Girl Who Trailed Satelllites

                                                                 Lizzie O.  1995

I was the girl, ten

Too fair in her skin

Her melancholy wrapped in army-issued pants

Soft, worn

By him

Her ears plugged

Ringing with English lyrics

Feeding her

Carrying her through

The feigned concern

For a girl, twelve

In combat boots

Her budding chest emblazoned

With naked breasts

Hair aflame

Too weird for the fiends

Too skeptical for friends

Love a closed book

For a girl, fourteen

Who defiled her first edition

Dog-earing a page

For a boy in blue jeans and green Chucks

Who liked the wild spirit

And deep prismatic eyes

Of a girl, fifteen

Warm in her hoodie

On cold November asphalt

Trailing satellites

E.A. O'Connell

Through August Eyes

Evening rouses and fixes her eyes on the summer rich dunes

She casts her pale calm

Slowly stretching and billowing, gently floating to the graying sand

Cooling the sun’s relentless burn

Her pastel breezes perform a seductive dance that caress the tall grasses

Massaging and persuading the release of their unyielding posture

The downy plumes bowing in echo to the impulsive ocean’s roll

Energies colliding and reabsorbing, colliding, reabsorbing, colliding, reabsorbing

The undulating sand chills under the searing sky

Its encore a live wire blaze of goldenrod, marigold, and coral

Diving into the depths of gradient blue

Giving new degrees of warmth to the salt air

Blossoming with succulent life, woody stems, arid sands

Ground hugging bushes of a prickly nature

Find themselves in good standing with the soft needle trees of small stature

Abud with tender new life

All in harmony with the pink and yellow tufts of button-faced flowers

Who find their good nature reciprocated in cheerful star-shaped chubby hands

Gifted in mother nurturing palms threaded with profound lines of happiness

E.A. O'Connell

Waxing to Full, Waning to New

He said he thought of her

When he looked at the moon

In quiet opalescent morning hours

A lonely traveler passing through vacant streets

The moon’s waxing to full, waning to new

Reminded him of her body

Soft in her phasing pregnant age

As it waxed to full, waned to renew

He believed he could hear moonlight

Its glow shining through her smile

In late hours spent spooning

Their bodies a puzzle fit of laughter

And he confessed he was haunted by visions of her eyes

Curious gateways to the boundless cosmos

Each amber fleck an impassioned reminder

Of the wishes he hurled at the evening sky   

She divinely gifted as his life’s greater design

  

He was grateful to her for igniting his heart

The fabled flame with an ever present burn

That would smolder in some hours annihilate him at others

A soul love mirroring the cyclic moon

Waxing to full, waning anew

E.A. O'Connell

We See Flowers Not Weeds

I see you in them

In their fringy golden lion heads

Roaring and stretching outward and upward to the Summer sun

Prominent and measured

They take their time maturing

Rooting foundations and values for future generations

They punctuate the pastoral hues with their bold type

Writing out messages that speak to my heart

I worry that others never stop to read what they’ve bloomed

Simply dismissing them under their scowling sickle blades

Reaping destruction of their gilded love letters

I wait for you when they’ve shut themselves in

Their green clutch smothering the canary tone

Caging the compliant lion heads

In verdant corset boning

Hinting to a splendid renaissance

Which I patiently await my invitation to

Await drifts to my slumber

Stirring to my awakening

And secrets whispered in Nature’s professing Serenata Notturna

Bloom within the silvery mercury glass globes fastened to the meadow

Pinning hope, ambition, and triumph to the rolling earth

I speak to you in their prima pirouettes

As I pluck the dewy stems postured on pointe

I reach to the farthest corners of my childhood

Where symphonic memories sway

And faded souvenirs are pressed to your words

Holding you to them in forever

I answer you in the fluent release of thoughts and wishes

Just a simple breath exhaled

And our conversation continues

E.A. O'Connell

When You Turn Your Back To The Moon

I think the light loves you

How it kisses your forehead

Like a mother does her baby

And how it cradles your head

Rather than haloing it

But then again

I can never be too sure

Because when you turn your back to the moon

Your silhouette soaks up the dark

Like a desk blotter ingests India ink

And the infinite shades of shadows that grip the landscape

Accept you as their own

And I wonder in that moment

If you were actually born of Nyx

But somehow misplaced in the arms of Hemera

And that you’ve been seeking the root of your life-long confusion

So once able

You fled for the realm of inconsequential humans

I wonder this and many other dreams

When you turn your back to the sun

Occulting the light with your impenetrable umbra

Giving me no choice

But to divert my eyes

From your uncommon beauty

E.A. O'Connell

Tender Criminal

It's odd...I know...but some cemeteries are too beautiful to be synonymous with the evils we curse upon death.  I can think of a few that take my breath away with each season, and I think more of the grandeur in life, rather than the crime in robbing someone their beloved.  There's so much beauty in the whole cycle, too much to be captured, but I did my best in trying to marry the loss and the life.

You’re not supposed to breathe such life

Not when you’ve been designated one disagreeable purpose

The gracious host to the vacant guest

You exclude none from your embrace

Cradling their deaths in the humming earth

Alive with toil and preparations for the days to come

Soothing their decomposition with the daily compression of roots gripping soil

Cementing stone under the lush cover of fertile moss and lichen

You’re not supposed to be that gracious host

Opening gates to mourning and human regrets

As you do with your sweeping stretch

Embracing the spirited revelries of each Season’s shade

And your trees warm welcome homes

Their limbs hugging nests of new life and you the witness to first breaths

You’re not supposed to elicit joy with your April pink cherry blossoms

Showering your grounds with a silken blanket inviting thoughts of picnics

Or the need for a youthful release in the climbing of your October maples

Shaking free the burning red leaves

Flourishing in an upward spiral with the crisp Autumnal breeze

Or the childlike urge to imprint angels in your fields of pristine February snow

Fearless guardians even under the cloak of deep Winter dark

Their breathless hush echoing off each tinkling of snowflake stacking

You’re not supposed to bathe so freely in Dawn’s shallows and Dusk’s depths

But you feel no shame in doing so

Naked and on display for flirtatious winking eyes

You’re brazen in flaunting your scars

Cold gray slabs marking each and every one

Who was at one brief blink in history

Someone’s baby

And you’re guilty of the blame in verbal violence hurled at your walls

But you’re honest in your raw beauty

And you’re beautiful in your farewells and your receptions

And there’s no fault in loving who you are

And tending to the love put in your care

You’re not supposed to make me smile

And look forward to your next grand gesture

But you do

Mysterious you

E.A. O'Connell

On A Night Like This

On a night like this

It's so easy for me

to close my eyes and slip away

thousands of miles away

To a balcony overlooking Point Lobos, where each rolling wave is an expression of gratitude, and the sweeping branches from cypress applaud the greater picture, and free-winged birds kiss the melon cheek of the setting sun   

To outside dining beside a large stone fireplace…crackling, as spicy wisps of smoke mingle with evening blue, crushing into ever black, bursting forth with silver flint sparks, that never have to beg for attention, they just politely ask for your thoughts.

To the remains of a stone amphitheatre, tucked away in a far corner of a state park bearing the moniker of a lady who goes by Julia, where spirit music summons the uniting of sunlight and fog in the dipping bellies of rocks, like cauldrons brewing spells, as the sandy hands of time collect sun bleached shells and sun dried mariners who fantasized of silken legs.

Souls travel

Pressing their impression into the onion skin of the Universe’s dimensions, like petals of memories and loves in hardbound Victorian works, preserving their existence outside the flesh, a calling card for future travelers, looking for company

On a night just like this         

E.A. O'Connell