The banality of Hillary Clinton

Somebody imagines a New Yorker cover:

Note that the “genius” designer spelled Margaret Mead incorrectly. And Dian Fossey.

See if you can find any other errors …

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Petals on the Ground

The small, white petals
run about on the ground
in the wind like children
in a playground, with no
mind for me: and if I
were gone next year,
the playing would go on.

 

Julian O’Dea

the wind

the wind 

in the waves …

in her hair

(Julian O’Dea)

This Puppy

This puppy is like 
the separable soul
of folklore.
I watch him play
with spirit. He 
runs off on his
own. He returns
trembling to my
side, recollected
again:
always coming
back to his safe centre
least far from
his nearest
notion of god.

 

Julian O’Dea

Rock Pool

ROCK POOL

 

 

The sea has been working

on the rock pool for ages,

using that palette of colour

(all natural pigments):

a twist of vegan green,

a daub of red meaty

anemone: seaweeds

adding impasto; worms

like paint extruded from

tubes.

 

 

Waves wash in to rework

the tiny canvas: a gouache;

a palimpsest; an aquarelle:

moving some sand there,

adding a shell.

 

Julian O’Dea

Her soul goes at night

Her soul goes at night
between the branches
through empty spaces
down to the cold creek
and tries to warm itself 
in moonlight and cheer
itself by the thin water
under a sky with no star
to share.

Julian O’Dea

Letting the missus drive

Letting the missus drive, 
he watches her legs under 
the hem of the taut skirt 
as it rides up and she 
settles into the pedals 
with feminine abandon,
flaunting her influence
like a woman in stirrups,
legs splayed, ankles
straining in her heels.

 

Julian O’Dea