Tuesday, January 6, 2015

The Key

Boy image by 500px.com/abellayo

There’s a heavy door with a heavy lock
standing firmly in my way,
its oaken boards and iron bands
preventing progress on my way.
That heavy door and heavy lock
mock me as I seek to enter in,
mock me with a silent jeering
as I strive to enter in,
as I strive to reach the treasures
locked within that room,
to reach the themes and thoughts and words
I need to write this poem.
The heavy door in silent judgment stands,
its lock reproaching as it hangs before my eye.
“I have no key,” I cry, but a small voice says that I
have one always with me, always near,
and only need to find it,
hidden in me even when it’s been forgot,
even when I think that I do not.
What is the key to fit that lock?
When had I such a precious thing?
And where, oh where, has it been hid?
That small soprano voice begins to speak again,
“When you were me,” it said, “you had the key.”
“Boys have it, men hide it, now find it.”
I find that inner boy within my mind,
and let him show what I’d misplaced,
and from his hands that I’d so long outgrown,
I take the key,
and with imagination’s key I turn the lock,
and by the power of a boyish dreaming,
enter in,
and find the prize,
and write the poem.

----------ed pacht