A Moon Over Berkeley
[We Became Art for a Moment]
There is no need to seek her
For she is the Moon
Her stunning face hangs over me
Never lets a night go without
The ache of her beauty
Do you see the small star by her?
Her shadow is cast over the city
Like Brunelleschi’s cupola over all of Tuscany.
The heaviness of her copper lies
[in my mouth]
She hides under train tracks and asphalt
She peeks from our longtrodden alleys
She’s under and above me.
I have to see about a City
-I said to him-
The way others go see about a Girl.
‘The city is a girl’ he replied.
They wrote about us
We became Art for a moment
Part of the city like streetlamps
A collage of colors
Red for San Francisco cars
Mustard like her scarf
White, my fedora
Red was our debaucherous light
Her crisp apple shirt matched paintings
[gray as planes]
In Buena Vista park we laid on the grass
Fed mosquitoes and waited fairies
I crafted stories on Bechtle’s California suburbs
Stories of quiet misery and afternoon beers, for her…
Blue for too many train tickets
We sat in a room full of patterns
And listened.
Under brilliant suns we walked
To the edge of Sunset.
Faded too early in the streets of Janis Joplin
Among Tibetan jewelry stores,
Earrings and beads,
We found minstrels and poets.
Lemonade and Mate,
I told her about the weight of flowers
Narrated the geography
Of my broken heart.
It is night again
And I still choose my dandelion poetry
Over sleep
And being on time.
San Diego, March 7, 2011
sketchbloom.com 
I read your poem with complete delight. I lived and studied in Berkeley for several years, so many of your references were familiar and brought back joyful memories.
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Dear Mrs Daffodil,
Berkeley is a second home to me, and a very special place of the heart and intellectual state of mind.
I am inspired every time I go up North, and San Francisco…well what a feast for the senses and the mind!
I will continue to share my mental imagery with you, thank you so much for reading me. It is a true honor. I am so happy you could see yourself in my words. In a way that is the best a poet/writer can hope for, that our personal experiences are relatable as human, collective experiences. Thank you again for the kind words. It fills me with joy to know that someone is reading these ‘dandelion’ thoughts and art fragments, fragments of life….
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I read this to my neice on Sunday afternoon, as she fell asleep in my arms. What does a baby dream about? The moon and stars and colors, I hope.
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Ryan. That’s beautiful.
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