No Roof For Reindeer
No Roof For Reindeer
The celebrated sailing frog
from Montgomery County
went a courtin, or so the tale iz toad
to a grand ole mansion built around 1910,
and e'en 'pon
being razed ~2012 ah
no foo fighting crash test dummy
(sea worthiness) still plainly showed,
twas February 28th, 1968,
when my father
bought the house at 324 Level Road.
Majority deuce score
plus nineteen years,
(when this reasonable rhyme wrought)
rush back with unfettered exuberant zeal;
this aging elf spent psalm tranquil
May days sung sotto voce
atop memorialized, prized,
shingled out, ship-shape valued,
venerated, vip voted faux vulgar demesne
"Glen Elm" named private
100+ acre wooded common weal.
Many a pitch perfect spring day
found yours truly
frankly and earnestly
basking atop the spacious roof
oft times begging the cosmic force
unwaveringly, plaintively, irrationally...
to please lyft one Earthlinked bing,
courtesy (alien) extraterrestrial
bitta bing bitta bang
uber dreamer got proof
willingly taken with "poof"
(magic amazing dragons)
presuming my absence,
would not be missed and whereabouts
no cause for alarm,
but the usual antics
of a contemplative goof
Baal, and nada aware boot aloof.
A minor for heart (Sunkist) of gold
Helios radiantly and innocently beckoned,
this then sole Sol tanned
son of Brooklyn Boy(ce)
within the solar raised fold
surrendered while atop
the multi acred roof where any cold
melted away, whence became bathed
like a bronze statue of auld.
Never did yours truly get abducted
and whisked away to outer limits
of twilight zone, nevertheless he regaled
at temporary reprieve from parents.
Zip pose zing weather forecast
donned, trumpeted, and wafted air
fragrant with flowered flora
visibility for miles
if ether crystal clear,
this high da way countless yards
off the ground presented flare
approximating pristine terrestrial display
with powerfully poignant immunity
against cackling, jeering, scowling,
father, mother or other
nemesis with glare
ring (smoke emitting nostrils),
an idyll escape for this heir
to the throne of the mountain king,
(lion share of original tract
kept by Donald Neilson empire)
this make believe verdant submerged lair
unwittingly left a gaping hole,
when Gambone Brothers
industrial machinery voraciously
made clean sweep,
without a trace of former imp pier
real resilient stately structured heart
of "Glen Elm" could no longer rear
the well built “grand Etta face dame”
helplessly, holistically humbly
brought crashing, cringing,
crumbling to her knees
(gory detail aye will spare),
nonetheless more than one
pearl jammed shaped tear
trickled down mine chafed
sad reddened cheeks,
whose head must veer
away asper thine subsequently
blotted out never never never land
eclipsed by transient rubble,
thence ticky tacky vinyl city
(dis) graced sacred space,
no doubt a great ache,
when Saint Nick sought
former complex edifice in vain for
324 templed stone pilot
thrown helter skelter everywhere!
Copyright ©
Matthew Harris
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