October 13-19, 1997: Paul Sibley and Suzzanne

Week of October 13-19, 1997

Paul Sibley and Suzzanne

Paul Sibley


Paul Sibley is a flash poet and creative collaborator from Atlanta, who supports his writing habit working as a Sys Admin for a fortune 100 company

The following work is Copyright © 1997 and owned by Paul Sibley and may not be distributed or reprinted in any manner whatsover without written permission from the author.


You were seven years
too late
when you came to me
and told me
you wanted to
remember him
Seven years to late
to rally me around
a sunken grave
and a bug eaten spirit
and your moment of thinking
of our dead friend

Hoping to sway me
with his name
A lazy eyed golem
I ignored you and
went back
to seven years of missing him
And wondered what
power you
you could muster
using his name
so late in the game


What fury
has lept from your brow
Wet drops of anger
forming a angry puddle
at your feet

Like some boxer
waiting for the count
The referee’s hand
the only thing holding you back

What patience holds
Your resolve
Stopping you from unleashing
The beast
Keeping it at bay a moment more


I want to raid your life
Kick in your door
Toss tear gas and stun grenades
into your emote shun
I want a badge
that makes it my job to fuck
with you everyday we’re together

I want to be the law in your life
The justice and tyranny
You’ll be my captive
I want to lock you up for a long time
In my insecurity
I want it to be hell
No chance for parole while
you serve the sin tense of
the one before you



I live (In the heart of it all) Ohio!– I’m a Hospice RN– My purpose in writing poetry, is to share the experience of being ‘Human’, so that no human being ever feels alone, in what they’re experiencing.I confess, that I do not write poetry; it writes to me That part I have named as: Suzzanne 🙂

The following work is Copyright © 1997 and owned by Suzzanne and may not be distributed or reprinted in any manner whatsover without written permission from the author.

The Answers

Anytime I question
His presence
A Maple tree explodes
with fires flamimg
in scarlet and gold Or my eyes behold
the perfect tall standing
of a Beech tree
whose arms reach up to heaven
and whose green boughs
caress the face of the Maker
of ocean waves
and winds
that answer
” I am,
I AM!”


If someone asked her
about love
she knew It’s not something
you give with one hand
and expect back
with the other If you do, she admonished
you’ll come up empty
with a heart three sizes smaller No, it’s like feeding the birds
who’ll snatche every crumb
then sometimes fly away
forever But, you do it she’d say
anyway, just to feel the dance
of their colors.

Silent Sunday

Waking to another Sunday, 
cat scratching at the window
to be fed The poignant question of an owl’s
sharp who-o-o?–who-o-o? knifes
through my head Not someone’s voice to take away
the murky grayness of the day
with, ” Watcha doin up so early, Hon?
Or, ” Is the coffee brewin?”
Nor, the soft scuffing
of an extra pair of slippers
across the kitchen floor,
that familiar pat on buns Hmmm,
just the silent scratching
of a cat to be fed,
and heavy morning fog
even the sun
can’t seem to penetrate.


She loved them all,
so the story is told Tsk, tsk, wag the tongues
of church ladies that lie
in their mouths, so boldly cold In defense of this girls’
immortal soul, let me state this:
The touch of her kiss
held the warmth
of a thousand suns And the man she was with
was the one she loved
where all others ceased
to exist So by the law of men
her soul is condemned But by the law of heaven,
he soul is–forgiven.

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