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

6 comments:

  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?

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  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.

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

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  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.

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  5. Cool post! I liked it!

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

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