Biography of Red O'Mara
I live in Melbourne, Australia. That makes me an Australian, a Melburnian, a lover of Australian Rules football and someone who eats sharks with his chips and pronounces route to rhyme with boot, and castle to rhyme with vassal. Though, if it suited poetic necessity, I'd have more than enough lack of principle to make castle rhyme with parcel.
Almost everything I've written here was for or about a particularly lovely woman. But for Maggie I wouldnt have written this or anything else for this site. I took up writing what I like to think of as love poems to better explain how I felt about her. It's easier, that way, to get straight the things you want to say, easier to write what you mean and less daunting to be honest, than it is to articulate your feelings in situations where words tend to be fumbled in the process.
Obviously, too, I wanted to impress Maggie and perhaps I succeeded because it was at her instigation that I came out, here, on this site.
What I've written then were mainly love poems, to gain her good graces, interspersed with bits of mongrel verse (ill-bred doggerel) to make her laugh.
Red O'Mara Poems
One Day If I Could Spend The Night
One day, perhaps if I could spend the night, I would stack your hearth with firewood, and we could sit together, on your couch. You, your feet tucked under you
I love the look that's in your eyes when we're lying close together. Gentle warmth with a hint of smile telling me you love me,
She isn't beautiful as Nefertiti was. And, unlike Helen, her face will never launch a thousand ships. No, her beauty is more open, than entrancing
Her Golden Veil
She moves to kiss me from above, her body over mine, moves to brush back her hair, to keep it from my face when,
How We Used To Be
Do you remember how we used to be? It was only such a little while ago, that we were in love. We wrote and said and did, too much to doubt our feelings.
The Day After Night
It seems to me my life, since a time not very long ago, has somehow been restored. That again my world is bathed in light
She Likes To Cook
She likes to cook. Often, it seems. Often, and perhaps too much. Like all good cooks,
Fondling Sweet Memories Of You
I enjoy my time alone, when missing you. Missing you while fondling sweet memories of you,
Slow Movin Tights
I'm in me bath here, with a box of red cheer, yeah a box of red cheer, beer's too bloody dear. Me mind's wanderin twixt big tits and riches, bein able to scratch at what itches,
It Makes Me Happy, To Be With You
It makes me happy, to be with you. To watch you smile and hear you speak and see your eyes turn softly warm, makes me happy to be with you.
Yesterdays And Tomorrows
It was only yesterday I saw you, held you, loved you. Barely twenty four hours spent and still five long days until
The Land Of Rhyme Remembered
Sail most by south, by west the least, until the moon sets in the east. There, in a sea the hue of custard, ye'll see the Ile de Deux Sans Mustard
On Being Without You
I've missed you. All these days we've been apart I've missed you. I've longed to see you smile, hear your laugh, to hold you, caress you.
What Is It All About
I couldn't sleep one night and, hoping you'd be awake, poked, and waited, then found your photograph,
The Qwerty Bustard
Erstime, ere bards nor wondering Joyceters
did glybb their gobs with glanjous tongue,
Sir Slip The Most of Figleefmoistners,
was undangled…and his sling unslung.
‘Twas on the Ile de Deux Sans Mustard,
with her chicklet Hoplet never wordling,
that the hunkerflesh-fed Qwerty Bustard,
marked well by dark, was ever curdling.