L C Vieira
What happened to the art of writing
long letters to a friend,
a lover waiting anxiously,
a beginning and an end?
Emails miss the middle bits
and all the extras, too,
but letters can be rich with words
of details through and through.
I know of some whose only kiss,
flowed from heart to pen,
on scented sheets of pale paper,
read again and again.
These letters safely tucked away
in secret backs of drawers,
are memories rich for years to come,
a journal of one’s stories.
So, if I write too much today,
forgive me if you ...
Three Thirty Nine A.M.
Three thirty-nine a.m.
A growing madness drowns the quiet,
heat humming through the vents,
the cold night mocking its attempt,
and I awake, still awake,
pound my pen to you.
Where does my practiced peace go in the night,
and all that contentment you talk about?