Back & Forth the Human Stream

In the unblemished divinely blue beyond, a pale white gibbous Moon;

and to the west, an autumn September Sun brilliant splashed

upon the open Pacific, the utterly magnetic,

drawing the human stream back & forth along the cliffs

of West Cliff Drive—

This is the limit, this is the edge, the ocean is gorgeous,

& back & forth along the cliffs the human stream flows,

as wave gently rolls—

In & out the tide crags & rocks it rolls;

in & out the outcropped monolithic lion sentries it rolls.

Leisurely I stroll

in the human stream as back & forth couples & families

& friends & private reflecting individuals stroll & promenade

among others who jog & ride & skate & show off their stuff

on West Cliff Drive—

The couples talking or silently walking, side by side,

or hand-in-hand—

I see a couple walking by now in their cool dark shades;

& another—she is pushing a stroller, he with leash to a dog;

& another, with twin stroller, they make their way through the stream

as roller bladers & roller skaters weave in & out the stream,

and are themselves part of the stream;

& more couples with dogs & others with their dogs—

a man rides a bicycle two leashed collies trotting alongside.

And there are bicyclists young & old—the loner kids on bikes,

& rides by a man bald-headed & bearded on his big-fender bike;

& parents on bicycles a daughter on training wheels riding

between them;

& back & forth go the roller bladers & roller skaters

in their day glow skintight spandex, with knee, elbow & wrist pads

—a lanky skater comes up, spins once & gracefully glides away—;

& there are joggers in short shorts & t-shirts & teens in baggy shorts

—a woman jogs by looking oblivious to everyone,

listening to some tune or another

through cassette player ear plugs—;

& skateboarders clack clack hard wheels on bumpy asphalt,

& a man in cutoff sweat shirt pushes another in a wheelchair,

& another cruises along enjoying himself like anyone else

in his electric wheelchair.

And mothers & daughters are confiding, friends & lovers

are confiding;

they have all come, it is no coincidence why they are here;

back & forth the human stream—

This is the limit, this is the edge, the ocean is gorgeous,

& they all at this moment must certainly know it.

Which is why

a man sets up a tripod for picture taking,

while others are snap snapping snapshots with posing girlfriends

& boyfriends & groups of friends;

& posing are families from the Valley & Midwest & East Coast

& Middle Eastern émigrés & Japanese tourists all posing,

all are part of the scene.

This is why

the couple sit & kiss at a bench,

a clean white linen spread on a table before them,

these big daisies in a vase, take-out food & drinks,

& a clarinet player, sporting a white, tapering beard,

is standing off to the right, puttin’ out some jazz for their pleasure.

It is her birthday, I hear, and this is all her boyfriend’s surprise—

And she is overwhelmed by it, and that a poet

would unpremeditatively show up, too—

It is all simply too much, she is so happy & thrilled,

it is all so gorgeous,

the ocean so perfectly turquoise calm it shines iridescent;

a briny tonic fills the air;

& Sun nears the glorious moment of its descent.

An offshore, monolithic stack is topped with pelicans,

occasionally one or two cruise the mellow unbrokenness of surf;

& another massive rock is topped with dark, heads-up cormorants,

& gulls ride & glide on the windless air.

A guy with guitar perched on a precipice gazes at the Sun

as dozens & dozens of others gaze at the Sun now dropping to blaze

the ocean horizon.

A Hispanic family is lounged on a blanket on the ice plant edge,

overlooking a lower ledge lapped by the gentle wash of wave.

Near Lighthouse Point, three guys on a bench are rappin’ a beat

on bongos, another rappin’with drum sticks on the bench backside,

people gathered round,

& a drum circle down on the beach is sending out its beat,

& the sea lions bark,

they bark—

This is the limit, this is the edge, everyone is posed,

the ocean is gorgeous, the picture timeless.

And back & forth

the human stream flows over Lighthouse Point—

So becalmed is Steamer Lane, there is scarcely a wave;

surfers lie languorously on boards & float among sea otters & sea lions

leisurely afloat on their backs,

the Bay to horizon a pewter gray-blue, a tinge of purple in the distant

Moss Landing power plant sky.

And Sun has bowed out; the southern dome over Monterey

turns pale pink & green & blue, & the Moon has gotten brighter,

& the bells of nearby Shrine of St. Joseph ring, as if out of dream—

Only a few moments more & the priceless pearl of this evening

will fade before the eyes...

The Santa Cruz Mountains trace a pale backbone

against the only slightly more pale gray-blue of sky,

all washing out into the same monochromatic of gray-blue,

an impressionistic, perfectly calm gray-blue, slowly fading

grayer & grayer...

and that I this moment would be able

all this to witness,

such gratitude...

And I head back,

as back & forth the human stream thins out.

It is dusk—

A man lifts his son upon the wooden cliff railing

& together they gaze upon the perfect calm of ocean

before darkness overtakes;

& some still jog in shorts & sweat shirts, some in bright jackets;

& the gulls & cormorants & pelicans have all turned in

to gather on the rocks.

In the west, a pale-yellow smudge fades out to washed out blue,

& the first lights of Monterey begin to sparkle, hugging the horizon—

West Cliff clears quickly now,

and the Moon, higher, bulging towards full,

is bright white.

Suddenly,

Venus pops out, high in the west, before the star multitudes,

as cars stream back & forth, their harsh lights countering

the fast encroachment of night.

And soon Venus Herself is so bright & gorgeous—

She is first among

the first

of the stars.

Santa Cruz

September 1997/1998