A Poet Is Born

thirty three dogs wailed without harmony,
nearby, their break dancing trainer oblivious to

anything that moved in slow motion and without colour,
as one location became another, my guardian angel

watched me cry, because I ate a banana
that wasn’t mine, I hid your keys, but you went anyway:

across the way, a little girl clung to a door knob,
flooding the house, with tears from emotional threats,

next door, another girl celebrated her twelfth birthday,
while police arrested her mother, naked, but for a slip,

even fire ants burning my legs, while no one was looking,
was better than torment, when left on my own,

I found company, with an artist, that had a lobotomy,
she couldn’t talk but taught with her pictures,

there was that woman with Alzheimers that walked,
the streets with talk of hiking in mountains that didn’t exist.

-L.J. Lenehan-

Dorothea Barth Jörgensen by Dennis Golonka (Age Of Innocence - Un-Titled Project #5 Spring-Summer 20 (3)

Should You Escape The Labyrinth?

Tumultuous cacophony ensues;
When anyone dares to escape,
Fear, anger, happiness and pain,
Of the labyrinth.

Contemplate.

Rewrite the rules of your life;
Use courage to spend time with yourself,
And a commodity called:
Silence.

Meditate.

Map out what is inside;
Identify patterns,
That produce outcomes,
Impacting those around you.

Analyze.

When the labyrinth gets hard;
Keep going,
And then go some more.

Determination.

Trust that the future, is not the tool,
You use to escape the present.
Learn that you don’t need to escape,
Today is enough,
Because you might not be here tomorrow.

Persist.

-L.J. Lenehan-

A Frankenstein Heart

My heart –
Like Frankenstein’s head,
A horror,
Patched up again and again.

Monstrous plays;
Enacted on hearts,
Of those we love.

Intermission,
Change direction,
Wardrobe,
Make up,
Transformation.

Always a happy ending;
Theatre rarely mimics life!

– L.J. Lenehan –

Regret’s Resting Place

The song of regret captivates me,
sadness in my soul,
recovering from the singe,
of my latest pain.

Hell.
Heaven.

It is neither,
a resting place,
moving in and out of purgatory,
like the flight of a bird,
through the winds of life.

– L.J. Lenehan –