ALMOST A LOVE POEM

MEA CULPA

Tonight I'm going home to dream of the whale
when we knew love as big as the ocean
I'll taste the salty tang of the tides
remembering your kisses, deep and rolling

Tonight I'll dream of where the sea meets the sand
the touch of your fingers floating over my skin
sweat drowning our eyes from the labours of lust
till submerged we sink into the depth of contrition

© Bette O’Callaghan

ALWAYS LEAVE 'EM LAUGHING

JUST LIKE THAT

Tommy Cooper is my hero
I never quite got his humour
or his hat, but
he was charming for all that
Tommy, as a star, ascended
in my sky
when I saw a tape of his last
show, there
he was in the middle of a joke
fumbling through one of his inept
magic tricks, when he
fell down upon the stage
the exquisite cleverness of his stillness
captured me, whilst
the audience was laughing, thinking
the dive was the punch line

Good on ya Tommy
what a way to go


© Bette O’Callaghan

LIFE IMITATES ART

LIFE IMITATES ART

When I was 59 I took Dorian Gray as my lover
it happened without my knowledge
I awoke one morning and he was in my bed
he’d stowed his valises under my eyes
heavy bags with no ticket for redemption
scaled the Everest of my cheekbones
where he puffed up plump pillows for his feet
donned his spelunker gear to excavate
the deep hollows of my cheeks
draped his weighty blanket around my jaw
and tenderly tugged to achieve perfect sag and droop
then laid tracks across my forehead
a contingency for a fast getaway

Dorian Gray loved me because...
I was as pretty as his picture

© Bette O’Callaghan

IRAQ

WE MISS OUR CHILDREN, SO FAR AWAY


My generation got high on the fumes of napalm
learning to kill women and children randomly
losing their innocence far from the farms
     and streets where they grew up
reviled, yet loved, by those of us who couldn’t go,
     wouldn’t go to war
lost boys, strangers in a strange land
58,000 killed, 303,616 wounded, 587 captured
     and 1,335 missing in action
dying to preserve the American Way
an ideal whose contempt for other cultures
     staggers the imagination


Your generation gets high on the terror of suicide bombers
learning to fear everyone who isn’t, one of us
the politics of nightmares your daily guide
     to living in panic, giving up freedom
your brothers, your friends are sent to the desert
where they die to keep the wolf from your gates
2000 killed(and counting),11,700 wounded
     yet it goes on and on
while your leaders build a homeland of straw
using you as fodder for their shaky foundation
wake up children there is no safety in silence
     your house is burning



© Bette O’Callaghan

NEW POEMS

HEAD TRIPS

The junkies in needle park are fightin' over nothin'
but the stories in their heads are definitely somethin'
n' I remember baby when I held you in my arms
while you shivered hot n' cold
tryin' to kick the monkey on your back
n' wasn't it romantic when you drooled as you moaned
I'll do it for you baby, I'll give up the smack
I didn't want that from you, just wanted to scream
Do it for yourself or you'll keep on dancin' with your jones
instead I smiled n' held you tighter, hopin’ you’d save me
two weeks later you were back on the needle n' gone
now when I see junkies I always think of you
my beautiful boy wantin' to love me 'stead of the junk
n' wonder, do I have a role in the stories in your head?

© Bette O’Callaghan


FRED N' GINGER

This may be our last dance...

the band might disband
acrimonious artistic differences
driving them so far apart
they'll never be in tune again

or perhaps one of us will
fall out of love n' back in again
with someone else's smile
abandoning partners mid step

maybe we'll just be driven to
leave the dance floor for a fag, smoke one
absentmindedly fire up another n' another
till we can't be ashed to dance again

or, we could form our own band
recognise love for the folly it is
plaster ourselves with nicotine patches
and keep dancin' on n' on

© Bette O’Callaghan


MORTAL COMBAT

When I first saw you...
love loosened it's tie, rolled up it's sleeves n' sucker punched me in the gut
as you wooed me with the old one, two... right to the heart, saying
I want to take you home n' fuck you till the neighbours complain about the smell

© Bette O’Callaghan