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JG O'Connor Jan 20
In the dark of the night,
I will dig my own grave.
I will smile as I lie in it,
Looking at the stars.
The earth will caress me,
Like an old pal.
It wont judge me,
Or berate me for my absence.
And if there is enough spirit,
Left in me.
Perhaps a flower,
Will start to grow,
And replace me.
JG O'Connor Dec 2020
Some days are inspirational
Some days are not
Some days are happy
Some days are not
Some days are sad
Some days are not
Some days are rare
Some days are not
Some days teach us
Some days do not
But then those are all our days.
JG O'Connor Oct 2020
A lone Robin reminisces outside my window.
Casually flirting with the shrubs.
Holding his head sideways,
With suave glance.
That almost hands on the hips look,
That would melt any heart.
He is curious,
As much as I am.
And I've forgotten,
What it was that was bothering me.
JG O'Connor Sep 2020
He watches his son.
A smile like a voyage,
Crosses the sleeping child's face.
Tucked beneath the sheets,
Unaware of the years,
His father has held the night sky aloft,
With both hands above his head,
So that he would come to no harm.

Nor will he remember,
How he held those tiny perfect hands,
On  deadly adventures,
As they explored,
The gorges between the table and the chairs.

Nor will he remember the kiss,
That cured his every injury
As he sleeps peacefully.
Believing  there are no dangers in this world,
That his Dad cannot subdue.

There is no need of clapping or candles lit,
For the ordinary superhero.
JG O'Connor Jul 2020
I searched for the bench,
On Stephen's Green,
Where we sat.
Our touch was so intense then,
Full of future.

I found it today.
So many decades later,
Tried to recapture that memory.
All there is now,
Is the smell of fast food restaurants,
Serving takeaway moments,
And squabbling seagulls.

You asked me to stay then,
To make love.
But I was in a rush,
Had a train to catch,
To the past.
Funny how that even catches up on you.
JG O'Connor Jul 2020
These could be the best days,
I wouldn’t know.
There are no signs,
Written across our tiny universe to tell.

Even if there were signs,
Would I believe them?
Our lives are doomed to imperfection.
There is nothing that we think could not be better.

There is no wind that fills a sail,
That could not be better from a different quarter.
There is no taste of a luscious orange plucked from a tree,
That we have decided could not be better.

There is no gentle evening perfumed breeze,
That caresses a cheek that could not smell better.
Because of our own imperfections,
We abhor perfection.

Things never last forever.
Things are never fully complete.
Things are never as we experience them.
But the perfection lies in things as there are.

Nothing was ever meant to be perfect.
But we can dream,
And in our dreams,
We can make everything intimately and entirely our own.
JG O'Connor Jul 2020
Old Navigators,
Where they go or dream,  
Doesn’t matter.
As long as there is still,
Somewhere to go.

Meanwhile I'll just sit on the edge,
Well ahead of the crowd,
Waiting for the train to eternity.
Where it goes does anybody know?

While I wait,
I’ll sit on this deck,
I’ll dangle my feet in the warm sea,
Look at the sights.

And I’ll enjoy it all,
With the spirit I was given.
Perhaps I’ll whistle a tune while I wait,
Even if it is bad luck,
It hardly matters.

Maybe I’ll write in the log book.
And if someone after me reads the entry,
That’s fine.
And if they don’t,
That’s fine too.
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