Terry O'Leary Poet Rhyme

The Morning of the Hurricanes Part 1

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.



 Continued in Part 2 

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Debbie Duncan December 5, 2012 at 7:36 PM long rhyme,,, liked the way it read though ;}

Jon A Cavanaugh November 30, 2012 at 9:56 PM I finally found a poem I hadn't yet commented on. And what a great poem it is. Not only do I love the rhyme and meter but the cadence of this is superb. I can hardly wait for part two so I can get a deeper insight into this awesome poem.

Sara Kendrick November 4, 2012 at 11:54 AM This is like a tail rhyme sort of...Enjoyed reading your very creative work..I am glad that I chose it to read today..Thanks for stopping by..Sara

Elizabeth Wesley October 23, 2012 at 1:45 PM Yes,we can't be done; on to part two!

Richard Palmer October 22, 2012 at 11:05 AM great write Terry,loved the flow,smooth

Joseph May October 19, 2012 at 12:10 PM ....well penned Terry......hugs

Susan Burd October 18, 2012 at 5:42 PM the first part leaves me wanting for more.

Ilene Bauer October 18, 2012 at 4:26 PM i'm not quite sure exactly what this is all about (i thought chess at first, but it's obviously much more than that!) but i so enjoyed reading it! your rhythm and rhyme are absolutely brilliant and it just flows so smoothly and sounds so great. i'm looking forward to reading part 2!