Five Poems by Nancy Kennedy

 

To the Patron Saint of Lost Causes 

 

What a terrible day to die—-

breathing in all those tulips,

especially the red ones, 

so upright and righteous. Sneezing yellow pollen anytime the wind blows.

 

Let me go to a white room.

in a downy cradle,

With a peppermint to roll off my tongue 

after this great meal. 

 

Don't crowd around my bed.

Give me space to drop

my memories.

They are just spilled milk and shattered glass,

but too heavy for the arms that will carry me.

 

But if I get to feeling better, 

put my ragged hair back on my head, and 

place a flag from here to there 

for the then and the now. 

Praise stamen and stem everywhere. 

 

Night Song 

 

Come to me with your star fed

eyes and lilt the night with 

round laughter's face.

Come down your ladder

it is rung with tears

to earth adorn its loverless being 

for the half shell, the death knell

rings without ceasing,

taunts a sad creature

on this moonless evening

tethered to the ground

from endless grieving. 

But enough time for thinking of ethereal things

Bring particles of music,

music that minstrels make,

a fine interweaving 

a cloth of lull, a cloak of

sheer, sheer, sheer.

Bring a purse of silken dreams 

comfort me when you're through.

Hold me, hold me.

Behold and hold me. 

For I weep of laden days 

Heavy with brown.

Heavy with brown.

 

Daughter of Ophelia

 

She wakes up in bed 

with the Sun— vaguely familiar

      (death isn't for everyone) 

casts aside a faded wreath

prays for all sleeping flowers 

      

Near a patch of wild viola in

the shadow of the birdbath overturned, 

near the hollow trunk 

of a redbud tree—

       a rusted rake, a buttercup.

The Cecile Brunner rose.

But she's no sentimental chick—

this girl,

 

All hail this new Ophelia, 

who leaps for a new day 

    grateful for even chilly breath

wishes for a different name 

—perhaps Gloria or Dawn.

 

White Plastic Buttons

 

      Feminine is the night.

Evening stars, white pearls sewn on deep blue velvet, 

          carrying a purse. 

What if instead of twinkling things 

         our eyes deceive

It's little white plastic buttons 

on gingham

          carrying a small basket—

canopied and righteous all the same.

 

Fait Accompli 

 

We met in Ramses Hall of Healing. 

Oh, all those books! 

But of all the classics the scholars poured over, 

and of all the tragic tales that made young women cry in their beds, 

of all the splendid cinema 

and the famous operas that caused crowds to weep, 

of all the poetry that has laid men in their graves, 

our story is the saddest. 

 

But there is no one to tell it—

not that anyone would be worthy— 

because they couldn't see that cities and mountains blocked our view, 

that oceans vowed to drown us, and that pestilences threatened to burn us. 

 

We will never be together with the sunshine on our faces, 

nor see our children born of willing flesh. 

 

I have paid the scientists

to work day and night in my favour, 

but being cursed with too much wisdom

I am doomed to go before you,

to be but a shadow on a

moon-cut night, 

a candle without a wick.

 

It is right and just that I go where the North Star can't find me,

and when I take my leave

in my desperation to swim the seas,

I will leave nothing of you for someone else.

Nancy Kennedy grew up in a rural area of Tennessee. As a young woman, she moved to Michigan where she obtained a Bachelor of Philosophy from Grand Valley State University and a M.A. in Communication from Western Michigan University.

She is a full-time writer and currently lives in Alabama.