Author: picturesassembledfrommemory

"He was capable of being so nice to the children, to have them become so fond of him, to bring them sugar and to remember small details in their daily lives and to do things we would genuinely admire...And then next to that...the crematoria of smoke , and these children , tomorrow or in half an hour, he is going to send them there, and that is where the anomaly lay.
(Aushwitz Survivor) 

I. 
He was handsome and pleasant, 
always well dressed, 
whistling Wagnerian melodies, 
starched shirt and shiny boots. 

"Der Zwelling?" 
(He was always looking for twins.) 

Always, never far away, were the chimneys, 
their constant streams of smoke, 
carrying away those whistled melodies, 
on smoky air, 
along with the souls he sent there. 

(He himslef died years later, a haunted, hunted man.) 

II.
Behind his back they called him the Pope, 
living, as he did, in his huge house, 
so far away from the streets he ruled, 
they all said he wasn't really one of them, 
arranging to send people to their deaths, never blinking an eye, 
a simple wave of his hand, 
a nod of his head in a particular direction. 

He would die in the streets he lived so far from.

III. 
He hunted for years, 
all his victims, beautufl and young, 
years later, he would say that he was looking for people who should have known better, 
He left them mostly in the woods, 
the animals took what he left behind, 
visitng periodically unitl there was nothing left to play with. 

(charming, even handsome, in the end he could not even control his own tears.) 

IV.
No one ever thought it could be who it turned out to be. 
True, he was much bigger than those his age but surely not a murderer? 
He called it "thieving" and the night he chose was perfect, 
windy enough to carry away the sound and really dark so no one could see him. 
He went in and before he left he had stabbed her dozens of times and left her for dead, 
dead on the floor with the broken knife still in her chest. 

(he brought what was left home, stashed in his attic, to use for later pleasure.) 

Up in his attic, 
to remember his power, 
the thrill of playing God, 
when he was caught he readily admitted what he had done, 
calmly and without a hint of guilt. 

(his father had to leave the room and vomitted in a bathroom down the hall.) 

Evil hides in plain sight, 
in smoky places, 
sometimes in adolescent faces, 
but it always comes to light. 


T. S. Deary 
June 2022 - July 2023 

Let's go over the ways you minimize me day in and day out. 
Let's start with your incredible need and desire to stare at cell phone screens for hours at a time and the arrogance with which you plan out your future, 
how you cut out the wealth of knowldege of those who know better into confetti as you laugh them away. 

The way your body language screams, 
speaking way more than your mouth, 
unable to use your ears to listen to anyone else, 
after all, 
nothing important happened until yopu got here. 

Ear buds, 
head down, 
no interaction to be found. 

No demands, 
don't ask me for anything, 
self esteem deflating.

Don't expect too much, 
don't expect anything to change, 
why does that strike you as strange? 

My failures don't belong to me, 
they did not originate from my faults,
or lack of attention. 

Any failure I have is because you did something wrong and let me down. 

(please stop expecting, since I have already done all I can.) 

Nothing impresses me, 
I am the center of the universe. 
Nothing is capable of holding me, 
I am beyond space and time.
My dreams are to big to explain. 

You have nothing to teach me since I already know enough. 

(nothing ever happened until we got here.) 

You can't possibly understand all I have going on, 
there is so much, 
you only add to my pressure, 
just be reasonable and see that the problem is not me.


T.S. Deary 

3/8/23 - 5/9/23
 

The poem, “The Age of Reason” is based on, “Urania Relequary”, an assemblage, by Phil Parker. This assemblage is part of the permanent collection at the Museum of Art in Deland, Florida.

The Age of Reason

Now that we know the planets have elliptical orbits around the sun, 
and now that we understand that there are laws that govern the motion and pull of the planets and celestial bodies, 
can we agree that the female form is among the most exquisite of the Almighty's creations? 
A masterpiece capable of more and one that should not be branded as only a seductive temptress. 

We all come from a woman and from woman the world continues. 
This is why she stands under the starry paths holding a sphere, 
as evidence of her place in the universe and of how she adds to its' continuing motion and then there is her essence all tied up in her curves. 

I can see that my mother is a woman and that my daughters hold my heart in their hands the way she holds the sphere in hers. 
So comfortably in the palm of her hand. 

The sphere is not the proverbial apple, 
but rather the world she longs to step into where she is not the rival of man but his equal. 

In this Age of Reason there is nothing more reasonable. 

T.S. Deary 
January 2023 

Dawn on the Valley River 

The river runs through that mountain valley, 
on a meandering path from its source high in the mountains. 

In the mountains, 
the sun comes out from behind the rocky prison of the mountain peaks, 
the gold of its rays, 
the fields along its banks, 
combined to welcome all who visit there. 

The rays of the sun, 
filter the prism of color into shades, 
that match the hues of wildflowers, 
that carpet the valley floor, 
like picture perfect paintings,
each a moment of the season of high summer, 
as if the creator left his calling card along the river.

The river, 
like the sun, 
will remain, 
rising time and time again, 
the river from the mountain rains, 
the sun from rocky mountain peaks. 

T.S. Deary 
February 2023

"The Girl on the Steps" won 1st place in the 2023 Poetic Visons contest.


The Girl on the Steps 

Imagine all the parts of a life that revelove around an old clapboard house, 
set on bricks, 
featuring a glass door that opens onto stone steps. 

Think of how the earth travels around the sun will throw different shadows onto the sides of the house. 
All those momewnts add up to a lifetime. 

Then there is the glass door, 
reflecting generations new and old.
Moments noticed and unnoticed, 
stories whose words are written into the smile of a young girl, 
dressed for summer, 
standing on the stone steps. 

The smiling girl,
braided hair, 
back to the glass door.
Those inside, looking out. 
SHe is confident in the future and fully connected to her past. 

(glass door, looking forward, and still able to see behind her.) 

She is out in the world, 
readt ro rake the stone steps down, 
into the beyond, 
knowing that she will always be welcome back to where she came from. 

Those steps are the genesis of all that has been and all that is to come. 

T. S. Deary 
January 2023 

Aiden is playing in the Shipyard in Charleston. He and his team have played three games and won two. They play again tomorrow afternoon.

A very exciting part of watching baseball, for me, is the interaction between pitcher and batter, each trying to outdo the other.

I tried to time the pictures at the moment the pitcher delivered his best shot.

The streets were so quiet that Sunday afternoon, 
the breeze carried only the faint sounds of some yard work and the occassional bark of a dog. 

The sky had threatened rain after Church but it never came. 
I spent the afternoon walking the dog and reading by the partially open window. 

The words of the Deacon's sermon stayed with me into the evening, and I let them speak to my heart and my mind kept coming back to simple and profound truths. 

The language of eternity swirls around, 
even in silence, 
they cut through the sayings of despair, 
to continue burning the embers that stoke the fire in the hearts of man. 

All the quiet, 
the windows partially open, 
Spring coming,
pushing Winter out of the sky. 
All htings must pass, 
this too shall pass, 
nothing will remain, 
except for the stone carved words of God and all that he wills. 

Those spounds are the constant refrain fo scripture and of quiet Sunday afternoons, 
and in the quiet that settles in and around the sanctuary, 
and, 
in the final surrender to God, 
saying, 
"You're will be done!"
God is always there, barely breaking the silence of quiet and serene Sunday afternoons. 

(only broken by the occassional bark of a dog and hte presence around the altar.)

Even in the dark of night, 
the intrusive thoughts of my head make room for these whispers of eternity.

II.

The night settled in, 
grabbing his focus, 
growing terror, 
settling into his veins, 
and allowing his sweat to become like blood, 
that night, 
under a full moon, 
the intensity left him exhausted and even more afraid. 

A whisper of doubt, 
a possible way out? 
until the answer he sought was no! 
Rising desperation - Your will be done, in you I trust. 
Then he got up of fthe ground and in increasinbng darkness he found his friends asleep, 
then his betrayer arrived and the hour of shadows was upon him. 

Following a long week, 
I returned to that small Church out by the ocean. 
He preached about Christmas and Easter flowers. 

(He said that they can be replanted as a reminder of God's glory and his continued presence in our lives.)

He spoke of the Easter candle, 
and that its shrinking size represents the passage of time and the arrival of new lives, 
it also shows us that God remains long after the doors are closed, 
and the flame of the candle is gone, 
those whispers, 
those longing, tugging, feelings that make us return to another version of revelation, 
inviting us to eternity. 

T.S. Deary 
20 March - 30 March, 2023 
 

Maybe, becasue I am not good enough, God is trying to show me, that there are are so many things that will never be explained? 

(I cannot earn his love.) 

Then, that ungrateful bundle of adoloescents, told me I was fat, old and unneeded and that I should leave. 

All words spoken with the complete fullness of adolescent narcicissm, immunity to responsibility and after all they only spoke the truth, 
laughing and praising themselves, oblivious. 

Then there was me, 
my first reaction, 
that instinct to go for the throat, with sharp words and viens full of poison, 
to spit in their blank faces, 
to see how they would react, 
push the moment to its crisis! 
What would their reaction be to their own experience with truth? 

(obnoxious brats) 

I fall away and fail to show grace, 
to find my way back from the edge of this selfish and indulgent cliff, 
then comes the realization that this struggle will never come to an end and that the best I can do is to turn, repent and believe.

I see their blank faces, 
I see how they dont care at all, 
they don"t even know that I am here. 
They dont care about anything I have to say, 
taking selfies, 
obsessed with eye shadow palettes and prom dresses. 

We were hardly nurtured as children, 
to tired from playing, 
to notice that our parents were marching at their own pace to where I am now. 

We all lived for summer, 
the road would never end...
(and now it is comong up to December and we are waiting for a slice of Spring to wake us up.) 

Childhood freinds, 
some now gone, 
unanswered calls, 
quiet house and the appraoch of Fall. 

That school, 
silent and empty, 
non descript, 
listen closely to the echoes, 
soft and fading fast. 

Looming seasons, 
lasting, time made memories, 
falling and crashing into emotional cresendoes. 

T.S. Deary 
4/15 - 4/20/2023