January 2024
James Keane
jkeanenj@optonline.net
Bio Note: After 2022 was brightened by publication of my second poetry chapbook, Small Wonders (Finishing Line Press), 2023 has essentially been devoted to recovering from two serious medical conditions that were rectified by surgeries within six months of each other. The severely handicapped teenagers confined to wheelchairs who inspired my poem "Unforgotten" had no such option. In October, I was honored to do a poetry reading in Princeton, New Jersey, with award-winning poet Catherine Doty as part of the the Second Sunday Series, hosted by Ellen Foos, founder and publisher of Ragged Sky Press. All things considered, I feel tremendously blessed.

Unforgotten
In memory of Camp Jened (1951-2009) Here comes a rolling train. The like I’ve never seen before. The slowness of its movement captivates. Six cars to this train – no engine, no caboose – but six strong engineers. One behind each passenger. The passengers lay back. Silent prisoners in leg irons. Arms stiffly dangling. Useless to be bound. The engineers tend with murmured singing of ice cream, of sodas. But a candy bar? Ever? No. Lead prisoner. You never move your face. Eyes unblinking. Fixed. On me. But rolling past slowly all the while your open mouth sags forever in a wan smile.
Originally published in WINK: Writers in the Know

Don't go in the garage
A smile like love radiating from the man who was my father gently nudged you towards a mirage of hope, but not so far in the end from the frozen anguish enveloping you when finally you found him, no mirage, in the car, after hearing, not believing, an engine groaning in the dark. Behind the door displaying a declaration of love you ignored: Don’t go in the garage You went in. You wavered. You forced your way back out. I couldn’t leave my children, you said. And only now I thank you from the bottom of my selfish heart. Too late. Too late. A lifetime too late. You’re five years dead.
Originally published in vox poetica

When I Was Very, Very Young
When I was very, very young, I discovered word after word after word I barely knew. And spewed them over anyone. But especially you. I never witnessed your jaunty stepping. Slowed by stroke after stroke to a standing crawl. All I saw was you. Father of my mother. Waiting for me to walk with you. Your steps deliberate beside the bouncing of my endless babble, we managed our way together down the long, slow streets of your frailty. Then gradually, very gradually, back the way we came. Whatever you were thinking, whatever you were suffering, never once did you interrupt, never once did you disrupt the joy propelling me. Never quietly. All the while, you listened to your grandson’s endless babble with wonder and a loving smile - until that quiet night, I believe, you rose from sleeping to perpetual peace, and resumed your jaunty stepping.
Originally published in WINK: Writers in the Know
©2024 James Keane
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