Topanga Poem

Hatstand for the weary traveler, Mossy resting place, Think Rock, colorful candle stick maker, Sheltered, weathered, sprawling, Hometown of a Mother’s Open Arms.

They tell me the way to You is slippery,

dreadful, rough, For I have cringed at many an accident,

on the bleak midnight roadside. And they tell me of Your abandoned parts,

or else those fermenting unpolished crime, You are a town the passers pass by. They rush by head down eyes squinted against the green,

not stopping to notice the tamed beast, slumbering and dreaming.

But show me another place with its eyes full and bright

another place where fairies play, And whisk away travelers to where they need to be. A place of magnetism, sheer wit,

of steely nerves and heightened thought, grisly as the war veterans that planted the flag in rocky ground, beating steady as the oak tree and the big mountain cat. enthralled, dancing with scarves, grounded with pleasant vulgarity,

and for the one lone voyager that needs a rest The spirits clear a path, the road slithers upwards, the wind whistles of better times. I know of Topanga, the town for passing by,

and of its many jewels, not yet unearthed, Waiting for another with Open Arms.


By Isabela Lisco


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