The Park …
Colossus watches, his eyes adjourn each night,
his last sight The Park, its utopic quintessence.
Moonlit baths upon his sheets endow the time,
and his soul respites in resplendent evanescence.
Eventide comes and sheds her pallid skin,
so many dreams upon her dying friends.
A Wonderland with Alice and her kin,
atop a fungal bronze, the hatter pens.
The tribute asks for kids to take a chance,
to smooth their hands upon her polished plate.
Behind them, fields of emerald reeds of grass,
a lawn so grand its name begins with, “Great.”
The Belvedere amidst rebuilding phase,
its balcony, a panoramic treasure.
The naked eye can gaze for days and days,
And everywhere it looks it finds adventure.
With scaling pathways atop an iron bridge,
I walked on water, chosen like the gods.
Her bow, a strong one, with palettes at her ridge,
and scenic landscapes placed for all to laud.
In changing hues, months are stored forever past,
each springtime graced by papery blushing blooms,
a Hill so named for the resemblance cast,
engrossed by the scents, like sweet perfume.
The Ipe wood that lines the bridge expanse,
its color deepens as torrents assail.
The richest reds fall to rapture’s trance,
in vibrant reprieve from tough travails.
With rowboats thrusting below the archways,
To the north again, is Alice and her friends,
To the south a granite bench where poets play,
yarns spun from the mind of Hans Anderson.
When I see the flora I think of weddings,
with multitudes of European flairs.
From soft lilac and magnolia blessings
near Frances Burnett’s statue, to imbue a prayer.
Then onward north near Italy
In crabapples, yew trees, and climbing vines,
Wisteria pergola on trestles from Sicily,
And majestic fountains intertwined.
Foretold to wanting eyes, the French affirm,
as tulip bulbs plot with eternity,
With Schott and his Dancing Maidens holding firm,
I lounge in Heaven, in its brevity.
If honor needs a stage to exhibit hope
A noble quadruped shall be evoked.
His name is Balto to normal folk,
a bronzed cenotaph that never spoke.
But past endeavors were of a hero’s scope,
To save his dwelling from a deadly mix
He traversed through blizzards, through frozen slopes,
six hundred miles about, to bring the fix.
So upon his statue a message sent
endurance, fidelity, intelligence.
How simple these words that were Heaven sent,
Good words for our heroes who stand in defense.
Athwart to the park just a short hike,
Abiding diligence when crafting wonder,
through depressions and civil wars alike,
Calvert Vaux planned retreats from urban thunder
Vaux said to put, “Nature first, second, and third,
then Architecture comes after a while.”
The way that God took our breaths, his sacrosanct words,
From Bethesda porch, all I could do is smile.
Bethesda Terrace overlooking the lake,
Instituted during the civil war
Men ravaged with muskets and gun powder flakes,
whilst Olmstead and Vaux made visions on two floors.
Twenty six feet wide and ninety feet high,
On the first courtyard lies Bethesda Fountain.
In neoclassic fashion, an angel sighs,
protecting four small angels from drowning.
As ripples of water cascade to the base,
With hopes and dreams cast by copper face,
The angels in motion ever giving chase,
mingled hope and fact and hope they interface.
No more superstition just mind and will,
The chess and checkers house will call your name
Where neophytes come to better learn the kill,
Blessed by ample shade and potential claim—
This rustic pagoda of skill and cunning
Lends to us a battlefield of black and white
The view of course is nothing less than stunning
to take your army into the fight.
Alone, like a chameleon, the arsenal blends,
A home once for Parks and Recreation,
The first abode for history to extend,
A place where law enforcement built a station,—
The arsenal and its massive towers
with medieval, fortress-like details
no room in this arsenal for flowers
a cast iron eagle at the gate prevails.
I love a subject of great debate
Like the coming of age of the great lawn
Once a reservoir bringing thirst to sate
Now a spot where city natives play upon
I’ve found myself a spectator looking in
As many young children and adults still play
Around the diamond, with bat and gloves worn thin,
A favorite pastime is enjoyed by many each day.
With offers of solace or calm of peace,
Each step in the park hints at nostalgia.
Take in a concert, embrace the release,
Step on the fields and be part of the gala.
In the joys of each day, and iconic motifs,
in expressions of movement like kids in the park,
Quests of culture in the hues of a leaf,
Or panorama of the city after dark
Surrounded every way by minarets,
The soul of metropolis resides in green.
In spells where life gleams and in changing palates,
The park still has a way to fulfill your dreams.