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The Fairytale Castle (10/17/2001)
Across the ocean and above the lands
Sits a legacy for all curious eyes.
An
ivory castle on a lonely peak
Where even the clouds bow down
Beneath its soaring majestic spires.
It was the dream
of one king not long ago
That flustered the brow of every fair maiden.
To build for beauty, hold art above war.
Dismissing
tradition and logic for lies
And following a single dream to lands end.
He sat on the banks of the river Rhine
Imagining
one original palace after the next.
Maybe he shopped in the Marienplatz
For velvet loveseats and porcelain swans
To
adorn the seed of his hearts content.
But now the king has been gone for years.
And Bavaria has never quite been the
same
Since the death of Kind Ludwig the mad.
His castles stand proud and greet the wanderers
And journeyman, and
dreamers and historians alike.
Though all are rare in craft and dripping in style
One of his lonely dreams stands
above the rest.
Reaching beyond the Alpine rolling skies
Coloring heaven with a touch of human royalty.
A place
any Sleeping Beauty would pray to wake.
It is here, I fell in love again, twice in the time of a year.
First with
the earth, its inhabitants achievements
And the very nature that hides them in its breast.
The lakes that capture
the suns final rays,
The heaving mountains with their fancy caps of snow,
The whispering cow bells carried by the
gentle winds
And the serenity of the painted villages sleeping below.
The second time was with a young mate
Who
accompanied me to my secret place.
To cavort once the daily bustles had calmed.
He fell for the battlements I had
loved before
Understood the treasures I longed to share.
He carried me up the mountain like a princess
To her
new palace on the night they were wed.
He kissed me to the whimpering of waterfalls,
Then watched on as the sun sank
to bed.
Blessed be whoever may fall upon this place
Tucked into the heart of the Bavarian Alps
For this is the
spot where I proudly left my heart,
And left Neuschwanstein for widened eyes to behold.
Mt. St. Michael
(10/23/01)
It rises up in the deceiving distance
Like a beacon to the wretched and weak
As the lighthouse
at Alexandria once opened the seas
To weary travelers, drunk on sea salt and night.
The waves crash on its forgotten
stones
Slowly washing away one thousand years
But Mount St. Michael is eternal.
The spirits in the catacombs
sleep silent
Remembered in the chants of the monks.
As the ghostly brothers wander the halls
Drinking secrets
from the ancient chalice
And tending the grapes for their moonshine wine.
So sacred a place, the stairs need guard
it,
Winding in dozens up steep narrow passages
Up and up to the nearing warm skies
Til you reach a breezy gothic
chapel
So high you can hear the prayers in the walls
And echoing in the lulling lowly waves
Tamed and bowing seemingly
a mile beneath.
Is it a house of God or a fortress of war?
Candlelight of hope or dimness of despair?
No matter,
for the people still come
The devoted, the curious and above all the lost
Searching for answers in the carvings,
A
lost soul within the tombs,
Or inner peace through the stained glass windows of time.
Divincis Stairwell
(10/24/01)
Monsieur Divinci, may I ask how you felt
Cavorting about with French Royalty?
A genius trapped
in your everyday skin.
For you have painted mysterious vixens,
And concocted a device to cut out paper hearts,
Defied
water and cheated the very air you breath
All because you had a flashing vision.
What was it like to set a muddy foot
Upon the unspoiled grounds of the Loire Valley
And design Chateaus that defy space and time.
I know you left your
intricate handprints
Embedded in the foundations of Chambord.
While walking your double helix stairwell,
I could
see your face spiraling on the other side
I could hear childish laughter emitting from the cracks
And history pouring
out of lone gunshot wounds.
But to think you pointed your finger at this land
And saw it fit to be a golden palace,
Where golden geese could fly to rest their wings.
I stood atop the towers of Chambord
Praising miles of land where
knights once trod
Watching the green stretch to kiss a river bank
Where I wished I could be a swan, just to have your
wings.
But instead I was left to walk your stairs again
The very fabric your hand once drew.
And leave behind
spires, stables and canopy beds
Just to know I walked a moment in your beaten shoes.
In Amsterdam (11/5/01)
Sitting upon the Leidseplein,
Snacking on a koss-croissant,
Watching the merry fisherman row by.
How
did I get here? What did I follow?
To find my way to Amsterdam.
Far away from the tulip fields,
Barely a windmill
in sight,
Performers singing in English tongues,
But somehow, exclusively Dutch in might.
Where leggy blondes
tote trendy bags,
And cyclists have the right of way,
Men play accordions with monkeys on their backs
And ladies
in red light their sunset bulbs.
Its so easy to be lost in the fragrant smoke
And forget van Gogh once slept here.
He never saw the slender trains slither by,
Nor experienced the flashbulbs from the tourist boats,
Yet his artistic
soul still dyes the canal waters.
Now its sex shops and smoke spots and internet cafs,
But still row boats and live
goats and winding stone laid streets.
Enough to make any man paint and write the diatribe in his mind.
Napoleons
Fountainbleu (11/5/01)
Napoleon, you evil man, but such the French sophisticate.
Small enough to crush beneath
my heels,
But with visions much larger than your mother earth.
I want you to know I came to your home,
Peeked
into your bedroom, crept into your latrine.
I wanted to hate you for your Napoleonic code
But was left in awe of your
carved wood splendor.
Your knick-knacks of Asia and whatnots of France,
And decorations that would make King Louis
seem poor.
Your library was lined with the words of the world,
And not the war of the worlds you had caused.
I
wanted to dance with you in the Fountainbleu ballroom
In all your early militant styled garb.
As your palace was my
palace,
And your dream collided with my own.
Your architectural size, left me a rolling spec of gravel
In your
sprawling, articulate gardens of loneliness.
The statues that are frozen on the carefully tended lawn,
May be everything
you wanted to be.
But you are more the stone carvings
Trapped in the palace walls, with faces twisted in despair.
But thank you for the tour, you evil little man,
I share with you your decadence.
For Ill walk the halls, time
and again
And youll never know, or be able to stop me.
Rockport (11/5/01)
Back and fourth and
back again
To a town where my feet have many times ran.
Though my shoes have greatly grown in size,
Its not all
too hard to recognize,
One of the first places they have trod.
Early settlers once landed here
On this threshold
to the ocean air.
And its seldom changed from its early ways,
Where old English fishing passed the days,
And fed
the family at night.
Called Rockport, and appropriately so,
Only slightly eastward ho!
To the ends of the
famed Cape Ann
A tad north of the Gloucester Fisherman.
Youll fall upon Bearskin Neck, and join me here.
This
tiny forgotten artisans town,
Where its illegal to knock the liqueur down.
Marked by the buoys upon Motif #1
The
most painted fishing house beneath the Eastern sun,
And possibly the whole wayward world.
The seagulls outnumber
the people here,
And claim the beaches to be theirs.
They allow the waves to crash on their shore,
And they know
when youve been there before.
Maybe anxious to share their lengthy wings.
I have been here more times than memory
can hold.
But its painted colors always stay so bold.
As I lay out on my rocks, waving schooners by,
And sit on
breezy balconies dining on lobster pie,
Knowing some things will never change.
Villandry (11/26/01)
Hearts and diamonds, standing at war
Spades and clubs, staring back.
Winding mazes of folklores forest
Guarded
only by her majesty, the swan.
These gardens grow over into you.
Tuck your heart into their ivy beds,
Dress your
limbs in their topiary madras
And parade you down the endless cobblestone runway.
You become tempted to pick at the
pumpkins,
But fear rearranging mother earths rainbow
Of rolling radishes, curving cucumbers and sleepy heads of lettuce
Spying on the nameless passer Byers.
Then you come upon a maze
Whos leaves try you in their courts.
You abide
by their turns, play by their rules
And dance as you drift in and out of their protection.
Find you way to an arched
footbridge,
Presenting the flowers grandeur as a blooming pageant
And watch the seasons seemingly melt away
As
the Loire fuels the earth from below.
And suddenly, you let it in and you know,
Villandry is the secret garden youve
long been dreaming of.
Schloss Linderhoff (11/26/01)
Madness peeling from the gold leaf walls
Drowning
in a sea of telling mirrors.
The royal reflection beaming from the crystal chandeliers
And memories spewing from the
auric fountains.
Why would he hide in a place like this?
What did he have to hide?
Was is the opium in the Moorish
kiosk,
Or the stalagmites defending your fantasy grotto?
Did his cries echo in the candelabra lit halls,
As he
sobbed in loneliness for this Austrian Goddess.
Or did his tears fertilize the frozen grounds,
And inspire the growth
of flowers more wild than his soul?
We know King Ludwig once built Linderhoff
For his ideal mountain retreat.
No
one was invited, no love let inside
In this secluded miracle estate
Where his riches watched this king die.
Midnight Seine (11/26/01)
Romance along the Champs Elysses,
Swanky nights inside the Lido.
Drunk on
perfume from the couture boutiques,
Dizzy from kissing on the Ferris wheel.
The air is clear, and hearts have no fear,
On this midsummers Paris night.
We did our can-can at the Moulin Rouge,
And dined on new age Buddha fusion
Then walked through the streets
That glittered beneath our feet
And led the way to lifetime memories
Of this
midsummers Paris night.
Our youthful reflections waved back with pride
From the ripples on the midnight Seine.
Seducing us to become embracing statues,
Frozen forever on these moonlit banks
Silently whispering faire la nouba
mi amore,
On this midsummers Paris night.
Tonight the Tour du Eiffel illuminates for us
And the Garnier Divas
relive our dramatic tale,
But we just wander, and let free love reign
And lose ourselves in what were meant to be.
On this eve of our new forever,
On this midsummers Paris night.
A View of Tintern Abbey (12/2/01)
Over the arch of the Bristol bridge,
Far from the northern peaks of Snowdon.
Past the mighty Chepstow fortress,
And sleeping on the banks of a muddy river.
It lies gutted, hollowed out from the years
Of slowly rotting stones
and shattered window panes.
It is a siren upon the river Wye,
Drawing me in to its tenth century splendor.
Inviting
me into its roofless arches,
Yet taunting me with its fallen stairs.
Being lost within the invisible walls of Tintern
Abbey,
Far from modern society, back to a time
Where power roared down those stairs like a waterfall
Dominating
the worshiping hearts that no longer beat.
Now, Im surrounded by fallen stones
Who know theyve been separated from
their majestic body.
Nature has had its way with the lost cathedral,
Yet the foundations refuse to be forgotten.
Rising
up from the sinking valley
So no human eye may miss its presence,
Mocking the tiny towns-peoples homes with its stature.
Its challenges the skies to bring rain,
So its nearby waters will rise, and once again
Its skeleton will host
everlasting life
In the moss and grasses that embrace its grave.
Avalon Lost (12/3/01)
Glastonbury
Tor cries out for truth.
Sick of its medieval rumors.
I hear it cry from the lonely tower,
That King Arthur once
slept here.
Once surrounded by waters,
Washing on the shores of Avalon.,
Now a landlocked beacon to hippies and
halos,
And far rid of the valiant warrior type,
Buried on its buttercup infested hillside,
Unable to call out
to the Lady of the lake
Who now lives her years in a dried up field.
Even the mystics encountered natures injustice,
And fall victim towards times altering maps.
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