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