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West Coast Poems :-)

I realized as I was signing off the main thread, that most of us are on the same 'weather page' therefore the November poem just couldn't hit home for Kathy and Denise. So I went looking for a poem about California in November. Well, I didn't find one, but I did find some really neat California poems. I am still looking for a fall poem for the West Coast, so if anyone knows of one... :-)

This Poet was born in New York, spent his childhood in France and his adult life he spent in San Francisco where they have named a street after him. I tried to leave the formatting as it was but GW was having none of it, so I changed it. :-)

The Changing Light

by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

The changing light at San Francisco

is none of your East Coast light

none of your pearly light of Paris

The light of San Francisco is a sea light

an island light

And the light of fog blanketing the hills

drifting in at night

through the Golden Gate to lie on the city at dawn

And then the halcyon late mornings

after the fog burns off

and the sun paints white houses with the sea light of Greece

with sharp clean shadows

making the town look like it had just been painted

But the wind comes up at four o'clock sweeping the hills

And then the veil of light of early evening

And then another scrim

when the new night fog

floats in

And in that vale of light

the city drifts

anchorless upon the ocean

David St John was born in Fresno and I'm guessing had some fond memories of a garden and a grandmother? Iris by David St. John Vivian St. John (1981\-1974) There is a train inside this iris: You think I'm crazy, & like to say boyish & outrageous things. No, there is A train inside this iris. It's a child's finger bearded in black banners. A single window like a child's nail, A darkened porthole lit by the white, angular face Of an old woman, or perhaps the boy beside her in the stuffy, Hot compartment. Her hair is silver, & sweeps Back off her forehead, onto her cold and bruised shoulders. The prairies fail along Chicago. Past the five Lakes. Into the black woods of her New York; & as I bend Close above the iris, I see the train Drive deep into the damp heart of its stem, & the gravel Of the garden path Cracks under my feet as I walk this long corridor Of elms, arched Like the ceiling of a French railway pier where a boy With pale curls holding A fresh iris is waving goodbye to a grandmother, gazing A long time Into the flower, as if he were looking some great Distance, or down an empty garden path & he believes a man Is walking toward him, working Dull shears in one hand; & now believe me: The train Is gone. The old woman is dead, & the boy. The iris curls, On its stalk, in the shade Of those elms: Where something like the icy & bitter fragrance In the wake of a woman who's just swept past you on her way Home & you remain.

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