To the Owner of the House


To the owner of the House,

It has brought about, after the turns of a century, magical visits…to seemingly, traditional lands.  From, Pin the Tail, to watered down hand stands.  Eight tracks of Irish Rovers.  And, mostly, timid, first kisses of young lovers.

As of late,

I have thought of writing you…a receipt and leaving it in the rain.  Chain letters to a Pen Pal who is no friend.  Dismal, distant and watered down.

A ‘ME’ generation, side note, omitting the campfires.  Doused in picturesque New England simplicity.  Something penned before the anonymity.

Shameful, how life is plastic now.  Communication, dim and surreal.  I now realize, old fashioned…are the ways to inked expression.  To pillage…random words, apparently, a wrong turn to yesterday’s dog-eared page.  All those lonely letters, written in an out of the drizzling mist.  Posted on days I wished for rain.  Posted on days I begged for the rain.




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Post Script

If we had told each other’s secrets.  Would we than…remembered ‘how to love?’

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