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
Sunday, December 13, 2009
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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
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.”
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.
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.
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
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”.
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.
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.
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
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
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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