Saturday, January 30, 2010

Three Poems

Grissom Street

i walked the length of Grissom Street,
never met a soul:
too early in the morning,
too late, too dark, too cold.

i found some solace in my walk;
i cannot tell you why;
perhaps the darkness and the cold
felt better than to cry.

dawn’s first light was lurking near;
i walked back to my flat,
not much more than empty rooms;
i require no more than that.

my days are spent in cheerless grind
to make a buck or so
before returning to my flat,
and the sleepless nights i know.

i’ll walk on Grissom Street again,
breathe in the dark, the cold;
i might balk at a startled cat
for i am not too bold.

the cold night air on Grissom Street
allows me to think quite clearly,
accepting things that have to be;
wondering what i hold too dearly.

there are no signs on Grissom Street;
those who walk here know the way;
it’s not a place to dawdle;
nor a place to stay and play.

Some late, cold walks on Grissom Street
i sometimes give in to dreams,
as dark as my realm of Grissom Street:
they are as bleak as the dark street seems.

i’ve grown older during these cold, dark walks;
though no strangers did i greet,
i’ve heard some voices telling me
I’ll remain on Grissom Street.

– Bonita, California
- April 3, 2005

To Maureen and Sarah on Discovering a Photograph of Maureen on Dictionary Hill

Silhouette in eighty-five,
a dream she let me share;
the silhouette and dream
remain today.
Even better,
there are now two silhouettes to
frame in my memory.

- Bonita, California
- November 2007

Land of Yeats

They, like us, are not getting it,
Thirty years or so, by my count,
later than us:
Land of Yeats,
first edition and autographed,
even the literary rebel Wilde collected in
musty shelves of the bookstore,
next to “Duke’s” pub;
both of which would be
plastic clean franchised –
courtesy of Mr. Kroc, et al –
by us
by now.
we digest the mustiness of the old books,
the dark brew of Guinness with Irish stew,
gusts of seawind and racing clouds outside.
Thirty years ago or so, by my count,
we had hootenanny folk,
free love – which is never really free –
which we packaged, marketed, promoted:
sales, sales, sales.
Now we gather in the land of Yeats,
next to the North Sea
for a sales promotion
to experience what?
These folks of this land of Yeats are
thirty years or so, by my count, from
plastic and sales
have been around
a thousand or more years, by my count,
longer than us;
so perhaps
they will not succumb to plastic packaging too fast,
the musty books,
the dark brew
will remain
part of the land of Yeats
seawind swept landscape for
another thousand years or so,
by my count.

– Dublin, Ireland
- March 17, 2005

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