Category: Uncategorized

Original art by Aiden J. Deary

July 

There was something about that week in July, 
mostly spent painting the house with a brush, 
standing on that old alluminum ladder. 

Then there was the way the sun came up over the house, 
settling, first, on my face, 
then upon my shoulders as the day went on. 

Then, when the work was done, 
there was that metal cup of ice water, 
that comfortable chair, 
afternoon storms, 
thunder shaking the windows. 

Life felt simple, 
predictable, 
July, 
bringing a hot and rising sun, 
afternoon storms, 
then time to be passed in comfort, 
as if summer would never end. 


2. 

Fireworks

July was the time for fireworks, 
we could see them from the end of the road, 
when it was dark but still humid. 

There were explosions of color, 
against black sky, 
that summer, 
night, 
sky. 

There were vibrations and flashes, 
one after another, 
sound and light fading into summer, 
remaining in our minds. 

When we were older, 
we rode our bikes to the end of the road, 
always promising to be back as soon as the show was over.

(smoking cheap cigarettes on the way.) 

Fading noise and diminishing flashes, 
light shows in our minds, 
killing time ot make it last, 
fooling ourselves that the night would last forever. 

3.

A sunday in Ordinary Time 

That Sunday, 
was a Sunday in Ordinary Time, 
the in between liturgical season.

The sermon centered on forgiveness, 
on the need to give up on vengeance, 
letting go. 

(those words you long to speak are not healing words, forgiveness is not for them as much as for you.) 

In between the joy of Advent and the passion of Easter, 
Lent and Advent, 
an Ordinary Sunday in late July. 

4.

The Confessional

it has been so hot and muggy all month,
thunderstorms and lightning, 
cloud to ground. 

Boredom had settled into me, my mind and my routine, 
like hte clouds, it comes and goes, 
only pieces of it staying, 
as if trying to steal my joy.

I feel myself growing older,
times changing, 
this Saturday I will make my way to Church, 
to spend some time in the confessional, 
to leave these skeleton bones behind. 

5.

Mountain Valley 

I loved the way the mist of cloud would wind itself around the top of the mountains, 
holding onto the branches of trees that still managed to grow that high up, 
burned off later by the July sun, 
the sky promises rain, 
a heavy rain, 
washing bugs into the rivers flow. 

Further down the mountain, 
birches stand out with their white bark, 
it peels and hangs off their trunks. 

In the early morning quiet I made my way to the river that runs down from the mountains, 
there is no stillness like this valley stillness.

River, 
running over rock.
River, 
swift and cold.
River, 
my mountain valley alibi. 
River, 
story telling ripples.
River, 
punctuated by fallen logs.
River, 
boulders smoothed by constant running water.  

"She was such a good natured soul; she must have seen or experienced some horrible atrocities to have written that maeesage." 

"Blima or Blimele, simply means "flower."

"Meine teyere bride ich beit n'kemch fur myr." 

I. October 1942

Golden haired child,
taken, 
reducedd to ashes, 
destroyed.

Who will be left alive? 
Who will tell?
The flower no longer grows.
It has been swallowed by madness...

"ich bief n'kmech..."

The flower grows no more.
Killed by the frost of hate.
Cut down by ideology.
Only memories remain...

II. Maciejow - 1993

Today there is monument where the golden haired girl was killed.
One flower out of 4,500...
A man stands and reads the Russian and Hebrew words. 
Staring at the ground he clenches his fists and swallows tears.
Surrounded by memories of death he walks away remembering the flower...
His sister.
Nothing will ever be the same...

T.S. Deary 

(the serpents tooth)

"How sharper than a serpents tooth it is too have an ungrateful child." Wm. Shakespeare 


For him, 
that skinny, nervous little man, 
the days sometimes passed by without being anything more than a memory.
Sometimes there were quiet days but these never lasted. 
Always, just around the corner were the obsessions waiting to climb back into his mind to remind him of the chains he bore. 
He was also aware of the ones who held the keys that could unlock all those chains.
(chains no one else could see.) 

Deathbed motorcade, 
psychiatric pallisade.

Racing mind, 
like trees swaying in the wind, 
moving by invisible hands, 
perfect for holding a noose.

All of this unwnated weight, 
constantly resisting fate. 

No one close to him understood how he felt all the time.
Not merely a matter of willpower or strength,
therapists couch,
secular confession, 
neurons firing and renting space in his memory.

All this tension, 
relieved by drugs and games of fantasy, 
drawn down daily, 
some kind of mental pension, 
never ending funds. 

For them, 
those three misfits, 
it was fantasy, 
that blurred, drug line made it real. 

Shattered group bonding, 
evil corresponding, 
reality lines blurred, 
group consent concurred. 

The crescendo of the game,
fractured bone, 
bleeding skin, 
deepest cuts, 
shattered bonds, 
evil corresponds.

There was, at some point, 
a twist in the fabric of time, 
leaving him puzzled and confused, 
abandoned boy, full of quiet rage, 
confused and locked out of their lives, 
someday they would care about what he thought, 
the message would be bloody. 

"Do you dear mother think that I am not angry?"

"Do you dear father think that I won't show you what I mean?" 

He seeks a pedestal, 
with statue eyes that look down on what he has conquered.
Becoming the sculpted hero, 
the one who conquered, 
so he could not disapoint them anymore. 

Then came that twist in the fabric of time, 
bloody hands and bleeding cuts. 
(he drew a map of Lawson Road.) 
Sending in someone to be powerful for him, 
twisting, full of despair and conspiracy.

Sleepless nights, 
constant push and pull. 

T.S. Deary

No lessons, 
nothing of consequence learned, 
here we are, 
right back where we started from, 
still with their blank stares and their heads all full of air, 
eyes that look and never see. 

distortion, 
convex, 
concave,
to each his own portion. 

Into this maze, 
this modern puzzle, 
all this cheating and no one cares, 
except for cheap highs in the bathroom. 


distortion,
convex, 
concave, 
tiny minds, 
so complex.

wandering stealthily, 
forward and then backwards, 
never opening doors or books. 

"As long as we are here, we might as well waste as much time as possible..."

Always ready to blame, 
like shifting wind, 
never ready for repsonsibility, 
deflecting always, 
whispered conversations, 
inside jokes...

(just between freinds...) 

Selfies, 
snapchat, 
these are the only connections they make, 
no books open, 
only their mouths, 
spreading rumors and lies. 


T.S. Deary 
6/10/23

The cat made himself comfortable on the roof of the old brown house,
completely at ease, 
almost asleep, 
comfortable and steady. 

We wondered, 
"how did he get up there?" 
amazed at his balance and the acrobatics that he probably used to accomplish his mission.

Over at the barn, the orange cat made his presence known with loud vocalizations, 
once he had your attention he rubbed against your legs and purred loudly. 

Then there was the grey and black striped cat, 
more content to lounge on the barn floor, 
occasionally flicking his tail at an annoying fly. 
Facially, he had the look of contemplating a nap before the heat of the day built in. 

Rory was curled up by the shoes on the side of the bed.
Her tail, culred around her, sleeping. 
No doubt, she had won the latest round of the ongoing, feline, canine battle in the house.
She, having won, was content to sleep in the fading sun through the window. 

Cats with climbing skills, 
acrobatic felines, 
at home, 
high above the ground. 

Cats who are friendly and welcoming, 
purring loudly for a bit of affection.

Cats content to nap, 
to rest, 
while the day heats up, 
an occassional flick of the tail, 
eyes half closed. 

Cats content to get the best of the dog, 
then celebrating with deepening sleep, 
in fading summer light. 

T.S. Deary 
6/1/2023 

I had the honor and privilege, along with several other very talented poets, to read my winning poem form the 2023, Poetic Visions contest. We had alot of laughs and great poetry.

snow falls outside my window
(winter's visit continues)

i sit, 
restless, 
(repeatedly filling my glass) 
the 
room 
gets
colder
and 
colder...

my mind runs in circles, 
you
(stand between now and then)
my heart breaks
(today becomes tomorrow) 

someday
(maybe when the snow is gone) 
my heart will love again
for now
i continue this slow dance
that 
never
seems 
to 
end

(will you ever not have to leave me?) 
it is time to fill my glass
(i see the sun comong up behind the chruch)
i can't bear to see it
(i will hide again) 

T.S. Deary 
November 2015 

The woman cries in her bedroom with her hands clutched around her pillow to drown out her sobs.
Her life is calculated and measured to be the right way. 

"Formulas that are memorized and well rehearsed fall into dusty neglect and ruin." 

Tomorrow comes unwanted and today passes unmourned, 
back to the mirror and all it's cold answers, 
back to the mirror of reflections and crooked reality, 
back to the mirror that nenver lies, 
baqck to the mirror, 
arranged in a wilderness pattern that enhances the quagmire. 

Empty, 
full of nothing but self and your own interests.
Empty, 
what a lovely home, all well furnished and brightly clean but still empty and cold.
Empty, 
full of everything unneeded and nothing warm.
Empty,
shunned and left behind, never gazinbg beyond the end of your own idea of perfection. 
Empty, 
like the painted, marionette eyes, that see nothing but what is pointed at. 
Empty, 
all glossy and full of nothing valuable, only the used up memories from yesterday and the loneliness of waiting for tomorrow. 
Empty, 
"all fair and clean without..."
Empty, 
echoes of regret that reverberate through your mind and expose the cracks in the facade that she wears as a face.

Loneliness breeds new fears.
Then laughter comes along always tucked in shame,
childhood fears and tabloid papers that make you red in the face,
walk the path and see the shadows. 

"See them... Hear them..." 

Of course they will laugh and remind you that you cant trust them.
There is no amount of alcohol, therapy or journies into the spirit world that can break the connection,
nothing can help you fit in.

"This way or that way..."

Frustration breeds anger and your anger stays silent.
Silence threatens stability.
Stay and try to understand the impossible. 
Some things are uncontrollable and choice is not always an option.

Who would want this? 
To build a house of fear surrounded by stone? 


T.S. Deary 
7/25/23