This has become a default tradition:
my mother and I
on the third and Fourth of July,
on the patio, in the evening,
complaining about the illegal fireworks,
and the lack of accountability,
as we empathize with the dogs, and cats,
and birds, and lizards, and squirrels,
skunks, raccoons, and even rats and mice,
and consider all the animals in our midst,
wishing we could give them peace.
Why people like explosions, we don’t understand.
Once in a while
on a Sunday in spring
I catch a moment
when the sunlight, the breeze,
a flower, a bee,
are timelessly present,
not yet named anything.
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
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
Bleak though it seems
like a nightmare we just can’t shake
every morning it’s still there when we wake:
a presence like heavy wooden doors shut so tight
no crack lets in the light.
Avarice advancing like a plague,
Its logic is a racket of arrhythmic drums.
Among the complicit, wrongs compounded bring silence.
Among the aggressors, invasions of liberties invite cheers.
The doors are bolted heavily across the span.
Bleak though it seems
from inside a darkened chamber
we who love know there is a beautiful world beyond this.
Since together we have knowledge, strength, and leverage,
we lift the bolt and swing it away.
Bright beams of light, almost blinding, give way to clearer vision
to see again the world we knew,
still green, and blue, and ours, and true.
Look to the sky and see the arc of the moral universe which is long, but bends toward justice
plain as day.
Sunlight captures and conditions the color of the air a certain way sometimes
and a moment I recognize having sensed in my childhood comes forward to meet this one, all the same moment, timeless
and future retrospect is with me too,
it is a through line of my life
nameless, quiet.
I am not ahead of myself,
I am not catching up
I am not waiting
It is all one moment:
that yesterday
this now
daydreamed future
when it happens
just like this—
naturally, reliably
present
familiar, like a place,
comforting, like a friend—
I smoothen like the sunlight
as it sets shadow on a building, or flower, or hillside, or bench.
Always there comes the point
where my attention is drawn away
dissipating to distraction
until another stay.
Jeanosullivan 08/26/2024
Sometimes whatever is God
is like a shiny vein in a rock;
a different shimmer
part of the way the world shapes itself.
Walking over stones
I am drawn to take a closer look at one
and pick it up.
I find where cracks had begun,
repair
using Nature’s elements and techniques ––
water, wind, heat, cold, light, darkness,
pressure, and time;
something other, yet same, wonderfully becomes integral, holding together
what was about to be broken
but wasn’t.
O foxtail,
in your own way
pretty
as a rose—
just please
stay out
of the
dog’s
paws
and
n
o
s
e.
Rediscovered from April 3, 2019
I watched a bumblebee
in the paloverde tree
sampling sugars from small yellow flowers.
And for a while
there was no history
except as regarded the lineage of the bee.
March 15, 2022 (rediscovered 2024)
A casual coffee meeting for a job candidate, get to know you kind of gathering.
We started talking about names, and how three men in the office are named John, well, one is a Jonathan.
Somehow the question of Beatles' names came up:
"Yes," said one person, "there is a John... I don't know the rest. Wait: is Ringo one of them?"
Cognitive dissonance
How old am I?
One of the other Johns, a week older than I,
we made eye contact checking our internal calendars
for historical structure and context:
Are we set in another column now?
How could the Beatles not have carried over?
They made guesses at the other Beatles' names.
John said, "...Paul... ..." which led them to...
naming the Spice Girls.
I exclaimed:
"George Harrison!"
(There is no comparison).
"Georrrrge..." one said; the name had struck a familiar chord.
The madness of this world aside,
the plastic and the politics and the
unrest and forced emigrations and the
hashtag me too men and the
murderers and the
people taking selfies with wild zoo animals and getting mini-mauled and the
dictators and there
is a lot to know about this world
and much to keep track of
and history to know.
Children, listen.
Once in a great while,
chance meetings can make
relationships that fall into place
with such grace
as to bring something wonderful
beyond measure.
March 11, 2019, rediscovered 2024
what is that funny sound
crackling against the pane
it taps in rapid staccato
what phenomenon? It's the rain!
It seems that I forget it happens
between dry lengths of day to days
and even as the clouds gather
habitual thinking says
expect nothing. So joy ensues
when the song begins--
clapping introduction to a hymn
of falling, refreshing
rain.
Let the
soothing
soak
in.
(From the Found Poetry collection, From March 3, 2021)
I got superstressed out today. Too many things to think about and not enough room not enough room not enough room too much to do at once at once at once so I put my face down into my hands, covering my eyes and taking a breather and looking at blackness. Not enough room in this whole wide world, not enough time in this clock that goes around and around all day? What compresses these things into urgency? "A walk - just a walk outside," I heard myself think. It was the most rational choice, so I went. On opening the door my mind seemed to catch its breath in the cool fresh air and as I walked the causes that demanded so much from me each slipped into gentle priority. The trees’ leaves, shining and beautiful, the squirrel on the green grass eating a tasty morsel in an aisle of golden sunlight, ah, and the sky, so blue and spacious, to the gentle voice that made the suggestion, I say thank you, you are so gracious.
From January 31, 2019 (rediscovered in 2024)
A dry wind
rattles the petals of a small yellow flower
no bigger than a pebble
on a thin light green stalk
growing up from a struggling succulent
all by itself
against a red rocky desert-scape
the backdrop a plateau of sedimentary layers of wind sculpted sandstone.
And blue blue yellow hot sky above and around
it’s a wonder the little yellow flower persisted,
almost defying the wind but actually
just being there. Little yellow flower
petals making a shallow poppy cup around an orange red center.
And maybe a bee had come by, or would soon,
but overall just this scene— forever, perhaps.
Then clouds. Moisture in the air. Raindrops one day.
Then more rain and more
over time, year after year and everything changed.
The sand absorbed what it could and a river became itself
little stones washed from the plateaus
and rocks rolled to the flow of water
and pools formed
and then more water and time and clouds made this their vacation land, always coming back,
and green was sprouting up on the new river banks.
More green and more and for years every year a little more rain came
and the little yellow flower on the light green stalk propagated and proliferated in patches,
even reaching the plateau, perching on rock shelves
and waving to flower neighbors in soft breezes in early evenings.
Birds arrived, and trees sprouted and grew, bringing shade.
And even the rocks seemed to soften, their edges rounding with borrowed mud.
And the water stayed all year long, inviting fish and insects that buzzed about and of course frogs.
All this life appeared because it could.
Now lush and green and flowering and musical with birdsong and breezes in trees and grasses,
with chirps and croaking and hoof steps and paws padding.
With all this sound, so much peace.
The little yellow flower, which had regenerated over generations,
now shimmied in the breezes, among others of its kind and complimentary,
in concert with paradise, because it could.
Jeanosullivan, January 26, 2024
I did not grow up with snow.
Snow and ice are slippery.
I like cold but not ice cold
(Unless it is a soothing drink on a hot day).
I do not know how to drive in snow,
Nor do I know how to judge
When more snow is coming.
When I was a teenager a friend and I
Hiked out of the Grand Canyon
In the December rain after Christmas
And as the elevation increased
The rain became snow
But by then we were soaked,
And because we had been hot before it rained
We were sweaty.
So the freezing was all the way to the skin
And our Southern California-thin cute ski parkas
Did not help
Nor did my friend’s dad and his second wife
Who had hiked on ahead when we were at the half way point down below
Leaving us to make our way up and out in the oncoming snow which we did not have the skill to predict.
Neither did they, I hope.
Weakened and determined with no food or water, but snow to munch on,
And this was taking hours,
I dug my hands into my pockets wishing to find something to eat and discovered half a packet of lifesavers candies, which they were.
We reached the top
Energized by a little bickering near the end,
And made our way to the motel room
Where her step-mother sat at the vanity combing her hair
Only to put her hair curlers back into her bangs—always keeping them there—and a scarf on her head asking what took us so long.
And my friend’s dad picked a fight with her because he didn’t like her boyfriend—
Who wasn’t even there!
So after we got warm
We went out that night
And hung out with
Strangers
Rather than spend the evening with him and her.
The dad and step-mom drove us to the bus station in Flagstaff the next morning.
We waited all day for the overnight bus to North Hollywood.
We had enough money to split a stale sandwich and get two hot chocolates from a vending machine.
We rode through the night with the smokers
Because it was 1978
And the murmuring conversations
And the nodding and the sleeping passengers.
And the dad and son dressed alike who kept patting each other on the shoulder excited about their trip.
We eventually nodded off
and awoke to see bright sun shining in a crisp blue sky and an ugly North Hollywood greyhound station looking just fine to me thank you.
And at that point we called my dad
Who arrived seemingly instantaneously.
He drove my friend to her mother’s house
And me to ours.
We told the story—well most of it—
And I don’t remember what he said but
I imagine the teetering of maturity and childishness in our story made an impression; it
Did not lead to scolding but instead to a peaceful sleep
all day and into the night for me,
after breakfast at home.
December 28, 2020
O cricket in the bedroom curtains
Somewhere, somehow
Visibly undetectable
You chirp for a love you cannot find
Unless you let me put you outside,
And yet you hide.
O cricket intermittent, not to be found
Are you in the valance? On the ground?
I give up, accept your presence.
You chirp-chirpcha-chirp-chirpcha-chirp
then rest
then chirpcha-chirp some more
For nights,
I wonder about your lifespan,
drift off to sleep.
Nights later, I stop
In a spot where I don’t usually linger
But instinct’s eye catches your motion—
Jump I cover you with a glass no
Jump I capture you with a glass no
Determined so, hunter human focused and keen
Jump covered! Captured, unlikely, unawares,
I carry you swiftly down the stairs
Open the door to the summer night’s air,
Deposit you in the klanchoe
No longer lost, you will find
Your destiny.
Chirp. Chirpcha-chirp-chirpcha-chirp,
Chirp.
On the other side of an office wall,
a conference call.
I can't discern the discussion but
a high-pitched voice through the speakerphone sounds like birds chirping, which made me think:
how much message is actually in a bird chirp?
Which led to this:
Sophisticated birds, migrating, communicating, tuned in to Magnetic North, and the other animals - all Nature in balance;
Humans are the only ones so destructive we could ruin the whole thing for everybody.
We think we are so smart but what if
All Nature's creatures have found the balances to strike
and we're the last
to get
the memo?
—From July, 2019
Driving west to beat a curfew
just declared an hour ago
the pre-sunset sunlight shaping shadows on clouds over distant hills
and maybe the ocean.
On the radio reports of protest
and agitators
reiterations of how peaceful the protests were at the start
how interlopers come for their own reasons to make a fight and skew the focus
how we mustn’t lose sight of the cause.
And those clouds coming in from gathering over the sea
absorbing molecules of skyward mists.
May 30, 2020
I once had an aunt who I barely knew.
She came to visit the family when I was quite small.
I'm not really sure how old I was then,
But to me she was up there, and really quite tall.
She stood by the table, having dug in her purse
for her cigarettes and matches, and next, she breathed in.
I looked right straight up at her, and then saw the marvel:
Smoke blew from her nose like she was some kind of dragon!
And I learned something special, that one unnamed day,
That when I'd get older, and age came into play,
I would need to develop some smart beauty skills
Because one day, like her, I might have hairy nostrils!
Breezes in grasses,
Birds singing—
It has always been like this.
It doesn’t need us.
It’s we who need it.
Lay low, humans.
Quiet down.
—April, 2018
This morning I happened to get up at the astronomical dawn.
Crisp, cold and windy outside,
warm and quite comfortable inside.
Looking out the window to the eastern sky,
I saw a light so bright,
I couldn’t tell if it was an approaching jet. Was it moving?
Concentrating,
no, not moving.
But it’s too big to be Venus.
Like four times bigger!
Maybe it’s a comet?
(No, If it were, somebody would have said something by now.)
Must be a vision blur distortion.
So I washed my face,
brushed my teeth,
then looked again as the pink and blue dawn tempered the brilliance:
Now I see, yes, it’s Venus.
…The planet of Love.
So showy.
So many promises.
Literature, meet Science:
Sulfurous gasses.
Shining so beautiful.
(02/02/2022)
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