by Sharron Egan Belson
Sharron Egan Belson was born in Chicago, Illinois in 1939. She teaches poetry in Mill Valley at The Writer's Center and works in San Francisco as a textile rep. She has been writing since early childhood and her work appears in the Bay Area quarterly ROOMS. Her poetry also appears in the anthology A Summer Room published by The Renegade Press. She is a regular in Salon (http://www.salon1999.com/) and writes mostly to connect with like minds. She welcomes your comments at ShaBels@pacbell.net
I.
You say lets go
II.
The moon begins to show
III.
Paso Robles...a few windows
IV.
San Luis Obispo on the crisp
V.
Trees as bountiful as shells
VI.
Purisma. As brittle
VII.
Down to Montecito
VIII.
Jerky traffic and my mouth
And we take off for
I don't know
I look ahead and see broad napkins
Dropped from heaven and left
To grow moss and become
The Pinnacles...they crinkle in the late
Afternoon and lead us to San Juan
Bautista...the children in serapes
Hands pointed to the God of choice
Eyes uplifted as they had seen
As we have seen in galleries
And museums...and they are art
To us...their small frames holding
The spirit of all these years
Their many voices up up into these old
Wood rafters...this gold leaf
These painted saints. How
Is it that we arrive here at this
Moment as parents and grandparents stream
In, faces smiling, unable
To think of anywhere but this
Sacred place.
Herself amid the indigo
As we wind through these tunneled
Verdant hills. Down
Like small insects we tilt
Until the ground goes flat
And sandy and the evening star
Glows eerily for this is
The very night. The star
As in tales of old
Grows bright and lights this long
Car trailing to the second place
San Miguel. Silent and abandoned
We push the door and it opens onto
Warmth, lighted trees beside the
Altar. Frescoes of more saints
More passioned eyes. But still
Like the night filling up
With countless planetaria. The wood
Smells even older...the paintings chipped
The eye in a triangle searching
For its only audience
And it is just you
And me this eve.
Still lit. Vacancy. No one
Not even we knew
We were coming but a fireplace
Awaits. And clean sheets
And townspeople murmuring quietly
Over their prime rib
Over their mulled wine...we wait
Looking different in our San
Francisco haircuts. We hope
We'll be included as there is nowhere
Else to eat...like the night
Long ago when three were not
So lucky and had to rest
Outside.
Orange leafed morn
River walk empty too
And the mission filled
Even choirloft
With the bright song of Spanish
As if nothing had
Changed. As if mesquite still moved
In the hot burial ground out
Back and the bells
Called in every worker for a chunk
Of brown sugar and a towel of fresh
Tortillas in payment
For a week's
Labor.
Oceans flowing out and away
Then rushing back to laugh
At our urban reticence
Every vein, every muscle begins
To give way to the noon sun
And the sound of the Pacific
Showing us how many have stood
Here, now a manicured community
Now free of so-called
Predators take it
Take the sound away
With each thudding wave
Take the city urgency
Take the rush and crush
Of holiday and give me only
This. Could we but stay
Here and forget where
We came from and what
We do and who
We belong to...Give me
This.
As a forgotten tree
Above a grave long turned
To root and worm. Long
Promontory where men
In brown once swung their rosary
Beads in cadenced walk
Matins on their dry lips
Spain in their loyal hearts
This endless country in their
Imaginations calling up hope of lassoing
All these innocent
Souls.
Its beaches fly past as we
Bike...our legs pale
From too many Marin months
Writing in tiny rooms
Of what we only dream
Now become Santa Barbara
Palms in wide generous orchards
Of California laissez-faire
Three dollars the sign
Says. Three dollars to take
The tour. To help the
Poor. To paste together the cracks
And the cervices where reptiles
Now peek out to us saying
Hurry sun we're so unused
To winter.
Feels the day growing
Balmy...a marina
A drink offered by old
Friends. San Diego
Beachwalk...men in top
Hats anticipating the big
Night. Herons dipping their long
Blue noses into the gray
Bay. Sherbet streaks take the day
Away and leave us
Showered and dressed
At last for New Year's
Eve. Same diamond star
Same indigo sky as last
Week. Same kindly
Faces bringing us treasures
From this rich land
And we lean back in our
Chairs...clink our glasses
Smile at each
Other knowing we are
Already where
We'd like
To end
Up...
All text and images in The Central California Poetry Journal are copyrighted. Copyright by © by Scott Galloway 1998. All rights are reserved. See main Journal page for
copyright information.
Authors and poets submitting original materials to this journal retain all rights to their
original work, except those rights specifically assigned in writing to Solo Publications including the right to publish the submitted work in The Central California Poetry Journal. The poems on this page are copyrighted by the author. Copyright © Sharron Egan Belson 1998.
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