Ever since I moved to a different time period, I get the strangest mail.

Letters commissioning Michelangelo
to paint the Sistine Chapel.

Elizabeth Bennet's missive to her aunt
promising pony cart rides at Pemberley.

Long lost IRS tax forms belonging to Abbott and Costello.

Leonardo Da Vinci’s Job Application to the Duke of Milan.

Even Grace Bedell's charming correspondence to Abraham Lincoln, suggesting he grow a beard.

I should have known something was up once I discovered Karl Malone was my mailman.

Loneliness is a curse to me
It always comes back to haunt me when I really don’t want it to
I just don’t have the heart to handle it
And the saddest part is that
Nobody can save me from it but myself

It's been a year now, I have not changed. A sweet sailor told me once that poems were the only art form that allowed, demanded this much melancholy and I am none the less tragic. You would have laughed in my face had you seen him and I. Soft, silly boy opening up into bloodied lips. Pressing flowers into his hair, contritely convincing myself I was not the monster you wrote me out to be.

I won't tell you that he couldn't love me, that I could never keep him.

I'm sure you already know. That's how the story goes.

To the person who decides to give me their heart

I promise I’ll take good care of it.

I may take it out for walks a few times a week

Share some of my deepest darkest secrets

Laugh uncontrollably when friends comes on tv

And say goodnight before I fall asleep

But most importantly

I’ll be sure to thank the person who gave me their heart to hold in the first place.

And love them unconditionally because they’re also looking after mine

And that’s more than I could ever ask for.

If you took from the chalice of immunity-
To be. Forever-
I’d drink-
Immortal with you.

If you died-
Perished untimely
I would lay down one’s life with you-
My life- With you.

I need you to call my name.

I want to hear it escape your throat.

You know my name. It is the one
that sounds like the stabbing of
steel shovels into sodden soil.

It is the one you addressed
on all those notes and letters.

Say it. Say it now.
Cry my name.

You will say it, even if
it spills from your teeth
and stains your ******* skin.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet

Whether s/he be
In chains & fetters
Lazy or a
Real go-getter
Using pen
Or tech typesetters
Staid & proper
Or upsetter
A Poet remains
A wo/man of letters.

Ugly or quite
Fair of face
Present.
Gone without a trace
In polyester
Or fine lace
Sure of pen
Prone to erase
Poets ALL
We bestow grace.

Well read or
Quite ignorant
Cogent or
Lacking in sense
Wealthy or
Don't have one cent
Nostalgia or
The present tense
Poets have their
Eloquence.

Wo/man! We the
Letters make!
It is all a
Give & take!
Get going
For goodness sake!
Whether you are
Real or fake
Heck! We ALL
make our mistakes!
Whether we are
Gent or rake
We leave MENSAs
In our wake!

So on it goes
We laugh or sigh
We celebrate
Or weep & cry
We struggle on
We try the rye
We are awake
Or bleary eyed
Life can't stop
It will pass by
It will pass

UNTIL WE DIE.


Catherine Jarvis
(C)12/22/2019