Portland, City of Roses

City of Roses
of blooming poets.

Myself an old man
I stumble into the 60s and 70s
{the Hilton the tallest building in town)
looking for faces of those mostly gone.

Walt Curtis
on a tall stool turns
teetering on his toes

The blooming poets of Portland
groupies in their workshops
without passion, always the concrete.
Bridges span the still filthy Willamette.

Walt’s passion as he turns!
as his hands beat out words
his audience in the dozens
laughing sighing yelling
“Give it to ’em Walt!”
His circle complete
he turns to talk.
“It’s the 4th of July, my birthday!”

our bombs bursting in air
all over the world.
Ensconced in his chair by the President
Kissinger presents his Grand Plan.
The poets do not respond to countless wars

fail to celebrate
boys swimming at Mollala Falls.

Robert A. Davies has published in recent years largely online. He has been writing poems seriously since 1969. He has published Timber, Tracks in Oregon, Melons and Mendelssohn, and Bluff Hollow. He was co-editor of Mr. Cogito for about 20 years. He has recently appeared in Dissident Voice and Windfall He can be reached at: rjdavies3@comcast.net. Read other articles by Robert A..