Introducing … Cathryn Keefe O’Hare

Introducing … Cathryn Keefe O’Hare

Cathryn (a.k.a. Cathy) is the director of the North Shore Poets’ Forum and treasurer of the Massachusetts State Poetry Society. She is also the editor of the Danvers Herald newspaper, writing quite a few of the stories  and putting the paper and website together weekly. In addition, she posts almost daily to update the website and runs after news as it happens.

She says about the first poem, “Summer’s August,”  “I love the month of August, even though it has me yearning for more and more August.”

Summer’s August

By Cathryn Keefe O’Hare

August is an old summer soul

that ripens darkly, drooping

heavy hints of fall while

bright-eyed golden rod nod

their flashy plumes

to harvest tunes

playing in the garden,

tomatoes reddening,

zucchini lengthening.

August is the last grand chance

for every summer wish fulfilled,

with days long, still (though shorter, shorter),

and warm nights candlelit on back yard patios,

screen doors slamming,

voices chuckling, murmuring,

mosquitoes buzzing, whack,

and everybody star dazed.

August is the heavenly fruition,

heating up memories of sandy lanes

tromped and grasses chewed,

lemonade stirred, sipped, sold, spilled,

childhood games that ran right into

first dates, cars cruising, hot nights steaming

what to do, and lights sparkling

through rolled down roof tops,

moon, sky high

with hopes and dreams.

And, August is then gone,

too soon,

just an old summer fool

after all.


A second poem grew from a trip to Ireland with my daughter in 2005.

How my daughter saw Clonmany

by Cathryn Keefe O’Hare

She loved the donkey

and the sheep that dotted craggy hills,

the pastels on stucco facades along

the narrow road, and the so still

silence of the land, green and rolling,

teeming with ghosts of fairies.


She loved the North Atlantic

waves crashing into ragged

rocks along the lonesome shore,

and dreamed of giant gnomes rising

out of the primeval cliffs to dance

under a moonlit hood of night.

I laughed and tramped with her

into the weedy cemetery

by the little church on the rise

to the town my grandparents left,

to note those moldy stones,

old secrets, and tears.


The third poem is called “Out There.” I’m not sure what it says … just something about God.

Out There

By Cathryn Keefe O’Hare

Somewhere in the wild universe

of black holes gulping starlight spectacles

that glimmer light years away, You live,

I hear, attending full well

to the man who stops today

in his grey, banged up car

by what might be called a heaven

of junk in front of a four-family

tenement spewing brown, broken things –

tables, lamps, consoles, stereos –

for pick-through delights

more microscopic than dust mites

in this whirl of worlds

winging off forever and ever


the end.

You are there, I am told,

and here, in trash bin offerings

of hope.

A mystery

beyond understanding.

The Blessed Virgin and a plastic duck

share a spot on a lawn of a ramshackle cottage

where muted pink paint contrasts blandly

with black shutters.

A woman emerges,

wearing shorts that hitch up at her inner thighs.

She hungers between worlds

hoping You see her faith,

her testimony to the beauty

near and far and beyond her grasp,


while galaxies gallop

into cruel, devouring infinite.


could it be?


beyond belief.


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