ON HAMMERSMITH BRIDGE

                            —for Robert Peake

Last time I was in London, I hated the squalor.

Only when I crash-landed in a little used parlour—

decked in clashing cabbage rose wallpaper, 

chintz and bric-a-brack, starched antimacassars

covering the striped silk-covered horsehair sofa, 

as we so carefully perched, slurping our tea—

only then did I feel at ease. We were strangers,

distant relatives, my two girlfriends and I.

As I wandered across Hammersmith Bridge, 

I spied a pearly king all in his Sunday finery,
top hat & coattails adorned in wheels & crosses
made of flashies—mother-of-pearl buttons.

Reflections of a glinting sea & secret shells.

No hippie, the old man had the sense to ignore
the American urchin in the land of Cockaigne.

The river hissed strange, dank secrets.

And the clouds over Hammersmith, 

seethed and roiled over the Thames. 

Water seeking the ablution of water.

I was trapped in a painting by Frangonard, 

or perhaps by Watteau. Bucolic & melancholic,

I was a teenager, far from home & homesick.

Whenever I find a real button in the street

I save rare coinage for the pearly king.

Closest I ever get to London these days 

is Gatwick Airport, but your poems 

they make me long for an imagined place 

to welcome me home with frail arms
held as wide as the lumbering sky.

11/3/2013

PAD Write a “the last time I was here” poem. Imagine you’re returning to a spot (physical, emotional, psychological, etc.): Is it a good thing? Bad thing? What did you leave behind (if anything)? What’s there to welcome you back (again, if anything)?

FIRST DRAFT: Being a country bumpkin from the wilds of West Marin, I hated London. Only when I landed in the distant rellies' seldom used parlour—replete with clashing cabbage rose wallpaper, bricabrack and a silk covered horsehair sofa, in Hammersmith, did I feel at ease. As I walked across Hammersmith Bridge, a Cockney Pearlie King was striding down the sidewalk. I followed him, and marvelled at his topcoat tails covered in fantastic designs and crosses done in mother of pearl buttons. And the clouds over Hammersmith, the Thames. Oh, the clouds, they were marvellous. I was 19. First time away from home. Closest I ever get to London these days is Gatwick Airport but Robert's poems make me want to give it another go.

Note bene: many of my poems come from Facebook posts. One reason why I'm so active on Facebook is because it triggers surprising writing prompts. Fitting them onto PAD writing prompts is an artifice. But that really doesn't matter, because the poem must stand alone in the end.

Portugal Journal: Lisbon London SFO 5

9 AM London time, 1 AM California time

10/8 Monday 8:45 AM: I'm going to arrive at SFO at noon aboard United flight 955 Heathrow to SFO. Landing last night from Lisbon, we learned that the US and Great Britain had just completed a five-hour bombing of Afghanistan. I am seated in business-class wondering if this might be my last few moments on earth, at least in this format.

Having had a déjà vu sequence, while in line to board, I was suddenly struck with fear, and burst into tears as I sat down in the waiting room. A British woman put her arms around me which really got me going, and now I'm continually on the verge of tears.

Having started the day sampling whiskey, a first ever before breakfast, I joked with Linda the shopkeeper, saying I might need the whiskey. She said come back later for the really good stuff… But the two thimblefuls I tried sent me over the edge, I've had so little sleep these past few nights. Everyone is so kind to us because of 9?11. I was not expecting that.

And as I boarded the plane, the elevator music became an unconscious dialogue. In my business class seat, I listen to Will you go, Lassie go? I thought: is this it? And are you ready to leave? My exit pass… it is highly possible the Taliban might retaliate with an airstrike on a US airline, and United has already been in their sights twice…

So many people seem to be leading normal lives, sitting reading the newspaper or pulp fiction – but at this point even the news is pulp fiction… I am profoundly saddened by the turn of events, but not surprised. As Bush did warn us that he'd strike… But this time, not alone. Great Britain too is joining in…

Tim, the taxi man, or Grandpa, as he preferred to be called, from Maidenhead, said, "It's the only way. I was in World War II. Like with Hitler. We should've taken care of it in '32 and not in '45. Better to kill 6 million now, than 10 million later," he said.

I cannot work my mind around these abstractions. Of what is right or wrong, or ultimately better in the long run? I just know my heart hurts.

I left 1,000 escudos with Marria in Lisbon to buy to heart milagros at Fatima, so whether or not I survive this fligh,t at least there will be a remembrance for me, of me. The other heart is for Canice's heart. Maria said, "You have to believe in something, why not Fatima?" The maid singing Fatima adios to because she doesn't believe. Ultimately, what do I believe in?

The message email I tried to send Neil last night wouldn't go through. Dave Challis, our knight in shining armor, sent my email for me—brief and to the point, and signed it, the temporary landlord. Dave is a stranger who slept on my cousin Dave's couch, and is returning the Pay it Forward favor.

At the airport, I run out of time to call either Neil or Sinead. Is this the exit pass, not enough time? Or not the right coinage to call home? Nature is indifferent; the chaos theory is fully operational.

It is a relief to know that daylight will follow us all the way to California. At this point, I'm afraid of the dark. I wonder where night will occur? Are we flying into the light or do we chase the darkness across the globe?

I'm sorry I didn't take the free champagne from the flight attendant.  I'm in a muddle as to whether or not to be clearheaded, though I suspect no amount of alcohol will have an effect on me if something were to happen.

Here we go… The stars and half moon over Maidenhead, a beautiful surprise. Liftoff… We are no longer creatures of the land, but of the air, having joined the birds at their own game – hopefully not that of angels. I think of Wim Wenders angels walking the earth, wanting human emotions – to love. And the woman…

The flight attendant plies me with endless port the rest of the way home.

8 PM Great Britain time, noon California time. Dank you well dear, crew for safe journey. I cried when I saw the land of my birth, blowing kisses to Point Reyes, Bodega Bay, and Double Point, naming each landform and lake, as if in benediction, realizing how much the metaphor of Christianity is embedded within me.

The flight attendant, equally moved, though she be British, thanks me for my words of thankfulness—for within their job, within their duty, they have performed herculean tasks, they have restored bits of humanity to me. Touchdown on the hot sleek surface of the runway, we all spontaneously applaud the captain.

Here it is noon in California and 8 PM in Great Britain or Lisbon, time to day goodbye. The flight attendant Derby Walker's friend was Finnish. Kitos, she said, Thank you. Kitos, I reply.  Thank you.

Portugal Journal: Fatima Story 4
Independence Day, Fatima, Portugal
Portugal Journal: Lisbon to Fatima 3
Portugal Journal: Lisbon 2
Portugal Journal: arriving in Lisbon 1