To Her Highness

These here are the facts, very nearly true,
all about this lady I knew who
ate kale as though it was good for you.
And she seemed to be hardly mad at all,
but being less short than she was tall,
had more than a little way to fall.
So when she became not wholy sober,
one day in the month before October,
surprise, surprise, she toppled ober.
Was she simply so tight her gait got loose
from that old familiar juice abuse?
Or was she only a clumsy goose?
Or should the mother have taught her daughter
to be more erect and grow more shorter
and to eat less kale and drink more water?

poem by Red O'Mara
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More Than One

Quizmasters often test mentalities,

by asking folks to name pluralities,

of things of many different sorts.

Like soldiers can be called 'cohorts'.

There are 'flights' of geese and jets and stairs,

and socks are sometimes found in 'pairs'.

Young ladies curls are massed in 'bangs',

and crooks unite themselves in 'gangs'.

Such gangs can join to form a 'mafia',

but alas that only rhymes with 'raffia'.

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poem by Red O'Mara
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She Likes To Cook

She likes to cook.
Often, it seems.
Often, and perhaps too much.
Like all good cooks,
she must, sometimes,
be taken advantage of;
her culinary delights devoured,
carelessly,
to sate the hunger of some
as well sustained by Maccas.
But chefs so splendid,
so gifted and so generous as she is,
enjoy that giving of the pleasure,
in the way that she does.
Giving so patiently and carefully
and willingly and happily.
And exuberantly!
And, perhaps, too much.
Too much for what's returned.
She has fed me, too, her cakes,

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poem by Red O'Mara
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It Makes Me Happy, To Be With You

It makes me happy, to be with you.
To watch you smile and hear you speak
and see your eyes turn softly warm,
makes me happy to be with you.
It makes me happy, to be with you.
To watch you spreading jam and butter
on your home made scones,
makes me happy to be with you.
It makes me happy, to be with you.
To be able to put my arms around you
and draw you gently close to me,
makes me happy to be with you.
And it makes me happy, to be with you
when holding your cheek close to mine,
breathing the warmth of you
and feeling the warmth of you
soaking quietly through me,
makes my breath tremble in my chest.
You make me happy to be with you.

poem by Red O'Mara
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Plan B

Her lover, wanting to be, liked,
wrote poems for her which were spiked,
with thoughts he hoped would make him seem,
like someone who she might esteem.
He spoke of love, how it was crap,
of kisses wet and dewy laps,
of body lines traced one by one,
of godfucked bees unfairly done,
her eyes, her smile, her lack of care,
her breath, her kiss beneath her hair
her sinful menu (no, no chips) ,
her mingling place (his ears for grips) ,
and, just to demonstrate his class,
he pointed out his sagging arse.
Of such is what romance is made!
He knew he could not but get laid!
She'd surely not his charms resist.
And if she did... he'd get her pissed! !

poem by Red O'Mara
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I Love The Smell Of Maggie In The Morning

To wake with you each morning,
Such a pleasant thought that is.
Waking on a winter's day,
for winter becomes the bedroom,
waking with you beside me in your bed,
my arms embracing you
gently from behind.
Your body warming mine.
Your hair against my cheek.
Your fragrance in my breath.
The taste of you still on my lips.
And last night's memory of you
stirring in my groin.
You wake and, smiling sleepily,
turn into me and peck softly at my mouth,
with merest touch of tongue,
for ours are morning breaths.
Then, fondling with your eyes in bed,
and touching a finger to my cheek,
you bite your bottom lip

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poem by Red O'Mara
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What Might Have Been

If you'd let me go that first time,
when you said we couldn't be,
I would never have warmed to your eyes in bed
or savoured your kisses
and the secret thrill of those behind your hair.
Never have felt the delight of breathing your breath.
Never have feasted on the woman of you,
your sweet wetness,
the wonder of your swelling against my lips.
Would never have gasped at the pleasure of your mouth and tongue.
Never have known the wonder within you,
cried out at the ultimate joy of you.
Or ever have relished the special closeness
of that sharing kiss.
And I would never have known
how long a week can be
and never have cherished your gift
of summertime
in autumn.

poem by Red O'Mara
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There But For

If I had passed you, one morning on the beach,
I'd have nodded and, half smiling,
said some ordinary thing
like, ‘Lovely morning'.
Then you'd have returned my nod and,
politely, half smiling,
agreed.
I would probably have thought
you seemed that sort of lady
who was nice enough.
And, when we'd passed,
I might then have turned
to observe you from behind,
in that way men do.
Then, continuing on my way,
I could have passed
a woman even younger.
One prettier in that way men find
at once to be attractive.
And, after acknowledging her

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poem by Red O'Mara
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I Think Your Natural Habitat Is Bed

I think your natural habitat is bed.
Although you do so nicely,
in your kitchen, baking bread,
and when at the dining table,
can disappear the cheapest red,
still, I think your natural habitat is bed.

You paint truly lovely pictures,
in all the colours, blue to red,
write some you beaut bonzer verses,
as swell a modest feller's head,
but you're at your most creative
when you're cavorting with clothes shed.
So I think your natural habitat is bed.

You're really such a lot of fun
at things much better left unsaid.
But should we laugh the way we do?
Or should we groan some more instead?
Perhaps neighbours might be thinking

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poem by Red O'Mara
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My Maggie

She isn't beautiful as Nefertiti was.
And, unlike Helen,
her face will never launch a thousand ships.
No, her 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 her?
Her, with her woman's body?
Her, with flesh where woman should have flesh?
Her, with fullness where love and longing
would have nought else?
And her face has beauty in it.
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.

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poem by Red O'Mara
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