Biography of Patrick O'Reilly
Patrick O'Reilly lives in St. John's, Newfoundland. He works in a warehouse.
Patrick O'Reilly Poems
3am And It's Quiet
It gets quiet at 3am. The bedsheets are wrinkled and rolled back. Another half empty cup of coffee, Another crumpled sheet of paper.
An Empty Church
A church is holier when it is empty, When every private step echoes off the ceiling, Like ripples of solemn sound And the candles stand unlit,
An Ancient Artform
This is an ancient artform, A relic almost sacred I told her As I placed the huge black disc onto the platform. I've never even seen one of these she confessed.
An Old Irish Song
In the downtown clubs you can hear them singing. Ghost's songs stepping off the coffin ships Which carried them across that broad Western ocean.
In Came The Dawn
The sun came up without permission To make me wonder which day it was. The razor sunrise rips into my red eyes, And I shut them fast and tight
A Song I Heard An Immigrant Singing
The clock is set on 4 am The sheets kicked off the bed An anthem screams on the t.v. screen There’s an ache all in me head
A Queen And A Queen And A Man Between
Between two trees stood a sullen man Counting on his words When two Queens tilted at him With sharp and heavy swords
The great North Wind rattles the trees And shatters their twigs to splinters The sparkling quilt of snow knee-deep Paves the streets of winter
Take the wheel! We could drive til the gas tank is bone dry. Because I don't want to die in this town,
Tribute To A Dead Stranger
You went, A name without a face, A name on everyone's lips, Saying `Never more to pass unchallenged
There is no music tonight, my darling, This radio is busted. You can turn the dial all you want.
Western (For The Girl I Love)
Thursday morning, sweep the dawn in You're over the fields of Saskatchewan. I miss you like a city, like a long-lost limb.
Thoughts On An Empty Factory At Night
These places are always scary at night. Dark and demonic, Grey and grimey, Forlorn and lonesome.
As the ship dragged his body down, He sailed back to those rugged coasts And the sagging house on the hill Where a worried woman waited in her chair,
The great North Wind rattles the trees
And shatters their twigs to splinters
The sparkling quilt of snow knee-deep
Paves the streets of winter
Hilly dams span the roads
With city traffic hindered
Trudging through the sterile cold
Of the dry, crackling winter