A Desert Mirage

I let it happen
I ran to it; I stayed.

A desert mirage –
distorted those years.

concealing the tears of my heart
within the monsoon.

The locusts laughed
full of chat:

the years of fear:
it was the song of the sirens.

now: broken down and stuck,
in the hell of my own hallelujah

there is nothing in me, that moves,
but the desert calls all its babies:

with the softness of a mother’s touch
and a knowing forgiveness

of everything in between.

L.J.
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The Road Where The Neighbours Never Speak

Camino De Las Flores – Spanish for the road of blooming flowers,
the road of my childhood, where flowers never bloomed.

Adobe homes scattered, purposefully, with a few red brick mixed in
swimming pool at each one, never used, landscape modern, desert design.

Inhospitable the neighbourhood and its people, twenty years on the same road
and not one name did I know, circumstances yes, but names no.

Evenings spent on the balcony inhaling the dry Sonoran air
watching the sun fill the rocky skyline edge with master colours

until a blanket of black covered the valley, starry lights took over
with howls and gunshots reverberating in the hours of dark.

Bone chillingly cold at two a.m. in the desert, every blanket from the house
outside, mother never noticed children missing in the night,

terrified by the early hours, ghost stories about Billy The Kid,
Indian burial grounds and scalped palefaces stored in preparation

of a new day on the road where the neighbours never speak, excruciating
the heat by mid-day, hidden from sight all signs of life.

-L.J. Lenehan-

Monsoon Do Not Forget The Sonoran Desert

So hot; the sky a pasty sun burn,
blades of grass like colorless straws
poke through dehydrated dirt,
like little cacti spines
the state sandpapered
from Gustnado attacks,
thundering clouds arrive
air displaces
in a cooling dance,
of fury
the aroma changes
as the first rain drops land
angry
annoyed
at another meteorological event.
With vengeance:
barren water banks over flow,
roads become inaccessible,
floods take over,
thunder and lightening take confront the sky.
Gone, as quickly as it came
leaves turned green,
dehydrate, moments later
hoping
next year’s monsoon will not forget:
the Sonoran Desert.

-L.J. Lenehan-

This is a poem I revised recently…

monsoon

Family Home

In a lost America Casey Kasem
plays the nation’s top forty since
nineteen seventy – my heart swells

on a dysfunctional ground of barren lots,
cream coloured grass, baby saguaros
near over bearing mesquite trees mingling

with rows of out of place telephone poles.
Reacting to hollow structures in the bony sockets
of skulls I need solitude, instead,

I mistakenly see an apparition
of Our Lady, but no, I am mistaken,
once again alone, with only the glow of sun

and a deep need for coffee. My family home
sold on, long ago, I am silently reminded I
moved on. The ground does not pretend

anything here will nourish me. This moment
comes with a painful clarity from the angel on my
shoulder promising abundance elsewhere.

– L.J. Lenehan –

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Stolen Moment

Busy, spraying and wiping tables
evening air taking over suffocating heat
conscious of sweat stains darkening my white blouse
beads of sweat glue my long skirt to my bare legs.

Preparing for the evening rush
sidewalk lights turn on
mingling with pinks and purples of the setting sun
lethargically, my gaze falls to the glow of the sidewalk light.

Stealing a moment for reverie my body starts to tingle
in the middle of my great perhaps.

The thing is – I’m sure I have done it before
in another life, my future, someone else’s past?
I’m not sure,
but somehow I know.

Broken glass
back to reality
off to find the sweeping brush.

– L.J. Lenehan –

 

River of Life

I stood, on the bank of the barren river felt the water running beneath my feet.
My clothes stuck to dew, emanating from my pores.
The river flow held the story already told.

And I wondered:
Could I stand in the same river twice?
The one that never stopped running,
Sourced from wicked springs,
Never changing,
Over ages.

No, I walked to where the river banks where fertile.
Disrobed.
This river seemed easier, calmer and more generous.

And I knew:
This was not the same river.
There were hollows,
Where ugliness of force,
Did not exist,
And never did.

I realized:
The journey was not always planned,
But with the help of time,
It was fascinating,
And I was thankful,
For one more time.

– L.J. Lenehan –

Monsoon

So hot; the sky attained a pasty sun burn,
Blades of Grass; pale, poke through the dirt;
With no condensation, they feel like cacti spines.

Gustnado attacks, tornadoes of dirt;
Monsoon protects, sending in armies, of thundering clouds;
Masses eagerly anticipate.

Air displaces; movement brings variables –
A notion almost forgotten.

Suddenly, the mix of what it missed;
Changes, the aroma of depression.

The first drops land angry; annoyed,
At having to deliver another well planned meteorological event.

Delighted, for what is perceived as a basic entitlement –
Quickly, the evidence of being unprepared, displayed.

Barren water banks over flow –
Roads become inaccessible –
Floods take over; normally barren landscape –
Thunder and lightening descend with vengeance.

Gone, as rapidly as it arrived –
Green leaves moisturized –
Dehydrate in seconds.

Hope remains –
Monsoon will not forget, the,
Beautiful Sonoran Desert.

– L.J. Lenehan –

My motherland sinks; as the habitat is ferociously guzzled, from the Desert Sonora –
Development; devastating the lands that in eighteen sixty where home to Geronimo.
I found refuge; in a land fabricated by decomposed flora; composing the Offaly móna –
Innocence still exists; in what – ‘was known’ – as the ‘Kings County’ when the land was raided; in aid of filling a portfolio.
The Celts and Apaches; warriors of land, living peacefully – until the period of acquiring territories.
Cultures rich; dating back to Neolithics; living nomadicly; complimenting the climate –
The race to acquire; had no value for humans; throwing them all into purgatory.
Magistrates; had no compassion; instead purchased bloodstained goblets, from muskets.
Born with no enclosures; these cultures ended; in poverty-stricken prisons.
Warned by the sun, rocked by the winds, sheltered by the trees; they lived peacefully –
Taken from their homes; they became sick and died – decisions to not provide nutrition; where not revisited.
Martyrs; died in bondage; only wished their offspring returned home, legally.
Borders remain; small minds impoverish individuals – but why?
Each child; deserves the chance to receive a lullaby; in an unpaid liberty; free from alibi.

– L.J. Lenehan –