Poetry

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The Smile
poetry, sunset photo,

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The Bench

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You’ll find me everywhere you go

From mountains high to valleys low

And in your haste from A to B

My resting place you fail to see.

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But there are times you take a break

Relaxing in the change of pace

When you stop to take a photograph

Of ancient walls and epitaphs.

Those are the moments, at ease and alone,

You answer my call to your weary bones.

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As you rest your eyes on a foreign scene

Your thoughts escape to a village green

To a culture and language you understand

To a bench like me in your native land.

Jean Reinhardt 2015

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Life Time

poem

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This poem is called Front Line. It was inspired by a photograph I took of sentinels and rocks on Youghal strand. I have dedicated it to my husband’s great uncle Michael O’Neill of the Royal Dublin Fusiliers, 8th Battalion. He died on 29 April 1916 in Loos, aged 20.

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ImageAutism

You lie there, a tiny bundle.

Asleep, you are like any other child,

quiet, unmoving, angelic.

I should take a photo of you now,

to prove that you also have peaceful moments.

They would not believe it, having seen you today

jumping, screaming in temper, frustrated.

No one knows you as I do, not even the experts.

To them you are a statistic, a file.

To me you are a child, trapped inside a shell.

If I could find the door to your house

I would not hestitate to enter, and maybe

one day, you would venture out.

***

Jean Reinhardt

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The Leave-Taking

The sea, a ship, a journey looms before me. 

Why can’t I stay?  Make something of myself.

That will never be.  Not here, on this tiny rock

of grey and green and rainbows.

I have been pushed, kicking and screaming,

from deep within the belly of this land.

Emerging like a naked, newborn infant,

innocent, guiltless, crying.

Fighting my destiny every inch of the way,

no one saw my tears.  I have saved

each salty drop to caste upon a seed

of hope, reluctantly sown.

***

 Jean Reinhardt

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DSC_0624Propaganda Puppets

In hospital our mothers’ beds

stood closely side by side,

as sleeping babies were compared

to distant aunts and uncles,

long departed, and sacred family

secrets in a whisper shared.

What force was it that caused us to become

propaganda puppets, guns in hand?

Created by an act of love,

cared for and protected,

how is it we find ourselves

behind dividing barricades?

Hating what the other represents,

fervently believing in

a cause, prepared to die.

Propaganda puppets, guns in hand.

What would be the outcome

should those barricades come down?

Would we courageously

step forward to shake

these bloodstained hands?

Or would our leaders urge us on

To fight and we like fools obey?

Propaganda puppets, guns in hand.

Jean Reinhardt

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A Corny Poem

As the food mounts up I am aghast,
The “goodies” isle I quickly pass.
I’m thinking of sun and a sandy beach
When into my trolley lands a packet of sweets
That will teach me to get distracted
The ensuing argument is protracted.
The five year old wins and I look forlorn,
As I begin to barter over corn.
“Get that one there, on the bottom shelf.
The one with the picture of an elf.”
My grandson laughs and is compliant,
“Nana, wear your glasses. It’s a big green giant.”

Jean Reinhardt 2013

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The Pay Off

Tall grey tunnels rise
up over the small town,
belching thick, metallic smoke
into a dull, lifeless sky.
People march in anger, to protest.
TV crews join them. Meetings
are held and a large donation
made to a local hospital.
Upon this gesture of goodwill
the small town looks and smiles,
then lights it’s fires
against the winter’s chill.
Pre-packed meals are cooked,
dishes washed in soft,
synthetic bubbles and
the small town flushes
it’s waste deep into the belly
of a dull, lifeless lake.

Jean Reinhardt

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