Poems #47-51: Sincere Apologies!

Fireflies

1.
If I could meet your eyes,
I'd tell you
about the lightning bugs,
and how I forgot them.

2.
If I could remember your name,
I'd sing about the thunderstorms
and shelter.

3.
If I had one wish,
I'd waste it.

___________________________________

Stopwatch

I'll pretend for a moment
that the world spins for me,
that time and space mean nothing
and that I am certain.

Please don't ask advice
you can't receive
from me.

I'd stop the world
And breathe
The air
from space

Just to know for sure
that what I do
is mine.

__________________________________

Reflection

Show me a girl who writes poetry
Whose love notes are whispers
That tumble to ash.
Who like walking barefoot
and loves rain for dancing,
but not the pounding,
incessant dark wet.
Show me the girl who gives tattoos
like kisses, who loves to use color,
Who swings from the heartstrings
Who loves apple picking,
and cherry-tree climbing
and drawing you pictures,
and painting eyelashes-
Show me this girl who loves the mirror
but doesn't know herself; she is
the dancing in the wildflowers
trapped beneath a parking lot
waiting for the sun.
Show me this girl,
hand me the mirror,
I'll turn it back to you,
you can't see the colors unless
You open those eyes.

______________________________

The Search

What do you do,
When you’re sixteen,
and they find you?

The mail pours into your home
Like floodwater,
Smooth pamphlets that sing
Of future security and success,
All the while lying to you
With their picturesque tongues.

What if you, unlike them,
Do not have a plan?

What if all you want is to be,
To decide later and live now,
To burn the slick pamphlets,
Rip up the booklets, and finally
Hear the trees?

What do you do,
When you’re seventeen,
And it’s one year closer?

________________________________

Lillywrite

A little man
makes a little time
to try again.

The letters shake
his hand the cobwebs
holding his mind together.

Dear, he writes,
save me from myself.

Save me from becoming
what you are.

Letter 473 mailed in a box
in his attic,
carried by angels
to a god's sacred brothel,
she plucks it with pale palms
the fingers like lilies
she reads-

Dear, save me from myself.

And the little man
has little time
to lie in the snow
and wonder,
surrounded by those beautiful
pale,
waiflike
letters
like tombs.


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