What Is It All About

I couldn't sleep one night and,
hoping you'd be awake,
poked, and waited,
then found your photograph,
you'll know which one,
and, yearning for you,
traced its soft lines
with the finger of the mouse.
Traced your softly rounded breasts,
their pointed nipples.
Traced your torso beneath that succulence,
and then followed the gentle swell of your belly
to where I paused
and pondered on, wondered at,
what we have,
you and I.
What we have that some believe is everything.
That others, laughing, say is not.
As an ordinary man, I
had never much considered this.

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poem by Red O'Mara
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One Day If I Could Spend The Night

One day, perhaps if I could spend the night,
I would stack your hearth with firewood,
and we could sit together, on your couch.
You, your feet tucked under you
and your head against my chest,
me, holding you close to me,
and breathing that faint and lovely
fragrance of your hair.
And we could dine on pizza and red wine,
in the softly glowing firelight,
one day, perhaps, if I could spend the night.

One day, perhaps if I could spend the night,
there would be nothing hurried,
no urgency in either life,
and we could have another glass of wine
and talk, earnestly, of matters serious,
if we felt that way inclined.
Or, we could have that other glass of wine
and laugh at matters impolite,

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poem by Red O'Mara
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The Qwerty Bustard

Erstime, e'er bards nor wondering Joyceters
did glybb their gobs with glanjous tongue,
Sir Slip The Most of Figleefmoistners,
was undangled…and his sling unslung.

‘Twas on the Ile de Deux Sans Mustard,
with her chicklet Hoplet never wordling,
that the hunkerflesh-fed Qwerty Bustard,
marked well by dark, was ever curdling.

Sir Slip, slopupped and grammar-morphing,
from molten steam one dawnless dread,
swear-foring most and all ef-alling,
did cloyp the Hoplet's fergeld head.

The Bustard drubbed Slip: "Duncummayler!
To flump the sweet lad's yearnsome tress!
Bludaddled knight! Brain-drained wassailler! "
(the Hoplet mock-loomed nasalfless)

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poem by Red O'Mara
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If I Ever Say I Love You It Will Be Politely

I'll never say 'I love you' to another woman.
Those words that burst first time so full, deliciously,
of joy, of gratitude at the sharing of an act of 'love'.
I don't seek, or long to hear, those same words said to me.
I don't know, have never known, I think,
their meaning.
But once said they must, at any opportunity,
be repeated until devalued to worthlessness.
'I love you', for each Christmas and every Birthday.
For Valentine's Days, 'I love you'.
For Wedding Day and First Date Day, ' I love you'.
For First Day of Joining in Mutually Consensual Sexual Intercourse,
'I love you'.
For Saturday nights, 'I love you'.
For ironed shirt or sewed on button,
for apple pie or ruined roast,
for diddums snookums burny finger,
'I love you'!
And then, when one has been angered,
or hurt, been brought to tears,

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poem by Red O'Mara
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