Tuesday Trilogy

Tuesday Trilogy 

Each week, we had an editorial meeting on Tuesdays, these three songs sum up my feelings about those and How I still feel about that meeting where she was

the intruder Dec. 2013

  

I feel her

Through my finger tips

As I touch the key board

She touched here,

Feel her as if

She is still here,

Haunting this cubbyhole

I have inherited

With my all but

Glorious return.

I touch the keys

And touch her,

Each stroke

Stirring up

Strong emotions

I have done my best

To suppress.

I touch her

Each time

I press down

On a key,

Feeling the vague

Vibrations,

Feeling a sense

Of warmth

I know is really

Not there.

I feel her fingers

Touching mine

Remotely,

A spiritual connection,

Neither of us

Intend,

And know

She is already too

Distant to feel it, too,

Perhaps I simply wish

For it to be her

Her presence

Indelitable

Toughing me

With each thing

I touch in this space

That once was hers,

Knowing she was

Once here

And this is

Her space,

I am the intruder.

 

email to Al Sullivan

I write poems to exist April 24, 2024

  

I write poems

Almost in my sleep

Like dreams,

The wish fulfillment

Freud kept harping on,

I’m scared to stop,

Thinking if I cease

I will cease to exist,

Or get exiled

From Eden

For not having bitten

Into the forbidden fruit,

Clutching the serpent

By the neck

To keep it from

Spitting up,

These words,

These vague ideas,

Smeared across my belly

Just about the place

Where I ache most,

Counting out my life

Less in tea spoons,

Than in tea leaves,

I read, but do not

Aways comprehend.

I write poems until

I spill over,

Unable to stop,

Even if I could,

Unable to cease

Dreaming,

Unable to halt

The fangs that

Rip my insides out,

The only cure,

A temporary flow

Of words,

I write these

Therefore

I exist.

email to Al Sullivan

No Matter What (cover of Badfinger song)

No Matter What 

Wings of wax May 29, 2012

 

Collectors wait

For the cocoon to crack

Before they collect

Their fee,

Pinning her wings

On their display board

For all their friends

To see,

Even though this

Pathetic being’s

Wings still flap

With the urge to escape.

But who is to blame?

Do butterflies feel pain

When they come

Too close to heat?

Do they blame

The fingers of

Those of who who

Adore the beauty,

And inadvertently

Singe them?

We live our lives

Wearing wax wings,

And complain

When they melt

When we get too near

To the sun,

Claiming, blaming

The collector

For admiring her

Too much

When it fact

It is the worm

That has turned,

And the cocoon’s

Cracking

That reveals her.

email to Al Sullivan

Natural love. July 7, 2015

 Is it love or something else when we urge for: something other than that comes over us; this need to do more than ordinary; to bind ourselves to something others might see as strange; not pain yet pleasure is so closely aligned, it cannot be evenly separated or defined; to plunge deep into places my catechism might condemn me to eternal fire for; and still it is the fire inside, wanting me to feel it when we engage; which orifice is acceptable and can we still label it as love; or is it something else; to feel each inch penetrating the darkness of the night; too scream out for more when we do; harder, faster, deeper more intense; can we define love this or are we broaching a push to unnatural; to accept even though we want to go there soon and often

Distance makes the heart grow fonder June 5, 2012

 

This far out

I need a telescope

To see what is

Right in front of me,

While you say

Distance is likely

To make me feel

Less obsessed,

I find the old adage

As true:

Absence making

The heart grow

Fonder,

Looking at it all

As if all is new

When nothing is,

A paradox you claim

As splinters

That reveal our

Inner lives,

Too close

You seennothing

But pores and

Poor excuses,

Nothing translatable,

Just a mysterious

Universe of

Me and you,

How many times

Can a man say

Sorry before

It sounds phony

Even in his own ears,

Distance may make

The heart grow fonder,

But by your logic,

It gets chilled in

The depths of space,

The whole universe

Is just too vast

For a simply mind

Like mine,

And yet,

Too close to the sun

And my wings melt,

There has to be

A happy medium

Or at least

An unhappy one.

 

email to Al Sullivan