What's Not There

What’s not there anymore haunts the landscape,

Even if it was torn down a hundred years ago.

The railroad to Sutro Baths still chugs;

Sutro’s mansion overlooks the sea;

The glass and tile of what once were baths

Still echoes with childhood laughter

Of those old enough to remember,

And swimmers long since dead.

The Cliff House burns and rises from the ashes,

Again and again, like the city’s symbolic Phoenix,

And the rollercoaster roars at Playland,

Snapping necks in the air above what’s now

A uniform condo village with stucco walls

Just showing damage from wind, sand and sea.

It too shall crumble;

By wrecking ball, fire or earthquake;

By human hand or Nature’s whim.

But the ghosts of it shall remain:

A lonely woman cooks a simple dinner in the energetic

Remains of a world famous fun house.

Eternal games play at Candlestick Park,

And cars cruise the Embarcadero freeway.

Thoroughbreds race around the Ingleside sundial

To cheering throngs, unseen, unheard by trick-or-treaters

Going house to house, door to door,

Dressed as ghosts, but ironically not believing.

Bi-planes fly into the wind at Chrissy Field.

Couples kiss in a slow dance at Winterland,

And dine at Ernie’s after.

Tired washer women scrub hard-earned dirt

From clothes in the spring at Cow Hollow,

Beside ghosts of cows who drink and moo,

Under tourists waking in the bargain motels

Built over the once essential fresh water source.

If those travelers look hard enough, they will see

That the Bay is still so full of ships,

Abandoned in the drive for gold,

That if they had the undying passion of pioneers,

The immortal courage of those who mine by hand,

They could walk from ship to ship,

And the ergonomic soles of their designer running shoes

Would never once get wet.

Pine Lake

In spring, a solitary heron waits,

By the path that leads down to the pool,

To swallow gophers, blind about their fates.

Oh, Nature is the cruelest sort of school!

Coyotes prowl the green wood that confines

The open space where neighbors stroll with pets;

So dangerous the city put up signs.

If beauty Nature gives, she also gets.

The pond is managed (one can hear the pumps)

To balance echo-systems and the joy

Of walkers’ dogs who smell each others rumps

(Our primal natures training can’t destroy).

The civilized and primal co-exist;

But Mother Nature’s got a mighty fist.

Tragedy at Funston

Two friends - both women - walked a golden dog

A day after a long and thorough rain

Did saturate the coast; they walked in fog

On heavy sand; the leash pulled from the strain

Of Fido, cooped up in the house for days,

The winds of freedom blowing through his fur,

Excited, pulling cliff-ward - no delays,

For restless dogs cannot their joy defer.

Below their path, half buried in the sand,

Lay concrete battlements of the great war;

That storms long separated from the land

And dropped like broken dishes on the floor.

Standing high above them on the cliff,

The women talked of love and life and more;

One noticed Fido stop, and then go stiff,

Sensing something shifting in his core.

Too late! What happened, happened in a blur;

As if of life itself they’d had enough,

Two women and a dog - and where they were -

Vanished as the sands pulled down the bluff.

The tragedy made heroes of a few

Who saved the dog and his mistress’ friend.

Through the night did toil a rescue crew;

When rain returned, the search came to an end -

For waves were breaking on the fallen sand.

By morn, the mighty ocean had dismissed

Grain by grain the woman’s grave unplanned

And sent her body floating in the mist

Away from dogs and friends and those who mourn,

Who’ve nothing left besides her memory.

Too soon from Earth a woman-child was torn

To join the mermaids hidden in the sea.