The Intrepid Hearts of ‘65
Certain days are anchored in one’s perceptions.
Certain events color your gray matter
and influence your performance until you bow out of sight;
and certain days, like a summer noon in ‘65, linger far beyond logic.
on certain days you comprehend the real meaning
of a word, or concept ,
or you are biffed in the head with a truth made visible
to you, to be stealthily engraved in your texture for life.
This was the day, once painted,
across the Golden Gate,
on streets of Sausalito, in a time of unceremonious
coffee haunts and galleries, nestled on the pristine bay.
I recall a young girl’s lazy looks,
and the hypnotizing roll of water life
slipping in and out of the dock.
And the sea breeze nipping through
a sleeveless cotton blouse and peddle pushers,
and feeding French fries to swooping gulls;
I remember this, too.
I remember the excitement of a meandering stroll
with the bohemia, outside of forbidden galleries,
where the ensemble of sea songs
never gave the sax its solo, and how it was here,
as the player sent the sounds of ‘Three Coins in a Fountain’
into the air; and all this was as it should be,
as it would be, until I saw them holding hands.
We all saw them and our lids could not blink,
at the colored man, in hand with the white woman.
It was as if even the breeze had held its breath
to hear the flogging inner dialogue,
and to stay clear of the phantom wagging fingers,
as they walked and stopped to window gaze.
The once casual acceptance
rolled out on the pavement vanished
under their foot and reappeared at their backside.
Eyes popped at the tweaking of the acceptable ~ even in Sausalito.
The colored man,
the white woman, now arm in arm,
never appeared to stumble.
They stopped by the player, whose dark hands
moaned a 'Summertime' for Porgy and Bess,
in tones deeper for his audience than before.
And it was here it became engraved:
~They never did look to the outside,
but to the inside of each other,
Their casual smiles not disfigured by the whole affair,
and when they walked away they looked only forward
unlike us who kept nagging over our shoulders.
I remember, always, one last feeling ~
How very lonely it must be to brave the opposing tide of change,
and how brave to sail ahead alone..........
Daina and Marcus smile
White to Black
Black to White
Young girl ...young man
They walk through my front door
They hold hands in friendship and in first love
There are disbelievers
But this coupling will not walk alone . . . .
jeanne rene 1/04