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”.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
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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