OJ in the morning Feb. 24, 2013

 

(In response to her poem about orange juice)

Reading this leaves the acrid taste

I haven’t tasted for years,

The morning juice ritual

I underwent religiously

As if believing what came

From that container

Was an elixirs of life

Her pome coming from

A not so innocent time

When kids listened

To their mothers,

Even when their

Mothers beat them,

All that long since

Reconciled if her

Facebook posts

Can be believed,

A memory she

Carries around inside her,

Pouring juice from a contain

In the fridge,

Sacramental wine

For a kid her age,

If not the blood of Christ

Then close to it,

Carrying the weight

Of the American Dream

On its back, telling her

If she eats right

Stands straight,

Does her homework,

She will get

All she deserves,

And this may scare her,

Thinking she wants no part

Of what she deserves,

Maybe having missed

Too many glasses of OJ

To qualify her

For that dream

 

 

email to Al Sullivan

Whatever you want (2014)

 

If you tell me

To do it,

I’ll do it

No questions

Asked

Do what ever

It is you want,

Where and when,

No longer master

Of my own fate.

If you want more than

I have to give

I’ll try to find it

Somewhere,

Doing whatever

May be necessary

To find it,

Selling myself,

My soul

To whatever

Dark entity

I need to reach

To comply.

If you tell me,

I will obey,

Already lost in

This limbo of desire,

A fire burning

Inside a fog,

I am what you want

Me to be,

What I ach to be,

I have no choice

email to Al Sullivan

Life line June 26, 2012

 

I am still in awe

Of God in such a place

As this,

High arches, gold ornaments

Lines of statues

Of saints whose names

I have long forgotten

Places built to

Make the invisible

Visible for those of us

Who struggle to believe

We needing to accept

On faith

When science denies us

Christ right

When saying

We need to be like children

To enter heaven,

Simple-minds

Blinded by the illogic

Of logic,

Convinced two plus two

Must always add up

To four,

When things like love

Disprove it,

Our universe floating

In pieces around us,

Needing a life line

To haul us in,

I am in awe of these places

Even if I am too simple minded,

Just as I remain in awe

Of you.

 

email to Al Sullivan

How does she feel inside? (2014)

 

How does it feel

For her, inside,

Inspired by touch or taste

As the whispered word.

Does she ache

The way we do,

The intense rise of

Fire inside

Where we cannot

Possibly quench it,

The more we taste

As one poet put it,

The more we need,

Sipping her the way

We might sea water,

Each sip making

Us thirst more

Until we need to

Drink up the whole

Sea and still not

Find satisfaction.

Does she feel that, too,

The hunger for more

Than oysters,

This need to feel it all

Deep inside,

We penetrating her

Defenses

To reach that part

Of here when

It aches the most.

Does she feel the need

That needs to be

Satisfied

Deeply.

 

email to Al Sullivan

Fake innocence July 10, 2012

 

She pops in

 and out of his office

 like a chipmunk,

these, his weaning days

 as chief cook

 and bottle washer,

chirping about how

 she needs his advice

 on this or that,

 and even in my

Harry Potter cubby hole,

 I hear the door close

and let my imagination

 fill in the details

of what I think goes on

 behind it with him,

nothing unsavory,

nothing either might

 be ashamed of

 if revealed, just enough

to leave me drooling

with envy at what he has

and what I lack,

 reprising her role as cub

from what she had played

with me, and perhaps

this is why I do what I do,

sending off that

 hateful diatribe

that seems so innocent

on the surface,

 yet has the potential

of a stick of dynamite,

revealing more in

its innocence

that could be done

as an accusation,

saying I had talked to him

 about her,

and he assured me

 all would be well,

when it won’t.

email to Al Sullivan

Looking up not out May 12, 2012

 

  I look up at them

From the outside,

Over the churchyard,

Where the rusted

Metal playground stuff

Has been replaced

By plastic that won’t

Rust,

Windows like eyes

That stare down,

Cold even in the sun

Distant,

The gaze of a remote

Goddess who gives

Me birthday wishes

As I grow old,

Windows I once

Had the chance

To look out from,

Never fully appreciating

The view,

Church and long street,

A water tower

A century out of date,

This haven of hers

Where she hides

On more desperate

Mornings, before

The sun wakes up

The world,

A Seventh Heaven

From which I have

Been cast out,

For having lost faith

In salvation.

 

 

email to Al Sullivan

Point blank

 Point blank