The Elf that Kept Dreams

The elf wore winter away with a smile,
He turned back the storm clouds
and the rain for awhile
as he tripped through the forest
and whistled a tune
with a hop and a skip
and a wink at the moon.

All dressed in green velvet
and fine ruffled shirt,
he wore a tall top hat
to take the eye from his girth.
He was ever so happy just as he was,
but Aunt Matilda tended to worry and fuss,
“Eat right dear nephew, don’t tip the tankard too much,
keep your fare simple, avoid rainbows and such.”

He would just hug her, and she would just sigh,
’cause Aunt Tildie knew he dreamed of the sky.
He put on his boots and his tight fitting jerkin,
then off to the forest where the pine trees
touched heaven.  High in the limbs
where no one but he and one wise old owl
were able to see, the elf kept a small chest
full of magnificent  things,

Not even the owl was allowed
a look inside, for that’s where his tickets
to secrets would hide.  Close your eyes
little one and soon you will see
that magical box in the tall pine tree.
No matter if storm clouds or sun streaks the sky,
you hold the key to the magic inside.
Just by believing,  you can open the lid
on moonbeams and dreams
and magical rainbows
to pillow your head.

Dr. Lion and Mr. Lamb

It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot
and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light
and winter in the shade.  Charles Dickens


The lion leads,
all bluster and roar
behind bared fangs.

From somewhere
a warm breeze
too playful to be afraid

rubs the tummy
of the wild beast
and before you know it

gambols over the lea
scattering sun rays.

Even in the shade
we see summer.
Awed by Spring

we emerge,
with great expectations.

Beyond a Shadow of Doubt

The pine tree growing out of rock,
Cloud shrouded pinnacle a dream,
What greater artistry than that?

Or the wind making its shriek and hum
Free from instrument or score —
What truer song?

A poem – part landscape, part mindscape,
An onerous endeavor. Is it truth
Demands such excavation?

What imagining makes real more
Than real? What riddle?
In our native skull

Illumination is more than a desire.
Shadows grow in waning light;
The pen is mightier.

Ever Stretching

Photo courtesy of

“I think of cinemas, panoramic sleights
with multitudes bent toward some flashing scene.”  Hart Crane


In the shadow of the towering frame,
I am reminded that this bridge was made
by man.

Beneath the sky’s perfection —
that awesome mix of blues, cobalt
and Persian

applied by God’s own hand
as if to enhance
the dismal  view

of traffic  jams, fractured
psyche of humanity en masse,
and the traffic lights

reflected on the winding river’s
path.  Ah, this grand

of the mighty and the mere
stands tall against the skyline,
half celestial

half of Earth…the imperfect
ever stretching  for heaven
like man himself.