December 2016
Robert Walton
dragonlemontree@sbcglobal.net
dragonlemontree@sbcglobal.net
I taught at San Lorenzo Middle School in King City, California for thirty-six years before retiring in June of 2006. Phyllis, my wife of 42 years, and I still reside in King City. I am a life-long rock-climber and mountaineer. I've made numerous ascents in the Sierra Nevada and Yosemite, though my home crags are in Pinnacles National Monument. Many of my climbing stories have been published over the years. One, Three's a Crowd, was produced as a radio play and broadcast on KUSF in 2006 and later made it onto PBS. Please visit my website at: http://chaosgatebook.wordpress.com/
AUTHOR'S NOTE: When my sons were small, we drove across deserts, mountains and plains to reach the family farm in Iowa, often leaving before dawn so they could sleep. Leonard Cohen's ladies of the harbor and Suzanne sang us through sagebrush wastes and endless Nebraska wheat. Years passed and older son Jeremy became friends with Lorca, Leonard’s daughter. Lonely miles eased by good songs and my son’s friendship prompt me to offer this poem in Leonard’s memory.
Secret Bodies
Plato never met Leonard Cohen,
Until I brought them both to Lost Valley,
To Old California, ancient California,
When Charlie Chaplin was a young man
And oranges grew on Disneyland.
L.A.’s ghost,
Poppy gold,
Lupine dusted,
Hangs there,
And not just in winter when the wind is right.
Have a seat, boys.
Glass of wine, Leonard?
It's as cold as one of your similes.
Plato?
What about those secret bodies?
I’ve seen them, too, waiting
Beyond my gentlest touch.
Nothing to say after the long hump up the hill?
I carried the wine.
Secret Bodies
Plato never met Leonard Cohen,
Until I brought them both to Lost Valley,
To Old California, ancient California,
When Charlie Chaplin was a young man
And oranges grew on Disneyland.
L.A.’s ghost,
Poppy gold,
Lupine dusted,
Hangs there,
And not just in winter when the wind is right.
Have a seat, boys.
Glass of wine, Leonard?
It's as cold as one of your similes.
Plato?
What about those secret bodies?
I’ve seen them, too, waiting
Beyond my gentlest touch.
Nothing to say after the long hump up the hill?
I carried the wine.
©2016 Robert Walton
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