James Fitzpatrick Poems
|3.||The Autumn Hunting Of White Caps||12/31/2014|
|4.||Opie's Brush With Bouda||12/31/2014|
|6.||A Full Life Of Narrow Streets||12/31/2014|
|8.||Christmas At Switzers||12/31/2014|
|9.||The Fourth Man||1/2/2015|
|10.||The Keeper In Us||1/6/2015|
|11.||The Millionaire's Island||1/2/2015|
|12.||The Bulls Of The Yellow House||12/31/2014|
|14.||The Terracotta Girls||12/31/2014|
|15.||The Train Journey||12/31/2014|
|16.||Massacre Of The Innocents||12/31/2014|
Comments about James Fitzpatrick
The blackbirds swooped in their customary jealous way, the Robin
Chirped before leaving for another year, and I patted
The well fed brown clay with my muddy boats.
I remember planting her in the spring hush just after the flakes stopped,
sometime after a steamy breakfast.
The Summer came with a heavy warm whoosh, and with it arrived
Those two beautiful dark seedy eyes.
They belonged to a voluptuous red head, and she came with a beautiful
Lubricious body, and I sat with her as day became evening before we slept
Under a full moon, under a weary cherry ...
Nothing. Just a clear sky on a dulling day. A deserted street with waving flags on painted posts. The regimentation of complete uniformity. The lack of empathy in silent sorrow.
I march to where they are buried in a dark graveyard of black nodding heads, painted with wide staring eyes, and grimacing teeth. I have taken a backward step to move me forward on a sinking bog, squelching, climbing to who knows where.
I am lost in an abyss of advice as to what to do. I am without experience. My s