FROM THE V&B TIME CAPSULE​ -
       POETRY  -  A SELECTION FROM ISSUE 1 - FALL 2015

"The sunset, scarlets, oranges and
purples that make you stare."
  
                                    Photo by Weebly.com                                    

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SEEING PACIFICA BEACH  **
by Bruce Martin

​Past Ansel Adams-like “ticky, tacky, boxes,”                           
Past the Fort Funston hundreds-of-dogs park,                          
Over the hill to beautiful, backward                                        
Pacifica Beach.

Over the hazy hills,
The only moving things
Are the soaring seabirds.

Two margins frame the ocean:
White boiling surf crashing on the
Seawall and the foggy horizon;
Weird white light just above the water.
The sunset, scarlets, oranges and
Purples that make you stare.
   
The seabirds whirl in the constant wind
Scribing circle upon circle,
Past the edge, out of sight.

On the sunrise side the coastal hills slope
Steeply toward the waterfront and ocean.
Providing a balance, a context, for
The compact community.

On the promenade neighbors run, walk,
Watch the water and each other,
Talking, sharing news.
Big families gather around picnic tables,
Kids shouting and racing

Parallel to the seawall, the village,
A strip two blocks wide, mostly
Older cottages, reasonably well-maintained.
The waterfront an
Intricate part of village life.

Often more than a hundred people
Crowd the quarter-mile long fishing pier
Catching crabs in spring, salmon in the summer.
I have heard here the greatest variety of languages,
The smallest of wide worlds.

The ocean moves toward the seawall
The seabirds are flying.

The Chit Chat Cafe sits at the foot
Of the fishing pier next to the
Promenade, the village gathering place.
Mornings the cafe sells bagels with egg,
And muffins with coffee, and bait for
Fishing or crabbing (something rotten for crabs)
People read the paper, sit at small tables.

Weekends the sidewalk barbeque serves
Burgers, hotdogs, and chili,
Picnic tables full of local folk,
A man eating a sausage sandwich,
Talking with the dozen people at the table about an
Event at the community center, and the
Warriors and local real estate purchases and
Why old lady Sharpe gave the Sharpe Ranch
To San Francisco.

It is foggy and misty,
Twilight in the afternoon,
And it will be foggy and misty.
Seabirds sit quiet
On the seawall.

Pacifica Beach,
A sort of village that disappeared long ago,
Surrounded by ocean, hills, fog, wind, and seabirds.
A place with its own life.    

** Editor's Note:   This poem first appeared in Issue 1 of Vistas & Byways in the Fall of 2015.

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​​Bruce Martin grew up in Boston, Massachusetts as one of three brothers. He completed undergraduate work at Keene State College in New Hampshire and received an M.A. degree in Urban and Regional Planning at the University of Massachusetts . He moved to San Francisco in 1986 where he worked for a long time in the financial publishing industry. He has always loved poetry, and after retiring from work, he  spent his leisure time in reading and writing poetry.

Editor's Note: Bruce Martin passed away in 2019.

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