Love Letters

Tucked in my room is a box of old postcards from the early 1900s, that time before people even had addresses. It was the instant message of the time, not a real letter, no just a few words that would take a few weeks to arrive. This is why I think love is king. In all my travels, in all my time, translated, real post cards, in it all, never once have I found a postcard that was ill intentioned. It's the scribblings of love, one to another sent out to the air in the hopes it would reach it's destination. I have that kind of hope and I have that kind of love. I was born with it I think from another lifetime in the cosmic swirl of the world.

Best Friend and I used to pour over valentines, sending some to complete strangers so they would know someone thought of them. We'd be covered in glitter, the floor littered with pieces of paper with hearts cut out of the center in pink and red and white, white the sign of real love. We'd shop for weeks for the little glitter and in a box upstairs I have all she's given me and a few little cards from a secret lover who would just sign his cards always sent with the perfect flowers, "for a speedy recovery." It was our shorthand for "I wish you were here with me or me there with you, yes soon." My brother gives good card. He writes the most heartfelt things in cards and when writing him a card once I was thinking of my sweet mother teaching us about kindness and grace while in the midst of some argument over Scooby Do or Land of the Lost reminded in all her wisdom "one day all you will have is each other so be kind." Oh gods, she was right. How right she was. She would delight in the fact that we laugh so hard when we see eachother and that we both love the plants.

Love you see is all around us, even in the most unlikely of places. It lives in the cracks in the sidewalk and with enough warm sun and water it's real. I love that when someone contacts me about my art, it feels like a love letter. Good and bad. I recently received a letter from a woman who purchased some jewelry from me. The thing you see about chance and love is that you never know when it will hit. Sometimes its just a fly buzzing around your head and other times it sits on your shoulder like Sheba sitting on the back of my hair while I work. This woman L, I will call her for here lives in south. She's elegant and funny, and so charming. We write back and forth about our lives. You see she has a son she'd like to strangle on days and my son as much as I love him, there are days when I am ready to pack a rocket ship and ship him out of here to another orbit. Thankfully his visits home are less frequent, shorter stays and full of more joy. L and I exchange the stories of being a mom. We both love the animals, have birthdays in the summer and love dangling charms of things. Well she writes me a letter inviting me to her home for her birthday.

Carrie....In many ways you are so like me....and while we are on the subject it is so much easier to give than receive......you have done so many neat things for me all ready. I don't need a spoecial project....
I have started wrapping stuff for the birthday (sure you don't want to come?). The girls are very nice and everyone fits in immediately.....everyone becomes "family" right away. Anyway, when I was wrapping the rings it gave me the best feeling. That was one of the nicest things anyone has ever done.....
Anyway...I have 12 of everything...and 11 invitees....if you want to come I would only need to get your shirt done....and your present...and I would promise to do a wildly outrageous activity....and we eat lots of junk. (and Diane , the widow, can tell you all about computer dating) and you could see Dana's dog (Diva), 3.4 pounds, and she never goes out without taking Diva and Diva's feet have never touched the ground....and Sharon, my friend since kindergarten who is bossy (like me), and doesn't realize I want to be the only boss that day, and Mary who is your age, and adorable...married to a jerk and lives in Orlando. Sherry flies in from Detroit....Edith, my red haired friend,who lives in Delray....they are retired.
Raynne is the oldest (75) and very pretty...good heart, she loves me......but, loves to talk about her dead husband although she has been happily married to Bart for 25 years.
Marcy...she is a 2 year friend although recycled from years ago.
Rhonda is totally unpretentious and easy....another frustrated director. I am her best friend, oldest friend, worst friend...try only friend. She likes men better.
Marty...a CPA..pretty and thin....
Patty a died in the wool Republican...married to a tax attorney.....bridge player....a little out of the normal circle but she and her husband like to go on gambling trips with us.
I am afraid to read this over, or they would all sound weird as shit.
Anyway...all you would need is rolled up jeans, Keds tennis shoes (the original canvas) and and a pair of pajamas...I would do the rest.....
and you could share a suite with Sherry and I....and spend a couple of nights at my house, with the cats and dogs...
Think about it before you say no.........it could be a China test :)
L

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A love letter from a stranger, well not really a stranger, a friend now of sorts. I read that and think, she shares her life and I am so blessed, my cup runs over. I think of all the people in the world so isolated and so alone and even when I am blue I manage to find some place where I feel loved either in the arms of friends or a family that I cherish or my work. Love lingers here in the corners where the cats sleep and in the photos magnetized to the fridge to the notes reminding me to call someone about this or take care of that detail. Then a few days later Craig writes. Craig and I are old friends I think I can call him that, honored to even. I have to nudge him from time to time to tell me something I need to hear from him. So I write him a long rambling Carrie letter, kinda like this and he writes me back the most personal lovely letter and in each line something about how he is and what he is about the love of the land, the nature of trees and advice, something to ponder. And while waxing poetic and pondering on love I've been writing writing writing. I leave myself little notes about poems I'd like to write.

I've always fancied Love a decision
not something that happens to you
like being caught in the rain in your only real wool suit
I found comfort in love being a choice;
some sweet man ties your shoe for you
at the bus stop
to KEEP you from falling and
in his eyes you see a light and you fall
and you fall
and you fall
fall like rain
fall like autumn
because of his tenderness and your choice

No one would choose a scoundrel
unless of course you had a thing for scoundrels
if cross and underhanded were your trigger
if you would toss aside batman for the joker
so you could get the laughs and wear his lipstick


Besides love being a choice I have always believed
that people know the difference between right and wrong
it's inherent in us to know
we are born knowing
it is the hand of God,
the last touch before we decend to earth
and unless
we are very sick or very lost or even full of melancholy
we'd pick right
we'd walk the path of right
like el camino
until our feet were blistered
we'd choose right like we'd choose love

And what if on a rainy day like today, when the sky
is a bruise, the color to match my heart
what if today I played the lottery
planted a seed in the garden that had no package
no little flower to tell you what was waiting
what if on a day full of chance I simply decided
to stop loving you
nobody would notice really
i'm not even sure you would
not for days and then what
gas up the steed?
dust off the shield from the garage?
behind the weed cutter that doesnt work
hasn't worked


I thought it might work today and plugged it in
only to have it cut my leg
and while the blood trickled over
my dollar store flip flops with the little
blue hearts on them
I thought of writing in the muck that
is my heart's desire
This blood now on my toes was beating
through my bruised heart just a few seconds ago
and now it will soon wash away in the rain
and every muscle in my body is keeping me
from bending down and writing
on the cement: You'll miss me
sway with me back and forth until
he makes promises he won't keep
all to keep from getting a finger dirty.

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I haven't given it a name yet. A love letter to the world, whoever is reading, listening, out to the void wondering what will come back, if anything. If you have a thought you can email me at Summerpoet@msn.com. You can always find my work at www.poetsummer.etsy.com.