It was windy all afternoon with clouds building in from the West.

(a warm wind, almost a summer wind, strong and unyielding)

It rained over night, the wind never really died down, making ripples in the standing puddles,

the branches, swaying in the wind, showed the underside of leaves and delicate flowers.

Years ago I went to Breton Point in Newport to fly a kite in the wind, coming off the ocean, strong, almost angry as if sent off the ocean to prove its prowess and force. 

I thought the thin kite string would break  and then the kite would break off and crash into the ocean.

Then I thought maybe it would lift me off of the ground to fly away and for a brief time to have my own powerful show to contrast against the night and power of the tide and atmosphere and wind. 

One Christmas I went with my grandfather to his house and as we stood on the porch the wind blew strong and cold as he put his key in the lock to open the front door, the warmth of the house was inviting and the wind rattled the old windows in their frames.

Out on Nooseneck Hill Road on the day of the funeral the wind was blowing stronger than on any day in recent memory.

We laid him to rest in the cold and wind.

T.S. Deary 

2/7 – 2/20/2020


Flying into Newark I saw and felt how the deep roots of family and this city still run through my veins.


onto Rhode Island where those who long ago, boarded the Gaspee have passed their rebellious spirit on to me,

those voices that still inhabit Spell Hall speak to me when I try to fall asleep.

Then in the morning I remember his voice and trace the patterns of sound,

that I can still hear outlining in patterns on the walls of his house.

I spoke to him out loud before I left and wished him peace,

and apologized to him under my breath for not listening more when he was alive then I walked around the house in the cold breeze of winter.

Standing in all those shadows,

listening while they spoke.

I let them sink into my memory telling them to become comfortable because I never want them to leave.

I was exceedingly glad to be there, as my depression lifted and I felt ready to go home again.

Now flying out of Warwick I am returning to where I am now and in my veins his blood continues to flow and I carry on his name and where I still manage to listen to.all those voices as l fall asleep.
T.S. Deary

2/2 – 2/4/2020

Memento Etiam 

On the afternoon of January 22, 2020 at 2:30 in the afternoon my father, John T. Deary, passed away. This came as no surprise since he has been unwell for the last couple of years. When I heard the news I was immediately relieved that he was finally at peace and no longer having to live in pain, and with the increasing loss of his values and precious dignity. For all of us who have witnessed his physical and cognitive decline over time it has been very painful. 

Any attempt to describe his impact on my life is impossible since its totality is so expansive.He was one of the most intelligent people I have ever known and he had a very.strong  and well developed sense of discernment. I think I made him proud  by becoming a teacher since he valued education so much. One of the things I will miss most is calling him for his opinion on a number of subjects and the newspaper clippings he would periodically send me that spoke on a number of issues especially politics and religion. I still have all of them and I will always cherish them. 

To my children he was Poppa. He told them great stories and was exceptionally good at dealing with their behavior. They all easily related to him and talked about him often. It is now up to me to keep his memory alive to them. It is a responsibility I do not shun or take lightly. His memory will never die. 

Finally, I thank him. His life was a testament to hard work, faith, fidelity and moral character. Every opportunity I have ever had came from him and the groundwork he laid. I have often said to others that my childhood was not one where I had everything I ever wanted but it is as one where I had everything I ever needed. That is true because he was who he was. That is his legacy and I can only hope it will be mine. 
T.S. Deary 



The State of Disunion 

Hail to the chief as he enters the chamber,

this narcissistic march, pompous,

strutting as if to collect a favour.

Then there is the lady behind him,

marionette on a string,

pulled not by genuine emotion,

but by a desire to cause a commotion. 

These are our leaders,

the ones entrusted with this carefully balanced Republic,

those balanced scales resting on delicate egos,

holding trials and making speeches,

pretending to care about issues.

They seek power for powers sake,

these egos rise and fall like the sun and moon,

all the while the city burns,

those fragile bonds of nation and citizen strain and break. 

There are no oaths to sworn and kept,

only hollow words and allegiance to only a few,

the republic is burning and all the while they have slept. 

He refused a customary handshake,

she ripped up his speech,

To many people preaching politics,

both all coiled up like a snake,

out of sight, out of his reach,

both busy throwing stones and sticks. 

Why do they sit so high up there?

Surveying the world and for us no care.

The ways and means of this happenstance,

is only separated by the thinnest of circumstance.

These mad men and women have left reason behind.

Each side opposing the other,

always talking past each other.

All the prestige of that mighty house,

sunken and now stained as if covered by a black velvet blouse.

T.S. Deary



This poem was inspired by a photograph on display at the Museum of Modern Art in Deland Florida. The photo was taken by Stephen Althouse, 2017. The title of the photo is “Door with Flames.” The photo by itself is mesmerizing. I imagined it on the house of a character from a Tolkein novel. What really caught my attention was how Althouse digitally imposed a script on the door which I use in the poem. Those words are not mine but they inspired me so I used them. I was immediately captivated by the image of the door, the flames, the words and the possibilities of all of them. 

They remembered he had spoken of what was to come and since everything else he had come to pass they had no reason to doubt him. 

After all they had seen, his bloody death, his appearances, they remained afraid and were now locked behind the door, locked and uninviting. 

(The door with flames carved into it) 

He had already appeared among them and most of them believed even if they had not seen for themselves, still afraid they were greatly overjoyed to see him and they begged him to.stay, he left again but they knew he was alive, really alive. 

Peter had spoken of fire, tongues of fire and of wind, even though the door was shut up tight. 

(As if they were called to open the door and to reenter the world after all the terrible things they had seen.)

Then they spoke in other tongues  – “temo les seves flames pero les meves prequentes em demanem que l’orbi…”

 Then they opened the door despite their fear – they believed it is what he wanted them to do.

T.S. Deary