Thursday, November 27, 2014

Almost Distracted by the Siren Call of 4 Wonen Hammering the Trails in Full Cyclocross kits - Thanksgiving Count is Big This Year is 83

Regular readers, well, if there were regular posts there might be regular readers, of this blog know that every that every Thanksgiving, I run my traditional route through the Park. Along the way, not sure when I started this, I count the number of homeless folk spread out along the way.  This is a very imprecise measure of how well we are doing as a society; how we treat those less fortunate than us. 

At a time when many families are sucking down more consumables than humanly possible as if it were a contest to see who falls into a food coma in front of the [enormous screen television displaying any old] football game first, the number is indicative of how good or bad things might be on the streets.  Think about it this way, if we could some how gather together all the leftovers, how many folks would we be able to feed and how long?  Is there another way forward to fix the homeless situation? Who was it that said, "doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result..."

What's different this year is that I totally didn't see a single Hells Angel along Haight Street. They have typically gathered (dozens of Harley Davidsons packed into a row in front of the same cafe)  for many years, seemingly celebrating the holiday by going for a ride on a beautiful day.  This is too bad, as I had resolved to stop this year and ask one of them what the tradition was. I was secretly hoping that they would explain that they did the ride every year to raise money to build homes for homeless vets. Alas, no luck.  There weren't any Hells Angels to ask a blessed thing.

What I did find, after spotting four homeless along the panhandle was a large number of people out exercising - running, riding, rollerskating.  As soon as I entered into the wood, there were zero homeless in a typical place that I usually notice a few folks tucked under the brush in sleeping bags.

Along the narrow trail to the knoll, I spot a lead rider in full flashy cycling kit coming out of a tributary and onto my trail. She said, "Runner up." When I got a better glimpse, turns out there were three riders tucked behind her all on Cyclocross bikes.  All four tricked out in full sponsored kits of some kind or another.  I stood aside and waved them through, "Cyclocross Rules, ATMO!"  They said thank you; I'm sure appreciative of not having some runner disrupt their rhythm by clogging up the single track.

At that point, I had reached a count of 6 homeless, and four female cyclocross riders. I thought, maybe this is the year that the system cracked the problem and found a solution to eliminate almost all the homeless.  "Wouldn't it be great to report that I had seen more Cross riders and cyclists than homeless?"

No such luck.  The first real clump of homeless were sleeping on Hippie Hill, near the tennis courts, then along the hill North of the Sharon Building.  The numbers started ratcheting up.  Then I hit Haight Street, and that seems to be where the vast majority of the homeless were coagulating this year.

This year, in front of Haight Street Music, there was a clump of folks singing a son, complete with guitars and laughter, and dogs.   The last cluster of homeless were gathered under an oak tree at the edge of Beuna Vista - about 13 or 14 folks.  At least one of them was cleaning up the camp.

In the end, I spotted 83 homeless people.  The distracting siren call of Cross riders a faint memory.

Blog on

Saturday, April 05, 2014

After the Fracture (a supposed song I wrote a long time ago)

I'd like to sing this song
But you're not here with me
Don't know what to do
But it might be destiny

How do I get you closer
To play with me?
It don't sound so good
With out you in proximity


I'm not living without you
I'm not breathing without you
I'm not loving without you

Doesn't feel so good
Hugging my pillow
And its really cold
Never feels all that good
Without you in the neighborhood

How could we be so wrong
Together its a mystery
Now and forever
We are history


And this song will end
A lousy facsimile
Of what we had once
Or is it a faded memory

Really, I don't need you
Picking myself up
And walking through that door


Saturday, March 22, 2014

Experience: An Anthology - Original Works by Aaron Anderson copyrighted June 1992

I'm pretty sure that if there was such a thing as blogging back in 1992, I would have put these poems on line some where. Found these going back through an old box this afternoon. Best for sharing by making them electronic.

Bear in mind, I was a lot younger then (we all were, of course). But this should get you a sense of what I was writing back then.

I'm pretty sure that if there was such a thing as blogging back in 1992, I would have put these poems on line some where. Found these going back through an old box this afternoon. Best for sharing by making them electronic.

Bear in mind, I was a lot younger then. But this should get you a sense of what I was thinking back then.


An Anthology

Original works by Aaron Anderson

Distinct Class

An Errant class
Distinction and promise
Of the American Dream
Shove you and me and me you
Vice versa against the glass
Struggling 'til our own demise
Dividing us along the very seam
A chasm we'd all like to cross

Moving on Up

Drive that Mercedes
And I my Escort
Vacation in exotic destinations
And I budget the local resort
And a Motel 6
May not a Radisson or Regency be
Extol your pleasure
As best you may
For I and my Escort will
Shortly be by your way.

Wake up Call

And you say you disagree
You don't know where to stand
That you can never identify
and why even try
But this cause you can't ignore
We're comin' in your back door
Not a safe place to hide
From the fire that burns inside
Understand this oppressor, We
Never, never, never give up the fight
Four cops Went Free and Los Angeles Went Up in Smoke

Written for Deb Foster

In making Solace
Or peace of mind
Tranquil streams
And placid time
The heart is true
Only if you
Stand your ground
And draw the line 


Pestilence or sorrow
Weighing heavy on your brow?
The pain of oppression
Cleaving fractures in your opinion?
There is a solution
Clouded in pollution,
Not abated, waiting for a clear day
Or activism and restimulation
Of individual dedication
To rectification of vilification
Making what's wrong right
Never give up...never give up the fight. 

Tempus Fugit

And Time Marches to a Cadence
All its Own
Leaving us Spinning
Wondering Where it Went
Stop and Think.
Our Past is What Makes Us
Last year, we lost over 100,000 Iraqi and 150 U.S. Lives.


The stimulus warrants
Responses internal
Beyond control, but containable
A toxic waste
Of mind and soul
Realities and legalities
Restrain your goals
Choice, free, do!
Reactions are entirely you


A man of quality
is not threatened by
a woman seeking equality

Veterans Day

Standing here along the road
To 'Nam or Saudi it's off I go
Crush my innocence before its time
How to recapture the youth that was mine
Of all things hard to relate
It's the blood of a buddy's
Fate spilling before my face
So it's home for this old Joe
And it's alone I go.

Written for Rey Guerrero

'Tis not that Life is
Swift for some
and not others, but
Enriched by the people

Autumn's Charm

Leaves Falling
Tapestry Forming
Frost Crisping
Breath Misting

The Cycle

Aspirations of water and time
Mixed in discovery and exploration
Define life's mysteries
And to what end
Only to redefine
Life's mysteries

As a parcel of sustenance
And a seeming lack of substance
Time and tide wait for no one

Lest We Forget

Lest we forget
The horror of violence
The cycle of hatred
Anger focused on others
And slighted persons of many colors

Lest we forget
The antiquated system
Dictates violent solutions
To age old problems
And institutionalized subjugation

Lest we forget
We join in the system
Every day another is born
We grow weary of oppressing
And yet complain of reverse discrimination

Lest we forget
The wars waged
The black men beaten
The money spent for law enforcement
And wonder what happened to education

Lest we forget
The decline of the family
The embracement of mediocrity
Or the decline of employment
And blame the media and lack of moral majority

Lest we forget
The cash donate for political campaigns
The credibility of our stars and politicians
Or the crisis of a promise broken
And concern grows for the children and their indoctrination

Lest we forget
These are our lives
That we chose to live
In silence and complicity
And at the very least we forget.

Written for Jenn Guttler

It it's in song
Or in the soul
One follow the other
Reaching beyond bounds
And walls planted
Or broken down
Singularly challenged
Soul and song
Coupled indefeatable

Written for Emily Lino

As the flower
Begun as a gift
Becomes your own
Blooms and goes
Think how brief
Plant a seed
Love and Nurture
And the flower
Often Blooms

Written for Enrique Diaz

Sway in the breeze
Bend in the torrent
Steadfast in the daylight
Notice the tree
Rooted in a forest
A sea of individuality
For not the woods
But the branches
Make the mountains majestic

Written for Lisa Root

Ah, the wings of education
Filled by the winds of knowledge
Causing a soul to grow
Toward higher goals
Fly, and fly far
And may the winds
Carry you beyond
Your wildest dreams


And in the end
as do all good things
toward new beginnings
and re-invention of dreams
ensure memories are shelved
As this chapter closes
with well worn seams