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featuring monthly and annual calendars
and the poetry of

MARIA ARANA
DAVID BORTIN
CALOKIE
DON KINGFISHER CAMPBELL
MICHAEL CLUFF
PAULI DUTTON
MEG ELGIN
JOE GARDNER
THOM GARZONE
CARL HARMON
JEFFRY JENSEN
JULIE LARSON
THELMA REYNA
RINA ROSE
ROSALEE THOMPSON
LORI WALL-HOLLOWAY

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HAPPY HOLIDAYS AND NEW YEAR!
Don the editor

14 poets read from SGVPQ 52

MARIA A. ARANA

California

California,
You have killed me

You the abomination
of my lifeless body

California,
You have slaughtered my ambitions
and kept the souls at bay

California,
You have scattered my remains
to the four corners of the sea
Whose current would not withstand
solitude

California,
You have cremated my amputated limbs
and crushed my soul
so the four winds blow
my ashes to nevermore

California,
You abomination

You have killed me

Are you satisfied?

DAVID BORTIN

Such Stuff as Dreams Are Made On

I wonder if that other, secret self
Who wakes within when e’er I fall asleep
Has been up to some deviltry of late.

He had the crosscut shredder on last night,
Slicing with its sharp-edged dreams
My too-few hours to slender strips of sleep,
The strips into confetti to confound the memory.

I woke a dozen times at least
With each remembering the minute of the last
But nothing of what happened in between.

Can these unremembered dreams be such a torment
To that other self
That I awaken over and again
To find escape?

Or were they part and parcel of a plot
To swap personas?
When my alarm clock stopped the rhythmic beat
Which one of us, I wonder, found a seat?

Which self have I assumed? Whose dream is this?

CALOKIE

Ode to Dirt
(Reflections on Dirt, the Movie)

Blessed be
millions of biodiverse
biodegradable
microorganisms
in a handful of dirt
and each shovel of soil
which holds more living things
than all the human beings ever born
in our wandering world
O my soul

Blessed be
the topsoil
the skin of the earth.
the face of our mother
an orgiastic organism under our feet
the Dirt from which we come
and the Dirt to which we return
O my soul

Blessed be
grounds of villages
wherever children dance in ring
stop
stoop
scoop
handfuls of dirt
fling to skies
and get showered by
laughing cloud of dust
O my soul

Blessed be
the Dirt which grows
corn in torrid tortillas
rice portion on porcelain plate
frijoles covered with melted Jack cheese
avocados y Jalapenos in guacamole
and limes squeezed in frosted margarita
O my soul

Drink to
the life I feel within the land
the mountain I am
the tree I am
the river I am
the soil which is my flesh
O my soul

DON KINGFISHER CAMPBELL

The Antique Traveller

read the classic poem
two hundred years
after sandy inspiration

saw those ruins again
what romantic poet decided
to capture of the passed

an attempt to warn the future
so we might recognize tyranny
when we experience it

but the 99% don't act as one yet
this empire's cycle continues
with the reassurance only that

kings and paupers die
buildings and slogans fall
fragments sink into earth

CARL HARMON

Leaky Bucket

You’ve asked me to carry water for you,
To chop your wood and stoke your fires,
To wash and dry your dirty laundry
And raise your rotten wilding kids,
To fight your wars and feed your pets,
To hunt your dragons and pay your bills,
And to listen to your lilting little lies….

But you’ve asked me to carry water
In a cracked and leaky bucket,
And you asked me to chop your wood
With a dull and blunted axe,
And you’ve given me clothes to wash
Without soap in dirty water,
And you asked me to plow your fields
With a broken stick and a crippled cow.

And to hunt these dragons and kill these bears
While you’re twisting my rifle into a knot,
And you’ve given me wastrel children to teach
Who already know it all, know everything.
And you’ve killed the golden goose
In this golden state of the promised land,
And you’ve asked me to carry water
And give you a hand.

I won’t carry any more water, any milk or any wine,
In your cracked and leaky bucket full of lies.
I won’t wash your dirty laundry, chop your wood or plow your fields
In decaying burning cities full of lies.
We won’t hunt your dragons, raise your kids, and fight your wars anymore
In this sinful sinking country full of lies.

GARY IMPERIAL

1000 Things

The future is a myth story
told in hopeful gray,
as the past is seen through
eyes that went teary
from perspective.

To those frozen memory moments,
you will thaw in my favorite ink.
To the mercury moments yet to be,
I look to affect your fluidity.

However, it's the hardly soft tick tock
of the watch I no longer have
that summons the spiced holiday coffee
with it's aromatic confidence to the moment
now.

There are 1000 things you can take
or give, or share...

Of these, I release 999 joys of neon splendor
to violin legato rhythms so that they will be
savored with the scent of sweet chocolate
and tasty salted treats as they are gripped with
a comforting firmness.

But the last one,
that last joy is mine alone.
Only to be known by my
pencil and paper.

JEFFRY JENSEN

Birdland

I came across crows on the jungle gym,
a gaggle of sea gulls on the swings,
magpies making castles in the sand,
parrots poking their heads over the chin-up bar,
Canadian geese playing a mean game of dodge ball,
and nervous mynah birds looking for a free lunch.

I remember recess being my best subject.
The crows were always really good at math.
I made sure to sit next to them during tests.
The sea gulls couldn't care less about any of that jazz.
They all taught me how to give the teacher the bird whenever
he turned to scribble something on the chalkboard.

I moved away before I got the hang of long division.
The crows promised to write but never did.
The sea gulls did a fly over in memory of past mischief.
At my new school pigeons had control of the sandbox.
I took up the saxophone for extra credit.
Before long I was making a name for myself with all the birds.

CLAIRE KOEHLER

Remembering ‘63

I smell a Christmas orange--
bringing back first grade.
Santa’s pulling sacks of candy
to leave with us for trade—

our smiles and our giddiness
in exchange for candy ribbons;
His Ho! Ho! Ho! to take us away
from our long division.

Sister’s smile is new to us.
Our little faces wonder.
We take our precious gifts in hand
caring not to ponder.

The scent of Christmas left behind
by Santa’s magic visit
will ever warm my fondest dreams
and build them so exquisite!

KARINEH MAHDESSIAN

she is broken.
time has glues mosaic pieces
of pain while stained-glass eyes
are
shattered shut.

she is broken.
sharred memories meteor-shower
on sidewalks
while tarnished heart
bleeds.

she is broken.
limbs torn assunder
esophagus singed.

but her love.
oh, her love.

it is candy-coated
acid drops.

once poured,
it
tattoos
the skin.

TOTI O'BRIEN

The Hen

My neighbor
has a chicken.
They were two
but the hawk
killed one.
The survivor
alone is
restless.
Also quiet ‘n
very beautiful.
All dressed
up with a
maculate
grey coat. Poised
and elegant.
More than all
furtive.

The hen likes
my backyard
‘n my garden
she’s my
silent visitor.
When I leave
come back
open a
window or
door the
chicken is
there. We
never exchange
direct gazes
we were not
introduced. We
don’t talk.

But she’s
there and it
must be for
something.
Pretending
great shyness
she always
disappears
at my sight
she runs jumps
turns around
flies away whenever
I approach.
That looks just
like a dance of
clandestine
lovers.

I must confess
that it thrills me.
I don’t feel alone
she guards me or
she spies on me...
doesn’t matter. I
do like her smooth
elusiveness... I
don’t even know
her given name
but she’s very
close in a way.
Like an angel
a soul mate
a humble
incognito
god.

THELMA REYNA

Chicago Winter

Winter people, people of parkas, flecked
beards, eyebrows dusted with flakes
and mist, people with necks craned
to concrete slick with mud and slides, ducking
winds that pierce their bones and paralyze.

Winter people, babies swaddled beyond
recognition, lumps of down, acrylic, wool,
zarapes, bunting balled into carriages navigating
walkways perilous with slush and hail, nannies
with eyes squeezed against pummels of chill.

Winter people, homeless men hunkered in
detritus, doorways dark and cramped, army
blankets damp from dew, sneakers brown from dirt,
broken sidewalks chapped by wind and ash, grizzled
lips pressed in prayer found again at last.

Winter people, gathered ‘round the open fire
roaring in the parking lot, orange tongues embracing
sticks and crumpled paper sacks thrown in and stoked,
asphalt warmed with embers that light the frozen night,
flames casting shadows gaunt against stone walls.

ROSALEE GURROLA THOMPSON

Dec. 2, 2011

The nameless woman, who pepper sprayed Black Friday Walmart shoppers, drowned in her dirty bath tub while playing Angry Birds.

California CEO of Bank of America, Simon Snars, retired last Friday with a million dollar bonus. Snars died suddenly, yesterday, of undetermined causes. An autopsy is pending.

Last week's millionaire secret Super Ball Winner, crashed his 2012 Lexus while reaching for a $2,000 bottle of champagne. He is recovering at a secret location.

1,600 trees died today in Pasadena. The crashes were like l,600 earthquakes.

6 billion red bees fell from the smoggy sky over Los Angeles City Hall. Federal investigation is in progress.

6 million Homeless Children levitated to the Kardashian Empire Headquarters. Details at ll.

I know you have many choices for Newz.
Thank you for choosing ME.

LORI WALL-HOLLOWAY

Genesis Sonnet

Addiction can fill the dark empty void
in a lost heart looking for some purpose
anywhere to soothe the soul and stop pain
that throws a life into misery, disdain
and turmoil while trying to cope with wounds
hidden and passed down from generation
to generation with no chance to heal
because the hurt is too great to reveal.
But if damage is faced and a choice made
to stare down the long, dark road of the past
with the light of understanding, then walls
made by lies and fears that ruled lives will fall.
Once eyes are open to truth, fear is stopped
and new choices will affect the future.

DENISE WALSH

schrodinger's god

nothing is as empty as a boxful of god
open the box and
there is no god
shake the box and
god rattles like a fistful of bees
open the box and
there’s still no god
and no bees either
in a godless world people still
hate each other
but god is not the reason

32 poets being published in SGVPQ 52

MARIA A. ARANA
DAVID BORTIN
JACK G. BOWMAN
CALOKIE
DON KINGFISHER CAMPBELL
MICHAEL J. CLUFF
ANDREW DORSEY
JOSEPH GARDNER
THOM GARZONE
HELEN GRAZIANO
CARL HARMON
LINDA MARIE HILTON
GARY IMPERIAL
JEFFRY JENSEN
LALO KIKIRIKI
CLAIRE KOEHLER
MARIE LECRIVAIN
ELLARAINE LOCKIE
RADOMIR VOJTECH LUZA
KARINEH MAHDESSIAN
KATHERINE NORLAND
TOTI O'BRIEN
TONY PEYSER
MARICELA RAMIREZ
THELMA REYNA
E.R. SANCHEZ
MIKE THE POET SONSKEN
ROSALEE GURROLA THOMPSON
TIM TIPTON
MAJA TROCHIMCZYK
LORI WALL-HOLLOWAY
DENISE WALSH

13 poets read from SGVPQ 51

Karineh Mahdessian

do not contextualize childhood memories
based on misdiagnosis of a chronic mental disorder.

this is not the case of alzheimer's.

it is simple that this girl was born
at the wrong place &
at the wrong time.

she inhaled a revolution &
exhaled a war.

left behind bombed nightmares &
sought refuged dreams.

next time,
forgive her if she
cannot recall birthday parties &
language acquisitions.

her skin is perfumed by death.

Lori Wall-Holloway

If I Could Paint…

I wish I could paint…

pictures of fanciful pansies with white
petals splashed in the middle with purple
hues and bright, yellow dots to create small,
whimsical faces.

paintings of playful kittens, which attack
each other as their weary grey and black
striped mother teaches them how to pursue
and capture their prey.

an image etched in my mind of my dad
in heaven with his arms outstretched to draw
diverse animals around him, hugging
our departed pets.

Instead, I engage

words and colorful phrases to describe
life as I see it, seeking to convey
hope while I do my best to illustrate
my dreams and visions.

Thelma T. Reyna

School Bell

The school-child, all pudgy knees
and dimpled hands, holds close communion
with a polished beetle in the grass.

His knapsack lists on the emerald sea of dew.
Pillow fingers poke the creature, its
itinerary graver concern to the
chrysalis scholar than school is.

The child’s laughter tinkles in the corner of
the yard, while children scurry off like lemmings at
the ringing of the bell. Alone, entranced, the solitary
child and iridescent bug meet and confer, enwrapped
in one another’s charms,
so full of promised evolution,
so small and at the mercy of the world,
compatriots oblivious to
books and clocks and all that bind.

Toti O’Brien

Dead

It will be
a word only
laid over the
infinity of
tones, the
intricacy
of voices.
The pulsations
the flashes
of vision
the kaleidoscope
of her
life.

**

After that one
word there’ll
be silence
the chaos
will be
mastered
noise will be
muted. The
vibration
the fever ‘n
all
possibilities
spent.

**

The beat (her
heart
pounding)
will be gone.
So will be those
footprints
the humors and
smells
the moods
all her actions
and what wasn’t
done but left
traces.

**

Tensions
invocations
the questions
the rage.
What she
said
what she would
do tomorrow
the promises.
The deal that
she made long
ago then
the madness.

**

There will be
a word only.
It will shut
itself
into quiet
taking the
shape of a
stone a
pebble
thrown into
sand
close to
shore.

**

We’ll look
for a moment
trying to
identify it
to keep it
in our
eyes but
pebbles get
lost
they
get washed
away
by the waves.

Vanessa Marsot

Roses and Parts

I first saw you through the rusty gate.
You held up your snowy white petals
As if they meant something.
As if someone cared.
For that I noticed you.

But then I noticed something else.
Seeming to grow in the garden alongside the roses
Was an engine that had all its parts spewing onto the lawn
Sprouting engine buds every which way.
A tango with the roses.