"Accolades For Valor" by Matthew Johnson (1993): "She goes through life, gliding, a benevolent seer/ Stopping constantly to aid those in need, those not even dear/ I, an individual, swept up in the storm/ Of a woman, who, in search of herself, defies the norm/ As I, an outcast, fighting myself, yet daring to believe/ That if I ask her aid and succor (and possibly love) she won’t leave/ Giving her heart, mind and soul to every known cause/ Causing me to look about my selfish malestrom, and in introspection give pause/ For all her words, she won’t write about me, does she fail to perceive/ What the object knows to be true and what make believe—/ Words rarely present, presence much more of one/ Is to wish for more as good as wishing for the sun?/ Energy is precious, as I know well to be true/ And I am curious to know, Lorraine, what I can ask of you/ Names are important, they make us who we are/ Much more important than people give credit, by far/ The masses may cry “Lori!” and let them do so!/ For the numbers who call that cannot understand/ They will never know the Lorraine inside, the one crying to live/ Will be forever frustrated by those whose minds are like a sieve/ There may be those who rob her of her world, let them scratch the skin/ They are as pinpricks to the steel within/ These accolades are not exaggeration, not pretentious/ I Just want you to know that there is at least one who is conscious/ That the world is a better place for the life of a woman named Lorraine."

Monday, May 06, 1991

The Breaking Point

From the depth of sullenness,
a cry is released.
Screeching with violence,
the silence is ceased.

Next comes the laughter
behind the scenes,
accompanied by whispers
rallying between.

A jerk of the head;
A sonorous glance;
Many tears shed;
No noble stance;

All eyes center.
They all stare.
It won't get better.
She is quite aware.

An orb of commotion
molded to harm
weighed down with emotion
triggered the alarm.

The stress was too much.
She could bear no more,
but she's numb to the touch
and has closed the door.

The others around her
just watched her top blow.
They watched her soul wander
and didn't help it home.

Too late has already past.
Her escape wasn't too fast.

Entangled in
delicate strings,
the web of confusion
has locked her in.

May 6, 1991

posted by Lorraine Courigan at 11:44 AM

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