Wednesday, October 20, 2010

108. San Francisco

After a vast, lifeless desert

I find myself sitting in a green park in Washington Square

Listening to an Italian accordion

A friendly aging dog waddles past

With a stiff labored gait

I read some beat poetry

Glorious in its required tired anti-establishment vibe

Venerable Asians sit stretch Tai Chi

A tour bus drives by

I am desperately grateful to find an oasis in my pen

After passing through the wasteland


  1. So is Lake Isabella the wasteland of culture and lack of drudgery you are discussing, or is it literally the long, arduous drive through Central CA you are describing?

  2. Carolyn- I'm not really referring to a real place. The wasteland is how I've been feeling about writing for the past few months. This was the first poem I wrote in like 4 months- and it was a relief to finally have something to write about again.

  3. oh, a wasteland in your mind. That makes more sense. Its a good poem:). Very visual.

  4. Thanks, Carolyn- and Carole Ann Carr.

    I know it's a little obtuse, but the beat poets didn't feel a need to be specific, and since I was reading beat poetry when I wrote this- I decided to go with the mood.

  5. Cool post! I liked it!

    And thank you for stopping by my blog the other day. ;-)