THANK YOU! Firefighters!!

Window Shopping in the Pioneer Square Galleries
Photos shot while wandering around Seattle.
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Today is the final day of a week long surfing contest here, the Cold Water Classics. This contest spans five contests, including Tasmania, Scotland, Canada, South Africa, and here in California. There are still a few locals in the running, but most have been eliminated in heats run throughout this week. We got a gift this weekend, when the waves became substantial, after a pretty flat week. Hopefully, I will get to see the finals live, but have been checking in online also http://www.oneill.com/cwc/california/webcast

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In honor of an important local writer and teacher, Morton Marcus, who recently passed away, I am continuing to share some of his writings:

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Poems from
Where The Oceans Cover Us

PICNIC ON THE BAY BRIDGE

driving across the Bay Bridge at 50 m.p.h.
my hands float from the steering wheel

my body expands suffused with light
and I flow through the windshield

hover before my speeding car
and watch myself driving with a silly grin

my wife is talking to the side of my head
my daughter grinding away in the coloring book

and only the baby sees that I'm gone
as she croons at my figure flying away

around me battalions of golden men
rise from their cars

and swim through the air
and women float out of their make-up

out of their clothes and shopping lists
children tumble and soar

all of us swoop through pouring down cold
and dance above the cars

some hold their groins others giggle
but only for a moment

and there are my wife and kids
in their golden creases of skin

they wait for me to breast stroke back
and then we wrestle and laugh

"did you bring the pickles and ham" I ask
"yes" says my wife and caresses my neck

"hey do you have any mustard over there"
asks a balding middle-aged man

we float him the jar and he
and a Mexican family swim over

tortillas and French bread
hams chorizos--and barbecued ribs

supplied by a school bus full of black kids
chanting verses from the Tao Teh Ching

under the guidance of an elderly Chinese
who conducts them in his rags of glowing skin

we eat we chant we dance and sing
while the toll gate shines far ahead


I HAVE BEEN AWAY A WEEK

I have been away a week. The moon hangs on the hill,
high over the house where my wife sits waiting
surrounded by trees and children.
Outside, the cats prowl through their shadows
and the three raccoons rise at the door,
their lean black hands extended
as if praying.

Self-exiled,
I cannot drink wine from plum-colored cups
like my Chinese fathers. They were driven
far from home by war or an angry emperor,
and with only the moon for friend
would sip and stare at shadows,
contemplating the impermanence of fortune
until they had to spell their grief into a poem.

Unable to hold a peace I nearly had,
I have gone away with another woman,
leaving the mountain for a rented yard.

The moon hangs on the hill and will not join me.
This room is cold and far away.

http://www.mortonmarcus.com/

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