17 Letters

Words. They were just simple words typed by me,
on my little pink computer, sealed and mailed,
addressed to you in A2.
But they were also my soul. They were me.
I poured my sorrows under your heart,
secured my secrets in the faucets of your mind,
shoved hope into webbing of your eyes.
Or maybe it was my eyes in the mirror?
I dreamed for you and planned with you,
pushing. Saying “you can”.
And you could.

The people will talk their talk and turn their heads
until the light shines through. Shows truth.
Then they will gaze. You still can.

Remember the first one I wrote? I spoke of family,
pretending all was fine, normal.
By the seventh letter you had a pen
and I was able to ask you questions,
wait for a response.
I waited and one came.
Everything changed and I pushed harder,
asked more questions, said “you can”.

The flag rose at least twice a week.
Several more pages and envelopes emerge from 1906.
I wrote more each letter, stuffing the words into you;
family, support, advice, info. I waited for a reply.
I realized one wasn’t coming. But I wrote more anyway.

Christmas Eve Night

There were pinecone wreaths and garlands of green
clinging to the short bars above the window.
The six foot stretch of metal, peeling brown,
was supposed to be festive, seasonal,
but it seemed a mere joke to the lobby dwellers.
An angel, colored, sat upon the highest branch
of the Evergreen, but no familiar notions of home,
of holiday, of tradition, sat with her.
Aqua carpets remained the same, stained and printed
with marks of those who visited.

I kept the seat near the entrance, and my silence,
as others trudged to the hall, the opposite direction
of the ominous red arrows and “EXIT” evenly
spaced, painted every five feet on the tan walls.
Exchanging looks and nods or slight lip curls,
we acknowledged each other, the passers and I,
as they made their way upstairs.
Upstairs, to the black pay phones, plastic chairs,
etched windows and desks. Upstairs to those in orange.

Advanced Poetry Workshop

Here we go guys, this is what we've all been waiting for. The last semester of Senior year has begun. Also, my advanced poetry workshop class. 35 poems in the next 7 weeks averaging about 5 poems a week, then the revision process of all those poems takes place in the last 7 weeks at the same pace. If you don't want to be reading all these poems that I will be posting basically every day until forever in your email, delete me now, unfriend me, unsubscribe, whatever. If you think you'll love me through-out, hopefully we can get through this together. My professor/advisor Carol Ann Davis, affectionately known as just "Carol Ann", did promise that at some point during this journey we might both end up crying and coloring with crayons on the floor of her office unable to function let alone write/read poetry. Figure I should tell you that now so you keep in mind that all the wonderful poems you've read in the past were processes worked over time and tweaked before being posted, so what you read tomorrow and the next day and the next...might not be a wonderful gem yet. Wish me luck! Talk to you tomorrow! ...Maybe? ;-)