Glen Echo Amusement Park

This poem is written for the accompanying new painting of the same name, by the artist Paul McGehee. Paul is a brilliant local artist from the Washington, D.C. area whose forte is creating moments in time on canvass. I encourage everyone to checkout his website and art at http://www.paulmcgeheeart.com/mainframe.shtml. He's also on facebook.  Note the painstaking detail in his paintings. I'm sure you'll find poetic inspiration through his works.


Remember those days,
That twiddled away,
Those days spent with family and friends?
Bright sunny days,
With warm summer rays,
Those days you never wanted to end?

I can recall,
A park near Great Falls,
One with a grand carousel.
With Coaster Dips,
Flying Scooter trips,
And the popcorn they used to sell.

My parents and I,
Before they both died,
Would visit 2 or 3 times a year.
Nestled quaintly,
Outside of D.C.,
Where the Potomac and C&O run near

A post card demo,
Of live Art Deco,
Where artists and bands would appear.
With picnic grounds,
And merry go rounds,
Puppet shows that brought children cheer.

A nostalgic lark,
Lit up after dark,
The musical sounds you would hear.
The Spanish Ballroom,
And Calliope tunes,
And the Wurlitzer Organ-ere.

A century old scene,
Pastoral, serene,
A dream of entertainment and art.
Step back in time,
And magically find,
Glen Echo Amusement Park.


Copyright © October 2010
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
100810

Bartholomew Dylan Banks

From the earliest memories of friends and kin,
Life was good for Batholomew Dylan Banks.
Early on folks were enamored with him.
All were tolerant of his childish pranks.
People enjoyed his charismatic charm,
His lack of manners judged auspiciously coy.
His obstinate behavior, caused little harm,
As he was lauded with many an "at-ta boy".

Friends honoured him with compliments and praise,
Lavish offerings of presents and toys,
Gifts were aplenty in Bart's adolescent days.
His possessions were his pride and joy.
As he became a young man, people began,
To reprove his social arrogance,
His life took a turn, he could not understand,
Why so many soon avoided his presence.

He was truly inspired by all he aspired,
Things came easier to Bart than you and me.
His one fatal flaw, a self-centered desire,
A lack of grace and humility.
His haughty disdain forged an arrogant sin.
You see, Bart never once did give thanks,
For all that ever really mattered to him,
Was Bartholomew Dylan Banks.

Some say it was sad, the way he turned out.
Some remember him uncommonly thin.
He never did prosper or ever amount,
To the life he envisioned for him.
He never married, never had kids,
Never found his place in the ranks.
And when he died, no one remembered him,
Bartholomew Dylan Banks.



Copyright © June 2009
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
101409

Comatose

My mind wanders aimlessly,
My head bobbles as a fan whirs...somewhere?
Dreams come in unison, sporadically.
I startle, as a bird flutters by the window,
Six rings of a phone...silence again, only louder.


Copyright © June 2009
Kevin Mooney