The Emerald Dream (an ode to my city)

A city of green is a beautiful thing, when viewed from a towering spire

Climb to its heights, peer out at the sight, a metropolis of emerald fire

Every detail, in this beryl green veil, hide houses like castles of yore

Built in the days after Sherman’s rage, when he burned us in ’64!

It’s a secret place within a cityscape, that’s far off the beaten trail

It’s the tale of a house, empty throughout, accessed by a secret rail

This mysterious house in Atlanta, lies somewhere between the trees

It lies on the outskirts, where you can feel the highway breeze

Late at night, if you listen just right, the sirens will drive you insane

If you close your eyes, and look to the sky, you can hear the MARTA train

Hemmed in by office parks, that lack a heart, where no one walked at all

And the noise from afar, of passing cars, are just distant waterfalls

These acres fair, roughly ten and square, the house stood in-between

Someone’d lined the wide perimeter, with storybook shades of green

Cloaks of white, over frames so slight, were greenhouses sturdily built

And everywhere, both here and there, sprouted things from healthy silt

Towering bamboo, that pierced the sky through, formed hoop-house and shed

On the other side, both tall and wide, were the pines that carved old beds

Approach an iron fence, through ivy dense, and you will find a lighted path

And in the rear, past a stream not so clear, is a rusty old train-track

Kudzu creeps throughout a façade, over two crumbling walls of stone

And fireflies alight, drown out the night, at the entrance to the home

She was crooked and mangled, with wood in a tangle, an old colonial wraith

She looked doomed, with her unending rooms, how had she remained unscathed?

She was a warm yellow, like a faded pomelo, full of wonder and delight

With old pine walls and endless halls, and corridors full of fright!

On long sunny days, golden rays blazed, through windows from ceiling to floor

Each speck of dust, and granule of rust, illuminated Victorian décor

Papers centuries old, weighed down with Spanish gold, left by con-quis-ta-dors

War memorabilia, embalmed things that kill ya, sitting in old oak drawers

There were globes of times with maps yet defined, oceans with question marks

When sea serpents roamed, some countries unknown, that globe opened with a start!

Up went the top, before the globe stopped, to reveal old whiskey brands

From a learned fellow, with a Stradivarius cello, who’d seen Old Sam-ar-kand!

There were pictures of djinn, who through keffiyeh grinned, Bedouin from head to toe

These sturdy men, with guns and burned skin, drew the lines for the Sykes-Picot

Arab fellas like lions, with old English rifles, ’pon a beast weighed down by sacks

“We’ll beat the Turks, those insufferable jerks, and we’ll do it from a camel’s back!”

Desks full of old parts, walls with robbed art, sit in an old smoking room

Next to canopic jars, with maps of the stars, that were stolen from Ramses tomb

There was an old tome, from an Egyptian nome, an original Book of the Dead

Signed by King Tut himself, but of course who else? As well as a bust of his head

There are papyri parts, that form mummy art, and most of the copies are digitals

But hidden ’neath socks, in an unassuming box, are most of the originals

Blades from the civil war, ’bove the mantles of doors, seemed rusted into the pine

Some ancient oak barrels, now empty and sterile, that had probably held good wine

A secret room, of esoteric gloom, where men with lots of wealth did meet

By the light of a lamp, with the flick of a hand, the way a Freemason greets!

Old oak chairs, carved ivory wares, an altar with candles and blood

Figurines of old gods, a locked dybbuk box, a dark place barren of love

This bizarre thing was a grave robbers dream, were they to know its value and worth

If he could find a good fence, and had common sense, he could promptly buy the earth

When a record is made, from vinyl or clay, it simply goes round and round

Like modern cuneiform, an album is born, and somehow catches the sound

In all these years, could this house hear, and this same rule did apply

These silent walls, if they could talk at all, would keep you up all night!