It's a Long Time Ago

By Gary Bernard

Leonard Cohen
And it's a long time ago
And it wasn't a CD
But a record on a record player
And my books
And my rolltop desk
And the floor to ceiling window
Framing the garden
With spotted green
And rocks bouldered from Tujunga Canyon
And the pipe I bargained for
In the Kapp and Petersen shop
In the maze of cobblestones
That bring mystery and culture
And poetry to the streets of Dublin
And I would draw out my tobacco
Like a forgotten lover that greets me
Before my eyes close
And on my desk is my notebook
Open and blank
Waiting
And I light up my pipe
And my day is stretched
Over Freeway and downtown streets
To Tenth St. School
And I fight and argue
And bring together thirty-eight children
In an experiment
I call"education"
Am I being creative?
Civilizing?
Inventive?
Independent?
Or, am I just waiting,
Waiting for the bell to ring?
And the bell rings
And at my desk
After the children have left
My eyes linger at each empty chair
And one by one I think,
"Have I done my job?"
So,
Their mothers say,
"What did you learn today?"
Or, maybe they don't ask at all
Maybe mom is not home
Maybe working
Maybe working one of three jobs
Or maybe, in a fit of rage, passion,
Or fear
Has just run away
And I close my record book
My lessons are set for tomorrow
I lock my classroom door
I'm one of the late ones
The janitor knows me well
And I sign out in the office
And if my car is not working
That week
I drive my motorcycle
And in a corrosive wild spirit
I motor up Alvarado
Passing next to Mac Arthur Park
And I smell the taco vendors
With their pungent meat and salsa
And I pass my Uncle Chuck's newstand
And the used furniture stores
Staked with old kitchen chairs
And discarded vinyl tables
And with no helmet
My long hair secured with a red bandana
I race into Griffith Park
Speed
An elixir to cleanse and frighten
And touch what spirit rides reckless
And I grab my pipe
And with a strong inhaling of tobacco
I sit back at my desk
Exhale the smoke
And I write my words,
Massaged, like my spirit
To reach out and identify my
Dreams, my doubts, my fears
...And now,
Now it's Leonard Cohen again
And at Sixty-two
I find myself
With pen
But this time
All I have
Are my words
Words that speak only to me
Words in the shadows
That play
And dance
In shafts of light
That meet
Only in the afternoon alleys of my mind
And with my pillow to my headboard
And my pen
Feverishly penning
And penning
I keep writing
Writing more words.