Planting my seeds in her garden July 6, 2015

 

 

She will never bear anybody’s baby, no matter how many of us try, gone beyond that biological need, not a necessity for her, though at times, in the death of night, I ponder the possibility, how I might probe those space, inject what is necessary where it is necessary to become true, leaving behind a host of possible sons or daughters, empty shells on a lonely beach, abandoned, fodder for the seagulls, dripping from her thigh like a near miss.

So I imagine her as mother when she is not the Madona, but instead that other Mary, Christ forgave, even gave blessing to, and would it be a sacrilege to believe he might have left his see with her as well, knowing there could be only one virgin birth when we all know she is not a virgin.

I want to plant my seeds in her garden, even when they will never grow, to fill up those empty spaces in her life, and she letting me do it.

 

email to Al Sullivan

Behind those eyes July 3, 2012

 

(This is another response of one of her poems)

I never wanted one

Until I had one

Those tiny people

Who arrived

After a nine month wait

Not by train

Or boat or buss

From Portland,

The person who is

A person from

The moment

I looked at her,

Real and full

Of something,

I did not expect

And cannot explain,

A real-ness

As real as I am

Eyes filled with

The same immaculate

Wonder I felt

When I look out

At the world,

Not yet able

To express it,

And shockingme

Reminding me of

The old woman

I once saw on

The edge of death,

Who could not

Speak either,

Expect with her

Desperate stair,

To say a mind

Exists behind

The eyes,

Needing no history

Or pain or suffering

To realize the

World into which

It has been thrust,

Is not one from which

To expect comfort,

Peace comes

With knowledge,

Not innocence

In learning how

To cope

That that space

Between birth

And old age.

email to Al Sullivan

what she wanted nov 24, 2013

  

It is there for the taking

 the fruit hanging over her

 The whisper of the serpent

telling her it can all be hers

still she hesitates

all coming at a cost

 and still her fingers reach for it

to grasp that which she's always wanted

maybe a last chance

 if she fails to take it

she might never be able to do it again

 somehow it feels wrong

as if right and wrong actually matter

when it comes to fulfilling the dream

 what makes this one time worse

 than all the other times

the climb up to get the grip

 on the escalator to higher places

why is this scaring her more

 is there more to lose

 is there more to gain

will the guilt haunt her

even after she gets it

 that hamster brain thing again

and again why does she hesitate

 when what she always wanted

hangs right there like ripe fruit

 

email to Al Sullivan

Solomon’s dilemma July 7, 2012

 

It isn’t his fault

The poor fool caught

Between friendship

And that other

Deeper

More passionate side,

A mentor who means

To serve as father

To us all

Trying to mediate

This clash between

Siblings,

(who make love

Behind his back

And then bicker)

Helpless to pick a side,

Throwing his hands up

Scared to admit

How much he loves

Them both,

Faced with the Solomon

Dilemma of choosing

Which one he

Loves more

And me,

The wounded child

Pressing him to

Decide, and

When he does,

Betraying him,

One more mean trick

Kids pick

When he (me) can’t

Get what we want

Or jealously can’t stand

When he gives her

the attention,

he(me) wishes

she could give me,

in the end

condemned to

decide

when there was

never a doubt

who he would,

who he loves best

and who I would have

picked, too,

had I been him.

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Maybe I'm amazed

 

That magic moment July 5, 2015

 

 

I want to lay her down and have my way with her, if she’d let me, or is it always the other way around, she chooses who gets to get inside her while we wait in line to see if we deserve her, lucky enough to grab the brass ring on this merry-go-round of life.

I ride her like a horse when she prefers to be a unicorn, that special aspect, singular difference stuck up between her legs, while my tongue does its magic.

I love the way it looks after the deed is done, the dangling drips on her dark body, like white pieces of fruit, dangling, as I admire my handywork, telling myself “I’m the one who did that,” the one who she let in, and I wonder if I beg her enough she might let me do it again, and more often, let me move around inside of her, this way and that, to make her scream, that magic moment.

email to Al Sullivan

one way coversation June 17, 2012

 

 I pine for somebody

 who despised me, 

I post blogs I know 

she will read if only to keep a connection, 

a love triangle with me as the only participant,

 not merely unrequited,

more a need not to lose 

whatever it was I felt

when all this started, 

not to recover it, 

 more to mourn its loss, 

poetry is how I think,

how I feel, a way to reveal 

what it is that goes on 

inside my head without 

spilling my guts out 

to someone who otherwise 

might not want to hear it, 

this desperate one-way conversation 

I think she'll read 

(even if she doesn’t,

I say it when I can

 because its all I can do,

 like a kid with two tin cans

 attached by string, 

talking into one 

without the assurance 

there is anyone on

 the other end to hear, 

denied all the usual 

methods of communication,

 I write and put these in a bottle,

 sending them out 

into a hostile sea 

with the vain hope

she might take pity on me,

or at least come to understand.

email to Al Sullivan