Photo & Poem Gallery

Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around the lake.

Lilacs,
False blue,
White,
Purple,
Color of lilac.
Heart-leaves of lilac all over New England,
Roots of lilac under all the soil of New England,
Lilac in me because I am New England,
Because my roots are in it,
Because my leaves are of it,

I have seen a face with a thousand countenances, and a face that was but a single countenance as if held in a mould.
 
I have seen a face whose sheen I could look through to the ugliness beneath, and a face whose sheen I had to lift to see how beautiful it was.

Believe in this. Young apple seeds,
In blue skies, radiating young breast,
Not in blue-suited insects,
Infesting society’s garments.
 
Believe in the swinging sounds of jazz,
Tearing the night into intricate shreds,

This sort of April day inspires madness
Deep aquamarine sky, warm sun tentatively returns.
There’s a crimson tinge to the trees, but
No greenery yet. The tart breeze, its
Insistence, its playful presence, is not
Gentle, pushing our clothes against our backs. The

The shadows have their seasons, too.
The feathery web the budding maples
cast down upon the sullen lawn

bears but a faint relation to
high summer's umbrageous weight
and tunnellike continuum—

Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
But he’ll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day: then shall our names.
Familiar in his mouth as household words…

Start spreading the news 
I'm leaving today 
I want to be a part of it, New York, New York 
These vagabond shoes 
Are longing to stray 
And make a brand new start of it 
New York, New York 

Whether on Ida's shady brow, 
         Or in the chambers of the East, 
The chambers of the sun, that now 
         From ancient melody have ceas'd; 

The changing light at San Francisco
                        is none of your East Coast light