Is it me? May 22, 2024

 

She did it again

Or is it me,

A blast from the past

As potent as ever

Her mouth set,

Painted,

Her eyes framed

Like a masterpiece,

And I stare,

Stunned

The way I was back then,

Is it me?

Or is she some force of nature

That sweeps into our lives

Like a storm,

And passed out

Leaving us to wonder

What it is that hit us

And whether we will

Ever be the same,

The memory of her impact

Coming back

Making me react

Just as I did then,

Shaken each time

She posts a new one,

And this so much like

Those I used to see

On my phone

In my head

In my dreams in bed.

I stare

Feeling like an interloper

Like a peeping Tom

Caught  in the act,

Just a picture

And yet,

More than that.

email to Al Sullivan

Jonas (2014)

 

 

Even when you are

Out of reach

I ache to touch you,

To run my fingers

Across that smooth

Landscape from your

Neck to your toes,

Irreverent thoughts

Filling my brain,

But I don’t care,

To feel your neck

With the tips of my fingers

Where it curves

From earlobes to lips,

Your lips, a secret

Treasure I can’t cease

To caress,

Soft, plump, potent,

Fingers going across

Them, then easily inside,

As I stare down

Into your deep eyes,

My whole essence

Swallowed, as I press

Deeper,

I am Jonas

And you have devoured me,

Keeping me contained,

My fingers; your mouth,

My soul sucked into

The windows of your eyes,

I am inside you,

Looking out,

Desperate to become you

To fill you up with all of me.

 

email to Al Sullivan

Aching for a grand slam May 15, 2024

 

 

I won’t pretend

To understand

How she feels

Or why she needs

To go so far

When life pitches her

A curve ball.

She always swings too hard

She always tries to reach the stands,

Why does it seem so complicated

When we all ought to simply

Have what we need,

And get what we want,

Grab what we think we deserve,

Finding pleasure in a pleasant

Afternoon ride

All else intruding on us,

Making magic moments

Unserviceable,

When they ought to be

Full of joy.

I don’t pretend to know here,

Only the edges of what she reveals,

The outlines of a promising life

She is so desperate to lead

If only fate

Or god

Will let her.

email to Al Sullivan

When a noun loves Oct. 20, 2026

 

And yes, after all these years, the noun is still infatuated with the adjective’s amazing beauty, the sentence telling its tale each day, a recollection of affection to the point of perishing, but no pink pot full of flowers on her kitchen table, no smoke billowing out the window where she perched, no longing on the grass that overlooks the river we both share, even if miles apart, noun and adjective in need of a verb to feel complete, those nights in the midst of conjunction, “and” without a “but” while in the end, I’m still lost in her eyes and – as the poet says – “ears, nose and throat,” she always the enchantress that enchanted me outside that German bar, a kiss that can never be undone, until language itself is destroyed, this poem, this sentence, this existence, dedicated to her, the adjective that complements the noun, inviting the verb to make it all seem real.

 

 

email to Al Sullivan

All on the same yacht Sept 25, 2013

 

 We hold our breath

As we wait for the verdict

as if the world

will end for all of us

A blast from the past

When she got the scoop

He’d gotten busted,

Reaching out to me for hel

she really didn’t need,

that moment (of) graduation

from cub to old saw

with me as helpless observer 

fast forward to now

expecting to be expelled

from the inner circle of cool kids

 she always envied back at school,

or on that yacht with that old lady

who gobbled up brothers and sisters

and taught her how,

gobbling up all she can find

still hungering for me,

a lost soul waiting

as if she is on trial,

not him,

as if her world will end

with the fall of the gavel

, “We’re all on the same yacht now,”

 she once wrote,

back when she still saw

 a wide open sea ahead,

 before she even knew

the boat she’s one

had sprung a leak..

 

email to Al Sullivan

vacancy July 3, 2012

 

The chill air the empty chair produces

has nothing to do with the temperature,

 only the vacancy of the seat

across from where I sit at the table,

which I fill with images of my own making,

 my imagination creating scenes

of where she is and what she is doing,

aching because I believe what

 my imagination has thought up.

It is Tuesday and I ought to be relieved

she is not there, only, I’m not,

I am as empty as her chair,

all these thoughts rattling

around in my head like a pair of dice,

dice I refuse to let spill out,

scared I will come up with snake eyes.

I’ve forgotten what she feels like,

tastes like, and even have lost a bit

 of what she looks like in the fog

of made up memories,

 though I remember remembering

that she tastes as sweet

 and her touch as soft s rose pedals

across my skin.

email to Al Sullivan

Egg Shells Oct. 16, 2013

 

 Everything is egg shell,

one wrong step

the universe cracks open

the yoke spills out

none of us immune to her

passing through our lives,

 each needing to feed off

 what is inside her,

only needing to

crack it open first to get inside,

assuming she is more vulnerable

than she is,

 counting on it,

taking on faith the face we see

 is her real face,

when we should know it is not,

this not exactly a life,

a mask she pulls over herself

 because she is even

more vulnerable

than we believe,

she the only one

who can protect it,

 to save it, to keep it

 from being crushed,

we, so bent on sucking

out the yoke,

we create cracks

we vowed not to create,

 breaking a trust

we vowed we never would,

 none of us as

good as we pretend,

she knows it,

 counting on it,

 making it possible

to get on with her life

with as little guilt

when jilting us.

 

 

email to Al Sullivan