Imagination’s Door
by Odin Roark

Where sand castles spawned dreams,
dreams became my hide-a-ways,
became the hill top acre with tent
apartment of independence
trailer
house
compound
and all the fence-less horizons yet to come.

Somewhere beneath memory’s heavy eyelids,
autumn’s leaves began falling unnoticed,
the beauty of a roaring waterfall,
first remembered only as downstream irrigation,
then the glistening white of winter’s cold,
morphing into sadness without cause.

Time delivered on time,
transformed figments remaining
into man stranger,
woman stranger,
bench buddy in the park,
breadcrumbs and handouts,
aging’s cherished finger-foods
served as main course.

Guests were always welcome.

Pigeons,
squirrels
a stray dog or two,
yesterday’s shadows
completing today’s absence,
while anticipation begins envisioning itself.

Such are the waning years,
Where retreating flesh and bone,
heart and mind,
past and present
taking the time necessary
to complete future’s future.

And there it always is…

Imagination’s door.

Today I hold the brush arm's length,
its gunmetal pigment dripping down the handle,
my painter's decision delaying the moment
while oil-based tendrils meander about my hand and cuff.

How patient the canvas.

Its three by five foot surface
washed of storm-threatening skies overhead,
shadow the wind-whipped branches,
quivering their fall-laden color
atop freedom's scrap-walled dreamscape
nestled securely inside the welcoming yoke.

Like an enigmatic sage,
its tortured bark of gallant pride
remains ready to weather beside me,
welcoming forth my remaining years,
protecting all my wrinkled scar-made smiles,
embracing yesterday’s aging slats,
where rusty nails secure fantasy,
while knotted-out windows
breathe in more youthful dreams made real.

Such is imagination’s treehouse in constant creation,
where inside forever hangs my ball park mitt
beside thumb-tacked trading cards giving solace
to anxious boyhood dreams,
while big boy privacies of centerfolds
flutter their holy permanence.

How loving.

How understanding.

Remains this reflection of growing-up fun,
knowing my freedom of joy
still faces the task of growing up’s completion
amidst clinging explosions of time.

My eyes remain fixed
on the attempt to further my personal best
above the tethered ladder of hope
leading to my forever-door in progress,
its unfinished lock only penciled
daring I color the hasp,
secure a lock,
enter,
exit,
and return to this…
Hesitation.

I slump in my chair.

Once again the brush remains idle,
my palette alive and waiting,
even as hands now tremble,
resigned to time’s ever dependable procrastination.

Lifting my eyes
from a gaze at legs I once had,
now but an IED reminder of what once was,
I focus again on the doorway to happier times.

The hasp awaits the lock once never needed,
perhaps the means for keeping out recurring nightmares,
or… Yes! Securing all my dreams.

I know. It's only a painting, yet...