Embarcadero
Aug 01 2011 Filed in: Jims Poems
Embarcadero
It’s getting hard to wrap
My mind around my mind.
I’m sitting at the Embarcadero,
Inhaling saltwater inspiration.
Sunglazed Californians debark
From Sausalito ferries.
Grey pigeons wander
Beneath my feet,
Searching for food.
Maybe all of us are pigeons,
Waiting for food to turn up,
Scavenging our surroundings
For crumbs of meaning
Beneath a chorus
Of screeching gulls.
I embrace the Embarcadero.
I like the name, evocative
Of my next departure.
The sound of the name
Glides on hopeful waters,
Waters that lead to adventures
On other shores.
The Bay Bridge is clean,
Painted with a razor on blue sky,
The five o’clock sun
Falling just right on the tops
Of eighteen wheelers,
Crawling to San Francisco
Like savage pilgrims
From Oakland.
That sailboat below the cliffs
Of Treasure Island,
The distant bells of cable cars,
Are miles away. I have no idea
Why I’m sitting at the Embarcadero.
But it’s my kind of place,
Full of edges and water,
Bringing messages
From across the sea.
Bells in the tower
Chime the hour,
And it’s time to awaken
From daydreams
On the waterfront.
With sorrow I shrug
And let the moment go,
Like another pigeon
With nothing to show
For his hour alone
At the Embarcadero.
It’s getting hard to wrap
My mind around my mind.
I’m sitting at the Embarcadero,
Inhaling saltwater inspiration.
Sunglazed Californians debark
From Sausalito ferries.
Grey pigeons wander
Beneath my feet,
Searching for food.
Maybe all of us are pigeons,
Waiting for food to turn up,
Scavenging our surroundings
For crumbs of meaning
Beneath a chorus
Of screeching gulls.
I embrace the Embarcadero.
I like the name, evocative
Of my next departure.
The sound of the name
Glides on hopeful waters,
Waters that lead to adventures
On other shores.
The Bay Bridge is clean,
Painted with a razor on blue sky,
The five o’clock sun
Falling just right on the tops
Of eighteen wheelers,
Crawling to San Francisco
Like savage pilgrims
From Oakland.
That sailboat below the cliffs
Of Treasure Island,
The distant bells of cable cars,
Are miles away. I have no idea
Why I’m sitting at the Embarcadero.
But it’s my kind of place,
Full of edges and water,
Bringing messages
From across the sea.
Bells in the tower
Chime the hour,
And it’s time to awaken
From daydreams
On the waterfront.
With sorrow I shrug
And let the moment go,
Like another pigeon
With nothing to show
For his hour alone
At the Embarcadero.
Paul Revere
Aug 01 2011 Filed in: Jims Poems
Paul Revere
After Paul Revere warned
The people of Boston,
He kept on riding,
Down to New York City, crying
“The bankers are coming,
The bankers are coming.”
But the people of New York
Were sleeping, or pretending to,
And soon Manhattan was infiltrated
By bankers, and brokers,
And scoundrels of every stripe.
So Paul Revere rode on,
Rode through the night
And through the next day,
Rode to Philadelphia,
Where the Continental Congress
Were gathered.
“The bankers are coming,
The bankers are coming!”
He cried, “and soon
They will own America,
And its politicians, too!”
But they just stared back
In amusement and said,
“They already do.”
After Paul Revere warned
The people of Boston,
He kept on riding,
Down to New York City, crying
“The bankers are coming,
The bankers are coming.”
But the people of New York
Were sleeping, or pretending to,
And soon Manhattan was infiltrated
By bankers, and brokers,
And scoundrels of every stripe.
So Paul Revere rode on,
Rode through the night
And through the next day,
Rode to Philadelphia,
Where the Continental Congress
Were gathered.
“The bankers are coming,
The bankers are coming!”
He cried, “and soon
They will own America,
And its politicians, too!”
But they just stared back
In amusement and said,
“They already do.”