I'll Always Remember
I'll always remember the moment we met...
(Haunting meadows in springtime, your slim silhouette) .
The ghost of your eyes cracked a new morning dawn,
Disturbing the dreams of a slumbering fawn.
I'll always remember your singular smile
(Feigning figures and fancies and phantoms the while)
When I offered a rosebud - then flew from the room,
Weaving dizzy designs on a mystical loom.
I'll always remember first touching your hand
(Ruffled wing of a sparrow - the feathers were fanned) .
Burning body aflutter, I jittered with joy -
On the surface, a man, but inside still a boy.
I'll always remember the sound of your laugh
(Ocean waters were splashing... a midsummer bath)
As we strayed on the strand, for a moment, alone,
With your hair all a' tousle and tumbled and blown.
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poem by Terry O'Leary
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Bitterness
The fires in her eyes tonight
Call forth the thought that they invite,
Though I remember, long ago
My absence seemed more apropos.
The smile that lingers on her lips
Says more than many verbal slips -
The time when it was somewhat grim
Is in the past and rather dim.
She flayed me once, no, more than twice
She flayed me both with flames and ice
And once again, ironically,
She primes me for catastrophe.
Those curious, nearby, just watch
Her try to cut a deeper notch.
But even they don't seem to know
The depths to which she'd really go.
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poem by Terry O'Leary
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Sleep In My Arms Lullaby
The somnolent skies have ceased seething, for day's nearly through
And the winds echo whispering thoughts of returning to you.
The heavens throb, pulsing and bleeding in crimsons, once blue,
Their passions, like flames, fill my veins as you pass into view;
The breeze holds its breath as you touch and embrace me anew
And smouldering clouds withdraw, blushing, and paling their hue.
The twilight is painted with wandering dreams of your charms
So close your eyes slowly and slip into sleep in my arms.
The pendulous moon appears, sweeping the fog from up high
Distilling the drops into notes of a hushed lullaby,
The quivering tunes unfold tales which amaze, mystify,
The stories they tell reflect love as revealed by your sighs,
And tremulous stars fling a fire that fevers the skies,
Their fury is burning, alive in the depths of your eyes.
The twilight is painted with wandering dreams of your charms
So close your eyes slowly and slip into sleep in my arms.
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poem by Terry O'Leary
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Alone Again
Cold rains drizzle dreary... sweeping off the sky,
Spectres pass 'long side me... collars turned up high,
My visions are invisible and no one hears me cry.
Minstrels of destruction... rapping at my door,
Naked anvils aching... heavy hammers roar,
Their monodies of emptiness throb bleeding on my floor.
House of cards collapsing... sagging walls of wax,
Deuces in dissention... Kings with broken backs;
The Joker's lost and stumbles by, alone, along the tracks
Steeples stand dismantled... muted bells below,
Ruins quake and tremble... freezing in the snow,
The pains implode within my brain, the pale winds cruelly blow.
Prophets fill the temples... residues of tea
Highways of no entrance... tracks of destiny,
The phantoms in my nightmare dreams tell tales of running free.
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poem by Terry O'Leary
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I Hear Guitars a' Calling
I hear guitars a' calling in the gloaming's final fling
When sinking suns relay their flames to fairies on the wing
Igniting one by one the jewels of midnight's diamond blaze
As day becomes a yawning ash beneath a starry gaze.
I hear guitars a' calling from the clouds within the skies,
With tunes which flow as purple drops from sad and weepy eyes
Of silent speaking troubled souls who stand alone in grief,
But hold the vastness of the stars within a trembling leaf.
I hear guitars a' calling from the beat beneath her breast,
The murmur throbs of passion and a sensuous unrest
That rumbles deep in silent woods before the raging storm
And splits the air in morning meadows bursting green with corn.
I hear guitars a' calling in the gentle splashing rain,
Which summons with a soothing purr upon my window pane
And conjures up a childhood dream within a vagrant breeze
Entwining me in cryptic webs of misty vortices.
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poem by Terry O'Leary
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Captive Bird - 12 Bars 12 Dreams
12 BARS
Twelve rusty bars, one frozen lock -
Confined, sublime, an ancient Roc,
Enclosed inside a barren cage -
Her catacomb in sundown sage.
Of former days there is no trace
Except displays of fallen grace -
Twelve dreams, abiding in her place,
Are free and dwell in yawning space:
12 DREAMS
Of wings unfurled, and seething eyes
That dredge the depths of dawning skies
Unclamping clouds that hang below,
Once ice, dissolved in morning's glow;
Of clutching winds that carry free
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poem by Terry O'Leary
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A Pregnant Lass
A pregnant lass with eyes of glass has never learned to cope.
Once set adrift her fall was swift, she slid a slipp'ry slope -
She casts the Curse, the Holy Verse, and shoots a shot of dope,
And stalks discreet Asylum Street her daily horoscope -
The stray was struck by random truck which was her only hope.
Well, Banjo Boy, with little joy, he strums her life entire:
"The wayward waif was never safe; her stars were dark and dire.
Born midst the rues and avenues where lack and want aspire
Where no one heeds the childish needs that little ones require;
Where faith survives in tempest lives, a swirl within the briar,
Infinity grinds as time unwinds, until the winds expire.
Her last caprice? The final peace that no one could deny her -
Whipped by the flood, stray beads of blood are spattered on the spire;
Though beads of sweat are cool and wet, cold clotted blood is dryer."
Though broken there, she's fled the snare with dying thoughts serene.
And now she's dead, the rumours spread: her age? a sweet 16,
With child, unwed, her soul dyed red, her body so unclean.
A place is sought where she can rot, avoiding churchyard scenes,
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poem by Terry O'Leary
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Isolde - If Only You'd Be Mine
You give to me the morning sun that dances in your smile
A flower wild among the stones upon a rocky isle
A lonely wood with hidden paths where we can walk awhile
You lead me by the hand through nights into the waking days
Through swinging gates in mirrored walls and through the midnight haze
Through castles built in sandbox realms in children's yesterdays
You give to me a ragged doll, a puppet on a string
A ride upon a rocking horse, a swallow on the wing
A ribbon trailing from your hair, a red or scarlet thing
You whisk me from a valley deep wherein a black wind blows
And tracks upon the empty sands are hidden by the snows,
And share with me your secret thoughts and steal away my woes
You give to me a silver flute, a whistle on a chain
A drummer boy with dancing feet, a sugar candy cane
A window flushed with foolish tears and pitter-patter rain
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poem by Terry O'Leary
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While I Gaze In Your Eyes
While I gaze in your eyes, cool cerulean blue,
Sifting night, straining stars through morning's sweet dew,
I can fathom the depths of empyreal skies,
Angels fluttering by, riding wild butterflies
While I gaze in your eyes, changing, aqua-blue greening,
I'm sucked into chasms, cascading, careening,
And yield to enticements which meekly disarm,
Seeping virtuous beauty, sad sensuous charm
While I gaze in your eyes, bleeding fiery blue
Ever tempting with treasures, with pleasures for two,
Being caught at the core of a blazing sapphire
Possessing, enthralling, aflame with desire
While I gaze in your eyes, misty emeralds, deep green,
Veiling laughter and banter, and echoes between,
Then I dream, so it seems, in whatever the place,
Of your scent, of your breath, of your radiant face
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poem by Terry O'Leary
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He Was My Sun
He was my sun, my one and only son,
and dressed up as a cowboy for the day.
And so I handed him a little gun
of fastened random sticks, for him to shoot and play.
And dressed up as a cowboy for the day
he found some foes (with bows and arrows made
of fastened random sticks for them) to shoot, and play
the part of redskins in a mock charade.
He found some foes (with bows and arrows made)
in his story books before he left for school.
The parts of redskins, in a mock charade,
were painted with a crimson war paint, oh so cruel.
In history books, before he left from school -
the tales they told, of victories that we'd won,
were painted with a crimson war paint, oh so cruel -
the flow of paint was hard to staunch when once begun.
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poem by Terry O'Leary
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