NOW AVAILABLE @ http://www.amazon.co.uk/Tom-OBrien/e/B0034OIGOQ/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1388083522&sr=1-2-ent
67
SILENCE AT THE BAR
SILENCE AT THE BAR
The old man grimaced and silently imbibed his pint
His withered wife glared her whole life at him
And pointedly moved to a seat
At the far end of the joint
Two sons, forty and finicky,
Silently contemplated the following day’s races
While the daughter and son-in-law,
Long run out of things to say,
Blew smoke in each other’s faces.
Only the children were living;
The girl was chandelier-swinging
And the boy was table-top walking.
“Shhh!” said the mother,
“be quiet you two rascals,
We can’t seem to hear ourselves talking”
from my collection of poetry – ’67’, now available @ http://www.amazon.co.uk/67-Poetry-Tom-OBriem-Book-ebook/dp/B00JVBLM9C/ref=la_B0034OIGOQ_1_8?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1412338420&sr=1-8
and http://www.tinhuttalespublishers.co.uk/product/67-2/
JESUS SAVES
I wrote this piece of doggerel whilst watching a boring football game last night
JESUS SAVES
There is no doubt it is a penalty
A trailing leg caught the number nine
And upended him right on the spot.
Jesus shakes his head;
So stupido, our centre half
So bloody stupido.
Jose de Jesus will be our saviour
He tells himself
Blessing himself three times
Calling on his grandmother, his grandfather,
The Holy Ghost, Castro, Pancho Villa
And all the saints in Christendom.
The penalty taker glares at him
If looks were bullets he would be finito
He is stupido too, he thinks
Smiling his little smile.
He sways this way on jelly legs
Feints that way and flops his arms
The ball is struck, the aim is fine
But Jesus has read the striker’s line
And….oh yes….
Jesus saves – this time
JOINT ACCOUNT
JOINT ACCOUNT
Of all the joints in all the world
I had to wind up with this one.
Creaking and croaking
It pains when I am smoking
It pains when I am walking
It pains when I am talking.
I wonder if I should use some WD-40.
I bet Bogey never had this problem.
THE DEAFENING SILENCE
THE DEAFENING SILENCE
The silence is deafening
But then it always has been;
Deafening all my life, I mean.
It’s as if I’m not really there,
Although I am sure that’s not true.
Perhaps I am invisible to all
But a few true believers.
Are they possibly seeing what isn’t there,
And also hearing the deafening silence?
read more of my poems in my new collection ’67’ – http://www.tinhuttalespublishers.co.uk/67/
TIME
TIME
Time, so they tell me,
Is a precious commodity;
Nowadays I own lots of it
(ever since the steelyard gates clanged shut)
I wonder how much a few weeks of it
Would fetch at Christies?
From my new collection of poetry ’67’, now avauilable @ http://www.tinhuttalespublishers.co.uk/67/
BOY
BOY
You won’t remember this
But I will
You changed again, got bigger
Both in body and in mind
One foot is the man you want to be;
The other is the boy
You so carelessly leave behind
from my latest collection of poems, ’67’. http://www.tinhuttalespublishers.co.uk/67/
MUSHROOMS
MUSHROOMS
When I was knee-high to a man
And fields were free
We picked mushrooms
On mornings such as this
Barbed wire, where it existed,
Was negotiable.
Now the Stalag-masters have returned
And fenced us out
Or is it in?
from my new collection of poetry ’67’ – http://www.tinhuttalespublishers.co.uk/67/
PARTING
PARTING
The sun also rises over concrete
Over this puff-adder sky
And the pricked-up chimneys
Looking like piss-horns in the stark morning
There are no shadows yet
On this marbled plain
So tender in years
But so sparing with love
I shiver at the bus stop
Admiring this proliferation of granite;
So cold, so hard,
So like you….
SILENCE AT THE BAR
SILENCE AT THE BAR
The old man grimaced and silently imbibed his pint
His withered wife glared her whole life at him
And pointedly moved to a seat
At the far end of the joint
Two sons, forty and finicky,
Silently contemplated the following day’s races
While the daughter and son-in-law,
Long run out of things to say,
Blew smoke in each other’s faces.
Only the children were living;
The girl was chandelier-swinging
And the boy was table-top walking.
“Shhh!” said the mother,
“be quiet you two rascals,
We can’t seem to hear ourselves talking”
from my new book of poetry – http://www.tinhuttalespublishers.co.uk/67/
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