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Best Red Omara Poems

Below are the all-time best Red Omara poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Details | Red Omara Poem

One Day if I Could Spend The Night

One day, perhaps if I could spend the night, 
I would stack your hearth with firewood 
so we could sit together on your couch 
you, your feet tucked under you, 
your head against my chest, 
while I held you close and breathed
that faint and lovely fragrance of your hair,
and we could dine on pizza and red wine, 
in the softly glowing firelight. 
One day, perhaps, if I could spend the night. 

One day, perhaps if I could spend the night, 
there would be no haste, 
no urgency in either of our lives, 
and we could have another glass of wine, 
speaking soberly of matters sombre, 
if we felt that way inclined. 
Or, we would have that other glass of wine 
and laugh at matters impolite, 
one day, perhaps, if I could spend the night. 

One day, perhaps if I could spend the night, 
when we were ready we would go to bed 
and kiss and make unhurried love. 
Or, equally unhurried, we would not. 
And we would listen to the wind and rain 
then kiss and make unhurried love again. 
Or, equally unhurried, we would not. 
And we would sleep, egg and spoon together, 
with each of us at peace. 
And everything in both our worlds, 
would be just right. 
One day, 
perhaps, 
if I could spend the night. 


Details | Red Omara Poem

How The Big Mac Got The Gherkin

Once upon an ancient time, 
in long gone languid days, 
when distant misted myths bechanced 
in lovely rhym'ed ways, 
when time was so much freer, 
less allotted to the minute, 
‘twas then the mighty Big Mac 
got the gherkin in it. 


The night was one made fit for gods, 
and stars made white the sky, 
and drunk, dylsexic old McDonald 
sang Oh Eee, Oh Eee, I. 
His greatest yet creation 
sat on his barbie plate, 
it was the mighty Big Mac, 
with no inkling of its fate. 


McDonald thought the pattie lacked 
ce qu'il ne savait pas. 
He decided what he'd give it 
was this green thing from a jar. 
But Big Mac cried out, ‘Hang about! 
I like the way I am! 
And I think that what I need the least, 
is a prostate gland exam.' 


McDonald growled, ‘Don't be a sook! 
It's not gonna hurt a bit. 
Just close your eyes and grit your teeth, 
and keep loose where you sit.' 
Big Mac firmly grasped his bun 
and held it really tight, 
he had Phallicvegiephobia 
and would resist with all his might. 


But McDonald was too smart by far, 
Big Mac was not his match, 
the old bloke snuck up from behind 
to by surprise him catch. 
Beneath an unsuspecting arm 
he applied a little tickle, 
the burger gave a little laugh, 
and got a little pickle... 


So the Big Mac we all know today 
was born of subterfuge. 
And although the gherkin in it 
aint really all that huge, 
remember that it's only there 
by the skullest of skullduggery, 
and that bit we discard's the fruit 
of midnight burger buggery. 


Details | Red Omara Poem

Slow Movin Tights

I'm in me bath here, with a box of red cheer, 
yeah a box of red cheer, beer's too bloody dear.
Me mind's wanderin twixt big tits and riches, 
bein able to scratch at what itches, 
without scratchin the bum out your britches.
 
If they think you got what, 
they'd rather they'd got, 
mate, hang onto your hat, 
they'll bloody take that. 

That girl in black tights, so jam-packed with delights, 
nights full of delights in them slow movin tights. 
She's not, like Jacko reckons, a whore.
Wouldn't lie on me bare wooden floor.
Christ, I did nothin to get to be poor.
 
And you can't pay what's due
so your creditors sue? 
Funny old world, not half.
But good for a laugh.
 
I can't help but hear next door's shoutin and tears,
all their shoutin and tears, I can hear em from here, 
through the stem of me glass on the wall. 
Pray to God he don't hit her at all. 
I'm half pissed and spliffed and I never could brawl.
 
But I stand in the queue, 
for a place in the zoo. 
Heard you shouldn't have pride.
They wouldn't have lied.
 
A party's upstairs but I can't breathe their airs.
I won't breathe their airs, them there upstairs.
So I fill the bathroom with me smoke.
All those girls shaggin some other bloke.
I just lie here and soak and suck on me toke.
 
What's it like not to do
what your needs need you to, 
to beg borrow or steal, 
to make it come real? 

I hear downstairs' soul hit his lavatory bowl.
That porcelain bowl gets the whole of his soul, 
as I wring out the bladder of red.
All the sweetest of girls, Jacko said, 
have big whites to their eyes that aint never've bled.
 
There aint nothin so nice 
as those whitest of whites.
On rich girls with sweet arses
in slow movin tights.


Details | Red Omara Poem

Maggie

She isn't beautiful as Nefertiti was.
And unlike Helen, 
her face will never launch a thousand ships.
My Maggie's beauty is more open, than entrancing
more welcoming, than enthralling, 
more giving, than demanding, 
more durable, than perfect.
Perfection inspires no passion, 
no lust.
Nefertiti over Maggie? 
Maggie, with her woman's body? 
Maggie, with flesh where woman should have flesh? 
Maggie, with fullness where love and longing
would suffer nothing else? 
Yet she strews a careless beauty all about her,
the tender beauty in her gaze
that holds and softens and moulds
a better man within me
than the one that she first knew,
and the bold, brave beauty of her crooked smile,
her smile that tells me who she is, 
and who she does not care to be.
Her smile may never softly kill a single soul 
but it warms me, softly warms me
as I hold her spent and gentle body close to mine
it warms me to dream dreams beyond my worth
and to aspire beyond my dreams.


Details | Red Omara Poem

A Little House of Memories

It was a lovely little house.

Built of white painted timber,

with a gabled roof clad in green tin,

it had never been a rich person's house.

It was her house. 

And driving up to park outside it,

each time I went there, 

was like the beginning of a new adventure.

I would always enter by the rickety side gate

and walk through that small garden she tended to on weekends, 

in the hope that one day it might become beautiful.

The back door gave entry to her tiny kitchen where,

sometimes she would be,

baking scones or some other treat for her and me

to have later with some coffee or cheap red wine.

It wasn't a well designed house.

The bathroom and lavatory and laundry

weren't where you might expect.

And most rooms were very small. 

But for the living cum dining room.

And her bedroom. 

I never counted all the rooms in that house.

I'm not certain I even saw all of them.

But all of those I did see 

were furnished and decorated with pieces that she

had shopped for at garage sales

and in second hand shops.

Except for those things she'd made herself.

There were pictures she had painted,

and other hand crafted knick-knacks.

And some bottles filled 

with interesting vegetable matter

embalmed in colourful oils and such.

It was a small house and a little quaint.

But beautiful.

And warm. 

Her bedroom was of a good size 

and her bed was large and sumptuous,

with a profusion of richly coloured cushions and pillows.

We'd discovered one another in that large bed,

in that good sized bedroom,

in that warm little house,

that still warms me with it's memories. 

For there was nothing inside that house

that she had not chosen.


Details | Red Omara Poem

And Luke Williams Has Gone Celibate

I hope your holiday has been a good one.
Apparently there's been lots of sunshine
and that pool is very big and very blue. 
And you look to be happy enough.
The weather here has been okay.
Well, it rained all weekend
but I stayed indoors anyway, 
looking through that shoebox of photographs
that got left in the wardrobe when you moved out.
I found that ear ring in the bottom of the box,
that one you lost last year,
one of the pair I bought you to commemorate our “first”.
I think you still have the other one.
And you’d never guess! 
That band you always liked,
the one that played Tobacco Road that night
and kept playing it and playing it? 
I saw in the paper that they’re in town
and playing at a pub in Hawthorn on Saturday night.
I’ve been wondering if you might
like to go there with me.
And did you hear that Luke Williams has gone celibate?
And he thinks that he deserves a bloody medal.


Details | Red Omara Poem

The Lover

The lover, bold beyond his years, 
loved when she held him by his ears, 
as in their bless'ed mingling place, 
he kissed her as he washed his face.
For ever he'd have stayed down there, 
but for his need to rise for air.
And at the end when they both rose, 
up from their lust to put on clothes, 
he saw within her looking glass, 
his naked image, sagging arse, 
and knew his past did best his future.
Or they don't make mirrors like they useter.


Details | Red Omara Poem

Memories Beyond The Door

As an ordinary man I have ordinary needs
and doubts, laments and dreads. 
I have strong knowledge of right from wrong
but little stomach for the fight.
And so I know too well of memories that lurk
beyond a door too easily opened.
Memories I would simply shun,
had I the strength of mind to think me guiltless.
But spectres sometimes haunt my waking hours
and I must fend them off like nightmare’s terrors.
Costs of deeds that were not done,
or best were left undone,
of loves lost or scorned,
words said and silences kept,
sights seen but turned from,
and wrongs witnessed and left not hindered.
Such memories bar the sanctuary of sleep,
their talons from my conscience claw bloodied raw regrets
and I wish other men to be as weak as me,
and know there is no god.


3rd of May 2013


Details | Red Omara Poem

A Once Found Object


She was a gentle and careful woman

and when she'd found something so fragile

she had taken it, 

carefully and gently,

and tended to it,

patiently and lovingly.

And then,

returning to where it had first attracted her,

repaired where she could repair,

and strengthened where she could strengthen,

she replaced, carefully and tenderly,

a better thing than that she'd found.


Details | Red Omara Poem

The Land Of Rhyme Remembered

Sail most by south, by west the least, 
until the moon sets in the east.
There, in a sea the hue of custard, 
ye'll see the Ile de Deux Sans Mustard
where locals speak like buccaneers, 
calling you ‘me dirrr' and us ‘me dirrrrs'.
Their pirate accent's quite inexorable
though, than ours, their grammar more is flexible.
They appear to verge on being mammalian
a little bit like South Australians
(I'd never in the name of mirth
deride the folks who come from Perth) .
 
Hard left, first manatee you see, 
or right, your choice, you're free as me
(it's nix to do with politics, 
a pox on all elected plicks) .
Sail till the sea turns sweetest violet
and there you'll spot the cutest islet
(had we to rhyme with ‘sweetest red', 
it'd be a continent instead) .
Here, when poetry is long dismembered,
lies the place of rhyme remembered.
Yes, you have come upon a land
that any poet would think is grand.
Where almost everybody aint
any kind of ffffflamin' saint
but seldom use the worst of curses, 
when they converse in freeish verses, 
or communicate in playful rhymes, 
pretty well whenever they feel like it.


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