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The
Man who Danced with a Cane
Tomorrow, tomorrow, it's coming too fast
young moon and stars light the
night;
I fret in my van, surrounded by gear
fearing oversleep of the morning
task
The light of dawn shows low fog en masse
slowly climbing Hurricane Point;
The photographer prays fog stays low
until the marathon-runners pass
But no, it pushes up that face
'til an invisible hand presses down;
I let out a sigh of huge relief
and give silent thanks for the grace
Tomorrow's here, and augurs well
I roam around to choose some views;
Soon Power Walkers come and pass
then marathoners chasing hell
I wait and watch for the subtle rapture
between land-forms and life-forms,
colors and shapes, that instant of feeling
signaling the moment of capture
I remember 'twas here, ago fourteen years
where a marathon-poster sprang
forth;
The nine-mile mark, where the Point is first seen
a mixture of beauty, joy, and fears
Now I must rush to the next viewing thrill
and climb high above the Hurricane
Point;
Omigod! --- the brush --- it's above my chest --
can I thrash to the top of the hill?
With ski poles I wrestle, to yells from below
"You fool, you're in Poison
Oak?!!!"
I reply " Yes, I am" and ponder a stop
but the answer I already know
Deep in sweat I arrive, alas there's no 'fridge!
but panorama's alive;
So I put it to film, then down again
racing on to Bixby Bridge
Here, too, I normally climb, but the plan
is dashed by impassable growth;
Ground-level it is, with no Jonathan Lee
but a new Grand Piano Man
As before, what I want, and carefully seek
is an uncluttered musical view;
But alas --- with the moment ready to freeze
into view comes a frizzy old geek
My lips pinch/purse, I try not to scowl
but wait – don't I know this man?
I've seen him, I've heard him, or have I?
is this the Big Sur poet-owl ?
He talks with the player, asks for a tune
turns to me and says "shall I
dance?"
And lest I demur, he struts out with his cane
and jigs like a youth in Cancun
Indeed, it is he – the Poet Supreme
Ric Masten, this marathon's King;
Dance he can, and dance he does
and makes the photographer beam
It's these moments of joy, of beauty or fun
that fire the flame in me;
Quickly compose 'em, the moment frozen
to share with everyone
When the song is done, he comes to me
"Can you spare a minute or
two?'
"I must go to my car, I'll be right
back"
"I've something I want you to
see"
He's off with his cane, I pause for some looks
at the waves in the ocean below
I sit on a rock, and when he returns
in one hand he carries some books
"What your name?: he says – "Ron"
say I --
a pen appears in his hand;
"To Ron" he writes, and I start to
cry
not aloud, but deep inside
For my life has, of late, been mostly of grief,
for the loss of a hearth-song dream
And this poet could see that deep within me
was a need for rekindled belief
From his books of poems, he reads with a flair
as only the author can do;
"I
brought these", he says, "to give to someone ---
some things I wanted to share"
Before I move on, from this meeting of chance
a poem-song framed he presents
From his sagely youth, how apropos (!)
on life – "Let it be a Dance"
Ahead of me, more stops will remain
more moments to see, feel, and frame
But nothing so fine as the moments this day
with the man who danced with a cane.
Written 4/28/2004 for Ric Masten.
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