The Press of Bone and Lead

Tired of the unrelenting anxiety and this feeling of faliure summed up in the way they look back at me.

(all the blank stares and faces looking back at me.)

Tired of thse endless Monday monrnings and that Sunday night dread.

Waiting and waiting, unable to tell him how much I understand now and how sad it is that he is not here for me to tell him.

What do I ask for?

What do I want?

(mostly to do the will of God and as for the rest I remain indifferent…As much as I would like to live a long life…)

I don’t sleep well and I feel desperate to be heard, sometimes I feel that God ignores me.

(“Karras looked up and felt instant dismay, felt the soft crushing weight, press of lead, press of bone…”)

That press of bone and then of lead on flesh and the overwhelming burdens of being sought out for God’s glory with the unending weight of the cross, coming closer to eternity by saying yes.

(even unto death)

This press of bone and lead, the feeling that there is nothing left to give and then still managing to open up the door and invite the person in, even giving them a piece of you to them, to take with them as they leave.

I am irrelevant,

(still I strive to be a servant.)

I am a useful fool,

(a spoke in a spinning wheel.)

No one is standing guard,

no one is questioning reality,

no one is reading the writing on the wall.

The press of bone on lead, pushing down on a tired heart, nothing lost is nothing gained.

I heard the Deacon’s words and I have to say that I did not disagree with him at all,

the press of his words reminded me of how bloody the salvation won for us was and that we are not God’s buddies, best freinds or pals,

his mercy is that we are still alive, he did not gather sinners to him as an affirmation fo their identity but rather to make known the need to change,

I spent the night running through my dreams being held down by the press of bone and lead wondering where the psychic landscape would lead?

Still I knew all he said was true and since he died and rose again there is no need for me ot keep running away.

T.S. Deary

10/31/22 – 11/10/22

Note: The quoted section, as well as the title of the poem were inspired by “The Excorcist” written by Willaim Peter Blatty.

A Promise to Return (for Meaghan and David)

Been going, in my mind, to a different, easier time, to the end of summer days and the breeze coming off the pond, to slightly changing leaves and coming shorter days,

(the slight breeze of a late summer morning and the tired moments of reflection and with the adolescent certainty that everything and anything I had lost would one day be regained.)

I looked forward to the coming days through the ever present lens of time and then of age, now, here, thirty five years past that late summer morning and the breeze off the pond.

(aware of the coming end of summer and the arriving sense of fall and winter.)

I made my way out to the ocean early on Saturday morning,

purposefully watching the rolling and rhythmic waves and the way the birds dove down and themn continued to rise and fly.

(I stayed until the sun was overhead and I promised myself I woulda return before the winter sets in.)

To mourn and to reflect.

To make sense of new realities.

To remember blessings and to discern curses.

To unload my burdens to God, the author of creation, the time keeper and my ultimate destination.

When the night falls I will stand under the moon and read my diary out loud and despite the way the waves crashing drown out my words, at least I will get them off my chest.

Then I will trace and diagram the constellations and imagine how close the heavens are to them, then I would mentally touch them, memorizing their lines and elements of the cosmic hand that placed them there.

(All this struggle and she still ignores me.)

The barn cats were lounging near the door catching the rays of sun and the breeze that came through the open door, there would be plenty of time to chase and to climb later on.

These late afternoons are for lounging and for now the only thing to catch was the breeze.

(the mice can wait.)

The horses were reluctant to get into the trailer and they pushed and pulled with all their might, they were run in circles, eventually complying as the evening put its arms around the barn.

Then came the drive to Ocala, straight west on 40, through the forest, towards the setting sun and her weekend with the horses.

The building blocks of revelation come in moments disreagarded by some.

(I rememebr him from all those summers spent together, he was not destinmed to live forever.)

I thought even more so, when I saw, the stars hanging in the sky and how they blazed so far away.

Then there was the silence between me and Meaghan and how she refused to speak to me, all along those miles of country roads, she spent the time working on her saddle as the day began to fade and the road seemed to go on forever and ever.

(I remembered David and how we once spent long summer days and long hot evenings, fishing and dreaming about adventures and what was to come.)

Meaghan never looked up from her saddle and never asked any quesitons as I began to feel the calming presence of an opportunity to let it be, remaining in the space that I was in, thinking and remembering.

(mourning never really ends, not after the death of an old freind or the rejection of someone you love so much.)

I began to think and my mind settled, I remembered how much I had to believe in right here and now and how even after all these hard times, I still believe that better times will come.

How there is no honor or title,

no gem filled crown,

no office,

no amount of money,

no kingly robe or throne upon which a king sits,

no alchamaic formula turning lead to gold,

nothing in this world or under the sea,

that means more to me than her.

Sometimes loving a personm means you have to love them from some distant horizon, where space brings peace and an end to arguing, leaving space to grow.

I never forgot my promsie to return, I have never given up on remebering you and all those nights we sat up talking, listening and remebering.

(I still remember now.)

I still remember her when she was young and her smiling face was unburdened by the weight of her past.

(unkown and unbothered)

Stars in the sky, so far and sometimes near enough to touch celestial bodies and constant reminders of the glory of God and how he blessed me with a great freind and a beautiful daughter.

I realize the best I can do is buy time and that eventually it will run out, sooner than later for some, I realize that I have pushed the ways of this world onto her and demanded things the wrong way, the same way the world stole him from me.

I rode home alone, with only my thoughts, my constant and unrelenting mental companions, along with a constant and ongoing need to pray and to connect and to become closer and to hear and to understand.

When I got home the house was dark and only the dog greeted me, happy to see me and in the quioet of the ongoing night I prayed saying… “forgive me Lord, I am just a stupid man.”

T. S. Deary

7/31/22 – 8/31/22

The Annunciation (Theotokos)

This all started on a quiet, still night, during a time when expectations were pregnant with hope and the Almighty was ready to act and to make the fullness of time complete.

In the sixth month, the angel Gabriel came to a virgin in the town of Nazareth and the darkness was pierced by blionding rays of light, rays of ligth that shone into the young girl’s eyes and the spoken words of an angel.

A descending dove with rays of light, breaking the silence of that night focusing intense energy on her mind and heart.

She has been chosen and is destined for a life of reverence.

“Do not be afraid, you have found favor with God, you among all women, he has chosen you to cpocieve and bear a son who will save God’s people from their sins…”

She, in a state of wonder, said..,

“How can this be? Since I have never known a man?”

The Angel answered her…

“All things are possible with God! The Holy Spirit will come upon you and you will concieve.”

God will become flesh,

dwelling in you,

concieved in human form,

made to dwell in your womb,

Now, time amd space and eternity combine ot make all things new.

Flesh and blood, born of a woman, to take hte throne of David and to crush the serpent’s skull,

you are the new Ark, the fullfillment of God’s law, carrier of the bread of life.

You are the new Eve, woman, who will renew creation,

this birth will be God’s salvation and your life will be honored for all generations.

Nothing with God is impossible, even now, your cousin is with child.

She, Elizabeth, who was once thought barren is carrying a child, one who will cry out in the desert, to all with ears to hear, to all who are lost, to all who long to hear God’s voice, he will fulfill the word of the prophet and baptize with water.

God will be with him and will never leave him, through him the blind will see, the lame will walk, the mighty wil be made low and the lowly will be made migthy.

Holy Mary, Mother of God.

Holy Mary, Queen Mother.

Holy Mary, Carrier of the Bread of Life.

Holy Mary, personified Ark of the Covenant.

Holy Mary, Theotokos.

When he had finished speaking the angel left her.

T.S. Deary

10/1/22 – 11/5/22


Dreamscapes (alive and well), dancing with mental imagery, (shattered innocence),

kept company by images and thoughts,

(as if creating new times and lives.)

through experience and loss of innocence,

drawing mental curtains around my dreams of purity and lack of responsibility.

striking out against you,

(bone to bone)

fist to flesh,

(eye to eye)

runs like poison in my viens,

(through my heart)

and then into the reflection of my eyes.


you brought me from the highest high to the lowest low in a matter of seconds,

one look,

one comment,

then the wind would blow out of another direction.

anger has bare knuckles, pl

aying over notes of combustion,

breaking flesh,

pounding bones,

do you know what you have done?

(all the things you try to hide away)

deeply hidden, never meant to see the light of day,

beating down civility.


this afternoon I looked at the latest list of all the beautiful people, all tall and thin, blue eyed blondes.

i felt ugly and unimportant,

(bearing guilt and shame)

the shadows of my appearance,

i looked for windows to jumop from,

to find silent peace,

rather than feeling ugly.

no amount of sacrificial absolution can assist me,

the formulaic prayers are no longer heard,

instead they just bounce off of empty walls.

T.S. Deary


every molecule,

of me,

is in constant,


with the presence,

of you,

and how you,


and even more,

with how,

you died,

and at my worst,


I melt,

into the fabric of time,

consumed with,

sadness and melancholy,

only to be lifted,

by the thought,

of the heavenly place,

that has been,


to resurrect,

the bones you broke,

and the blood,

you spilled,

into the essence,

of a newly formed spirit,

added to the weight of,


T.S. Deary

A Gallery of Fools

The gentleman from New York stood in front of the Senate and spoke to the assembled body about the passing of Ginsburg, in religious, almost messianic language, about her rigtheousness and how the Holy One waited to bring her to him becuase she was needed here.

Dying wishes and appeals to emotion – all done by design, without conviction, to appeal and confuse the masses, to hold onto power and to continue to subvert the written rules.

Considering dying wishes to be ab ove the rule of law.

Use of appealing and righteous language all to hide his bleeding heart,

his reality and the power he seeks are from his words, a world apart,

underhandedly using her death to increase his power advantage.

This political quest to grab and hold and to keep as much power as he can,

all of this is smoke and mirrors.

all pointing fingers,

mental acrobatics,

stretched logic, warm and fuzzy referneces to God and to religion,

all the time pretending he has morals,

what matters to him is the size of the cushion that rests upon his seat of power.


You – Invoke God?

The author of morality!

Where was your righteousness when there was all the bearing of false witness agaisnt Kavanaugh and when Barrett’s “dogma” was at issue?

You only seek to extend your power,

stay inside your Ivory Tower,

Pretending to care,

Dissent! Don’t you dare!

All this slieght of hand and mental magic, deeptive statements and moral ambuguity.

Sleight of hand, twisted words, noisy marching band, fraudulent, absurd.

Crying false tears, lifted up false tribute, playing on irrational fears, you, worshippiong power, false God substitute.

The Speaker of the House from California,

more concerned with ice cream and salon appointments than with a real and lasting legacy,

claims to be a Catholic, quoting Mathew, supports abortion up to the moment of birth, the great pretender whose acting skills have gone by the wayside, a disingenuous caricature of herself.

Nancy Antoinette – “Let them eat ice cream!”

All the while the nation burns all around and people’s right to safety and property is destroyed by angry children in mobs and masks.

At lewast she got her hair done – “That was not my fault, I was set up – not my fault.”

Then comes Feinstein – with her criticism of the religious beliefs of a totally qualified judge in order to protect the Church of Partial Birth Abortion and the high sacrament of fetal destruction.

Holding onto power is contingent on the legality of abortion, not caring for women but shattering the most sacred bond in the universe all the while promoting their virtue constantly.

Blind Guides! No morality, no caring of a true nature, power is their drug!

A gallery of fools, no building up, only destruction, collecting power hungry jewels, a dangerous destruction.

A condescending morality, questions turned into arrows, power hungry duality, life reduced to the worth of sparrows.

Abandon rule of law, demand the honoring of tradition, let the streets run wild, violent punches to the jaw, as if we needed her permission.

Politician temper tantrums, massive, greedy power grab, holding a nation for ransom, all they do is poke and stab.

Fraudunet and concerning,

one thing they will never shun,

power is their yearning,

most holy, sacred sacrament is partial birth abortion.

Left leaning destroyers, abandon all principles, mob rule, self made lawyers, destructive mentality, simple.

Religious mob devotion, destruction of all tradition, regualting destructive emotion, murderous mission.

Onslaught of arrogance, no acceptable reply, squandering their inheritance, don’t you dare ask why?

Incapable of recognizing God, fraudulent spiritual frenzy, self righteous, total fraud, never showing mercy.

Passing evil off as good, clearly they have never understood, secualr commandments, moral disbandment.

Overwhelming arrogance, disguised extravagance, self indulgent elegance, lacking basic elegance.

Modern day witch hunt, soft ball questions – demented bunt, hang him out to dry, just wait for him to die.

Just prop him up in an empty suit, staring at nothing, inert, a bowl of fruit, constant mental decline, decietful mental shrine.

Old disingenuous fraud, straight faced liar to millions, worshipper at the altar of tyranny, rude, obnoxious child, cat clawed, spending outrageously, in the trillions, adhering to theories of conspiracy.

They constantly claim racism, the same outdated and careless attack, hurling insults and slander, the same rhetorical and ridiculous mechanism, constantly sending flack, no decent candor.

Holding onto power and their precious votes, forgetting oaths and promises, never relying on anything but now, always underhanded, never unrighteous, throw it all out and see if anything floats.

The integrity of the elections, the epitome of misdirection, the integrity of elections, massive decietful deception.

Vote by mail – What could possibly go wrong? They speak like bells or hollow sounding gongs.

Vote by mail – What could possibly go wrong? This was their plan all along.

In this gallery are hanging portraits of mediocrity, monuments to percieved superiority, this gallery of fools and all their hanging pictures, clowns, ringmasters and all their manic gestures.

Hanging portraits of mediocrity, monuments of percieved superiority, with thier lists of names, playing out their fascist games.

T. S. Deary

11/6/20 – 11/12/21

Hearts On Their Sleeves

I don’t know what I did to you?

(I only ask because you told me to fuck off!”)

Your anger is misplaced , it cuts me but it is coming from somewhere beyond me.

The way you disengage, and turn the page, the way you check out and glaze oever, not caring about anything.

All this belittling and disdain, written all over your face,

no idea how much has been given to you and no gratitude for any of it.

Then there is you,

all balcked out eyes,

trmbling fingers,

frowning face,

sarcastic words.

Then there is the one who asked me what a Dad is?

He said he did asked because he has never had one.

So, I told him that a Dad is hte one man who you hate growing up and then come to respect more than anyone you know and if you are lucky you get to tell him before it is too late.

(sometimes though, it will be too late.)

He is the one who will hold you up even when you have nort asked and don’t even he did until much later on,

the one who will hold the door open for your long after you have slammed it shut.

I remember the girl,

I saw her crying, yesterday, big tears from lovely eyes,

I wondered if anyione would be there to catch those tears that fell along her cheeks?

(I knew it had to be that boy with the sagging pants and all that out loud bravado.)

stepping all overt your joy and confidence just waiting for his cue and never failing to notice.

Both of you all fire and force,

you, all sweetness and fine mist,

he all swagger and rebellion,

She a knockout smile and blond hair, eyes red from crying and wearing her heart on her sleeve.

(there it is easy for him to see which is why he hurts her so easily.)

T. S. Deary



A Stir of Echoes

Echo – Sound or series of sounds caused by reflection of sound waves from a surface back to the listener.

Stir of Echoes – to venture or depart from one of usual or preferred place.

Sunrise develops into sunset and repeats itself through time,

what goes away comes back again until it has run it’s course,

the time is unknown,

only God, the sum of all things can comprehend,

sometimes the resolution comes in echoes,

that stir nostalgia and remain long after the quiet of grief descends.

Listen and learn,

let these echoes become solidified as memory,

tune into how the world continues to turn,

those echoes are valuable mental property.

It has been a few years since I stood at the top of those stairs, where the desk sits and that mirror hangs on the wall,

reflecting the big window over the door and it has been many years since I climbed and descended those stairs to the den, where the stove glowed in the Winter and we hung our clothes to dry after sledding and where he sat and read his paper or watched the news and where I sat with my friends and my wife near the sliding glass doors,

near all those portraits hanging on the painted walls ,

generations of family standing and watching, silent over those who gathered there,

once and always a family but one now gone their own ways but still heard in their own distinct echoes of the past meeting in the past and present and always listening for the future.

It has been a few years since I came to the top of those stairs and saw the black chair where he used to sit and go through the mail, his white hair contrasted so strongly against the black and shining leather.

It was there that I left him one day at the end of June , high Summer, but I saw Winter in his eyes.

(when I left it began to rain and thunder echoed off the side of the house…)

It has been a few years since I sought to escape out onto the big deck off the kitchen to sit under the shade of all those trees,

accompanied by the memory of him blowing bubbles for Meaghan on a summer day.

Such a contrast to the Thanksgiving when the kids raked leaves and jumped in piles surrounded by air that was only eighteen degrees.

(again the house was warm and we remembered and spoke about our thanks for all the other times the house was that way.)

This was the place everyone wanted to be, friends gathered there, in the comfortable den, with the warmth of the fire, the place we always went to after whatever was happening had ended, always through the side door,

(for years it never locked right.)

There was the room on the side, we pretended that we doing homework, but really spent the time smoking cigarettes, half hanging out the window.

Those creaking boards upstairs – we always knew when he was up and awake, always early, always with his coffee and always planning and guiding towards the future.

Not always seeing eye to eye, but never completely closing the door and always leaving a light on.

Now a new chapter is being written and I wonder if the new ones living there can pick up the threads of words and sentences that we once spoke and somehow weave the strands into the fabric of the lives they will build there.

(all the while we will continue those stories and rhythms and cadence from then until now and on to tomorrow.)

The messages from summer Sundays and graduation days,

from christening days and birthdays and then on to all the holidays that were shared sometimes all together and other times in pieces of the whole,

messages that hung and shined in the reflections of pictures, in faces and captured memories,

along the contours of the walls of the rooms where we grew up and where we told and retold stories and grew daily in reverberation and the return of echoes, stirring the memories and in the continuation of the legacy of our family’s life and times.

The echoes,

stir my heart and bring me joy,

they stir my mind and all these slender threads of memory that sustain and give life to those times that will never go silent no matter who stands at the top of those stairs to notice the changing of the leaves and whose hands a re warmed by the glow of a welcoming fire.

I remember when I was a child, lying on my bed as my mother covered me with the newly laundered blanket, it was as if it floated in the air and then settled down on top of me, such a pleasant memory to fall asleep to,

Later on, after I left the house the fog seemed to hover over the ground the same way the blanket seemed to float in the air,

both scenes were waiting for the sun, to wake the boy, ready for his day, and the grass waiting for the fog to lift and to become dry,

this is how the world moves on and on…

waiting for the life of the sun to shine and reminding us to live in light and not in darkness, just as the echoes remind us that the past has built the present and will guide is to the future.

“I regarded home as the place I left behind in order to come back to it afterward.”

Ernest Hemingway…

12 Cynthia Drive

The Adolescent

You with the hoodie and the sarcastic comments, talking tough and dismissing all that disrupts your world view,

then you, beauty queen, with the resting bitch face and not much else.

(all is well as long as your boyfriend brings you Starbucks in the morning.)

Disdain for me,

I am too old,

I know nothing,

because you are invincible and will never die,

who would ever listen to someone like you?

(They say!)

You who claims reading books is among his greatest pleasures?

Memories are pressed between the pages of the old man’s mind and he relives them all the time, wondering if that girl will have any memories other than the way she manipulates that young man that waits for her after class?

All their memories are digital and there are no mental movies to remember the past,

around which to reminisce and bond.

(does anyone have a charger?)

They don’t see how memories fade with time,

and how I almost understand how you dismiss me and then I laugh to myself at all your shallow replies and less than thoughtful comments.

T.S. Deary