Magic in Love Letters

Tighter than the bark on creativity’s tree.

Oh, woe-some, creativity!

I would assume…

the same can be said, for tranquility.

The worse of times.

The best of times.

All windows looking out…from my mind.

And, for myself, along with the same of similar skin…

No access to an outside door.

Black and white.

Pen upon paper.

Ambiguity sets in.

Alas, these are the moments I should cherish most.

Being in the house, as a ghost, with no need for a host.

I am certain of no uniqueness in this endeavor.

Just as certain that I am of…

Magic found in poems, prose and love letters.



To Whom It May Concern…with Love


Thank you.

Get well.

Thinking of you.

Will never forget.

Perhaps, a guileless covering of one’s own self-imposed regrets.


Like a forgotten cluster of acorns…

Someone’s pride, erratically displayed.

I am not above reproach.

A reckless diplomat with false integrity.

A wanton product of nature feeding on ‘thankful, it is not me.’…sincerity.


In retrospect during sun filled days.

A docile blanket of remorse covers me.


Attentiveness rolls in like a mysterious storm…

And, astutely, will not get out of my way.

How long has it been since I’ve said,

What I mean…

Mean what I say.



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?’

Summer Love Letters

summer letters 5

‘How many times?’ I cried.

And, you with your demons worn on your sleeve…

You, with your always…conversation ender…

‘Round here, time?  What does that mean?’


Tired and fried by erroneous minds…I smirk and say,

‘Time smooths the chips on our shoulders.  Time means…

together we grow older but not less bolder.’


I play that moment in time, back, as if it were, only yesterday.

Had it been that afternoon, near the forgotten church?

Some tourist congregation looking for a new summer steeple.

Strange, all that plight, took all the people.


Just me and you and a love so young…

but still so feeble.

Guess this is just my short story.

A semi healthy summer’s past…piece of wordy glory.


Today, a walk in the woods.

Stepping over our common ground.

Your brown eyes the color of innocence and dangerously introspective…

they become part of my camera’s perspective.


We have never been a predictable black and white.

A portrait of landscapes.

A wonderful array of needed colorful mistakes.

A shutter stock of two in play.

I can see forever on this clear day.




I feel certain that I am going mad again.  I feel we can’t go through another of those terrible times.  And I shan’t recover this time.  I begin to hear voices, and can’t concentrate.  So, I am doing what seems the best thing to do.  You have given me the greatest possible happiness.  You have been in every way all that anyone could be.  I don’t think two people could have been happier till this terrible disease came.  I can’t fight it any longer.  I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work.  And you will now…I know.  You see I can’t even write this properly.

I can’t read.

What I want to say…is that I owe all the happiness to life to you.  You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good.

I want to say that-

everybody knows it.

If anybody could have saved me it would have been you.

Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness.  I can’t go on spoiling your life any longer.  I don’t think two people could have been happier than we have been.



Picture 938

What is it….we wouldn’t do for love?



Virginia Woolf, prolific creator of all that is written…and, possibly, not written.  Let love’s demons fill her pockets with rocks…and, sadly, left only morsels…of what love could be.