Monday, February 7, 2011

red lion, since 1773

Inspired by a business trip that was a true pleasure, back around 2006. Freezing cold weather & bad live music in Massachusetts made bearable by the venerable old hotel in which I was privileged to stay, The Red Lion Inn.

* * *

The place called to me-

not the glum-strum player- his pawnshop six-string

nor the grain alcohol served-


rather the rickety creek of the hardwood beams-

the scent of a spent firelog looming heavily

with lost dancers of light.


Grain alcohol competes for muster

with salt grains

and my pensive hands-


With headlong motion-

I heard the call,

clarion o'er the players strings-



In nighttime on walls

cracked remnants leak ghosts-

pursuing their recompense-


Silent as a wisp-

stirring the ambiance-

archaic, heirloom-heartened.


Grain alcohol stirs chance-

the painting spied in hall-

a Bible I once knew-


Porchtop glistening-

now-noonday rain upon-

my pensiveness subsides.


For the place called me-

with unusual inflection-

history's ring.


Naked of troubles-

endearment of cloud-light-

I ponder antique scents


and days gone by.

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