Forever Alone

In the dimly lit street
a rusty blade in hand
my aorta throbs
in the endless torture
of forever alone
waiting for Our Lady
to illuminate the
urban decay

-L.J. Lenehan



They Just Weren’t Versatile

A rich man thinks a life of poverty to be a lucky thing
How simple to walk with the elite – thinking:
‘that could never happen to me’

Until it does

And the next day you wonder why
they can’t see you when they dined with you a week ago
laughing at the foraging poor

‘they just weren’t versatile’

Those words stick in your throat
like a lump of hardship, pain, decay
full of regrets – wishes for do-overs

and now? Well now only the stars see your tears
because you are invisible.

-L.J. Lenehan-


Morning Glow

Expectations of freedom
fill the air at dawn,
before light of a new day.

From underneath my duvet
the increasing glow of my window
demands my intellect’s attention.

Keenly anticipating problems
motivation is key to surviving
the next twenty four hours.

Restlessly, I arise, open the blind
to see a man cuddling an ill-fitting jacket
between the bins, sadly I wish

I lived in a place I felt safe to invite
him in for tea. I wish he lived in a place
where people felt obligated to help.

– L.J. Lenehan –



Earth filled air, moist and dry, I removed the Geraniums before

I tucked in, with the night’s sky. Leonard Cohen sang in the distance

‘Hallelujah’ I lay inside his raspy voice while my soul cuddled

the emotion of shock, shock that I was outside, shock that I was

under a stairs, shock that no one cared, shocked that I really had to

make it on my own. Someone once told me I came into the world

that way but I did not think it was true. Drunks stumbled by, I hoped

I remained invisible long enough that someone might see me.

– L.J. Lenehan –


An hour ago they said I would not last the day.
If I were to observe posthumously, they might say:
‘What a tragedy – she was so lovely’ but in the flesh
there are no pleasantries.

My thoughts drift to that man I passed, this morning,
collapsed, convulsing violently, purple, vomiting, dying,
passersby rush, hoping to never know his reality.                                                                            I wonder what his mother wished for him.

Craving a cup of tea, I resent the eighty cents to my name
and am willing to practice trickery, to permanently
turn my coins into the price of lunch, what a luxury,
to always eat cake, like Marie Antoinette.

– L.J. Lenehan –