Greetings Poetry Lovers,
I'm sure I share with most, if not all of you, an abiding love for our beautiful city. Every community poet worth his or her salt has written at least one "Pittsburgh poem." Then there are the many outstanding photographs, paintings, essays, short stories, novels and films; the artists as well as the Pittsburghers themselves are moved by our special place, no question about it.
Recently, I discovered something new and unique in our city: Randyland!
What is Randyland?
Located at 1501 Arch Street, on the NorthSide, Randyland is billed as Pittburgh's "Most Colorful Landmark," as well as "The Happiest Place in Pennsylvania."
Actually the home of artist Randy Gilson, Randyland has also been called "a candy-colored testimony to one man's efforts to revitalize an inner-city neighborhood..."
At Randyland you will encounter outdoor art in a barrage of color: bright yellow dominates but makes way for all manner of painted objects , maps, animals, birds; walls adorned by elaborate designs, faces, creatures done up in purple, green, red; add to this raucous mélange the gaily adorned old cast-offs: I particularly was taken by the ringer washing machine and the multi-colored metal porch chairs hanging above my head. Folks, you've got to see it!
Somewhere along a festooned wall at Randyland sits a Pittsburgh Poetry Box. What's that, you might ask? Another of our city's small wonders. A trio of poetry lovers have created small boxes, "poetry houses," placed here and there, which contain lovingly selected and printed poems, free for the taking.
Currently, my poem, "Spring Fever," occupies a shelf alongside three others in the Poetry House at Randyland.
FYI, I will produce the poem here, but strongly urge you, the reader, to have the delightful experience of a visit to Randyland. I can assure you, it is unforgettable.
The desire in the old man’s mind
is a stone anchor
that keeps his boney feet tethered
to the home place, dirt and all:
to own the first intruding green
he sees, the almost gold
that should burst to green
during his daily watch.
He must not miss the moment,
fears it may come forth
at once, like sudden water:
His craving appears each spring.
He suspects this must be by design,
simple and meant to be, the way
morning overtakes the brightest moon.
Otherwise he would be able;
unpossessed, he would turn away,
free to leave the garden.
Thanks for clicking in! xo Judy