The Jesus Bird
He profits from extended toes,
As o'er the lily pads he goes.
His call is just a quiet screech
Although he's not inclined to preach.
He's tiny and he has no beard;
This lily trotter's really weird.
He wears a robe - a feathered suit;
He's light of foot, this little coot.
A miracle he doesn't sink
And end up drowning in the drink.
He seems so happy, not a care,
But then he has no cross to bear.
poem by Dennis N. O'Brien
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The Afterglow
The setting sun's last dying rays
Lay o'er the land a purple haze
And paint with colours - reds and blues,
On rippled waters, dappled hues.
As in the west, gilded with light,
Are laid the shrouds, once clouds so white,
Upon the far horizon bright,
As mourners cloak the dead from sight.
And trees that watch the sinking sun
Know that the night has just begun;
Know that the light of life has ceased,
‘Til born at dawn there in the east.
poem by Dennis N. O'Brien
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Propaganda Poets
Lies only stand if the good are weak
For only the truth is strong.
It's to feeble minds that the liars speak,
Not to minds who know right from wrong.
And words are writ by the poets bought,
Those who care only for their purse,
And the price is paid for a message wrought
To be hid in a metered verse.
Whether those who sell, or the ones in power,
They will catch the thoughtless ear,
And the seed they plant, it will grow and flower,
Into profits or into fear.
poem by Dennis N. O'Brien
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Autumn In The South
In April when the first cool days
Foretell of winter's coming frost,
And waning sun's soft golden rays
Shine weaker now that summer's lost;
When morning mists, in veils of grey,
The trees along the river cloak,
Until the breezes blow away
The clinging mist, like clouds of smoke.
Then under skies of palest blue,
In these clear days before the cold,
The trees that shed their gowns bestrew
The fading green with flecks of gold.
© Dennis N. O'Brien,2011 - 2012
poem by Dennis N. O'Brien
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The Writer
From where comes that burning spark
That lights a lantern in the dark,
And from its shadowed prison frees
The story, as the mind it sees.
The thoughts released from darkness then
To form their words before the pen;
These words that come from deep within
Upon the page their freedom win.
And where was just an empty plain
A line is writ and writ again
Of maidens fair and heroes bold,
Until the story all is told.
And there the words - before his eyes
The tale upon the pages lies.
Now in the wider world it lives;
To thoughts, the words, the writer gives.
poem by Dennis N. O'Brien
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Road Kill
This morning, I went for a walk,
A stroll in winter's morning chill.
I'd had a breakfast of fried pork,
For lunch I hoped to find road kill.
There were some toads squashed here and there,
A snake had clearly met his end;
But nothing I considered fare,
Until I walked around a bend.
There lying in a crumpled heap,
(He'd surely parted from his flock)
There lay a bruised and bloodied sheep;
He'd suffered from a fatal knock.
It was a shame he'd come to harm,
A tragedy he'd had to die.
My wooly friend had bought the farm,
For lunch I'm having shepherd's pie.
poem by Dennis N. O'Brien
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Fanatics
Whether devout or green;
Whether hooded or seen;
Their intent is to gain
All control from the sane.
What they hate is the West,
For it's with progress blessed.
They will suck on its teat
While they plan its defeat.
In deceit they will hide;
They will seek to divide;
They will gather in tribes
And be showered with bribes
By the same naïve fools
They will use as their tools.
They may differ in aim;
The result is the same;
When enlightenment falls
Human progress it stalls.
They've no need to conspire
Just elect a good liar.
[...] Read more
poem by Dennis N. O'Brien
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Singapore Sonnet
Was once my fancy turned to painted charms
And oriental spells abducted me.
In smoke of incense swirling like a sea
I languished in the warmth of other arms;
In tropic air beneath the swaying palms;
And this I thought would be my destiny,
Until another came to set me free.
True love they say, the restless drifter calms,
For certainty then in my mind it dwelt.
I saw her there, to all but she was blind;
The one love with whose heart mine too would bind,
And in my heart the joy of love I felt;
The twisting road, to happiness would wind,
As there before her loveliness I knelt.
Sonnet #1
poem by Dennis N. O'Brien
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The Road
I've walked the road for quite a while,
Through weather bad and weather fair;
Through foreign lands in self exile
And then back home for mile on mile,
And when I've taken time to care
I've stopped and rested here and there.
And while my eyes were kept ahead
And didn't stray to look behind
I clearly saw the signs that lead
To places strange, and these I read;
The signs these places, clear defined;
Some roads I took and some declined.
But when distracted by the past
These signs I missed and never read
And so the dice of fate were cast
And I by turns to better passed.
The road leads on, a winding thread;
I gaze ahead as on I tread.
poem by Dennis N. O'Brien
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The Harrows
Our harrows to a triangle would fold,
And so they'd stay until there was the need
To work the ground and harrow in the seed;
But now as warmer days replaced the cold;
As winter's icy grip released its hold,
The time had come to plant the fields that we'd
Ploughed well and deep to grow our summer feed,
As westward billowed clouds, and thunder rolled.
The harrows hitched - but then a shrill protest;
For there upon them woven neat and round
A wagtail and her mate had built their nest
And from it softly came a plaintive sound
As bravely parents chided on the wing;
And so we borrowed harrows all that spring.
Sonnet #9
© Dennis N. O'Brien,2012
poem by Dennis N. O'Brien
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