Monday, February 16, 2009

Featured Poet: Tom Sheehan

Tom Sheehan served in Korea, 1951-52 and has published 13 books. Brief Cases, Short Spans, short stories, was published November 2008 by Press 53, and From the Quickening, another collection, was published this month by Pocol Press. His Epic Cures, a short story collection, earned a 2006 IPPY Award. A Collection of Friends, was nominated for Albrend Memoir Award. He has nominations for ten Pushcart Prizes, three Million Writers nominations, and a Noted Story of 2007 nomination, and received the Georges Simenon Award for Fiction He has hundreds of Internet appearances, with 50 stories currently posted on Rope and Wire Magazine, publishers of western cowboy stories, and six consecutive print issues of Ocean Magazine. He meets again soon for a lunch/gab session with pals, the ROMEOs (Retired Old Men Eating Out, 93/80/79/78). They’ve co-edited two books on their hometown of Saugus, MA, sold 3500 to date of 4500 printed and he can hardly wait to see them. They’ll each have one martini, he’ll have three beers, and the waitress will shine on them.

Apple Pine Mountain

At four, near dawn, resident with trees, a mountain’s

wind song, a moon that clashed with clouds perky

as lambs, friends loving behind me though six feet

apart at times, I pissed off the wide porch down into

the unknown, that good talking beer talking good

again, crisply, this way and that, on the quick glass

of leaves. The sound stole, even for a moment, all

the moon and the cool threat of snow.

But at the last shattering of a leaf, at the end of beer

talk, I was the aggregate of selves knowing Apple

Pine Mountain, was constant and one, a kind of

uniform loneliness with stars punching down their

pneumatic cries, the million years of their dying

that one would hear their voices.

Oh, I heard, between trees and close shadow burst,

between the thrills of impulse, between molecules,

the significance of sound. Oh, I listened, my friends,

I listened and grew dizzy because I heard, from stars

by way of clouds, from loam by way of blade and leaf,

from every joint and joist of the cabin, after pissing

off the porch, love.

Bare-Ribbed Talisman

There’s a piece

of her hanging

like an old jacket

on an old nail

beside a job

I never finished.

Dillinger, On His Way Into The Movies

The air’s




The girl



it must

be my

touch, the


of it.

She has


ripe as





Her dress

is Lupinus





like a rich



tight in

the crotch,



wards will

be the

real thing.