| THE HOUSE ON WHO HILL When the world becomes a hullabaloo When a small respite is overdue With a blistered back and a heavy view Make a clean escape from a workman’s shoe Where the sun is high and the sky is blue Where the birds are out and the air is new This mystical place is the haven for you Read on and discover the House of the Who ----- Let’s all go down to the meeting field. Take a break - from the madness; a break - from the hump; up Gun Hill Road, past the miller’s old wheel, just a furlong mark from the hundred-year stump. It's a journey of ages - don't let it go by without taking the time to live all the stages - the traffic and lines and the mountains to climb. Pack lightly and well for the trip may be long Double the time if directions are wrong You're better advised to make little of haste For any time worrying's just set to waste Be early or late, but the venue remains It won't disappear and it never will change So wisdom suggests that you stop and fill up 'fore traveling too far, top your tank and your cup Keep company good as you move down the road For common intent surely eases the load It's been there two hundred plus years to this date It's not likely to crumble if you're half an hour late From up in the north where the snowfall is steady They load up their tents and make thermoses ready Sleepers and trailers and pillows and sheets Excitedly buzzing to get on the streets For these are the ones who are rarely around They've been there before but have moved out of town Their jobs and routines for a weekend will hold As they caravan southward away from the cold And some of the faraway goers are new Friends of the friends of a friend of a Who They've heard all the stories and made up their minds That the next time it happens they won't be behind Take a turn to Ophelia’s Glen. We didn’t, ever, think we’d make it back again. And many the reasons they come as they do And many the friends of the House of the Who ----- Some come for adventures - to do what they cannot in everyday living. Some come for renewal - to cast away troubles of days unforgiving. Some travel the highways to get to the spot. Some only for something they've long since forgot. Many are regulars; Many are not. No matter the reason or method they use. They all have arrived; there's little to lose And all will be merry and party until The sun shall come up o'er The House on Who Hill It’s a place of marvels and tales, where neighbors exchange the old; the strange stories are shared, often created spirits bared - rarely invaded. Memories are made and are living there still... everyone’s welcome. The House on Who Hill Come for the music, the feast, the throng They’re singing all the Big Man’s songs, With myriad others for dancing along Apart from the bars and the barns unremarkable; Starts and imparts and departs from the largest - farthest - - swarthiest - echoes... echoes...... echoes............ echoes......................... The House on Who Hill Revelers: dancing and spinning, lit by the flames. Elves and gnomes and fairies. Gypsies and vikings and queens. Revelers: Circling, and wandering to chaotic design Beating the earth - a millipede rhythm sublime The bonfire rages fierce, mounting the fresh skids and fuel-logs in a vault to the inked sky and hollow June moon, perched precariously on the brink of control as the foot-drums roll through the night. The foot-drummers and minstrels - feeding each other with cyclical song-fuel to drive and to elevate, thrive and congregate viciously, carelessly; passionately writhing and striving to survive while contriving to grow past the bounds of ground-dwelling limits and instincts that formerly formally held them both pounded down in their unfounded earthen-born forms and be torn - from root-tangled boots of worrying; and hurrying; scurrying - from painful chains until nothing remains but their claims to a body are lost for the cost of a freedom from flesh; and all that is left is a beautiful, unworldly, swirling whirlwind of consensual nonsensical senses ascending over the glen in an unrecognizable scrapbook collection of ecstasy: The House on Who Hill ----- A worldly fare edges the green: veggies and beans. Hummus and hearts Red wine and berries crawfish and grits. Recent-killed animals turning on spits Sustenance plenty, for travelers famished, Fills wooden plates to be hidden, and vanished Phalangic utensils the style of the hour As fast as prepared, the food is devoured Steadily trickling, the to and the fro Fire to forest to tables the flow Transaction, reaction and all in between The costumed partakers are all that they seem 'Til vendors are empty and load up their trays And quietly ready for other days Out through the torchlights surrounding the scene A slow rolling caravan, wheel under beam And only a stomach is hungry by will For food is aplenty at The House on Who Hill The ultimate method for breaking the fast The ultimate gathering - the best; the last For out past the clearing and out past the trees Live the yertles who rule everything that they see And grinches who frown on a frolicking bevy Of patternless prancing, nonsensical noise With no room in their hearts for life's little joys They call in their favors, a touch of the dial And then in an instant that's hardly worthwhile The badges arrive unannounced at the gate With the merry oblivious 'til it's too late And the socket falls empty, the chord is unplugged For a faraway scrooge likely houses a bug In the place where he sits while he listens for news Of the end of the fun at the House of the Whos But Whos will not lose Nor frown nor be beaten The Whos will not snooze 'Til the bottle is empty The fare has been eaten If silence is requisite, Whos will comply With a campfire sing-a-long out 'neath the sky And if life doesn't call they'll be sitting there still The steadfast companions who meet at Who Hill Solid to hollow One by one Musicians follow the lead And pick from the logs For a seat or an Ottoman Popping a bottle and Starting to strum While the rest settle in To randomly drum And sing what they know And hum when they don't The House on Who Hill ----- But with morning songbirds restless And the bonfire burning calm The beautiful dreamers retire from the masses Ones by ones, twos by twos Filtered from the lawn To tents and trailers in the taller grasses And time continues And so it goes And so it goes The House on Who Hill ----- The dark sky now gray The light of new day Breaking slow to force away The night Stragglers remain Carrying a refrain Of desperation or resolve To greet the light Songs have ended Memories begun The summit attained 'Fore the rise of the sun A steady mist of morning settles in across the glen Where once was clothed in darkness The other side is shadowed but is surely seen again Lanterns dance among the trees While conversated laughter can be caught among the breeze The hearty few now and then Are spotted sliding 'cross the glen Shadows in the murky fog Shadows set upon the log Whose size and height have kept it cool More useful as a seat than fuel The rising sun is gaining strength To fight above the trees As even sturdy heads at length Begin to drop to chest or knees And briefly for a time or two, The motion stopped The silence huge Nature watches over its hidden paradise With loving eyes Before the earliest of sleepers begin to rise But after the last of the partiers Have closed their eyes For a moment all is wonderfully still at The House on Who Hill ----- The sun is quickly steaming toward its peak as sleeping bags are shaken off of rested feet and sleepy campers wander off to meet and greet and speak with other early risers washing cobwebs and crust and streaks of easy dreams from faces at the creek. At first the drowsy worm-catchers douse their dour grimaces with icy water sourly, until out of the somnolent stupor they begin to recall the situation and events of hours ago and proceed to shower their faces and brighten their visages in the first blinding then enlightening sunshine high. New logs happily tossed Smoldering coals nearly lost to inattention And lack of desire But quickly again is jumping the fire Smaller than last and under control A skillet in one hand, the other a roll As brunch is prepared from personal store Reenergization to levels before The fortunate few can linger in bed And sleep off the rainbows of noise in their heads But many must ready with little delay Returning to work on the following day There are tents to be folded Goodbyes to be said Campsites to clean and well-wishes to spread Roads to be traveled and traveled until The next reconvention at The House on Who Hill ----- The times have grown quickly With change in the air The field's lain too silent For many to bear But all things will end As the cycle revolves And anything troubled Is anything solved And the sun will come up In a day unforeseen To the tents of the Whos Scattered o'er the green Of another location Now furthur away From the nay saying locals And cares of the day And the ancient foundation And storm weathered shingles And cozy back porch That carried the torch And passed it when ready To further domains Will always be home Will always remain The House on Who Hill By-- John DiGenova terrapin_john@yahoo.com |
| John DiGenova The Poet The Songwriter |
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