Details |
Brendan Osborne Poem
The Waiting Room
The April weather shifted high to low,
Exposing those early clout casters
To the concluding bite of winter;
Footsteps full of foreboding
Trudge their last legs up the inclined driveway
To the Doctor’s old house.
A hotchpotch of chairs and wooden benches
Cling to the borders of the waiting room
A ballroom of romance for the sick.
In varying degrees of ill-health
A gamut of the townspeople
Chorus a cacophony of coughs
Sniffling and wheezing feverishly,
While the readers’ digest stale stories
From the well-thumbed publications.
Eyes darting around the room
Surveying the afflicted to kill the time
Conjecture at the probable cause and severity;
Childlike comparisons to ones’ own condition.
A new mother fails to stifle a yawn
Spreading contagion to the assembled
Her flushed snoozing baby
Unaware of her blaming chatter.
Life-weary pensioner invited to the inner sanctum
Chilled to the bone, sciatica stricken,
Accepts the decree of the medic
Without question or comment.
His framed degree, long faded,
Enough to stifle her to silence
His stethoscope, as a Priests garb
To her, underpinning his status.
Two codgers still await their summons
More regularly neighbours at the bar
Boisterously chatting across the room
For the oblivious benefit of the throng;
Socialising symptoms best supressed
Public bravado before their private hearing,
Selective honesty, the order of the day.
Quiet couple with obviously hidden issue
Whisper conspiratorially in the half lit room
Embracing the background murmur
And the dimness, aid to their privacy.
Vice-Captain of the junior team,
Fit, and embarrassed at his minor disorder
Conjures up exaggerated “near death” vocabulary
For future reportage to the team
His shame cajoled into the ether
By his twisting of the physicians’ imagined words.
And all the while the waiting room remains
Constant, a silent witness to all ills.
Copyright © Brendan Osborne | Year Posted 2015
|
Details |
Brendan Osborne Poem
It's trying to Spring today
In Dublin's Phoenix Park
The trees are rising from the ashes of Winter
Dressing in a tentative coat of green
Like a thin leafy thong.
Against a bright mixed sky
Two butterflies, or possibly moths,
-The suns' light making identification impossible-
Play tag for supremacy of the skies
Silhouetted in my squinting vision.
A chubby chap with equally chubby dog
Sits on a white bench walking his mate
Spattered by sunlight leaking thru leaves
Of the trees shading his seat
While doggy rustles about happily.
We converse a minute about far off places
And sunburn and the Irish skin
His standpoint underpinned by an anecdote
Remembered from a long time past
A slimmer time for man and beast perhaps.
My wanderings continue in a long lazy lap
Feeling the warmth on my nape
Deer wandering close to the dangerous humans
A childs' laughter carries to my ears
Excitement at the proximity to Rudolphs' pals.
Memories of happier times invade my thoughts
The ninety minutes eaten up with ease
Spring-like humour filtering down to drivers
Who stop, smiling, and invite my crossing
With a ballroom dancers exaggerated hand.
Returning to the island of my car
Feeling distant now from all I've encountered
Warmed from both effort and experience
I smile inwardly and selecting first
Drift out into the Easter Sunday traffic.
Copyright © Brendan Osborne | Year Posted 2015
|
Details |
Brendan Osborne Poem
Writing a Haiku
Try not to Obsess about
Syllable counting
Copyright © Brendan Osborne | Year Posted 2015
|
Details |
Brendan Osborne Poem
Sunday morning tempted me out to the beach
As the sun tumbled down its' white warmth
Splashing glisters of light on the near flat water;
Paparazzi pools of a million flashbulbs.
The morning of the last day of the weekend
Tipping point between relaxation and drudgery
Hours of indulgence line up for their embrace;
Hip pockets of foreboding at their climax.
Early morning dog-walkers greet huskily
Willingly trapped in the endless cycle of pet love
A petrol blue Labrador bunkers about;
Unleaded freedom amongst the beach grass.
Turning, the old train line left-frames the scene
Coarse grass yields to sand and sea
Near distant the old village shop and pub;
Blytonesque imagery from my childhood.
Returning home to my lazy Sunday brunch
Coherent and intelligible thought pervades
Deliberations on tomorrows' toil dissipate
As I resolve to live in todays' jigsaw piece.
Copyright © Brendan Osborne | Year Posted 2015
|
Details |
Brendan Osborne Poem
Ultimate Unrequitedness
________________________________________
Before we met in the flesh
We waltzed with words on a website for dating,
A mating dance for a modern world
We clicked online and off
Profiles made for blending
Amending our previous life errors
For two forty-something's
Fortunate to find old fashioned love
Above anything they'd experienced 'til now
We found common ground
In our un-common past
At last, for two, the one.
Optimistic for our coupling
A future uncertain yet sure
His and hers' mature gift.
She died on a Thursday
Slain by an off springs hand, who emptied
The sand of her life's timer.
Our non-existent plans shattered
By a sick boys' mind
Find it hard to blame the illness, not the child.
What becomes of loves' chemistry
when one element is no more,
Torn from the noble bond.
Surviving this trauma
Does the partner left as one
Become the ultimate unrequited lover.
Dwelling on the promise
Unfulfilled, of a future
Sure to have contained joy at last.
No, the love between two
Lives in the stolen moment
Remembered in peace.
Copyright © Brendan Osborne | Year Posted 2015
|
Details |
Brendan Osborne Poem
The dainty hills surrounded a level slice of earth
Where cocooned in times’ misty distance
Ancient gathering concluded that this flat gift
Would provide home for their number.
At the physical, but no longer spiritual centre,
Of the village, was an old country chapel
A monument to a bygone age
Sparsely populated by gently ageing folk.
I am here for a special ceremony
The son of a friend is making his communion
A step on the road to maturity
For the young man of the moment
I sit in my pew at the rear of the chapel
Too many yummy mummies in their finery
Distracting me from the main event;
Irreverent thoughts amongst the reverence.
Presently outside into the sunshine
The young lads return to their immaturity
Bedecked in their communion suits,
Playing football in the church grounds.
Copyright © Brendan Osborne | Year Posted 2015
|
Details |
Brendan Osborne Poem
An old biscuit tin with a faded picture
Holds a family heirloom undiscovered until now
Some letters and cards that Mum and Dad
Exchanged during their lifetime together
They both have long since left this place
Behind them their children survive
With varying degrees of success
In this battle that we all call life.
So I opened up the Biscuit box
Filled with old fashioned love
And unfolded the delicate pages
To reveal the hand-written secrets of their romance
The contents so sweet and loving
Spoke of a world long since passed
Secret rendezvous planned for weeks
Stolen kisses in the dark of night
A letter from Dad on their Silver Wedding
Wishes to share 25 more years
Saddened me to the core
I knew at the time he was dying of cancer.
But I shed happy tears at last
Knowing how much they were in love
And proving that in Romance at least
There is no escaping your genes.
Copyright © Brendan Osborne | Year Posted 2015
|
Details |
Brendan Osborne Poem
Friday came and the workplaces
Surrendered their weary to the weekend
Tiredness dissipating as the precious days
Are contemplated with anticipation.
Another crowd of friendly murmur
Gathers in the little upstairs room
Gloomy by day, evening transformed
to a theatre within the music bar.
She arrives having travelled
With her instruments seen and unseen
Steps up on the stage again
Boots discarded, tippy toed pleasure.
The first gentle notes picked out
Hush the gathering to respectful silence
As they cleanse the week from their souls
Embracing the soothing delicacy.
Then the voice arrives
Chocolate velvet-smooth whiskey
Sweet strong intoxicating earfuls
Elevate spirits in ecstasy.
Two hours disappear in a thrice
A happy melancholy descends
Pleasurable attendance struggles
Against the tinge of sadness, it's over.
The artist remains to greet the grateful
Friendly chatter, CD signing
Soon we shuffle back to life's reality
Hoping she knows the joy she brings.
Copyright © Brendan Osborne | Year Posted 2015
|
Details |
Brendan Osborne Poem
We stand closely in the cool bedroom
Mutual appreciation abounds
Delicate hands caress my shoulders
My arms enveloping your loveliness
Finger-tipped feather light touch
Maps the gentle arch of your back
Simultaneously my hands moving away from me
Downwards, bringing us closer still
Anticipation firing desires
Breathless elevation of all senses
We embrace the Ancient Dance
Of lovers over millennia.
Copyright © Brendan Osborne | Year Posted 2015
|