A grinder, club, or submarine will do
to satisfy the pangs of Mr. Montagu.
A man of peerage, but he has no fear
of sitting ‘mongst the Commoners in the rear.
Steamed lobster in tomato cayenne stew
is served within a house of a certain hue.
And those expecting treasure from this riddle
should seek a cask that’s split right down the middle.
If she is fat with eggs, then throw her back
into the coldness of the briny brack,
where she can tend unto her fertile apron
under the cold blue watch of fin-tailed maidens.
Though fiddleheads and fronds sprout from the ground,
at this location, hanging upside-down
from a branch will show you, more than standing could,
things happening in this thick and twisted wood.
The young men guarding this facility
are stuck in permanent agility.
Their faces and their straight and rigid spines
are points-of-view away from being lines.
Turquoise and navy, lapis lazuli too,
and YInMn, melancholy and brand new,
are on display, and they are priced to sell,
so bring your ears, but bring your wallets as well.
A bugler blows his horn and sings his measure
to publicize the sale of two fair treasures.
The first one: from the deep, and fairly regal.
The other one: decidedly illegal.
The universe is vast and wide, like plains
in South Dakota, where the corn and grains
and rutabagas dot the swaths like peeling
sticker stars aglow up on the ceiling.
The truck is driven by an early riser
Who grips the deck of his fluorescent visor.
His cargo for the day is quite nutritious:
Macoun, Jonagold, and Red Delicious.
The midnight oil burns for this nocturnal
predator, a creature with a low, infernal
neon glow that limns the vole’s chagrin
upon a backdrop of dinged and dented tin.
Along the Charles, the bands play loud and merry
inside a place named for a Secretary.
Three hundred fifty spectators or so
bolster the buzz with #WhatAShow!
This Harvard man, successor to Umana,
will tell all those who’ll listen: If you want a
better view of Boston, look no further t
han this spot a bounce across the water.
As strange as many things in Boston are,
I still can’t help but feel it’s quite bazaar
That grapes, bananas, oranges, and cherries
Would be light enough for puffy clouds to carry.
A Massachusetts Beacon, winning six,
Did stow his rings and zip his bag of tricks,
But as the first door closed, he took another
Look around before opening the other.
The toils, feasts, and interesting times we’ve had
Tie us together by a thousand threads.
And when it feels that we are all alone,
We know that we can just pick up the phone.
A heavy anchor sitting in the sea
Is tide transmitted to posterity.
But after all the beer and all the gin,
Who’ll have the strength to spool that big line in?
Technology is great, but has no sway
On leopards when they’re swinging for their prey.
And scholars find that they can’t politic it,
So they line up to buy themselves a ticket.
Although it’s old, the past can still be New
When it can introduce you to a few
Ancestors who already came and went.
And now you front for their establishment.
The antiquated, battered gates are three,
And looking through them, one can’t help but see
That those who sit assembled are unaware
How magical they look in misty air.
A red suit and a cap are all she needs,
And high upon her tiptoes, she proceeds
Up to the edge and dives, carelessly splashing
The tenants of her temporary lodging.
A lawman’s conclave, and a Boston Ben,
An uttered fountain, and a nacreous gem,
Are four unto each other interposed
Upon a spot where climbing ivy grows.
It may be sweet, the food in this locked land.
The jolly chef has got a heavy hand.
He wondered to himself: ‘It might be fun
To add a dozen sticks of cinnamon.’
The heroes in their black and white and grey
Proclaim from their namesake upon the Bay
That those who carry doubts that Boston rocks
Should try to walk a day in Boston socks.
The garden in the valley is in bloom,
But, woefully, the gate is locked to you.
Yet, past the gate’s a small, untamed domain
The lost horizon’s borders can’t contain.
One hundred years and all the feats within,
Are narrowed to a single waxy pin.
And while you lounge within your lucky lane,
Don’t lick too quick, or else you’ll freeze your brain.
Beneath the flowery kelp, the yellow moray
Begins to twist and slither through the doorway.
They’re eight in number, but they have a sole
Denomination that they do uphold.
The pride of Colorado rooted herewith
Into a place where beginners always finish.
It’s in the son of Andrew’s field of view,
Although he keeps his back up to the blue.
He truly is a wonder to behold,
A speaker with a glistening mouth of gold.
And though he holds a spot up in the sky,
The treasure that you seek is not so high.
The leader with five followers under wing
Knows her responsibility can sting.
In spite of this, she keeps her edges neat
And keeps an eye out for fresh things to eat.
The cosmos give us power to surmise
That which surrounds us from behind fresh eyes.
And it can’t hurt for you to just admit it,
Although you may be feeling heavy-lidded.
A cornucopia of harvest spills
Across the river to a place of mills
And you will find your positioning most smart
At a place where land ends and the river starts.
With barbs around his neck, the blue-eyed bloke
Is able to stand out, his look evokes
A punk aesthetic, and the other faces stare
At the spikes he’s glued into his golden hair.
It’s summer, and the Belle beside the pool
Beholds her Mirror which, as a general rule,
She carries with her, for it can define
The secrets of the day within two signs.
His teeth have been reduced to twelve. The green
Spots poking through reveal his poor hygiene.
But even gingivitis can’t derail
His plans to sip upon a glass of ale.
He’s virtuous and pious, and he’s learned
You shouldn’t take a break unless it’s earned.
But few are watching, so he takes his rest
And flaunts the nothingness upon his chest.
The Golden Goose has had a change of mood,
On this luxuriant day he might have rued.
The fallen snowdust and the icy frost
Has melted to reveal the gold he’s lost.
The tale is great, and spans for many ages
Of how this relic coped with Charle’s rages.
From rains, to floods, to Percy on his steed,
This artifact is history decreed.
Though Mrs. Smith is overjoyed to see
Her grandson and granddaughter jump with glee,
She keeps her posture durable and straight.
Her joints have been a little stiff of late…
She rarely tried her remedies or balms
On Pat or John or either of the Toms,
Which might explain why their ailments and rashes
So quickly turned these gentlemen to ashes.
A figure mostly in the ground, but still,
You reach them climbing up a sloping hill.
And, there, you cannot help but to appraise
Your own presence in that bronze, eternal gaze.
The key is covered in faded pastels—
An interwoven web of parallel
And crossing plaited braid that clearly shows
The light the verdant ocean freely throws.
Confused, I called a business up to ask
The meaning of their name which I couldn’t grasp,
But as I pressed the numbers, all abrupt,
I understood, and so I just hung up.
The mind and its conceptions provide fuel
For those who cannot tolerate the dual—
The value of their argument contained
Below the gleaming of a famous flame.
There’s no place better than a tidy grove
To stumble on a hidden treasure trove.
But keep a flashlight in your gunnysack,
In case the vibrant green should turn to black.
As you shed your rope and cast into the river,
You cannot help but give a gentle shiver
Within the mist of all who’ve launched from here
Over the course of one thousand full years.
Into a maze without a name, embark
Without the firm companionship of Clark.
And if you happen to get lost in there,
Try taking your perspective to the stairs.
The 26 seem equal, but who’ll win
Will be decided by a simple spin.
But the maker of the race is still emphatic:
The nature of the sport is democratic.
The Goose has traveled wide, and traveled far
Unto the shores of Bengal and Mannar,
And found the foreign fields of lofted fruit
To be extremely prickly underfoot.
Dear Espinoza hears the comment oft:
The features of his cranium are soft
And pleasant, not unlike the open air
In which he distributes his liquid wares.
A haughty witch. A Commodore. A brute
With an orange mane. All proud though they are mute,
And not a one inclined to be discouraged.
But that’s easy with a bit of hidden Courage…
One swan sees her reflection, while four others
Form a bevy among one another.
But she who fans the flowers with her feathers
Is the one who knows about the hidden treasure.
Upon a London sidewalk, 5 laid-back
And well-fed ladybugs nosh on a snack.
Their spread is vibrant, opulent and green,
But under their table’s where you want to be.
When Moses woke from dreams where fields of poppy
Flowers stroked the stems of bursting sesame,
He contemplated all the doubts he lacked
While looking out upon his barren track.
Though Warriors are courageous, they slip
And slide and look for solid things to grip
When they spot a prowling bear, and make their way
Up to a perch five victories away.
Where Cedar Swamp once covered everything,
William and Charles now volley, serve, and swing.
The waters of the past may have abated,
But these two brothers make sure they’re still hydrated.
Five centuries ago, this man was startled
To learn the Earth was just a massive circle.
But to end his journey as it was begun,
He lines his blessings with the drooping sun.
I sip upon my coffee, lost in thought
Of all the untapped potential that I’ve got.
If Ella Cinders can make her dreams come true,
What’s stopping me from chasing my dreams too?
Promoting artists helps to guarantee
That we breathe life into communities.
For raising each other up is the best way
To keep the rains from sweeping us away.
The Huntington has the exclusive story:
Though Saul’s been prone to bouts of fear and fury,
A player with an instrument has come
To calm the agitation with his strum.
The spikes are sharp and twisted, and they form
A dark and occultative type of swarm
Where two are striving to eclipse the one.
But Ruth was never one to be outdone.
Within the bluish grey, find flecks of gold
Upon an equine vase, a gown’s eightfold
Assortment, on the beak of some exotic
Fowl, and dangling from a gaze hypnotic.
In an alley behind the famous market where
Yours truly hocks his fresh and tasty wares,
You’ll find the transportation that I use,
All polished, flowerbed-bedecked, and new.
The paper airplanes fly out from above
The house that keeps its spot within a Hub.
Though 50 flutter bright in vivid display,
The loot you seek abuts the grey causeway.
The name implies it’s just a place for “him,”
But Juliet might also need a trim.
And don’t be startled when the payment’s due—
She pays the way the Micronesians do.
The stout, imposing Hindenburg flies low,
Threatening the ancient landmarks down below.
But the ship is simply trying to attain
A spot away from all the coming rain.
Was the glare from the window the reason why, I wonder,
Poor White made such a consequential blunder?
In a sport that many master, few will do
The kind of trick the fool can do in two.
Bavarian, or Boston cream, or jam
Fillings aside, this author will be damned
If he can tell these tasty treats apart.
Perhaps I’ll use a compass as a divining rod…
The post in Kendall tells all those who care:
There’s lots more sloshy, calf-high water there
Than you might’ve expected, and the wading birds
Are living out their greatest lives, preserved.
The James I know is not afraid of claws,
But he is afraid of breaking any laws,
So when he finds an albino lobster in his net,
He takes it home to keep it as a pet.
Moscato, Cardinale, and Russo are men
Who wonder about the “Who?” And “Where?” And “When?”
They and their families have left their native lands
To trust their fates to Boston’s outstretched hands.
We could go see the athletes in Moritz,
Or we could attend an opera for three cents,
The day holds endless possibilities,
It’d be Plane Crazy to just sit under a tree.
Come join me as I tell you all a tale
Of Thomas and the Doc braving a gale
To make a Tidal Passage to Liberty—
A union hero’s responsibility.
The rusty mechanism serves a purpose:
It regulates the rising/falling surface
For all the denizens who splash and swim
Within a satisfying toponym.
Erupting from the set and solid Earth
Are eighty trees, impressive in their girth.
But one among them’s just a bit behind,
So you sit and will his little limbs to thrive.
She lights her lamp and dips her pen to write
Her story of an Incidental life,
Where finding freedom for her family meant
Eschewing Jacobs and adopting Brent.
A century ago, a group of Select
Gentlemen elected to erect
A bridge. To be the first among them, Jenney
Slipped the shady nameplate maker a penny.
The Bull and Cairn are nothing to the Boston.
You watch him overhand, attack, and toss in
Through the goal net, but you’ve got to squint;
The window that you watch from’s just a slit.
Though only two of twelve are donning windows,
The other ten help tame the teeming inflow
Of visitors, employing a platoon
Of posters trumpeting what’s coming soon.
The ten-installment allegory spins
A towering tale of Eastern origins,
Where harvesters, Greek Gods, and elephants
Facilitated trade developments.
The men grow bashful, and the ladies swoon
When you enter in your cap of lush maroon,
And as you leave their company, lift the brim
To flash a bit of gilding on the rim.
The din beneath the yellow awning’s loud—
All yelps and high-pitched arfs and growling sounds.
It’s enough to contend with all the swiping paws
Without worrying about the pinchers and the claws.
For those who delight in intellectual truths,
There is a place under a little roof
Where one can gain an ampler world view
While looking out upon the avenue.
You’ll have to throw your share of bricks to get
Up to the level of this Boston great.
But making something happen does take skill,
So run your repetitions and your drills.
Three figures lounge and unwind by the pool,
All enervated, indolent, and nude,
And though they’re not concerned with modesty,
The Goose might recommend a holly leaf.
There are railings that you use to climb the stairs,
And there are railings that you shred until threadbare,
And the difference between the two is not so stark
Inside this concrete park within a park.
Though you might be inclined to think they’re his,
Be mindful that the stony, engraved words
Are from an ancient book, and they imply
There’s meaning in the furrows of mankind.
Although the moat is shallow, and it’s got
A rail to keep you steady as you cross,
The fortress has lowered a wooden ramp
To keep the visitors’ shoes from getting damp.
A major win for people in the city
Was won within a place that’s dense and leafy,
And this achievement was made even better,
When gold was found behind a big green letter.
The setting for the show is beautiful,
The curtains ironed, and the backdrop full
Of painted, spacious skies and birds and fountains,
And how should I describe the purple mountains?
October with its mighty blasts regarded
The peasant farmers, and their deeds departed.
The land’s become expensive, but you can be
Assured the words to speak of them are free.
The silversmith was thoroughly aghast
When notified that he’d be bronzely cast,
Causing the sculptor to get out of joint—
But maybe he just doesn’t see the point…
The little birds all chirped and made a fuss
When they saw their noble friend Andronicus
Had kindly and munificently come
To bring them a sweet, pink chrysanthemum.
The basement’s got a vast and teeming stash
Of bridges, rivets, hinges, and nose pads,
And other tools to help the students see
Their way to an invaluable degree.
Some palaces in Accra, and some flats
In London are for sale. And yet, for half
Of what you’d pay for those, you can afford
A prime and pristine residence in Lourdes.
The tiny house in between Mathison
And Kingsley’s got the preparations done,
By getting itself stocked up for the winter,
Collecting twigs and little sprigs as tinder.
To pause and spend a little time apart
From others can become a healing art.
And you will feel more calm inside by far
When you let your heart become a sea of stars.
The woman in her long and flowing shawl
Looks deep into the vague, translucent ball
To find, for those who patiently await,
The details for the up and coming dates.
The barrel hangs, a sword of Damocles,
Over the people nibbling on their cheese,
Who know the fun could end at any time
With them all covered in gallons of wine.
I walked the winding path over to see
The traces of a little factory.
The cable that it processed and supplied
Was cast out by a straight and simple die.
The symbol that is looking up at me
Persuades the setting of longevity,
But tiny, greenish bubbles disagree
As they fly fleetingly up from the deep.
The son of Dick and Mary’s got a spot
Upon a celebrated Boston plot
Where he can paint the portraits of all those
Who come to buy the tickets to their shows.
Inside the brochure, there’s a little thingy
About the men and women of the dinghy.
There’s some hilarity about the name
But the happy buds don’t seem to be that fazed.
It’s visible from out your window, the tip
Of a place you’d get to with a certain ship,
And it might take a whole year to arrive,
But not one that’s two-hundred twenty five.
The Earl of English Muffins, and the Prince
Of Crumpets contemplate the sun that sets
Upon the shadowed, fading memory
Of what was once a thriving monarchy.
I heard the inky-fingered workers vent
About the tedious hours they had spent
On rows, to have them crumble in a moment
Into a jumbled mess of Times New Roman.
The golden girl bemoaned the constant lack
Of water for the local Boston pets.
Her commitment to ever fill their basin
Proves why she is the darling of the nation.
The young musician in her Velcro kicks
And tracksuit is the archetype of slick.
She searches through the sooty, downtown scene
To find something to eat that’s fresh and clean.
The walk does help the Harvard sons and daughters
Attain appreciation for the waters,
From prideful messages in bold block letters,
To temple teas, Manhattans, and white towers.
When life becomes too serious, you can find
A little refuge from the daily grind
By visiting a place that understands
The exhilarating power of “yes, and…”
The space is big, and it might take some time
For a member of the public there to find
A specific and peculiar type of tree:
A large horse Chestnut brought from overseas.
The path to new acceptance is a challenge.
You must embrace release to strike the balance
Between grace and inexactitude,
And find your way to hidden gratitude.
A connoisseur of maritime history
Looks out from his cuspated perch to see
That all who enjoy this tranquil location
Are following the rules and regulations.
She cocks her head to gaze upon the scene:
An alleyway that’s nestled in between
Two dark and dingy buildings, but it might
Be improved by her soft and yellow light.
Though Cairns and Thompson can appreciate
The vivid fantasies that captivate
The lovers of romance and mystery,
They still prefer tranquil serenity.
The outline of a scene: a round-the-clock
Contest where eager players splash and slop,
All aiming to be the lucky one to pull
Attention from the silent, staring bull.
It must have been a meal of mighty fineness
To make him break his years-long vow of silence.
He doesn’t want his blessed boss to know,
So he decides to wrap his food to go.
For twenty-two years, one man tirelessly worked
To improve this little plot of Boston Earth.
So when you come to visit, pay respects
By stopping first to snuff your cigarette.
The three Greek brothers have proven the point
Of what can be accomplished through hard work,
When you endure, and when you never lock
Your expectations in an orange box.
Under the gaze of steely, silent birds
Out flowing from the gently tipping urns,
A waterfall of vibrant vegetation–
A symbol of our constant recreation.
The mussels in their box are flowering,
And beckon unto those who call to bring
To them aquamarine mancala beads
To help to keep their garden free from weeds.
Inside my little village, out of town,
There is a little nook that’s been carved out,
Where a man who rides his wagon through the trees
Can find himself a nice and comfy seat.
The stately woman appraises her downfall
With steady eyes that do not shake at all.
But those who fight for freedom might appraise
A twinkle in her otherwise dire gaze.
A creature from a purple drawing book
Has left the pages of his past to look
Around the city. His brethren catch a sight
Of something to the left, but he looks right.
The Bulfinch style enamored the heart
Of a proponent for the Cornish arts.
She offered her suggestions, and gave pardon
While watching from her seat within the garden.
A simple scene of soft, splashing water,
But effort in the tons to get it there.
A lot of heavy lifting, and a jet
Were used to haul it from Connecticut.
One hundred days of games and barbecues.
One hundred days of camping and canoes.
One hundred reasons to exult and cheer
Within the warmest season of the year.
The cherubim with chunky cheeks apprize
The splashing water with their stoic eyes,
And offer prickly bundles to the guests
Who gather at the entrance to the west.
The vase with two strong handles dominates
The scene. The lid mystically levitates
Over the blue fish and the budding flowers,
Wondering at its strange, ceramic powers.
You know your journey to the isle is done
When you are greeted by three different tongues
Which tell you to proceed upon your path
Until you reach the blue gate in the back.
A woman with a halo, a sturdy hand,
A brown bear roaring, and a money man—
Four warnings to the people passing by
That Mother Nature’s fever’s running high.
The Thirty-one who gather at the feast
Are celebrating what is there to eat—
And history, both of the past and present,
Reveals a proud community’s descendants.
At this brick hall for huskies, it’s advised
That students keep their eyes upon the prize
By hanging up the vices that they have
To focus on their spelling and their math.
The telescopes along the ground all served
As assistance for the scientists to observe
The 707 soar into the stratus,
And turn a corner for the age of science.
The pig has flown the pen in swinging style,
Ascending to the clouds with all his guile.
And though he’s donning fanciful apparel,
The spirit he sips is bottom of the barrel.
With just a bit (or maybe even eight)
Of cunning, scavengers can estimate
The location of this clue, and even get
The prize located ‘neath a cherished PET.
The man who makes the music is aglow,
Just like the sun he insufflates below,
As dragonflies cut through the dewy fog
Amidst the barking of illegal dogs.
This one horse town has got a little penned
Enclosure that declares the southern end.
From here, you could hop on a fast railroad,
But my red wagon’s got a radio.
A place that’s at the end (or almost end)
Of the rainbow’s populated by a band
Of men and women, and some famous dogs,
Who share a name, and also share a wall.
Three options represented by three gates
Are guarded by two daunting tribes of greats
Who wield two sets of tools, and recommend
The gate that’s right for you to apprehend.
A creature from the past was modeled when
Just five suggestions of his berth had been
Unearthed, and though he’s not exactly right,
He’s still able to induce awe and fright.
A quiet spot where stony fishes, two,
Swim in a pool of water that’s not blue
But jet-black, and their eyes are big and wide
To spy the treasure that they’re trying to find.
A scene from a window, some local pals
Decide to celebrate their fine locale
By splitting a pair of ice-cold potables:
An espresso martini, and a nice Tripel.
Some acres in the city are reserved
For intellectual people to observe
A pond that is adjacent to a pitch
Where foxtails stand on end, titian and rich.
A pond that’s home to factories where textiles
Were made in buildings of a similar style
Is visible from on the bridge for those
Who paddle down the street in their canoes.
The dust and grime caking the artifacts
Was cleaned away to reveal a living past
That trembles with a pulse that gently rocks
The stethoscope of an Italian doc.
The two huge creatures in the background wonder
About their fates, as hot air comes from under
Ground, where oil burns. Up through the vents
It rises, steaming the water that they drink.
The rumbling roof keeps hidden underneath
In a dark den, a horde of twenty-three
Feather-plumed portraitures, enshrined in
Soot-covered and very rough-cut diamonds.
To join a league, call Tunney to find out
What this New England sport is all about.
And don’t fret about bringing your own shoes—
They’ve got a pair that’s big enough for you.
That dig at Chef Williams was a low-ball—
His Manicotti Isn’t Dry at All!
And those who ever argued that fact, now are
Out in front and pushing up the flowers.
From Africa to Europe, and beyond
To Antarctica— because even sled dogs
Can get filthy—this shop makes them neat.
And after they’re rewarded with a treat.
An early mayor hatched a cunning plan
To bring the famous Monster to his town.
In execution, though, the plan fell short—
He got the color right, but not the sport.
The backside of the crimson letter shows
A climbing plant, all crissed and crossed in rows.
And if you desire this treasure, don’t delay!
Or else your gold might up and roll away…
You thought the cheap seats were a killer deal,
But a big green post blocks the entire field.
And though you cannot see, you can still hear
The gameplay as you sip your foamy beer.
The stories of the West are often wild,
With white whales, treasure islands, and exiles.
And though the pages recount soggy quests,
The little roof keeps them from getting wet.
The wares within our house are snug and pressed
Together ‘neath an orange circumflex
Cupola: fresh-caught fish and cups of coffee,
Herbs and vegetables, and a small garden.
The lookers-on all cheer, but don’t know jack
About the game at all, so they hang back
Out of the six, and drop lazy F-bombs
When players overshoot their underarms.
The beauty of the prose is undeniable,
But the teller of the tale is unreliable.
He wrote of the haze in France to great acclaim,
But never so much as glanced out his windowpane.
Ten doors comprised of five letters invite
The folks of every nation to give flight
To their proud flags within a roomy space
Where no nationality should fear the rain.
The creature of the year creeps, stealthily,
Along the tiers of vibrant slabs and seats.
Be wary of the beast, but don’t avoid
The crevice where the verdant corner points.
When choosing between coffee, chai, or tea,
Her selection dawned upon her naturally
When she looked underneath her little feet
And saw the shattered teacups stacked in heaps.
A pioneer in electronic sound
Has got a wooden seat that can be found
Within a spot that Elijah and Moses
Tend to their honeysuckles and their roses.
Upon a place where boats launch and arrive,
You’ll find yourself a keen, kinetic five
That change their shapes whenever a fair wind
Encourages them to pirouette and spin.
The city has a hidden sacrament:
A two-tiered circle, laid out in the sun.
A place where uniformity meets defiance,
As cats along the river become giants.
Miss Mac has got a garden full of color,
All twirls and curls of interwoven flora,
While purple dandelions let their seeds
Be carried by the wind off down the street.
The bright blue pupil blinked once at the news
That marching soldiers had, strangely, confused
Their orders, and were marching, strong and slow,
Along the highly populated road.
The ranger’s office by the pond has got
A level viewing area on top
Where you can see the water hit the sand—
And music too (if you can stand the band.)
The elevated fretwork— plain, unkempt—
Stands symbol of the simple, homegrown gent
Who rose from humble hillocks as he sought
Saint Anselm’s seat below the sacred cod.
At stated seasons, we all go to chase
Enjoyment in the water and the waves.
And in one trough that’s between two great crests,
We obtain our safety and happiness.
There’s nothing quite aesthetic as a bean
That’s snuggled in an armored shell of green,
And sits beneath a soft and silty flow
Of mocha cinnamon falling like snow.
The beasts along the Charles with the green
Feet curling, claw-like, up out of the rain
Might take a cue from two of their brethren
Who huddle in their hut, out of the storm.
The tower and its optics help you see
The boats that bob and toss out in the sea,
Allowing you to be a brave explorer
From snug within your elevated quarters.
You can observe the Palais Garnier,
And shop along the chic Champs-Élysées,
While munching on your freshly made banh mi,
And sipping on your mango bubble tea.
A problem thought impossible was cracked
By a man of polar opposites—a task
He managed with the topsail flapping high
Against his ringed reflection in the sky.
The style of it’s starkly minimal,
But still, it’s an aesthetic visual:
The yellow that is squarely showing through,
Cut right down through the middle by light blue.
The spot in town that might have been a school
Has since become an efflorescent tool
For knowledge, where the groundworks are applied
And windows to the mind are opened wide.
This week, I read an article about
A gentleman who recently set about
Resolving one of his periodic quarrels
By taking out a trademark on the Charles.
The man of gold, who dips his feather quill
And sets it to the page, under a still
And strigine stare is just one allegory
In a lofty, bright, and soaring story.
The litho tells the tale of an old tree
That towered over everything you see
Until one-hundred seventy years ago
When it was felled by one abysmal blow.
The pirate had just one minor complaint
When it came time for him to walk the plank:
“It’s much more likely that I’ll sputter and sink
In water that is suitable to drink.”
A site to commemorate victory on Cape Breton
Is home to many of a high succession.
Though they’ve found luck in life, you will be better
Off across from an unlucky number.
The blood-stained pages of Sexton and Plath
And Teasdale help to illustrate the wrath
That creative genius wracks upon the brain,
So do not wear your battle-wounds in vain.
The Admiral thought it a prime location
For vital military embarkation—
The terminal and its cathodic power
Were ideal for strategic troop departure.
Outdoors, the winger sharpened up his skills,
And those who had erected racial walls
Discovered, as he charged their barrier,
That it had always been a hollow door.
The elderly woman keeps a hidden hoard
Of crisp, pineapple candies that she’s stored
For her grandchildren in a hidden cupboard,
Adjacent to her cobwebbed sickle and hammer.
The figure in the wood tickles the lyre
To launch a stream of dancing notes behind her,
Where climbing plants wave, manifestly green
To make it known that they’re still listening.
Five argent shellfish languish—bright, embossed—
Within the black formed by a billowy cross,
While truth blooms out from them in sylvan curls
To eddy in a low, spiraling whorl.
The swinging gate is where you go to enter
This place that’s named after a stately center.
And there are three there, so the choice is yours…
(But save some time, and try the middle one first!)
The pop-up booth outside is where he toils—
Adjusting screws and hitting joints with oil.
The city’s big, but it is still quite rare
To find a place that’ll do minor repairs.
The knife is torn on what he ought to do.
He knows he’d better to stay here with the spoon,
But being cutlery can be hard work,
And half of him wants to run off with the fork…
The park has been reserved for those who fish.
Their lines fall from the hill in gentle twists,
And when they catch one, they lay it out flat
And gut it right there on the concrete slab.
A vast and monumental hall of knowledge
Was built for Lancer near a local college.
The property man sits out on a cleat
Admiring his vision made complete.
The former class recalls their glory days
When flying flags of white and scarlet waved.
But there’s still a special spot for them on campus
Out in the back, within a gated terrace.
The men and women walking through the hall
Did not appear to have been stumped at all
By how much natural light was interposed
Within a space without any windows.
Although his sense of humor is divine,
The sun prefers, sometimes, to hide his shine
So that the gated garden can enjoy
The convivial smiles of all those passing by.
To bar bewilderment, you might enlist
The timepiece of a noted Federalist
For help, for it will point you to your gold
When jeopardy is what has been foretold.
A place where you can pause and look on out
Over the pathway of a Little mouse
Is advertised as a popular spot
For Boston-area folks to go and shop.
The sleighing season sends two dozen drivers
Into the streets, just as the dawn sun rises.
They sulk—the oblique paucity of sleep
Is limned by light that shines from underneath.
One front. One left. One back. One nodding west.
One Right. A happily buzzing quintet
That uses gestures in their apian art form
To hint at what it hidden ‘neath the platform.
The cat looks, coyly, out into the street
From safe behind her hiding spot, where she
Can reap the pleasures of her little park
Without the threat of the menacing fox.
Dramatic accusations and high voices,
And forcing tragic friends to make hard choices,
And finding raging voicemails when you wake up,
Are all signs of a rough and messy breakup.
You might decide to take your bike to see
The statuesque and towering winter tree
That stints the hungry bovine with a fruit
Much too stony for anything to eat.
You wait beside the gate, licking your sour
Treat while your five friends brush off all the flour
That’s covering their aprons and their clothes,
Which lightly coats the bumpy cobblestones.
A diplomatic bon vivant plays host
To an old gate with four cast iron posts.
The twiggy vase of one, invisible
Beneath a lush, bedraggled overflow.
The theater works its magic near the river,
It beckons for the audience to come hither
To find, below a purple setting sun,
The contents of a golden hexagon.
Ecologists have vowed that they’ll renew
The prospects of this high, historic hill.
If they do, they might find some hidden gold
Concealed below a giant Northern Oak.
The mysteries of the universe are contained
Within the boatman’s transcendental brain.
The heights to which his understanding spans
Is juxtaposed by just how short he stands.
A rose tree that is from the ancient Greek
Is parted to reveal a hidden creek.
And if, when crossing it, you take your time,
A glistening reflection you may find.
All jutting from the waves, it’s quite a sight:
The remnants of the spruce and southern white
That sternly prod the ripples, and remind
The visitors of industrial times.
The voices of the storytellers thrive,
Like creatures popping from the ground to fly
Their way up to the front to explicate
The struggles of life in the second stage.
The tripel decker may seem unhallowed,
But it is full of rich neponset gold.
And going there will help you find release
By leading you toward your missing piece.
Though Angelo and Marguerite provide
The water for the verdure that resides
Outside the Center, it is captain Lou
Who makes sure that they’re misted, through and through.
Beloved Mary watches from her seat
At all the local dogs who frisk and leap
Within the canine park that’s guarded by
A hound whose vertebra have multiplied.
The Goose admits that he was skeptical,
But when he tasted the invisible
Baguette, he beamed. The loaf was airy,
With a subtle hint of fresh rosemary.
The southern hopper bounces ‘cross the flats—
A lissome and elastic acrobat,
Who buzzes with the jolt of rich caffeine
That trickled from a Guatemalan bean.
A neon clam observes the dismayed whelp
Who got himself wrapped up in stringy kelp
While trying to attack the crashing shore
With two increasingly saliferous paws.
A flower lounges heavy on the spot
Where visitors don’t need a single dot
Or dash to understand that they observe
The confluence of science and commerce.
It takes a combination of the hand
And mind to come up with a clever plan
To get your new (to you) maple armor
Up to your dorm room on the second floor.
The ryes and sourdoughs and challah breads
Are crunchy, but that doesn’t bother them!
They’re affable and warm, and never fail
To chat the neighbors when they fetch the mail.
The giant wave has flipped and vastly curled
Into a spinning tunnel of rusty whorls—
The biggest of them all has got a span
that’s wide enough to fit a full-grown man.
A city on the hill is where we live,
The pride of Paramino and Coolidge.
Three hundred years, and treasure shan’t be found
Unless you keep your search close to the ground.
The silver surfer calls upon his brothers–
eight athletes who all glow with the same color–
who share his same propensity for sport
without sharing his passion for the surf.
A colorful discussion’s broken out
as two scientists stomp their feet and shout
to try and make the other fully hear
that he is wise beyond his floppy ears.
The knights in their armor scramble and sack
in the face of adversarial attack,
and count the minutes ’till they’ll get to see
the toothsome offerings of MLB.
A place that’s billed as where the north begins
has got a path that’s not at all within
its borders, and there’s hidden treasure there
for one who takes rest on the 18th stair.
To read. To contemplate. To cast aside
your doubts. To go. To search around. To find
your treasure. It’s a task that comes in stages,
and shows you to the backs of many places.
Athenians and Grecians both converge
at a place where former treasures have emerged,
and those who watch from across on their perch
grow green with envy as the searchers search.
The path curves round to help you to appraise
the sculpture that is circular and raised
into a spiraling and crumbling swell
of concrete inlaid with colorful shells.
The heron spies the fish, but opts to take
his lunch upon a tasty garter snake.
A humpback lifts his head in naive wonder
of life that happens in the shallow waters.
It was a futile act to try and stop
the gradual, ebullient rise of Pop.
But he has proven, in more recent days,
that he is prone to wheeling, dealing ways.
The two-toned chatter ‘neath the fish and flora,
where monocle-clad rabbits dine with scores of
octopus-armed revelers, Italian
royals with cigarettes, and giraffes dancing.
It’s true, she’s partial to her rose and tawny,
But still, the merry wife’s tanned arms are brawny
From tending to her pink and orange garden,
Flanked by the potted bushes at the far end.
This square has had a recent change of name,
And yet, the similarly named cafe
Has kept the title, as if to supplant
Past crimes unto a single olive branch.
Two horn-nosed creatures to the Charles’s north
Have dedicated their bulk and their girth
To science. But their nonconformist sister
Enrolled in art school down below the river.
Within the lush strokes of Nella and Steve,
You witness truth, decocted and bereaved
Of all the dubious, discrepant paints
That paid their penance to the crusty drain.
The partner of Winslow and Wetherell
Did occupy this famous mansion well
For thirty years. Within the park you might
Have seen him brandishing horses and knights.
The right for everyone to explore the sea
Became a tenet posited by Lee.
And still, his memory and dream prevails
Behind the six small boats and eight white sails.
The vowels, replaced with two plump vegetables—
Deep purple and red, but inedible—
For though you might be tempted by their flesh,
You’ll find they’re on the other side of fresh.
One of the most respected men alive
From late ’78 until ’05.
He was to one to turn unto, for many,
When looking for some holy sanctuary.
The upper neon yellow highlights a pair
Of hooded eyes with a dilated stare.
His gaping mouth is smiling wide, replete
With longing for a promised dairy treat.
A president upon a steed espied
Through teeming trees, a place to stay the night.
He sets his bag down on the table, apart
From the craning boughs of the velvet hart.
The hidden palace of the little Doge.
Outside, the water laps upon the roads
As miniature patricians pass on by,
And stop under the bridge to have a sigh.
Walk twenty paces, behind heavy chains,
To a spot where you will be dry and safe
From splashes, as nine sleek sea creatures swim
And flaunt small patches of mammalian limbs.
When it comes to a snack or meal to eat,
This hall’s employees never miss a beat.
They’ve even left a plate there on the floor,
Outside the skinny wizard’s bedroom door.
Fill up the cezve and grab a comfy chair
Next to the yellow table, under where
This place’s origins are fixed, portrayed
In balsa wood dyed in a salep shade.
The tattooed man has suffered a black eye
That clashed with his puffy red bow tie.
He argued (unsuccessfully, I fear)
That there’s more than one way to trim a beard.
Five pyramids. Follow the middle’s edge
That points out to an isle that protects
The digit. In between, a skinny tract
Is home to flowers and gold artifacts.
While hunting for the bright, colorful place
Where flora and fauna have been sprayed
With aerosol, you found a lonely path
That led you to the monarch in the back.
While lining up the cue, the armored bloke
Kicked once the side of his verdigris foal
To keep him still, but he’ll still have to reach
His arm quite far to get the shot he seeks.
Collaboration’s the name of the game
For Boston locals Massiel and Swain.
They twisted both their talents into one
Behind the tip of a low, neon sun.
Upon his back, he holds a heavy sphere
Eternally, and though it does appear
That he is strained and quite preoccupied,
He still has time, now and then, to sip sweet wine.
Outside the front door: twelve colorful pets
Who came into this place dirty and wet,
But left clean, with a fresh swing in their wag,
And treats, toys, and apparel in their bags.
The peace and light that shrouds the students here
Allows them to pursue the arts, and fear
Not that their treasures should be blighted in
The ashen hedge that veils defeat’s chagrin.
This lush and rambling park is bounded by
A wall of turbulent black birds in flight.
They arch their wings, disconsolate and blue,
And at your table, you feel quite so too…
Just close your eyes, and let your nose take you
To the place that does always live up to
The title of “Best Bread.” And if you doubt,
There on the bricks, your proof is written out.
Two cabinets within the hall have told
A proverb oft attributed to Goethe.
Whether you do or dream, perform it bold,
For genius, power, and magic bring gold.
Nathaniel Wood and Sam Bemis have found
A garden that reminds them of their town.
And since it’s a good thirty miles away,
They take their carriage there to spend the day
A hidden gallery, with keen optics
To show beginners’ handiworks, affixed
Below the white tendrils with golden roots
That shine their light, incessant and acute.
The two elevens meet. The crimson end
Hosts one, aligned with a stair that descends
Into the other. Upon a metal beam,
A hidden treasure gives a subtle gleam.
A market concealed from the downtown street
Behind a facade of glass and concrete,
Where people go to buy fish and noodles,
And, possible, some purple vegetables.
This smart Chicago transplant has a place
That shows how innovative cures erase
The suffering that patient must endure
While waiting at the steel gate for a cure.
There’s no one out there that can save me, so
I halt and wait between the busy roads
To see how long I can prop up the past
By housing those who call me by my last.
You shuffle down into the basement where
A revolutionary scene’s laid bare:
A woman known for wonderment stares past
The first of two things, at a board of bast.
When this man left the Squaw Valley with gold,
He brought it home, and hid it in the fold
Of one of two great sliding doors, where none
Shall find it when the season has begun.
When she performs, she needs some liquid courage—
Usually some Stoli with a couple olives
Does the trick—but whenever her set
Is done, she needs help getting down the steps.
Behind the black, your gold glints from within
From where bivalves and wieners are given
Menued priority. If interested,
Come early, for the seating’s limited.
With sticky mud upon my boots, I marched,
With revelry, out of the humid marsh
And past the silver-guarded city sign
Into my new town, on my midnight ride.
Inside the arcade, it is not too much
To ask that you work with a gentle touch.
And though you brought your quarters, at this spot
You won’t encounter even one coin slot.
Out of the porcelain espresso cup,
The steam swells in fat wisps, and saunters up
The stairs to where it can delineate
Some borders that the locals might debate.
A big red number, formed by four red bubbles,
Are proof your Eastern luck’s about to double.
To celebrate your newfound gold, go grab
A fresh prize from the blue tub in the back.
The spiral that is there among the chestnut
And the acorn may be just for guests, but
As they rise up, you should fall behind,
And liberate your gold from where it hides.
A neighborhood along the ground. The street
Named for a college-laden city seeks
The source of all the music in the distance.
Within this tranquil place, it sounds resistance.
Where Thalia and Melpomene preside,
A dapper bear stands, beckoning inside
The ones who might prevail upon tradition
By making study of the arts their mission.
Below the side, and out beyond the flowers,
The black moth and the beetle count the hours
Until nature will invite them to molt
And fly from their infernal, marble post.
You’ve filled the lamp with one liter of fuel,
And propped it up on a ten-meter pole,
So even those kilometers away
Will know not to park inside your driveway.
The students make a racquet in the room
That’s shaded, throughout, in a certain hue,
While those who are behind the day’s events
Are shocked to find gold within its contents.
The capital looks sprawling from this height—
White pigeons and a wealth of stairs. And lights,
There down beyond the trees, along the street…
We watch from our square table meant for three.
Conserved, the memory of the man who took
The weeks out of the potter. Wooden ducks
Below are tribute to his fortitude,
His strength, and charitable attitude.
The metal stairs go past the mountain, where
The red sky limbs the inky orb that glares
Over the peaks. You’ve brought along your board,
But in this dreary light, you’re not so sure.
Some proper English might be learned by all
Who pass the palace road upon the wall.
And you’ll find gold there, if you can adjust
Your nose to all the fumes and the exhaust.
A henge invites you to a park that has
A pink and purple boulder in the back
Within a painted corner, where the wooden fence
Contains a bit of hidden effulgence.
Upon the snowy hill, you sip your brew,
And look out at the side car park, where two
Beach chairs keep guard over the parking space
You dug out with your snowblower today.
You keep your eyes peeled, as you walk the street
That’s famous for its shopping and its eats:
Four shells, among five specimens of strange
Verdure, adjacent to the dripping rain…
The table made of little squares is where
You’ve set your fine, beaver-felt hat. Since there
Is ivy overhead, chances are slim
You’ll need the shadow of its pinch-front brim.
You’ve called upon the blessed one above—
Devotee of the God of Cumulus
And Stratus—that he might use his lofty perch
To lead you to the gold for which you search.
Within the alleyway, four beasts espy
Some gold that’s hidden from your searching eye.
You ask of its location, but their jowls
Are heavy, so they answer with a scowl.
Below the bridge, the sun is quite detached
From those along the brook, who carry thatched
Baskets upon their heads, while dog and man
Dip oars into their golden reflections.
The lush contralto drains her Pabst, and hopes
That someday she’ll attain the higher notes,
But those within that range are wont to snub
The wiseguys who all tilt to join their club.
A vibrant Way, where every day brings new
Spray-painted wonders to the people passing through.
Down low, and hidden on the empty side
Beside a door is where your treasure hides.
The metal steps lead to the place where you
Can watch the Warman from above. Baruch’s
Impatient, though, and paces while he waits
For this avian contest to abate.
No shirt, no shoes, no problem in the cold
Hideout within in the backstreet capitol.
And if you hunt in pairs, you must decide
Who enters while the other waits outside.
A club below, which Joyce and Paula founded
With a number—and now the folks, compounded
Into one thumb-snapping crowd meet there,
Where tricky britches hide under the stairs.
It is their God-given right: the confidence
That those within this rocky borough sense,
That they will find a hidden golden gusset
Somewhere beyond a time-patinaed Russet.
For Talbot, it’s the arch of green behind
The school. It tells the public that they’ll find,
Within these walls, the knowledge that will heal
Them from the vast afflictions that they feel.
A city field, where twisted knuckles throw
To batters in the box. It sits below
A high green bridge, which tends to dim the sun,
But luckily the dugout light is on.
Within the gate of many colors, cracks,
Like those of egg-shells, populate the path
That curves round to the back where people grill
Their clay creations in a covered kiln.
Inside where pebbles and cobbles conglomerate
Into a famous stone, you’ll find a place
Where daschunds, beagles, Danes, and hounds
Are similarly gathered into one.
Just once in every seventeen years, they rise
Out of the the ground. And some of them who fly
Today, will stumble on the gold of lore,
Above the chilly box over the door.
Within the place that’s named for Sergeant Arthur,
The five white circles on the ground are patterned
In a way to guide the goings of the game
That those who stand upon eight circles play.
The American bull frog upon the rock
Espies a belted bird on one across.
He stays perfectly still, and masks his croak
Behind the sounds that splash up from the road.
Her spirit prevailed—whoever she was with,
And wherever she was—she was a bridge
That brought the bustling downtown scene
Into the gentle stirrings of the sea.