Owen Irving Albert Roche

Poem By OWEN I.A. ROCHE

I don't laugh at man
(or cry)
to see his simian antics;

I just observe him
and describe,
as do all true pendantics.

Good!
I see him light the fuse
to blow the world to pieces!

How copious my notes!
How a propos my thesis!

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Other poems of ROCHE

222

Go now greenly into brown
and shed the dead outerness
serenely, as maid gown,
as life body, as cicada skin.

Owen 1970

You and all are wanderers
in the night where dragons prowl
and the unbelievable beasts
of undermind rage and growl

My Grandfather The Tailor

My grandfather the tailor was a stocky Ukrainian.
By day he worked in the sweat shops,
By evening cold chicken and tea.
A lump of sugar for him and one for me.

This Death Some Will Lament

This death
some will lament
remembering brief flames,
but to you,

Caipe

oh come to me
my l' il honey lips
we'll sip the wine
and in between the sips

Love Of Owen Roche

I shall write you a song, little
you have thorns but you're my kind of flower
we'll go live in an ivory tower
and I'll make up a whole song for you