Terry O'Leary

Terry O'Leary Nov 2013

He was my sun, my one and only son,
attired as a cowboy for the day.
And so I handed him a little gun
of fastened random sticks, for him to shoot and play.

Attired as a cowboy for the day
he searched for foes (with bows and arrows made
of fastened random sticks for them) to shoot, and play
the part of ‘Injuns’ in a mock charade.

He searched for foes (with bows and arrows made)
well written in his story books before he left for school.
The parts of ‘Injuns’ in a mock charade
were tainted with a crimson war paint, oh so cruel.

Well writ in history books before he left from school,
the tales (retold of victories that we’d won)
were tainted with a crimson war paint, oh so cruel.
The flow of paint was not to staunch when once begun.

From tales retold of victories that we’d won,
he learned to fight for God and country glory, though
the flow of pain, ’twas not to staunch when once begun
and bane to both sides (as he’d later come to know).

He learned to fight for God and country glory, though
the wounds of war were kept unseen (while nigh)
and bane to both sides (as we’d later come to know);
but still he stuffed a duffel bag with several things of youth, then said goodbye.

The wounds of war were kept unseen. While nigh,
the hours boomed, the clock struck 12 at last, his time to leave.
But, still, he stuffed a duffel bag with several things of youth, then said goodbye
to those who’d stay and even those who wouldn’t grieve.

The hours boomed, the clock struck 12 - alas, his time to leave.
They sent back body bags they’d stuffed with severed things of those who’d died
to those who’d stayed. And even those who wouldn’t grieve
with tears were stiff and masked like wooden boxes meant to hide.

They sent back body bags they’d stuffed with severed things of those who’d died;
his boots hung loose, one camouflaged in mud.
With tears, the stiff were masked in wooden boxes meant to hide
our children from the spilling of their blood.

His boots hung loose, one camouflaged in mud;
they said they’d needed him to help defend
our children from the spilling of their blood.
But can they ever see or really comprehend?

They said they’d needed him to help defend,
and so they handed him a little gun.
But can they ever see or really comprehend?
He was my sun, my one and only son.

Terry O'Leary Nov 2013

Ramblers

’Tween hither and thither we wended our way
skipping, dancing through sand dunes, in seascape croquet.
While woven in waves watching dolphins at play
I first tasted her lips in the ocean’s wild spray.

Mystic moonbeams, suffusing clouds’ shimmering sails,
unleashed us and whisked us down sensuous trails,
soon evoking the trills of untamed nightingales
as our passions pervaded green valleys and dales.

Being spectres of splendour in wanton sashay
we mastered our meaning in love’s matinee –
the breezes, in passing, slowed down to survey
blazing bodies embraced in youth’s blooming bouquet.

With the wind as our wings, till the Never we flew,
two gypsies, on junkets through dusk’s residue
gently floating like pollen to everywhere new,
so eluding pearled teardrops that paint the past blue.

Yes, we gamboled and gambled, two waifs led astray,
with our shackles afire and anchors aweigh –
rising higher and higher, the sun lured our sleigh,
teasing time was our temptress, night’n day after day.

Having stars in our eyes and all time as our view,
we’ve drifted, like dreamers where sprites rendezvous
and feasted on laughter and sipped morning dew
while rambling forever as one made of two.

Terry O'Leary Oct 2013

On Halloween (Rondeau)

On Halloween the sky was scarred
The full moon peered, a piercing shard,
Behind a hole, the eye of night,
Above the smell of death and fright,
Along a bone laced boulevard.

As corpses crept from crypts unbarred,
The flames, they crawled, with pale regard,
On roasting rot – a sanguine sight...
On Halloween.

The bones, they blanched within the yard,
Again to have their evening marred
By ghouls and fiends who rip and bite
With claws and fangs which drip delight
While gorging flesh, so slightly charred...
On Halloween.

;-)

Terry O'Leary Oct 2013

Sleepless in Whereis

I’m stealing through a twilit realm, the ancient pale of Whereis,
passing chambers of an Heiress
(though no need to feel embarrassed)
through a magic mystic mirror hanging curtainless.

A glimpse near naked alleyways (denuded by the moon) ex-
poses Ghosts in gauzy tunics
carving symbols, round and runic,
in distended dingy dungeons of uncertainness.

Down misty streets of cobblestone – ancestral avenues –
patchwork paths consume my shoes
(chasing foggy curlicues
twisting, twirling by in twos,
floating anywhere they choose),
leaving footprints that confuse
vagrant wispy retinues
of the threaded wooden sticks that stalk a Puppet wandering.

Condensed in drops of fantasy, distilled in evening dew,
shifting Shadows I pursue
(wearing faces I once knew,
slipping slowly from my view)
turn their backs to bid adieu
leaving stars to tempt me through
Awful Tower residues
mocking treasures time outgrew
in the birth of old from new
framing pageants in review
midst the visions of the painted past I can’t help pondering.

Contorted candelabra claw the skyline’s walled suspension
caught in twilight’s intervention
– still unlit (in stark dissension),
therefore seething with a tension
in the quiet apprehension
of the Watchman’s inattention
to the night-time’s bold pretension
to her power, not to mention,
to her hyperspace extension
(far beyond my comprehension
of the sundown’s bleak dimension) –
on exhausted beaten boulevards of foolish fretfulness.

Oblivion depletes me, voiding haste and hurried hassles,
me, a simple abject vassal,
trailing moonlit floating castles,
– fickle feet, but fingers facile
grasping straws and pendant tassels –
as I stumble through the rubble of forgetfulness.

I think I must be dreaming as I seem to see these things,
neath a sky alive with wings
(hear the Nightingale, she sings),
midst the whispered murmurings
soughed by Phantoms clad as Kings
pacing palaces in rings,
while their hapless footfall clings
to the sagging sinking sands of midnight’s splintered splattered ruins.

Entangled in the swirling leaves that spin in dizzy flurries,
(while the wind beside me scurries
as an ermined hermit hurries)
lurk my sleepy woes and worries
(glowing faint’ but growing blurry)
which, when plundered by the demon dusk, I’d left behind me strewn.

The forgery of Multitudes between the Silhouettes
(and discarded cigarettes,
neath the haunted parapets)
mock my lonely echoed steps
         – mock my lonely echoed steps –
(struck like clicking castanets
         – struck like clicking castanets –)
as I lace unlabeled lanes, erasing silence’ sullen treason.

The mossy stones condole with me (within the oubliettes
draped in blood and tears and sweat
sometimes dry, more often wet
quite like drops of anisette
sipped in moments one forgets
self-reproach and raw regrets)
midst the midnight minuets
and the purling pirouettes
of the fugitive Grisettes
(flaunting charms and amulets)
who, in flitting shades of arching bridges, linger longer, teasin’.

Along the When I’m drifting, but a stardust castaway,
weaving, threading by cafés
and deserted cabarets,
just a gauzy appliqué
on the river’s rippled spray,
chasing Fools along the way
through the strands of yesterday,
neath the throbbing peal of sobbing bells in spectral cloisters, quaking.

In belfries, high and haughty, alabaster Knights perform,
riding stiff against a storm,
steeped in cloudlike chloroform,
while the raven skies deform
and my shrivelled shovelled form
(rapt, while bats in steeples swarm
close to candles waxing warm)
hangs in hallowed hallways, hiding, shoulders weary, weak and aching.

Around me hover grinning masks, veiled visages of Queens,
feigning fatal final scenes
of demented doomed Dauphines
(against the scarlet sky they lean,
dreary dripping guillotines),
traced in opalescent ballrooms only tattered time remembers.

The hidden hands of Harlequins (while floating free, unseen
disbursing secrets sibylline,
amongst the manes of Halloween),
tap (on tumbrel tambourines
behind abandoned shuttered screens)
a dirge (with tattooed tones pristine)
for me (a heap in ragged jeans
in these crazy cluttered scenes),
trapped interred in toppled stone chateaus that dismal dawn dismembers.

Rogue breezes pierce, benumbing me, my ears and toes a’ freezin’
(in the Cockcrow’s purple season
as when nightmares should be easin’
and the Zephyr winds appeasin’),
so I reach for  rhyme and reason,
which endeavours leave me wheezin’,
caught impaled upon the jagged edge of early morning’s breaking.

The chill evoking silver chimes of Nodomain start knelling
as the searing sun looms swelling,
and their monodies hang dwelling
in the cloud drifts’ care, revelling,
but the Sandman’s too compelling
and my weariness impelling
– since my eyelids risk rebelling,
when they’ll fall, there’s no foretelling
for the starry sky’s past telling –
as I fade beneath the flaming forge while embers tremble, waking.

Terry O'Leary Oct 2013

We May Meet Again

Beneath long lashes, misty clad,
      Your limpid eyes are sometimes sad;
            They bring to mind a homeless waif
                  Engulfed in rain with nowhere safe

Most times I find a cheerful light
      Within your eyes that sparkles bright,
            And though my thoughts I try to hide
                  My happiness wells up inside

At dawn I see your eyes aglow
      Like founts through which your passions flow;
            And when I’m low they always loom
                  Like morning glories through the gloom

Your smile ashine beneath my gaze
      Effulgent eyes beam all ablaze:
            A look, a touch, a kiss I yearn,
                  You slowly make my body burn

While at your side and in a heap
      I scanned your eyes, half closed, asleep,
            And as you slept with pillow clutched,
                  Your eyelids with my lips I touched

And if you’ve ever wondered why
      I try to search within each eye,
            Though past is past, your eyes remind
                  Of bygone times when love was kind

Yet, though your eyes still cast a spell
      They seem to bid a fond farewell,
            Reflecting but a fading storm
                  Although I know your thoughts are warm

But now our paths will part, alas,
      For good things always come to pass;
            Perhaps it lies within God’s ken
                  That someday we may meet again

Terry O'Leary Oct 2013

Dark Black Night (Rubaiyat)

"Once upon a midnight", ghostly,
Partied many, dead ones mostly.
Feasting in the graveyard, sprightly,
Black fanged werewolves gorged, engrossedly.

In the bone yard, drab and squalid,
Apparitions (staring stolid
Neath the veiled moon, clouded lightly),
Sought fresh bodies, lean but solid.

Fiendish eyes shone, light and sparkly,
Ghouls and demons danced, so darkly.
Maggots munching mush unsightly,
Black blood streamed like ink, quite starkly.

Fetid flesh oozed, flowing freely,
Through the crypt doors, cold and steely.
Shadows, ashen, pranced contritely,
Ebon serpents slithered eely.

As it happens, all too often,
Zombies dimly closed the coffin –
Ra, the sun god, rising slightly
Hunger pangs were soon to soften.

If you ask, I’ll tell you blankly,
When you’re feeling dark and dankly
Come to where this happens nightly.
They’ll enjoy the feast, quite frankly...

;-)

Apologies to EAP

Terry O'Leary Oct 2013

The Morning of the Hurricanes

The Bishops bathe in Babylon
while Princes, prancing on the lawn,
watch Queen deflowered, pale and wan.
            The King dares not defend her.

The Horsemen, holding broken reins
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
sigh “it’s no use, it’s all in vain,
            the Saints will soon surrender”.

They wonder why they ever came,
they have No One whom they can blame,
they have no face, they have no name,
            and even less, a gender.

The empty-handed Vagabonds
smoke stale cigars, stroke faded Blondes
while waiting at the walls beyond,
            but kneel as Chaos enters.

They’re gazing through the window panes
in hopes that distant Hurricanes
will twist and break their iron chains
            defying life’s tormentors.

The Fantom of the Opera frowns
as feeble minded Cleric-clowns
mouth hollow hurdy-gurdy sounds
           when blessing doomed dissenters.

The Pirate wields a wooden leg,
with pupils dull and visage vague,
and if by chance he spreads the plague,
            it really doesn’t matter.

His Princess, pale, no longer feigns,
foresees instead (down ancient lanes)
the coming of the Hurricanes -
            the Stones stir, staring at her.

And Jackals scrape the river bed
as Savants soothe the underfed
and Crows, collecting scattered bread,
            adorn, with crumbs, the platter.

The Jokers Wild and One Eyed Janes
weep, winding up in rundown trains
mid whispers of the Hurricanes,
            and Priests refuse to christen.

They’re fleeing from the Leprechauns,
the cuckoo birds, the dying swans;
while pitching pennies into ponds
            their eyes opaquely glisten.

The spectral Clocks with spindled spokes
remind the Mimes to tell the  Folks
the time of day and other jokes,
            yet No One looks to listen.

The Hunchbacks with contorted canes
galumph before the Hurricanes,
in melted sleet, in frozen rains,
            in bruised and battered sandals.

Their Groans engulf the land of gulls,
the land of stones, the land of nulls,
and lurk between the blackened lulls,
            for Nighttime brooks no candles.

Their prayers to Dogs and Nuns and Dukes,
(and other long forgotten Spooks)
are more than random crazed rebukes,
            though taunting to the Vandals.

The Beggars ’neath the balustrades,
and broken Children, Chambermaids,
are running wild from wraiths, afraid
            of dreams where death redoubles.

They fritter time with tattered threads
(from ragged clothes they’ve left in shreds),
crocheting hoods to hide their heads
            and faces, full of rubble.

But many things will not remain
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
when goblets filled with cool champagne
           evaporate in bubbles.

The White-Robed Maid adorns the trash
with charnel urns awash in ash,
then fumbles with an untied sash
            while pacing in the Palace.

Her hopes congeal in coffee spoons
with memories adrift in dunes;
yet, still she smiles with teeth like prunes
            and lips of painted callus.

And long before the midnight drains,
the Saviour wakes, the Loser gains,
the waters of the Hurricanes
            will fill her empty chalice.

The storm (behind the clarinets,
the silver flutes, the castanets,
the foghorns belching in quartets,
            the bagpipes, puffed and swollen)

is keeping time to tambourines
while Tom Thumb and the Four-Inch Queen,
pick up the shards and smithereens
            of moments lost or stolen.

They’re trekking through the Dim Domains
(where fountains weep, the mountain wanes),
yet can’t escape the Hurricanes
            with trundling eyes patrollin’.

The Crowds (arrayed in jewels) in jails,
stoop, peering through a fence of nails
while light behind their eyeballs pales
            with plastic flame that sputters.

They huddle there because they must
(with eyelids hung like peeling rust,
their tears, palled pellets in the dust),
            behind the bolted shutters.

They’ll reawake without their pains
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
without their sores, without their stains,
their agonies will fill the drains
            and overflow the gutters.