“There’s only that unbidden quest to make a sentence sing…”

Why I Write By Colin O'Sullivan I write because I have to. No message, no voice. I write for it demands me. Because I have no choice.   I wake and think of writing, I go to bed the same. All day I think of writing, My antidote, my pain.   Nothing matters but the … Continue reading “There’s only that unbidden quest to make a sentence sing…”

“Outside your Bedroom Window in the Rain” by Colin O’Sullivan

Colin O' Sullivan

Been struck down with the neck hernia thingy again, thus the posts here have been a bit scant.

Never  mind, I’m still rifling though old poems and stories and casting them out to see where they land. Who knows, there may be a “Collected Poetry” book someday, or a “Complete Shorter Fiction of”…you never know.

Here’s a poem, from the mid-nineties I reckon. Another one about rain (must be the Irishman in me).

Outside your Bedroom Window in the Rain


a warm blanket,

your rich black hair

festoons the pillow.


in home things:

the soft rug that

takes to your toes,

the piano

you tinkle

every now and then,

the grandfather clock

and its quaint chime.

No need to stir

I’m outside

upping my umbrella.

Rain beats a thousand rhythms,

we’re both as sheltered.

Tonight you do not hear my puddle dance,

tomorrow you will not know my…

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A poem by Colin O’Sullivan – From A Bunch

Colin O' Sullivan

I wrote two poems about budgies yesterday but somehow managed to accidentally delete them both. The poems were about how I’m not, repeat not, having a nervous breakdown. Although after losing both files I may rethink the whole not having a nervous breakdown thing…

There was a time when I wrote happy romantic little ditties. Like the one below, called From a Bunch.

In the meantime I’ll try and retrieve the poems (about the angry and obsessed budgies) from the bowels of the computer (both birds were called Franz) and also locate a poem I wrote on a napkin last week called Dead Flies. Psychiatrist’s couch here I come!

(Too much time listening to Swans, methinks)

Every little flower

and every myth




daisy daisy

soon I will

tread among the weeds

and pick someone like you.

For a  riveting novel about music and  people’s secrets and relationships and drama…

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