Dear Phiiip,

You are an amazing young man,
Wrought with all the things
     That good men are made of.

I understand as well as you
That the world doesn't understand
     Us, and it never could.

We go together, two peas in a pod,
Inseparable by nature and bond,
     Twins by thinking.

Know that I've got your back,
Just as I know that you've got mine;
     Keep strong and true.

Sincerely,

Your sister

Dear Matéo, (II)

I remember

[this greatly impacted me]

 

Playing games with you,

     Running into each other with couch cushions.

Convincing our brother

     That maple tree seed pods were candy.

That your favorite books were not mine -

     Perl, Java, C++, HTML, and SQL.

Playing on the banister of the landing,

     Then going down to the family room to play some more.

 

When we would dress up at grandma's house,

     You always chose to be an owl.

You learned to take the greatest caution

     When trying anything I had made with food.

Next you learned not to try anything

     That I had made, regardless if others would eat it.

But then you learned that I had learned

     And now you aren't as wary about what I cook.

 

Your mind always excelled

     At computer games and programming.

You started stamp collecting,

     But stopped somewhere along the way.

Instead you collected coins

     And various currency of intrinsic value.

You were prudent and wise,

     A natural outpouring of your character.

 

You thought me and our brother strange,

     But loved us nonetheless.

You never really cried,

     I can't remember a single instance.

You worked hard at school,

     And always tried to do your best.

You were a major influencing factor

     In my own geeky streak.

There are little snippets

     Here and there without pattern

Of things that I remember.

     And I remember them well.

Now you're moving onward with your life,

     You always have been.

I pray that God who has seen you through thus far

     Shall continue to do so 'til the end.

Sincerely,

Your sister

Dear Matéo,

It hurts.

Don't you understand?

I missed

[I chose not to look for]

 you.

Your quiet character

And reserved demeanor.

Your secret schemes,

      Laid like traps,

As young children

     Are wont to do.

I missed

[I didn't think you were worthy of my attention]

you.

Your knowing smiles,

And aversions to cameras.

Your application to studies

And desire to be your best.

Your daily devotions

And all the hidden secrets.

Don't you understand?

It hurts.

I missed

[I had closed myself off from everyone]

Most of my chances

To know you for who you are

So when people ask these days

I could tell them so much more

     Than

Merely your age and name,

Where you went to school

And now are attending.

     More

Than just your majors

And where you want to go.

It hurts.

Because I was negligent,

And ran away from the world.

I am the only one to blame.

For you were readily there

And are to this day.

And yet.

Regrets.

It hurts.

I missed

[let life pass by unnoticed]

you.

Regards,
Your sister

Poem Snippet #4 (just for the fun of it)

From Data's "Ode to Spot" (Star Trek:TNG, "Schisms")

"O Spot, the complex levels of behaviour you display
connote a fairly well-developed cognitive array.
And though you are not sentient, Spot, and do not comprehend,
I nonetheless consider you a true and valued friend."

Surrealism (list poem)

A day in the life,
     ... Still a bad dream.
The sheep and the goats
     Talk.
Fireflies
     Viva la vida.

Bittersweet blackbird,
Do you feel all my tears?
Cover me;
     Everybody's changing.

Everything fades,
     Faith,
          Hope,
               And happiness;
Illusion and dream.

Bittersweet blackbird,
Say (all I need),
     Should you return.
Tell me something good,
Maybe tomorrow
     Is a better day.

We Fall

We fall,
In Gothic cathedral music,
Soprano solo the cry
     Of humanity.
Plunging down to the bass,
Rumbling the air currents
Until we are hushed
     By crystal bell.

We fall,
Sorrow and madness of descent,
Not knowing if we shall survive
     The landing
On bare rocks and pinnacles,
Stretching to pierce sky and flesh,
With no respecter of persons;
     This we fear.

We fall,
The same hope plead by all hearts,
Proclaimed by the unheard words,
     Catch us.
And surely our cries our heard
Among the whistling wind
And roaring gales in canyons
     Of fear, death.

We fall,
As all our nations and peoples do,
Crashing unto proverbial darkness,
     Screaming.
The watched ones,
Never descending alone,
Yet never together,
     In want.

We fall,
Waiting for the sickening sound
Of our bodies impaled by shale,
     Terror.
Our guard does not stand idly by;
Serenity watches while we fall
Holding out hands to catch
     Us all.

Poem Snippet #3

Snippet from "Horizonte" by Antionio Machado (translated by Richard L. Predmore)

"La gloria del ocaso era un purpúreo espejo,
era un cristal de llamas, que al infinito viejo
iba arrojando el grave soñar en la llanura. . .
Y yo sentí la espuela sonora de mi paso
repercutir lejana en el sangriento ocaso,
y más allá, la alegre canción de un alba pura."

Translation:

"The glory of the sunset was a purple mirror,
it was a flaming lens which to old infinity
projected my solemn dreaming on the plain. . .
And I heard the sonorous spur of my step
reverberate far off against the bloody sunset,
and beyond, the joyful music of a pure dawn."

Poem Snippet #2

Snippet from "House by the Side of the Road" by Sam Walter Foss

"And still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice
And weep with the strangers that moan,
Nor live in my house by the side of the road
Like a man who dwells alone."

Poem Snippet #1

Snippet from "The McPoem" by Ronald Wallace:

"I must confess that I, too, like it:
the poem that's fried up flat and fast with condiments
on a sesame seed bun.  Steamy, grease-spattered,
and juicy, fluent with salt, piping hot
from the grill, glazed with bubbling oil."

Near-Distance

We are near the point where the tree of life,
     Or so it is affectionately called,
Stretches down its branches with outspread limbs,
Seeming to call forth the grass and clover.

Silhouetted against the sky,
     Where birds rest their wings and sing,
The smallest red buds begin to grow,
Foretelling leaves and summer and cricket songs.

The scent of damp earth in the tree's shadow
     Rises unseen to tempt the watcher.
Until the sun fades behind the clouds,
Making the whole earth a shadow.

The claws of the old, gnarly tree
     Upon this happenstance,
Seem to grope for death
So that grass and clover might live.

Far-Distance

A single streak of pale white cloud
Dances down to touch the tree.
Birches, farther off, near horizon,
Mimic the wannabe lightning cloud.

A wide swath of pasture land
Sprawls out between the trees and me.
It is green and grassy, splattered with tan
Where dead plants have resisted the grave.

And this tree touched by clouds
Stands alone, surrounded in a ghostly way
By those resolute plants, clutching
At the roots and trunks of lonely tree.

Mid-Distance

The gurgling river flows beyond,
Eddies swirling around rock islands
Covered in rotting branches,
Laid to rest by time and tempest.

Small dirt cliffs fall sharply off,
Covered at the top by prairie grasses
Which are still the dead-beige of winter,
The greens of spring still not known.

Beyond the range of vision,
On top of one such earthy cliff,
There runs a road, busy,
Noises of cars a blight to nature.

A pair of shoes rest on rocks,
Forming a sort of miniature shore.
Near to them, a set of water bugs
Glide and dance on the water's surface.

A cool blue sky and still, white clouds
Rest as drapery behind the place.
They look down with the warming sun,
Waiting for spring to breathe again.

Ancient

Flipping through pages,
Musty, worn by years.
Lightly coffee-stained,
Spine coming undone.

The hard leather fades,
Overcome by dust.
Bright inks, green and blue,
Once covered pages.

But all has withered,
Rusting unto black.
Then-ornate pictures
Corroded by time.

Still, the words remain,
Withstanding ages;
Their meaning's steadfast,
Ancient, ever true.

To That Fluffy Thing You Lay Your Head Upon

     Makeup-stained, soaked with tears,
Old friend.
     I've known you for years and years,
So long.
     The world never listened; you had ears,
Caring.

One Inch Song

One by one by one;
Size does not matter.
You contain songs, hours
Upon hours of tunes.

You are the spritely cube
That dangles in abstraction;
Not slim enough for pockets,
But still just right for me.

Dance and throb with song,
Keeping beat to lovely melodies,
Choosing to serenade only one,
By one; that one is me.