MY VIEW FROM ARVERNE
by A. Griffin

---

This is my view from Arverne,
a peninsula resort,
a town of many wonders,
of an extraordinary sort.
You'll see many amazing things
to open up your eyes,
but also some familiar things that you may recognize.

Where do I start?
To forget something would be my greatest fear,
I wrote a lengthy detailed list with far too many tiers.
I'll throw that out,
and focus on the things I hold most dear,
and tell you about some of the things
that I can see from here.

The sight of the Island Railway
as blue-striped trains head toward the bay,
is wonderful to watch,
a show for which I always stay,
so I wave greetings to the silver cars
right from my own backyard,
east of Beach 69th Street,
on Amstel Boulevard.

I see rabbits
nibble buttergreens
and flee to hide behind the scenes
in woodsy, brambled, sand dune lands,
where seagrass is tall and green.

And friend's discussions on the street
are frequently suspended
by the roaring jet propulsion
of incoming airline engines.
From across they sea they came,
now set to land at Idlewild,
and they shout their blessings to the winds,
to thank them for the ride.

There's no street that I can see here
with the name
Beach Channel Drive,
but I'll show you a
Green Line streetcar
that west,
to Riis Park,
you can ride.

Cats
pluck catfish
from the gutters
of Coral Way, and Seagrass Lane,
to let free seafood go to waste
would be an utter shame,
so on fish the felines feast,
when lunar orbital commotion
attracts the northern bay
to mingle with the southern ocean.

I count seashells
paved in sidewalks,
where chalk-written squares remain -
the courts of games
that only city children can explain.

I see the bank
beside the Chinese restaurant down the street,
that gives out little lollipops to all the kids they meet,
and also to sweet-toothed adults,
in a rush and on their feet,
in an overbearing hurry now,
to quickly loose their teeth.

The Electric Park, west, on 98th -
the planet watchers hate it,
as it clears the Arverne sky of stars
but they have no choice but to take it.
Playland dazzles from afar,
riders on inbound flying boats
as they splash down
where Hughes and Earhart
long ago would hang their coats.

Kites fly,
when the air is right,
the wind can take them high,
and scores of kites,
though tiny each,
are collective in their might.
They parasol the beaches
like a lampshade for the sky,
and they stay aloft and loiter
until the green moon
starts to rise.

The hot dog reeds
from the northern marsh
have all natural casings,
but picking them's illegal,
so you should just get yours from Nathan's,
as water wieners are the only source
we know for sure can feature
as high nutrition food
for Rockawayan coastal beavers.
As creatures from Queens
they dress up theirs
with seaweed sauerkraut,
and for buns they gather beachwood,
so the dogs won't roll about,
and if you steal their munchies,
what will happen isn't good.
They'll shadow you like ninjas
to your neighborhood,
with plans
to chew down your your house
and add the timbers
to their bayside dams.

Forgotten streets that lost their names
are overgrown and shambled,
and tending them is no one's job,
trash tangles in the brambles.
Urban decay they call it,
and they plan to pave it over,
but old bungalows
are pretty homes
to refuge seeking plovers.

Trolleybuses
spit sparks right out
from their suspended wires
as dollar vans
jump out in front to
nab their would-be riders.

The rotary phone
chimes its tones
out from Beach 116th,
as the coin-op
in the alley by the
corner Woolworth's rings.
A repairman, calling from his home
young, mirthful, and cunning
waits to ask
whoever answers,
if their refrigerator's running.

On certain days, look westward,
and with wonder on your face,
you can see rising above buildings
rockets launched from earth to space.
Fort Tilden dispatches satellites that roam the sky with grace,
and the boosters fall into the sea, far off from anyplace.
Sometimes they wash up on the shore, on beaches to the east,
but by conservation law,
each Spring,
all space departures cease.
The launching pads go silent,
and the rockets pause their missions,
because Breezy Point's a stopping joint,
for migratory gryphons.

I can see the iron schoolyard fence
the firefighters cut through,
while parents watched in suspense,
to rescue sons and daughters too,
when the seawalls couldn't fend
nor the massive pumps could stop
the insurgent ocean storming through the eastern Edgemere lock.

In calmer times, I'll sip hot cider.
wearing my winter coat,
and from my home's front yard,
relax
and wave at
narrowboats.
With boilers hot with steam,
their whistles blow for all to hear
as they traverse the canal system,
heading to and from Edgemere.

Seedy milkweed cotton balls and dandelion fluff,
joins candy wrappers, plastic bags, and other city junk,
in seadove nests,
where the songbirds
every morning sing,
whatever sort of weather
the incoming day will bring.

Seaweed strewn across the shore
is the edible tape,
of mermaid's audio cassettes,
that's free for all to take.
A daily harvest eligible,
for fishermen to collect,
a certain bet,
and always ripe,
to garnish the day's catch.

I see the public gardens
by the new air polo pitch,
where dragonflies lift players
up,
here on Beach 66th,
and the cottage named for Levelers
by whom the house was built
where those with little money
get free sandwiches and milk.

Library books,
telling tales of talking trains
and flying dragons,
travel to children's seaside homes
by Radio Flyer wagon,
wheels thumping over boardwalk planks
as loudly as they can,
to drown out the merry music of the passing ice cream van.

I see the pier that stretches seaward
extending past Beach 67th,
it connects to islands built of steel,
a project most impressive:
four great suspended platforms,
reached eighty meters into heaven.
On top - apartments, parks,
boutique shops,
and night-life haunts abound,
all sorts of things that are maintained,
to keep the tourists wowed.
If you really want to go there,
we can take the train right now,
and many of those living there,
are people from Lunau,
the lunar world
whose fuzzy folks
would likely give you pause,
they have paws for feet,
and floppy ears,
and muzzles like a dog's,
and tails like a kangaroo's
upon which giant worms will ride,
and the worms hold their umbrellas
when it's pouring rain outside.
They don't have claws,
though they have stingers,
but they don't use them for trouble,
and they chew gum instead of smoking,
so please don't burst their bubbles.
But people that aren't humans
aren't much to shout about,
and to explain that all of that business now
would burn our time right out.

Back on land,
H Train redbirds cross
southmost Yamecah bridge,
serving Mannahatta riders on their beachside pilgrimage,
and those who exit with their poles
at the station called The Raunt
to sell across the island all the fish that they had caught,
and surfers with their boards that come and go throughout the day,
to 116th's beaches,
from across the pretty bay.

I also see the crimson castle
where long ago was stored
an armored ocean serpent
that once was used for war.
Now the building is a public school,
a most venerable fate,
bringing hopes the terrors of the past
stay on the textbook page.

See the disused parkway bus shelters
that stand like crested waves,
cast in iron,
pitted by the salty wind-swept spray,
the cutter's torch of nature,
scrapping in its patient way,
taking off a millimeter,
about every hundredth day.

And in summer, temporary tails
like an otter's will grow,
in all the otterficial colors
of the Otter Pop rainbow,
behind the kids
upon the swings,
when the heat that August brings,
make cold treats the way, of course
to cool, at the park on 74th.

And every June, on the longest day,
the railway celebrates like this:
they bring out the old museum train that the people hate to miss.
The vintage electric coaches may not get to travel much,
but to usher in the solstice,
this grand journey is a must.
They roll by and blow the whistle
to give fanciful delight
to baseball playing kids,
amused by the special sight.
Just as the batter's winding up
to swing at that first pitch,
the players stop
to hail the train
from 1926.

The iron bridge in Edgemere,
when it rises, seen so clear,
the metal beams observed above the roofs and belvederes.
Bells ring, and ring, and ring,
as the bridge begins to open,
all to rouse the waiting passengers
that soon will be in motion,
when ferries cross,
between
the sheltered bay,
and distant reaching ocean.

As I look west I see it:
the colossal Dayton Tower,
and from atop of there, take in the sights
and smell the coastal flowers,
and see the bridge to Brukelen
and its fancy double towers,
sky blue colored,
and cello-scrolled,
like the cresting waves below.
Pretty yes, and fanciful,
but never just for show,
their rigid strength resounding
through the wind, and rain, and snow,
whose coming
dealt the ferry lines
an everlasting blow,
whose deck of steel is strong,
of wired mesh that's like a cage,
making auto tires sing a song
melodious and strange.

The towers chime,
and car wheels stop,
when it's water traffic time,
and Marine Parkway metal rises,
so marine vessels please their minders -
and thus pass the dirty cargo ships
and pretty ocean liners.

And further off,
on Surf Avenue,
you'll spot the old amusement space.
You can see the jumping tower
that looms over Tilyou's place,
and past that,
the bridge to Richmond,
longer than the Golden Gate,
but less famous and ornate,
than that great span
in the western bear flag state.

Spider crabs
build seaweed nets
in the algae-coated timbers
of casinos that died
when waters rised
and hotels went up in cinders.

Boardwalk arcades have ocean pinball,
the ring for heated high-score brawls,
on machines with driftwood flippers,
and giant pearls for balls,
the player's fingers flinch,
and it's a merry time for all,
'cause Fiorello's stupid hammer
simply couldn't smash them all.

The emerald moon shines bright on certain nights,
when the sky is crystal clear,
and if you say the special words,
you can become a fish-tailed deer.
Enjoy the kelp that grows
upon the pillars of the piers
and roam the undersea hotels,
that were resting there for years.
Use your hooves to crack the scallops,
have a fresh Atlantic feast,
and go home to sleep it off,
once you are no longer a beast.

From my view of Arverne,
you'll see it all,
and find magic,
every day.

All from my own Arverne,
my Arverne by the Bay.

---

Thanks for reading!


Where is Arverne? Here is Arverne:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arverne,_Queens

Image Source:
https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Arverne,_NY.jpg

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