James O’Connell is a poet with a lifelong dedication to the craft, quietly honing his voice over five decades. He began writing at the age of twelve and later studied Creative Writing at both undergraduate and graduate levels, working under acclaimed poets Bill Knott and Thomas Lux. Though his literary path was briefly set aside for pursuits in music and a long career in English language education, O’Connell never lost touch with poetry. For over thirty years, he taught ESL, and he currently works in a nonprofit adult education program in Rhode Island. Recently, he has returned to writing with renewed purpose, bringing the depth of a lifetime’s experience to his work.

Obedience

My mind, half feral, is a far cry
From man’s best friend. Granted,
For the moment, it has heeled
And hangs on my every word

Atta boy, atta boy

Until, naturally, the squirrel
Or the postman at the door
Or, on our evening circuit,
The beckoning chiaroscuro
Of some distant tree line.

Stay…stay…

But it will make its mad dashes
As I—half saddened and half
Stirred—must once more decide
Whether or not to follow.

Safety Belts and Leash Laws

Though our era’s ‘burbs and byways were
Riddled with serial killers,
We would walk down long dirt roads
To frog ponds, mow the lawn
Of some odd-duck birthday clown,
Let in the next-door nebbish
Who shambles over to borrow sugar or
Garden shears. We turned
Deaf ears to call-ins for dinner, dusk
Ever more our element.

Though the woods were dark and three
Proposed developments deep,
We made it through to our tree forts.
Only if it rained would we stay in
Climbing the walls, watching The Waltons.

And though Gallo’s landshark buried
Its fearsome ice age teeth
Into McCormac’s calf and tore apart
The deSousa’s cat, we went
Here, boy. Here, boy. Come and get it.

Though arms got busted; skulls, cracked
We’d surf the cargo beds
Of our plastered uncles’ pick-up trucks,
Lie along slippery vinyl seats
With our untroubled heads nestled
On our mothers’ laps, below
The steering column (Some say blood
Ties were much tighter then)
As, recklessly, we erred closer
To caution: lying low, locked down
And wistfully looking back
Over our shoulders at a distractive past.

Exit Plans

I can’t see myself in Canada; there are no mirrors.
It’s mainly space up there, covered in tundra,
Tyrannized by sanity and prone to epidemics of
Decency. I fear I’ll kill the first motherfucker
Who holds a door for me or gives me free analgesics.

There’s talk of Taiwan, where my wife comes from.
Yeah, but what about China? (deep sigh)
We’re on about that again? Look: we lose, they win.
Besides, I’d rather be clobbered properly,
Blown out of the water, than prolong a noble battle

Against the inherent cancer in Being Great Again.
God bless us prodigal dreamers. Guess we got
A little out of hand. Seems it wasn’t made, this land,
For you, me or the horses we rode in on. We’ve
Been deleted from its will, so we may as well leave.

Naturally, I’ve lobbied for Ireland, where the digs
About us and our roots are not only good
But good natured: Ah well, glad to have you back
In the bosom, lad, arseways ‘n all. We are
Spared who we are, though one day we’ll all get it

Then laugh more wholeheartedly, cry more wisely.

I’m sure, too, we all entertain thoughts of returning
To our own custom-dreamt past, our own
Main Street, U.S.A., maybe. Or Summer of Love.
But that passport’s expired. And, anyway,
There’s been a wall built along the entire border.

Better off aiming for the Netherlands than Neverland.
We could get high there in cafes. In Cancun,
Drink Margaritas on the beach, just beyond the reach
Of the clapboard shacks, visions as American-
Standard as Chevrolet. No, it’s not off to the colonies

We will go, I’m afraid. In fact, we probably won’t go
Anywhere at all, I’m afraid. Or won’t be able to,
I’m afraid. Or worse, even want to, I’m afraid. Are you
Afraid, too?

How Much

When you ask me how much
I love you, I hold out
My hands as far apart as I can
Like a little kid, who couldn’t
Quantify a blessed thing
Or the guy who goes
Out fishing alone
Approximating
The big mouth bass that
Snapped his line.

Your role in this routine
Is to go pfft, ask if
That’s it. I’m sure you’re less
Than half serious and the rest:
Those gentle, steadfast jests
That have had me
From the get-go.

Only that much? Now tell me
How it could ever be
Enough. Yet I’ve rolled with it,
Couched the question in a quip.
In Valentine’s cards, even
On our anniversary, I land
Love on a punchline.

Could be the heavy heart I’d born
So long, love sunken,
Thought-logged, till you dove in
To salvage it; decades of perfect
Neglect foiled by buoyancy.
But I’m not going to say
That you saved me

From myself—a hackneyed phrase
—and anyway, not the case.
Myself, that’s what you gave me.
And, however much I ultimately
Amount to, it could only be
Half of how much
I love you.

Behind the Strip Mall

Maybe not grace, but I know God
Shed something back here
Where undocumented workers come
To loosen their tongues, smoke
Our Marlboros (they missed the memo)
Here where whatever wasn’t
Scarfed down or sold gets thrown
And unmoved units languish.
Here, many dreams lie, biodegrading.

There’s a view back here, too: vacant,
Unviable wasteland weaving
Around Wal marts, Dominos, Dollar Stores;
Verdigris waves of phragmites;
Plastic bags that frolic with feral cats;
Some half-mired shopping carts
In tranquil bogs of orange-brown spilth;
A concrete-colored sky
Burning, by night, a phosphorous white.

And we—blinded to stars, barred from
The prime realty of a seaside,
Quiet glades in fairytale forests—the people
Face this wonderless finite,
These allotted plots outside the gates,
Dream-recalling something
That grew in green and ran on blue.
Collective memory or mirage,
This distant, iffy oasis is,