lara-otoole - Hello Poetry

He was one of those rare people Who heard birdsong in the silence, Who saw colour in the dark, Whose rich tongue could describe The tantalising aroma of foreign meals As our senses were ***** by cheap perfume in expensive bottles, Who appreciated olive skin and who glorified brown eyes, Who could tell with conviction the tales of his youth When the cream sat atop the milk in a glass bottle Topped with paper which the crows would pick away Before they greedily swallowed its innards, Whose hands were warm and comforting Though rough and dark, Who could make you believe, as the bombs dropped, That everything would be fine, That when we wake up the next morning The daffodils will still rattle with passionate intensity, That the glass would sit calmly in the window pane, That his rough hands would still be on mine As the sun rose and the noise hushed. And they called him mad.

0

Mar 29, 2016

Mar 29, 2016 at 10:23 PM UTC

To Quench the Hearth of Hestia

He was one of those rare people Who heard birdsong in the silence, Who saw colour in the dark, Whose rich tongue could describe The tantalising aroma of foreign meals As our senses were ***** by cheap perfume in expensive bottles, Who appreciated olive skin and who glorified brown eyes, Who could tell with conviction the tales of his youth When the cream sat atop the milk in a glass bottle Topped with paper which the crows would pick away Before they greedily swallowed its innards, Whose hands were warm and comforting Though rough and dark, Who could make you believe, as the bombs dropped, That everything would be fine, That when we wake up the next morning The daffodils will still rattle with passionate intensity, That the glass would sit calmly in the window pane, That his rough hands would still be on mine As the sun rose and the noise hushed. And they called him mad.

21

These days, I resent the inevitable morning, The perpetual lethargy And the whittling reminder that the world Has already begun. I hate the mass of the sand As I stride past daffodils and quills And children who are so inquisitive in their innocence And those who will never receive a meaningful farewell. I detest my unhappiness And my cheery neighbours who insist That their mornings are so eagerly anticipated And waste endless teary tissues at night. I despise the mushrooms that have grown on The grassy and earthy and sandy paths, That no shoes have kicked them mercilessly, For no shoes have crossed them in a small eternity. I loathe the universal perception That "love" has become an illusion- A tired and worthless roar Into the increasingly desirable abyss. I abominate the abnormality of hope And that those who empty their shallow pockets of it Are greeted with a similar distaste To the farmers who spread manure in the spring. However, what I hate most is the relentless truth That I consistently find myself comfortable, Educated, loved, well-fed, And bitter And the fact that so many others do not.

0

Mar 22, 2016

Mar 22, 2016 at 7:26 PM UTC

Perspective

These days, I resent the inevitable morning, The perpetual lethargy And the whittling reminder that the world Has already begun. I hate the mass of the sand As I stride past daffodils and quills And children who are so inquisitive in their innocence And those who will never receive a meaningful farewell. I detest my unhappiness And my cheery neighbours who insist That their mornings are so eagerly anticipated And waste endless teary tissues at night. I despise the mushrooms that have grown on The grassy and earthy and sandy paths, That no shoes have kicked them mercilessly, For no shoes have crossed them in a small eternity. I loathe the universal perception That "love" has become an illusion- A tired and worthless roar Into the increasingly desirable abyss. I abominate the abnormality of hope And that those who empty their shallow pockets of it Are greeted with a similar distaste To the farmers who spread manure in the spring. However, what I hate most is the relentless truth That I consistently find myself comfortable, Educated, loved, well-fed, And bitter And the fact that so many others do not.

29

I worried when I saw him, Alone with no fresh air His rosy cheeks stained red with tears And wet his sweat soaked hair. I watched as he stared- aimless- Into the late night sky, His blue eyes frightened, innocent, And then they met with mine. So I smiled, reluctantly, For I shook, red with rage His ginger hair, his cold arms bare, Only two years of age? He gawked around, the traffic lights distracted him a while, Till in a daze he stared right back And offered me his smile. Then I waved and thought it wrong That he should be alone, He giggled then- the sweetest laugh That I have ever known. The minutes passed, my worry grew, The drug store door ajar, I kept his eyes open on mine, As I watched him in the car. An eternity had come and gone And I found myself quite shocked To see his mother return to him; She left the doors unlocked. She turned to him, worried I think Though I'm still not certain why. I drove away, with several more, And waved this boy goodbye.

0

Mar 20, 2016

Mar 20, 2016 at 8:53 PM UTC

Moses

I worried when I saw him, Alone with no fresh air His rosy cheeks stained red with tears And wet his sweat soaked hair. I watched as he stared- aimless- Into the late night sky, His blue eyes frightened, innocent, And then they met with mine. So I smiled, reluctantly, For I shook, red with rage His ginger hair, his cold arms bare, Only two years of age? He gawked around, the traffic lights distracted him a while, Till in a daze he stared right back And offered me his smile. Then I waved and thought it wrong That he should be alone, He giggled then- the sweetest laugh That I have ever known. The minutes passed, my worry grew, The drug store door ajar, I kept his eyes open on mine, As I watched him in the car. An eternity had come and gone And I found myself quite shocked To see his mother return to him; She left the doors unlocked. She turned to him, worried I think Though I'm still not certain why. I drove away, with several more, And waved this boy goodbye.

32

It sat idle in the corner Where its many caverns hosted the crumbs Of burnt toast and brown copper coins; It was his nest and, Like the cuckoo, he returned day after day, Year after year; And it smelled of him- like ginger ale and oil, Both of which he claimed could fix even the stiffest of joints Yet he could hardly move after more than a glass; The fabric's corners, rough and green, had torn in places, Sticky and unpleasant to the untrained mind But to him, It was perfect. After decades of sitting, He left his dent In the chair And people felt uncomfortable Even assuming his spot For no one could compare to such a gentleman; So we remembered As it sat idle in the corner Where its many caverns hosted the crumbs Of burnt toast and brown copper coins And the memory of what once was An Extraordinary Man.

0

Jan 18, 2016

Jan 18, 2016 at 2:47 PM UTC

My Grandfather's Chair

It sat idle in the corner Where its many caverns hosted the crumbs Of burnt toast and brown copper coins; It was his nest and, Like the cuckoo, he returned day after day, Year after year; And it smelled of him- like ginger ale and oil, Both of which he claimed could fix even the stiffest of joints Yet he could hardly move after more than a glass; The fabric's corners, rough and green, had torn in places, Sticky and unpleasant to the untrained mind But to him, It was perfect. After decades of sitting, He left his dent In the chair And people felt uncomfortable Even assuming his spot For no one could compare to such a gentleman; So we remembered As it sat idle in the corner Where its many caverns hosted the crumbs Of burnt toast and brown copper coins And the memory of what once was An Extraordinary Man.

25