A Fated Day in May

A dull ache took over the world
one fated day in May.

Flowers struggled to maintain
a simple bloom – that day.

Purveyors of love, were simultaneously
interested and bored.

What a sad day,
that fated day in May.

When the aroma of the spring
matched the stench my heart.

-L.J. Lenehan-
Presentation1

How did you know when you were a writer?

My friend and author Javier A. Robayo (who is on Amazon.com) has a wonderful question on his website, ‘How did you know when you were a writer?’ I encourage all writers and aspiring writers to answer this question. I wrote the following:

There has never been a defining moment that the universe announced to me ‘you Lael Lenehan are a writer.’ Writing is something I have loved to do since I was a child and before that I loved to read because stories did and still do bring me to another place. My mother was called in to the school in my sophomore year over the content of a short story I wrote. My mother (also my biggest fan) said simply, ‘she has a different view of what crosses boundaries than you do and that is not wrong.’ At the time I was so mortified that the teacher did not understand what I was trying to create that I stopped writing and showing my work for almost fifteen years. To this day I am still so proud of my mother and her response to the school all those years ago gives me courage today to write with complete honesty.

Two years ago I had a, you know what life is short and who cares moment and started to publish my poetry on the internet. I have had moderate success. The response from people that appreciated the honesty I express in my poems made me realise that what I have to say and how I write is important and it is my contribution to the world – however small it may be.

I consider myself a poet because I write poetry and it has been published in newspapers, my blog and facebook page. The reason that I tell people with confidence now that I am a poet is because people read my poetry and take the time to understand my ideas and are interested in the expression of my feelings. The reason I continue to write is because of the support I have received from people I don’t know. That support is what gives me the strength to announce to the world, I, Lael Lenehan am a poet.

http://www.javierrobayoauthor.com/i.author.html

On the blooming daffodils of April,
rain chaotically falls,
each drop, hesitantly anticipated
like the breath of a dying man,
failing hearts identify,
with the disorganization of spring,
what luxury:
a summer that understands sun,
a chat with one’s forsaken father ,
a permanent autumn,
a memory of childhood dreams,
a winter that only snows for show,
a future without impending death.

-L.J. Lenehan-
daffodils

As I sketch each year,
I fill the base of a jar, with a
fabricated world of dreams
ranging in realities

during the early hours of spring,
I think of you – thinking of me,
and I pay for all that blooms,
by shrivelling while my colour drains

for all the world to see,
during heavy rains
I remain many things,
but I am not what they see.

My soul does not sing
in empty fields, nor
does it speak of atrocities,
silence is the voice of my soul.

-L.J. Lenehan-
Art by MC Escher
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Cuimhnigh orm

Glaonna an t-uisce dom
ó thíos an ghealach ar imní
Is féidir liom a chloisteáil macalla de hallelujah.

Pulls an aigéan mé isteach a rúin istigh
le práinne foréigneach,
Léim mé, ag snámh mé amach ar an bhfarraige.

Cad é fíor
tá a thuilleadh chreid
toisc go cuimhin aon duine dom,

mo bhaile folamh,
mo aghaidh featureless,
mo emptiness ar taispeáint,

i sochaí ina bhfuil mé dofheicthe.
An calma bhí le feiceáil go i dom,
tá dearmad,

an calma roimh an stoirm,
an calma roimh snamh mé,
an calma roimh a athrú mé isteach san fharraige

L.J. Ni Leanacháin

Happy St. Patrick’s Day… This is a monumental day for me because my blog has reached 5,000 followers… To celebrate the achievement and the day that is in it I have translated one of my poems into the Irish Language… Enjoy!
imagesCAPM4HWH

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)

My flawless rose, golden
prearranged to last a lifespan
discoloured, disfigured
hidden in a chastity belt of shame,
sliced out, painfully reminding me
of barren early blooms,
oh how absolute this mortal joke
of abandonment.

-L.J. Lenehan-
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