WELCOME TO THE LYRIC POETRY WEBSITE




A REFUGE FOR POETS WHO WRITE IN THE LYRIC TRADITION,

WITH RHYME AND METER, WITH OR WITHOUT MUSIC




VISIT TO STEEPLETOP

All on a rainy afternoon
We passed the gate of stone,
And walked the shaded driveway
To approach the poetís home.
We saw white pine and cedar
She had planted long ago,
And felt the magic of this place
That too few people know.

We saw her emerald swimming pool
Recessed into the shale.
We walked upon her flagstone steps
That seemed about to fail.
We saw her marble benches
That had not been cleaned for years.
We saw her garden choked with weeds
And watered it with tears.

I saw what once were tennis courts
Now overgrown with flowers,
And a weathered wooden table
Where she spent the evening hours.
I found a rusted garden hoe
Half hidden in a shed,
And a trail in need of grooming,
And I wondered where it led.

I looked into a window
At the poetís living room.
I saw her grand piano,
Wanting to be tuned.
I felt her presence strongly,
As if she still were there.
I thought perhaps Iíd see her
Walking gently down the stairs.

We saw the artistís colony
That trades upon her fame.
Some of those in residence
Had never known her name.
All they really wanted
Was to publicize themselves,
And not one of the poetís books
Was found upon the shelves.

I can hear the poet cry:
Read me, do not let me die!
Walk together, hand in hand,
Through my wooded land.
Steepletop should be a shrine
Till the end of time.
This is a poet to be revered.
All we loved of her lies here.

Canton, New York, 2000



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