~ In Memory of B. O'Donnell ~
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Remembering
B. O'Donnell B. O'Donnell was the London Branch Manager for The Ontario Poetry Society, from 2000 until her death on September 15, 2007. She was a dear, sweet lady who did a great deal for The Ontario Poetry Society. Her dedication, hard work and great efforts in uniting poets in London did not go unnoticed. She worked tirelessly every year to bring poets and food to the Sarnia Summertime Poetry Soirees. She came to our event in London this past August, 2007 and read her poems, in spite of her severe pain and poor physical condition. She was a loyal, devoted and true friend and she will be greatly missed. |
will offer prizes for poems written in the rhyming style, which was B.'s benchmark.
Below are some of B's poems.
Read poems written as a tribute to B.
Poetry by B. O'Donnell
Children
Run Below Storms
to Kathleen
Not scanning skies to predict tomorrow's storms.
Certain they will reach snow-insulated homes,
Preoccupied with who goes first on the sled,
Kids run far below cloud bank overhead.
Bad weather causes their parents to whimper:
"There'll be five bad driving months this winter.
Windshields will be slashed with sharp sleet and hail."
Kids slumber in back seat, threat to no avail.
Parents rise at dawn, fear to be late for shifts.
Kids play in conduits of last night's drifts.
Snowscape's each hole and post, delightful space.
Clothing stuffed in suit gives broad cushioned base.
Children all covered but lace-drawn face hatch.
Grown-ups exposed knees, neck, (the scarf and skirt match).
So that their bodies leak comfortable heat.
Kids: natural, cold-defying, rosy cheek.
Cut off from street wind and noise, kids romp on hills.
Blinded by reflection of stars and crystals.
Breath in bobsled tunnels draws them to home door
From a land they never had conquered before.
previously published
in Butterfly Thunder Anthology
Lay Off
Announced, "LAID OFF". No one budges,
Hollow silence for long moments,
Blank stare. Chairs' lament grates and creaks
The cold flint hall's hard mezzanine
Scraping morale from us workers'
Worn surfaces. no words to speak.
I'd teased Henny Penny workers,
"Our lives, welded, will not cave in.
Mettle of our work, excellent."
I push open the plant gate which
Grates at me for each chisel edge
Overtime cent which I have spent.
The dull shears have cut me deeply.
Fifty-two years old, no prospects.
Not once have I used Workers' Comp.
I can't live any more cheaply.
I see my poor, hopeless tears fry
On top of my rusty old car.
previously published in Butterfly Thunder Anthology
Northern
Lake Evening
Sunset in whorl
in cottage window glass
defers as blown beech
branches' shadows pass.
Water level dropped
from lack of spring rains
bending for a drink, starving,
long legged dock strains.
Loon cries quiver
like paddle strokes' ripples
which stir frogs' legs
streamers of round bells.
Aside from this,
each season's twilights
keep reflections of silence
steep in the deep.
previously published in Enchanted Crossroads Anthology
Tragedy
On The Water
Jet boats, and booze-bad combo
Drivers tanked up, feel laid back
"Cold spray of the water and
The breeze will keep me on track."
Thrilling swig from tall cool one
Heightening sense of speed grips,
Sudden crash 'gainst submerged rock.
Out of control, the boat flips.
Granite-cold, numbing to core,
Instant freezing terror, more
Articulate than screaming gulls,
Reaction echoes from shore.
Chain of blind leading the blind,
Sober searchers, reef of grief,
Comb waters, funeral pace,
Their minds numb with disbelief.
Finally, the line concedes,
Undertow unrelenting.
Through callous waters. Shimmer,
Boat tethered, 'shamed, repenting.
previously published in Enchanted Crossroads Anthology