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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