Who wants to follow that?
When my children were little
one of them would disappear
by covering their face with their hands
The logic being that if they couldn’t see you
you couldn’t see them.
Often this would happen
when they were embarrassed
or ashamed
of something that they had done.
I poured my poem out into the silence
of the room tonight and heard
Who wants to follow that?
No-one raised their hand.
Mark W. Ó Brien
31December2025
Another left handed glove has gotten off of the Marky train.
This is the problem with gloves:
I have a pile of righties on my workbench;
for it is ever the lefties who go rogue.
But perhaps it is the hand who doesn’t wish to be clothed…
Preferring instead to run about naked and exposed?
Mayhaps I am being errant with my blame though-
She might have been glovenapped by a klepto car, No?
A known stealer of hats and a felon of fashion!
But it might just be because of the coldest day of the year so far, that
makes me to utter libelous false statements and ruin it’s reputation, yet
I suspect that car was on a mission, and it was in fact a crime of passion!
Oh glove, you were ever a selfless and devoted companion…
Why didst thou wantonly elope and leave my digits a-freezin’???
Mark W. Ó Brien
December2025
Outside a star
the one that reminds me of you
on cold winter nights like this.
The one that guided you
through years of wandering
until you came back home to us to die.
You went to ground, you did…
When you found out, you hunkered down…
…Now you have become one with
the earth you had restlessly paced
all of your unsettled days…
I missed you during those long years of parting
you wandering, me rooted and lonely…
Now you’re here, and I miss you still.
Mark W. Ó Brien
30December2025
#112
Yesterday I was sad.
Today I’m just mad.
Pissed off actually!
How dare you?!
We had it all and
you listened to that cult leader…
Sacrificed our happiness and
followed him into the jungle
for a cup of grape cool-aid
and a ticket to his fake heaven.
Leaving me here
to sit shiva with the cat…
©️Mark W. Ó Brien
24November2024
My brain,
is a three on the tree.
A six banger with a thrown rod.
My thoughts,
vacuum based
speed up and slow down as my foot
plays with the accelerator.
There’s no lead in my gas anymore…
No seatbelt to tuck me in and never was.
Double clutching my way down this old hill
is my only option.
If this keeps up
I may have to thumb it
back to the garage…
Elvis called today
He said he saw me at the window
watching the clouds in the desert.
I was dreaming and he was driving
when Joseph Stalin went floating by…
Elvis slammed on the brakes
and the motorhome skidded to a stop
at the corner of disappointment and vine
where Larry Geller’s jaw dropped
and the motor-home motored on
while Uncle Joe transfigurated
into Jesus on a lollipop…
and Elvis, like a puppet on a string
finally saw the face of God.
Mark W. Ó Brien
28February2024
May the Psychopomps find you on the bedpost before you lose your flavor:
Oh my dearest Elvis,
Keeper of my youthful hopes…
Conductor of my forefather’s souls…
I am sore and these are my afflictions:
for I have become derelict of dialect
and feral of barrels…
I struggle to understand
and my heart remains elusive in it’s searching…
Oh Nightjar! Oh Goat sucker! Oh New world whip-poor-will!
I can’t help it Elvis you know I can’t…
You tell can me it’s a shame how much
pleasure I take from baseball but
I gotta find solace somewhere…
©️Mark W. Ó Brien
10January2024
