Email Poem

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Poem


Memory still anoints them,
glowing in the ashes
of childhood. The cypress trees
in the parkland at the end
of the street. Tall, knotted
ladders to the heavens
where a child’s outstretched hand
could almost scratch the underbelly
of passing clouds.

You could swing 
on the uppermost branches
as if riding a clippers mast
bending in the wind, 
sailing imaginary swells 
to places whose golden domes
shone through the darkest
days. 

And in the cool shadows,
the old stable, its doorway
an entrance to worlds
not known to other mortals.
The dark interior lipped 
on the edge of a cave 
to the very interior of earth,
holding hells and lava
lapped islands populated 
by exotic beasts.

Such things as trees
and tumbled down stables 
were not weighted 
with the burdens of this world
but were bridges, magical 
doorways to an elsewhere 
that existed in between,
a special place 
with its contours bending 
to shapes made in the mind. 
I write
to do the same thing.

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