I NEVER WALKED A MILE

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I NEVER WALKED A MILE

I never walked a mile
Without thinking of you
I was always walking towards your smile
Towards your twinkling eyes so blue

I never dreamed a dream
Without seeing a vision of you
I was always the cat who got the cream
When I awoke and found my vision true

I never told a tale
That didn’t have you in it
My laughter as I recalled
Was at least three times every minute

And now that you are are gone
I find myself walking even more
My journey it will be long
Until I find that ?&@%*** stevedore.

ALGORITHM

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ALGORITHM

No human being can
Write fast enough
Or large enough
Or small enough
Nor love long enough
Without limit

CAFE KNITTING

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CAFE KNITTING
In the cafe, sitting
Sipping coffee, knitting
One purl, one plain.
Six women, three men
One man gets up,
gathers his stuff
‘Very enjoyable
We must do this again’

DRACULA AND OTHER NIGHT CREATURES

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DRACULA AND OTHER NIGHT CREATURES

Nights when we were young
We raced the wind;
Banshees in our wake
Dracula lying in wait.

We had left him oozing blood
From the stake wedged in his chest
In the Rainbow Cinema.
But with vampires you could never tell

Hair slicked back, stiff with Brylcreem,
Newly perched on our Raleigh three-speeds
(with dynamo)
We explored the world,
Our winkle-pickers pointing the way.

I WONDER WHAT THEY WILL SAY

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I wonder what they will say of me when I am gone?
It was him that penned those lines, you know
The ones about choking the chicken.
Ah, poor Katie Doyle never lived that one down!
And the lies he told in that Altar Boy book he wrote
Just as well his poor mother wasn’t still around…

Then there was that tale about the Kray Twins
How he walked and smoked with them
On remand in Wormwood Scrubs if you don’t mind!
How they didn’t seem nearly as bad as they were painted
In fact he almost said they were kind!

I wonder what they will say of me when I am gone?
Perhaps they will say nothing

PLANET OF THE APPS

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PLANET OF THE APPS
Your smartphone speaks to you;
‘Hey, why not download our cool new App?’
Then up pops a dialogue box
With text that looks like an escapee from MySpace
Welcome to Appworld.
Steve Jobs is to blame really;
He was the first to realise
That since smartphones
Were actually small computers
They could also run App programs
And so the Apple App store was born
Now there are fucking Apps everywhere
For every fucking thing
A world awash with the
Smartphone and Tablet App
A couple of million at the last count
And most of them are fucking crap.
If there is an App graveyard
Somewhere out there in the digital sky
The majority of those Apps will be deader than the dodo
Long before you and I.

HAMPSTEAD GIRLS

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I have posted this poem before but I think it is worth another reading

HAMPSTEAD GIRLS

A better class of person
Adorns the Hampstead
Red-bricks and glass
Whether lounging in the chic-lit bars
Or just lolling in the grass
Hampstead ladies in particular
Ride their bikes with elegance
And sip their foamy cappuccinos
With practised nonchalance.
On the pavements and in the cafes
There are no sightings
Of the culturally bereft
Even down-and-outs
Lean quite boldly to the left.
John Betjeman could not complain
Or call on Hampstead Heath
For bombs to rain
Nor suffer scorn like poor old Slough
Who he had deemed
Not fit for any humans now
Those air-conditioned bright canteens
In Hampstead’s glades will not be seen
And there’s plenty grass to graze his cow
Hampstead Heath’s as green as Ireland now!

DAWNING

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DAWNING

‘Silly old fool’, someone
Shouts in your wake
And in the brilliantly-lit
Cube of time ‘old’ is dangled
Before your eyes

And won’t go away

She called you old! And
In the instant it takes you
To turn around and see
The solitary young woman
Bend down to retrieve her parcel
It dawns on you that you are
Nearer the end than the beginning

Much nearer

It comes, not creeping in the dark,
But galloping unstoppably
Over the horizon
And you never see it

Silly old fool

THE MISSING POSTMAN AND OTHER STORIES

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Upcoming review:

SHORT STORIES REVIEW The Missing Postman and Other Stories

The Co Waterford-born novelist and playwright, Tom O’Brien is still on a very productive streak, and not only has he had two plays produced in London this year, but he has brought out another novel, a book of three Waterford plays, and now a new book of short stories – The Missing Postman and Other Stories. His output is impressive and the work paints a wonderful picture of an Ireland that is quirky and malevolent, as well as giving a wonderful sense of place and time. I am surprised he is not a tourist attraction, and that no Waterford theatre company has scheduled a production of his. What is it about a prophet and his home place?

These stories read like notes to plays, and some are charged with characters and menace, as in the novella-length, The Missing Postman, that looks at the crazy world of Zeb and Zoe, who come to Ireland (Co Waterford) to avenge, separate, unhappy childhoods, and go on a ‘Bonnie and Clyde’ robbery spree. They hide out in a curious cottage of Martin Og, who has surprises in the house of a high-tech nature.

In a chilling exploration that is full of tension and foreboding, the mysterious disappearance of Martin Og’s brother – The Postman of the title is remembered.

In Johnjo’s Tale, we get the sense of emigration and isolation, laced with the sickly nostalgia, for songs of an era of regret, heartache, and rights to property, keeping emigrants forever looking back to the old homestead. This notion of family possessions is forcefully brought home in a very short -The Dispossessed – where the message is driven home (pardon the pun) – you can never go back. Home is not and perhaps, never was, what you desperately wanted it to be.

The Homecoming, is another pithy story where the landscape of memory and the physical landscape of a Hill was quarried away to create a sense of false prosperity. For those who will come to know (and I sincerely hope so) Tom O’Brien as a fine playwright (which he is), these short stories will be viewed as source material into his themes and motivations. But they read as stories in their own right, full of human and bitter honesty, and full of dramatic tension and excitement.

SOMEWHERE BETWEEN US IS A ROOM

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SOMEWHERE BETWEEN US IS A ROOM
Somewhere between us is a room
It has six sides and no roof
‘Why is it open to the sky?’ you ask
I myself wonder why
But rather than show my ignorance
I say it is because it has no door
‘But I am in a wheelchair’, you say
‘I cannot be expected to pole vault myself inside’
‘I can make it four-sided’, I say
‘And we can use the two spares as ramps’
‘But it is eight foot tall’, you wail
‘Okay, forget it’, I say
‘It was only for a coffee anyway’.