Original Poetry – T.S. Deary

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He follows me on windy days,

and again on dark nights,

when the saddest music plays.

Who am I to pretend he was not alone?

Not fighting some invisible war?

Hurting and nursing wounds that cut him to the bone?

Who was he to.pretend that he had the strength tomcontinue?

To pretend to go on and on…..

Living as if the power was out and there was no sound at his hellish venue.

He comes to me in morning rain whose drops collect on my face like tears.

(never washed away)

Still collected after all these years.

I wish I could go to him.

Maybe in dreams or in some spiritual way, fit and trim. 

Maybe on some celestial plain or an astronomical place.

Standing in eternity to see his smiling face,

Or,

Maybe in some heavenly realm with eternity in front of us and God at the helm. 

Bathed in memories and light,

no more worries about putting up the good fight.

Newly restored, slate wiped clean,

a new horizon,

a gently painted scene.

He comes to me in dimly lit rooms,

telling stories whose lyrics and music elicit strong memories,

now we are both alive, no more mental tombs.

He comes to me in memory,

of times now  long gone such as summer nights and winter days,

at these times he is standing right next to me. 

He.comes to me at height and tail end of storms, in clouds and flashes of lightning,

in between drops of rain collecting on the window,

turning to.tiny prisms that distort and replay the day while the past is fleeing and the present is ever tightening.

He comes to me in all moods, morning, day and night.

He speaks of things he has learned and offers his advice,

he is now well read, well travled, recreated,

with remade insight. 
T.S. Deary 

10/1/19 – 10/7/19

I dreamed all was like it once was and he was not so angry.

I thought that if we sat together long enough we could connect all the dots to create a picture and a link from past to present and this slow fade could be repainted in bright and hold colors, a route to prevent the inevitable. 

But then the night came once again and the clock reminded me that time was slipping by just as he got up to go to bed. 

Then there was the time spent waiting at the airport, when it was time to go home, time fading slowly, just me and my restless spirit.

Watching restless travelers and relaxed pilots who.speak of the angles of take off and landing. 

A girl.in glasses talking on the phone planning an anxious reunion, baby in a carriage watching her mother’s phone. 

Some returning home,

Some leaving home,

Some escaping forever,

Some leaving behind what they can no longer carry.

Cue the fade to black and all the time spent waiting that is never coming back.

Slow fade,

Time’s relentless cutting blade.

Slow fade,

A bitter angry trade.

Slow fade,

So angry and afraid.

I don’t know if I ever really saw him again? I knew it was only a matter of time until the fade would be as black as night and waiting for the return of the sun would be an eternity.

Eventually he will be restored, made whole, truly alive, intact and given back his dignity and then will come the return of peaceful gratitude, remembrance and never ending serenity.

Slow fade,

A bitter angry trade.

Slow fade,

So angry and afraid.

Slow fade,

Time’s rwlentless, cutting blade. 

Slow fade,

A bitter angry trade.

So tense and afraid. 

Now a year has passed and I remember all these days from first to last. 

Now a year has passed and I have mourned for him and all those memories are here to last.

Now a year has passed and there is now nothing but time to pass, set in memory, firmly rooted and built to last.

I wish that I could see you and seek your advice again: all these changes are too much too soon. 

That empty house that has written stories to be told and retold, written into its walls but now there is no one there to hear them.

Soon be this year has passed I wonder if they are still being told?

Even now I listen with all my strength, across all these miles and after all this time. 

T.S. Deary   6/24 – 7/25/2020

The wind really picked up when we left the church after the high mass of christian burial.

(the scent of insence still in my nostrils)

My brothers and I carried his casket down the steps and into the hearse and then we followed the narrow, winding roads out from Coventry to West Greenwhich, out to the cemetery, on that day so barren and windswept and we laid him to rest. 

( we were all surrounded by family and friends but still so cold)

There were prayers and all those responses. 

(then it was over)

We made our way back to the car and everyone remarked on the wind and the cold.

Later we met at his house and talked into the evening, the house was silent except for the wind blowing outside the windows. 

(we were all reminded, in our own way, that everything was so different now even in this familiar place.)

Days later, when it was time to leave his house, I felt the most intense sadness surround my heart.

(it shrouded my vision and settled into my shoulders)

I looked around one last time and tried to remember all the things those walls could say if they could talk and not knowing what to say, I told him.to test in peace. 

( I locked the door as I left) 

I did not look back but I felt as if I was carrying all that has been into what will be. 
T.S. Deary 

I saw a murder of crows gathering near the house this morning.

I.stood and watched them rising and circling around in acrobatic waves of flying and then landing. 

The casual disturbance of the morning quiet was unsettling and made my mind wander to other places, past times, and now, to the time still carried around me.

I thought of death but also of the deep.mystery of creation and the circle of life, now so, recently closed again. 

Then there was that intelligent design and the patterns of their movements to and fro, up and down and back and forth.

(there were so many but still each seemed to take their turn.) 

I was transfixed at how audacious they were, fearless and free, as if they gathered just to show off, flexible and adaptable, those little feathered tricksters and all that noisy mischief.

T.S. Deary  3/14/2020

The deer must have been struck on that dark road during the night and after leaping one final time and fell in among the brush, brown, tan among the new spring growth,

not noticed by most passing by, busy on their way to work and play.

Not so for the vultures, they noticed as the growing scent of death gathered in the nostrils of the ones with the red heads, some soaring and others sitting in trees, close and far, they began to gather.

Some, from the high dead tree across the street, the ones that reach like skeleton fingers into the blue sky, providing their perch, a vantage point to gather and watch, with eyes that seem far away, featherless, black and red heads, sharp beaks and nostrils full of the scent of death.

First one from the skeleton tree and then more and more.landing away from the carcass then strutting over in their macabre walk on stilt like, bony legs.

Sometimes they chase others away with extended wings and drawn out hissing and grunting warnings to others not to take their share.

When this scene is finished those bones will bleach in the relentless sun and those black and red headed vultures wil rerurn, some to the sky, some to circle and said and some back to the bony skeleton fingers of dead trees.
T.S. Deary 

3/4/2020 – 3/12/2020

No sun that day,

just a windy sky of gray.

No birds to sing,

only those church bells to ring.

No laughter heard,

only the requiem’s final word.

(old stories told, memories firm hold)

Now his home is up for sale,

the final chapter in his life’s long tale.

All that time that came and went – now seems like letters never sent.

Coldest reality feel,

somehow does not seem real.

No sun that day,

just a windy sky of gray,

just a windy sky of gray.
T.S. Deary 

2 March 2020

(For Katelyn):

She has met them singing each to each at day and at sunset all along the beach.

She has seen them singing as she plays in the sand.

All harmonies and melodies, spread out across that magical ocean land. 

She has seen them in the deep.end of the swimming pool, eyes closed tight, lost in imagination, stories taking flight.

Then comes the nighttime dreams, stories told in mental realms.

Dreams of aquatic places and sailors steering helms. 

Then comes the dawn and she is busy telling stories with the innocence of a fawn,

of seeing mermaids and of those dreamy pictures drawn. 

She spreads joy with hand drawn hearts, 

bright and handed out to strangers,

all in equal, heartfelt parts.

I have seen her sitting in the corner of her room,

playing quietly,

spinning tales and stories with imagination so rapidly.

making dolls squeak and lay in carefully surrounded places and in quiet love.

She is gentle, quiet and observant, words peacefu, like a dove.

She plays and the day goes by,

the sun setting further and further all along the way it always has until it is time for dreams to begin again and again. 

Then those sleepy mermaids will swim.across the dreamy sky. 

I could never have dreamed of you better than you are today and what you were then, or the canvas you have painted, 

so real and alive,

the way it calls me back, the sweetest reality.

(mermaids, I know, are very.real)

Gift of heaven,

sent to make me complete,

a reminder that love is not love until it is given away again and again and again…..
T.S. Deary 

28 February 2019 

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.

Soon,

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