Terry L. Kennedy
Summer 2025 | Poetry
Three Poems
Broken Villanelle For Bob & Betty In California
I am my house. My house, my tomb where artists lay bare their tender roots. My rare books, my Saville Row suits hidden within these walls where memories, like cacti bloom, each new canvas reflecting life’s blurry hues. I am my house. My house, my tomb, Betty’s vision swimming from room to room, her laughter lifting this convalescent’s gloom. My rare books, my Saville Row suits hang empty as an empty canvas locked within an empty room. They serve no purpose save vanity’s doom. I am my house, my house a tomb. Betty’s paints & oils, a rare perfume. Her rags & brushes slowly transmute my rare books, my Saville Row suits to sanctuary bright as last night’s moon. Her still life, a nourishing fruit. I am my house. My house, my tomb. My rare books, my Saville Row suits.
“I am my house. My house, my tomb”
from “A Texas Oil Man Skins the Devil,” A Paper Horse, Athenaeum, 1962
“My rare books, my Saville Row Suits”
From “Two Strangers in a Motel Room,” Christmas in Las Vegas, Athenaeum, 1971
OR
I am my house. My house, my tomb
where artists lay bare their tender roots.
My rare books, my Saville Row suits
hidden within these walls where memories, like cacti bloom,
each new canvas reflecting life’s blurry hues.
I am my house. My house, my tomb,
Betty’s vision swimming from room to room,
her laughter lifting this convalescent’s gloom.
My rare books, my Saville Row suits
hang empty as an empty canvas locked within an empty room.
They serve no purpose save vanity’s doom.
I am my house, my house a tomb.
Betty’s paints & oils, a rare perfume.
Her rags & brushes slowly transmute
my rare books, my Saville Row suits
to sanctuary bright as last night’s moon.
Her still life, a nourishing fruit.
I am my house. My house, my tomb.
My rare books, my Saville Row suits.
Broken Villanelle for Fred & Susan on Kensington
Deep morning, before the trees take silhouettes: the scent of jasmine fills the garden Susan grew. Not the least little breath of air in hall or parlor. But in the yard, the maple leaves quietly cast a shimmer on the fresh-cut grass, whisper low—deep morning, before the trees take silhouettes. The rhododendron recalls the mountain crests we hiked together, wild paths through the dew. Not the least little breath of air in hall or parlor; a cardinals' chorus in the red azaleas, petals damp and new. Deep morning, before the trees take silhouettes—the fern unfurls its emerald-green coronet, leaves kissed with tender chill of blue. Not the least little breath of air in hall or parlor while Susan dreams, so I watch and let her garden wake anew. Deep morning, before the trees take silhouettes. Not the least little breath of air in hall or parlor.
“Deep morning, before the trees take silhouettes”
from “The River Awakening in the Sea,” River, LSU Press, 1975
“Not the least little breath of air in hall or parlor”
From “Second Wind,” Wind Mountain, LSU Press, 1979
OR
Deep morning, before the trees take silhouettes:
the scent of jasmine fills the garden Susan grew.
Not the least little breath of air in hall or parlor.
But in the yard, the maple leaves quietly cast
a shimmer on the fresh-cut grass, whisper low—
deep morning, before the trees take silhouettes.
The rhododendron recalls the mountain crests
we hiked together, wild paths through the dew.
Not the least little breath of air in hall or parlor;
a cardinals' chorus in the red azaleas,
petals damp and new.
Deep morning, before the trees take silhouettes—
the fern unfurls its emerald-green coronet,
leaves kissed with tender chill of blue.
Not the least little breath of air in hall or parlor
while Susan dreams, so I watch and let
her garden wake anew.
Deep morning, before the trees take silhouettes.
Not the least little breath of air in hall or parlor.
Broken Villanelle for Christy Garren in Search of Her Muse
After you left, I carried buckets of water up the long hill, where camellias stood exposed in the early-spring gloom. One afternoon in March—because it was in bloom—each sloshing pail tested muscle and will, hauling what lingered to the garden’s low thrum. After you left, I carried buckets of water up the long hill, striking the packed earth with a hard, steady drill, as blue jays clashed against the sky’s aluminum dome. One afternoon in March, because it was in bloom, I fed the roots, defying spring-silver chills, memories drifting through the day’s purple perfume. After you left, I carried buckets of water up the long hill turning through seasons, each slow step stilled, the garden exhaling its copper-green hum. One afternoon in March—because it was in bloom—I poured the water until the earth drank deep, drank its fill, consecrating loss inside its breathless womb. After you left, I carried buckets of water up the long hill. One afternoon in March, because it was in bloom.
“After you left, I carried buckets of water up the long hill”
from “First Magnitudes,” Afterworld, University of Chicago Press, 1993
“One afternoon in March, because it was in bloom”
from “The Camelia Bush,” The Piercing, LSU Press, 2006
OR
After you left, I carried buckets of water up the long hill,
where camellias stood exposed in the early-spring gloom.
One afternoon in March—because it was in bloom—
each sloshing pail tested muscle and will,
hauling what lingered to the garden’s low thrum.
After you left, I carried buckets of water up the long hill,
striking the packed earth with a hard, steady drill,
as blue jays clashed against the sky’s aluminum dome.
One afternoon in March, because it was in bloom,
I fed the roots, defying spring-silver chills,
memories drifting through the day’s purple perfume.
After you left, I carried buckets of water up the long hill
turning through seasons, as each slow step stilled,
the garden exhaling its copper-green hum.
One afternoon in March—because it was in bloom—
I poured the water until the earth drank deep, drank its fill,
consecrating loss inside its breathless womb.
After you left, I carried buckets of water up the long hill.
One afternoon in March, because it was in bloom.
Terry L. Kennedy is the author of the poetry collections What the Light Leaves and New River Breakdown, both from Unicorn Press. Individual work appears in a variety of literary journals and magazines and has been anthologized most recently in Gracious: Poems of the 21st Century. He currently serves of the Director of Creative Writing at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro where he edits The Greensboro Review.