The Irony of the Skeleton Key

On those farms separated by acres
of wheat and corn golden in the sun,
there was a oneness between neighbors.
Disputes were few and settled on the site.
Trust opened doors.

Those houses that claimed no skeletons,
bore locks that claimed skeleton keys. Every door,
inside and out, had a lock. Every key opened
every door. ‘Lose your key, neighbor has three.’
It worked.

Twice a year, they dosed the locks with graphite
and tested to see that nothing had rusted.
All that graphite, all those fancy brass keys,
an extravagance really; one size fit.
I guess they thought,

“Why build a door then lock it?”

Walking in Starlight

“What day is it?”, asked Winnie the Pooh
“It’s today,” squeaked Piglet
“My favorite day,” said Pooh.
                                   AA Milne

  On a night
when no one was near
not even close

I read his wisdom
that Pooh Bear
with brains of fluff

I slathered butter on some toast
and honey too
of course

and went outside
to commune
with the moon

it was the air
warm with the velvet of night

or maybe
Pooh knew a thing or two
about opening your heart

and seeing the stars
of the dark.


The Turning of the Hands

In the flow of winding rivers
as they whisper to the sea
the sighs of seasons past
keep you ever close to me

and when the way is weary,
when roads run to twists and bends,
in the pale glow of moonlight
we will meet when journey ends.

If time moves much too slowly,
then dreams move much too fast
and in the turning of the hands,
there we shall meet at last.

Sunday Morning Rising

A raucous crow
regales the sun
with his vocal repertoire,
So pleased with morning
he opens his mouth
and out pours a grating song
that rakes the day with laughter.

His voice
a washboard of cacophony,
Yet even in its harshness
there is a sense of balance,
a backdrop for the sweeter song
of smaller bird, a celebration
of a world in accord.

Sun rises over this Sunday morn,
confronts night’s shadows
with a smile,
sparks the world
with the radiant glow
of peace.
Mankind is sleeping.


A Fettered Page Constrained

Passive menace
steeped in emptiness,
by even a single line,

I’ve stared at you for days

waiting for epiphany
or at the minimum
a hint of communion,
all to no avail.

Wait — do I see
a flicker
of smugness

or is that indifference?
O, you don’t fool me.
You are a void,
without my pen,

just a blank page

in any of a million
ragged scratch pads
bound by gravity,
wired to a silence
that craves imagination.