Patrick Pomeroy

Patrick Pomeroy was born in 1966 in Cleveland, Ohio. The son of a journalist, early life took him to Israel and Vietnam during wars in both places.  After arriving in San Francisco from Cyprus, he lived with his mother and brother for seven months at the Holiday Inn in lovely Fisherman’s Wharf before securing a stable place to live. For this Patrick will remain grateful. His interests are psychology and psychiatry, art and the human psyche. He believes strongly in Freud’s conclusion that we are here “to work and to love”.  Patrick’s contributions to The Write Room: The Custodian of … Continue reading Patrick Pomeroy

Running In My Own Alaska

by Patrick Pomeroy We came from everywhere. Leaving behind the strewn clues Of ourselves in one bedroom                      Apartments   Each of us abandoning shards         Of award winning lives.          Hosted in the darkness.   Our new home          A huge white building.                         Holding Grief, shame, guilt, abuse   The wobbling stilts            We were shackled to                 All our forsaken                            Lives   Us a collective                Blowing fire.                Tongues forked Venom real and worse.. ready.   Getting in our way….a mistake! We know the ground which Becomes our trudge.               Always Upward.     Becoming free, … Continue reading Running In My Own Alaska

An Aging North Eastern Bluff On An Island In The Atlantic

by Patrick Pomeroy   She is wet fecundity with dirt, weeds, daisies, cattails and sawgrass Her countenance a sensuous, dark Mediterranean mouth pouting, curled Over the dried, cracked, clay hairline of a rocky, grey shale laden viscous Cliff that gleams hungrily in the beaming summer sun   I digress…. To tell of kind bald men with no ease of consciences. Who while deep in worry refer to her in loud voices As Flora                               Continue reading An Aging North Eastern Bluff On An Island In The Atlantic

Summer of 1990

by Patrick Pomeroy I ate the shout that burst from your lungs We wanted the specs that were lights of the valley to chirp and blink all night. The desert is unleavened bread not from an oven. Ovens don’t produce the pumice that has rubbed all over our conversation regarding what to do with our tired, hungry loins, long and feline compared to others. The plague called small talk pervades the car drenched valley for which we spy on from Eddie Bauer sleeping bags soaked in the heat from an early morning desert nowhere.   The wildflowers almost with reach … Continue reading Summer of 1990