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The Ballad of Hawk Road. (02/09/04 ) | |
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I chanced upon a chat one day, with one who let his fingers play, On guitar strings the poets say, plucked the canvas on which these words lay. I told this music-maker, the greatest in the land, About this dream I had, and the waking scheme I planned: The internet was my safe bet, where anyone can reign, Now that I had this strange idea, I just needed a domain. I closed my eyes and tried to see, the gentle chords my guide. I flew above these shores of ours, and the sea our fishers ride. At last I left this drifting state, and knew my vision's humble fate. The music-maker stopped his song, its echos slow to run along. I calmly turned, smiled, then spoke, the impatient silence finally broke: Like tides that ebb, so does the Web, exposing treasures to be hoed, The proud Cape Light will represent this site, that I'm naming The Hawk Road. I left the music-maker's room, and walked outside to see, My friend, the distant beacon, and I swear it smiled at me. The snow was slain by rains that roared, and the April air held birds that soared; Smiles were thawed and worn again, and life rose up where death had been. It was then The Hawk Road left its womb, and struggled toward the light; A dozen aunts and uncles watched, and tucked it in each night. It grew up quick and earned respect, as more joined in the fight; To raise this savior child they hoped could cripple Boredom's might. The Hawk Talks were like campfire yarns, discussed while drunk in captains' barns; The Weeklies featured local news the Coast Guard writers dared not use. There were photos, movies, a Rumour Clipboard, too; But in those early Hawk Road days, reading was all anyone could do. Then in June a great thing happened, as our child became a man. The Clipboard lost its squeaky voice, and the legacy began. Like a book before it goes to press, its virgin pages white, The Hawk Road became a meeting place for villagers to unite. To speak your mind, some came to find, was a chance to announce your hate. A Clipboard name could in secret blame, the real-life foes we make. But the problems passed, and we saw at last, the good things we could do: That our little town was the best around, yet there was still room to improve. These days there's much to read, as more join and sow their seed; The topics grow, and as we all know, you can never tell where they'll lead. Those early members, the first thirty or so, nurtured their young one and watched it grow, And found friendship in each others words, whose faces we didn't need to know. There was Chachi, who some might remember as Scrab, And Mudcat and Rizzen, and Johnnybebad. There was Strikergal, Kissfan, and CockawhitCuti, And Islandboy, spokesman for those who are fruity. A chat room appeared and many got frisky, flirting with strangers while sipping on whiskey; A Gallery followed, a place just for pics; then a directory for websites, called Top Site List. And still it exists without corporate banners, or pop-ups and their poor internet manners; The world doesn't need more kids born in greed, if food they chew from their parents will do. Our Hawk Road friend has travelled far, inspired by a concrete star; Though the music-maker strums this ballad dead, His tune carries on in this child we all fed. |
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