Beyond the Thorned Holly: The Poetry Of

By Gregory Cenac

A sunset peeking out from behind thorned holly teases me

As I emerge from the darkening woods.

A pastel pink and blue evening sky, adorned by long marbled clouds,

Settles over the Pacific Sound ...

—Gregory Cenac

In a poignant and sometimes amusing collection of poetry, Gregory Cenac lyrically captures the vivid moments of his life with the hope of encouraging others to reflect on their own.

Within verse penned during a four-year period and from settings ranging from the Gulf of Mexico to Portsmouth, Maine, and to the mountain ranges of Alaska, Cenac provides a glimpse into his thoughts and emotions as he explores a variety of themes that include the placement of his Uncle Johnny’s freckles, a street man’s benediction, the long leafless shadows of a barren Midwestern winter, his brother’s true lovers, and the reflections of an old executioner as he taps a small matchbox on a table.

Beyond the Thorned Holly shares a compilation of poems that reflect on one man’s walk through life as he loves, learns, and finds inspiration in nature.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 5, 2017
• ISBN: 9781532022388

Gregory Cenac

Gregory Cenac earned a BSEE degree from Louisiana State University. For over forty years, he has been an electronics’ project engineer for the FAA working in diverse settings ranging from the jungles of South Florida to the frozen tundra of Alaska. He currently resides in Kansas City, Missouri. Beyond the Thorned Holly is his first collection of poetry.

Book preview

UNCLE JOHNNY’S FRECKLES

Five years old, looking

At the freckles that covered his body,

Every square inch of it,

According to my older sister Kay, age six.

"I tell you, Gregory—they’re everywhere.

I saw him naked in the bathroom.

They’re even on his…"

She runs off, squealing.

So I say, "Uncle Johnny,

Why don’t you get the doctor

To cut ’em off?"

Uncle Johnny laughs like he has thought of this before.

"Yes, indeed,

I could do that.

But then I’d just have scars

All over my body."

Those freckles

Were just about the best thing

About Uncle Johnny.

LOOSE CHANGE

Walking from

The Old French Quarter, iron railings on

Balconies above doors that beckon

To sidewalks, no barriers

Between home and street here,

Where they sold the Africans.

Drums and horns of the Fete abating,

My son and I, Crescent City inebriants,

Enter the Central Business District,

Shadows long, air cool, April kind, when

I see you there, a grown man now,

Ahead on the sidewalk,

You and yours in conversation,

You always in community,

Your boy’s hand in yours,

His brother and sister behind.

Mother, grandmother, aunt.

Jocular speech.

I hear only its rhythms.

Your lilting voices lighten my load.

A halo over you and them,

A gift of this place and time.

You’ve endured,

Grown strong.

***

I remember then,

When I was ten,

We visited your farm,

My sisters and I.

The backseat of the ’38 Buick,

The smell of Jim Beam

Warmed by the Louisiana sun.

We traded—money scarce then—

My sisters’ clothes - your daddy’s corn.

Your sister Shirley looked at me

From across the yard,

Chickens surrounding her.

Our eyes locked.

I want to leave the car

To play with her,

Her little brothers,

No shoes

In the dusty yard,

Me barefoot,

Holes in my shirt.

A desire to play with you

In that dusty yard

Not allowed.

Jim Crow flew high

Over all of us

Back then.

Your daddy unhitched the mules.

Maw-Maw and he spoke briefly.

J’ai des vetements pour ta fille, tu as du maize?

(I have clothes for your daughter - You have some corn?)

Your mother nodded to him.

He walked over to the barn,

Placed a bushel of corn in the trunk of the ’38 Buick,

Carried the box of clothes to your mother,

Turned his back on us,

Went back to his plow,

Shirley and I still looking at each other.

Oh Jim Crow you sneaky thief.

We’ve come a long way,

You and I,

Loose change in our pockets now.

I just want you to know

I see you there.

I see you there.

April 24, 2016, New Orleans

SIX-FOOT CELL

Karl Ashenfelter, Inupiat man, my friend, familiar with Western ways, returned

to his village near Nome to be the village leader. Unlike the other men of his tribe, Carl had a heavy beard.

German father, he explained,

Killed a man in

The Lower 48.

Fled to the remote Yukon.

Could do that

In those days.

Mistakes forgiven.

Flee—Start

A new life with the Inuit,

Sire bright-eyed Eskimo children,

Hunt the seal,

Shoot ducks in the spring thaw,

Go to fish camp,

Have a new life

In the vast north land.

But the world is a smaller place now—

No place to flee,

No second chances.

Just a six-foot cell for forty years.

The world is a smaller place now.

A JANUARY PROMISE

Water droplets from melting snow adorn

Winter buds that hold

The promise of spring.

A warm misty January day has turned

Snow to slush.

My boots crush

On a sidewalk

Lined by barren trees.

Cool air kisses