fly-by-nite lighthouse
The place called to me-
not the glum-strum player-
his pawnshop six-string

nor the grain alcohol served-
rather the rickety creek
of the hardwood beams-

the scent of a spent
firelog looming heavily-
with lost dancers of light.

Grain alcohol competes
for muster with salt grains
and my pensive hands-

With headlong motion-
I heard the call, clarion
o'er the players strings-

In nighttime on walls
cracked remnants leak ghosts-
persuing their recompense-

Silent as a wisp-
stirring the ambiance-
archaic, heirloom-heartened.

Grain alcohol stirs chance-
the painting spied in hall-
a Bible I once knew-

Porchtop glistening-
now-noonday rain upon-
my pensiveness subsides.

For the place called me-
with unusual inflection-
history's ring.

Naked of troubles-
endearment of cloud-light-
I ponder antique scents

and days gone by.
E-MAIL THE WOULD-BE POET
ALL POETRY COPYRIGHT MB TANKERSLEY 2006
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red lion, since 1773
Stayed in an amazing place when I visited Massachusetts for my work. The Red Lion Inn is a hotel that has been in continuous operation since, as the title above says, 1773. I walked the halls for entertainment late at night, just absorbing. Also caught some live music, as reviewed in the text.