BEING HERE                                                                                   


Seagulls wintering in Seymour, CT., my hometown

                                                Flapping wild above the 13th story

Overhead trails from planes like tail feathers

            Slice the sky

                                                Airplane above the 13th floor, people going somewhere

Through the blue, blue sky of warm spring                            but itŐs January!


Below someone fishes in her waders and brown hat

            Walks along the Naugatuck RiverŐs rushing bend

Twirls and casts                                              twirls and casts

            There is no winter for her

No concern about being stuck in her hometown

Just the river                           just the cast





LOVESONG #51                                                                                           


Outside, elm trees hiss out your name;

The gentle rain like your breathing;

The wind like your sighs –

The bed sheets crumpled like discarded refuse

Blown along the street


This morning of your absence





LOVE MACHINE                                                                                        


Desperate mechanism

Steel curve of hunger

Half-homing pigeon                half magnet


Function of the machine – to get it right:


Wave.  Wonder.  Approach.


You wait

Under the eaves                      slate gray/metallic sky

Slightest tear-thin mist of rain


Head wanting to be on my shoulder               your brain beneath my jawbone

Your subconscious      hidden history             deepest fantasies

storms of sadness                   hurricanes of honesty

All those mechanisms                         All that noise


everything within that soul

                        beneath my chin






DISCOURSE ON LOT 37                                                                


A vacant lot                with vacant trees

            and the flowering of vacant weeds

lone horse                    chews the grass

            as he contemplates this small corner of the universe --


he becomes Socrates

            and this grass he munches

is the very essence of grass

                        grassness itself


lone horse                    exists

            in that lovely world of Forms

all around him is essence

            nothing but essence


but oh!            this vacant lot!







Sky-Overture I


Like an earthquake --


                                    creation rumbles

as if about to blow apart

                                    a sky-quake

atmosphere ratttling

then the downpour

                                    -- suddenly --

like enlightenment


Sky-Overture II



                        slits the heavens


dome-cracked like a robin's



the stars all come tumbling down


Sky-Overture III


clouds move like a caravan



THE END is written on your skull

                        like the last call for beer

(in a bar that closed long ago)


the clouds may return

            in another form

but you are the skull



© Mark Fitzpatrick


Bio:  MARK FITZPATRICK was born in the Naugatuck Valley of Connecticut where he began writing poetry and everything else in the 3rd grade.  He graduated from Barrington College with a BA in Biblical Studies and minor in Literature.  He lived and worked in a low-income, African-American suburb of Chicago for over 20 years.  Then he went off to see the world, being an ESL/literature/writing teacher in Brazil, Somaliland, Haiti, and Honduras.  A lover of Afro-Latin jazz, he went on a World Music Institute in Havana, Cuba.