Joel Fallon - Poet Laureate, Benicia, California
Image by Ronna Leon
Contact
joelfallon@aol.com
Updated: 24 April 2008
Ansel Adams Day
A real Ansel Adams
day
the sky is white,
the hills are gray
and on the cold and
wind-washed stones
there’s moss.
No birdsong from the
grove of trees.
Pine cones lie in
contemplation
and nature holds its
breath —
so still.
Unlikely that we’ll
ever see
a day like this again.
How did you get the
clouds just so,
and did the mountain
really glow
that way?
It doesn’t matter,
Ansel,
how much was God’s,
how much was yours.
It was a day that
should
have been.
The Green Street
Marching Band
Faint at first, the
heartbeat of their drum.
Traffic’s slowing
as they come.
Now, marking time
at Portsmouth Square,
unmindful of the tourists’
stare,
the drummer beats
a ‘tak-tak-tak.’
Ah, striding out they
sound so grand
the jaunty Green Street
Marching Band.
In Chinatown we hold
our breath
knowing music marks
the death
of a respected man.
“Oh when the saints
come marching in ...”
Sunlight bounces from
their brass.
“When the saints come
marching in ...”
Storefront windows
rattle.
“Regard the time and
fly from evil.”
Sights and sounds of
death and life,
hanging ducks, live
crabs and fish in tubs,
vegetables in fine
array and flags and signs and
church and temple
and smells of sweat,
and sweet and sour.
They knit it all together
and roll it in their
hand
and strut into eternity
—
the Green Street Marching
Band.
Zinfandel Smile
Birds don’t take voice
lessons.
I think she didn’t
either.
Yet, she sang so freely
and with such joy
the birds were shamed.
Falling in love
I watched her sing
with half closed,
smoky eyes
brown throat, smiling
now,
now — not smiling.
Dark hair in her eyes
dark lashes — long.
Head thrown back,
parted lips.
If she smiles her zinfandel
smile at me
I will mow her lawn,
muck out her stables
and
dig her well — forever.
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Steinhart Aquarium,
Cathedral of Fishes
Past the sinister crocodile
slumbering in the skylit vestibule,
to the tile-floored twilight transept,
where fishes dart and laze in tanks,
where ghostly gliding shark swim,
swift and agile in luminous tanks,
and surf drums and thrashes
in glassed-in tide pools.
A woman holds a child up to the glass.
Blue eyes intent.
Small starfish hands flat
against the tank.
“Momma, can she see me?”
“Yes honey, she can see you.”
“She is beautiful, momma.”
“You’re both beautiful, honey.”
Unblinking child and fish
regard each other
through thick glass, feet of water
and millions of years.
Apple Wind
Apple wind at evening,
soft, from the west,
threading through
the valley.
Before light fades,
trout,
rise to small insects.
Prayers said and water
drunk,
the children are tucked
in.
Then,
man and woman on the
porch
are lightly wrapped
in Beethoven
and soft apple wind.
Turkey
in the Straw
Summer time and there’s
no breeze anywhere
on the east side of
town.
Four days till payday
and the kids beg for money
when the ice cream
truck plays
“Turkey in the
Straw.”
Mothers crouch in dim,
warm rooms
watching Jerry Springer,
slowly going mad,
wondering if
the meatloaf has gone
bad.
No breeze anywhere
on the east side of town.
The ice cream truck
plays “Turkey in the Straw,”
and kids, like Pavlov’s
dog, begin to salivate.
Four days till payday.
The water bill is overdue.
The car is on the
fritz. The old man took a pay cut.
And the ice cream
truck plays
“Turkey in the Straw.”
The government says
we’re better off than ever,
but there are no coins
under the couch cushions,
and the meatloaf has
gone bad.
Summer, four days
till payday on the east side of town,
and the ice cream
truck plays
“Turkey in the Straw.”
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