sun tries to break through fog
city sounds fog can’t disguise
gold in her eyes
Gold with little rain
I drive through the veil of yesterday
hoping little has changed
I can’t quite see behind
I see tracings of what lies ahead
the giants in today’s sky
are the least of what I dread
San Francisco and the Northern Bay area (of California) will always be considered home. I dont like seeing the changes that the drought has wrought on the state. I like seeing less the effects the drought is having on nature. Wildlife is driven into the cities in search of food and water. The deer are beautiful (though quite lean); the mountain lions a little less desirable.
The Daily Post Challenge for this week is Change.
Brown are the edges
where so many fingers
over years have creased
the words always warm
Yellow still the Christmas star
that brilliantly shines
in my child’s mind
over silent hill
Golden are the memories
songs long ago sung
visits to the City of Paris
beautiful ornaments they hung
The prompt this week for Word Press Photo Challenge is Yellow.
“Should you care to write (and only the saints know why you should) you need to have knowledge of the art and magic of the music of words, the art of being artless and the magic of loving your readers” ~Gibran
Art opens doors
Without truth we are blind
Stumbling over lies
art in its purist form
Truth will set you free
“When you reach the heart of life you shall find beauty in all things, even in the eyes that are blind to beauty” ~Gibran
This prompt from Chevrefeuille’s Carpe Diem is Truth and Gibran’s truth add inspiration.
I stood before the hands of the giant clock. They teased me as they clicked:
“you can go anywhere in your past
choose but choose fast
before the hand has gone one minute
you will either venture
or quit it.”
I was faced with a genie in a bottle decision. Where do I go? What do I revisit? Can I fix “it”?
In that 30 second time span I chose. “Take me to the year 1968 and the place Haight and Ashbury in San Francisco.”
There I was in a paisley maxi dress with my hair braided. It was me but it wasn’t me. I wasn’t the flower child. My mother was. If I could only save her from this moment where she wrecked her life, my life, my family…
“Can you tell me where Saxi is?” I tried to keep from inhaling the air . The secondary smoke would result in a nasty headache or a “high.”
“She just left with Brad.”
Brad was an innocuous name for a destroyer of life. This creep came into the suburbs to captivate young, attractive women.
“Saxi,” I called as I ran along Haight . I followed a couple of very lost in the clouds hippies. Her eyes barely acknowledged me. The spark that said, I love you sweetie-pie was extinguished.
“Please come home, Saxi.” I whsipered.
I had lived this moment so many times in my adult dreams. “Taxi” I whistled with all my might. I shouted this time holding out a Twenty which did the trick. Quickly I grabbed her arm pulling her into the car before she could think in her drugged oblivion.
“Take us to the train station.” I had no desire to have that creep follow us. We were leaving San Francisco and home for good.
The hands moved forward more gently as they shadowed Saxi’s wizened face. Her last, dying words “Thank you for rescuing me sweetie-pie.”
The Haight Ashbury district in San Francisco was known in the 60s and 70s for it’s free love, free pot, free clinics. Long lines of tourists would motor through the district to see the strung-out hippies. I knew several teens who ran away to Haight. Even though their parents eventually got them “back”, they never came home. The heroin addiction in my baby-sitter rendered her an “on again off again “junkie for the remainder of her life.
This week’s writing prompt for Word Press Daily Post was Time Machine.
The photograph of the street sign is from the San Francisco China Times
Flowers blooming in late November?
San Francisco looks more like spring…
The prompt this week at Word Press Photo challenge is Unexpected.
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