, , , , , , , , , ,



words are roguish creatures,
like leprechauns or elves,
with tiny little feet
they march, sure of themselves

fine in morning papers
they jump right off the page,
strutting and parading,
their readers to engage

ask them to say feelings,
expressed straight from the heart,
they shuffle little feet,
refuse to play their part

when i’ve pleaded with them,
they’ve better things to do
than sit upon your bed
and give a hug or two

they hang about in groups,
sullen and shifty eyed;
they sidestep entreaties,
sometimes they like to hide

at times, there are no words
when what i feel is loss.
i grope, i struggle;
instead of sleep, i toss

how, then, can i express
the things i want to say?
i send my love, my prayers,
so many miles away