Philip Sullivan

Morning After

Pencil on paper
And smokey breath dispelled
On the edge of a broken chair.
Light-starved citrus trees
Shedding dry leaves on the carpet
North of my altar,
While hot coffee
And radio chorales
Saturate my attention,
As she did last night
When her pagan hands
Explored my body..


Reply to a Monody

Fast passing days
Counting your years
Remind you daily
Forget her not
Who did not live
Long to suffer
Regret or pain
Of your parting
In the chill wind
And misty rain
Under the grass
She lies waiting
Contented now
That you are near


To a Dying Gardenia

Frothy white beauty
With seductive scent designed
To call an insect helper to your propagation
Perhaps you've so succeeded;
But if you've failed don't be sad or frightened.
You have brought joy and happiness
To one who knows you are not doomed.
I tell you now, you will return,
Composed of the exact same atoms.
Since time is infinite, all life must be repeated endlessly:
A statistical necessity;
And though a thousand billion universes may pass,
It will happen instantly
When you return to earth.


About the Author

I've been writing poetry ever since early teenage. Been featured several times at the Unitarian/Universalist Coffee House on last Saturday of the month, and almost always appear there on the open mike, as well as at other places (like Woodstock Poetry Society and the Colony). Published twice by Crazy Ladys' Press; but never seemed to get around to submitting work anywhere else, except to the yearly Writers' Digest competition where I made the final hundred entrants but unfortunately none of the several prize awards. Although I have an MA in psychology and HS teaching certification in mathematics, I could not afford the entering pay in either field, so remained until retirement as an electronic consultant, mostly at various IBM locations. I've lived in Woodstock for about forty years, with a temporary hiatus of about two years a long time ago.I used to be a graphic artist, sold several paintings, did a few restoring jobs, and had a drawing published in the Kingston Freeman many years ago; but never yet took up the paintbrush since my wife died over thirty years ago, as I was too busy working, going to college, and bringing up my two children and a nephew.

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