The Wolf
A cruel Jack Frost blows icy floss
(in front of spring a' burstin')
While swirlin' sheaves of withered leaves,
near freezin' streams a' thirstin'.
A pack reviled is roamin' wild,
a wakin' wolf is howlin',
He scents a lean and lonesome scene,
while on the lurk and prowlin'.
With spangled bolts, white clouds revolt,
and starry skies start closin';
A wild goose soars beyond death's doors,
the naked moon sits posin';
Electric shafts (on fractured rafts)
sail night's cathedral caldrons -
A frenzied burst, the herd's dispersed
in random splayed and sprawled runs.
A she-wolf's eyes with famine cry,
the ancient wolf is bayin',
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poem by Terry O'Leary
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50's And 60's Weird TV On Channel 3
I think I must be seeing things
Before me stand the four of kings,
They shuffle when the Bishop brings
Annette upon nine raven wings
And Beanie rides a sea serpent
And wonders where the yellow went;
I go to pay the next day's rent,
Where have they taken my new tent?
The bandstand kids look like Dick Clark,
Turn on the lights, I'm in the dark,
I'm standing in Grand Central Park,
A worm has caught a purple lark
And Kookie has run out of combs
So rents out rooms in old maid's homes,
He has B.O. where ere he roams
So buys some spray and sells his tomes,
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poem by Terry O'Leary
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Lost Love Deliria
AWAKENING
Sleep and slumber, dreams of wonder... weaving,
morning's vacuum broke the spell
Pitted pillow, note of parting... leaving,
'from your friend, a fond farewell'
Sunrise throbbing, twilight aching... grieving,
daydreams, flashbacks, nightmares knell
Pale phantasms, visions sneaking... thieving,
plot to fill the empty shell
12 DELIRIA
1st Delirium: Collapses
Fractured sky bolts, billows bursting... rumbling,
heavens tighten, turn the vise
Horsemen saddle shafts of lightning... tumbling,
jagged highways must suffice
Ruptured skyways, hailstones crackling... crumbling,
naked pearls of paradise
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poem by Terry O'Leary
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Green Spanish Eyes
Ah Consuela! Surveying vast vistas for visions of green Spanish eyes,
I discern them again where she left me back then, when we kissed as she parted, my friend.
So I'm daring to tread towards the klieg lights ahead, where I'll wait and I'll watch her ascend.
Ah Consuela! I'm watching, she teases the mirror with green Spanish eyes;
Her serape entangles her ebony bangles like lace on the sorcerer's looms,
And her capes of the night, she drapes tight to excite, and her fan is embellished with plumes.
Ah Consuela! I'm watching as spectators savour her green Spanish eyes;
Taming wild concertinas, the dark ballerina performs on the concert hall stage,
But she shies from the sound of ovation unbound like a timorous bird in a cage.
Ah Consuela! I'm watching, she quickens the pit with her green Spanish eyes,
As the cymbals shake, clashing, the floodlights wake, flashing, igniting the wild fireflies,
And the piccolo piper's inviting the vipers to coil in the cold caldron skies.
Ah Consuela! I'm watching the shimmering shadows in green Spanish eyes
As I rise from my chair and converge to the stair with a hesitant sip of my wine.
Though she doesn't deny me, she wanders right by me with neither a look nor a sign.
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poem by Terry O'Leary
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Never Land
PREFACE
This yarn is a fabric woven of several earlier warped works, lightly laced together with additional braided tales of human frailty. The looms were purling frantically... Some pearls may be found wonting, hanging loose, dangling free within a fuzzy flight of fancy... These untethered strands may be fastened, or be forgotten, or be hidden by the readers in the corners of their minds... Some may end up in stitches, others all torn up or ripped apart, others may just say ‘made of hole cloth', ‘sew what' or ‘I don't seam to get the needle point'... This wanton web is yours to spin...
Some have said that such strange things ‘have Never happened in our Land', such quaint things ‘could Never happen in our Land'', such murky things ‘will Never happen in our Land''... and this may be true... such is the gossamer that veils the human mind... and thus ensues the title of this Fantasy...
NEVER LAND
An ancient man named Peter Pan, disguised but from the past,
With feathered cap and tunic wrap and sabre's sailed his last.
Though fully grown, on dust he's flown and perched upon a mast
Atop the Walls around the sprawls, unvisited and vast -
And all the while with bitter smile he's watching us aghast.
As day begins, a spindle spins, it weaves a wanton web;
Like puckered prunes, like midday moons, like yesterday's celebs,
We scrape and grope, we seldom hope - he's watching while we ebb:
The organ grinder preaches fine on Sunday afternoons -
He quotes from books but overlooks the Secrets Carved in Runes:
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poem by Terry O'Leary
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