Mike O’Brien

@zoomburst.substack.com

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Sixty odd years old - Sixty Odd Press zoomburst.substack.com sixtyoddpoets.substack.com

Charles Dickens outside a Doncaster Pub, where he stayed in 1857 - I will be giving a talk about it in Mexborough Library this Friday!
I’m in hospital again! Not as badly off as the guy in the poem. Raised heartbeat. Hoping they don’t keep me in.
Who does he think he is? William Carlos bloody Williams, or what? cupboard under the stairs. For God's sake!
This Travelodge poem has been rejected by The Rumpus, Acumen, and Northern Gravy. Rightly so! I have tweaked it a bit but, I don't hold out a lot of hope for it. Still... Onwards and upwards!
A blackboard with a poetry challenge on it - "Write a poem in the future tense"
A party at my grandmas house. probably about the time when people were mostly listening to the Beatles.
Hastily cobbled together publicity material attempting to make me look human and approachable - which I actually am, although sometimes its hard to discern from other images that I have put out. Seriously though. I would love to do a set at your arts centre, library or small theatre. it needn't be the full 2x40 minutes, and I'm happy to support anyone else. And I won't ask for a shitload of money either. As long as I don't end up out of pocket re expenses, and have the opportunity to tout a few books, I'll be happy.
A poem pointing out that the older we get, the wronger our bodies become.
A poster for a talk by a devilishly handsome gentleman at the Bawtry Community Library on the 16th of June. It gives a phone number for "signing up" I dare say there will be room for one or two people who turn up on the day.
Write a poem on the theme of Opportunity Knocks - for Friday Morning - Don't post before Friday Morning. If there is a #PoemsAbout prompt, please disregard this and do that one
a clever clogs poem that attempts to make a virtue of its own inadequacy
Me after a visit to the barber
A poem written from the point of view of an ex-Jehova's witness. I know that they haven't done much door knocking since covid. Now I see them congregated around magazine stands of Watchtowers in small groups on high streets, chatting happily with one another, and hardly bothering to interact with non believers. Makes for an easier life for them and me, but I sort of miss them.
The Impossibles. A 60s Hanna Barbera cartoon featuring a pop group with crime busting secret identities. My favourite was Multi man on the left there. He could instantly multiply himself to overwhelm an enemy. What a philosophical conundrum. How would that work out practically? “My name is Legion for we are many”
A poem on the theme of names not numbers, which blends ideas from a couple of counting songs. If you know them, perhaps you can sing them? I found it satisfying to do just that/ And therein lies my satisfaction with the poem - it nudged me towards the songs.
A poem in which an old seadog reflects on his career and looks to a calmer future.
Poster for my talk on Dickens’ 1857 visit to Doncaster
an odd little piece of blank verse imagining why we don't really know what happens when we die. Strangely enough I resisted the temptation to namecheck Doris Stokes
The surface of the table next to Roger Waldron's settee
A messy tabletop featuring a note about an online reading of Roger Waldron's Brook reading and an Open Mic event
A short poem hinging on the fact that levity is an antonym for gravity.
poster for Leeds Song Poets and Composers Forum 2026... I'll be there - will you?
A poem about tuning in, using a radio or television receiver, or a mushroom.
Football commentator John Motson in a sheepskin coat.
A black and white drawing of a man with a bucket over his head wearing nothing else other than some tight black bloomers, saying "Help Me"
Jack Gilbert. American Poet. In a shirt that blends beautifully with the background of the picture.
That's me (Mike O'Brien) on the left, with Roger Waldron to my left or, if you prefer, to the right of the picture. We are both holding a copy of Roger's book, Notes from Various Settees. I am smiling because I have read it, and Roger is smiling because he wrote it. On the floor are some throwaway poems that Roger has thrown away.
My card. With my email address on it and a brown flower.
A poem on the theme of "melt" composed for #poems about on Bluesky. It first I toyed with the idea of watching a Tuna Melt, but then I got taken up with the idea of surrender which led me to the idea of Jesus. I'm not really religious - but what a story! I say this in the same way as I sometimes say, I'm not really a fan of Elvis - but what a story!
A settee a table and a lamp, advertising Roger Waldron's new Book Notes from Various Settees
A Night to Remember I think that it was one of the Marx Brothers Who said all property is theft But it was my brother, Carl Who pointed out that twocking isn’t theft at all By definition He explained this to me as we sped to the coast In a twocked Ford Sierra He had no intention of permanently depriving the owner Of his prized vehicle We were merely loaning it for the evening Without his consent Playing the bandits at the arcade We picked up two girls, Denise and Sandy And took them to a stall near the front For sugared do-nuts The four of us had a real, actual roller coaster ride From the top You could see all the way to the ships on the horizon Then we had hot chocolate With bits of marshmallow floating in it Everything was bought and paid for With Carl’s earnings from the bottle plant After we said goodnight to the girls Carl twocked a Vauxhall Cavalier And drove us back home He had work in the morning It had been a night to remember
There is no escaping his gaze Not in the locked lavatory Nor the space under the stairs No hiding behind mother’s skirts Or amongst a crowd of pals Each of them is as exposed as you are He sees you when you’re sleeping His dispassionate, calculating eye Regarding your unconscious form He knows when you’re awake No point in pretending Behind deliberate slow breathing And tightly shut eyes Your body is held still and silent in vain He knows if you’ve been bad or good Probing your very thoughts Reading every guilty twitch on your face Or using some supernatural ability To see into your mind Your heart Your soul There’s no avoiding him You are an open book He’s writing a list He’s checking it Twice You must learn his moral code Anticipate the flavour of his judgement And be good for goodness sake
A Sparrowhawk clutching the remains unfortunate recently deceased pigeon
Der junge Künstler (The Young Artist) by Franz von Defregger. (1835 - 1921) Showing a chap reading a book. In the book is an illustration of another chap. There is what appears to be a red hanky hanging from a jacket pocket in the top right corner. This is reminiscent of the film "Cruising" (1980) One wonders if the book that the chap is reading is some victorian precursor of the Grindr website? A quick bit of research on Wikipedia reveals that a red hanky indicates a preference for the practice of fisting. Crikey.
Advert for Leeds Song Composers and Poets Forum presentation, which I shall be appearing at on April 15th.
Spent When we are spent and cannot stir again The fire extinguished, bodies cooling down All senses sated, pulse and breathing stilled The fruit of our potential shall not lie To perish by some prophylactic dam It will transcend beyond this mundane realm As our abandoned husks return to dust We shall depart without a backward glance Our essences combining as we leave To join the others who have gone ahead In light the like of which we’ve never seen We’ll grasp at last the truth we had forgot The sum is always greater than the parts And love is so much greater than ourselves
Blue Cheese with Chilli Peppers, by Charles Bukowski. The poem that almost put me off Brahms for life. (The antidote is to think about it whilst listening to his Hungarian Dances) Bukowski eh? He's no Wordsworth, but his stuff chimes with me more than daffodils. Uncomfortably.
The ten original volumes of Sixty Odd Poets behaving in a slightly irritating screen saver like manner over a background reading Sixty Odd Poets - Gotta catch them all.
A poem about my uncle John, cars and women.
Of course I composed this in Microsoft Word (I long for the day when a universally acceptable European alternative will be developed to rid me of the necessity of lining Mr Trump's coffers) and was gratified to receive this perfect score from the Editor feature built in to that application.
A rather fetching sepia toned photograph of Mr Charles Dickens
Mrs Harding The Original Beg your parding, Mrs Harding, Is my knitting in your garding? Yes it is and all alone A chewing on a mutton bone. The Sequel Here lie the bones of Mrs Harding Died of a chill caught in her garding The undertaker thought it fitting To shroud her in some of my knitting
Artwork by sally Anne Wickenden from the cover of Odd - The Journal of the Sixty Odd Poets - featuring three women on a boat at night-time.
we decided to undress Each garment was dropped carelessly to the floor as we revealed the secrets of our flesh It took some time Our movements not being as nimble Our limbs not as lithe as before Stiff, feeble fingers fumbled adolescently with buttons, belts and clasps. Until we stood before one another Shrivelled Sagging Slack and In the buzzing glow of the electric fire. Beautiful
...A Brotherhood of Man...
Father Christmas giving Arius the Heretic a slap around the chops for speaking out of turn about Jesus. You can email me with your heresy poetry at sixty_odd@aol.com No - It really is Father Christmas - St Nicholas!
Odd - a New Literary Journal launching in Mexborough - on 22nd February.
A grinning Mike O'Brien with a Christmas Card and some stickers which have come all the way from Pittsburgh courtesy of Danielle at the Engine Idling
A very tempting offer from an American widow who is both terminally ill and a millionaire who wants to send me all her money. Reader, give me some guidance.
Sometimes you wonder whether Alt text is really necessary - but here it is anyway.. Peace Swathed in black, she came to him and sat astride his broken form Though numbed and weary, still he felt a wonder and a joy at this. She bent and shrouded him in shade The fearful noises faded fast as his heart stilled within his chest She took the veil down from her face and covered up his eyes with it Cold as he was, he felt her warmth and when he left, he left with her She took him off. No-one knows where.
The book, Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver. A copper haired boy looks out of a window
Jack and Jill illustration and verses with Mother Gooses moral - “The more you think of dying, the better you will live”
The Disco King He ran a hand through his thinning silver hair Hundred and fifty, love. That’s three hours music and light show I’ve got all the gear And I’ve got all the hits All the Elvis And sixties through to the nineties Never mind anything later than that That’s when they made the real music. I’ve got the stuff that will keep them all dancing From grandma down to the kiddies I know when to quieten things down And when to rev things up I’m experienced, see I’ve been in this game since 1982 I can do requests I’m connected to the internet She got him down to a hundred and twenty I must be going soft, he thought But work is harder to come by these days People are doing it themselves With their fancy speakers and Spotify playlists The bottom’s dropping right out of it And to tell the truth, He wasn’t as into the music as he used to be But what can you do? A man’s got to earn a living.