Janice Joplin was first 'discovered' during the Monterey Pop Festival when Clive Davis saw her performing.  She had been the lead singer with Big Brother and the Holding Company but left the group under not so pleasant circumstances.

Joplin's music included such hits as 'Me and Bobby McGee'  (written by Kris Kristofferson), 'Piece of My Heart', 'Cry Baby' and 'Ball and Chain' to mention only a few.

Joplin's earthy, gritty voice  added her own special touch to her powerful music.

Joplin actually hitchhiked from Texas to San Francisco in 1963. and lived in an apartment with Country Joe McDonald just off the Panhandle.

 

 

 

ode to janis Joplin

 

her darkened eyes were like thunder
loud and reckless
rumbling like her voice
begging for mercy while commanding the skies
in silence from the east

she wept alone
amped on desolate dusty roads
flyin’ through tuesday night
black like a fallen veil of emptiness
draped loosely
just a golden girl feedin’ on brown sugar
washed down by bitter tears

she never saw the white horse
galloping like a runaway diesel
rushing through her veins
painting a smile on her lips
where songs used to live
until one day
they were hushed
like the night through which they roamed

 

cable cars

 

she was hanging from the car

at the powell and market terminal

making her way to california street

before returning to russian hill

 

i saw her coat, the color, avocado green,

before i saw her body

her hat, burgundy, before her eyes

the car, like most, was full

but her decision to hang from the platform

showed her tourist status

 

waving at chinese residents walking

their shuffle step from chinatown

and twisting her body into a pretzel shape

to measure the gap between seasoned drivers

and the open-air bus

 

her wool avocado green coat walked away

at the end of the powell/mason line

her burgundy hat tilted to one side

and i could only guess the color of her eyes

i only knew that for one day in san francisco

mine smiled

 

 

watchful eye

 

morning crept across her

shaping itself into treble clefs and quarter notes;

a song of sorts played to the rhythm of laughter

 

my thoughts crawled across her body like

coit tower’s shadow

watching over washington square from telegraph hill

 

traversing fingers coiled over her soft skin

moving like the spiraled snakes-tail of lombard street

while still able to stare down that lone pyramid of transamerica

and maintain her dignity when alcatraz called her name

 

her words sweetened my coffee

and as quickly as the swirl of smoke had dissipated

she too was gone

taking treble clefs, quarter notes and long thin shadows with her

 

i no longer remember her name, only her eyes

haight ashbury had a way of erasing even the best memories

 

 

the coffee shop lady

 

i watched her from two tables over

fidgeting with mismatched salt and pepper shakers

her pencil-like fingers moving them methodically

as though they were pawns on a chessboard

 

her tea, like her body, had long ago lost warmth

now contained in a paper cup and plastic lid

where angel’s hair clouds once pushed

like cotton circles against celestial seasonings splashes

 

an oversized oval-shaped chipped broach

held her too-shiny blouse modestly shut

three buttons from the top

slightly off center to cover any indecency

 

her smile was cozy, dutifully engaging each new patron

and with kind eyes she appeared to weep for their sins

knowing that none who crossed her path

was righteous

 

i watched her fingers as much as her eyes

blanketed with skin looser than her morals had ever been

and i felt ashamed that i had not known her as a child

perhaps i would have lived life better

 

 

painted ladies

 

over the years i have forgotten her eyes

that her smile was soft

and her hair like chiffon on a wednesday morning

 

we walked along stanyan street

celebrating the colors of a fall morning

listening to simon and garfunkel

and watching steam rise from beneath the street

 

the majesty of the painted ladies

on steiner street came alive as they stared us down

two lovers hand in hand

looking for a place to lay a blanket

in alamo square park

 

we must have looked bland

compared to their flamboyancy

queen anne archetecture—fancy and flashy

combinations of bay windows

from which lovers could be watched 

jutting turrets and ornately decorated rooflines

 

even then, when i saw the brilliant pink

of a lady, i saw you, your lips, your smile

and of the blue, i saw your eyes, the sparkle

the laughing way they looked at me

 

yet i have forgotten the colors

and only the painted ladies

on steiner street remind me

of that morning

looking for a place to lay a blanket

in alamo square park

 

 

panhandle park

 

hello was once spoken

on an old bench at masonic and oak

and goodbye was too quickly waved

before stanyan street

 

we walked slowly, hoping to learn

one another’s history

while discovering we had none

 

mine was found too late

as i watched her

quietly walking away

taking her unspoken words with her

 

i knew that there would be days

when she would rekindle

my need for yesterday’s memory

 

music was lifted on the wings of smoke

as the panhandle was alive

from a flatbed where airplanes flew

and white rabbits were born

 

i see her more clearly

now that she has gone away

lifted up by electronic sounds

in an acoustic world

 

san francisco smiles

.

she wore green

shoulders bare

a san francisco breeze blowing through her hair

we stood at the powell and market terminal

making our way to california street

before returning to russian hill

.

i loved her smile

radiant

adding a glimmer to her eyes.

.

the cable car, like most, was full

but it allowed me to wait with her

.

she waved at passers by…

their shuffle step on the uphill grade

and twisted her body into a pretzel shape

.

her avocado green outfit was hypnotic

at the end of the powell/mason line;

her head tilted to one side

and i could only admire the color of her eyes.

.

i only knew that for one day in san francisco

mine smiled

 

now years later

i am blessed

to recall her eyes, her smile

and a day in san francisco

 

 

 

 

 

 

weather report

 

he sat in in his rickety gray chair

yesterday

the scent of bougainvillea lingering

just behind his head

as he rested

 

‘a slight breeze’

the weather report said

“partly sunny and no chance of rain

an excellent day to be outside.”

the man on tv had said, waving at nothing

 

everybody knows

he only points at an unadorned green wall

no fat clouds or smiling suns

only an empty, bare, bleak,

totally unembellished and downright boring wall

 

his critique of the weather report had begun

a daily routine

he talked to no one

no one answered

yet somehow he heard no one

 

content, he lifted his tired body

from the rickety gray chair

replaced the flower pot to save his seat

and walked inside

“sure looks like rain.” he said with a whisper.

 

 

the baker’s window

 

trays of fresh baked cookies filled the store front window

as effusively as the sweet aroma

of cinnamon filled the air

and little pieces of special burst into the day

 

morning unfolded from itself like cookie dough pulled and stretched

and pulled again, rolled out flat and ready to give birth

to singular flavors of oatmeal cookies no raisins, no chocolate chips

 

she liked snickerdoodles made with butter and flour

then rolled in cinnamon sugar because she liked the name

and reminded her of serendipity, light-hearted memory

 

she stood, hungry for trivial pieces of chewy ginger cookies

sinfully good she named them when sin was an option

while she longed for fallen crumbs from the catch-all tray

 

smiling, she saw her own face looking back at her

blurred by smudges on the cold plate glass window

morning was still cold while the rising sun crept into the day

 

she heard the musical sound of hand-cranked rods lifting colored awnings

as the boulevard threw out its ‘open’ sign one shop at a time

she dreamed that her life would always be as full as the baker’s window

 

 

two ends of lombard street

 

 

when it rains in the evening

where lombard street is crooked

at the hill where coit tower

throws long its shadow, round

 

i know that flowers will grow again

in the springtime of the morning

and the rolling hills of lombard street

will whisper city secrets newly found

 

bright glowing morning sunlight

spills like smooth amber liquid

on the brick red road

which winds around quietly below

 

while satin soft carnations

and daisies in the shadows

spiral lazily toward heaven

yawning in the morning as they grow

 

when at last the day has closed

much like it first began

where lombard street

is crooked in the sun

 

i will gently shut my memories

and fold them like soft alpaca

then stack them in the shadows

one by one

 

coit tower sleeps while standing

when the sun has passed her by

the shadow thrown is long

as well as thin

 

clouds will return tomorrow

to the san francisco sky

and the tower will stand majestic

once again