I see it in your eyes, he said,
suspiciously, I glanced –
perhaps a piece of my soul slipped out?

In my head, under the Eiffel tower
Parisian lights polluted the Seine river
reflecting the lovers here before;

blinding our histories – fresh air accosted
every sense, the limited space between our bodies
grew hope, love fragrant in the night air.

-L.J. Lenehan


The Lover’s Struggle

Inside the cold lips of women
exists a defining cliché,
that creates a quivering ache,
seducing personal confusion
in to the flames of fire.

Consumed by a sophisticated
aftertaste that lingers –
inside the mind
of the ones left behind,
where messages of love

should be penned, instead
of political condolences
contrived to ease personal
struggle that might lead
to the creation of poetry.

-L.J. Lenehan-
images (2)

A Quiet View

Weary from lack of interest in today’s activity…
My thoughts drift to the picket fence that is erected,
to separate civilization and God’s magnificent Cliff’s of Moher,
Atlantic waves rage against the cliffs six miles below,                                                       rain and wind turns my soft hair into leather whips abusing my face.
Young lovers overwhelmed by the superiority of the cliffs,
silently declare a difficulty free future,
sealing their future opportunities with a kiss.
Cynical thoughts are banned from this daydream.

An opening in the gates to the cliffs catches my attention,
a small sign from The Samaritans,
‘If you need help call now’
I think to myself, if someone is reading this sign,
it is already too late.

A light house behind me and the young lovers,
with a crazy old Santa standing out front, wearing a spaghetti strainer hat,
he repeats, ‘end of humanity’
mumbling in between, ‘I told you so’
I wonder what Santa might be able to tell me about my future.

A young girl of three screams with discomfort,
her mother obviously troubled tries to calm her,
extras look on with disgust.
Accusing the small child of ruining the moment,
Haughty over their entitlement to a quiet view.

Three euro to walk to the top of the light house.
I have the ability to walk, but only two euro left,
after parking and the chocolate bar I bought for energy,
to get to the top,
I consider the unreasonableness of man levying a view.

A man in a wheel chair arrives at the cliffs,
a young man and woman out of breath, from pushing him up the steep hill,
no money can pay for that man’s legs.
I think about the luxury of walking to the top,
and what it must be like to envy that basic right.

– L.J. Lenehan –

Beautiful photograph taken by : https://www.facebook.com/Blackledge.Photographs

Mrs. Rochfort

Elegant smile imprisoned;
The warden, consumed, with jealousy.
Adverse events; gifts of her birth.
Escaped for a day; to the family embassy,
Returned, for lack of worth.
Children, she bore, because of necessity –
Their home, absent of gaiety and mirth.
Accusations of a lover – expelled him immediately.
Her children grew; burdened from her demise,
Accepting it, meekly.
Finally, freeing her, giving rebirth;
All she could say was, ‘Is the tyrant dead?’

– L.J. Lenehan –