Monday, June 10, 2013

SGVPQ 58 Publication Party!

It was a packed house for the SGVPQ 58 publication party! The poets in attendance were: Maria Arana, Lynne Bronstein, CaLokie, Don Kingfisher Campbell, Pauline Dutton, Richard Dutton, Joe Gardner, Charles Harmon, Rose Anna Hines, Alex Hohmann, Ashaki M. Jackson, Radomir Vojtech Luza, Karineh Mahdessian, Dalton Perry, Thelma T. Reyna, Rachel Ridgway, Rina Rose, Kathryn Rueby, Jeff Wayne Patrick Russell, Brian Thorpe, Maja Trochimczyk, and Lori-Wall-Holloway. After everyone got a chance to read (below you can read the poems of those who read), we honored and celebrated the memory of Rosalee Thompson with a reading of some of her poems that had been published in past issues.

Saturday, June 8, 2013

18 poets read from SGVPQ 58

Radomir Vojtech Luza



By the mustard bottle it sits

Next to the mayonnaise jar


The little pink pill

That stabilizes my moods


The happy vanilla fairy

That keeps the black cats

And brown witches away


They tell me to stay away from it

I don't need it

Bananas are more natural


But my hands shake

And my stomach tremors

Like an abused dog


The rectangular roundabout

Winks at me through the

Transparent brown bottle


The 300 milligrams of psychiatric solution

Stamped on its side


Please muscular mamma

Don't crack my creativity

Bruise my boyhood beefcake


For I trust in you

Like a virgin does a vanilla swan

Ashaki M. Jackson



The mouth opens like a grave




Our mouths open like her grave




Our mouths: her grave   thick-

tongued cavern   From our throats she blooms

Sunday hymn toward a quiet sky




Thick-tongued quiet   Our mouths

caverns   graves   Our throats

bloom a Sunday sky hymn




Throat hymns

The sky: a grave of tongues

Thick blooms quiet our cavernous mouths

like a Sunday




Our mouths   Our

mouths   Our mouths  

Our mouths   quiet


And sky

Brian Thorpe


At times, like Proust in his cork-lined room, I too will savor the sesame cake of memory.And when I do, a water wall of things recalled amasses, cajoles and amuses with an amniotic solace.

With bold acrylic strokes, I'l let the camel haired brush of embellishment have it's way and color more vividly a seaside arcade of long ago pleasures, jovial and ferris wheeled, undone and undaunted. Or banish the anguished moments that tear like shrapnel at otherwise unblemished hours. 

When reverie is like some Celtic imp or genii of sand covered legend, I haughtily command its' many talents and order it to make the orb of giddy images spin for ecstatic hours. 

At other times I'll have it wax soulful and like a guest at Plato's symposium cause me to ponder with poignancy the lessons harvested from childhood sojourns and revere the wisdom gleaned, as I would behind a confessional curtain or kneeling for votives and vespers. 

Often too, in youthful digressions, I've let it plunge into vats of Merlot and Chardonnay and, so elated, let it personify into one more son of Miniver Cheevy hoisting a glass to glorified specters of fabled pageantry and reimagined history. 

At last, when in carnal reservoirs I allow it to evoke the still stirring images of furtive gropes behind school gymnasiums, of cautious anxious hands let loose under shirts and sweaters or diving eagerly beneath blue jeaned waistlines. 

But when the creature defies, is no longer benign and with some vengeful purpose becomes a changeling  with needle- like claws releasing recollections that taunt like clock hands on a sleepless night, what then? 

The womb suffocates, the seaside arcade quells beneath a carapace of indigo. It's emblem  becomes the child's pail and shovel discarded at the end of an August day, the ferris wheel car transmutes into the chipped and desolate porch swing on a January morning. 

The confessional becomes a prison cell, the vespers turn to curses and the votive candles are suddenly the pitiless naked bulbs in a cheap furnished room. 

The idyllic son of Cheevy ceases to endear and so transforms into a vile, belligerent lush pounding his fist on the bar at last call and demanding one more seven and seven 

And the tremulous searches behind the gymnasium? They too dissolve into images of nights spent alone while others danced, of calls cut short, terse and wounding and letters ignored or unanswered. 

It is then the comforting walls of my room fall flat around me. I am abruptly naked and unguarded in a field of snow and the sesame cake turns rancid, stale, rife with mold and its crumbs become morsels for mice.

Charles Harmon


I’ve got Viagra in my coffee, I’ve got Prozac in my tea
I’ve got statins in my lemonade, I just turned sixty-three
I’ve got PhenFen in my ice cream, I’ve got insulin in my jam
I’ve got aspirin in my orange juice, I’ve got Zoloft in my Spam.

      If I don’t forget my pills I’ll live to be a century
      I love expensive thrills, I’m a walking pharmacy
      I’ll live two hundred years depending on technology
      But for now I’ll say my life is sweet at sixty-three.

For aches and pains there’s Motrin and there’s Ibuprofen, too
For arthritis I take Naproxen, get some shots against the flu
There’s Levitra and Cialis when I’ve got fun things to do
You can have your cake and eat it, too, ‘til your benefits are through.

      If I don’t forget my pills I’ll live to be a century
      I love expensive thrills, I’m a walking pharmacy
      I’ll live two hundred years depending on technology
      But for now I’ll say my life is sweet at sixty-three.

I’ve got Vicodin on IV drip, a needle in my arm
But my doctors always tell me that these drugs will do no harm
They can cheer up my depression as they help me ease the pain
And they tell me in the future there’s a transplant for my brain….

    Give me Librium or give me meth!
    Give me Lipitor or give me death!
    Give me something to feel real well!
    Take me to Heaven or go to Hell!

If I don’t forget my pills I’ll live to be a century
I love expensive thrills, I’m a walking pharmacy
I’ll live two hundred years depending on technology
But for now I’ll say my life is sweet at sixty-three.

Alex Hohmann



Today the stars are accurate

My personal cosmos

reduced to a few short sentences and

second person pronouns:

You might be left trying to tie up loose ends of a situation.

Be willing to say “no” if you can’t handle anymore.


This stubborn Bull is ready to charge

anything, anyone in her way

Seeing red,

the tantalizing cape before her eyes,

she stomps the ground

paces in the mud

snorting out her nostrils a defiant NO

provoked, enraged by too many banderillas in her shoulder

waiting for the moment

to stab the grand matador with his own lance.

Jeff Wayne Patrick Russell



Your face

An angel

Burns deep in my heart

Igniting the soul


I really don’t believe in photographic memory

Unless it’s yours


The pictures are there

For you to decide

Which to write

As they flood thought of eye


Can you put them in writing

Or does somebody have to

Spell them out to ya’

You can improvise the punctuation


Now on paper

Do not crumple it

To throw away

Or play with a little later


Hey man

Your writing poetry

And I ain’t gonna give

You that line


The strong survive





Lori Wall-Holloway



Julie – missing

My sidekick Daisy

a dishwater blonde

and I are on the case

We look for evidence

in room where Julie

was last seen

We investigate under

bed and in closet

A clue!

Brown grass

near bookcase

Pull out books to discover –

She was here!

Daisy’s black nose

moves rapidly…

A sound!!

Scratching noises!

Daisy sniffs

around dresser

A lead!

More brown curly grass

more scratching

I praise Daisy

for her help and open

my bottom drawer

where my sweaters

neatly lay


Julie is found!

I pick up golden

hamster and proudly

take her to my brother


Solved my first case!

Rose Anna Hines


When anger explodes
sends hate-shrapnel and smoke
at the finish line
to massacre, maim, molest minds,
my eyes see assault-bleeding,
confusion, shock, fear.

My brain screams "NO, NO, NO

    The waves of after-shock though
        are filled with rescue actions,
            bravery, compassion, prayers,
                looking for ways to help
                    even through the bewilderment.

Maja Trochimczyk

VISION, UNVEILED                                                                          


~ after “Bride on the Rock” from

Chinese Impressions by Susan Dobay

“Why are you leaving us?”

Chinese characters dissipate in the air


Clouds descend

Down the waterfall of jade


Clouds float down

The slopes of aquamarine


“Where are you going?

Why are you doing this?”


Centuries of crystal

Petrified traditions stand silent


Watching over

The white tulle of a Cinderella dress


The dark-haired bride

Is anxious without her talisman


Lost without the red hue

Of prosperity, crimson joy she hides


The sign of double happiness

Marked in blood-red ink


Under the pristine silk

Of her bridal gown


They cannot see – she listens

To the whisper of the crevices


Her veil flutters

On the breeze