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Danny Oshea Poem
The old man rises from his chair,
Gently cursing the ache that crept into his bones,
When he wasn't looking.
His slippered feet, scuff the carpet,
Making a journey they know without him,
To the window.
He watches down on the cars,
As they flash through the rain on an urgent journey,
Somewhere.
Leaning forward to rest his forehead,
On the cool damp pane that shields him from it all,
His prison wall.
The cars seem to softly merge,
As fragments of memory like a broken mirror,
Tease and torment.
A lifetime of dreams and tomorrows,
That somehow became painful yesterdays,
Much to fast.
Squeezing his eyes tightly closed,
He remembers her face and the soft scar on her cheek,
A perfect imperfection.
The laughter and cries of children,
Running to him with chocolate smeared mouths,
Grown now, gone now.
All of them to different worlds,
Ones where he was to afraid to travel to,
Out there.
Plenty of time to make it through,
But the nights seemed to skip the sunshine days,
Protecting him.
From things others would do,
As they had done so easily many times before,
It hurt.
The clock on the mantle ticks,
Seconds, minutes, days, years a lifetime,
Sentenced.
He shuffles back to the chair,
Lowers himself with aching limbs that cant be his,
Removes his slippers.
Reaches for the polished shoes,
Years old but hardly worn and still uncreased,
Laces them.
Moves slowly through the house,
Turning of lights, collecting a wallet, a pack of cigarettes, a photograph,
Pocketing them.
The old man stands at the open door,
Just a fragment of someone elses memory, as he walks,
Into the rain.
Copyright © Danny Oshea | Year Posted 2012
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Details |
Danny Oshea Poem
I once worked at a place
where I slept between the beer crates,
and rode the elevator with it's sliding door,
to waste time until I could pull on my scarf and coat.
And walk to the bar with it's scent of spilled wine
and spoiled souls,
to sit on a stool and order my lunch of
whiskey and nuts.
While the lost and the damned sat behind in the booths
making a pint last an afternoon,
and the barman's dog got drunk from the puddles
that lay dark on the floor.
I don't miss that time,
but I often think about that dog.
Copyright © Danny Oshea | Year Posted 2012
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Details |
Danny Oshea Poem
All the days have come and gone,
leaving an oily film on my thoughts
And a brackish taste in my mouth.
Tired now and cold,
I dream of colours I have not seen for years.
A scrapbook of pictures
That flow through time.
A collection of records,
A musical diary of moments.
A long lost object,
Found in a long forgotten draw.
That is touched and creates too vivid a memory,
So is returned to wait for another place and time.
All the days have come and gone,
And leave me in sepia tinted remembrance,
Of ice creams long eaten.
And songs that are played no more.
Copyright © Danny Oshea | Year Posted 2012
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