An Afternoon
Just hitchhiking trying to
cross the bridge. No takers
until she passed by.
The on ramp from University
Avenue is a quick ride to the
the toll booths.
Carrying nothing but a bota
bag, a wet wool poncho
covering my back.
Hippie looking innocence
she wore well, a sweet
alluring aphrodisiac.
A code of conduct was in
place. If a lady picks you
up, she sets the pace.
Where you going? Anywhere
past the bridge is fine. You
looking for something?
Something? I guess I am.
What is it? I wish I knew
but don’t just yet.
How about you? I don’t
have time to look. Just
making ends meet.
But if you could, where
would you go? I guess
I like Seattle.
Why there? I like the rain.
Grey sky is all life is
giving me anyway.
I would go to Tucson. Was
there as a kid. I saw a big
rock that spoke to me.
But there is so much dust
there. Nothing a little rain
can’t stop.
How old are you? How old
are you? Old enough to
know better. Me too.
I am going all the way to San
Jose. You want to go there
for the company?
I don’t have money for gas so
it’s up to you. I got enough to
get us there and more.
What’s a kid like you doing
hitchhiking? Nothing else to
do. Bored?
Yeah, I guess you can say that.
Must be more to that. I just
need to run away.
I ran away once. I was too
young to know that you
can’t ever leave.
It’s like your shadow. Your
past is like the poncho you
are wearing now.
It is draped on you forever.
You can’t take it off. It just
hangs time on you.
Past is like a second skin that
you can’t clean easily so
you live with it.
I was married once. Can you
believe that? At eighteen,
married to run away.
I couldn’t let him touch me.
Not after our first date. His
hands held hate.
You ever felt hate? Women
can feel hate. It is hard and
unforgiving, a fight.
Do men feel hate? I don’t
know about hate. I get angry
I get ready to fight.
I wasn’t allowed to hit girls. Mom
would not have it, though my
sisters could punch.
And punch they did. But I could
not raise a hand to them or the
belt would make me pay.
Hold my hand. Let me feel your
touch. Your hands are calloused
but soft and gentle.
Why would you say that? Men are
supposed to have a good grip. That’s
not what I am saying.
This has nothing to do with grip.
It has to do with searching not
with imprisoning.
Touch my face. Don’t worry I
can still drive. Lighten your
touch just a bit.
Hold my face like you would a
newborn puppy just born of
his mother’s sack.
See how good that feels. Promise
me you will always touch women
in this way. Promise?
Well, we are here in San Jose. Do
you know where you are going?
I think I do now.
In the throes of thirst
Rush of water from the burst
pipe flooded yards for miles
around but you could not
drink the water and
I was dying of thirst.
Too much pesticide leached
Into the rows and waves
of rising water. You and
the glistening light of
reflecting chemicals
Were further down the road
away from the worst of it
and me and the rest of
the old folk just walked
gently, accepting
Muddy water, insects and
floating rats into the pant
leg openings that waved
apart in the levy break
cascade upon us.
No one warned until the
rain from the gulf storm
became more than a
nuisance and pounding
sheets of water force
uprooted us all.
Don’t drink the water!
I heard the warning at
every turn and I cupped
my hands and tried to
drink the rain without
it dripping away.
Dehydration is a nasty
thing. First it dries you
out then it drives you
mad. And then the
crazy gives way to
the blackout.
In the latter stages of
cancer a guy I knew at
the bar took to drinking
water by the boat load.
I am burning up he said,
filling the bedpan.
I thought of him as the
lights went out and I
thought of him again
when they came
back on.
Budding Fall
Wheat waves of fading
yellow orange sunset
brush across a
horizon memory
Of the day we wept
at the loss of an
innocence we did
not know yet.
The knowledge came
later when the stress
of time lessened and
passed away.
Steps, steps and more
steps, climbing loose
limbed and agile to
our dreams.
Eye-to-eye we looked
deep within and with
out, hazel and brown
meeting halfway.
Ellington played jingle
like In the background
bouncing off the Larry
Blake’s walls.
Before the days which
came later, when you
said, “You know, I don’t
even like jazz.”
Who is to know that a
thing like music can
get in the way, but
a note is struck.
A note once heard can
not be unstruck like
the waning days of
summer love.
Last steps together are
slow, deliberate in their
uncertainty like muggy
budding fall.
2024: No More Time for Sleeping
Why is my heart not
filled with rage as it had
been before? Lessons
past now cold?
The days beyond good and
evil are upon us as power
to hate is the currency of
the undying day.
Fatigue is the goal. Tire
them out so every new
indictment is so much
meaningless fluff.
When do I jump back in?
when do I put on the
fighting face again?
I am ready. Are you?
January 6 was real. As
real as the day that tore
down the towers. Don’t
ever forget.
History is being rewritten
in Florida like trying to
paint a victim as if she
is the one to blame.
White youths are taking
guns off Second Amendment
racks and killing those whose
face is black.
People are starting to feel
empowered to disrespect
gays, lesbians, transgenders
and all they hate.
Healers are minimized. Total
destruction is the only goal
with which to overturn
our democracy.
As Wes Anderson’s latest
film says, you can’t wake
up if you don’t sleep. The
alarm has rung.
Time to start the campaign.
No more sleeping. Time to
Wake! Ready for the coming
fight my friends.
Wondering along
The morning dirt freshly
scented and laundered
by the dew smells of roots,
and mending manure.
Opening blossoms welcome
hummingbirds feverously
searching for the sweet
nectar of fuel.
Garden smells are not for
everyone. Soil caking
‘neath fingernails, pruning
shears at ready.
Morning conversation with
trees, shrubs, and trailing
plants. How are you this
fine morning?
Leaves carry on the talk
with greening health. Lady
bugs walk along the stalky
boulevard rail.
Coastal birds quickly fly
from limb to limb and
settle on the telephone
hanging wire.
Dogs are barking at each
other. I am here. Are you
there? Still checking my
parameter.
Tires roll along the road
outside the fence. Purple
flowering shrub whose
name is unrecalled.
I check my watch. Why I
don’t know. I’ve no place
to be or nowhere I am
supposed to go.
Like the garden and the
dog I am becoming a
creature of repeated
habits of morn.
We will grow old together
as I water one and rub
the other, the golden
days alive and full.
On the night train: Bay Area Rapid Transit
BART becomes a select mental hospital at night.
People talking, some yelling at voices in that
indistinguishable hatred that will not quiet,
demanding acts of violence to go away.
A thin man, race, color, gender, irrelevant as madness
knows no national borders or social boundaries. His
white tee shirt stained brownish brackish as if it had been
used to wipe up spilled coffee and then put back on to
dry from agitated body heat.
The woman in the bathing suit panties, turquoise blue with
matching top: is she a prostitute or just a sprite come
to ultra-real life? Approaching men and women and
conversing with the air in a childish playfulness as if
asking to be pushed on a swing.
A man in the black security guard uniform, steadily
retying the handle straps on his lunch sack, his
moving lips appear to be spraying prayers to all
those near him, and yet he makes no eye contact,
as all this was a kind of hell.
Madness and its little sister anxiety are constant
travelers on this night train. People no longer
fearful, just a nuisance is this craziness, like
having to wait in line as you order that latte
with soy milk and extra foam.
Morning Read
In my sixty-seventh year, I have taken to
reading in the time of morn when the
morning dew dries.
I look at the king waves that are crashing
into the receding shore as high tide takes
charge of the coast.
It is my Walden Pond of sorts on this dawn,
with its rhythmic cadence of suds and foam
on this quiet foggy morn.
I can take in the words, even as I reread them
to taste the author’s intent like the dot of fig
jam on my fingertips.
I have taken to tea after coffee, reversing the
Dutch tradition which my love uses to start her
day’s scheduled fare.
The quiet but for the waves is intoxicating like the
hidden delicious memory of a first love’s haunting
stillness preceding a kiss.
I am everyday abandoning responsibilities, moorings
from which I could not in the past unhook, becoming
less relevant to all but myself.
At the start of life, I longed for my parents, in later life I
longed for my beloved, in the bosom of my elder years,
I am longing for myself.
After the imagined amends I make in my heart to all I
have harmed, the thought of a life well lived comforts
me with a soft loving hug.
In harmony with Thoreau, I find a placid reposed mind
makes kindness simple to embrace and behold like the
feel of the sun’s warmth.
To the letters I return to give due to the writer’s struggle
to bring life to a page, making the observed imagined and
the divine revealed in story form.
Ah, a morning read before anyone calls, before the reality
of the day falls, before the hint of regret and its partner
dismay seek to spoil a lovely day.
Among the Redwoods: Daniel's Poem
Marbled murrelets nest among the
tall redwoods and at some appointed
time return to the sea.
Marble murrelets are known as the
Enigma of the Pacific, dove-sized
and mysterious.
Marble murrelets are rare. They
do not form breeding colonies but
rather keep to themselves.
Among the trails in the Mendocino
tall trees area, a friend points out
the web-footed bird.
Marble murrelets belong to the sea.
The land is a truck stop for them.
Floating is their destiny.
His mystery and magic reminded
me of the marble murrelet. He
longed to be free.
Nesting in the forest and valley for
a bit, it did not surprise me when
he returned to the sea.
Surroundings: Sally's Poem
Surrounded by buildings architected
to house people and businesses, a
Dr. Suess silliness emanates.
Everything goes up to the sky,
competing to take up space
from land that creates.
Towers hosting peoples’ anxieties
and passing along a few dollars
to a CAO and his mates.
I stay close to the open air where
a cup of coffee and a writing desk
house new dreams.
The majestic redwoods and the scattered
oaks and pines, the weeping willows—all
being, just being, despite us.
My system of exchange is words that at
times make sense to some and confuse
so many others.
I sit at the crossroads and imagine the
crosswalks I traversed when I worked
in little boxes in the sky.
Enough is now my baseline and the
thought of more is something I
thankfully left behind.
The blue sky in the morning and the
scattered stars of night are the only
currencies I need to survive.
I am freely surrounded by pastures
of gratitude where the songs of
truth drown out lies.
Then I see your kind face and I feel
the softness of your heart. I breathe
in your nurturing eyes.
Simple words are hard to find. Towers
love complex words that make it hard
for others to thrive.
Here at the crossroads the sign for
happiness is clear and direct: Just
be where you are at.
“I can only be where my feet are
at,” she said. She sounded like
a clever cat with a hat.
But she is right, I am surrounded
by the space where my feet rest
and my heart begats.
And words begat words and “So
it goes,” said Vonnegut. Thus, I
go to where my feet are at.
The Road to Lakeport
When in the course of travel one
Veers away from the interstate
To roam the old highways which
Run on trails left by curious settlers
Of days gone by, a freshness of
Heart and mind take in Oaks that
Lead to Redwoods as high as the
Eye can visually fly.
The road up Cobb Mountain
To Robert Louis Stevenson’s writing
Den and the path to Middletown
Smell of drying grass as the sun bakes
The ground to a crisp brush, but most
Of all one feels the distant presence
Of tribes who called this area home
for eons of years.
Mount Konocti with vineyards lying
At its feet looks across the valley
Where indigenous people lived off
The bounty and essence of a land
That now lives off the tourists up to
Spend time on a water wonder
Called the Clearlake.
The road to Lakeport is lined with
Joy and sadness. The beauty of
Nature is evident to all but the
Loneliness that resides here is one
That incites tears, tears for what it
Can be and tears for what has been.
A lake filled with tears.
As a pilgrim to this beautiful place,
I can only wonder what it can be.
Like the settlers and the tribes that
Still inhabit here, I ask: can the dreams
Of redemption for a forgotten land
Be fulfilled in the days of social
Media-fueled schemes?
Out of Place
The palm dried out as a warning.
Its brown and withered frons
hanging like weathered signs
at abandoned restaurants.
For a while, the palm flourished,
a gambler on a run at a craps
table buoyed by yells of “roll
another winning one.”
Eventually, its luck ran out. It
should never have been planted
above the Santa Barbara County
line. They were right.
Out of place, out of time, a mis-
used syllables out of rhyme. A
palm belongs where it belongs,
No denying a mistake.
Remember when we tried to make
a pair? For a short time, it worked.
But we were fooling no one. Out of
place, we became dried straw.
When the young
When the young no longer believe
that life will blossom dreams at
the break of twilight
When the young no longer believe
sacred moments define each day
making trouble go away
When the young no longer believe
their mentors seeing something
that they do not see
When the young no longer believe
the promise of optimism and instead
embrace inevitable defeat
When the young no longer believe
the promise of a bird’s morning
call to begin again
When the young no longer believe
they will be acknowledged for the
contribution they make
When the young no longer believe
their elders that even the horrors
they feel will pass
When the young no longer believe
faith in anything is worth the effort
or the loss of precious time
When the young no longer believe
in humanity as a source of love
and potential for happiness
Then let us laugh and frolic and ask
the crew to pour the drink as we
dance with the doom.