In our dreams we receive the transmission of space,
We convert our physical consciousness to radio,
To relay, and watch in such graphic lucidity
The tales the universe would have us wake

When we look with our simple hands to the soil,
We lovingly caress the worms, the silt, the ruins,
Engage our worldly meanderings into the world
And hold out to the sky such succulent dirt to claim

For the heavens, for the stars, for the power of the sun
Transfix our simple human fondling with simple energy
Unknown, and we try to form it into an order that we relate,
That makes sense to us in the precious small moment of fate

And we have crafted such righteous structures towards the clouds,
We have formed and formed in attempt to surpass the will of sky,
We have built such massive complex of sorcery
Only to befall once again our simple hands in earth

The Jupiter gates of Babylon sprawled out to the landscape,
Surrounded, adjoined to the ancient buildings of Jerusalem,
The giant statues of our fallen gods,
The temples to ishtar and rah that have stood many test of time,

And I found myself away in a dream last night viewing such wonders,
I used my technology that we have developed to record such a sight,
To send it home to my parents, to see side by side these miracles,
These testaments of mans form to the heavens they are beneath

And I held the video camera and panned the horizon,
Moment after moment these powerful cracks in the martian sea,
It was a tourist that I had become and in awe looked past the gates,
And there was no future, but a vast craggy eruption, a blank

This wild deformed vacuum making an end, an asunder to scape,
And I assumed it in my own small stupid wisdom an end, a desolate,
A place of no return, and this historical conjunction of place
Was but the last remnant of the skys permitting our taste, our build

And I am no Marduk, I am no son of god, I am a formed creature of dirt,
One that under the rains, under the pulls of the bodies celestial,
Gestate on this awesome vision in what we shall find past the gates,
And why, in Babylon, and why in Jerusalem, and why here do they meet

James Browning Kepple

Does she remember, 
or ask her of the first winter you were home?

There were tangerines in the front porch, 
and the wind stayed as cold as a writer on the last page of his draft. 

Polka merry dots of Christmas on her face and the fruit bowls at her place, starred with blood oranges.

I remember them as hard to peel. 
How to peel the stories off a man or contain them, his depths, and grooves. 

Say, a man never grows out of home, its stories, or land. 
Men are twins to their land. 

There were men in the sea during the first winter you were at her home,
and they haven't left for their homes,
even now as this is being read. 

True. Who is a poet?
The poet is a memory, a wooden plank,
some of them held onto in the sea under that winter sun. 

My Turn

Elizabeth Sullivan
August 20, 2012

So slow – this turn of mine.
And yet I wait in patience,
with no desire to have it come.
Too dear, this path I walk today –
too fresh the air that cools my face.

I seem to hold and flip a braided rope,
as others skip,
and wonder who it is that holds the other end…
the one who calls our names.
I know them all, these friends who come to play.
They take their cues - then fall away.

It comes sneaking up – my turn.
Almost unnoticed in
the act of re-filling of my daily pillbox –
the replacing of worn out underwear –
the mending of the roof –
the paying of last year’s taxes – 
the increasing need of rest.

Like an hourglass, 
whose trickling sands measure the passage of time,
I feel the granules flowing past
(somehow less slowly now)
Towards a turn for me.

Elizabeth Sullivan
August 20, 2012


​

.




Like an honored guest, slipping away too soon,
Time is breaking my heart.
As the morning sun finally falls to moon,
Time just rips me apart.
For he simply wants to move 
with the ticking of the clock.
It’s as if he needs to prove 
that he certainly cannot
possibly stop for me!
Though I plead for him to stay - 
linger here a little while - 
he replies it’s not his way -
says it’s really not his style 
and that he must be free!
Like an honored guest, slipping away too soon, Time is breaking my heart.
Give me a day!
Give me an hour!
Give me a moment more!
There’s much to do!
So little spoken!
Still he runs through that door!
Like an honored guest, slipping away too soon, Time is breaking my heart.

Elizabeth Sullivan
April 17, 2013




.





IF THERE IS ONE

Walking from my piano, I say what I always say when I’ve finished a song:
“Best song I’ve ever written!”
But each time I want to do it better when I write my next song…if there is one.
I reason that with the writing of every song, I will learn something to help me find a better lyric, or hear a fresher harmony.
Laying down my pen, I say what I always say when I’ve finished a poem:
“Best poem I’ve ever written!”
But each time I want to do it better when I write my next poem…if there is one.
I hope that with the writing of every poem, I will learn something about searching for deeper concepts or conjuring words that best express the thoughts.
I need to feel that I’m getting better. I must assume that what I’m struggling to create will be improved over my last effort, and that the trying, the failing, the accepting or discarding, will help me accomplish my goal. I desperately want to be more prepared for the coming chance…if there is one.

Elizabeth Fowler Sullivan
September 18, 2014

PARACHUTE

When I was in my rodent hole gnawing away at the scent of death and reading stories about the characters in apartment buildings to men with gold teeth, he pulled me away.  Your last strawberry basil martini, your last shot of scotch, and your last cigarette.  My family already mourned my office wear, never got used to me in tatters.  The last time your head will spin on the swing at the bar telling a strange man you will accompany him all the way to Jackson Heights.  He took me to the playground so we could relive our childhoods and I could tell him what went wrong.   The last pair of rainbow sneakers that will grow dirty in the mud as you dance.   




THIRD BASE 

The strike of the bat against the ball.
It floats through the air like hope.
Her long hair carries her through
the fields like wings.  Her heart 
is rushed with blood.  It warms 
her chest.  The temperature of tears.
He never waited for her.  
He was fine in his mother’s house,
her knock on his bedroom door in the mornings
and spaghetti on his plate in the evenings.
He was happy to be living near Yankee 
Stadium.  At least he could feel the cheer
of the crowd in his body.  Each voice
prickled in his chest, but then he couldn’t 
tell the difference between it and his 
anxiety.  One day he would make it to 
the major leagues.  One day he would sing
“one hand in my pocket and the other
with nothing to hide.”      




BACKYARD 

Her admires 
her garden,
tomatoes 
that she holds,
paperweights 
that can bleed 
and dill 
that floats 
in the borsch 
like feathers.

It reminded him of the feather 
that she arranged in his hat.  
She was always smoothing over 
everyone else’s wrinkles.
Clipping the sheets on the line,
she walks through them like theater 
curtains.  Without realizing it,
she takes a bow, trying to avoid
the laundered cloth against her back.    




FORTRESS

My feet slip between cobblestones.
A narrow bridge suspended 
over emptiness leads
to my destination.  A ladder
stretches towards the top.  
I look out from between the stones
at the vast land.  Seemingly 
endless mountains are 
in the distance.  My head
is at their heights.  My thoughts
run over their peaks.  It is all 
spinning.  Once I was at the show,
concentrating on the elegy.  My 
bag was getting heavy, so that I 
couldn’t hold it anymore, threw
my coins to the floor.  I walked 
out and disappeared.  My body
was my best kept secret.     




SWALLOW 

I find the pills with the keys
at the bottom of my purse.
Now I can’t remember 
the way to your apartment,
looking up at windows 
for the red geranium.  I once found
myself at the foot of your bed, 
a puppy.  I can’t find the pills.
It is in the folds.  The roughness
of your skin, like the 
sand dollar I found on the beach
when we were counting stars.
You convinced me I needed
to get better.  I drink down the pills
with wine.  I drink down the wine with 
the pills.  The pet store is open 
in your neighborhood.  The light glows
neon, the goldfish glows
in the plastic bag.  
It is in lieu of flowers.  I see a stranger’s 
hands and imagine your acceptance.  
It will go in the bowl or vase.  We will tempt
it with the pills, floating at the top.  
You once found me 
in the hospital during visiting hours,
still in the paper gown.
Our fingers became sticky with chicken 
wings on cafeteria tables.  A woman asked 
you for a match.  You shook your head.
The pills came in little paper cups.  Like me,
you are skilled at sitting in waiting rooms. 
You have learned to turn the magazine pages
at just the right pace until you can enter 
to get the prescription, your name in the doctor’s 
handwriting shocking, 
like finding yourself famous.       

Jackie Robinson Poetry Day is my own personal love letter to Harlem.

Now even with its boundaries and definitions being encroached upon by the mere movement of time, gentrification, or globalization,  I ached in my soul to send something so endearing that she might happen to hark back. Harlem. As lovelorn and foolish as this premise may sound, I long to continue singing her sweet odes, I still see the haunting ghosts of a deep and illustrious history of Jazz and Poetry, of social movements, revolutions brewing, all churning such delicious moments of solidarity within the confines of her majestic and somewhat overlooked architecture, I wanted to create a link to the past, a roadway to the future to help secure Harlem’s history in the hearts of its people.

Jackie Robinson was not only a man who broke down certain known social conventions, but gave hope to throngs of people, that their voices could be heard in a time when all they knew was silence. As American as the relationship between Poetry and Baseball, Jackie enabled a light to come through the darkness amidst desperate times that required a righteous resound, a truthful re-address of what it was to be American, of the rights for all to participate, and with a bit of courage even knock it straight out of the park.

Jackie Robinson Bandshell Theatre in Jackie Robinson Park in Central Harlem is the preeminent precipice  to launch such a reverberating band of voices from all over to unite in this “dome” of sound, to speak truth to power with its resounding acoustic echo and beautiful modern day castle aspire.

In this our second year, we aimed to do exactly that and through the support and help of Poet’s and Writers, Gregg Dotoli, Max Kurganskyy, and the good people of our community, we came through on September 16th 2017 to gather and share our stories, our poetry, and songs to the streets of Harlem, which turned out an electrifying success.
​
Poet and Social Activist Bob McNeil of QBR Books: The Black Book Review, once more took the reigns of hosting, and with brilliant effect his thorough and deliberate baritone could be heard from Avenues over as he brought together the audience, the performers, readers, and passerby that unknowingly attended the event. He was just the man to uniquely herald forth such a grand undertaking, and was truly deft in hand at accomplishing the defining of a profound memory in the hearts of everyone who made it out.

And what a great show of force did we have in spades! Performers this year included, Jana Astanov, James Browning Kepple, Eartha Watts Hicks,  Marc W. Polite, Gregg Dotoli, Olena Jennings, Robert Kramer, Bob McNeil, and the 2016 winner of the Jackie Robinson Poetry Day Award, Carla Cherry. Inspired verses came from all!     
​      
The Open Mic performers featured this year were Sherese Francis, Makeba Amira, Taneeka L. Wilder, Tanya Robinson, M.A. Dennis, and Ronald Bullins. Edgar Alan was on the guitar, rocking the upside down fendercaster, creating music for the audience as well. The show was broadcast worldwide via Facebook live stream, so those who were not present could hear all the delectable indigenous poetry of Harlem.

As the show drew to a close, Bob brought each remaining performer up to create a genuine and original piece of spoken word poetry by knitting together each person’s one line based upon the last letter of the person before them. The first poet would on the spot come up with a line, and then the last letter of that line would be the first letter of the next poet’s improvised line, to create a flowing continuous and immediate new poem straight from the minds of the 15+ performers on stage.

The Excited Winner of this year’s Gregg Dotoli Poetry Prize was local blogger and writer, Marc Polite who performed a moving rendition of his winning poem, “Poetic Ruminations of Mr. Born Nice.”

For all of the kids who attended (aged 2-92!) They were invited to participate in the Harlem Renaissance Chapbook Creation Station, sponsored by Underground Books. Children had an opportunity to learn how to make their own Poetry Chapbooks by selecting works from Langston Hughes, Maya Angelou, Paul Laurence Dunbar, Gwendolyn Brooks, Jean Toomer, Countee Cullen, Federico Garcia Lorca, and many more! A good amount of our younger members of the community walked home with a memento of the event, some new found knowledge on book publishing, and their own personalized book of Harlem Renaissance Poetry.
​
We look forward to continue to broaden and strengthen the vision of this event, and to bring the community each year a festival of Poetry, Music, Thought, and Discourse, for everyone is encouraged to be a part of it. With the help of such fine organizations such as Poet’s and Writers, we welcome next September for all to come out for Jackie Robinson Poetry Day 2018  together and help relive Harlem’s literary past, and contribute to its bright new future! 

​​​​
​EVIDENCE
 
I don't understand love,
but since I am in love with you,
when you excel,
I share your accolades.
When you fail,
your failure belongs to me.
When you burst with joy,
my happiness overflows.
And when a tear burns your cheek,
I brush it away from mine.
 
For Jim
__

​CloudBurst (Hey Now)

Moon High
A great thunder crack
and dire rain burst
is rushing to earth
missed by half baked scientists
man the tool maker
manic technologists, bankers
and the innocent life we destroyed
hey now
a final torrent of natural that's-it from above 
place your ear to the sky listen
as the Indian tracked the railroad
with attention to iron tracks
hear the drops of acid rain
the thunder of extinct
the no turning back
force of destruction
we weren't alone
we had responsibility 
to Biota
but treated earth like a toilet
Cloudburst (Hey Now)