"Wild Irish Rose"

                                I first encountered her among weekday group outpatient settings; along residential neighborhood outskirt buildings; thick brick brown mortar. Cemented in intervals of primitive masonry. Bleak September afternoons, crisp wind permeated the dank cedar. The withered oak hung solitary below a brisk seasonal sky. Imaginary cloud formation chambers crept in from the vast coalescent Atlantic. Coastal ocean tide levels rose with breeding anticipation of autumnal folly.
                              She exhibited tight ripped denim-blue jeans; amply gripping her pale supple thighs; very nicely complimenting her dyed pitch black hair. A sexy and immaculate feminine portrait. The kind of body in which adolescent middle-schoolboys only dreamed of in beseeching lust and frustrating desire. I fell in love with Rose almost instantly.
                            As a beautiful young woman Rose became a dark disillusioned mistress to many including the lost huntsman, deluded sailor, dismal merchant, disarrayed vagabond, it didn't matter whom: she discreetly belonged to the sordid pigeon peasantry that aligned soiled midnight alleyways of old forbidden refuge. Shadows of seething impermanent frost shadowed parking lots. Illustrious Winter premonitions; failed to reconcile, burning past formalities. Rose as a child thriving; along desolated rural Indiana villages. Off soft scattered highways;  sultry afternoon cornfields residing on state sweltering boundaries. Her mother drank cheap Kentucky bourbon; drunk by high noon screaming; shooting bottle caps into brown backyard foliage. Rose never had shoes growing up; frail bare feet scurried into forbidden cities and urban street playgrounds . Broken bottle shards and mangled blood-glass protrusions. Rose depended on the men in her life to fill  unfulfilled childhood voids. Parents drunk or stoned; past out behind the backdoor outhouse, or abandoned silo.                       
                             (Here is the poem I wrote for her; before she was raped and murdered back in the Fall of 2008)
                         
                               WILD IRISH ROSE:
                     
                               Where do you run to girl; along the corn row or vast ancient barley?
                                blaring sun rays refract in meticulous 2:00 a.m. retinas
                               In laborious afternoon fields; your ancestors swatted in prayer
                               Stalking their woes in grain, malt whiskey and gin
                               In deserted time frames: you were the rain girl
                               Fables and disbelief tear my soul apart; when you left.
                               leaves of Autumn trees and translucent bottles of old
                               Alone you will be
                               with me
                               beside
                               the wild
                               flowers
                               of
                               rain in cemetery
                               tombstone
                               gardens