Butterworth
They said that he had music in his blood.
He felt the rhythm of it pulsing with his heartbeat and heard each note as it rushed past his inner ear on its way to feed the chambers of his brain, in which it would be magically orchestrated, with parts for woodwind, brass and strings arranged in a perfection of harmony.
His every thought and action was accompanied by melody which burst forth from his heart, infused with pure goodness distilled from the atmosphere he breathed.
When that fateful bullet struck him on the Somme, his eyes closed in rapture, his hands and arms caressing the air like those of a conductor at the Albert Hall as the crimson tide flooded from his soul and sunk, congealing into the earth with a deep, symphonic crescendo.
There was a long, stunned silence before the applause finally rang out.
Change of Purpose
The church is now consecrated with carpets
its wooden pews are pushed to the walls
and the smell of fresh synthetic fibre pervades
Light shines through the arched windows
onto plaques commemorating the long dead
who worshipped here weekly,
stood to read their verses and lessons
and wrought music from the now dilapidated organ
Pale echoes of the past are muted by the shagpiles
priced by the square metre
with fitting and underlay thrown in
like the battered hymnbooks
thrown into a skip outside,
their numbers still displayed on the frame on the wall
like the numbers of buses
whose routes were discontinued years ago.
You have to reach your destination under your own steam now
But why bother?
When you can stay at home
With quality carpet under your feet.
Grace
Never forget these fat, moist peas
These sweet, orange carrots
These steaming potatoes
Never forget this thick, rich liquor
This tender succulence
Never forget these pies and pasties
These cakes and pastries
These fruits, creams and custards
Remember it all
Savour these things whilst they are here
Impress every detail of them on your memory
The odours, the flavours, the colours and textures
The gentle sounds of simmering, bubbling and pouring
Embed the clearest possible images, deep into your mind
All those coffees
All those desserts
All those fine wines
Never take these things for granted
Never forget
But if it ever does become too much to bear
Too much to hold in thought
If it ever starts to fade away…
Just remember the love
Shell
Look at this little fellow
See his shell?
He’s built it up over months and years
To protect himself
He’s feels safe in there
But he’s not as safe as he thinks
Sometime, sooner or later
Some bird will crack that shell wide open
And devour him
Waiting Room
You have a choice -
You can sit and relax
Or you can fret on the possibilities
The dog will have to be put down
Or
They will have to extract all your remaining teeth
Or
It’s cancer
The untreatable sort
Even then
You should still sit and relax
All good things must come to an end
You should have brushed more often
Teeth or dog
Or both
As long as you didn’t get the brushes mixed up
You could have made a ritual of it
Teeth then dog
Or Dog then teeth
Then check your balls for lumps
It’s too late now
Here in the waiting room
You might as well relax
Mike O’Brien lives in South Yorkshire, England. He has previously been published in the Black Nore Review, the Stone Circle Review and Dreamcatcher. He publishes his own poetry online at Sixty Odd Poems zoomburst.substack.com and the work of others at Sixty Odd Poets sixtyoddpoets.substack.com. He also publishes selections from these sites as physical volumes and organises regular open mic nights in Mexborough to showcase the work of the Sixty Odd project and encourage others to get involved.
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