David O'Sullivan's Blog, page 9
March 2, 2017
The empty rooms
Devils, or angels, singing in empty rooms.
Walk along the hallway and feel the wind,
warm and hard,
blowing through an open window.
It is summer time, and late, the sun has set.
Judges sing
lawyers sing, but think of money and flesh,
the accused stays silent, assured of his success.
Break the seal and read the letter; it will reveal
if you are having a boy or girl.
Does he have long legs?
Is she looking strong?
Look at her arms move!
A line of pregnant women look up as you enter.
One girl, no older than sixteen, begs her mother to let her come home.
Speak on the telephone to a stranger
and then one day meet.
What a disappointment and what sadness when you meet.
March 1, 2017
Around the universe, at the same time.
A meteor dashing in the night sky
free and lawless
without fear
moving for a million years
until smashing into a sun.
Rainwater in the gutter,
flowing down the drain
under the busy road.
A man moving down mirrored halls
lost in thought
glancing at the marble figures
standing on stone bases.
Dreams leap and run and die.
The rich man smiles through thin lips
happy with all he has
and desperate to gain more,
but his weak heart explodes.
You can’t take it with you.
A girl stands on a street corner
and clutches a metal pole,
another cold night, another cold bar
and another cold heart.
January 18, 2017
Love stories
I asked my friend,
Who do you love?
And she looked about the street we were in
at the large houses in the neighborhood
She told me she loved the wealth that could buy a residence like these.
I enquired of an older man, a professor of English
Who did he love?
He loved the young women who studied so hard
texts written years ago
And he dreamed of their silk bodies and eager minds.
I asked a man who was standing at the taxi rank
And he threw his bottle aside and demanded
Money for another drink,
It is so good to hold a new bottle in your hands
And feel the cool promise of another dizzy night.
A girl in the street dropped her doll.
A woman dressed in a pale green dress bent down and picked the doll up.
The girl told the woman that she loved her.
The woman smiled and held the girl tight.
A light rain fell, shaking the green leaves of a plane tree that grew nearby.
January 17, 2017
spider
I sat in an ancient room, tiny and dust filled,
Cobwebs filled all corners and old paint tins and other rubbish-clogged the space.
The door was ancient timber, dried from thousands of days of hot sun.
I sat in the dusty silence and reflected on my life and the lives of those around me.
People I know and have met,
People who are millionaires, people with brain tumors,
People trying to tell their parents they are gay;
People trying to tell their kids why the marriage has failed.
I sat and thought about these things and myself,
My own insecurities
When I saw, bobbing as if caught in a breeze
A long legged spider walking up the door next to me.
The door, so old and dry,
Allowed sunlight to spill in between gaps in the timber.
The spider, bobbing still,
Walked silently and delicately as if she were made of crystal,
Up and up and up.
When she stepped into the light, she glowed,
When she entered the shade, she disappeared.
She did this for five minutes,
Bobbing and climbing.
She was so small, so thin and delicate
I wondered what she would eat? A fly being many times larger than she.
Too delicate, too thin, for this world.
A spider, eight legs, of beauty.
January 16, 2017
The remembering of past times
Like the sun setting through the trees,
These streets give rise to memories.
The night rising in the strip joints and bars
The lights flash on old fashioned bulbs
And red neons point arrows and outlines of naked women.
All you need to do is go into a dark doorway and down some stairs
And you’ll find yourself in a den.
I remember as a boy
Walking the same city streets and seeing the same neon lights.
Everything seems dirtier and worn down now.
Crossing the road into the park
I see the paths that twist by the pond
And the bench where we would sit and talk about the things that mattered,
None of those things matter now.
It was years ago; nothing seems as serious to me now
As it did when I was 17.
The wind whips the dust in the street
And memories whip in the heart.
I see a poster in a tunnel under the concrete overpass,
The corners are torn.
Remember that man who gave us cigarettes on our first date?
His hair purple and gelled up to points.
We went to the Greek restaurant, and we could only afford an entrée,
We ate and then I walked you home.
At 17 everything is funny, and everything is serious.
The last time I saw you, it was a rainy day
And your car wouldn’t start, so I pushed until it went. You waved but couldn’t stop
In case the old engine stalled.
That old yellow car took you away, you waved out the window and left town.
I prefer it this way; I am glad we never saw each other again.
Memories are worth more when they are left alone.
January 12, 2017
The Waves of dreams
Breaking further and further out to sea,
I watch the log drift out toward the horizon.
I suspect the wood has broken off from the forests
That grow around this bay.
I pick up a piece of driftwood I find on the sand
And feel how smooth the salt water has worn it.
It is soft like a lover’s skin.
How beautiful she looked
On that summer night
On the beach,
Nearly naked
Dressed in white moonlight
Like a bride about to wed.
How the moon smiled that night.
You said there is no human face on the moon,
It is instead a hare, a celestial hare outrunning the dogs of the sun,
Eternal flight, pregnant with hope and always looking back.
The beach house was not ours
And I said I did not want to stay there
So we found our own place
Run down and hardly clean,
But on the water’s edge.
We could sit outside and rest our feet in the water.
Did I dream
Or was the light from the ocean so dazzling and clear
That I lost my senses?
Hold me tight and whisper to me
So that I think of the seaside, that night with you, again.
January 6, 2017
Anvil Soul by David O’Sullivan
It’s a new year and that means new and exciting challenges to undertake. This year, one of the things I want to add to my skill set is writing book reviews.
I mean, I love books and I love helping people find books that they will love too, so it seems a natural progression, right?
I thought so.
View original post 482 more words
December 15, 2016
Song of day
Walking down the city street at 7 a.m.
Smiling like a fool at the new day,
People return nasty looks
But I have no work to do today
And a place to sleep tonight.
But 6 p.m. on that same day
Sad and alone I sit
In the corner of my room
And cry.
The light shines naked on the wall,
A harsher light than before.
December 12, 2016
Snapshot of city life at Christmas.
Open the window
and feel the wind.
See the leaves dance along the street.
Hear the cars pushing, always pushing forward.
The windows are lit for Christmas.
People push along the sidewalk,
pushing each other with arms and elbows.
I saw an empty park yesterday
and out of the bush and long grass
stepped a black rabbit.
In this city park, it stopped
and ate some grass.
