Dennis N. O'Brien

Dennis N. O'Brien Poems

There once were twelve apostrophes
Who'd served their English writers well,
But soon despite concerted pleas,
Their use had all but gone to hell.

To see the Earth from a distant Star
Would give perspective to who we are:
A speck of dust in a galaxy;
A whirlpool set in an endless sea

The amber glow as day begins to die
Behind a darkened hill that lies to west,
Where trees that silhouette against the sky
March on like lines of soldiers on its crest.

Lies only stand if the good are weak
For only the truth is strong.
It's to feeble minds that the liars speak,
Not to minds who know right from wrong.

If the universe is of infinite size
On just one planet would life arise?
Or are there many where life can swarm,
Advanced like us and of similar form?

The famous are by all the people praised
And monuments to their achievements raised,
But should they fail the test, their statues fall;
They really weren't so famous after all.

In April when the first cool days
Foretell of winter's coming frost,
And waning sun's soft golden rays
Shine weaker now that summer's lost.

He profits from extended toes,
As o'er the lily pads he goes.
His call is just a quiet screech
Although he's not inclined to preach.

How could this be, that after months of hell,
Of blasting heat and sands of deserts crossed,
That now but this blazed coolibah to tell
The wretched men, for them all hope is lost.

Whether devout or green;
Whether hooded or seen;
Their intent is to gain
All control from the sane.

Dennis N. O'Brien Biography

Dennis N. O'Brien is a formalist poet living in Queensland, Australia.

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The Twelve Apostrophes

There once were twelve apostrophes
Who'd served their English writers well,
But soon despite concerted pleas,
Their use had all but gone to hell.

The first to go was poor old you're,
Became just your, then out the door,
And closely followed by old it's,
Whose usefulness had had the fritz.

So it's was its, then we'd was wed,
And pretty soon poor that's was dead.
The next to go was faithful where's,
He's dead and buried - no one cares.

And number six was we're to were,
And that's to thats - another pair.
Then the apostrophe of who's,
Where he has gone there are no clues.

The ninth to go was good old you've,
He didn't fit the modern groove.
And didn't closely followed him,
Into the apostrophic bin.
(I made this up to put them in)

The last to go were can't and he's,
To cant and hes with just a squeeze.
Now of the twelve not one is left,
We're now apostrophe bereft.

Now I've misused apostrophes,
And missed them out on words like shes,
But it's a crime to let them drop,
Apostrocide has got to stop.
(OK, invented word - fair cop)

Now writing's going to the dogs,
Apostrophes popping their clogs;
These signs are there to show what's not,
They matter much more than a jot,
Let's hope that writers out there please,
Can resurrect apostrophes.

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