David O'Sullivan's Blog, page 11

Thunder on the Mountains

I have seen the people at the close of day,

dark like the dreams of storm clouds.

In a city on any day, millions of lives unfold,

burning like little candles.

The sad face of life looking in through the windows of laundries,

where people sit, side by side, in yellowing underclothes

watching the spinning of the machines, laughing, detergent frothing machines,

always asking for more money.

Three friends grown up together,

one died young,

the other two moved to different cities.

Took on different lives.

One works hard on her fitness,

running and lifting weights.

but lost a lot of money investing in property

and now works hard to keep off the thoughts of darkness.

The other married and had three kids

and dreams of what might have been

if only, if only things had been different.

And her husband has sex with the secretary three times a week.

Jack had been in their class at school,

but they had forgotten him after 20 years

and could pass him on the street,

and not know his face.

When Jack was a kid he followed his father down the street into town

to buy the Sunday lunch. They visited the butcher and the baker and bought vegetables.

Jack always carried the vegetables in a wicker basket

his mother gave him specifically for that purpose.

When Jack’s father died,

Jack stood at the funeral numb with pain

and knew then, that those days of being loved, and free,

would never come again. The best he could hope for would be to have his own son to love.

The great clock that sits above the street,

ringing out the hours, disturbs the lovers in the rooms nearby.

So many people making love,

as the mist of the early night settles on the grey roofs.

As midnight chimes out,

Mary sits up from her damp bed, and notices tonight’s lover has left.

She runs her fingers across her tired eyes,

and wonders if she’ll see him again.

We leave them now,

you and I.

Think of these people sometimes.

It is their lives that echo around you like thunder on the mountains.

Night

There isn’t much night, there never is.

Out in the lights, the bars and the cafes with friends,

walk home in the cold of the morning,

see the sun already turning the sky orange and white.

There isn’t much night, there never is.

Waking up as birds scream outside

the sun bursts in on you through broken curtains and torn shades.

You wonder why the hours are more like seconds.

There isn’t much night, there never is.

Alone in the evening, huddled in your room by the window,

you watch the lights of the bright neons below,

see the lovers disappear into the blue-black, and you wish the sun would hurry up.

Ring the bells and ring them moreand know that they ring...

Ring the bells and ring them more

and know that they ring for more.

The birth of a new son, a baby has arrived

the death of an old man who lived long enough in spite.

 

The youth brings promise

the old brings decay,

and what can people do

but wait for that cold day?

 

Some pray,

some live in art.

They walk the halls and look upon the gold and silver

pictures formed long ago, far away.

 

I chose art

for in choosing art I get to see

the visions had long ago

on dark winten nights and bright summer morns.

The Lady’s garden.

Through the day garden walked the knight.

He looked at the beds, heavy with flowers

then glancing up as one might at a bird,

his eyes land on her window.

 

What softer bed behind those curtains,

what pleasures a visitor to her room might see;

might experience.

The mail-heavy arm against the silk curtains, hard flesh on gossamer skin.

 

He has seen war

and knows what war brings,

the faithful and faithless both scream when pinned down with steel.

Men, both brown and white, crying in terror at the onrushing machine.

 

He stops a while beside a lily and considers the soft opening of the blue flower

he sees a bee, heavy with baggage climbing down the flower’s throat.

From habit, his hand grips his sword handle.

He imagines a time when this garden might be his as well as hers.

Goddess

The wind blows for her,

The sun shines for her eyes,

Rivers flow for the softness of her skin.

She, the most beautiful woman in the world,

Does not live like the rest of us,

She exists, as the heavens exist.

 

No mortal hand can lift the stone of Agamemnon

But if she were just to speak a word

The stone would crumble

Like armies misled and starving,

Like the shore before the sea.

I should think the universe would disappear, if she but whispers the command.

On finding my tree dead from frost and exposure

 

I left her out in the sun,

It was warm and her soil moist

But I forgot her.

Midnight’s garden is different today’s,

the temperature dropped

And froze.

Gentle, gentle, soft fronds of green

Changed to gray and brown,

Curling dead fingers.

The ice, like old men’s beards

Hung from her beautiful face.

Once green, now black.

She did not recover;

But shrank into her red pot,

Dead.

No more spring breezes

That so excited her into growth

Would ever again dance through 

Her life loving leaves.

The Goddess

A goddess fell in love with a plane

that flew so quickly through the clouds.

Swooping down

she held her fingers out,

grasped at the shiny white arrow,

and broke the wings off at a stroke.

The plane fell from the sky.

She watched it disappear,

and saddened by losing what she thought so dear

reflected upon the scene a moment,

then forgot.

 

A disease

She broke a stick on the ground

and held it up to me.

‘See there, where it broke? A weakness, there’s a knot.’

She’s always pointing out people’s weaknesses.

Nobody has strength like her,

no one has intelligence as fine as she does.

But instead of being humble and kind in her greatness,

she wants to break people down all the time.

 

Last month she was told she has cancer.

She shrugged her shoulders and said

‘It happens to people all the time, why shouldn’t it happen to me?’

I said nothing.

She asked me over to her house yesterday

and when I came in, I could see she had been crying.

‘Why me?’ she asked.

I held her hand. It was cold as if she were already dead.

 

My place.

See the growth of gum tree huge,

watch the running of the river.

There I saw a blue wren dance

there I saw a bearded dragon quiver.

 

Along the path the wattle grows

The heat is hard, and the wind blows broad,

blue flowers mixed with black seed go far

and the smoke of fire rises like a god.

 

The blue dream runs on forever

and the city lights up the sky

this is the land we work and fight for,

this is where I hope to die.

The leaves picked up by summer winddanced across the roa...

The leaves picked up by summer wind

danced across the road.

The bells of Saint Thomas

rang out a heavy load.

 

Crossing down the country lanes

out of the sleepy town,

I gained a foothold in a glade

and in that forest, I sat down.

 

The yellow grass was soft and dry,

the blue sky shone in December sun.

I thought of how happy I was

now the season had begun.

 

Throw away your cares

and throw away your fears,

take a walk away from town-

In nature greet the new year.