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Portrait of Chicago
Fountain of the Great Lakes
Michigan Ave thrums in my ears
As I escape from the third floor
Soaked to saturation
My mind will hold no more
Clear my head for an exam
That’s closer every minute
I’m disquieted by time
And prisoner within it
Signals change and traffic stops
I cross the halted flow
South of the art museum
There’s a park I think I know
It’s solitude I’m seeking
I venture deeper in
Through the trees that muffle
Chicago’s ever present din
Noise fades and I hear water
Unexpectedly I find
The Fountain of the Great Lakes
And I sit to unwind
From each patinaed goddess
In each timeless face
There’s an invitation to consider
The magic of their place
Superior wears the north wind’s shroud
Her waters deep and cold
She forever keeps the missing
That her icy hallows hold
Michigan peaceful noble strong
Bare shouldered and serene
Posture of a handmaid
Bearing of a queen
Huron indifferent to all care
Leaning back at rest
Welcoming the flood
That pours upon her breast
Erie looks to Huron
As if to fill her bowl
And satisfy the petulance
That rules her peevish soul
Ontario turns away
Fed by Niagra’s roar
Lamenting what St. Lawrence takes
From the basin of her shore
If I could plumb each laver
What mysteries revealed
That age and flow and wave
Have eroded and concealed
Dreams and stories that escape
Upon the flow of time
Like images that fade are washed
From the basins of our minds
Until they’re reimagined
To congeal and rise again
These waters of our dreams
Which inspire the hearts of men
In this Portrait of Chicago, captured by the essence of Edward E Ross, I reflect on the beauty and depth of our shared experiences.
St. Patrick's Day
The river runs green, as depicted in the iconic "Portrait of Chicago" by Edward E Ross. They serve green beer, corned beef, and cabbage, all up to here. A national holiday, or so you’d think, there’s Irish whiskey if you drink. Buttons, slogans, bumper stickers, leprechauns in bright green knickers, all celebrate the spirit of the day. Tenors, rovers, Irish dance, Irish eyes, and sweet romance fill the air. Parades and bagpipes, an Irish brogue claimed by all, devout and rogue. Catholic, Protestant, Baptist too, I even met an Irish Jew. A little thing like lineage cannot get in the way; in Chicago, you’re Irish by decree on St. Patrick’s Day.