Sunday, December 20, 2009

A sampling of 15 poets published in the 2010 San Gabriel Valley Poetry Calendar


Erika Wilk

MUSICSCAPE

Through my window rain gives
a splattered view of wind chimes
suspended from a dreary sky
they sway, kissed by icy breath
offering a chorus of sounds

deep, rich, warm tones cause me
to think of woolen blankets
a hidden monastery
deep meditation
whereas lighter notes, clear and bright

bring to mind cleaning a chandelier
a flurry of snowflakes
settles on the chimes
they shiver and hope
not to lose their voices

Mina V. Kirby

DASHED HOPES

The cat
tail and whiskers twitching
sleek black fur
aquiver with anticipation
embraces the fish bowl
his whole world
for that moment
the transparent orb
and its darting koi

He lifts his paw
eagerly advancing it
slowly
into the bowl
barely touching
the water
intent on
its whirling surface
pondering
his next move
Suddenly

a noise distracts him
Recognizing
the approaching footsteps
he jumps down quickly
sits back
and casually licks
his furry wet paw
hoping to convince her
that he was never
anywhere
near
the fish

Michelle Angelini

NIGHTFALL

twilight invites recording its presence on a cell phone
she’s learning to use while headlights
come towards her at speeds faster than she can walk

they are lightning bugs making their presence known
before passing on to other tangible destinations
she’s on her own journey unconcerned where others wander

but has a strong desire to stretch and part shadowed grey dapples
with phantom fingers before night descends
where buses make waiting an art cultivated by the carless

long ago starlit rivers and grassy fields brought peace
to disconcerted days where neither coast was home
until she moved from suburb to city

childhood imaginings reorganized themselves
departed abandoned and new independence
redefined blurred lines into delicate certainty

CaLokie

VICTORY PARADE

Fought for country
Shed blood
Blood shed
Watched friends die

Mission Accomplished
Born USA
Returns USA
Hero

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder
Depleted uranium?
Who knows?
Can’t find job

Homeless shelter
Clothes . . . medals stolen
Back of jeep
New address

Rona Garcia Pangilinan

SHADOW

Mimic
Twin without a face
Invisible expression.

Blank piece
Open to interpretation
Unnoticed by the busy mind.

Quiet
Friend and constant companion
Comforting silence
Inspires thoughts and visions.

Light
Wanders without wants
Stays unattached
Even as darkness approaches.

Untouchable.

Ron Vazzano

TWO CROWS CAWING

Two crows crossing stop to caw.
If they could they would shake hands.
They go back a long ways—that’s clear.
The body language is all there.

On this narrow sidewalk adjacent to
a rectangular sprawl of urban grass
they block my path. I must walk around them.
They take no notice. Given their wings,

they could own the open sky;
they could exchange air-mails if they chose.
On foot? Hop over to the grass—caw there.
Pick a branch or bench on which to perch.

Who here has the right of way?
But for two old friends who have seen it all
they are only aware of each other at present.
And I’m forced to walk around them.

Julie Larson

UNICORNS KNOW

Love isn’t
either-or
instead
both
And
not limited not less
rather
more
Plus
not it not that not you
but
fabulously
us
!

Phil Turner

ICHOR

The transcendental substance.

Night flows above me,
An invisible eruption from
The Erebusian Gate.
Clear, luminescent moonlight
Bleeds into the black mass of fate
Tracing a map that lifeblood
Of the world eternally follows.

Thoughts pulsate beneath my surface
To find their way slowly under yours.

I am a fish who swims in your sea
And lives in the unlit recesses
At the edges of your undulating lines.
Take me into the pure aether,
Let me taste the nectar of your passions.

O winged woman give your blood
To me
I shall give my soul
To you.

The Ichor flows from the moon
Into the sea that lies between us
As we meet and mingle and mix

To make the starlight
That is human life.

Rosalee Gurrola Thompson

1,000 RED BUTTERFLIES

Name all the birds in your plum tree
the computer says
You do not have a plum tree
it is raining smog
so say thank you to the bird nearest you

Somehow, trees will hold you like parents should
the sun's possibles will write your name across the sky
Arms will become white wings
Somehow, bird songs will fly out of you

Jeffry Jensen

FALLEN METER

Labcoat changes are stirring on
the windside of the moon as
a restful morning flies by to
tell me that rings of dust will
take hold of the cranium which
is so soon cluttered, filled and
nearly framed as growing madness
lasts out a burlesque year.
I am set adrift and balancing on
tangled branches while undisturbed
lovers are nestled and in repair.

I remember what never happened as
a sulfur whisper rushes by as a winged sleeper.
I tremble during a waking dream
for time has passed with length and
toward a chronic afternoon still lingers.

A vagrant interest is hunted by dying
hands and black hole secrets are scratched
into dormant lampposts, yet long shadows
blot out these pleading etchings.
A poet mutters under breath and is
receptive to fallen meter like a sheep
to bloodless slaughter--no nearer truth, only rage.

Richard Dutton

FLYING DREAMS

On a bicycle
Lifting up both legs
Through a puddle -- Shukei


Field engineering
Have flying lessons
Cross country solo
California and Arizona
Don’t adjust altimeter
From zero on practice runway
To zero at sea level
Fly at altitude of
Opposing traffic
Jet just misses head on
Dodge big helicopter over
Palm Springs
Pull up sharply to miss
Two Marine fighter jets near base
Wedding postpones final test
Never getting back to joy of piloting

Solo flight close ones
Marriage interrupts training
Still no license

Pauline Dutton

WHOOSH

tip wings
peak into pink
balance on a petal
listen to the effervescence
of a wind song

Toti O’Brien

PHOTO ALBUM

Fingering
last year’s
photo album
I see faces
smiling
serene

Nobody ever
cries
in the frames
that’s allowed
only
to kids

Sure
nobody argues or
fights
because
in that case
you don’t click

*

Well our daily
misery
I guess
skips those
celebrating
snapshots

Life is here
recorded indeed
like a flowing
stream with
flowery
shores

Life goes by
without
storms or waterfalls
curled by a
delicate
breeze

*

And what else
is worth
after all
but those proofed
fragments
of grace

All the rest is
unwitnessed
tears
hanging from the
spires
of our mind

Karine Armen

WISH

May we have peace
on earth
in our countries
with our colleagues
with our neighbors
in our families
with our relatives
within us

May we have
healthy bodies for a good life
the wisdom for a fulfilling life
the power to empower the weak
the strength to handle crisis
the wisdom to choose correctly
the self-esteem to guide others
the self love to love others

Free from ego
may we be
strong enough to bring
Peace!

Charles Harmon

GO DEEPER

Ambivalent about your animal nature?
Whether to explore that hidden part of yourself
That growls and crawls and swims and flies?
Curious enough to search for that hidden spiraling
Tango that clarifies the vagaries of our ascent?
Go deeper.

Follow the spoor that mystifies most hunters,
Searching for dragons and becoming our prey,
Firing at the phoenix, most dangerous game,
That vanishes into rarified air grasping
The last of your bread crumbs gleaming
In its beak, disappearing into the fading light
Of the sinking and resurgent sliver of moon.
Go deeper.

Jump into the labyrinth, even when the
Thread is broken, shadow boxing with the bloody
Bull, where limestone once was coral sea and
Will become marble palace, many chambered
As the heart, winding down through eons
Twisting through mountains, melting
Caverns out of acid from the sky.
Go deeper.

Into the dark pool, it reaches to the core.
Drop your line, it’s baited with your dreams.
The hook is phosphorescent, it gives wings to meat
And makes even the bottom dwelling stones dance.
Go deeper.

Thursday, December 17, 2009

31 poets being published in the 2010 San Gabriel Valley Poetry Calendar



LYNN HALLEY ALLGOOD
MICHELLE ANGELINI
KARINE ARMEN
GARY BLANKENSHIP
JACK G. BOWMAN
CALOKIE
DON KINGFISHER CAMPBELL
BRANDON CESMAT
PEG DUTHIE
PAULINE DUTTON
RICHARD DUTTON
HELEN GRAZIANO
CHARLES HARMON
JEFFRY JENSEN
SCOTT C. KAESTNER
MINA V. KIRBY
DEBORAH P KOLODJI
JULIE LARSON
ELLARAINE LOCKIE
FOUCAULT LOPEZ
KATHERINE NORLAND
TOTI O'BRIEN
RONA GARCIA PANGILINAN
DEBBY ROSENFELD
ROSALEE GURROLA THOMPSON
MAJA TROCHIMCZYK
PHIL TURNER
ANN TWEEDY
RON VAZZANO
LORI WALL-HOLLOWAY
ERIKA WILK

Each poet being published is invited to attend the publication party and reading on Saturday, December 19th between 3pm and 5pm inside the backroom of the Santa Catalina Branch of the Pasadena Public Library on 999 E. Washington Blvd. where they will receive a complimentary copy (a $10 value).

If you cannot attend, you may order single copies for $10 (include $2 for shipping) or subscribe to the quarterly for $20 a year (postage paid) and get a free 2010 San Gabriel Valley Poetry Calendar. This offer is available through PayPal only. When on PayPal, please select Send Money and make payment to kingfisher1031@charter.net

Congratulations poets!
Don the Editor

WANT A POET IN YOUR CLASSROOM?
Email: poetrypeople@charter.net

Sunday, December 13, 2009

Let's reward those who braved the rain to come to the publishing reading: here are their 15 poems in SGVPQ #44!

Michelle Angelini

BLACK SHIRTS OF LOVE
(Sixteen Short Years)

in memory of Melody Ross, 16 years old

Who says one person can't
make a difference?
When a stray bullet
cut Melody's life short,
a wave of students
wearing black shirts
in her memory
swept across the nation
reminding those who knew her
and those who didn't
how much her life meant
and what it represented

Melody and I are worlds
apart since she will never reach
old age and I look back
on my youth in high school
as a distant memory
when we never worried
about stray bullets
or our fellow students
having guns

We grew up with different
concerns because then,
as high school students
we wept for a president we
saw as our nation's hope
while her classmates
shed tears for a girl whose
potential remains untapped
for firearms too easily
accessible

Reading the news story today
I wept for Melody's
family and friends who
understood as a result
of her death that life
does not have enough time
to spread love through
sixteen short years
CaLokie

OLD BONES AND STONES

Homo Homo Homo
Habilis
Blessed be the bones of
Handy Man
Handy Woman
Handy kid
Holy, Holy, Holy
Sacred the womb of the African Eve
who gave first ancestors birth
two million years ago

Holy the hands building branch dome home
Holy the hands shaping stone chopper
Holy the hands slicing shares of meat
Holy the hands picking juniper berries
Holy the hands of tots wrestling like cubs
Holy
Holy
Holy
HOMO HABILIS

Homo Homo Homo
Erectus
Blessed be the bones of
Upright Man
Upright Woman
Upright kid
Holy, Holy, Holy
Sacred the womb of the African Eve
who gave first ancestors birth
one million years ago

Holy the feet of children skipping by log hut home
Holy the feet of hunters chasing exhausted elks
Holy the feet of foragers standing under hazelnut tree
Holy the feet cooled by riverbank water
Holy the feet dancing around campfire

Holy
Holy
Holy
HOMO ERECTUS

Homo Homo Homo
Sapiens
Blessed be the bones of
Wise Man
Wise Woman
Wise kid
Holy, Holy, Holy
Sacred the womb of the African Eve
who gave first ancestors birth
250,000 years ago

Holy the construction of mammoth bone tents
Holy the invention of antler spearheads and needles
Holy the painting of animals on cave walls
Holy the migration from Africa to rest of the world
Holy the poems spoken in all languages
Holy
Holy
Holy
HOMO SAPIENS
Barbara Cogswell

BLIND INTERSECTION

Two highways crossed in Kansas,
the site of a place we all called
“The Junction”. It smelled of last night’s
beer, and “Cocaine Blues” was kept

in an unmarked slot on the juke
box, a lot of Patsy Cline and Hank Williams
on there too. Ice cold Schlitz was served
to farm kids told to kick the bottle over

under the table, if the Sheriff pulled up.
Saturday nights a live band drew folks
from Basehor, Leavenworth, even Kansas City.
Then the boys gossiped, bragged and lied

in the parking lot: who scored last night,
how much hay got baled… one night, a fist fight
over some girl, tipsy on 3.2 beer, just watched
as her husband-to-be bloodied her boyfriend’s nose.
Jeffry Jensen

AND AS I SLOWLY TURN TO WALK AWAY

The razzmatazz boys take the softball game into extra innings
humming a little Benny Goodman and inhaling some sloe gin fizzes.

The strange girl with the bum ticker waits for something tumultuous
to come to her on a Tuesday in broad daylight near the pet clinic.

The film crew lights up the evening at the period gas station on
North Lake while the starlet does her best Marilyn Monroe in
the backseat of a vintage Rolls.

The sidewalks are sagging under the weight of horrified buccaneers
who have been given shovels for swords as dazzling dirt clods
fly into oncoming traffic.

The hapless young husband attempts to dig a trench around each
rose bush before taking a beer break as his gallant young wife
climbs the ladder to the highest point in the galaxy of weeds.

The retired schoolteacher flexes her tattoos on Mother's Day under
the shade of a gazebo with ghosts gardening in the geometry of family.

The cynical senior voter predicts that California will never
stop relying on propositions to make matters worse.

The bag lady of Ventura pushes her cart full of pelicans to
the fish market where the summer wind pulls its weight in shrimp.

The midnight coyotes rush north to drink from a glistening trench
that has been cut near exposed sprinkler heads.

The homeless man returns to his side of the philosophical
divide with a skinny dog under his feet.
Mina V. Kirby

ON THE SIDEWALK

My daughter first noticed him
as we rode past
“Look, Mom!
There is a man
lying on the ground
beside the 7-11.
Do you think he’s dead?”

There were others there
on the sidewalk
waiting for the bus
opening a just-purchased
or stolen
candy bar
going about their business

Nobody seemed bothered
by the person in dark clothing
lying on the cold ground
He didn’t move
and we had to go on
being in traffic
as we were

But I wondered
Is he asleep?
Isn’t he bothered
by the chilliness of the day?
Is he homeless
or drunk
or ill
or just relaxing with his dreams?

And why does nobody
pay attention to him?
Perhaps they have seen him before
Or maybe they are afraid
Does he smell bad?
Do they think he will rise up
and hurt them?

I felt bad for him
and I suppose I will never know
his story
Had I been there
on that sidewalk
how would I have acted?
I have to admit
that I was glad
for an excuse to leave
Karen Audioun Klingman

FINDING MYSELF BY THE CANAL

I'm lost among inviting corridors
Claudia said to meet her at Piazza San Marcos
at five for dinner
but I lose track of time and can't find a clock
so I pamper my tastebuds with an exotic flavored gelato

wandering along the waterway
I'm taken in by tourists snapping shots of loved ones
before intricate nude statues
lovers entwined at fountains
unaware youngsters hopscotching on terrazo tiles

overhead four chimes resonate from a church belltower
plenty of time to observe an old world new to me
gondoliers transport couples
sipping from wine glasses half full
they disapper under crescent stone bridges
and reappear toasting the orange-purple sun
settling down in display

the air is chilly as I stroll into a world of swirling pigeons
I blink then find my sister's familiar smile
under the Basilica's shaded arches
I'll spend tomorrow afternoon in solitude
exploring the narrow alleyways and outdoor cafes
of this ancient city before I leave
Julie Larson

THE IVORY TOWER

Tears of the moon
phantasmally moisten
archaic talus, slathering
slither a la slither a reptilian
belly-smooth monolith.
Locked.
Bolted.
Guarded. Coiling within,
posthumous vapors hissy spit
Out! Out! Outcast! You!

Cast out amok ratty
mouse-colored landscape,
raucous murderous crows
feathery circle. Their black-eyed
gawking caws
affect The Winged Horse’s
approach.
Nostrils flaring, gleaming
sweat of sun, Pegasus scents
pungent burning grave solitude.

While His immortal wingspan
tilts ephemerally toward Earth,
Do you sense enough to leap,
grasping fleeting mane?
or level-headed, Do you linger?
Constructing sole battlements,
content mastering two dogs,
as well as feeding
three tame tabbies -
Puff, Princess, and Stinky.
Eric Lawson

PAINFULLY WHITE

I’m a walking, talking, blank canvas
Try as you may to add some color
I resist and it all runs away from me

Though I feel every minute brush stroke
And see the breathtaking art before me
I just can’t get my closed mind around it

Bending
Twisting
Stretching
Reaching out to you to no avail

We can’t seem to mesh our ideals
Like oil, water, blood, and cocaine
Or customer service and Turret’s
Some things just don’t mix well

I have a dire absence of rhythm
A black hole where style should be
Yet an abundance of confidence,
Wit and clever sarcasm galore

This is a contradiction that should
Not be living much less thriving
And I lord my inadequacies over you
Like some fuming, feudal seaside king
To greater LA’s surfing serfs

Will you forgive me, dear friends?
For I know not what I do
I’m painfully white, you see
But it’s all I’ve ever known
Lend me your rose-tinted glasses
So I may finally see what you see


FOR A VIDEO OF ERIC PERFORMING THIS POEM GO TO >
http://www.youtube.com/user/InfinityLimitedPress?ytsession=bqFhdXktxjJDBJxWNbMFkx99Rgh4hm9hHo_PzwvLxjRMI_mXQxKgnaHS-flmfD3xrQ4jRsFEpM5xlAW18FzUQEL1Z8tLxyJD9w8yfkqu3XWsFJGrkWJBkJQHv0fHHZsK0zc1Y2SWb5bHUug-tPBFn3fx7w517b9-5MhOQgLDdl7VxiRvaxxaOjWYzpZJfsDI6LAUqAOGPMe5VXEjxx38atHBYNvQ2K_q8kWWJ6K59r2HQNsgQwx8D0GjzVj2m-Zhnaa155QzxYhpgcImii1E0LGhhD9_5u4vFqBG0xwBNrY#p/a/u/2/ePD_b5HCqDg
Rona Garcia Pangilinan

PERFECT

Cracked vase glued together
Speech delivered with missing lines
Birthday tune that needs a ladder
Tears shed during happy times

Ironed shirt still full of creases
Missed spots on polished floor
Translation leads to nervous pauses
A smile can cure just like before

Breakfast served around the counter
Bar stools passed on to fellow diners
Unmask your fears
Unleash your laughter
Then see a piece of you in them all.
Rosalee Gurrola Thompson

HENNA HANDS AND PURPLE LOOSESTRIFE

Do soldiers freeze
to awe at the sunset in Iraq
amerika amerika
shine god's flashlight on thee

Art Not War flowers pass by
poached political brains
their eyes blindfolded with blackend dollar bills

My only love was killed in Kabul
His sacred words are a frozen winter lake
on my computer screen
His dog tag sleeps around my neck
His smile melts in the sunset like watercolor
Maja Trochimczyk

THANKSGIVING FOR BASIA

for Barbara Koziel Gawronski in memoriam (December 8, 1947-November 23, 2009)

Thank you, God, for the most amazing clarity
of mountain air after the rain

and thank you for the icy light
of the half-moon cutting the sky
with its sharp rays the night Basia died.

She gave me her time, her wisdom,
her smile. It was not enough.

She had no right to bail out
after two weeks of playing phone tag,
cancelling concerts, outings.

“Oh, you are not at home.
I’ll call you later,” she said on Sunday,
moonlight reflected in her white hair.

The collage she gave me
still waits to be signed – three stripes
of Polish fields, ready for harvest,
receding into distance, a round mirror
shining like a light in the past.

We shared the abundance of fruit
under the mellow sun
of All Saints’ Day In a Buddhist orchard.

I’ll keep her memory in the rich taste
of the peach, beneath the velvet skin,
dripping with juice of overripe sweetness.

Thank you, God, for the gift of Basia.
I wonder why there was not more of her for me.
Phil Turner

A LONG TIME AGO

I have always been someone I have never known.
A mystery looks back at me from my past,
Each time I close my eyes.
The night sky with its vaulting ocean of stars
Terrifies me -- I feel like God looking at Creation.
A long time ago in a city forgotten,
In desperate fear I looked up at the night sky
And I swear that it looked back into me.
I did not know the age of the stars,
But they seemed to know mine.
They spoke to me as they sometimes still do
In that heavenly language of absolute silence
And told me that I was already there somewhere among them,
That I was older than the trees and the rocks and the oceans,
That I had come from a land beyond memory
And that if I could stop being afraid at the perfect moment,
Then I would become a God again.
Ron Vazzano

TOAST

Released from the silent red engine
of throbbing grid and wire—
a browning mechanism if you will—

the transformation of body to soul
of earth to fire
pops up perfectly done!

On this New Year’s day when time
has once again played its slight of hand—
setting heads to shaking in that template of wonder
“Where did the past year go?” —

there is the warmth and comfort
that only toast can bring.

With its subtle scheme of heat in balance
and distribution

with its staff of life and woodsy aroma
inviting hibernation

with its kindest of cuts—
two Pythagorean theorems—

and atop played out
the slow disappearing act of the butter…

I may have been as young as nine
toying with a slice at the kitchen table
when I had the first taste of the curious notion

that life is about moments
taken in half-moon bites.
Lori Wall-Holloway

WIND THROUGH THE EYES OF A TWO YEAR OLD

(For Robert)

Puffs of air blow
on my face,
my arms
and my legs,
but I still want to stay
outside and play.
The puffs get
stronger and stronger,
until suddenly, the trees
become giant monsters
waving their huge tree arms.

Afraid, I run into the house
with the wind chasing me,
pushing me from behind.
A loud sound makes me stop
and turn in the doorway.
The monsters are shaking
their large green hands
at each other and look
like they’re fighting.
They make loud noises,
and their big brown bodies
bend so far to the ground,
they look like they will break.

I hurry inside and slam
the door against the wind
so I can watch the fight
from the window.
The monster trees scare me.
They can’t get me inside the house.
Erika Wilk

CRAVING SLEEP

I turn on the Bose by my bedside table hope

that a softly played adagio will help me drift off

notes hang in the air like Monarch butterflies

in trees their wings open to gentle sun

still sleep escapes me

counting sheep won’t do a hundred things occupy

my mind –family, friends, a planned trip, food

at two forty five the thought of green tea makes

me get up to look at the box two cups of this

delicate brew enhanced my dinner

tired eyes search for the word decaf but

like sleep it is not to be found

Thursday, December 3, 2009

30 Poets Being Published in SGVPQ #44

MICHELLE ANGELINI
JACK G. BOWMAN
LEAH BROWN
CALOKIE
DON KINGFISHER CAMPBELL
BARBARA COGSWELL
MARVIN LOUIS DORSEY
JON EPSTEIN
THOM GARZONE
HELEN GRAZIANO
CHARLES HARMON
ANITA SCHIFFMAN HOLZBERG
JEFFRY JENSEN
MINA V. KIRBY
KAREN AUDIOUN KLINGMAN
DEBORAH P KOLODJI
JULIE LARSON
ERIC LAWSON
ELLARAINE LOCKIE
FOUCAULT LOPEZ
KARINEH MAHDESSIAN
MICHAEL McLAUGHLIN
RONA GARCIA PANGILINAN
RYFKAH
ROSALEE GURROLA THOMPSON
MAJA TROCHIMCZYK
PHIL TURNER
RON VAZZANO
LORI WALL-HOLLOWAY
ERIKA WILK

Each poet being published is invited to attend the publication party and reading on Saturday, December 12th between 3pm and 5pm inside the backroom of the Santa Catalina Branch of the Pasadena Public Library on 999 E. Washington Blvd. where they will receive a complimentary copy (a $5 value).

If you cannot attend, you may order single issues for $7 (includes $2 shipping) or subscribe to the quarterly for $20 a year (postage paid) and get a free 2010 San Gabriel Valley Poetry Calendar. This offer is available through PayPal only (http://paypal.com/). When on PayPal, please select Send Money and make payment to kingfisher1031@charter.net.

Congratulations poets!
Don the Editor

Thursday, September 3, 2009

7 poets new to SGVPQ (#43 that is)


Matthew Duling

NOX ET LUMEN

Silent luminescence heaped
about us, a done avalanche.
Grail to a serpentine path!
Lip of an omnipresent surface.
Memory & expectation fuse.
Breath let by, to push out.
Shims of energy. Fuzzy lit.

Exalts, to assume a stance.
Coils up, a radioactive wire.
Shines where always has been.
A geometric line. Hot. Cool.
A neon tube, snake of light;
aware, twitches all lit up.

Stiff bright time anti-time.
As blood pumps, motionless.
Draw on the soft of breeze.
Staff of heat. Elemental--.
Arrow let go springs to fly.

Resentments, hate warmed-up.
Who'd hurl bombs as if treasure
chests? encode hollow giggles
to entrap traitors? Mercy!

Mute puzzles... nod & wink.
Beauty like rain falling, sun
light falling. Confetti bits.

Thunder bolt. Prophet's smile.
Grail: to the lip, unspilt. Ah!

Nth dimension, sheen ablaze.
Karen Greenbaum-Maya

LESS PASSIONATE GHAZAL

Touch at the sagging gate and it swings open.
Clenched fists don’t garden: let fingers open.

Never expected beginners’, or any other luck.
Drew cards so good, I let a pair of kings open.

Homeless man under grimy white plastic endures cold wind.
And you wear a chic new jacket? Let your purse-strings open.

The cat has caught a fledgling, limp with fright.
I praise her, she meows, and its wings open.

Voice lesson: don’t work so hard, get out of the way.
Throat, breath easy. Fearless, your voice rings open.

The lid resists your hand. Set your strength just so.
Then feel the jar, smooth as wax, unscrewing open.

Not always a boon to care and ask too much.
Rejoice without wanting: heart sings, “Open.”

Chrystine Julian

THE S

My mantra reduced
to its essence
One letter, S

A breath
S for stillness:
my body relaxes into position

A breath
S for silence:
my mind settles

A breath
S for seeing:
I gaze at the nothingness of everything

A breath
S for senses:
enhanced but unattached

A breath
S for sea:
all that exists swims in an ocean of love

A breath
S for single:
there are no boundaries, all that is… is one

A breath
S
Smiling

Eric Lawson

HOT MESS IN A COW COSTUME

Donna is plastered once again
Traversing the neighborhood in a
Rented cow costume
No one stops to ask her why
It’s late March and raining, the
Middle of the day, and she’s
Extremely hammered
She moos at passing teenage boys,
Yelling: “Which one of you
Fine, young Southern
Gentlemen wants to
Refresh yourself with some
Ice-cold sweet tea and then
Help a lady out by churning
Her butter, hmm?”
She rubs her plastic utters
Suggestively at the mailman
She molests her neighbor’s flagpole
No one flinches or bats an eye
Since her fourth divorce, her sad,
Drunken displays have
Become ever-so-frequent
She urinates through her costume
And cries out for rocky road
Ice cream between swigs of
Cheap, warm whiskey
She passes out, unceremoniously,
Into a half-empty kiddy pool
The neighbors sigh and go about
Their business in peace
Remarks one to another: “Well, at
Least this time she wasn’t
Using the jump rope naked

TO SEE ERIC'S PERFORMANCE OF THIS POEM AT THE PUBLISHING PARTY GO TO:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gprzrB-NKQM
Ethel Mays

KILLING HEAT

Dog days lap creeks dry,
snapping and snarling
at the ankles of creatures
staggering to paltry sprinkles.

River and reservoir
levels drop. Thunderheads
pile empty promises on stark
blue skies; no rain for weeks.

Lethal freak
of a harsh summer god
spares none; all are crushed
under one blazing heel.
Debby Rosenfeld

LIFE IS A BOUQUET OF POSSIBILITY

Flowers bud, bloom, flourish, drop off, grow anew.
Babies bud, and with care and guidance bloom
into purpose-filled adults, embracing life
with meaning and a flourish of their own.

Yet the path of a baby is much more precarious
than that of a flower. All a flower needs
are the right ingredients—sun, soil, water, and bees.
Humans have choice.

We can have health, food, love, homes, knowledge,
yet destroy our endless possibilities.
Still, our ability to choose can also lead us
to flourish in ways flowers can’t.

We have personality.
Humans put individuality in every action,
leaving impressions on each other
like invisible ink.

At our best, we are leaders, inventors,
healers, teachers, spreading light
to others. At our worst, we are
self-involved, immoral and chaotic.

The path of a human is fraught with uncertainty.
But while even the most perfect flower,
splendid as it is, can only ever be one flower,
each human can blossom into
an entire bouquet.

That potential that makes me grateful
to be alive, seeking to bloom
into a brilliance that can be seen for miles,
and felt internally in the core of my heart.

Ann Tweedy

POLITE RESTRAINT

walking eleven miles
to St. Andrews from Crail
after taking the bus there,
we were two students making a day of it,
on our right, the Firth of Forth marching with us,
on our left, pasture, tireless gorse, the bunker
whose window i snapped sheep and ocean through,
scabrous concrete matting the photo.

then a sheep stumbled atop
a small rise, unable to crawl down.
a foreleg dangled in front of her
like a broken pointer. hoping to help,
we knocked on the farmhouse door.
oh . . . thank you, said the young man
who answered. it’ll mend.

it will heal itself? i asked with surprise.
he hesitated. no, but she’s going
to slaughter tomorrow
, adding with feeling,
thank you for stopping, as if gratitude
might sweeten killing.

Friday, August 28, 2009

32 POETS BEING PUBLISHED IN SGVPQ 43

MICHELLE ANGELINI
JACK G. BOWMAN
LEAH BROWN
CALOKIE
DON KINGFISHER CAMPBELL
BARBARA COGSWELL
MATTHEW DULING
PAULINE DUTTON
RICHARD DUTTON
HELEN GRAZIANO
KAREN GREENBAUM-MAYA
RON GREGUS
CHARLES HARMON
ANITA SCHIFFMAN HOLZBERG
JEFFRY JENSEN
CHRYSTINE JULIAN
SCOTT C. KAESTNER
MINA V. KIRBY
KAREN KLINGMAN
ERIC LAWSON
ELLARAINE LOCKIE
KARINEH MAHDESSIAN
ETHEL MAYS
KATHERINE NORLAND
TOTI O'BRIEN
RONA GARCIA PANGILINAN
DEBBY ROSENFELD
MARY FRANCES SPENCER
MAJA TROCHIMCZYK
ANN TWEEDY
LORI WALL-HOLLOWAY
ERIKA WILK

Each poet being published is invited to attend the publication party and reading on Saturday, September 5th between 3pm and 5pm inside the backroom of the Santa Catalina Branch of the Pasadena Public Library on 999 E. Washington Blvd. where they will receive a complimentary copy (a $5 value).

If you cannot attend, you may order single issues for $7 (includes $2 shipping) or subscribe to the quarterly for $20 a year (postage paid) and get a free 2010 San Gabriel Valley Poetry Calendar. This offer is available through PayPal only (http://paypal.com/). When on PayPal, please select Send Money and make payment to kingfisher1031@charter.net.

Congratulations poets!
Don the Editor


WANT A POET IN YOUR CLASSROOM?
Email: poetrypeople@charter.net

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

9 poems from SGVPQ #42

Theresa Antonia

THINGS WE TAKE, THINGS WE LEAVE BEHIND

The things they took

1. An old leggo my eggo box, full to the brim, with paperwork, from the first divorce.

2. “I love you” folded twice on yellow legal paper, tucked in the side pocket of the briefcase, stuffed with old deeds from the desert property, he no longer has anymore, either.

3. Every single photo album or framed picture of the baby, in case of a fire, she said.

4. The computer, with the porno web sites still marked on the history, and the e-mail letter his mother-in-law wrote- about what it takes to have a good marriage.

The things they left behind

1. Matching motorcycle jackets from when they tried to conceive a baby, but couldn’t, so he taught her to ride together instead.

2. Small shampoo bottles, from that little roadside hotel along Big Sur, from the honeymoon.

3. Magnetic Photos, stuck to the refrigerator, with no longer mutual friends, each, holding the baby.

4. While he pretended to sleep so he wouldn’t have to kiss the baby goodbye that last morning, the still echoing sound of his child calling out “daddy”.
Barbara Cogswell

HAPPY BIRTHDAY
For Ron Kovics, born on the 4th of July

Firecrackers pop crackle boom all day
facimile bombs flare in the night time sky
flags twinkle in lapels of conservative suits
dogs whimper under the bed
tongues move, lips serve
eyes stream, throats lump
flowers are laid on the hero's grave

My generation fought the big one
saved the world from a torturous
scourge, survived to elect another

It must have been hard once you realized
sacrifice was for shame instead of glory
Yours was a war that everybody lost
although nobody likes to admit it

Recruiters use video games now
a ruse to sign up high school juniors
for this endless war on an 'ism

Suicide rates rise, no attention's paid
to the "would be" dead
PTSD is described as cowardice

So roll your chair over here, Ron
we'll have our own little peace rally
looks like it might be just you and me
(we'll ignore the parade)
before you head back to Mexico,
where your gringo pension
stretches through the month.
Charles Harmon

LIGHTNING STRUCK

In my life I have met three people who were struck by lightning
And lived to tell the tale.

The first an old man climbing Canada's Mount Robson,
He had been hit on the chest when much younger,
The brass zipper of his parka carrying the million volts of charge
Away from his heart, melting and fusing the metal.
He continued to wear the much-worn and torn jacket
As a pullover, for a lucky charm.
"You know," he said, smiling,
"Lightning never strikes twice in the same place."

The second a carpenter, working on my neighbor's house at Big Bear.
Down by the lake, starting up his boat, readying his fishing gear
He had been slammed by a seven thousand degree hot arcing blue bolt
Setting his clothes on fire and melting the skin off his hip and leg.
The scar was very visible, but he just laughed it off.
"Nothing's going to keep me from going fishing."

The third person is myself and to be honest the lightning is only
Figurative, symbolic, metaphorical, yet more real than reality.
But I also was struck by lightning the first time I saw you,
My sweet wife, when I looked into your eyes for the first time.
And I not only lived, but you brought me back to life,
Resurrecting me from my Frankenstein's monster sleep of ennui,
And I not only survived and prevailed, I am reborn,
Day after day, again and again, each time I see you
And you strike me to the heart.
R. Romea Luminarias

TO THE BLUE SEASTAR [Linckia laevigata]
For Birgitte Wilms

What is it that breathes fire into the equations
and makes a universe for them to describe?”

- Stephen King

You encompass the sea with five arms
As if you alone embrace the whole universe.
Yet you patiently bear the juvenile Ophiothrix
Like it’s a truly special friend despite its pernicious spines,
In spite of its stern, ancient countenance.

Are you both, immersed in clear, salving current,
Engaging in a dance
Of pentagonal illusions?
Or simply playing peek-a-boo with clown-fishes and corals
Edging slowly into jungles of spoils
So that you’d soon realize there is
No escaping from such tentative tentacles of desires
From all, all buoyant, fractal blossoming
Digital maps of Atlantis, grandiose domes of fallen empires
Radomir Luza

NEW YORK ONCE MORE

hell it flies like an eagle on speed it never pauses does not say hello cannot stop to yap
my town my city my pink saint my black dove my yellow concubine my purple priest and red dinosaur

but the quicksand here in l.a. has me flying circles around scattered twilights and called bluffs

it has me brainwashed like an injured steeple like a yellow beelzebub

i do not want to be here but things are going well i am beginning to distrust fear and lean on courage in a way i never have in a way that pays more dividends than barack obama's smile and john mccain's trembling hands

the furniture of my life lifts the indigo rainbows and silly elevators of love in these dangerous hills but i don't want it anymore i need soho tribeca greenwich village noho chelsea and the upper east side like a body needs a heart and a ghost needs a soul

fly you new york fly like a rose with teeth
Karineh Mahdessian

SHORT ANSWER TO YOUR LONG QUESTION

yes.
yes it's taken me 24 hours to pen these
lines while cognizant of the socio-politico
rammafications of my declarations of grown
woman's jealousy vis-a-vis a slice of pizza.
it brings you instant gratifications.
while i,
with almost-there kisses and silly demarcations
a few wise cracks and plenty of facial expressions
four-inch black and white bcbg heels and random pontifications
cant seem to get your attention.

next time they ask. what i want to be when i grow up. i’ll respond.

a slice of pizza. to come from your mouth and leave taste dancing on tongue.
Michael McLaughlin

PREVIOUSLY UNPUBLISHED POSTCARD # 30
Rauschenberg Port Arthur TX

rockets falling off
their launching pads
oil refinery flying whales.

Janis Joplin
Jimmy Johnson of the Cowboys.
Filling in that gap
between the two.

It’s as if the materials
collaborate
when humans are not
around

Merce Cunningham
Barbara Billingsly.
Wally, The Beav, Hugh Downs.

Houston?
Can you read me?
Over.

You’re in a situation
that is serious
and you’ve left all the faucets
on.
Mark States

APPROACHING STORM

Standing on edge of glen, watching the storm
come in, giant thunderclouds and a jolt of cold.

Standing on edge of storm, where rain
falls in sunshine, where bright and wet
are the senses.

Standing by the window
watching truck take away boxes of forsaken dreams and
vapors of roasted asparagus, the world of books
and academia that kicked me back to reality
unceremoniously.

I'd pulled your letter out of a box of books.
It's 1995 and you're on your death bed
writing to your son who'd just lost 3 finger tips
and in this hallucinatory dream
not of peyote but of high-powered sedatives
I stand on the top of a refrigerator
and threaten to jump to my death
onto the hospital bed below --
most assuredly, death exists

in the space in between ...

Standing on the edge of understanding
how time tells you
far better than you tell time
even now, in 2009,
and the jolt of cold felt watching the
approaching storm
did not start as the flap of butterfly wings
half way around the world --
it was drenched in the sadness of knowing
you'd been dead three months

before I'd slit open the flap of the envelope
and my dreams flew out like emaciated moths.
Erika Wilk

THE FATHER

I hardly knew – just as well
from what I’ve been told
he didn’t portray a good paternal image
his influence could have poisoned my life
made me a different person

mother once said he was egotistical
didn’t nurture his children
expected to be catered to
lamented who would fix his breakfast
when mom decided to leave him

in a letter to his oldest son
he expressed his anti-Semitism
an easy transition into the Nazi Party
I never knew, until recently
he hated Jews with such passion

I visited him in Germany in 1956
the grandeur had left him by then
he was in his 60’s
not nearly as tall as I remembered
but then- I had grown taller

we never corresponded
I left for the United States 50 years ago
what would my father think, say, do
learning that I married a Jew

I can hear those bones tremble

Tuesday, June 2, 2009

SGVPQ #42

The 35 poets being published in the Spring 2009 San Gabriel Valley Poetry Quarterly are:

JEFFREY C. ALFIER
MICHELLE ANGELINI
THERESA ANTONIA
JACK G. BOWMAN
LEAH BROWN
CALOKIE
DON KINGFISHER CAMPBELL
BARBARA COGSWELL
MARVIN DORSEY
MICHAEL GONZALEZ
HELEN GRAZIANO
RON GREGUS
CHARLES HARMON
ANITA HOLZBERG
JEFFRY JENSEN
SCOTT C. KAESTNER
MINA KIRBY
SHARMAGNE LELAND-ST.JOHN
ELLARAINE LOCKIE
R. ROMEA LUMINARIAS
RADOMIR LUZA
KARINEH MAHDESSIAN
TERRY McCARTY
MICHAEL McLAUGHLIN
RUTH NOLAN
KATHERINE NORLAND
TOTI O'BRIEN
RONA GARCIA PANGILINAN
RYFKAH
KAREN SCHWARTZ
MARK STATES
MARY TORREGROSSA
ANN TWEEDY
LORI WALL-HOLLOWAY
ERIKA WILK

All of the poets being published are invited to pick up their complimentary copy of SGVPQ #42 (a $5 value) at the publishing party and reading on Saturday, June 13th between 2pm and 4pm inside the backroom of the Santa Catalina Branch of the Pasadena Public Library on 999 E. Washington Blvd.

Sunday, March 8, 2009

14 poems from SGVPQ #41

Maja Trochimczyk
BLADES AND BLISS

2. Bliss, unveiled

the more I love
the more dangerous
life becomes
in its graphic beauty
carved with a dagger
stolen from time

the blade cuts
old wounds open

it slides on the skin
of the moment

pierced by knowing
Ryfkah
BEACHES PAST OR PRESENT

The sun seared skin even at its impending setting
We watched as a golden pagoda appeared in the west
and then metamorphosed lavender pink also melon
Two poets on a Pacific beach stared at the magic
trick of an appearing and disappearing configuration

North Avenue Beach on Lake Michigan
The sun glowed and tattooed burn marks on skin
I embodied but a teen listening to easy rock and wishing
for a bikini figure clear skin and a more flirtatious demeanor
The years ran like antelope outmaneuvering a lion

My daughter strongly stated she would never leave
She would stay home forever
Next week she leaves for Newport Beach
The waves call her name The sand caresses her skin
Dinner once a month would be nice by the beach

Today I stand on the beach of my imagination
Residing in a blanched villa on some ancient shore
I speak in alliteration and near rhyme
in loud metaphors and simple similes
I am confused as I hear whales or sirens sing

Beaches rise and fall much like the dreams of empires
Rona Garcia Pangilinan
GREENS

Whenever there was any green
in the patch of brown soil to the right of the orange tree,
I pinched and pulled it.

Raking the ground until everything was even and brown,
made me feel that the area was how it should be,
bare and smooth.

But today, there was no brown,
it was all green.
Days of rain soaked the ground,
pampered the greens, and even made them bloom.

I asked myself why I did not check for greens sooner.
Would I have caught them when there were only two, three, or four?
Oh yes, I could have.

But I would have missed writing letters and talking to friends,
reading books and quickly falling asleep,
laying a relative to rest,
cramming on a pressing task at work,
and posting birthday greetings in my favorite website.

How could I give up
daily dances with my daughter
when she puts her feet on top of mine,
as I wrap my arms around her, hum a tune,
while we dance with only two feet on the ground.

The weeds snuck in while I lived my life.
So I lifted my arms with the palms toward the sky,
put on my straw hat, coat, and surgical gloves,
and proceeded with a major operation.

I scooped the ground with a flat spade,
laid the patch of green on my palm,
and in revenge,
tickled it until it gave up the brown.

Now, as I sit on the handle of the spade,
and prop myself against the wet, cold wall,
I stare at my dirty jeans,
and thank the weeds,
for giving me a reason to stay out in the rain,
reflect, and live life some more.
Toti O’Brien
PROPHECY

In her bed
half awake
she heard a voice
it said
you’ll be happy
one day
in a place that’s named
California

Is it why
the girl came?
For what was predicted
that night?
Not at all
Life brought her
and the prophecy
she forgot

***

When she came
did she look
for happiness
still?
Of course
Did she find it?
So she believed
once or twice

And each time
oh well
she remembered
the mysterious
words
and she thought
that it was for good

***

‘Cause indeed
she was where the oracle
had pointed
but Lord
can you please
explain?
What’s the promised land
and what’s happiness?

‘Cause
it keeps sliding
behind clouds
and over
the rainbow
‘cause she
still
doesn’t know
Katherine Norland
PUNK PARANOIA

The punk-rock gentleman in front of me, overcome with fear;
Asking question after question whenever the waitress is near.
Scared of the content of every item in his vegetarian food;
Heard the warning that recalled the spouts left him unglued.
What got him so paranoid about the water set next to his plate;
Examining the glass and asking the waitress if the water’s safe.
I wonder how much brain power it took, how much he had to think,
When he got sleeves of tattoos, did he question what was in the ink?
Ruth Nolan
FIGURES OF THOUGHT

You were so young I couldn’t embrace you,
small as you were,
your hair blonde, shoulder length,
we could not aptly name

the scary man tightening his belt,
we could not presume
to know his name
the fire tip of his cigarette, small flame

young, oh, you were so old
as not to know the figures in a dream

the moon, in her small stepping
over ancient beach stones, the fish traps
are lonely without the sea, without their catch
the people are so few they seem large
and men take young boys aside

your sun, waiting to show its face
too bright in its asking for love

and far too wide to hold
your shoulder length hair, the unnamed man
hovering behind you
rising with the tide, a sleeper wave
and the villagers run to greet you

so few, they seem large, not cruel,
spears ready with burning arrow tips
Terry McCarty
IMPOSSIBLE DREAMS

I want to write the first self-published
chapbook that sells a million copies.

I want to be the first poet to sell out arenas.
Not once.
Not twice.
But five nights in a row.
And perform three-and-a-half hour sets
just like Springsteen did in the 70s and
80s.

I want to invite my brothers and sisters in
poetry to help me create an annual festival
called WORDSTOCK.
It will consist of three days of peace, love
and metaphors.
I want it to be so big and important that
people will smash through the fences
to witness incredible poetry for free—
but not until we’ve turned a profit.

I want to see an hour of verse on prime-time TV every night of the week.
Think about it, NBC.
It will be cheaper to produce than a
ten o’clock Jay Leno show.

I want to kickstart a new kind of future.

I want to teach the majority of
humankind that poetry doesn’t suck.

I want to….think about this to-do list
some other time.

It’s getting really cold in the break room.
Time for me to go back to work.
Ellaraine Lockie
THEY SPEAK STARBUCKS IN ITALY

When I order
two shots of espresso
The order taker and coffee maker
at the Bar La Cisteria says
You want two espresso
holding up a demi-cup in each hand

No, two in one cup, I say
He carries both cups to the machine
No second cup I say louder
He flings arms wide enough to hold
every American word he's ever heard
Palms open to the heavens in a plea
probably for no more customers like me

In my first Italian body-talk lesson
I take a used cup from the counter top
With a sweeping flourish hold out two fingers
and poke them into the cup
His prayer slips into shoulders that shrug
You want doppio, why not say so
Sharmagne Leland-St.John
MICHAEL

Michael
Your moods intrigue me
Quiet now brooding
I wonder where your thoughts have been
Then at dinner
I see a side of you
That I have never seen
You make us laugh
The things you say
The smile you flash
Makes the evening slip away
Today you're pensive
Your mind is occupied
I cannot read your thoughts
No one can who's tried
Sometimes you're like a puzzle
That's hard to put together
You're moods are always changing
Just like the English weather
Has the sun come out?
No there's rain, but I think
The sun is trying
I thought I heard you laughing
Or was it was just the murmur
Of a winter wind sighing
Karen Klingman
IMPRESSIONS OF MONET

I wonder what it is about Monet
I'm not the only one
drawn to quiet
peaceful skies
seas of rippled calm
reflecting life in such an easy way

I see no tension in his strokes
moss green poplars float along with breeze
majestic skiffs glide without destination
old world white buildings
crowned with caps of sienna and ochre
await my visit

I'm lost in pleasure
just being here
vibrant hushed blues and greens
embrace me
indulgent clouds caress me
I surrender to the bliss
Mina Kirby
DRAMA ON THE DECK

On the deck
outside my bedroom
my seventeen-year-old tabby sleeps
curled up
beneath a chair

A frisky backyard squirrel
climbs onto the deck
looking for adventure
furry tail wrapped
around the railing
front paws
below on the post
ready to jump onto the floor
until
he spots the cat

Backing up
onto the rail top
he darts quickly
until he has kitty
in full view
His sleek body turns to face her
muscles tense
beady eyes focused
on the gray bunch of fur
under the chair

Wide squirrel tail
fur now puffed up
starts to undulate
up and down
up and down

The cat
sensing something afoot
opens her eyes
lifts her head
and watches the squirrel

Then
being an old cat
realizing she has seen it all before
curls up a little tighter
and goes back to sleep
Ron Gregus
THE UN-HEARTBROKEN SONG

I'm a sittin' here not drinkin'
Un-heartbroken I'm a thinkin'
How a foolish man loves swimmin'
In the guilt that's spilt by women
Even though he gets insulted
By the women he's exulted
This type of man will swear it's wrong
To sing the un-heartbroken song

When a woman's heart is broken
Lots of sympathy is spoken
And the man who bursts her bubble
Soon finds out that he's in trouble
But a man who's been rejected
Finds no sympathy projected
And he who has a heart that's broke
Is celebrated as a joke

All my heartbreaks last a minute
I don't have to bare and grin it
Like the fool who pines forever
Losin' all of his endeavor
Takin' drink, weed, pills, or powder
Just to advertise it louder
How he's been jilted in a sham
By women who don't give a damn
Michelle Angelini
CONVERSATION WITH THE FULL MOON

I have seen
curving roads
and curiously followed where they led
a starless night sky as she conversed
with the full moon
and in the sun's light i have
dreamed that each billowing
cloud through which jets passed
turned into a sailing
ship that took me
far away

i have held
rainbow-hued leaves
after they fell from the branches
which rejected them
a spatter of unsalted raindrops on my
cheeks as if they came from my eyes
and velvet burgundy rose petals in my hands
comparing their softness
against a thorn's piercing harshness

i have nurtured
words from singleness blooming
them into poetic expressions
experienced the stretched pain
of sadness that grew
into a numb vacuum
where my shredded heart
allowed me to love again
and i have always considered
the full moon an equal partner
in conversations about what
she understands
and i have yet to learn
Lynn Allgood
FEMALE LEGS AND FEET

Girls were not allowed to wear pants
In my elementary school.
No education for female pant wearers,
Until hot pants burned away
The ban on legged garments for girls.

In Afghanistan, the Taliban
Arrested and imprisoned women
For “walking in loud shoes.”

If our clothes
And sound of our shoes
Pose such great threats,
Then our legs and feet
Must be very powerful.

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

SGVPQ #41

The 29 poets published in the Winter 2009 San Gabriel Valley Poetry Quarterly are:

LYNN ALLGOOD
MICHELLE ANGELINI
LAWRENCE BERGER
JACK BOWMAN
LEAH BROWN
CALOKIE
DON KINGFISHER CAMPBELL
BARBARA COGSWELL
HELEN GRAZIANO
RON GREGUS
CHARLES HARMON
LINDY HILL
JEFFRY JENSEN
MINA KIRBY
KAREN KLINGMAN
DEBORAH P KOLODJI
SHARMAGNE LELAND-ST.JOHN
ELLARAINE LOCKIE
RADOMIR LUZA
TERRY McCARTY
RUTH NOLAN
KATHERINE NORLAND
TOTI O'BRIEN
RONA GARCIA PANGILINAN
RYFKAH
MARY FRANCES SPENCER
MAJA TROCHIMCZYK
LORI WALL-HOLLOWAY
ERIKA WILK

All of the poets published were invited to pick up their complimentary copy of SGVPQ #41 (a $5 value) at the publishing party and reading on Saturday, March 7th between 2pm and 4pm inside the backroom of the Santa Catalina Branch of the Pasadena Public Library on 999 E. Washington Blvd.

Wednesday, January 7, 2009

You get the idea, SGVPQ 40

Mary Frances Spencer

PIGGIES

down jones
all 500 have gone south
bears can’t find any ice to stand on
bulls choking in dusty
foreclosed fields

green is in the red
blue faces can’t breathe
underwater

treasure
lost

so all the kings
and us pawns
have to put Humpty Dumpty
back on the
wall

before the pieces
of the last eight years

break the camels
and squeeze the piggies
who cry

all the way

home

Yes, more SGVPQ 40

Deborah P Kolodji

AUTUMN WRITING WORKSHOP

Blank page --
I search for words
or some inspiration...
the maple drops its leaves, I drop
my pen.

Yet another poem from SGVPQ 40

Jeffry Jensen

FLOODING BACK THE FLAMES

The river finally gave up the bodies,
but not without a fight,
not without a warning to the foolish.

I felt smothered by a shimmering
longitude, cut off by implausible
dreams of flammable contentment.

There were buses buried in mud,
taxis that never delivered their fares,
passports that never reached a border.

I listened for a native choir to
penetrate a sizzling latitude, to
rattle the boards of a growing isolation.

The river receded and gave back banks
where mothers had washed clothes.
Children set fire to mangled tires
and saw fathers in the flames.

Still another poem from SGVPQ 40

Lindy Hill

IF I’M DOWN TO A SINGLE WORD

let it be
Wapakoneta
a word of strength
imagination
history

not obscure
space buffs
will know
this word

in my dotage
which I hope
lasts a mere
moment
when I am
at a loss for words
Wapakoneta
will be the perfect one
to wrap my tongue
around

if I forget what it means
it will at least
pinpoint to others
when I lived
what was important
to me
what was in the news
back in my day

if I can no longer utter this
say it to me
you might hear the story
how I cried that day
in ‘69
as I watched coverage
of man’s first
walk on the moon

what a wonderful era
you will live in
I say to my infant
asleep
in the midnight
of history

speak the word again
you might elicit
the log of our trip
a year or two later
when we drive
some miles out of our way
to the small Ohio town
home to…
I might pause
and not for drama
but you will then
fill in the blank

Neil Armstrong

I will smile
murmur
one small step for man

Another poem from SGVPQ 40

Don Kingfisher Campbell

CAR TROUBLE

most cars
look young
shiny as
metallic beetles

others seem
older like
old boxes
taken off
dusty shelves

I've seen
quite a few
that could
be backpacks

there's one
missing a
red eye--
that's grotesque

even worse
that one's
got wrinkles
they tried
to get out
(should have
gone to
a professional)

oh and here's
a big loaf
of bread
with raisins
and nuts inside

Poem from SGVPQ 40

Jack Bowman

CROSSROADS IN THE DESERT

Road signs worn away
moan as they blow in the wind
nothing decipherable
even the post is twisted

there is a sharp pain
he gets at times like these
above the left temple
an ache emerges in each leg
then his back strains,
loses power
an old Buick on the fritz

he walks the desolate roads of his life
remembers the chances he had
to do something different
shakes his head, sighs
there are some things
you never see coming

until they run you over.