[Newspoetry] We had words?

[DL Emerick]

I wrote her a poem,

Distant days ago.

It said nothing much,

Abstract as it was, about being,

Oh, say even about being me,

Facing a weight of being her.

 

It was nothing much,

Risking little, saying nothing,

Just speaking in broad generality,

Hinting, perhaps, of nothing.

 

I write all the time:

Letters to my peers,

Who hear me all too much to listen,

Letters to my friends,

Who only look for a living I am,

Letters to the editors,

And maybe to their public,

Who never would be so enlightened,

Letters to my government,

With never a sign of influence,

Letters to some newspoets -

All of them saying nothing much.

 

I hear back, now and then, echoes,

Some routine automatic "thank-you",

And I know that a matter is dead,

Unless I pursue it, relentlessly,

As more than mere passing moments

Of passions persuaded to speak.

 

I speak; time passes away.

I look back on my letters,

Sole visitor to history halls,

The letters of my speaking.

 

She hadn't read it, you see,

But promises, promises to,

Just as soon as she's ready,

Ready to read it, to know it

More than her scanning says,

As I scan her face, wondering,

What was the speaking point?

 

It is of life, my words speak;

Not of eternity, but simply me.

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