Searching for a book of matches,
I came across one of your poems
from 1993. It wasn't written on a
matchbook; no.  It was written on
a page torn right from my heart.

The line about how a blind man
helped you to see that words hold
more love than truth still burns my
eyes.  Seems you were right; and
you were wrong, too. The ink was
no longer as blue as your eyes
that day when we last held hands.
That day you penned these words
to my heart. That very day; our last.

Your poetry used to make me smile,
or laugh, or curse your soul for writing
words that I could never seem to find.
This poem was your best; your last.

The ink has faded and ran  in places
from all these years of tears shed and
long dried. More tears would do no good. 
I can hardly read these faded lines. You still
would not be here to kiss them away,
to tell me that everything is going to be
alright; no.

r ~ 5/8/14

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

from whence wisdom comes
of the wisdom of the child, from whence it comes

she comes to me a
recognized believer,
a poetry rising star,
in private whispers,
to true confess,
a sixteen year old girl,
born to the role of
high poetry priestess

not asked but offered
to an old man
whose wisdom now
leaves his temples
with the scheduled departure
of each breath

she tenders
her secrets, her heritage,
her impositions, the sources
of her belief, and by and from
the vibrations of wall wisdom,
and inspiration retransmitted,
she is made even more tender

"the source of
what I know,
comes not from within,
but from without"

before she writes
she listens

she recites the histories
of her ancestors
stored in the walls

in the walls of every room,
whether painted flat white,
or fire-breathing breathless beige,
or good luck red,
cracked, stucco'd or spackled bare
even if in fabric dressed,
no matter, all whisper
to the child woman

of this, I speak,
of this, thee tell

the living and the dead,
their words recorded, deposited,
in a banque of brick
from past to future
given to her,
to be wise,
to be and by,
to share

in the train car,
in the hotel room,
all that ere spoke,
every predecessor passenger,
their words customized, bespoke,
she hears, she knows

this secret shared,
this greatest revelation,
the old man shakes his head,
weighted down with
grief and sorrow,
thinking silently to himself,
lest his walls' eavesdropping ears hear,

*poor child, she is wise
yet, she is cursed,
in exactly,
the same manner as me...