Tonight I taste your cancer,
my memory of your agony so real
and tangible

that I try hard to get rid of it -
mints, toothpaste, mouthwash, soap.

Tonight I hear your cancer too -
the brutality of your words was the vehicle
that tried to burn our bridges.

If I could do just one thing tonight,
I would reach out and hold your freezing hand,
one more time.

Start where you are. Hike your own journey, being careful
of rocks in the road. Use your inside voice. Remember
everyone has a story needing to be heard. Look for the tall
people in ALDI - they can reach the string cheese on the top shelf.
A repeated mistake is a decision. Every day, breathe outside air.
Read: street signs, back-of-the-box instructions, your housemates'
faces. If you can't be kind, be quiet.

mourning in morning
needing the mom i needed
they buried your soul

I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)