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