I've continued my obsession with the Dream Away Lodge with this little song. My song writing career is hampered by a complete inability to sing, but hey ... I don't let that stop me! Here are my lyrics to "Dream Away Lodge". I'm searching for the right music ... I envision it as a slow waltz ...
Feel free to contribute to music and/or lyrics. If chosen, we'll split the writing credits when it hits the big time :-)
Dream Away Lodge
Follow the ghost of the Albany stage
As it climbs through the late evening fog
Swaying it’s way through the old Berkshire hills
Up to the Dream Away Lodge
Gray haired musicians play pining love songs
Diners talk while friends laugh at the bar
Children chase fire flies out on the lawn
In the glow of the dream away lodge
History and mystery are these towns’ stock in trade
It’s the tourists that pay all the bills
When the Tanglewood crowd has returned to New York
The fiddles float soft through the hills
The roads of the Berkshires are paths through an ocean
Darkness starts thirty feet from the road
The hearts of the people are warmed by the flowers
And tied to the earth by their grandparents stones
A boy launched in New England, circling Venice, now lost in Lo Angeles, blogging as Frank Kearns.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
The simplest things can bring such pleasure. For us walking the dog is a way to connect with our neighborhood and ourselves.
Wet grass breathing
Wet grass breathing
Sunday, July 15, 2012
The DreamAway Lodge
Neon in the night
We took a lot of pictures on our trip, but there are some places that you feel would be almost sacrilegious to photograph. That is the way I felt about the DreamAway lodge.
The old county road is a narrow lane heading steeply up October Mountain, in the middle of a vast sea of the green forests of the Berkshire Mountains in western Massachusetts. These mountains are low and soft, rounded at the top, more like hills for those used to the towering steep mountains of the Rockies or the Sierras. Travelling through these hills, though, is like swimming under water in a murky pond. The thick mixed woods close in on every road, and what few vistas there are reveal no distinct landmarks to provide orientation: only a rolling ocean of undulating green.
The climb up the mountain seems endless. As the road curves back and forth, the shadows of late afternoon cover the road and steep the forest in a dark cloak, rich with the scent of broad leaf trees, thick with the oxygen of rich air, and heavy with mysteries that lie in the miles of woods.
Suddenly the road opens up to a clearing, ringed by a wall of trees, and there at the top is the DreamAway Lodge.
children barefoot in the grass
young lovers huddling on the edge of illumination
from the white light of windows
and the green and blue of a neon sign
innocence and age
untrained teenage waiters
the song of the soft guitar
the foot fall of ancient innkeepers
old pony-tailed musicians come back
to find missing pieces of their soul
while toddlers chase fireflies in the island of light
as night settles in on October Mountain
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