I sit in the sun room, I am shaded for the sun
is only newly risen, low slung, just above the horizon,
behind me, over my shoulder, early morn warm

Slivers of sun rays yellow highlight the wild green lawn,
freshly nourished by torrential rains of the prior eve

The wind gusts are residuals, memoirs of the hurricane
that came for a peripheral visit, your unwanted cousin Earl,
in town for the day, too bad your schedule
is fully booked, but he keeps raining on you,
staying on the phone for so long, that the goodbye,
go away, hang up relief is palpable

The oak trees are top heavy with leaves frothy like a new cappuccino,
the leaves resist the sun slivers, guarding the grass
from browning out, by knocking the rookie rays to and fro,
just for now, just for a few minutes more,
it is advantage trees, for they stand taller in the sky
than the youthful teenage yellow ball

I sit in the sun room buffered from nature's battles external,
by white lace curtains which are the hallmark
of all that is fine in Western Civilization,

and my thoughts drift to suicide.

I have sat in the sun room of my mind, unprotected.
with front row seats, first hand witness to a battle unceasing

Such that my investigations, my travails along the boundary line
between internal madness and infernal relief from mental pain
so crippling, is such that you recall begging for cancer or Aids

Such that my investigations, my travails along the sanity boundary
are substantive, modestly put, not inconsiderable

Point your finger at me, demanding like every
needy neurotic moderne, reassurance total,
proof negative in this instance, of relevant expertise!

Tell us you bona fides, what is your knowing in these matters?

Show us the wrist scars, evidential,
prove to us your "hands on" experiential!

True, true, I am without demonstrable proofs
of the first hand, my resume is absent of
razors and pills, poisons and daredevil spills,
guns, knives, utensils purposed for taking lives

Here are my truths, here are my sums

If the numerator is the minutes spent resisting the promised relief
of the East River currents from the crushing loneliness that
consumed my every waking second of every night of my years of despair
                           divided by
a denominator that is my unitary, solitary name,
then my fraction, my remainder, is greater than one,
the one step away from supposed salvation...

Yet, here I am sitting in the sun room buffered from
nature's battles by white lace curtains which are the hallmark
of all that is fine in Western Civilization

I am a survivor of mine own World War III,
carnaged battlefields, where white lace curtains,
were not buffers but dividers tween mis en scenes,
variegated veins of colored nightmares, reenactments of
death heroics worthy of Shakespeare

Did I lack for courage?
Was my fear/despair ratio insufficient?

These are questions for which the answers matter only to me,
tho the questions are fair ones, my unsolicited voyeur,
they are not the ones for which I herein write,
for they no longer have relevance, meaning or validity,
for yours truly

I write poetry by command, by request, good or bad,
this one is a bequest to myself, and also a sidecar for an old friend,
who asked in passing to write what I know of suicide,
unaware that the damage of hurricanes is not always
visible to the naked heart

These hands, that type these words are the resume of a life
resumed,
life line remains scarred, but after an inter-mission, after an inter-diction, an inter-re-invention
in a play where I was an actor who could not speak
but knew every line, I am now the approving audience too...

But I speak now and I say this:
There are natural toxins in us all,
if you wish to understand the whys, the reasons,
of the nearness of taking/giving away what belongs to you,
do your own sums, admit your own truths
query not the lives of others, approach the mirror...

If you want to understand suicide,
no need to phone a friend, ask the expert,
ask yourself, parse the curtains of the
sun room and admit, that you do understand,
that you once swung one leg over the roof,
gauged the currents speed and direction,
went deep sea fishing without rod or reel
and you recall it all too well, for you did the math
and here I am, tho the tug ne'er fully disappears,
here I am, here I am writing to you,
as I sit in the sun room.

Memorial Day, 2011

she left me
i always knew she would.
and so she did.
bella means beautiful, and somehow even without an L
it meant so still
bela
why can't friendships just be perfect
i would have stayed her friend for as long as she wanted me
oh wait-
she didn't want me anymore.
i walked down a dirt path the other day
and i held our friendship in my hands, i cradled it,
i carried it to her room and set it on her bed
along with pieces of our lives
when i set it down i felt a pain in my chest
i looked down
shards of my heart
mixed in.

30 hours with 45 minutes sleep. Busy day today, much work to do and roll through on a hill that's steep. Thoughts run deep, intoxicated by events. Some things are meant to happen, no use in trying to prevent. I just want to vent, soul exposure. Thinking about people with whom there may be no closure. Head in the sky as people and houses fly by. Acceptance is a choice one must utilize, don't just try. Pandora's box, you know what will happen when you pry. Send me some good vibes, my body's feeling low. Deeply rooted into a sea of cravings and mystery, so I know there's room to grow. Shaken world superstorm, I thrive on the unknown. We'll see how it goes, how one will survive. Count your blessings now, and be happy that at least you tried. I've had to hide, the person I was to please. Through this I've accumulated a vast mass of mental fees. Feel the breeze, it's real and energizing. Beware of thoughts that breed illness, no matter how hypnotizing. Realizing new things on a daily basis. I've pushed myself to extremes, now the nature of everything is making me face it. A train's coming, slowly I step off the tracks. It cuts through the land, reminding you it's best not to go back. Memories are moments, we know they won't last. Just don't dictate your future, based on what happened in the past.

Holy Crap,
They Sold My Name!

No big deal, your name, your email, bought n' sold daily,
Like a baseball card, your picture and vital stats are on the internet,
Your credit card in the fine print tells you they love you much,
But the data they collect, might get credited to such and such.

You're fair game if your sign up for anything.

Now I know I am getting on in years,
Tho spry rhymes with die, I flatly deny
Any notion that
My great beyond is just around the corner!

But Holy Crap,
They Sold My Name!

Got a color brochure
Suggesting that when my travels are over,
A nice place to rest my head might be
St. Michael's Cemetery.

St. Michael's Cemetery
7202 Astoria Blvd, East Elmhurst
(718) 278-3240
Friday hours 7:00 am–5:00 pm

In case you want to check it out too...

Tho I live not in the Borough of Queens County,
My zip code but a hop, skip and jump away,
The cemetery adjacent to the Grand Central Parkway
Which is actually quite thoughtful of
The mass marketer who dreamed up this scheme
(And got paid a plentiful amount of bounty).
My kids could wave as they drive by,
On the way to LaGuardia or JFK, (airports)
And say, guilt free, they visit me regularly!

Sadly, their plot foiled,
I will be buried in
New Jersey soil,
Near to my pop, who liked the
Wide open spaces of suburbia
And shopping on Route 4,
Where the selection is great
And there is no sales tax.

But Holy Crap,
They Sold My Name,
And I am now target marketed,
Niched, pretty soon the boys from AARP
Will come calling, reminding me of the gap
Tween Medicare and the poor house!

Ok ok,  grow up you say, tho your hair is full,
And not even a hint of baldness shines forth,
Nonetheless, its color is zebra striped gray,
And when someone says they got my back,
I think, please, please take it and keep it....

Oh yeah,
Dear St. Mikes
You might ask for some of your money back,
Cause this sily scribe is a member of the tribe,
Some call "those dirty (hint: it rhymes with Mikes),"
It starts with K and ends in yikes!

But thanks for thinking of me anyway.

My mind has a million thoughts per second everyday
One of those seconds it dwells on you
Why you so cool, girl?
My heart defrosts when I see your pretty face, voluptuous
lips, black silky hair
And hear your soft, innocent voice
You get on nerves
I Wanna just leave you alone like everybody else I can't
stand
You never let things go
Knocking the walls I set up in this maze
You saw through all the smog and haze
Caught me on all my bullshit
Why do you consistently keep trying
Where someone else either wouldn't have given a damn or
would have given up?
I can count on you to always be there to bug the hell out
of me
Until you get to the bottom of the situation
Not because you want something or to make me feel bad
But because you cared to stare darkness in the face
We might have a lot of issues
We argue a lot
It don't change how we feel about each other
Regardless of what people think
Just wanted to say that I love you, my one and only
Fuck other people
We have spiritual attraction that is worth more than sex
I wanna be with you forever if I could
Shannon Pollard
© Fall, 2006

My Heart is a drunken bipolar maniac with masochistic tendencies .
My Heart does not care about your feelings,
or the fretting of my apologetic Mind.
It is ravenous and deranged;
it will devour your succulent hopes and spit out the bones.
My Heart is one mean motherfucker;
it is a rabid wolverine with a hangover who ate razor-blades for breakfast,
and no, it does not want to go steady
or hold hands.
It wants to rip the soft white throat of your infatuation
and watch your eloquent offerings pool around your feet.

Unless, of course, you do not want me.
For met with that alluring indifference,
my unhinged pit-bull of a Heart will curl at your feet with doe-eyed meekness
and follow you from room to room in an agony of adoration
while Self-Respect and Dignity sulk in some dusty corner, thinking
"Please God, won't somebody muzzle that crazy bitch?"

I feel your presence,
each night that I get lonesome.
I feel your presence,
each morning that I force myself to get through the day.
And I miss you so much.
And I feel crazy, insane, depressed.
That I can't see or feel or hear of you, no more.
Each time I meet strangers,
all I could see, are full of dangers.
I'm so caught up with you.
I'm so in love with you.
But you died in the morning of may.
Just a year ago...
and my thoughts of you, can never go away.
Here I am, just thinking about you, and if you were here today,
I just want you to know,
how much I truly loved you.
But I can't live this sickness of missing you,
I want to move on.
Because you're completely gone.
I want to fall in love again.
I want to fall asleep, peacefully again.
Without having to even count up to ten.
But you will forever be a part of my heart.
But tomorrow is a new day,
and that will be the day we need to be apart.
Goodbye....................
                        for now.