Isn’t it crumby?
That I never did
get to go and see it inside…
Oh, my folks could be
such a drag back in ’65!
The next year it burnt down;
clear down to the ground.
Its site sat fallow until
a “better” use could be found.
Maybe an encroaching Pacific tide-pond outside
would lap automobile and surf buggy tires,
then tickle the toes of rambunctious surfers,
stopping to admire their ride.
Out in the (my parents said so) infamous parking lot,
they’d be sneaking their underage swallows
of brew, and smoking (not pot,)
and maybe taking a leak in a neighboring garden.
Oops! Begging your pardon.
I’m imagining that once inside,
their Pendleton flannels
tossed up on a hat-rack,
surfers hangin’ ten,
going trippin’ and stomping –
those aging floor planks
and Socrates Sandals a’ clompin’.
Dancing to the blasting surf beat – Cowabunga!
Dick Dale, King of Surf Guitar – we love ya.
The bell at Our Lady of Mount Carmel tolls and oh a
big parking lot now skirts big condos in Balboa,
where a plaque remembers and saves it from doom
the famous but obsolete Rendezvous Ballroom.
IF YOU WANT TO HAVE SOME FUN WITH THIS TOPIC CLICK ON THE PICTURE LINKS TO LEARN MORE ABOUT THE 60’s SO CAL SURFER CULTURE!
Well, I couldn’t get the middle part of this poem quite right, but decided to go for it and maybe I can fix it later?
My muse drudged up some Southern California memories and lore (and patiently coaxed me during my attempt at rhyming!) The words in bold are from the Sunday Whirl – Wordle #25