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)

Then suddenly the storm ended
  
The chaos was over

The sun came out and shed it’s light on all the wreckage

It made the tears running down my cheeks sparkle like diamonds

I joined the party late,
years after the favors left
all the cake crumbs even gone,
but celebrate, the same as one,
to have known my angel's living
breath, now gone, like the participants
dancing smiles all the hugs
and kisses, wishes on a candles
flame,
bring nothing back but images.
So alone I sing to you, however
far you have become....
Happy Birthday, my Angel Dear,
many, many more to come

Silence is a place-
a state of being.

Silence comes from without-
within the beginning.

Silence is before birth-
endures after death.

Silence holds council-
with the silent.

when I die cut me into pieces
keep the bits of me in your back pockets and leave me at train stations
hide me in between books at libraries and tuck me between the pews at church
leave me next to shampoo bottles at the pharmacy and plant me with blue hydrangeas
stuff me in between the sheets at ikea and in stranger’s coin jars
I want to be known so much,
I want the world to have me
If they don’t want me as a whole,
maybe they’ll take the scraps

how am i expected to keep a man made of blue tissue paper if i tenaciously spill words made of wine onto his lap ?
he tries to hold me late at night and i cry,
tears burning gaping holes into his paper chest
he is scorched by honesty and soon there won't be much of him left,
how do you stop such natural forces as wildfires and thunderstorms?
oh, to be a lady made of almond soap and frothed cream-
i was cursed with a furor-laden demeanor
fear is sharp and i tuck it between my fingers as i walk home at night,
getting home to him with blood-shot eyes and a fist full of glass that could tear him to shreds
he's here and i'm there, and there are four corners in the room in which we will evade each other.
i fling what i mean across the room and it misses him,
and he won't come closer because he knows that it will only hurt.
and maybe i want it to hurt,
maybe i resent him for being made of soft woven cotton, in comparison i am steel wool and i have never felt less manageable
i cry again on a Tuesday afternoon and he is standing very close,
he's riddled with these craters that are my signature.
i've never been more angry than when he melts under my hand,
the audacity of such fragility,
i never asked for this,
but what i meant to say is that i'd like to keep you