Kenneth O’Keefe

September 11, 2015

“While Walking Through the Churchyard” by Kenneth O’KeefePosted by

Kenneth O’Keefe

WHILE WALKING THROUGH THE CHURCHYARD

The amber air of summer paints the stones
With fading light as evening falls to night.
The names and dates that mark decaying bones
Are etched in shaded grooves. Some worn from sight
By years of weather force my guess at who
And when. Was it a child of seven, or
An ancient man weary of things he knew?
It makes a difference when death seals the door
That shuts our eyes to all our lives have made.
When young my lamp was lit beside my bed
To keep the dark away. But age has swayed
Me from my childish fear. Now I instead
Await the night, whose shadows will enclose
My soul in peace beyond the grief it knows.

—from Rattle #20, Winter 2003

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May 7, 2013

“The Balm of Night” by Kenneth O’KeefePosted by

Kenneth O’Keefe

THE BALM OF NIGHT

Each dawn drags him from dreams and into day,
Whose light ignites the fear his competence
Will be betrayed at work or even play.
No task well done grants him the confidence
Of victors cutting down the nylon nets.
Always he feels he’s on a cliffs ledge
About to be elbowed off. So he sweats
At each endeavor to gain an edge.

But the descending sun, whose dying light
Ushers soothing shades of darkness in, gives
His spirit the release bestowed by night,
Which is the sleep that stills the life he lives.
For then, his soul, without a name or address,
Drowns in the depths of vanished consciousness.

—from Rattle #21, Summer 2004

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November 19, 2011

“The Dirigible” by Kenneth O’KeefePosted by

Kenneth O’Keefe

THE DIRIGIBLE

He tilted back his head to lift his nose,
That looked down on my feature’s shining greeting.
This future in-law to my daughter chose
To use this time for our initial meeting
To flaunt he is a more accomplished man.
A trial lawyer, his wealth and status showed
He rose above me like a mountain’s span.
So as his cocksure, growing ego crowed,

I watched his form balloon into the sky,
Blot out the daylight like a sun’s eclipse
And make me wish that somehow I should die,
Till I perceived he looked like those airships,
Whose bulging skin absorbs our every sense,
Yet stands empty except for flatulence.

—from Rattle #25, Summer 2006

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Kenneth O’Keefe: “My retirement from a public school classroom just over seven years ago has provided me the opportunity to rediscover the wonder of writing. For as a schoolboy I was enchanted by how the magic of words could suspend time. Hours would pass unnoticed as I engaged in writing a story or poem. This I understood later is the power art has over time. So now, after decades of deprivation, I’m happy to have, at last, the silence and solitude that facilitates this transcendence.”

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