Stopping by the Park on a Springtime Afternoon

I hadn’t swung on a swing in years,

but today at the park I swang on a swing 

in a kid-sized strappy seat that crimped my hips

a flash of uncertainty, then second nature

 

to make the swing swing:

the lean back, the pull on the chains

legs straight out front showing me my shoe-tops

toes pointing up to the sky

and I saw the mountains go up, down, up

and the treetops rise, drop, rise, drop

beyond the long green lawn

and forward and back

and I was five 

with my dad giving pushes 

and I felt the feel of comforting confidence

as pushes became taps 

and as each touch got lighter, so did I.

Jeanosullivan 5/29/2026

The Old Quaker

 My poem today:

2025 and Nixon rolls over in his grave every night.

He came to a seance to say,

“It was one file cabinet

and a few microphones…”

(Madam Zora knew it was more

but she got the point.)

And he said he wrestled over the injustice

that today the person in his old office

has done so much more and worse

and who now says he doesn’t know whether he is obligated to follow the constitution of the United States

and is getting away with it.

Nixon, having protected himself by vacating the office,

said he had known he was committing crimes

and having had a lot of time to contemplate in his later years in San Clemente,

the ocean lapping on the shore nagging him in quiet moments,

he thought about the oath he took

and how he had flouted it.

“It’s impossible not to know you’re doing something wrong like that.”

His voice echoed

into the ethers

and Madam Zora said no more.

With a quake in the cemetery grounds 

the haunting had begun,

floating eastward his spirit went 

to settle down like a fog on Washington

slipping into the House and Senate Chambers 

to rest upon the shoulders of the culpable

and sully their expensive suits.

Jeanosullivan, May 5, 2025