Peach, Limestone, and Green

Dear Annie,

What is it about poetry that can stir our souls even when we lack understanding of a poem's verbiage and would be hard pressed to offer a logical explanation for the poet's particular choice of words and their arrangement on the page? What better answer might I have to offer on this St. Patrick's Day than to suggest my love of poetry comes from the Irish blood that flows through me? This is one good reason why I celebrate today my roots from Ireland where the poet ranks second only to a king.

Letters Denise and I sent to each other in the early years of our relationship reveal our use of poetry as a means for expressing the inexpressible nature of our love. Indeed, poetry had its special place dating back to the first days of our courtship when I wrote and sang songs to her. Denise enjoyed most of the poems I wrote throughout the years and she was far and away my greatest supporter in the writing and publishing of Out From the Shadows.

While she related most to her Norwegian and Danish background I'm thinking today that perhaps Denise's appreciation for my poetry came from her fiery Irish great grandmother who loved to drink, smoke and dance. So as much as the Vikings made an impression on the people of Ireland a thousand years ago, I know the Irish have had and continue to make an impact of their own, the poetics of the Denise Peters and Jerry O'Neill marriage being no exception.

You have some Irish blood of your own, Annie. May it flow freely in your veins today and stir you to “live your poem” to the fullest.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Your childhood friend,

Jerry

Poems

Another Orchard

I have loved deeply

Tasted life at its best

Known the orchard

And now the empty branch

I have tasted faith

Known the fertile humus

of soul's dark winter

and I have tarried

...for another orchard

At least I hope there is

The fruits of which

promise to satisfy fully

Today I walk a dusty path

Drawn by the sight of a bare tree,

the remembered scent of spring blossoms

and a sweet foretaste of harvest

Limestone

In the mighty river

of loss and grief

memories settle,

bits in the greater

base of life

over time

lending firm

sign and wonder

in layers

of becoming

Whidbey Green

Earth remains soft

on Whidbey Island

Though days grow short

ocean waves

keep temps mild

well above

freezing

The ground into which

we placed the urn

containing Denise's ashes

was hard

knee deep in snow

on a bleak

midwinter day

in Minnesota

Oh, would we have had

a blanket to wrap

her remains

soft and green

like year-round

Whidbey fields

Instead

for warmth

we held each other

and as

golden light shown

on western skies

we listened

to a foot-stompin'

country song,

sang a chorus

about love

and the taste

of southern fried chicken,

and then we laughed,

we laughed and

we're still laughing

in the face

of

winter