Little Poems about Rain during a drought.

We have been suffering from drought conditions for four years out here in the West, while the East coast seems to be drowning in too much water.  At first people took the dry spell lightly thinking it would be soon over and the rains would return.  But as each month went by with no rain, and sometimes rain at odd times, people began to be concerned and eventually we had water rationing to contend with.

Then one morning in 2012, my mind thought of a poem while I listened to the rain out my bedroom window.  I posted it on FB and received a bit of encouragement about writing a poem.  After that I couldn't seem to stop rhyming words, and the longer the drought hung on, the more aware I became of rain and continued to write little poems.

I am certainly not very accomplished with this new poetry craze, but it is amazing to me that I can think of poems.  As a child, I couldn't write more than a "Roses are Red" poem, but I remember my father used to write poems and stories, so maybe a little rubbed off on me.

                                      LITTLE POEMS ABOUT RAIN DURING A DROUGHT
Nov. 30, 2012

Rain, Rain, Comin'down--
Photo Class is cancelled downtown.
Later I'll take pictures instread.
Now's a good day to stay in bed.

This poem was written at the cabin:  December 2012:

Rain, Rain falling gently
Soaking the earth and all its plenty,
Melting the snow that fell before,
Where are the winters I remember of yore.

At the cabin--January 2013

Wind in the willows; wind in the trees,
Whirling, twirling puffs of breeze.
Moans and Groans--from Pines in pain.
Whenever are we going to get some rain.

Cabin--May 28, 2013

It's the beginning of summer
And the rains were here.
It's like deja vu.
It happened last year.

Home:  June 24, 2013

It's summertime, and down it came--
This wet, dewy, damp, cold rain.
Out my streaky window is misty gloom.
But it's warm inside my cozy room.

Thinking of words that describe Rain:

restful, relinguishing, replenishing, rejuvenating, recurring, relishing, renduring, recycling,
reflecting.

Rain--Restful, relaxing, rejuvenating
    And here so seldom.
But relinguishing, replenishing, and recurring,
    And so very welcome.

Home:  January 9, 2014

Is that a ghost I hear wailing in the night?
But it brings me comfort instead of giving fright.
The cold moist air that covers the earth like a shroud,
Brings life back to the dry parched ground.

This poem surfaced while taking a shower after seeing a photo of the city on Facebook:
January 20, 2014:

Beautiful City.  Beautiful Skies.
All of this beauty is a bane in disguise.
Where is the rain that soaks the ground,
Nurturing all, so life will abound.

Home--Listening to the Rain on my window:  February 2, 2014

Pitter Patter, Pitter Patter--
It's music to my ears.
Whooshy washy, whooshy washy,
I want to give some cheers.

Dribbly Droplet, dribbly droplet,
on the window pane.
Hooray and Alleluia--
I'm thankful for the rain.

Home   February 26, 2014--On a rainy day.

The grey blanketed sky above,
  I really don't mind.
It brings peace and comfort to my soul,
   I find.
The misty rain has kept me home
  and inside.
Where I feel so content
  and very satisfied.

As the days moved on, and summer came when it hardly ever rains, I seemed to have
moved on to other worries and concerns, and somewhat numb to the drought conditions.
Now we all hope for El Nino this winter, but maybe in vain.

Traversing the City on Muni

My plan for the day was to go to the S.F. Public Library Main Branch downtown in the Civic Center to look up some names in the Reverse Telephone Directory.  I prefer going downtown on public transit, since there are too many automobiles clogging up the streets, but it is a long way from my house near the beach.  I asked my husband to drive me to Castro Street so we could look at Hattie Street, where Bill remembered visiting someone whose name I wanted to find at the Library.  From there I thought it would be fun to take one of the vintage cars on top of Market Street instead of going underground for the more rapid transit system.  It would bring back memories of when I traveled downtown in the '50's and '60's first on the old trolley's with outdoor seating änd "cow catchers" and then on the new green "stream-liners."

A green vintage car was about to leave Castro  and Market, so I ran to catch it.  Evidently, these street cars don't hurry like the Muni cars below.  I just had to slowly board the train, find the machine to swipe my Clipper card and then quietly find a seat.  This vintage car was maybe made in Italy, since I saw a sign which said "Italian" on the window.  It was very clean with shiny, polished wooden benches lined up against the large windows.  There were little dividers to mark off seating areas.  I sat down in the middle of the front area of the car and looked around.  There were several people already on board--a couple of men reading newspapers and a retired-looking couple who could have been tourists.

  More people boarded, some from the back.  Then a very unkempt man with an unsteady gait boarded in the front scrambling for some money to put into the fare box as he tried pulling up his falling pants.   The driver waited patiently 'til he succeeded.  I figured he was one of our homeless residents in the city and I thought to myself with dread, Ï hope he doesn't sit near me."  I couldn't bring myself to move further back, and sure enough, he sat right next to me with the little divider between us.  He reeked with so many noxious smells--cigarettes and alcohol mixed with sweaty foul odors.  I wanted to avoid him, but at the same time, I had to sneak a look as he sat talking to himself and looking at a newspaper with football scores lamenting about a bet he should have made.  His body was very thin and his skin heavily parched and dry.  A little cigarette butt stuck out of his teeth.  His clothes didn't look so bad--a nice heavy leather jacket, newish jeans and a blue baseball-type cap with straight, stringy, oily, blunt-cut light-brown hair falling to his shoulders from his cap.  Since his hair wasn't gray, I figure he had to be about 50 years old but looked much older than me.  I felt sorry for him and wished I could send him somewhere for a bath.  I heard him say out loud that he was trying to get to Sixth Street--that's where a lot of the itinerant, homeless folks live.  But I could not wait til I could get off at Civic Center."

Another, tall, young man, with a back-pack boarded the car after the homeless guy and walked straight back without stopping to give a fare.  The little driver got out of his seat with his arm on his hip and said loudly "Proof of Fare--you need proof of Fare." The kid came back, fumbling with his back pack, saying he didn't have any change.  I thought there was going to be some kind of altercation and I thought of giving the guy some change for the fare, but he walked back to the middle of the car, scrambled through his belongings and came up with some dollar bills.  He then went back to fill the fare box while the conductor stood firmly waiting for him the pay.  I felt some relief when the car started up, rattling down the street slowly passing  all the fancy shops that have sprung up in the lower Market Area.  Finally, my destination was nearing.  An elderly Asian lady with a large black-plastic bag bulging with some undefined items had boarded and when she got close, I gave up my seat.  When I was about to disembark the train, I looked back at her, and she seemed very content.  I then quickly got off at my stop and headed for the Library.   I thought to myself, "taking Muni is always an adventure of sorts--it's not only a means of transportation--it's a trip thru the cross-section of life in the Big City.

The tree in the neighbor's yard

There is an old pine tree in the next-door neighbor's yard, which I have been watching for a long time.  It must have been planted from a little Christmas tree when we first moved in here 35-40 years ago.  I have always loved trees, since my neighborhood is actually a large sand dune, and I watched this tree grow along with my children for many years.  It was a place for birds to build their little nests and watch their own children hatch, and it provided food and shelter for other animals.  My own cat loved to sit near the tree and catch mice. 

Over the years it started intruding on other people's property and one day the neighbor had hired gardener's to trim the tree and weed his overgrown yard.  The workman lopped off the limbs that hung dangerously over the fence.  Then as time went on, the grounds filled with overgrown bushes and dead grasses and the tree slowly died.  At first it was one or two branches, and then I noticed the top of the tree was also very dry and gray.  Bird's still made their nests there in the Spring, but it mostly attracted big black, squawking crows.  Some day, the tree will crumble and fall and provide nourishment for all those overgrown wild plants, but it seems so sad.  Now I just wish the neighbors would cut the tree down, since it blocks my little view of the ocean, but I guess I will just have to wait for the tree to fall itself.  In the meantime, I see that there is a new little tree sprouting from the old tree--a new generation and we start again.

Last month I was out in my own yard on a beautiful, warm day weeding my plants when I heard strange noises coming from the tree.  Then slowly this poem began surfacing in my mind:

There's an old pine tree in the yard next door
That had been growing and growing 'til it could grow no more.
It began fading and fading til it's boughs were dry,
But it's grey-coned limbs still reached to the sky.

It seemed so dead, as dead as can be,
For it's heavy branches cracked and fell away free.
Then one day strange noises I heard,
Like crackling and crunching which sounded so weird.

It seemed like the old tree came alive,
Munching on foliage so that it would survive.
The mystery was solved as I gazed at a bough.
Since sitting there quietly was a mean ole'crow.

And suddenly without warning amid squawking cries,
A flock of those black-winged birds took to the skies.
It seems that this tree which is such a fright
Is in the right mood for Halloween night.

My Inspiring Sea.

While driving home, I noticed the Pacific Ocean in front of me--sparkling, dancing under a rim of blue sky and sunlight with a conopy of blue gray clouds overhead.  It was inspiring and I felt a poem blooming in my mind.  I have never been able to write poetry before but lately poems surface without much effort.  Today's poem was having a difficult birth.  I know what I wanted to say, but the words would not fit together.  So, after dinner I took a walk down to my favorite promenade on the Great Highway.

Before I crossed to the sea wall side across the Highway, I saw a youngish woman in a wet suit and a surf board heading for the beach.  I asked her how the surfers knew to run down to the waves, and she explained it was a combination of things--the weather, the tides, the waves.   Then I noticed how the surf seemed fairly calm tonight, medium waves and very still air.  As I walked a little way on the promenade,  words started forming into a poem.  Then I sat down on one of the built-in concrete benchs, pulled out my cell phone, clicking on notes,  and what do you know--  I was able to write the poem while watching the sea.

It is always transforming right before my eyes,

Reflecting the light from the ever-changing skies.

Sometimes, it is brooding--so somber and grey.

                                               Then it turns its soul to a quiet, reflective way                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          At times it dances--sparkling and bright

At others, it roars with menacing might.

I think its moods are a reflection of me--

THIS MOVING, FLUID, LIVING SEA.

On Searching for Summer Sun

It is the middle of summer and daylight lingers til 8:00 for my evening walk.  I put on my warm jacket, scarf and Irish beret to head for the little vegetable market, but the distant beach lured me down to the walk on Great Highway. The weather was dismal and cold, but I walked quickly soaking up all that my senses could hold.  The sky was thick with gray misty fog, which clung to the ocean, giving the water the same gray somber color.  The waves crested and fell as I had seen them before, but tonight the beauty of the surf looked sad and ominous.  The Seagulls flew around as usual and a few people were out jogging and racing by me on their bicycles, but there was such stillness and quiet dreariness.  I felt so alone.


Having lived here all my life, I should be used to this foggy weather.  When I was a child, the schools closed for summer vacation for almost three months, and my family hardly ever went out of the city or the neighborhood, and we rarely went away on a vacation.  I was exposed to the cold summers never really being aware that the rest of the country was basking in sunshine.  I remember going to Fleishhacker Pool by the ocean to take swimming lessons.  There has been a lot of nostalgia concerning this pool, but I disliked it immensely.  We had to go into the cold bathhouses to don our swimming suits, and I remember coming out wrapped in a towel, wearing a tight swim cap, and shivering waiting to take lessons.  As soon as I got into the frigid, ocean water and tasted the salt on my lips,  I wanted to get out.  The experience was torture.  I didn't learn to swim until I went to Camp Fire Girl camp. 


During those summer months, I know we played outdoors frequently, riding bikes, running up and down the blocks, playing games in the street, and I don't remember being cold--probably because we were active.  We also went to the Parkside Theater for matinees and stayed indoors in our "rumpus" room making up adventures, coloring in coloring books, playing monopoly and reading "Little Lulu."
It was later when I was 12 years old that I was able to go to camp for a couple of weeks and discover a whole new environment, which I loved.   We also went to a 'family friend's home "down the Peninsula" to play with their children and swim in their new pool.  Another friend had a cabin in the Santa Cruz mountains, and I loved being outdoors in the forest, going for walks and spending hot afternoons swimming in the nearby community pool. 


When my children were growing up, I suddenly felt some anxiety about not having a real summer. 
I hadn't missed it when I was a small child, but by the time my kids were old enough to explore, I wanted sunshine.  I would gather them into the car and off we'd go, looking for warmth.  Usually I would head south,, finding a nice playground in San Mateo.  Once I felt adventurous and took the train to San Jose to go to a park there, but what I didn't know was that there was no bus to the park.  A nice mother with children drove us down there, but I had to go back with her to the top of the grade, because I would have been stranded. 


Every year we did take vacations--driving to Canada, Colorado, Grand Tetons, and going to Camp Mather, and then camping in Yosemite.  I loved the outdoors and dreamt of living in the mountains, so when we had the chance, we bought a cabin in the Sierra's where we spent many a summer swimming and hiking. 


Now that my family is grown and have their own children and lives,  I find myself back in "My fair City" looking out my back window at the dense, drippy fog.  I long again to find the sunshine.  On Fourth of July, my husband and I went looking for some warmth and rediscovered a delightful place, only 20 miles from our home.  It was the Pulgas Water Temple, built as a shrine to the monumental feat of bringing the water from the Tuolumne River in the Sierras all the way across the Central Valley to us people on the coast.  The grounds were well manicured and the surrounding areas on Crystal Springs Lake offered some hiking trails.  The Crystal Springs Reservoir and Lake is located east of the coastal mountains and protected from the fog.


Now when my spirits are low due to the wet, dense fog, I can remind myself that I live in a magnificently beautiful city, surrounded on three sides by water and coastal mountains in the distance.  If I really want sun, it is only a few miles away--down the highway, across the bridge or over Twin Peaks to downtown and the Bay.  I can also remember that the fog does have benefits-- when the rest of the country is sweltering and forest fires are raging, it is cool where I live.  When we drive over the Bay Bridge after crossing the hot valley, the fog pouring over the hills is such a welcome sight.  It always feels good to come home.

 

Memories of "Gimpy"

October has been a spectacular month in my usual foggy neighborhood.  The days have been warm and balmy and the sunsets extraordinary.  I have taken advantage of the good weather by walking to the beach often during these past weeks.  It has been so enjoyable and mood elevating to walk on the smooth, shiny sand as the frothy waves tease my steady gait by their ebb and flow.  As I dodge the shallow tide, I watch the birds doing a similar dance.

Of course, my favorite birds (as I wrote about before) are the little plovers which move as if in a ballet chorus, but I watch the other groups of birds also.  The Cormorants are not as pretty, but they also have a rythym to their movements.  The black crows are there making their presence known by their loud squawking and aerial acrobatics.  But the bird that find very mysterious is the lone Seagull.

Usually I find seagulls, especially annoying.  They are like robber-barons waiting for the opportune moment to take advantage of someone or something vulnerable.  They rip food out of other birds'  claws and eat any kind of garbage they can find.  I've even seen them take a hotdog out of a child's hands as he was eating it, leaving the poor boy crying in astonishment.  It seems they are constantly on the offensive, asserting their power.

This month, however, I saw seagulls in a different light.  I saw them as individuals, as somewhat regal, noble birds.   I tried taking photographs, but they were often illusive.  I saw a lone seagull standing very quietly, looking pensively at the sea, turning his head occasionally to watch me as I looked at him.  Just when I thought I could capture his image, he turned away snobbishly and flew over the waves as if to defy me.
As I kept walking slowly along the shore attempting to get close enough for a photograph, I was reminded of my father's story he told me when I was a child.

My father often liked to walk on the beach although he never took me with.  He also liked to write poetry and tell stories, but he did tell me a story about Gimpy, the one-legged seagull he befriended on the beach.  He said that the Seagull would talk to him.  Of course when I was only 8 or 10, I didn't believe him, but later in high school, I thought his story worthy enough to tell to my class in Advanced Composition class.

Unfortunately, I have forgotten the gist of the story.  I remember the story left an impression on me, and when I found the copy I had written long ago, I knew I wanted to keep it, so I must have put it somewhere for safekeeping.  Now I cannot find the paper I had written.  I feel very sad that his story will be lost.

He had also written a lot of poetry in high school and I remember seeing a notebook with his poems, but alas it is also gone.  Possibly he took it with him when my parents separated, or maybe my mother threw it out, but I do want people to know this other side of my father--that he was creative and was able to express himself well.

And this writing all came about because of my encounter with a seagull--maybe they do talk to us after all.
Thank-you.    (And maybe, I will find that paper I wrote about "Gimpy" one of these days again.)

Plovers on the beach

             A thin layer of haze hung on the horizon, but the bright sun made the beach inviting.
I walked down to the ocean just as the tide was receding and the retreating waves left the smooth sand as shiny as glass.  Surfers were coming ashore with their boards, stripping down the top half of their wet suits, and walking down the beach.   A few joggers ran past me and dog walkers strutted by with their pets following obediently alongside.  Then I came upon one of my favorite sights--a flock of snowy plovers clustered together. 

          These little birds are so pretty and delicate with their white chests and greyish head and wings.
Their dainty pointed beaks are perfect for finding morsels of delicious food in the sand.  Their tooth pick legs look so fragile, but they whisk back and forth rapidly, propelling the little birds smoothly over the sand.  Their heads and bodies stay straight and still, which causes them to resemble a machine navigating in the desert. 

          There were about five snowy plovers near the waves searching for food when, suddenly, one bird hurriedly turned and headed towards the flock several yards away.  When he reached the group, several birds flew up in the air and the rest started moving en masse following each other until the whole flock had transported themselves to the shore line.  It was as if the first little plover was calling the others to dinner, because they all started poking their beaks into the sand to find food.  I think that after high tide, the water recedes leaving little creatures in the wet sand. 

          As I watched the flock, they seemed to move as in a dance.  The ocean waves would flow in and the birds in unison would move away.  Then they would move sideways down the beach or run back to their resting spot.  At times, they split into two groups running so smoothly here and there like a ballet as the tide ebbed and flowed.  A few birds caught in the water would flap their wings like they were bathing and then run off looking for more food.  One little guy had a long wormy tidbit in his beak and another plover chased him down the beach until he gave up, leaving the first plover with his prize.  Some of the birds showed a little independence, but mostly, the birds stayed in groups, and flowed as a unit.  One bird would start to shift in a direction, and then a wave of changing motion would occur bringing the birds to another spot.

          I stood for awhile enjoy the Snowy Plover, realizing that these birds are an endangered species.  There is a sign posted on the Great Highway as you descend onto the beach telling people that the Plovers are a protected species, to keep dogs on leash, and  not to harass them.  The problem is that every time someone walks by the flock, the birds adjust their position to be at a safe distance from others.  It is funny to watch, but on the other hand, the poor birds are using up a lot of energy having to move.  The beach has been their habitat up and down California for eons, so people need to be respectful and try to keep their distance.  Fortunately, the Coastal area is often foggy so most of the time people and dogs stay away.  I hope so, because these enchanting little birds need to be a part of our beach for a long time.