"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."

Tuesday, March 10, 1992

Fireplace Fantasy














A flame dances in the dark.
Hot and steamy crackling sparks
heating up a cold room;
sending smoke through the flume.

Outside the ground is blanketed white.
The stars are twinkling, vivid and bright.
Leaves rustling in the breeze
sail from the frozen trees.

A fresh pine scent creeps through the cracks
between the logs and lumber stacks.
On the would-be cold, hard floor,
lies the hide of a Grizzly who lives no more.

The warm fur carpeting the ground
and the chilly night whispers of no sound;
You and I sharing strawberries and wine;
romantically cuddling as we dine;

Illumination by only the fire's light,
yet a mutual gift of wondrous sight;
Graceful snowflakes drifting outside;
Squirrels searching for a place to hide;

Here with you, and you with me;
This is my ideal fantasy.

March 10, 1992

posted by Lorraine Courigan at 11:23 AM

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