Dango

Bunkasai

Not so much about culture, but class themes
that involve cross dressing, matchmaking,
haunted hauses, dice games, candy and the like,
students from other schools, mothers and little
brothers and sisters and little sisters` friends
sprawling around in a school sanctioned version
of original matsuri fun, the only thing lacking
kimonos, stalls of yakisoba and the like,
students milling, leaves falling
autumn gold and red.

ah well

the winter blues are finally settling
though the sky has been remarkably clear of late
a `koharu`, what they call `little spring`
extending to the cusp of winter,
persimmons, pumpkin-orange inhabit
leafless trees, ornamenting the branches
with a dying autumn sweetness

miles davis seems to suit the afternoon fine,
long langourous early 60`s blues and swirling dreams
of tropical sunset, `En Aranjuez Con Tu Amor`
that`s somewhere I wouldn`t mind going now
the same swirling woodwinds that draw you
in to the M*A*S*H theme, winds of abiding regret

to be back in California, first time in 3 years
will be something, well, not remarkable
something different, lets see how well
I blend in

I often dream of walking the hills, and streets
of San Francisco, lets see how well those
winter colors match the delicate, clear
shades I recall

Fall Colors

The Yankees and Red Sox, I`ll admit it
a classic matchup, the radio ablaze with
the crowd at Fenway Park, the earthy
vernacular poetry of John Miller, pumping
the game with his insistent baritone pulse
the images in my mind much stronger
than anything a television can provide,
this is my link to the real America,
the america I love of pilgrims and twilight
ball games, of dirt and grit imagined

the tension of the runner at first base,
late innings, no outs
Red Sox one run behind
fans standing and shouting hoarse
incantations to break the curse,
pitcher looking, throwing down to first
runner back, three and two the count
the wind, the pitch

Giant bellweather roar erupting
affection mixed with blind belief,
that settles in for an extra innings saga
of tension, desire, no hint of relief.

Transportation

The best music has the power to transport us,
whether it be to a time or a mood or a season,
Hendrix had that power in spades, though it often
ended in a confrontational, color-bleeding place
I`m not sure I want to go that often

The Grateful Dead are the only band that can take me
to a certain spot endemic to Northern California
and to a certain time in my life filled with
Mission District sounds and smells

Spring a time of windy hills and Twin Peaks
looking out from the tall perched radio towers
couples walking dogs and sunset bay watching,
a boy running up a deep spring green
kite trailing behind then taking flight
that`s Alligator, `holed up waiting for a windy day`

Cosmic Charlie is a long street, call it Ashberry
the long smooth stroll gait
of a Robert Crumb figure with big shoes,
and a smug smirk among the peaceful hullaboo
tipping his dandy cap to earthy women passing

Dark Star a drive across the Bay Bridge
the city shimmering naked through the fog
competing with the star laced sky,
the white lights of bridge suspension rising and falling
in wave like rhythms, a feeling of being
connected somehow with deeper space

Rosemary an old blue victorian
folded among rather steep hills that,
protected from the wind
bristle with bay laurel and oak
once-cultivated roses mix with wild flowers
pushing up in an exuberant sun-dappled tangle,
a late afternoon stillness, shadowed now
the sun bending under the hill already
the upper branches of trees still a
crest of soft golden light

Doing that Rag is late autumn, this a strange autumn
a hundred odd hipsters strung out all night
in halloween fun magnified, that lets itself out
in tremendous howls and peals of laughter

Cold Rain and Snow, a glimpse of an everyday angel
blonde hair and loose beaded shirt
standing with her back to me, the second story
stair-connected rickety porch of a wooden house,
watering flowers and plants in orange clay pots,
water running between the floor boards
and pattering on the gravel below

Black Peter a quiet afternoon in victorian
smoke and mirrors receeding
laying in bed with fever and an accoustic guitar,
a few friends come to visit, they`ll be moving on
soon enough, but for now one lazy afternoon
come round, come round my door.