Winter is past and Autumn is nigh…
years and cycles turned over and on.
Memories…wheels…rolling by, turning
pages of a dusty diary, yellowed, worn…
weathered, read again to remember, yearning
for Summer, not soon enough yet to return
to whose arms he ached, for whom he longed,
where he belonged…
but for those who remain, eternally too soon.
Spring’s siren song a constant call,
a melody only he could hear…
a fragrance of jasmine and wisteria
along Moon River, high heels sitting on the rear
of an old MG, whispering mysteries
into his ears.
So now Summer’s reply has come –
to the Snowdrop,
Along the halls hung on the walls ~ faces, memories, seasons gone
Summers, Winters, Springs, and Falls –
Share the Story, Sing the Song.
Daughter of Spring, April's Child ~ she knows the storms that push along
Greeting Summer with weather mild –
Creating the melody of the Song.
Wife of Summer, June's Beloved ~ hand-in-hand and walk among
Flowers, trees, and skies above –
Sing of Spring and Summer's Song.
More than forty years have pass
Thirty-one years ago this past July twenty-third
two girls, aged fourteen and fifteen, entered
into the world of a story you've never heard...
...because they swallowed the names
like a Coke on a hot summer day...
...because I swallowed everything,
except for the one thing I gave away...
...because all they wanted was some fun
since that is supposedly what girls just say...they...
...as Cyndi belted out in that one...
...and Sheryl while drinkin' beer on Tuesday...
a decade later.
Tripping over ellipses,
still tangled in parentheticals
(like the fact 1988 is a halfway point).
The twenty-ninth of May
was just another day
as we were on o
Twilight slipped behind the curtain of the day
and I sipped a glass of wine - maybe two.
Kismet and claret while I visited with you,
every measured syllable, every forced pause, kept neat and trim.
Clipped and pared into near engima,
an effort made, though so unnecessary -
relatively requisite in obscure but exquisite arrogance.
Elegance sorely lacking as my patience wore thin -
whittled away carelessly, the serrated edge tinged.
Having dined on your mind, I developed mental kuru,
ending up pebbled from the kiss of a dragonfly wingtip -
nose to a hair, then away it flew.
You cringed and recoiled, but I
only whispered metered tru
You never requested my friendship,
but given it was, freely –
Strange yet welcomed amity
My young friend across the sea.
How were you to understand
with my friendship comes complexity?
Although offered without demand
I give not myself to mediocrity…
To you, I'm a puerile adult – too aged for fun…
Spongebob Squarepants and other frilly things;
In my mind, you're too old for one yet so young…
fretting on politics and worldly happenings.
Never have we met, and likely never will –
Yet you challenge my philosophy…
Questioning constantly my ideas and ideals,
My young friend across the sea.
The span of the ocean and that of our ye
Sapphire sky above—
to the west, dusk
a painting of crimson, magenta, orange and gold
decorates the horizon.
Fireflies twinkle erratically,
dancing to a melody only they can hear…
Squirrels frolic in the grass and in the trees…
birds twitter about in the branches above.
A perfect summer evening.
To the east,
ominous charcoal thunderheads roll in,
threatening to banish the tranquil scene…
The furries and feathers scurry to their hidey-holes…
fireflies disappear into the shadows.
The scent of ozone is carried in
by an unexpected gush of wind,
driven recklessly at a pulsating pace,
violently whipping the grass and bowing the t
A bottle of carbonated anger
shaken with the force of time
eventually must release its pressure
or face the risk of explosive force.
It destroys all in its path –
guilt or innocence of little concern.
To some, this is of no concern,
for they seldom experience anger.
Walking on their carefree path
measuring step-by-step in time,
never pushed to rage by force –
seemingly immune to external pressure.
I'm not among those free from pressure.
I know my fair share of concern.
While rarely met head-on with force,
my life is fermented in bottled anger –
stewed and steamed and steeped in aging time,
I spill periodically along my path
my love entered freely
too young, too naïve
for long-known reasons
believing in mutual bond
...for many seasons...
was a planted seed
come now to fruition
this old soul
behind these cold eyes
clearly failed to recognize
to distinguish between
the few hard truths
and the myriad soft lies
compounded by silence
...of miles, years...
of complex family ties
the truth of small doses
of pop-psychobabble armchair diagnosis
though all paid their due
only I paid mine
for words that were spoken
trust that w
Have you ever heard of the name Henry McCarty or of the Antrim family? Maybe you have, if you’re from a certain part of the country. More likely, though, the name isn’t familiar.
William Henry McCarty, Jr. was believed to have been born in New York City in approximately 1859, though the year isn’t known, and was quite likely closer to 1861 or 1862. I say approximately, because there is no actual known record of when or where he was born. The likely reason for the guesstimated year is tied up in a mystery likely devised to make him a few years older when he died.
What is known is that he was born to Catherine McCarty, an Ir