Posts Tagged ‘Females’

The Surf

The surf is full of girls:
their seaweed, oysters,
and pink pearls.


Julian O’Dea

I remember

I remember those first times
you ironed my shirts for work;
barefoot on steaming summer
evenings; the hiss and curve of
the hot iron; the turn of your 
ankles; cottage industry; hammer,
anvil, heat of the human forge.

Julian O’Dea

The Return of the Patriarchy

The tough Alabama and other State laws in America virtually banning abortion are causing a frenzy among progressives and feminists.

Women only have themselves to blame.

And both men and women are calling them to order.

There used to be a social contract: men endure the risks of work and war; women endure the risks of childbirth. But women have dropped their bundle while expecting men to continue with ours.

Women have abused a “right” to abortion, which was only ever meant to be used in extreme circumstances, to have their unborn children killed in huge numbers.

This has taught men and conservative women a lesson: women can’t be trusted with too much freedom.

Time for a bit of patriarchy.

Lesbian Bees

those bees, those busy-
buzzing, small-busy-bodies,
Mother Nature’s Lesbians,
leaving behind the confines 
of the hive and the
dronesplaining males,
for feminine humming,
feminine business, sucking
nectar from the genitals
of plants

Julian O’Dea

To take you

I long to take you once again 
into the fields and bend you
like a blade of grass,
and stroke your hair
like the last warm wind of autumn,
but winter is here,
with white camellias.

Julian O’Dea

The Eternal Paternal

The Eternal Paternal


Yes, dear daughter, my
little bleating lamb,
what is it this time?


Evening and morning,
you importune me,
at times convenient
and inopportune.


Once it was lollies, dollies,
to come to tea
with fairy cups and doilies.


But now it’s for a little cash,
for a quick dash to the
shops and coffee with
a friend.
May it never end.


Julian O’Dea

The Colour of Irony

The Colour of Irony

Of the roses I bought her,
the only one to survive
was a colour
she disliked, mauve;
and it is blooming now,
with a single pouting rose
that faces straight up as
if to ignore us both
and strain to kiss the sky.

Julian O’Dea