Poetry - Two of my own

Handwritten Letter

Be gone blinking cursor, dead white light.
Give me the glow of filament or flame,
The scratching of wind whipped boughs
On the darkened pane.

Give me a blank sheet and a bottle of ink.
A moment of silence to think.

What small essence of the truth
Might I discover then,
From the whisper of thought
and the scratch of the pen?

What aspect of self will take to the whole,
What inner secrets unfold

In the choice
Of words I make,
In those markings, now there
Upon the page?

Alone in my thoughts, but
Not my thoughts alone.
Just an open hand and heart
to hold, this gift.

And I give it to you.

The sugar sweet stamp and seal,
Metal box, mail bag and hand.
Arriving in real time
So you may feel

That same page
By your own light,
In your own silence,
Next to your own dark pane.

Gettin’ All Poetiky

Everyone tries to get all poetiky
Choosing words that clove and heave
And hang in awkward silence -
Metaphors, cryptic allusions,
Confounding phrases that sound suspiciously like
The creaking of an engine that needs a shot of oil.

But having stopped by these snowy woods
And fearful of feeling stupid for
Missing something sharp and prophetic
Hidden among the shadows and shifting boughs,
I turn a pine cone over in my hands,
Breathe in the bark and frozen earth,
Listen to the hushed conversation
Between wispy needle and groaning limb.

I study chipmunk tracks that disappear
Into the darkness and wonder
Are they really chipmunk tracks?
Or do they belong to some
Rough beast slouching?
Or a fire-fangled bird?
Or perhaps they are not tracks at all
But just the stirring of memory and
Desire in the dull roots?

Alas, I’ve many miles to go before I sleep
And whose ever woods these are,
Hung with chandeliers and prisms
And populated by flora and fauna with long Latin names…
They are better left to someone else.

Preferably someone with a PHD in the Classics
And a copy of the OED in their sled.

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