(c) Eric Walter 2017
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Beach Notes The languages are fading. I can borrow them for a time When traveling But when the land becomes a memory So does the song. -- I am disappointed when I forget. I am sad when I remember. I am content when I am here. -- Sometimes you can see the storm coming. Sometimes it rises abruptly from within, The tempestuous grief of heartsongs Never fully sung. -- The clouds come and go Like the gods Whose tears I welcome but Never collect Unless my life depends on it. -- I will have one more day here on earth If you please. If I please. -- Dead stars Gleam through. Songs free Stray here. Dawn fires Burn callow dreams. -- Far along and introspective I deliquesce In roving mists of Memory and returning. Peerless storms scatter The meaning for which I haplessly Hopelessly yearn. -- I cannot be broken by darkness. I cannot be mended with light.   Apsara
The apsara hovers in opaline mist As distant thunder rattles dim stars She raises her hand to pursed lips Blowing frangipani petals into viscid air Where they hover momentarily Where they decide to stay forever More stars For the milky ocean of sky.
San Francisco Scenes
In Golden Gate Park A man walks a tightrope Strung tree to tree Across a gusty field Maybe he’s flying In his other mind, his other body This ambitious angel of wobble Wannabe Icarus This prideful hipster Sisyphus Like all of us forever At odds with intransigent gravity \ In a sliver of sun vanishing In Chinatown’s winter shadows An old man saws the èrhú Stringing ancient notes Into a melody for here And right now A feverish dragon song That singes my ears Puts a torch to my shivering bones In this vanishing sliver of sun In Chinatown’s winter shadows \ On Haight Street the hordes Of the hairy unwashed Rehash their dreams and Scrounged-up memories Between smoke and toke Rap and whistle They argue and sing But never the same Song or argument twice They sleep like the dead With guitars and stained blankets In the doorways of closed shops They push ratty boxes on skateboards Clothes stuffed into garbage bags On rusted shopping carts Stopping to scoop up half-smoked butts Pocketing them for later When the moon is high The streets cold and crying They huddle in blue cloud conspiracies Feeding their imaginary dogs and Very real white rabbits Asking each other to recollect Incidents that never occurred They look you right in the eyes Then they look right through you As if you were the one forgotten \ On Strawberry Hill Gold light from the Pacific Oleander wind |
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