We stand two-thirds of the way broken,
and the airports are packed with ecotourists.
Inside our bodies, micro-plastics infiltrate
our blood stream, but our pants have never fit better.
 
Here, the world around us is mostly shiny, but
the kids still cry their pain and suffering.  The solution
is to take a loan and go to Disney.  We gulp ibuprofen
by the handful, and promise there will be better days
ahead.
 
Old Bobby Frost said, “Good fences make good neighbors.”
Wry Yankee wit, but he’s right . . . Having a boundary
is a reminder that we share the same land, same air,
and same sky.  There are limits.
 
Those New England stone walls that dot the landscape
Or are found along the half-worn trails in the woods,
artifacts of our agrarian past, were pulled from thin soil,
stacked to allow other things, a garden or livestock
to flourish, by keeping something in.
 

​

Gardeners don’t like to talk about it,
but their work is death as much as life.
Yes, the favored plants are nourished,
a sprinkle of water and fertilizer,
a string lightly tied to a stick.
But other plants are poisoned or pulled,
hacked or hoed, the word “weed”
pinned to their coats like a sentence.
 
And that's fine; that's the way of this world.
Some books are alphabetized on the shelf;
others are boxed for Goodwill.
Some clothes return to their hangers,
others tossed in the discard carton.
Some friends are invited to the next party;
some numbers are never called again.
 
Even this poem, which began with so many words,
contains only a few lucky survivors,
the others scratched out with surprising fury.

​

We have not gone paperless
We have gone people less
We do more and they do less
We check  ourselves out
We bag we pay we push their buttons
We put their  cart back
We thank ourselves
We don’t call
We chat with the bot
We travel over seas for customer service
We wait and wait wading through lousy music
And wait to speak to a person
Who knows less than  we do
I now know all the holidays in the Philippines
They are so kind and polite
While we eat our cell
Phone and cell phone ingestion
Stats rise
You get a three percent discount I’ll have to give you 5 percent
I don’t have a 3 percent key.
Is that ok. ​

​I miss you...
phoning
just to say hello.

I miss you...
calling
to hear about  your day.

I miss you...
coming here to stay
giving me
your precious time.

I miss...
our travels together
taking in the sights
like kids set free
on a playground
finding pleasure
in exploring new things.

I miss...
your smile
sharing
hearty laughs.

I miss...
your affection
warm hugs
when you greet me
at the door.

I miss...
lying next to you
the warmth of
your physical presence
feeling secure
your arm wrapped around me.

I miss...
life with you
loving you
growing older with you.

Knowing...
You were my ONE.
I miss you.

​

A snowy Christmas postcard town
circa 1928.
Old-fashioned street lamps
like lights from the future
illuminate powdery footsteps from the past.

Carolers sing outside houses
where people aren’t afraid to open doors.
They drink real hot chocolate
Afterwards by a fire’s cozy glow.
A couple clutch mittened hands
as they walk to the picture show.
The guy is eager to be caught
under his gal’s mistletoe.

On Sunday afternoons,
skaters glide around the ice rink
after morning services
at the village church.​

Neighborhood boys clear widows’ walks
shoveling the pure snow
like scoops of vanilla ice cream.
 A row of gingerbread cookies is displayed
in the baker’s window
five cents a dozen.
Today, they cost a dollar each.
Even twelve-year-olds still believe in Santa Claus,
but making babies is still a mystery.
​
​

If you want my advice,
never to touch the sun.
It’s hot, a big ball of gas
exploding to its surface over and over.
 
It’s too simple to say that if you touch
the sun you will burn yourself.
Rather, if you touch the sun,
it will burn you, all of you,
irradiate you, in an instant.
 
People tell children not to play
with fire, but we tell them over
and over, “reach for the stars.”
Stars are suns, a billion billion
burning balls of gas, first
(and hottest) fires in the universe.
 
What happens when we reach      
the stars, get close enough
for the heat to singe our eyebrows,
where the air cooks our nose hair?
There’s simply nothing to do there.
 
We have fuel enough to burn,
from inside our heads and hearts,
our own fires explode, refine the surface rust,
a power all our own, kindled with stardust.

​

William John Silverman, Jr. is a published poet and Associate Professor of English at SUNY-Suffolk, where he teaches writing and literature. He lives on Long Island with his wife and their three boys. 
​

Another Christmas without your smile
One last present left under the tree
One less voice singing with me
An empty chair at the holiday table
A phone call left unanswered 
An empty stocking that won’t be filled
Those holiday memories still fill my heart, but it’s another holiday we will all be apart. 
That silent ache, that yearning to be whole.  
Those little children full of hope
The wonderment and the magic still fill the air.
The Christmas tree will still be there. 
Those traditions that will carry on
The meaning of those Christmas songs
Paying tribute to what was, carrying on…carrying on
Creating new memories, becoming who we need to be. 
 
One little Christmas wish that some day…maybe one day
​

Born is Charleston, SC, Neil is number 9 of 10 kids.  Poetry was a natural way for Neil to express himself even at a young age. Now living in Charlotte, NC Neil has expanded his artistic side with photographic art as well as poetry. 
​