibernation.  We would trace messages in each other's backs and palms with our tiny fingertips and giggle at silent jokes we could share with just a look.  Sleep took us early that night.  Dreams were dreamt deep, too deep to recall the following morning.  But what dream could top that day. 

We were three and six, life was simple, and we took great pleasure from simplicity.

E.A. O’Connell

The Enabler

Another dark corner...not my own...not alone

The Enabler

You slowly pass into a thick sleep

still slouched in the corner of the sofa,

the arm rest your only support

Your hand still gripping the shiny can

that slurred words moments ago labeled half empty

rational thoughts see that there’s something in the room even more empty

than that flimsy, aluminum security blanket

but rational isn’t welcome in hours that are supposed to be happy

Succumbing to the cushy setting and no doubt the intoxication

your hand lets loose the can that falls heavy with a mechanical thud

spilling gold fluid across the rustic wood floor

resembling the foamy ocean rolling up the shoreline

in the regal rise and fall of sunlight

Thin, white linen dishtowels sop up the spill

while small, pale hands toss the evidence

of another lost night of unappreciated babysitting

into the deep hole of a musty, mildew speckled sink

The two sizes too small down comforter is draped over your body

and the only light that could be shed on the event is burned out

The blue and white flicker of the late night programming frames your place in our home burning the impression on the whitewashed walls

that look like sun print paper from a distant, possibly happy, childhood memory

Watching through the rungs of the banister

I see just how imprisoned you are in the illness

and how guilty I am as the enabler

Sleep seems to be the right thing to do

a few hours lost in dreams

and the whirling black silence of the cold, lonely mathematical bed designed for two

but you’ve subtracted the one

Tomorrow we can talk of the future and the facts and the reality

and attempt to dig ourselves out of the ever growing hole

that always steals and swallows my words before I can get them to you

Maybe it will be different and we can be different

and step outside together holding each’s hand

rather than me going it alone

holding onto hope and a cold, weathered iron railing

blistered with rusty, rigid pox

Maybe you will make it to our bed

or at least our bedroom floor

so we can share one night out of 365 in the company of each other

Or maybe, at least for once, you could see me through sober eyes

and realize we haven’t got a chance in hell

if all I am is lost in all you're not

E.A. O’Connell

Grave Act (Under the Influence of John Berryman)

I wrote this for a college assignment.  We had to choose a poet and attempt to write in their style.  John Berryman spoke to me.  My writing isn't for everyone, and I fully understand and accept that, as a great deal of my writing speaks of dark matters that can make people uncomfortable...and this poem is from a dark corner.

Grave Act

(Under the Influence of John Berryman)

A bronze plaque, overgrown with grass and clover

lulls in the shadow of an early moon.

Deep, six feet deep

I often return to a reminder, ever so sober

that I haven’t caught sight of you since June of last year:

the drowning pool leap.

I stomp where a heart would beat

flooded by chlorine martinis in a kidney shaped pool.

Oh poor baby, poor you

Was yours a glass world and you cursed with heavy feet?

To wring the neck of a moody fool.

They’ll dig down amongst the skeleton crew,

where your silver bullet-proof shelter won’t protect,

to see how he’s treating you down there,

in the four star accommodating vault.

Did Death appreciate the Armani effect?

The time has come to seek out Truth:

lurking behind the collected lies in that chilly resting place.

And once lured to the primitive bed,

he’ll be laid out on the slab: bare

and I’ll painstakingly dissect your terrible thought.

E.A. O’Connell

Do You Dream?

Do you dream?

Within the warm womb

As your cells divide and your body morphs

Alien to animal, animal to human, human to soul

A chromosomal alphabet soup of Xs and Ys

Do you dream?

So small and befuddling

That we chart your growth with produce of varying sizes

A pea, a grape, a plum, a grapefruit

But you’re more

So much more

Than these layman’s tactile and visual tools  

A rind has nothing on your delicate flesh that will bruise, burn, tear open and quietly mend itself

Cell upon cell upon cell

And what hardened pit can compare to the true core of your being

The essence of all that is holy, glorifying, wondrous, you

Do you dream?

I can’t imagine a world

Accounting for three quarters of a year

That locks you in one place with no escape

An escape

That which dwells just beyond and somewhere within the physical mind

Who do you think upon? 

What secrets do you hold? 

Memories that will be reabsorbed and eventually released

Only as cell after cell after cell decompose

Do you carry with you faint scents, distant music, otherworldly colors?

That will lay dormant until something

Someone draws them out the slightest bit

But the distance will be too great so you brush it off as if it never was

Never will be

But it all has been

It has to have been

Or how could you be?

Do you dream?

E.A. O’Connell

Interview

…and you walk like a boy; so awkward in anything with a heel I predict

…and there seem to be more holes in your ears than necessary…that has to be addressed

…and you really have no worldly experience…no valid experience in anything come to think of it

…and what’s with that thing in your nose…that’s all wrong and must go…you look like a street musician or a starving artist…starving, well you have only yourself to blame

…oh, yes…and those, those inappropriately sized…well, um…breasts, if you will, that make an entrance before you…they must be concealed or bound for you to be taken seriously…consider consulting someone, a physician maybe

…come to think of it, all of you must be reworked to be taken seriously. 

…no one made it being themselves, and I doubt you will be the first. 

Let’s face it, I’ve seen works in progress, but you are just…well, you’re the equivalent of a Jackson Pollock, and the fact of the matter is, I’ve never liked his art…if you can even call it that…so, yes, you are a splitter, splatter mess of a human being, but there may be a small percent of you that has potential…You attended U of  P…Oh, never mind, you went to PSU…And you majored in English…starving artists indeed…and I see here that you minored in Women’s Studies…a minor that you didn’t have to work hard for, right?...

…your not one of those feminists are you?...You are, aren’t you?...Another strike against you

…and what’s this I see…seven years…it took you seven years to get a college education and graduate, and all you earned was a BA…you may want to reconsider ever working…I mean, this looks like a joke…maybe you could find your niche as a housewife, or a housekeeper, or a woman as big as a house with 90 cats

…I must say, you need to open your eyes and perk up your ears…what I’m telling you will help you…constructive criticism is the key to getting your butt in gear…to getting anyone like you to see the light, to see the truth

…take me for example, I earned my BA and BS at Princeton and earned my MA at Yale, I was everything prospective bosses wanted…and that’s how I got all my jobs…I know how to sell myself as a complete, desirable package…I married a man with the same career aspirations…he works just as hard as me, and puts in a ton more hours than I do…we don’t have kids, but we recently committed ourselves to a goldfish…we have a beach house that we get to maybe two or three weekends out of the year, but at least we have something to show for our hard work and success…when we retire we will spend quality time together…so you see, in order to be like me and have what I have, you must become me

…starting with that face…a stone cold stare will get you pink slips, not bonuses

…and those nails and your hair, and why aren’t you wearing makeup?…you will have to start making yourself look feminine…it helps when networking if you can exude a silent sexy aura, a well skilled flirtatiousness…I’m not saying that if you get the chance to sleep with a supervisor you should, but it doesn’t hurt…it could be the difference between a cubicle or a corner office…a beach rental or a beach home

…what?...you think your too good to do something like that, don’t you?...well all I can say is, that if you see that shiny brass ring…well, you have to reach for it, no matter who you have to…well, by the looks of you, you wouldn’t even get the offer…nor do you have to worry about sexual harassment…I mean who in their right mind would risk their position and income for you?

…so…I hope I could help you…unfortunately there is no place for you here, but if you take my advice, maybe you could get a job in food services, or you could try for a retail job…but you should start small, so as not to be disappointed by the levels of rejection that are surely going to come your way.  

…well…thanks for coming in…do you have any final questions for me?...or maybe you want to hear some final words of inspiration?

...Conformity is the new black.

So Matter-of-Fact

Just one of many mental breaks of clarity found written on the wall, behind her bed. 

PSilent Psych Ward

I dream of a time

                        before loud voices

I long for a time

                        before deadly vices

Swinging on a porch swing on the apocalyptic box

                        where calming breezes wipe clean static forces

                        stirring new gravity in my path of least resistance

Dare me to leap,

                        to catch air and soar

Force me to slice the bluegrass blades that pulse with every

                        thump, thump, thump of Zephyrus’ heart

Haunt me until day and night fall short of a few seconds,

which could have meant the difference

between health and wellness

And who will ever know my exhaustion, my torment?

Not the onlookers who snicker with fear

Not the blood brothers who cry for new cures

Not the little girl lost in the woman lost in the thunder and brimstone

residing in her faceless tenant

Only the enemy that I keep close

just the sower of the seed of imperfection

                   who holds my face in his hands

                          and my hand to my back

                                 directing my eyes to the out door of normal and the in door of sanity

Adelaide M. Rose

So matter-of-fact.

As we pile yellowed pages into no particular order and throw away the memories of others.

Laughter and smiles, coy glances and antics captured in black and white and muted colors fit in a broken down shoebox that could so easily be discarded without a thought or a lift of the lid.

Thoughts of emotions that need not surface now, are clouded in the gray-green dust that coats every inch, like magnetic shards of toxic metals that thicken the lungs and infect the sinuses.

Moldy and mildewed threads that drape the sepia-tone windows and faded, intricately patterned oriental rugs that fray and rip when walked on, hold the musty odor that tapers off with a slight, almost silent, scent of lily of the valley.

In her prison she scribbled on scraps of torn wallpaper and danced to the rhythmic banging of loose shudders and the creaking and scratching of limbs that went unpruned for decades.

She spoke in foreign tongues to the whiskered and winged critters that visited her in random intervals of time, separated by a single layer of glass and a double dose of fear.

In her bed, the tattered and torn death bed, that once reigned so regal in jewel tones and ornate carvings, lay embroidered kerchiefs that got their use and abuse in the angry states of love and loss that climaxed with her shrieks of this name and that name all made in vain.

She laid in that hellish mess of a life for 64 years before exhaling her final tobacco rich sigh and swallowing her final whiskey rich dose of pride.

In the loss of the worry that swirled around us like a November wind from the start of our youth to the end of our sentence, we gained a new concern in wondering, if in such a self-centered realm, could she find an answer to lead her to a higher ground or would she find a stone to tie to her leg and drown in the depths of her loathing and self-doting.

In silence we listen to the clock on the desk in the back bedroom chime four o’clock.

After we piled yellowed pages into no particular order, I turned and began my descent from the house, at a pace slow enough to hear him light the match and release it in a rush of sulfur, putting an end to the sentence.   

Dear Reader

Dear Reader,

I am inviting you into a world not seem by many.  It has been a private world where pen to paper has long been my therapy, and where words take on a life of their own.  I open this door with great trepidation, stepping way outside boundaries classified as safe and comfortable.   

I will never disclose what is fact and what is fiction in any of my writing, as I think it makes it more exciting to the reader to have to dissect in their own minds what is and isn’t within their realm of possibility.

So enjoy, fear, detest, embrace, or whatever it is you may feel while you read my works, just please feel something.

Humbly yours,

E.A. O’Connell

Lay In My Bones

Lay in my bones
Strong and fit for the stretch and the wringing hands
long overdue in that shade of desire
that washes your feet in the muddied waters
puddled beside your exit
slow and cold like a lazy snowflake
your descent into the harried masses and hurried streets

Where coins rattle against paperclips and pen caps
in bottomless pits
and purple smudged receipts beg for an audience
slapping against graffiti and urine stained concrete
while small dogs on long leads clear a path
for the right handed coffee drinkers 
avoiding physical contact with the left handed prayers

But you
once the needle pinned in a spool of thread
are unwinding and spinning
dangling over the edge of all rhyme
all reason
altering my memory into an unwelcome reminder
that yours is the life that gains distance
before your body can catch up

And as you take your soul on a permanent vacation
I become ever more aware
that I’m the unwanted baggage
abandoned in that three star hotel room
on that cobalt blue morning
after you unknowingly implanted
your unnamed baby inside me


 E.A. O'Connell