Poetry

Illuminated by an address

Absent else-unbeside.

The body,

It is your privelage.

As the only part

of external reality

You happen to inhabit

From deep inside.

And can know

Most intimately

As local habitation

With your name...

_____________

Foster love

only in those

sensitive

whose hearts

do break

often.

at the lying

of the lies.

___________________

Strange

impatience

Bridled my range.

Before patient waiting

Played its welcome games.

______________________

If I do talk

by thought.

Why resort

to paper.

_______

Amusing

Isn't very deep

When you are

half asleep.

_____________________

Complete return

My love is out for you-

Sworn to my God, by all that speaks;

capable, yet chosen, for other unthings.

Where; it is said, "the mind is a mist of dew"-

A knife of faith cuts all knots.

Speckled doubts soiled in footfall

the heavy traffic of popularity

printing the juice of crushed wine.

How else, yet-

Transported light, so rapid in rapture,

- wholesale glimpsing continual certainty.

Holding fire in hand like blood with straw

With a friend in heaven, kindled in the doorway.

____________________________________

The Blood of the Poet

The poetess Jirii Havlac

Her blood thinning the snow

a sheet of cool crimson dna.

Cherry red slicing down warm rivulets,

a blue royalty abides in the melting

A staining marooned on the ground.

Yesterday she fed the young

Today the harvest of sorrows

Finally she nourished the grave

In future the dust of planting.

__________________

HTML poem

Control the white space

in mute inline imagery.

In cutting your fine shims

on the grammatical table,

the road ahead is bleak.

The last one of stella

star designers leaving Seattle,

please turn out the lights.

A very old joke.

No longer even passe.

Twinkling now their little rollovers

Global access locally available

crossing the digital divide

where paupers making money pay

on the inside out inside.

Actually, virtual virtue.

.....................................................

Faux Violentia et Fascintiae

Sounds like a brand of bottled vomit

in a jar the lukewarm keep under their beds.

The itty bitty presses thoughts

vain inglorious viciousness.

And so say all of us.

Prefering one anothers preferences.

'Which University did you say you attended?'

'O and what Doctorate is that? ....Did you say?'

As if paper guaranteed ideas long gone lamely out of fashion.

'Did you say?'

'Who was your Professor?'

'Oh that old fogey; he hasn't got a clue'

'My friend from Grammar wrote an essay that I thought frightfully good'

'Silly old bugger didn't'

'Hear he's had a stroke'

'Cannot tie his own shoelaces'

'In economics really'

'Doing well as a photographer'

'Must rush'

Poetry by Phillip O'Sullivan

............................................