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Dedicated to the California Dreamers
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The Swing
The end being frayed
where once attached
it’s companion likewise
the two now swinging in
a brisk wind as if yet coupled
ever mindful of an earlier purpose
To and fro, to and fro
It appeared suddenly
jarring me from languor
as traffic crept to cross the bridge
A tree, a grass covered knoll and ropes
So out of place, rising from
this cold concrete city as
an apparition, a tiny remnant
of a life lived and a time past
The seat (you must imagine that)
old wood worn smooth by the
children’s movement as they soared
Each child in turn flyer and pusher
Looped around the limb
sturdy knots hold the ropes yet
Once eagerly placed by someone
skilled in the climbing of trees
at a time when such skill was prized
Only memory now joins these
frayed ropes, the children and the
neighborhood long since gone
They swing in tandem now
remembering the days
To and fro, to and fro
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Redwood
They stood there twelve across
caught in an old photo
workmen of the woods
felling the giant tree
Rolled down the bank to
wait rain and rivers rise
acre upon acre of virgin
redwood floated to the mill
to be timber for the city
The silence in the grove is
welcoming, sunlight scattered
on a soft forest floor with
shamrock leaf and lilac bloom
of Redwood Sorrell
Magnificent Redwood
Cathedral spire
Reverent and renewing
Let it be
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The Edge of the Sea
Sitting by the window
pen in hand, raindrops
streaking the old glass and
striking the wooden house
A storm tossed sea just
beyond the reach of land
Waves breaking in a
white spray explosion against
rock and headland cliff
Evergreen branches sway in
a salt wind against a gray sky
while wondrous life dances
in tide-pool currents
between pacific tides
The edge of the sea is for dreaming
What could be, what has been
The fire crackles adding warmth
to the day’s soft light
illuminating these words
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Living Apart from the World
She spoke through the iron grate
curtains parted though not enough
to show her face framed by
the Habit worn
Long black robes gathered as
she sits in quiet conversation
unusual in this place of silence
Withdrawn but not alone
A tent camp along the freeway in
long grass by the overpass they sit
bundled in old clothes their few
belongings in black plastic
Here by chance, here by choice
gathered as in communion
homeless but not alone
We haven’t made peace with it yet, this world
Holding back, finding a comfortable niche
a quiet place, a refuge or a belief
Each in our own way, together and alone,
Living apart from the world
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Epilogue
California was my home 1966-1974. An impressionable time in my life and an impressionable time in the life of our society. Returning is always a pilgrimage , an homage to the California dreamers.
Notes
The swing was downtown San Francisco on a tiny parcel of undeveloped land as you enter the on-ramp for the Bay Bridge Eastbound. How it survives unscathed is a mystery, the two ropes swinging together is poetry.
Living Apart developed quickly from an article in a Berkeley paper about Carmelite Nuns relocated to the Berkeley Hills, they lead a secluded, cloistered life, choosing to separate themselves from this world. Soon thereafter driving the Oakland freeway to SFO the homeless camp was encountered, another example of living apart. A universal theme emerged.
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