Thank you (((Mom & mteagle)))

Wonderfully written, (((Mom)))

Thank you (((Harold)))

are Scrabble tiles
i turn over in my hands
thumbing their
cold, hard, smooth surfaces
i piece them together
and hope for the best
does this make sense
does that make sense
is there such a word as this
is this how you spell that word
will anybody understand
this or that
(sometimes i wonder if
i would be better off
using a Ouija board
or a Tarot pack)

but none of these is of any use
and none of these works
will travel from one end
to the other
of a telephone cable
when i dial out

to
(i don’t know
am not sure)
a random telephone box
in the middle of nowhere
or a line without a telephone
to herald the news of my call
or a line
long since disconnected
nobody is picking up

it’s just as well nobody is picking up
my words are voiceless
i am mute

nobody’s picked up
for ten years
for ten years
i’ve been mute

i hope to find a voice one day
i will stop swallowing words
stop choking myself
i will dig deeper
mine the loam of my body
for a tongue
the dust of my soul
for what i mean to say

one day
i hope to find my voice
(even if it should take
another ten years
even if it should take
a lifetime)
because
i want to talk

to you

Absolutely, wonderfully beautiful, pkd

Thank you

Wolf
pkd
Harold
Bill
Different

Highjacked it is!

Very nice (((Harold)))

Thank you for a very sweet comment, pkd

i
who was the girl you had known
the girl you talked to talked with
the girl you thought you knew

who was that girl you had liked
that girl you had laughed with
that girl you thought you liked

had that girl changed
or did you never know her
do you think you had known her

I think she you had fancied
was a different girl
not me
(you are not disappointed
I am)

I have never been that girl
I am not that girl
I will never be
that girl



ii
I wonder who she was you liked
what kind of girl is she
is she
everything I’m not
does she
do everything I can’t
can she
be everything I won’t

will she
give in return everything
I didn’t



iii
... and I realized today
you don’t know me
had never known me

now
you will never know
me

Thank you, dear

Thanks.

very nice (((H)))

Thank you (((Bill & Harold)))

the second time
i had dreamed
of you
you were lying
on your side
and i’d gone
to you
touched you
put my arms around you
laid my head down on yours

but that dream last night
i was lying
on my side
and you’d came
to me
put your arms around me
laid your head on my hips
while i drowsed
reached down
stroked you
brow to the little hollow
between your ear and jaw
curled my fingers
in the nest of hair at your neck
your skin as fine and soft
as a newborn’s

that dream last night
my fingers were greedy
for the feel of you
and i addicted
to touching you

that dream last night
had i dreamed of you
or was it you
who were dreaming
of me

at the most mundane of moments
when i would least expect it
i hope to be kidnapped

the same way
i daily highjack the
faces and bodies and
the persons and personalities
of people i meet or know or
have simply brushed pass

highjack them
and whisk them off
to the delicate and fragile
world of my dreaming
to blank fictive pages
waiting to be filled

so one day
maybe in a half-blink
i would too be spirited away
from my waking life
and find myself treading gingerly
in the never-where
of someone’s dreams

maybe
(i really hope)
yours

I'll second that...

Thank you

flame
(((Harold)))
Art

Write me a poem, you say, your eyes bright with
enthusiasm.
A poem? But I am not a poet; I don’t know how to!
Write me something anyway, you insist, something that
rhymes ...

‘Something that rhymes’?

The way your name rhymes
with the chimes of the clock,
the click of the key in the lock,
the knock-knock-knock of your knuckles
on the door of my heart?

The way your breath
is the sonnet you breathed on my cheek,
the song you shaped on my lips,
the dip-slip-trip of your tongue
in the house of my mouth?

The way your being
harmonizes every dissonance in the world,
synchronizes every assonance on this earth,
the way your just being

brings about a singular cosmic
rhyme of love of love of lovelovelove
below, between, all around, above,

a universe
of rhyming prose and verse that I can never get
enough enough enough
of.

You are the poet, the poem,
the poetry in motion, the
Geetanjali of love, my love,

not me.