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Thursday, July 5, 2012

One of those days . . .

Sunday Morning in Santa Monica

(From Path of Fire, 2002)

A bus stops,                                                             
doors open and close,
then roars on, trailing
a cloud of black smoke.
A young man leans his head
against the window pane.

Next to a shopping cart
stuffed with plastic bags, a woman
sits on the park bench
hunched over
her head almost touching her knees.

I feel the moist air float by my cheeks.

An old man with a
green lopping hat stops in front of
Callahan’s coffee shop.
He sucks on his cigar
and puffs smoke rings
toward the sky.

Years ago,
I buried my father’s ashes
in a cemetery near  Zurich.
Today, I bless
my beautiful lonely life. 


  1. I love the appeal to so many of the sense and the powerful gut-punch in the last stanza. Thanks!

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  3. A touching poem and great use of the senses. So much is wonderfully described in such a short stanza. Nice one-Bravo!

    Have a good week Christa!

  4. Thanks, Jacqueline! Have a good week, too.