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.”
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,
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,
just an old summer fool
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.
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
You are there, I am told,
and here, in trash bin offerings
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?