A Human Voice
a human voice,
a Slavic magic
storming into
the dried out
wastelands
of my weary soul.
poem by John O'connell
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Bliss.
Bliss.
A
chamber
orchestra
exulti ng -
with
football
results
coming
in
overa
silent screen.
poem by John O'connell
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Heaving in my heart
Heaving in my heart
plucked guitar notes
send a hopeful tune out
to the limitless bounds
of space and the eternal.
poem by John O'connell
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Mister Williams
Mister Williams
and his guitar
bring aesthetics
to a new new level
in the Eden of my room -
my soul totally ravaged
for 3 odd minutes.
poem by John O'connell
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Langer Light,
langer light,
langer light
and langer light,
late
on this spring
afternoon,
with a feast
of varied music
pouring into my radiant
soul.
poem by John O'connell
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Storm at sea
Storm at sea -
fishing boats
tossed about
in the spume
of giant waves.
Each pause
in the onslaught
like being offered
a last cigarette
before they blindfold
you.
poem by John O'connell
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O! Sacred Muse
O! Sacred Muse
where is your voice
in this dry
and empty
desert of immensity?
In dark isolation
this winter's morning
the heart yearns apparently alone
while the mind remains vacant.
Having put the radio on
music from a requiem
seems to add to a soul's distress.
I place my pen on the table again.
poem by John O'connell
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6 degrees Celsius
-6 degrees Celsius.
from my balcony,
yes, the atlas
of my balcony,
with the music
of the masters
pouring forth
from within,
I follow the stars
direction Norway
and Sweden
while around the corner
one looks towards Iceland
and 'those islands'.
Kleve is just across the way
and Paris and Brussels
down the road.
this is my mainland!
poem by John O'connell
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From in the womb
From in the womb of dim and vague lights
to the blinding action of sun-filled days;
to the blinding action of sun-filled days.
Hop and step -
you realize that you have jumped
only 30 years later.
Maybe, that is why they say
that life begins at forty!
To the billowing action of sun-filled days;
to the billowing action of sun-filled days.
poem by John O'connell
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Sandwiches: Tomato And Egg
sandwiches: tomato and egg
and the flask of tea;
ice-cream and a bottle of fizzy orange.
vague consciousness
of women dressing
or undressing
inside the flimsy protection
of giant sized towels
the pursuit of the tide going out;
finding oneself detached in isolation,
left behind pools of shells, crabs, starfishes
and child-like absorption.
poem by John O'connell
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