October 2017
I have been fascinated by the most famous of all the Wisconsin roadside attractions; The House on the Rock. It's featured in Neil Gaiman's book, American Gods. There is magic and madness there, and I find endless writing prompts within its walls. I recommend a visit to The House on the Rock to any writer passing through Wisconsin. I also have a new website: https://www.sylviacavanaugh.com
The House on the Rock
Frank Lloyd Wright (1953)
Frank Lloyd Wright (1953)
The House on the Rock
Masonry of dim indigo imaginings
his attraction to igneous intrusions
the gravity of rock
he hoisted on his back
foisted on top
the scenic outcrop
his stony vision to obliterate
the verdant Wisconsin vista
we’re all elemental minerals
in the end
but with minds too aware
thoughts careen down uneven corridors
memory flows towards narrowing floorspace
O, to nest in shag carpet nooks
beneath tiffany lamps
where mechanized musical instruments
strum and pluck
soothe discordant synapses
I’m awash in the blue plexiglass hush
of his secret
the way it seeps through the intricate craft
of rosewood panels
from India
whose old god of destruction dances,
whirls the world into being.
Published in Red Cedar Review
Wheel of Fortune
Hundreds of antique dolls placed in cases
at the House on the Rock
look really nervous
once handed to girls
their worried eyes and unsmiling lips
whisper of impending invisibility
at least in this one small place
they’ve allowed a few of the dolls to stand sentry
on this diminutive carousel
nested high in a shadowed nook
and men have their own problems
here at the House on the Rock
the cavernous organ room with massive
musical instruments
organs, whose open jaws
curve inward in lost echo of opulent sound
their keys like parallel rows of blunt teeth
while iron bells take their toll
from high among the rafters
there are darker hollows, too
out of which gleam massive copper vats
in leftover sigh of industrial decline
oversized beer steins, ever empty
lined up on ledges
along careening walkways
freedom of speech is finished
in broken typewriters
piled up in a dusty corner
way beyond any word
that could be stuttered out on these keys
the slow spin of the gilded doll carousel
like a phantasmagoric wheel of fortune
with decorated horses and mermaid creatures
offers hope, after all
that maybe the Buddha had it wrong
about attachment
helps us to believe these few dolls
who ride tall
who proclaim salvation in the bling of things
as if they held one small hand on hip
the other cast to the stars
Published in Portage Magazine
© 2017 Sylvia Cavanaugh
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