FRIDAY POME
—Neil O'Neill
On this work-a-day Friday of the September song
Fish day for the Catholics
As I was raised
Hoisting a memory of the old tradition
Where now, the new-hatched sins of the week
Hold court with Burger Kings
Vacillando con el cuarto de espere
Multicolored, Third-Worlders
Now the pobre Faithful,
Lost in Translation as
deep-fried hostages to freedom of choice
And the NEW responses to the God of Abraham
Required
Who is responsible? It's up to you now!
Don’t be like me today
Who, although short-listed for the doctor
Still had to wait well past
Appointment time
But God be thanked, got in
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EL CUARTO DE ESPERE—THE WAITING ROOM
—Neil O'Neill
A room soaked with TV
Restless
To be seen
Treated
Not now or ever on time
Or at 8am, when asked?
Everyone else’s appointment time
Soy vacilando con Multicolored
Third worlders
Bewildered by indifferent America
And her anti-social ways
Who need to be here
From 6am or earlier
Or Else
A body leased on time, wonts
Someone. Maybe the doctor or dentist
To assuage the personal life habits
And rent arrears
Of criminal poverty
Or not to be unkind
Esos santos might be calle-wise
And/Or
Out diggin fur gold
On the Streets of San Francisco
Gracias a Dios!
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JAKUB’s GAIRDEN
—Neil O'Neill
He’s green-fingered—a gentle giant
What’s not to love?
Wickedly funny—as Black and White minstral
Crooning his world
From the acute angled avenue of Sycamore
The Kurt Weill without cigarettes or
Jewish rebellion from Torah
His gairden—the green room
Of his Opera of Tender Loving Care
Lives tomatoes, green peas and
The heat of his hot-house
Sheltering high Scoville-scaled
Peppers
To the millionth dilution to be
Or not to be
Edible
—wicked heat—just because
And now us— together, gabbing our yesterdays
Seated down under glass
Geraniums corral behind, like those chili flavored
Tomatoes
On the Mexican border of Johnstone Castle
I smell the goodness of the living plants
And inadvertantly remember
Miami
The tropical toe of America
All heavy with humid fecundity
Everywhere we went, the Mo and me
Like a State calling card
That odor
A Bogey-vision odor
Part perfume, part sepia toned reverie
Not his cigarette smoke, but
The other smell of the old movies
Where elegance, the egalitarian equivalent
Of the Great Depression
Is democratic—and mine too!
That humid, heavy old movie plant odor
Opens sesame
The inner door inside ma head —beckoning
So imaginary travel made real
Sweeps Jakub and me and Fred and Ginger—to the ball
In top hat, tails and
Puttin’ it on, the Ritz Cracker
The hors d’oeuvre of a lifetime
Partaken as Holy Communion
We munch together—grateful, in the huddle against Cruel Time
Miami—again—pastelled—salmon and blues
Yeah, the Miami electic blue—we rented it
The KIA-car that flew us down
The 7-mile long bridge
Over unlocking Florida keys
From Miami, Route 1
To Mile zero—Key West
(How many miles from Miami to Key West, I still wonder?)
That blue—still catches me
Off guard
Like a hanging bat
Unexpectedly noticed
Under blue-lit freeway
Overpasses
Or the blue-sheen glamour
Underside
Clyde bridges
At Gloaming
When the blue of the night
Meets the gold of the day
Shine on Blue
Sesame seed of ma soul
At lease for NOW
And until my song is ended
At least, Now before we leave
Jakub’s Gairden
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WINNING AT THE WHITE CITY
—Neil O'Neill
Smell the tubacca fog
Seepin; through the floodlighted track
Cool wet slick-backed dugs
Spring, prancing-sleekit
Towards
The startin' line
Dad and me and oul Divilment
Makes 3 to 1 the Field
Then, odds on
Each Way
White-gloved Bookies
Semaphore secret signs across to Tote
Glesga glamour
At the White City...they're off!
Clutchin' bets, huddlin' in
Staunin' stiff
Pie and drinkin' Boveril
Under this dreech night's orders
Roon they go, and
Again
Fair haring it
Faux skidding at the bends
But naw...wait!
Closing up ranks intae the final stre-e-etch
An "Splash"!! Phota Finish!
Aw Naw!
A Stewards Inquiry?
Noo, blurtin' Speaker-loud:
"Old Devilment at 3 to 1"
Dad says: Heh, we eat Fish and Chips the night!
Whid dyay say?
And me back et him
"And we've the bus fares hame
Tae Maw"?!
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POEM-FISHIN' AUDITION
—Neil O'Neill
Deep-fishin for words is a new sport
For me
I've seldom been lucky though in love with the Muse
But hunkered down
So close to the River
That flows around
Everything
I'm not at sea, just
Beginning to see
Or actually
Hear-see
The rising tide of Dictionary
Asking, by page to
Choose me, choose me!
The best words
That give the freshest fruit
So, juicy—you can taste it (too)
I —very unoffishal Auditor
Take note of secret music
Posed in genuflection
Hopin like Hell
For the blessing
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Our thanks to Neil O'Neill for today's poetry! Neil O’Neill is a singer/actor/writer who listens to the muse on the off chance that the noise of modern life can be abated. Hailing from Johnstone, Scotland, he lives in the SF Bay Area where he teaches English and poetry. A 26-year performer for Bread & Roses, he also has been known to appear on the music festival circuit in the US and Europe. His 2012 appearances include the Las Vegas Celtic Festival, Costa Mesa Highland Games, and the SF Caledonian Club’s Scottish Gathering. He is also a performance coach for Poetry Out Loud.
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Today's LittleNip:
OH, HOW THE PLANETS MOVE
—Neil O'Neill
My Moon is a balloon
Whole, half. Or sliced quarter
It's got my attention—remembering…
Birthday was grand—family retro
An opposition of Geminis, my son David and me,
Rose, blue, and lemon meringue (pie) too.
The moon was like a boat
Sailing up through silver blown skied-clouds
Undeniable
(first pub. in New Grass, 2010)
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—Medusa (wow! It's 11/11/11!)
Second Annual Scottish Festival, Carmichael
(See—we have Scottish festivals, too!—And
where the hell is Richard Hansen?? Hurry BACK, durnit!)
(See—we have Scottish festivals, too!—And
where the hell is Richard Hansen?? Hurry BACK, durnit!)
—Photo by Michelle Kunert, Sacramento
(See Medusa's Facebook page for a new photo album
by her and Katy Brown of the 2011 Confluence)