Thomas Thatcher

March The Harbor

Thomas Thatcher — Thu, 20 Aug 2026 15:15:19 GMT

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Son sits on the horizon
Deep in the sea a big heart is beating

At the bow, beaming in light, the thought comes to me 
Are my friends in heaven? 
Are they waiting on me like I am them? 
Or are they caught up in all of God's Grace 

Hear it once again from below banging in the sea 
From the deep comes a bird white bellied and young
A rose-color pours ove…

Memento Mei (I-VI)

Thomas Thatcher — Wed, 19 Aug 2026 20:06:21 GMT

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I. 


On March 24th, 2025, I began my final year of life's 1st score 
And on this day, which happened to be a Holy day, I started my job 
Picking through trash and debris 
Separating Wood, metal, 
And bedding from piles of filth 
And only by the 3rd hour of that first day had I stepped on a nail 
And bled from there 
My 2” heel on the boot saved my sol…

Junepoems

Thomas Thatcher — Wed, 19 Aug 2026 17:45:12 GMT

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Junedrama 

Mayday mayday mayday 
Coast guard what I can say 
The Heron wet looks grey 
The Son showers the bay 

I gave my brother a belt buckle for his 27th birthday 
He’s a police officer keeping me safe 
He’s my little brother keeping us safe 
I want to call him now I hope he’s not on duty today 

Mayday mayday mayday 
My aunt thinks I’m on hard 
Shooting up in my uncles old room 
She’s wrong I wouldn’t do that to Todd 

He always told me to stay away 
Far away from that stuff 
Before he died we lost two cousins 
Fair to say we’ve lost enough 

Fair to say “The Thatcher’s had it rough”
My aunt is a fly buzzing around
She told my mom she thinks I’m crushing my klonopin 
cooking it and shooting it up  

My mom loves me and believes me so 
I don’t care at all very much 
I’m confused, hurt, and offended 
My aunt is losing touch 

With reality, with me, with this part 
Of the family and what we can provide her 
I don’t know how that needle got in the room 
And that detail I wish I could provide her 

I have better things to worry about
I have good things to harvest 
I took the cooker and the needle out to the garage
Tied it in a bag and put it in the garbage 











Reflection on Mae

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The dead are not alive and the living will not die. 
Ella Mae’s in heaven and Roy shot himself into the sky
The little tail on its little Way
I miss her
I miss her crocodile-like snout, circling the stick before she snaps it

Her horse like posture, riding into battle
She took down Sam and from that home we got banned in style   
If she would’ve let me, I’d have put her in my arms 
And held her all day like a baby child 

Our last day together I carried her down the bank of The Coonamessett 
It was the splash from a bass that got her eyes so attentive 
She didn’t have the strength to swim and that made me break down a little 
It was calm and we watched a fish go after a minnow 
And teary eyed, I giggled











Apricots 

Maria says she’s eating an apricot. 
I haven’t seen an apricot in so long 
And so we talked, 

“I forgot about the pleasure of an apricot” 
She said, “They’re rare aren’t they?” 
I told her, “That’s what I thought—”

“These ones are just like childhood,” She said.  
And I was quiet because I was thinking 
About how I missed my childhood a lot

Then she continued, “This one is really perfumed” 
O sweet taste of apricots in the afternoon 
Maria told me about her film—And how after a long day of shooting, 
They share fruits like apricots, 
Her and the crew 
And I smiled over the phone, “Lucky you,”

Where have the apricots gone? 
Do they grow on bushes or on trees?
Are there more in France with Maria? 
Are they planting apricots as we speak? 
Am I so blind that I may have seen one 
And believed it to be the same colored peach? 
Or a bad plumb half-buried in the sand at the beach?











Jessica 

She read my story for Cluny before it was even half done, 
I like to think she’s reading my writing
I like to think of her smiling in Sezze with her little son 

She tried to set me up with Veronica
I think that was the waitress’ name
Veronica looked at me, then back at Jessie
I think Veronica thought I was strange

So I went back to my room
But I was back pretty soon 
Because Jessy made me smile
She's entering her mid 40’s with style

And so I was drunk with Jessy 
Her small frame and black eyes 
And her energy made it worthwhile 
We had alcohol then lattes that she made herself 
Because she ran everything 
In her little cafe bar
And one night she told me about herself, 
“I am pretty but poor” She said 
And I understood her—I looked at the tiles 

She opened the bar a few years ago and 
Asked if I had a child 
I liked how Jessy does her makeup 
So I told her and that made us, again, both smile

Poor Ones

Thomas Thatcher — Tue, 18 Aug 2026 09:10:55 GMT

Cluny Journal

Poor Ones

“Come and hear, and I will describe to you, all who fear God, what things He did for my soul.” - Psalm 66:16…

a year ago · 20 likes · Thomas Thatcher

Poor Ones (Italian Excerpt)

Thomas Thatcher — Sun, 06 Apr 2025 23:14:50 GMT

È sbarbato e rallenta alla Croce di Sant’Andrea. Sobbalza sulle traversine; pensa alla Pennsylvania. È in compagnia delle sue passioni. Sogna una brava ragazza in un bel posto. I rami di agrifoglio sopra la sua testa e l’erica alle sue spalle, drappeggiata come un dossale. In tutto, ha 22 dollari e mezza bottiglia di latte. Sistema l’esca e torna al fiume. Rimane parcheggiato per un po’. È lontano da ogni luce e fuori traccia.

Passa in mezzo ai tronchi di Reynoutria giapponese, con il bastone in mano, sente qualcosa di tagliente sbattergli sul viso. Una spina di qualche pianta. Un taglio sottile sotto l’occhio sinistro. Un po’ di sangue gli gocciola sullo zigomo. Pulisce la lacerazione come si farebbe con una lacrima. Si lecca il polpastrello, continua.

In un attimo ne prende 1. Lascia che il pesce si stanchi per mezzo minuto prima di iniziare il combattimento e vincere. Quando la trota si abbatte sulla riva la afferra per la coda; col gesto di una suora mentre schiaffeggia un polso, sbatte la testa della trota contro una roccia. La pulisce sul posto e getta le interiora nel fiume.

La carne finisce in una busta di plastica con chiusura a zip e lui canta alleluia mentre soppesa il sacchetto, allungando il braccio e facendolo oscillare su e giù. Oh yea, alleluia. Vicino al ponte della ferrovia, le oblazioni.

Cammina sotto la luna, così bella prima del crepuscolo. Raccoglie un coleottero. Spaventato muove il muso in senso circolare; che tutto finisca qui. Lancia lo scarafaggio nell’oscurità e finalmente è sera. Sopra il fuoco, una grata di metallo su cui cucinare, segnata di nero. Ci mette sopra la carne di trota e guarda le squame scintillare e sfavillare e desidera un po’ di burro.

Stropiccia la foto di sua madre, la ripiega su sé stessa e la rimette in tasca. Là un airone sembra smarrito, eppure sa come cacciare, come uccidere. Osserva l’airone per un minuto. Una zampa ossuta; un cricco nella sabbia.

Ama così tanto Dio. Geme sapendo che non potrà mai amare Dio quanto Dio ama lui.

Qualche ora dopo cena, combatte contro uno dei sette principi dell’inferno. E il demone ride e gli mostra delle foto di ragazze vestite di pizzo bianco. Cerca di non guardare, ma guarda ancora e poi ancora. Non parla con il demone, ma sa che si tratta di Asmodeo. Quello che mandò all’aria le nozze di Sarah. Salta e fa cadere a terra l’orrido. E dopo qualche colpo non c’è più. Tornato all’inferno o, Dio mai non voglia, a casa di un vicino. Resta in terra dolorante fino al mattino.

Sopra il suo lenzuolo bagnato, immagina San Giuseppe e le preghiere e le rivelazioni di Giuseppe anche su questioni ordinarie. Si alza e si muove. Non riesce a immaginare la benedizione e il peso di essere il primo padre del Salvatore. Vuole essere un padre che cresce un figlio forte, ma è senza redini e tanto stanco.

Si trascina e questo gli riempie i polmoni. Con Ella contro lo stinco, legge l’omelia di San Giovanni Crisostomo su Cristo e il passaggio del calice. La volontà del Padre. Qual è la volontà del Signore per quest’uomo stanco? Un toporagno stanco, che corre dentro e fuori dalla palude. Sa solo pescare. Non sa nemmeno scuoiare un coniglio. Ci ha provato una volta...

Si contorce come un animale rabbioso. E scalcia come una furia. Con i denti straccia un pezzo di coniglio e cerca di ficcare il coltello sotto la pelliccia ma si taglia il pollice. Si sparge e si mescola il sangue di entrambi, ha fatto un macello. Strappa via la coda in un gesto. La strappa per la rabbia e per la frustrazione. Lascia il macello, il corpo, una parte per le volpi.

And there stood a man like you or me

Thomas Thatcher — Fri, 14 Feb 2025 19:47:52 GMT

An Eider tics closer to the shore.

And the rest afloat together, rafting out the whitewater to the green sea.

Claire uses the binoculars and admires their feathered throats. Bishop’s hand in his lap. Salt and their backs up against the seawall. “Are you ready?” He means ready for winter. Claire writes something in her little book. The light in Claire’s ey…

Paschal Greeting

Thomas Thatcher — Mon, 06 May 2024 17:28:57 GMT

This sweet 1, she keeps her mind in Hell. That’s why she smiles the way she does. Look up, dear, the battle is over1.

Cristo ressuscitou! And still, her mind remains in Hell. Her heart is smitten, and withered like grass; so that she forgets to eat her bread2. But she lifts up her heart; a perfect offering. Em verdade ressuscitou!

She sheds tears, reminding her of her baptism. She sheds them daily. And she waters God’s sweet dirt with those tiny drops of repentance. Turnt way from You. By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept3. As her heart bled through her shirt.

A red spot on her shirt where her heart is.

Let us who despair despair no more. That the gates of Heaven have been opened. And Hell embittered. O Death, where are you now? O Death, you took a fleshly body but got met by God. O Hell, where is your victory?

Cristo ressuscitou! Cristo ressuscitou! Cristo ressuscitou!

Lord have mercy (x12)

In Christ,

Thomas

Dn 7:11-13

Ps 102

Ps 137

Son of Michael

Thomas Thatcher — Sun, 25 Feb 2024 01:51:47 GMT

A boy, Nicholas, shows me a Jack-knife. It’s open. I know in my heart that Nicholas won’t stab me. A boy who uses his knife to kill deer. A boy who cares deeply for his family.

A Christmas in the forest. A yearning to see your family and give them a kiss. In the pasture there’s Syringa, Gypsophila, and Cecelia. A lucky lamb—as Christ is her shepherd—run…

Julietbaby

Thomas Thatcher — Sat, 16 Dec 2023 13:00:03 GMT

julietbaby

Florabelle

Thomas Thatcher — Wed, 08 Mar 2023 04:29:53 GMT

I love you sis.

1922

Water gushes down the hills, washing out roads and bridges and sweeping away cars. As Blacklick Creek starts rising, families at the lower end of town begin moving their furniture to the second floor. Pretty girls. Personable men. There’s a lovingkindness there in the hills capping Blacklick Creek.

Young men in this town are trying th…

Vincent

Thomas Thatcher — Thu, 02 Dec 2021 23:28:53 GMT

Oceanía

Thomas Thatcher — Wed, 27 Oct 2021 01:34:25 GMT

I want you to find love before it's too late.

I want you to find God before there's no precious time.

I want you to be with your loved ones as they love you.

I love you, and I love you better than ever.

You can see I'm here, in front of the lights, with family sitting on my porch. I'm here. I wait for you to come up and see me.

Like an older brother or s…