Letters to Me

It's pages are old--
A tarnished yellow--faded
and wrinkled.
They smell like a million
Words left unsaid
Baking in the hot sun.

The weathered binding is
Splitting at the seams.
Worn and well-used--a
Sign of friendship that
Longs to expand but knows it can't.

Its words are beginning to
Fade, but only in print.

For what it holds is a peace
that comes after the rain,
or from a first kiss or
from the smell of a long goodbye--
or a long hello.

Look beyond the cover--
See me.
For who I am.
For Who I long to be.
Find in me what I find in you.

Circus Clown

Mirrors, Mirrors on the walls--

Distorting my color and shape.

This house of fun is haunting

The happiness you think you make.

The striped tent stands alone

On a backdrop of amber red.

Lights, laughter, loneliness are the colors

On the canvas of the things you said

To me on the night of the circus.

A spectacle--Come one, Come all!

I bought my ticket, I bought yours too.

And walked your tightrope and tried not to fall.

The sound of applause (in your mind alone),

The tent remains pitched in your town.

You believe yourself the ringleader,

When all you really are is the clown.

Regret

It's a hunger when I am already full.
A haunting of my heart and mind.
A splintering cold slips in through the window I have closed
So many times.

When will you call and claim what's yours?

You said you would. You said
It wouldn't be long
Before I could breathe on my own.
Before I could warm my cold
Lungs with the warm breath of honesty.

But that's what hurts the most--
The icy chill of the truth--
It's the wind that breaks the fragile glass,
When all it ever does is watch for spring.

Love this poem: Enjoy.

The Shrinking Lonesome Sestina
By Miller Williams

Somewhere in everyone’s head something points toward home,
a dashboard’s floating compass, turning all the time
to keep from turning. It doesn’t matter how we come
to be wherever we are, someplace where nothing goes
the way it went once, where nothing holds fast
to where it belongs, or what you’ve risen or fallen to.

What the bubble always points to,
whether we notice it or not, is home.
It may be true that if you move fast
everything fades away, that given time
and noise enough, every memory goes
into the blackness, and if new ones come—

small, mole-like memories that come
to live in the furry dark—they, too,
curl up and die. But Carol goes
to high school now. John works at home
what days he can to spend some time
with Sue and the kids. He drives too fast.

Ellen won’t eat her breakfast.
Your sister was going to come
but didn’t have the time.
Some mornings at one or two
or three I want you home
a lot, but then it goes.

It all goes.
Hold on fast
to thoughts of home
when they come.
They’re going to
less with time.

Time
goes
too
fast.
Come
home.

Forgive me that. One time it wasn’t fast.
A myth goes that when the quick years come
then you will, too. Me, I’ll still be home.