The Letter

I read your letter
words streaming
from the rain
blue words pouring

to the edge of the page

 

Do I write to admit, confess or conceal?

Some days writing feels more like hiding                                                                  other days I spill truth like blood (gushing from a wound)

Some days I register ideas                                                                                               other days sad leaking words startle me

Stumbling I try to track disappearing words

missed meanings                              MixXeD up usage

Shame for what came once so  *___________________

Now I  draw a line where the right word fell  into its proper place

a __________________ for the missing word

 

Empty spaces grow into longer lines

 

  *effortlessly – this word appeared 6 hours later from beginning this poem

 

 

 

 

 

 

glorious light

pulls my eyes

to water droplets glistening

on green leaves

There is solace in the falling leaves

silent to the ear

a soundless prayer

there is solace in  days

drifting towards the unknowable

day and night when falling and drifting cease

then the silence of praise

 

That day in Las Vegas he tried to kill the music

music didn’t die but 59 people did

my student said the shooter  was “targeting happiness”

some said they wouldn’t go to concerts again

 

 

What do I call the tears that are not wet

erupting  silent sobs

this grief for the  nameless kidnaps me

 

I love the delicious abandonment

pen in hand word wandering through  morning

finding comfort in the unknowable

in the leaves falling nosier than snow

while others search for answers

 

I hear a friend tried to commit suicide twice in one week

I am buried in rigid stillness

he is broken by suffering

job  lost

eviction

loneliness magnified

 

twice he tried a man burned by pain

I didn’t want to pick up my pen

but I did

heavy with love

solitude is a choice                                                                                                                                                          loneliness is not

emptiness is sharp

my arms hunger for my grandsons

missing is never soft                                                                                                                                                                      full sadness is their leaving

I carry gone –

time slows in the silence of children’s delight                                                                                                                              words are being misplaced

I spend time like coins