Tag Archives: poetry

Excursions

The 12 Days of T-Shirts / Day 11: City Lights

Type “cathedral” into my brain’s large language model, you’ll get an image of 261 Columbus Avenue in San Francisco’s North Beach. 

This t-shirt unlocks so much for me … beginning and ending with the Pilgrimage.

Whenever work or friends would take me to San Francisco, I’d stay at the Hotel Rex on Sutter, which was part of Chip Conley’s Joie de Vivre collection of boutique hotels, each one inspired by a different magazine. The Rex was inspired by the New Yorker, and was designed to evoke San Fran’s literary salons of the 1920s and 30s.

Their lounge was The Library, all cushy chairs, reading lamps and the magical musty smell of old books (swoon).

Its atmosphere was cozily curated for unburdening … conducive to liberating one’s hands to alternate between a good book, a pen and paper, and a half-full glass of the house red.  

Make a left exiting the hotel, I’d walk the few blocks down to Bush, hang a left and climb its hill to the iconic Dragon’s Gate.

From there take a savoring stroll through North America’s oldest and largest Chinatown, a world unto itself. 

Keep walkin’ until I find North Beach. Make the right, slowing to a reverent saunter through Jack Kerouac Alley, pausing to bow and whisper read his pavement words etched in its center, “The air was soft the stars so fine the promise of every cobbled alley so great.”

And then, proof that alley promises come true: City Lights — Ferlinghetti’s fierce, tender, defiantly flickering eternal flame of a bookstore. 

Every single second I’ve spent walking amongst its stacks has been a replenishing.

The sound of one’s shoes creaking its old wooden floors while in slow-browse reverie? A poetry all its own. 

I love reading the staff’s hand-written recommendations slash love letters adorning the shelves as much as I do the books they hype.

The pleasure of stumbling upon treasure you didn’t even know to look for.

Going upstairs to the poetry room, where Ferlinghetti’s rocker — the ‘poet’s chair’ — still sits by the window in open invitation. 

Harvesting an armful of sustenance for the suitcase home.

Walking back to the Rex drunk on Kerouac’s soft air and fine stars, clutching my brown paper bag tightly as I imagine he did his.

 

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Postcards

Page’s

We pull in to the packed lot

tuck the Jeep between two parked

with their hatches open,

occupants saying “Ah,”

legs dangling like fishing lines over a dock

kicking lazy with life

we attach ourselves to the end of the long line

— last but not for long —

hugging three sides of the building

before unfurling

free

for ever and ever like a kite string

the longer the better

always the perfect length

for the moment’s the day’s the summer’s biggest decision

the choosing and unchoosing

and choosing, waffling, going back, entertaining, dismissing

granting ourselves wishes and permishes to change our mind

all of us, in all our shapes and seasons

every flavor of the same love

equal and equals in our expectancy

all of us, standing

under an ugly bridge upon cracked pavement

ice cream sandwiched between used car lots and abandoned buildings

a stop light and every so often

some poor motherfucker trying to make a left across a double line

coaxing occasional grace

but mostly impatient car horns and angry curse words out the window

from a world holding them accountable to knowing better

even though they are soooooooo close

until finally

we gain sight of the two windows in front

— the Swirly Gates —

and then …

it is

Time.

and despite 40 minutes in the car

and another 40 to decide

we still ask the young girl

we hope will always be here

for as long as there is a summer

to help us pick

between the extra large banana

or the large chocolate chip cookie arctic swirl

the oreo we had before

or the turtle we’ve never tried

and even after he makes his choice,

he hedges …

asks if it’s too late to change

— it’s not. It’s never too late here —

and so goes for the Large Marge Sundae

fuck yes he does

and we step back and wait

for the girl who took our order to make it herself

that’s how they do it here

she can take as long as she needs

take her own sweet time … we’re good.

Everybody here is good.

When she calls from the window our orders back to us

the kids in all of us spring forward, say thank you

and one-hand snap a few extra napkins for everybody

for the mess we always make

and for a few minutes we linger out in front

with the others still waiting, and us spooning,

just to be amongst

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Righteous riffs

The Greatest Tribute (Ode to Jim)

A letter arrived yesterday from my friend Jim.

My normal custom for an early-in-the-week Jim letter is to save it to open on Saturday morning.

To give myself something to look forward to.

And to make sure I have the space — temporal, physical, soulful — to savor the treasure inside.

My friend Jim’s a wonderful poet. His letters are always accompanied by a few of his recent poems.

He happens to be in his 90s now.

When I grow up, I hope to someday write as well as Jim does in his 90s.

At his age he senses the nearness of death. As a former pastor he also senses the nearness of being called Home.

Having lived so long, having lost his wife, Mary, to dementia a couple years ago … he keenly appreciates the preciousness of days and time.

And stares it all down with a poet’s heart.

Has made a practice of sifting the everyday for meaning and for magic.

And somehow makes it all rhyme … figuratively and literally.

“Poetry is persistently plaguing me at night, and when, half asleep, I kick off the covers, I force myself to get up, write down a phrase, or a line or two, so precious that I just can’t chance to let it wander away.”

For the record, I’m a little over half Jim’s age, and when I kick off the covers at night, it’s to get up to pee, not scribble down epiphanies.

Jim inspires me so much, in both the act and the substance of his letters and poems.

We’ve carried on a correspondence for a few years now.

I’ve noticed a common refrain in his letters. A lament.

He’s always longed for his poetry to be published … so it can be remembered.

In a post-Thanksgiving letter, he wrote, “Doggerel, following me like a lost puppy, and when on Google yesterday, I found a host of famous lines of Tennyson … I asked, ‘Will anyone remember even one of mine?’ as if I’ll care after my death.”

But only a line later … “Sunday morning sun brightens the tarnished attitude I bring to life on these usual dull winter days.”

I can attest that Jim’s poetry is beyond worthy.

When I wrote him back, I asked him if he would mind if I shared his poems with friends.

And for once, when his reply arrived in the mail, I didn’t wait until Saturday morning to open it.

Something about the urgent pause of a New Year’s Eve suggests a break with custom.

“YES, you may share whatever comes from me. That is the greatest tribute that I know of … of my attempts at poetry … to be liked enough to share.”

In thinking how I might best serve your precious attention in this moment … I can’t think of any better gift to share with you than Jim’s gifts shared with me. Of his noticing in a sparrow’s visit a kindred spirit. His allowing a newborn sun to surround in warmth all that’s old in him.

So in this space between the holidays, between our no longers and our not yets, may we greet whatever lies ahead as if it were a Sunday morning sun.

May we approach it with the wisdom, persistence and awe of a 90-year-old poet still sifting this broken world for its good light.

May we ever be so alive to what moves us that we have no choice but to kick off the covers and call it by name, so we can share our magic words with the world around us.

May we always (always) have something to look forward to.

If you are so moved, you have Jim’s permission to like, share and comment. I promise to reflect your good light back to him.

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Postcards

Finding Whitman ….

Saturday, November, 16, 2024, 12:44 p.m.

While waiting for Nicole to deliver the first of her always luminous — and my requisite two — Saturday morning cortados at the tiny, tender coffee shop on North Main (which you should totally visit), I was perusing the small packs of Commonplace Coffee for sale near the counter, whose blends are always intentionally dedicated (they have one inspired by WYEP — a sonic apothecary of Pittsburgh’s airwaves for the past 50 years — called ‘Morning Mixtape’ [swoon]). Commonplace Coffee is a tender haven in its own right nestled in Pittsburgh’s North Side (which you should totally visit).

Unbeknownst to me, on the back of every one of Commonplace’s coffee packs is a Walt Whitman poem, evidently the inspiration for their name.

Stumbling upon such treasure was as much medicine for my morning as Nicole’s perfect cortados.

And too good not to share with kindred spirits.


Here’s to waiting / to find Whitman waiting patiently / scribbled on the back of packs / whispering across centuries / reaching like seashells washed ashore / for humble travelers bowing their heads / searching for a little light / to lighten their loads 

To solid ground for all. 

*raises cup to meet the morning light

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Postcards

My Life In Politics

Sorting through the dozens of bins that my Mom lovingly slash compulsively stuffed with just about every artifact from my childhood — Andy Warhol style — I was recently reminded of my one and only foray (so far) into running for public office. 

My campaign for Safety Captain in the fourth grade.

From the forensic evidence, it looks like I had my sights set on the presidency, but was forced to pivot at the 11th hour. Not sure if I lost in the primary, or received insider info that I didn’t have the votes, but it seems forces conspired to turn my attention to a high-ranking cabinet position instead. 

Also from the forensic evidence, apparently “safety” was not on Miss Barkett’s spelling list that week. 

Not sure what motivated me to land on Safety Captain as my Plan B, but I am retrospectively impressed by my 4th grade resiliency. This may have been my first exposure to the adage, “When one door closes on one’s quest for world domination, another one opens up.”

Apparently I ran a successful grassroots campaign.

Looks like I took great care in drafting my platform.

Like Lincoln tweaking his famous address on the train ride to Gettysburg, the last couple lines added in pencil suggest a deliberate approach. I imagine myself scribbling between classes, or ruminating after getting eliminated in dodgeball.

Didn’t waste a word, though.

The 54-year-old typing this only wishes his aim was so true.

I must’ve worn the object on the right as a button, as it looks like there are a couple pin holes up top. Didn’t skimp on the professional head shot.

Ahem.  

I think (?) I may have won. Hatfield Elementary alum please fact check me on this. 

For all I know I may have run unopposed, but I’d like to believe my sincerity counted for something.

From what I recall I served a fairly uneventful term. 

To say it was a simpler time would be an understatement.  

And by that, I don’t mean pre-puberty, though that proly also helped make the execution of my responsibilities a little easier.  

I’d like to believe I kept my campaign promises. 

To work hard. To not fool around.

I hope I tried my best.

I hope they liked me. 

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