Asked

By all rights, this should be an e-mail poem, as it was composed in answer to a simple letter from a friend asking, "How are you?" -- but after looking at the other e-mail poems, I decided this one really had no place there.

Asked

How quiet is it when the radio is the only one speaking?
When the music becomes your moods,
Saying more to you,
And about you,
Than you do yourself?
Who knew that silence was so loud?
The sword of freedom,
Doubles as loneliness' dagger.
Chill winds are aching muscle's only balm,
Typed words the tongue's wish.
Yet...
Words flee,
Trip and stumble into foolishness.
Then the wish to call them back,
Becomes greater than the urge to speak them.
And then, finally,
There are none left.
Only the shine of eyes,
The tilt of a head,
The subtle pull of expression.
Unseen,
This greater communication fails.
What to see who have no eyes?
What to touch who have no hands?
The warmth of a presence cannot reach
Through screens.
The most skillful turn of phrase no match
For a voice,
For a face,
For a hand about the shoulder.
Masks fall away,
But how hard is it to look in the still mirror
Of the soul,
And see nothing?
Brave coward.
I look elsewhere,
Unwilling to find out.
Stargazer,
Dreamer.
What is a Listener
When there is no one to Listen to
Save myself?
Counseled to patience,
And having none,
This question too painful to go
Unanswered.
Never having been able to Speak,
I let the music swell.
And Sing.
How is that the voice that can barely whisper,
Can ring so strong and full?
Filling these walls,
Vibrating deep,
Reaching out,
Can you hear me?