Tuesday, December 14, 2010

Poets Take Pictures: 2011 San Gabriel Valley Poetry Calendar is ready!


The full-color, completely glossy 2011 San Gabriel Valley Poetry Calendar is finished and ready for distribution. Makes a great holiday gift...featuring the poetry and photography of 20 poets: Jeffrey C. Alfier, Michelle Angelini, CaLokie, Don Kingfisher Campbell, Thom Garzone, Charles Harmon, Jeffry Jensen, Mina V. Kirby, Deborah P Kolodji, Marie Lecrivain, Vicky Luu, Radomir Vojtech Luza, Toti O'Brien, Douglas Richardson, Allison Santos, Sharon Lynne Thompson, Tim Tipton, Maja Trochimczyk, Lois Michal Unger, and Lori Wall-Holloway. The poets are invited to read and receive their complimentary copy this Saturday, December 18th between 3 and 5pm inside the backroom of the Santa Catalina Branch of the Pasadena Public Library on 999 E. Washington Blvd. Additional copies will be available for $10 each. You may also order via http://paypal.com where you simply choose to Send Money ($12, includes $2 postage and packaging) to kingfisher1031@charter.net, then wait by the ol' mailbox for lightning-fast first class postal delivery.

Saturday, December 11, 2010

20 Poets read from SGVPQ 48


Jeffrey C. Alfier
THE FLOWERS OF HER DECEMBER

So this is all the earth she knows now.
Winter could fracture stone and spill

into graves, the wind scuttling leaves,
petals and US flags into the year’s terminus.

A man breathes warmth into ungloved hands,
her name strained through a fist.

Jim Babwe
DONUT QUEEN

You told me
you felt bored and suicidal--
and not to tell anyone.

I took notes.

You told me
the fabric of life
was infinitely
crashing at your feet
like an unlimited number
of bricks
falling from a wall
too tall to climb,
too wide to walk around--
beyond sight in every direction.

I tried to make you laugh
when I asked about why
you were not wearing
a helmet--
bricks falling and all.

You said,
It's not a joke;
stop making fun of me.
And I don't like it
when you call me
Donut Queen.

I said,
Why don't you want
me to call you
Donut Queen.

You said,
Stop making fun of me.
Apologize.

For the helmet remark
or for calling you
Donut Queen?
I asked

You said
to take my pick--
either one.

I said,
I'm sorry
for calling you
Donut Queen.

You said,
You're just saying that.
You don't mean it.

I said,
Okay.
I'm sorry for making fun of you.
Why don't you want me
to call you Donut Queen?

You said,
Never mind.
You're not sorry.
Call me Donut Queen.
I don't care.

I said,
I thought you wanted
me to say I was sorry.

That's different from being sorry,
you said.
Since you're taking notes,
Write this down.
The fabric of life
turns into broken rocks
and piles them
into mountain of rubble at my feet.
The weight of these stones
is too heavy for any trash can.

You told me
not to write down
that you were
bored and suicidal.

You said,
Don't tell anyone.

Then you changed
your mind and said,
Go ahead.
Write it all down.
Tell everyone.
I don't care.

I said,
I'm worried about you
(and don't take this the wrong way),
but depending
upon how you kill yourself,
how much of a mess
are you planning to make
and where
is it going to be?

You said
I wasn't funny.

You said you
weren't kidding
and you probably
won't kill yourself.

You said
I wasn't listening.

You asked me
why I was taking notes.
What are you going to do
with them?

Then you said
it didn't matter.

You looked up at the sky
and you said,
Write this down, too.

I waited
while you were thinking.

You said
you forgot
what you were
going to say
before you walked away
and locked yourself
into the bathroom again.

You used to laugh
when I called you
Donut Queen.

CaLokie
TO MY OKIE TRIBE

No, the flood over a quarter of Pakistan following
128ยบ scorcher wasn’t because nation harbors
a bunch of them Islam-fascist terrorists

Global warming’s here!
Shit’s beginning to hit the fans
but, folks, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet!

I don’t give a shit what Okie Senator Dumbhoff, Rush Lamebrain,
Glen Beck-to-Barbarianism or any cracked teapot scientists
funded generously by fossil fuel corporations say!

I’m sure as hell gonna take words of smartasses like Al
Gore, Jim Hansen, Bill McKibben and thousands of climate
scientists who have had a mountain range of data peer reviewed

in scientific journals over them Mother Earth fuckers
who wanna keep things as they are so U.S.’s top
2% can continue to rake in obscene profits!

But hey, them’s slick sons of bitches!
If I didn’t have such a high I.Q. I mightta
been fooled by their bullshit too. Harty-har-har!

Man-up. Tea Party boys and girls! Time to leave
feudal world of four angels guardin’ each
corner and face our planet as it is.

If we reach the tipping point,
we’re all gonna be in deep shit and
America ain’t gonna be worth takin’ back

unless you don’t mind livin’ in world with more
deserts but no rain forests while Wall Street
and Disney World are buried in ocean

But hey, liberals sayin’ they believe
in global warming but act like it don’t
exist are as full of shit as right wing nuts!

Mama Nature is pissed off and she ain’t a gonna
take no crap about cap and trade or carbon
off sets to keep this planet from meltin’

If world leaders think they can bullshit
Big Mama like they always bullshit everybody
else, they ain’t a bullshittin’ nobody but themselves!

Of course, you gotta defecate and for most of human
history, our atmosphere held only 275ppm
or parts per million of carbon dioxide.

But then along came the Industrial
Revolution and before you knew it, them
turds had increased 70% from 1970 to 2004

They continued to grow 2ppm each year till holy shit,
by 2010 we had reached a level of 392ppm,
the highest in 650,000 years!

Now scientists tell us
we gotta get that shit down
to 350ppm or we’re all fucked!

I know. It takes a lotta shit to make the good
shit we all enjoy and for military to
defend American way of life.

Like Woody Guthrie said
to a couple of rich snobs, “The
more you eat, the more you shit!”

Sure, breakin’ our oil and coal addiction ain’t gonna be
easy but unless we don’t start leavin’ that shit in
the ground instead of’ shootin’ it to stars

all hell’s gonna break loose! Our children
and grandchildren a gonna be shit out of luck
and oh my friends and oh my foes, that’s no shit!

.....................................................................................

Don Kingfisher Campbell
(no photo available, because I was taking the photos)
VISIT

ergonomically correct
blue cushioned
waiting room chair
with black arms and legs

when I sit on it
I immediately feel
my back is upright
90 degrees of correct posture

rest my arms on the arms
I could be in interrogation
or even worse
the electric chair

put my arms down
to each side
I get the urge
to turn wheelchair wheels

wrap my arms
around the back
and I'm a hostage
in a home invasion

I rise up
leave the feelings
behind on the chair
like an old friend

Michael J. Cluff
SHOOTING

Death will dash by
my leftmost finger on my right hand
funny how it sidles in and out
as it is wont to do.

Passing me along
to another day
it will skip and prance
over a cypress
between a juniper
and besides a banyan
to come down hard
on Burke Clarke Arias
and set his heart to stop

That man wears
a watch fop
like Uncle Harlan
once did
a movie extra
during the mid to near late sixties.

His head now tomato red
as is his silk tie
draped over the stick shift
still racheting his tender
teacup rose raw shaven neck.

Dan Garcia-Black
SLEEP, BABY, SLEEP

A car alarm is crying in the distance.
Cop car siren speeds close
then fades away wailing.
the slow sound of dribbling water
refills the toilet tank.
The neighbors in apartment 2
start arguing again.
A truck rumbles heavily
down a nearby alley.
I listen to my heart beat in my ears
replaced by the sound of
helicopter blades hovering over my bed.
Somewhere blocks away
a confused cock crows.
Somebody buy him a clock.
It’s four AM for Christ's sake!
Now, it’s 6.
and the shower starts in the room
next door.
These are the musical tones
Brahms could not have imagined,
sung to me by the city ,
that keeps me awake
all night once again.
Just then the oldies station
radio alarm blasts on, Beatles singing,
“Good Day Sunshine, Good Day Sunshine!”
I close my eyes to rest just a minute
before getting up to dress for work
attentively listening to the daylong cadenza
warning me of tomorrow night’s
coming L.A. Bedlam Lullaby.

Gary Imperial
MY WORDS ARE

Some are the wind strewn wordlings from off a dead poet's Redwood. In the breeze of speech and speculation looking to be rooted in moist fertile mind soil. While others are embryonic embers keeping my campfire coffee warm with inspiration. They are the sound of accomplishment. The last draw of the violin bow at the end of a holiday concert with its final note at its most elevated point, separating performance from praise till it dissipates and becomes one with the holly and spice in the air. They are the sprinkles of green and red on the cut out cookies of Snowmen and Santas, the walnuts and white chocolate chunks that make up the tasty textured landscape of gift cookies. My words have been all these things and more. And now my words are yours.

Jeffry Jensen
THE RUBBER VARIETY

Crime in a Dixie cup and a safari across the shell
hole of a hankering for Heaven to take the plunge in
a nasty nodule buried in the burlap left at the desk where
dogs go to eat corn flakes and cheese chunks with
epoch banana sweetness submitting to standard
testing with a number 2 pencil leaking honey twice on
Sunday and served to catfish in a creamy sauce with
a distant doorway 8 miles longer than the average
Mother’s Day parade squeezing out miracles on its
knees inside of a third-class trickle down a pant
leg with waffles taking the side of a maelstrom on
stem rooted revelation behind a screen of taffy
love and lingering brushes with toy trains in a circular
intention of concrete orchid raspy spit too close to
my toothbrush in mid-flight from throbbing cheek to
parrot chin knockers cushioned by cat vengeance and
loneliness pirating the top drawer of the runway to
weepy sideways discontent of the rubber variety.

Lalo Kikiriki
SNAPSHOTS, 1985
for Charlie

It was the day we climbed to the back
of Runyon Canyon
and up a rusted drain pipe to the road.
Was that the day you learned
that love is pain,
loving that place, with the sweat burning into your eyes?
If you were five, then I was thirty-seven,
on that white-hot day you declared yourself
King of the Mountain.
There on the steps we took each other's pictures,
gritty and triumphant in the breeze
through the brand new park we championed,
you and I.
Look at us grinning, bare-kneed in summer shorts.
That was a day for ice cream in the car,
driving one-handed down Sunset Boulevard,
licking, licking, licking sticky fingers.
So proud and foolish, Charlie – that was the day!

Mina V. Kirby
NOT WORTH IT

Sex
without passion
is like
a chocolate brownie
without nuts
Just not worth the calories

As are
salt-free chips
poems I don’t understand
beer
crude comedy
dark chocolate candy
cheap furniture
carob flavored desserts
unwaxed dental floss
al dente anything
good looking men
who are in love with themselves
and
ice cream
without hot fudge
and whipped cream

They cost too much
effort
money
and love

Karen Audioun Klingman
BEIGE BEDROOM

a box of 64 is hidden in my nightstand
along with 7 Snickers bars and a training bra
they're below school papers from two years ago
not sure I want anyone to find my dreams
its dark
moonlight a beacon
I hear snoring sounds
from the my folks' room
at the end of the hall
I rustle under the papers
pull out the box
feel their slightly flattened heads
bodies standing at attention
in stadium fashion
I like their feel
comfort myself in their presence
peaceful at last
I munch on a Snickers bar
imagine myself wearing a real bra
a magenta dress
enchanted
under a rainbow

Radomir Vojtech Luza
ON VENUS

the mind like a tight mongoose arrived on venus quite by accident no
luggage no passport like a baby in the cavity it needed no way out no sentence
for its crime.

the pearls on its bed were made of glass. the clouds over its head were too
white to sled and the sun dressed in red would never be dead.

venus oh venus you strumpet you zoo you live too close to the mirror
without even a view. your angles of refrain bend to the right your angels of
forgiveness hardly strain for a fight. i find myself on your island because you
at last can massage my life with a blessed bite.

Karineh Mahdessian
WET

"you make water look good," i say
almost shyly, averting eyes from
soapy covered chiseled brown skin

words that richochet from
newly painted too crowded
bathroom and loop thru my skin

i dress.
dance in kitchenstudio
whose bacon-infused walls
hostage manic monday blues.

you make water look good.

whom am i fooling?

you make everything look good

from calvin klein v-neck white t-shirt to
trader joe' red wine stained glass.
ashy ankle and ached back.
mismatched socks and paint stained fingertips

you make water look good.

i must be fooling myself

you make me look good.


naked.

Toti O’Brien
ULYSSES’ SONG

The peach
color of
the dune
melts in
golden dust

peering
through the
fluffy clouds.

It echoes
the tone of your
flesh
the feel of your
touch

in larger
expanding
waves.

As more
soothing draughts
of serenity
reach my
edge

spilled
out
of your fingers,

I guess that
this
corner of
sand in soft
twilight

is
another
island.

I must be
escaped from a
wretch
swimming
out

of an
unexpected
catastrophe…

Had the ship
not sank
how would I have
known that Ithaca
was close by?

Hiding in a soap
bubble, a rain
drop.

But is this
Ithaca? Am I
sure?
No more that I
knew

about
disaster
to come.

Life’s always
around
the corner
all that I see is
a slice.

It’s a rest, a pause
a breath between
lines…

Jeff Wayne-Patrick Russell
MY TRUE FRIENDS
ARE
WATCHING US
AND
THEM UP-SKY STARES

them, back, -again
always, Los Angeles
rain -tends to slow
helio, -demi- gods

slight in vary
pooh
an, echoic of blowing away
into- -selected - mind

laser techs
think they
know
it all

those remarks implanted
ostentation, in their
pompestuity
the Control Freaks'

bust, bust, bust - - or die
or
bust, to find
or
follow

they, - think they choose
name, - and give orders'

true friends(s) - got+ my
back!!

Katie Ryvolt
GARBAGE WITHIN

My mother says, "Don't touch that it's dirty!"
As she washes the guilt from her face,
"Honey, be a doll and take out the garbage."
As she stuffs 120lbs of rotting lies into a yellow Sunday dress,
and goes off to church.

The garbage is sitting in the corner of the room in a plastic container,
with a lid to conceal its secrets,
waiting,
mocking,
the creator of it.

People throw away all kinds of truth,
to try and hide who they really are,
Betrayal - a failing report card,
Politeness - the dinner invite to that strange neighbors party,
A fake smile - the answer to the question "Honey, does this make me look fat?"
And Secretes - Inner thoughts,... true inner thoughts,
or maybe...
it's only last nights dinner?

Rosalee Thompson
LIFE SIX FEET ABOVE GROUND

A happy woman
A pink chiffon dress blowing on a clothesline
waiting for the celebration

The star in the baby's left hand
A star at the bottom of the ocean
The sun in her closet
The sun atop the Christmas tree

What is luck
the life line long and arched?
I do not live in a warzone
Buddha's fingers have touched me a thousand ways
The sun is my kite

Christopher Luke Trevilla
DESTROYING THE TEMPLE

Sweetest sin
is the only thing
that binds us
to that Promethean rock
the passive
destruction
of our human nature's
appetite
by the deus ex machina of Fate's
cold hand
the need to grasp all
before the End
the symphony of destruction
at the wake of Humanity's
last stand
The fire bearer
long extinct,
the destroyer of worlds
grown complacent
to turn inward
and
to within explore
with theorems,
postulates,
and
empirical satirical case files
only to find a tabula rasa
man's long lost
empty shell

Destroying the temple
is the last rebellion of man
so keen so willing so apt
to be free
from self and will
from conscience and consequence
to absolve
our petty and mortal
pecados
we erase the illusion of morality
with a defiant and bold
imagining
a life free from the chains
we did not bind
for a noose
we fasten ourselves
only to hang
rhythmically and endlessly
in the silence
of the void
the sound of music
and the world's ending
save yourself
if you can.

Lori Wall-Holloway
NAMESAKE

The sun barely peeks out from a grey sky
in the late afternoon to shine on a
grassy hill where pink and red rose petals
grace a bronze plaque marked with two big, yellow
sunflowers. Colorful carnations that
are inside a metal cup of water
beneath the ground are offered as morsels
for the deer who jump a fence to visit
the gravesite late at night. Little do they
know, they bring honor to the one who once
fed them in his backyard in the city.

On this day, a little person runs to
his father across the grave of his name-
sake, oblivious to the greatness who
lies beneath. The child will have to rely
on family stories of those who knew
his great-grandfather to understand the
importance of the timing of his own
birth to those who love him. Through relatives,
he will discover how special his life
is, which will bring hope from his Creator
to those who are beyond his toddler years.

Charles Harmon
STRANGER IN THE NIGHT

The old man in the coffee shop
Was crying into his coffee, very quietly,
To himself, a transistor radio on the table
Tuned in, turned down low,
But I could hear the music,
Sinatra singing “Strangers in the Night,”
And I remembered the first time
I had heard that song, I was eleven, in the car,
Coming home from a trip to the mountains
Late in the evening but it stuck with me
Even if I never became a big Fan of Frankie—
That was for my Mom and Dad’s generation.
I thought he was just some kind of Vegas lush,
Hobnobbing with Mafiosi, threatening to
Break kneecaps. I hadn’t realized his complexity,
That constellation of talent, the passion and the heart.
A lot of ego, yes, but he helped blacks break into
Showbiz, when they had to eat and sleep
At separate hotels from where they performed.
And with all his money, his divorces, his power,
Sinatra made a lot of people happy, and now they were sad.
The old man was a stranger in the night, but I looked him
In the eye and said, “Nice music.” And he nodded and looked at me
And said, “He’s dead.” And I said, “I’m sorry.” And as I left
I left a big tip for the waitress as Sinatra would have done
And I noticed that the old man had a “Semper Fi” tattoo on his
Forearm, those of the greatest generation had really earned
That designation, it seemed they had suffered enough, and why
Had my generation mocked them, put them down and their music
For wanting to come back from the war and just have a life in the 50’s?
When I got into the car and turned on my radio
The first thing that I heard was that Sinatra had died,
I thought he had died years ago, but then I understood.
And I remembered when I was teaching in South Central
And Marvin Gaye had been shot and all the
Black lady teachers were crying in the hallways, in the lunchroom,
And I couldn’t really imagine what’s going on
But I knew I had felt like that when John Lennon was killed
And I cried when the pope was shot even though I’m not Catholic
And I would never feel that way again until my father died.
And aren’t we all really just strangers in the night,
But sometimes a voice on the radio
Seems to make everything all right
And help us understand.

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

34 poets being published in SGVPQ #48

JEFFREY C. ALFIER
JIM BABWE
JACK G. BOWMAN
CYNTHIA BRYANT
CALOKIE
DON KINGFISHER CAMPBELL
MICHAEL CLUFF
BARBARA COGSWELL
PHILIP DOZAL
PAULI DUTTON
DAN GARCIA-BLACK
THOM GARZONE
CHARLES HARMON
GARY IMPERIAL
JEFFRY JENSEN
SCOTT C. KAESTNER
LALO KIKIRIKI
MINA V. KIRBY
KAREN AUDIOUN KLINGMAN
DEBORAH P KOLODJI
ELLARAINE LOCKIE
RADOMIR VOJTECH LUZA
KARINEH MAHDESSIAN
TOTI O'BRIEN
RONA GARCIA PANGILINAN
JESSICA JOY REVELES
JEFF WAYNE-PATRICK RUSSELL
KATIE RYVOLT
WANDA VANHOY SMITH
ROSALEE THOMPSON
CHRISTOPHER LUKE TREVILLA
MAJA TROCHIMCZYK
JANINE TRUDELL
LORI WALL-HOLLOWAY

Each poet being published is invited to attend the publication party and reading on Saturday, December 11th 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 copies for $7 (includes $2 for shipping) or subscribe to the quarterly for $20 a year (postage paid) and get a free 2011 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

Sunday, September 19, 2010

14 poets read from SGVPQ 47


Elizabeth Arana
FENCES

“There is nothing as white as the white girl
an Indian boy loves.” -- Distances, Sherman Alexie

We jumped the knotted
wood fence and laid
like lizards
on the Reservation
rocks. I watched the desert
sun fancydance
across the bronze
of your skin, each closed-fist
kiss your Daddy gave you
its own zip code on your
stomach.

I wondered how long
I would have to lay there
until I would be brown
enough for you to
love me. We kept one eye
open for your mother.
The other we closed,
and set about
making our temples a
little less holy.

Invoking
Father Sun to turn
alabaster into bronze,
we sheathed our tongues
in words like “Apache”,
“warrior”, and “tribal identity”.

I said I want to be Minnehaha.
You said I should stick to Minnie
Mouse. I said it would take a
strong warrior to steal me
away. You said it would
take a strong horse.

I said, “two weeks late”,
“free clinic”, “i’m sure.”

You said nothing.

Your mother said,
“goodbye note”, “bus ticket”.

My mother said “quit school”,
“factory”, “full-time”.

Years later, I passed
your mother by the
factory gate, the chainlink
fence casting a shadowed
grid on her face, slicing
it into tidy squares
of ambivalence.

She said, “murder”, “29 to
life” and “visitation allowed”.

At Folsom I said,
“I needed you”, “I don’t
understand.”

You said Father Sun had
been kind to me.

Now the fence is barbed
wire, but it’s still me on
one side, you on the other
and between us, suspended
like frozen particles of light, all
the reasons why you ran
until the road ran out, why you
could never love me, and
why the fence that
tears me apart is
the one I can’t stop
climbing.

CaLokie
THE HISTORY OF FUNDAMENTALISM IN 39 LINES

Six to ten thousand years ago began your earth
From wiles of witches and speaking serpents you gave alert
Shellfish eating sodomites guilty of double abomination
Creator created in your image over all creation did give you domination
For your professional piety you were promoted to priest in first theocracy
We the prehistoric people were robbed of our communal democracy

In Athens you lost your subjects but not your slaves by democracy
Ptolemy told how sun and stars revolved around your earth
During time Christ crucified, you were a pharisee in a colony theocracy
For his taxing the greedy to help the needy you sounded alert*
You prayed for an imperialistic messiah who would give you worldwide domination
and rid the planet of everything you considered to be an abomination

You now loved lobster but homosexuality continued to be an abomination
You denounced debauchery of sex deviants in decadent Greek democracy
In Medieval Europe you were given continental domination
You fared sumptuously** from work of serfs who reaped from your earth
Against heliocentric heresy of godless Galileo you trumpeted alert
No light allowed in your Dark Ages theocracy

The Reformation gave birth to a Protestant theocracy
In Calvin’s Geneva the unitarian view of Jesus was an abomination .
Against flames of hell for unbelievers you did give alert
but not against those who stole our commons under “enlightened” English democracy
Missionaries and merchants you sent forth to colonize the earth
You raged against papal, Muslim and secular humanist domination

But preached from Salem pulpits the glory of Puritan domination
Plantations replaced feudal estates in your Southern theocracy
You fared sumptuously** from labor of slaves who reaped from your earth
Stealing territory from the original inhabitants of the land was no abomination
There was a reign of Klan terror in your Jim Crow democracy
Against taxing the greedy to aid needy you broadcast alert

But bourgeois attempts to steal social security you sound no alert
You have sold your soul for Mammon’s globalized domination
Evolution and global warming is a hoax in your home school theocracy
Labor and gay unions ruled out of your Bible Belt democracy
Non-profit, universal healthcare is to you an abomination
but not wealth accumulated by contaminating sky, water and earth

You strive to replace our democracy with your theocracy
We must alert our country to the calamity of your domination
Telescopes still abomination--Further right you swim to edge of flat earth

*Mark 10:17-22, Matthew 19:16-22, Luke 18:18-23 **Luke 16:19

Michael Cluff

D made sure H was gone
for good
not to Hades or Bedlam
although the latter would
have left sweetness
in his saccarhine mouth

then started in on Z
although swarm
is hard to trace
at most points
along the Trans- American highway
or for him
and a bad joke by C
low-way.

J just existed in his quiet way
until a minor point
would cause quietus
to his savvy and soul.

U and S are still deadbeats
in a blank evil-doed eyed
sort of way.

Charles Harmon
A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A PENCIL

I wish I could have a sip of that coffee, a bite of that donut—
They smell so fresh and sweet.
And they would really help wake me up,
I’m feeling rather dull this morning
After nine months in a drawer.
But I guess he needs them more than I do.

Actually he treats me rather well,
Aside from this benign neglect of starvation and isolation.
No chewing on my tender pink rubber eraser
Or picking at my shiny yellow paint
As happened to me in another incarnation
When I was owned by a child.
(I wonder if he did that as a kid?)

But now he’s picking me up, sticking me in the sharpener,
Turning me against the cold sharp steel, shavings flying.
Instantly I feel sharp and new and ready to write.
My big day has come! No more standing idle
In a cup on the desk or lying benighted in darkness with the others.
My hour of glory has arrived! I’m going to write a poem!
But he sits for minutes at a time, motionless, holding me to his forehead,
Or intermittently drumming me on the desk, rolling me in his fingers,
Even putting me to his lips and starting to gnaw before jerking me away.
(Must be afraid of lead poisoning. How little does he know!)
But no writing. He might think he’s thinking,
But he’s just ignoring me. I’m trying to help,
I’m transmitting thoughts and feelings
To his sleepy brain, but he just isn’t getting it.

I ponder how little humans know or care about the alternative
Intelligence, imagination, and creativity
Found in the complex carbon chemistry of graphite
And its symbiotic relationship with anthropoidal ambitions.

But he’s not listening, not tuned in, not receptive,
Still waiting for the caffeine and sugar to kick in,
And getting more frustrated with every minute,
Blaming his shortcomings on everyone but himself.
Finally, with a grunt of anger
He crumples my cousin, Paper, then snaps me in half,
Slam dunking both of us into the waste basket.

Death is so sad, but for me it doesn’t last long.
I can feel my spirit rising from the trash can
Even as he picks up a gold and silver fountain pen
And I am born again into my new home,
Baptized in the sacred blood of a holy ink well.
And then, O sacred Epiphany, Miracle of Miracles,
He finally gets it and the ink begins to flow
As the words to my poem burst forth onto the page
In a burning blaze of glory!

Gary Imperial
INSPIRATION

I can sense that you are close,
you may even find me here.
Your whispers echo on the wind to me.

Ah, but you've been close before.
A float above my page.
I even thought I saw your mist-like form.

But you are Jasmine in the air.
You are Vanilla from it's pod.
As fragrant as a memory in my mind.

You want to savor the delight,
of fruition as a poem.
You long to be the Apple from the tree.

I now relinquish my control.
Use my hand to take your shape.
Ah, there you are, born upon my page.

Jeffry Jensen
ONCE

I once was a ten-year-old escape artist hiding
inside a rusty trunk waiting for a magic
moment to transport me to tomorrow.

An alphabet tree
black cat reading
wise sun shines

I once was a nine-year-old Indian chief hiding
in the tall weeds waiting for a wandering
missionary to table his salvation.

A broken wall
a rising tide
summer fills a window

mama spent my childhood in a coma
daddy spent the holidays on the moon
mama went to pieces at a Passion Play
daddy came back to earth far too soon

I once was an eight-year-old circus clown hiding
in the wings waiting for the bearded
lady to trim her mystery.

A season in my shoe
dreaming
a cat climbs

I once was a seven-year-old gunslinger hiding
out on the back porch waiting for a ruthless
sheriff to trip over his rage.

A quiet chair
a child remembers
birds fly free

mama spent my childhood in the Bible
daddy spent the weekends herding goats
mama went to Heaven to bathe baby Jesus
daddy went to Hell to burn broken boats

Lalo Kikiriki
L.A. RIVER BY THE NUMBERS

3 long chords blast
and echo off the concrete,
drowning the river's chitter,
the heron's cry.
Framed between tangled fronds
of 4 palmettos,
9 empty flatcars rattle, heading north
for more.
2 12-foot fan palms lounge the streambed,
wrapped round and round and round
with shredded throw-rugs
tattered jeans,
Calvin Klein.
Whose panties were these once;
who paid 10 bucks?

Gliding through the shallows,
8 ducklings trail behind their stippled mother.
A 6-year-old
is running with her father,
slows to a walk to step the river's stones.
1,
2,
3,
4,
5,
6,
7,
8,
skipping back, the girl outstrips the man
9 paces,
10,
11,
flushing the heron,
3 cries and
back to 1.

Mina V. Kirby
AMBIANCE

It’s a quiet neighborhood
that I live in
where people hang
wind chimes
in their patios
walk dogs
in the cool
of the evening
and put trash out
by the curb
every Wednesday

The man
in the house
just west of mine
took his own life
the other day
wiping out
at least for himself
a dark cloud of despair

On the porch
of the house
on the east side
sits a young mother
sobbing uncontrollably
The father
of her baby
has left them
to search
for what he thinks
will be a better life

The guy
across the street
his face twisted in anger
drunkenly lurches
into his car
screeches out of the driveway
colliding
with a parked truck
down the block

Outside
my second story
bedroom window
sunshine splatters itself
across the back yard
A soft breeze
flutters the trees
Two squirrels
chase one another
along the top of the fence
and three little crowlets
soar from tree to tree
cawing in delight
that they
are learning
to fly

Karen Audioun Klingman
CULTIVATION

below the garden birthings take place
invisible to the eye
tendrils swallow
stability and nourishment

without notice earth gives way
newborns wear emerald crowns
fragile toddlers peek out
know not purpose or direction

growing pains thwart
adolescents
yet stretch they will
beyond capability and consequence

in full bloom adults
allow thirst to quench
store strength
for what will come

the wise ones
know it is time
petals drop - leaves wither
essence blows home

burrows deep
sleeps
nurture cradles
nudges wakefulness

Karineh Mahdessian
MANIC MONDAY

i stand before you. naked
ready for an answer

basketball. bacon. or me?

you lay there.

stretch your arms.

i inhale.

you open your eyes.

i exhale.

you answer your phone.

i smile........awkwardly.

do i remind you of the question?

and just when i'm ready to pull

out my super short hair,

you turn to me and say.........

you, of course.

my body aches

and

im out of bacon.

Terry McCarty
INVENTORY

Opened my book of life.
It wasn't as satisfying a read
as I would have liked.
A lot of short chapters--
some of them completely blank
But the chapter titles
(about the things I wanted to do
and the plans I made)
sounded impressive.

The final third of the book--
covering the last dozen years--
is a marked improvement.

Let's see if I can
add more quantity and quality
before the end arrives.

Toti O’Brien
KNOW THIS

And you know
that either an accident
or
a season beginning
either happy or
average
glorious or shy…

***
Yes you know…
no matter
the circumstance I
only
remember the first
time. The rest is
irrelevant

***
But the first leaves
marks
just like the red
halo, that wine
left at the bottom
of the empty
glass

***

I will forever see
those clothes
on the floor
hear
the tune of
few whispered
words.

***
I’ll remember the
shadows, where the
light came from, the vividness.
And the blur
when
the velvet of darkness
began.

Katie Ryvolt
BABY STEPS TO PERFECTION

Ink Blots,
stumble along barely able to be read,
raw in their entirety,
Slowly, Patiently,
reshaped,
revised,
rethought, ever so carefully
until ink blots become words,
that now form a sentence,
the sentence, being read,
forms meaning,
Meaning, births importance,
and purpose,
purpose after purpose,
until,
one day along comes a period and completes the thought.
Perfection.

Rosalee Thompson
EVERYONE GETS EVERYTHING

Everyone gets a Valentine
even the ugly kids and bullies
Everyone is invited to your birthday party
even the kids you don't like who don't like you
Everyone gets their average painting pinned on
the You Did Great Board
Everyone has a special All About You Day
Everyone on the team wins a trophy
even when they lose
Everyone says Just Say NO to Drugs
Everyone learns Spanish
and everyone can sign I Love You
Everyone knows to not be afraid of the terrorists
because then the terrorists win
Everyone is a Poet
Everyone's peacock feathers look the same
Everyone's night light is God
And everyone tells you they are dead
and you didn't know it
because you stand on air

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

41 poets being published in SGVPQ #47

ELIZABETH ARANA
JIM BABWE
JACK G. BOWMAN
CALOKIE
DON KINGFISHER CAMPBELL
MICHAEL CLUFF
YVETTE CORRELL
C.W. EMERSON
JON EDWARD EPSTEIN
TRISH FALIN
THOM GARZONE
RON GREGUS
CHARLES HARMON
ANITA HOLZBERG
GARY IMPERIAL
PATRICK THOMAS JEFFRIES
JEFFRY JENSEN
LALO KIKIRIKI
MINA V. KIRBY
KAREN AUDIOUN KLINGMAN
ELLARAINE LOCKIE
RADOMIR VOJTECH LUZA
KARINEH MAHDESSIAN
TERRY McCARTY
MATT McGEE
STEWART MINTZER
JIM MORENO
TOTI O'BRIEN
TONY PEYSER
JESSICA JOY REVELES
ANA REYES
RYFKAH
KATIE RYVOLT
LESLIE SILTON
WANDA VANHOY SMITH
MICHAEL N. THOMPSON
ROSALEE THOMPSON
TIM TIPTON
MAJA TROCHIMCZYK
LORI WALL-HOLLOWAY
ROBERT WILSON

Each poet being published is invited to attend the publication party and reading on Saturday, September 18th 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 copies for $7 (includes $2 for shipping) or subscribe to the quarterly for $20 a year (postage paid) and get a free 2011 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

Monday, May 31, 2010

36 poets being published in SGVPQ #46

MICHELLE ANGELINI
KARINE ARMEN
JIM BABWE
JACK G. BOWMAN
PERRY DUANE BRENNER
CALOKIE
DON KINGFISHER CAMPBELL
DAN COPELAND
YVETTE CORRELL
LINDA DOVE
PHILLIP DOZAL
C.W. EMERSON
HELEN GRAZIANO
RON GREGUS
CHARLES HARMON
ANITA HOLZBERG
GARY IMPERIAL
JEFFRY JENSEN
MINA V. KIRBY
MARIE LECRIVAIN
ELLARAINE LOCKIE
RADOMIR VOJTECH LUZA
KATHERINE NORLAND
TOTI O'BRIEN
RONA GARCIA PANGILINAN
TONY PEYSER
LUPE QUESADA
JESSICA JOY REVELES
ALANA SALTZ
LESLIE SILTON
WANDA VANHOY SMITH
MICHAEL N. THOMPSON
MAJA TROCHIMCZYK
PHIL TURNER
LORI WALL-HOLLOWAY
ERIKA WILK

Each poet being published is invited to attend the publication party and reading on Saturday, June 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 copies for $7 (includes $2 for shipping) or subscribe to the quarterly for $20 a year (postage paid) and get a free 2011 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

Sunday, March 21, 2010

23 poets perform at the SGVPQ #45 publication party


Photo by Jim Babwe depicting from left to right: (top row) Mina V. Kirby, Mira Mataric, Tony Peyser, Rona Garcia Pangilinan, Karen Audioun Klingman, Radomir Luza, Phil Turner; (bottom row) Don Kingfisher Campbell, Karineh Mahdessian, and Lisa Marie Sandoval.

Mina V. Kirby
THOUGHTS AND WATER

I sit at the table
not moving
my hands on its surface
feeling its stillness

In front of me
is a plastic bottle
partially filled with water
the water
slightly sloshing
back and forth

Like my mind
which never stops moving
even when my body
is quiet

Perhaps my thoughts
are in synch
with that water
turning invisible ideas
into something
I can see


Mira Mataric
BUS RIDE IN STOCKHOLM DJURSGARDEN

Expected to see a park like
Joy Land Prater or Tivoli
old carousel and ginger bread cookies
shaped like Dalarna horses
Djursgarden has a different beat
human creativity is hard to repeat

walking into the unknown
things are either closer or further away
never as expected
the grass is greener the water clearer
not quite right but fascinating
even getting lost has its charm
perpetual mystique like a shadow
attracting and being attracted

stopping for a uniquely shaped plant
or a tree with an unusual slant
a house with a thicket fence a child twirling in a trance
like the old dervish
a path leading into the shade where no one will invade
a moment of prayer or meditation
with no expectation
to stumble upon a shell an old medieval well
the sun reflecting on water
ripples whispering a lullaby
the mute language familiar
from early childhood even earlier

the birds teaching something
to their own not to be understood
by humans

little cues theirs or mine
a Hans and Gretel story
the labyrinth of life a pleasant strife
lost but shed no tear

this may be the Red Riding Hood story
and the Little Mermaid worry
the house with seven gables
housing dwarfs as a haven
who is tired will enter and willingly surrender

a bridge ahead pulled, pushed and lead
the little dam a waters bed
a dรฉjร  vu from before
in a land of nevermore

Jewish Theater and the Tower
Bus 69 from the Centralen
city of Stockholm exuding midnight fumes
Techniska Museet built with persistence
and Sjohistoriska long in existance
boats and yachts lulled into deep sleep
Villa Kalhagen lilac and ivy creep

Huge trees in green nightgowns ready for the night
Embassies and Beldwallhallen locked and inaccessible
even in sleep upright and tight

Old stables and antique homes
majestic facades on Strandwagen
moderato cantabile at the sunset
power and elegance not nouveau riche
a true democracy with a touch of socialist flavor
where everyone has a niche

on the left water and boats
ships and yachts and beautiful stores
each building is an ornate
cornucopia crate.

This culture has long strings
back to the Vikings
Now McDonalds
for an American in Stockholm not Paris
like the Gershwin's hero
but because the hamburgers
are juicy and priced next to zero
popular and lip smacking
the birds outside attacking
the greasy wrapping

a huge fountain on the square
Hamngatan Klaras Terragatan Sergels Torg
roller skating youth with ears and lips pierced
yellow green orange or purple hair
in the Kulturhuset pit
looking like LA punks together sit

touched with poetry they show their personality
roots and identity
raised like long time ago
by a Serbian mother
in a small East European country
the size of Sweden

analyzing my poetry brilliantly
thankful significantly
exchanging E mails and promises
to stay in touch
left with a hunch
Sweden is like the USA
the navel of the world


Tony Peyser
26 MINUS 2

In these tough financial times, I'm doing my part as a Human Resources hatchet man on behalf of the alphabet industry --- I'm terminating two underperforming letters. X (as many of you read on Facebook) has been pink-slipped. Intimate relations will no longer be “s-e-x” but the identically sounding “s-e-c-k-s.” I’m well aware that X launched a desperate campaign on YouTube to showcase his “Xtra” special qualities. However... his vindictive tone put a h-e-c-k-s on any return to his A-Z coworkers.

* * *

The other alphabet casualty at this time is the letter Q. His drama k-w-e-e-n theatrics --- “I must be followed by a U!” --- were his demise. His hissy fit after being fired resulted in a call to Security who soon escorted him from the premises. Contrary to reports posted on his Twitter account, I didn’t lay a hand on Q --- and I have U as a witness.

* * *

This is the e-c-k-s-t-e-n-t of the letter layoffs for now. But W might want to update his resume on Monster.com. After all, he can easily be replaced by two younger versions of the letter U for an entry level salary and no medical benefits.


Rona Garcia Pangilinan
MOON

Float white light
Drift in the forest
Show each fine line
Omit colors


Karen Audioun Klingman
ODE TO SYLVIA PLATH

I stand on the edge for the third time
the first was a water tower
when I was afraid to be touched
the second was a train track
back in Baltimore before he was born

now it’s St. Mathews steeple
the bell tolls six times
I grab on
swing with it till I’m high enough
to fly
I lift off into happiness
for the first time


Radomir Luza
CINEMA SINISTER

cinema is not film
cinema has no actors braying like rabbits for background work

all those performers looking for vouchers and membership in the
screen actors guild so many mouths at the trough

the tender red blanket of black daisies suicidal steps and cold knuckles

the cinema i know is more
cinema you haughty toidy toy you live in the transparent galaxy
film noir paintings bridget bardot sliced wrists and at times a great contradiction

heroine reversed the sky and hand grenated wedding rings and picasso paintings

please saint film do not come to me with dying agitators using to use to
get a point across or a movement or a silly silly catholic kaballah vegetable soup

or actors studio or est or no money down or even scientology buying time on screen
to hype everything but film

saliva on sale
and engagements rings cut like steak on a gurney below hell

cinema lets the autumn leaves take care of themselves
film turns them into wet pillows with no halos

film turns thanksgiving day piles into nasty memories of studios and electric shock of garland taylor and monroe and how they slowly faded into 20 foot faces and one inch hearts into the morning rain


Phil Turner
A DUEL AMONG THE ROCK GARDENS OF KYOTO

White steel tiger climbs
Blue moon swimming night’s black pool
As stars cry on wind.

Yagyu’s peerless sword
Hunts beauty’s fallen pine needles
Clothed in blue moon glow
Whispering the sands of time
Back to chanting Zen masters.

Trees rain down their lives
Too fast for his lightning sword--
Death’s river flows on,
Not even stars impede it--
The Sword of Life cut shadows

Around nature’s Fall,
As moon drinks blue seas, ever
Waters Bonzai trees.


Don Kingfisher Campbell
AMONGST THE DETRITUS

on a sunny winter morning
strewn left to right

over a concrete planter
in sixth street alley

a rectangular faded empty
flamingo chime container

a wooden botanical flower
press case with green straps

four upside down laminated
plastic bird portrait placemats

a rainbow of christmas
bulbs still in box bottom

a valentine heart pillow
framed in frilly lace

a black L.A. Kings tee shirt
a white slip, faded blue sweats

black women's dress
shoes and flats

a whirlpool of jackets and tops
atop a sodden trash bag

skuffed white stuffed
teddy bear on its side

clay rabbit planter framed
on two sides by cardboard

an envelope thick with
multiple printed photos

at the curb lip a handmade
doll festooned in royal cape

and on the asphalt a little
pastel orange Hallmark

book titled "why do people
like you have to get sick?"


Karineh Mahdessian

almond eyes roll so far back
in search of shadows
tracing outlines of track-marked thighs
with stained fingertips of last night's
later than late explosion,
she lost to world

as olive skin bares witness
to secretly stashed spoonfulls of
stickiest black tar
injected into black vein streams.

unashamedly, she high, too grown to chase,
instead
she rides dragon
until sun blue


Lisa Marie Sandoval
DEPRESSION

DAY ONE:
I cannot eat
I do not sleep
I only wait
for the mist of the moon
to move through my mind
and fog into my future.

DAY TWO:
I only eat
I live to sleep
I stop waiting
for the strength of the sun
to heat my heart
and blaze meaning into beauty.

DAY THREE:
I try to stop—not eat
I attempt to catch my dreams
I long to wait
for a savior to spring
into my falling frame
and take away all winter.

DAY FOUR:
I cannot stop my eating
I do not try to sleep
I only wait
for day—as it drops
into night and makes me
relive my horrors in the morning.

DAY FIVE:
I long to eat
I yearn to sleep
I cannot wait
for my cracked vision to change
into rain that repels despair
and pools into hope.

DAY SIX:
I cannot eat
I cannot sleep
I do not want
feeling better
to come into my head
and change the chart of my soul.

DAY SEVEN:
I smile and eat
I finally sleep
I choose to wait
for tomorrow I change
into dust and ashes
and will no longer feel the seasons of death.


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!


Jim Babwe, CaLokie, and Barbara Cogswell

Jim Babwe
SIMON RODIA VERSUS THE BULLDOZERS

SR
1923
two types of hammers
ten flowers
a corner arabesque
and a horseshoe
stand above mortared broken glass,
thumbnail-sized rocks,
bits of tile
collected by a man
who walked a trail
parallel to the railroad tracks.

See
his slightly stooped-at-the-waist walk--
arms hanging heavy as he trudges
past my grandparents' house,
carrying a twisted length of re-bar
and a paint bucket.

Simon's
mayor sent bulldozers
to level his work,
but he taught
the mayor
a lesson about the strength
of objects held together
by will and wet dirt cured by sun.

Heavy machinery retreated--
defeated by part of a coffee saucer
(blue ink windmills on a pale white background),
defeated by fragments of clear glass
painted with most of a dairy's name,
defeated by jagged green fragments and the number 7
(with a U and some of the other two letters)
defeated by stucco and steel spiraled toward the sky,
defeated by bottle caps,
bed springs,
pieces of a toaster,
and the impression
of clearly visible initials
above the date.


CaLokie
PASCAL AND BUKOWSKI SNEAK OUT OF THE HUNTINGTON MUSEUM TO GO TO THE RACES

All around our tiny planet in a tiny galaxy is empty space.
I have to take a crap after making bet for first race.
In relation to the infinite I am nothing.
In relation to the nothing, I am everything.
As if the very searchlight of God was focused on me,
I picked up my racing form and began reading it.


By reason I seek to comprehend the infinity of things beyond it.
I’ve found this place... you should see the air, light and space.
The endless enormity of an impersonal universe engulfs me.
Rush to bar for shot of scotch after second race.
Miss the love shadows-- When she left, she took almost everything.

What was before and will be after, I know nothing.

How can all there is come from nothing?
Unless it bursts from your soul like a rocket, don’t do it.
Like Einstein or Hawking I want an explanation for everything.
With heart not reason, I’ll soar throughout space.
I pass gold poppies by Seabiscuit’s statue during third race.
It’s so sad: the flowers are still trying to please me.


If I wager on God’s existence what will happen to me?
If God is, I win all. If he isn’t, I lose nothing.
I haven’t won shit as we come to the fourth race.
As stars move through space they dent or warp it,
They say deep in earth live Creatures from Outer Space.
At a black hole entrance, I come to the end of everything

but through its exit, I may come to the beginning of everything.
A crazy alcoholic woman once threw Pound’s Cantos at me.
What we think is gravity is the strong curvature of space.
Wild: my body being there and filled with nothing.
It’s still miraculous whether the beginning is from a thou or it.
Can’t get my ass off barstool and miss fifth race.

I break my losing streak in the sixth race.

From the precipice I leap into the void or everything.
I told that tough motherfucker, “You can make it!”
The eternal silence of these infinite spaces alarms me.
Yet like the universe I have come into being out of nothing.
Nothing but space between us... care to close that space?

After the seventh race, Blaise says to me,
“Chinaski, you have everything to gain but will lose nothing.”
“I wish it were that simple,” I tell this fucking space ball.


Barbara Cogswell
SESTINA FOR CAMPANILE AND BONG

Many uses have been found for a length of rope
Take the one hanging tight in the campanile
It brings to life an object of brass
What metal sounds better for a bell?
The bell ringer hangs loose with his bong
It’s what goes in it that rings his chimes

Now this ringer of chimes
Has no need for a rope
Or anything else but his bong
While he hunkers down in the campanile
The rest of us must wait to hear the bell
For the ringer to polish the brass

He simply doesn’t remember to burnish the brass
But composes a ballad, influenced by chimes
Just too much energy needed to ring the bell
You’ve got to stand up and pull on the rope!
Why is the ceiling so high, in this campanile?
For something useful to do, he loads up his bong

He’ll sing the ballad about his bong
Make plans for polishing the brass
He’ll spend the night in this warm campanile
Hope he doesn’t run out of smoke for chimes
He tried swinging from wall to wall on the rope
Inadvertently ringing the bell

Which was nice, but he said “to hell with the bell”
As the ballad turned sad, about his bong
It dropped and broke while swinging on the rope
He’ll have to replace it, if he can come up with the brass
To live happily ever after, he needs those chimes
For these lonely hours in the campanile

This bell ringer earned his PHD and left, no harm done to the campanile
The sun reflects each day off the brilliant bell
Gaffito on the wall reads “different times ring different chimes”
Of course nobody has forgotten “bong”
Which once meant the sound induced by striking a bell made of brass
By nothing more than pulling on a rope

Every campus has a campanile and hears at least one bong
If it’s lucky, from a bell made of polished brass
And somebody rings their chimes while swinging on the rope


Photo by Jim Babwe depicting from left to right: Jon Epstein, Helen Graziano, Jeffry Jensen, Perry Duane Brenner, Eli Goitein, William Goldstein, Toti O'Brien, and (seated) Margaret Elgin.

Jon Epstein
DOWN SOUTH

I'm no expert on sex. I just know I like it, and want more than I get. For the longest time, I wanted a larger penis. I don't know why, it's been adequate for creating two fantastic kids, and it seems every woman I've ever been with is more interested in my tongue anyway. But being a semi observant Jew, it all makes sense. You probably didn’t know there's actually 613 commandments, that's 603 more than the ten that get press. At least one or two, and probably more have to do with sex. They’re rather explicit too.
One says it's a man's duty to satisfy the woman first during intimacy; that might have been the clincher in my Episcopalian wife's conversion. The one I like is that Jews are supposed to have weekly relations, preferably on Saturday, our Sabbath; comes under the heading of “Be fruitful and multiply.” Now, I wouldn't say my wife and I are on the same page libido wise, but on a good day, were definitely at the same restaurant.


Helen Graziano
LET THE FIRE FALL

Mud Pot
Pagan ritual
Bright, blazing, phallic
I steal fire—I grab the moment
Spunky

Promethean
Fire pot ignites
Rekindles blazing youth
Incendiary, Uplifting
Torch song

Fire pot
Druid delight
Fluttering, flickering flame
I burn the candle at both ends
Hopeful

Defy gods
Fire pot sparkles
Cautious youth, bold freedom
“Let the fire fall” in Yosemite
Illuminating

My mind
Is my own church
Questing, Asking, Seeking
Altar fires burn-- inspiring
My muse


Jeffry Jensen
THE SMOKE OF A WORKING DESTINATION

I’m the Milky Way on the upper
lip of the work day with crossed
legs looking vacant as a feather.
As always, work was saturated with
the gravity of chocolate and melting into
the teeth of a forgotten childhood that
was burned in sugar and as
modern as pure desert salsa.
The city sweltered in the abstract
enslavement of bartered purity, sick of the
exchange rate that slices fish out of
the torso of fragrant seduction.
A demented concrete river choked on
the essence of a slimy mythology.
I gut out the vinyl philosophy of sweating
up to my corporate gills as another
mushrooming neon night crushes all feeling.
Masked in the mud of distain, I shuffle
down a broken outline of outrageous fortune.
As veins of dusty carnage crisscross the horizon,
a swollen sweet potato halo hovers over
a loose bed of tainted language.
My blistered tongue is no longer backed
by the coin of any breathing realm.
Brick becomes bomb becomes a city
bus ready to be detonated by the kiss of
a destination that is ready to go up in smoke.


Perry Duane Brenner
NAPTIME AT THE FREE WILL BAPTIST CHURCH

No Hallelujah for the absurd dine and dash.
Religious molestation: Godly spiders moving about the world-

wide web of their deceit. The church of sinful greatest hits; Thou shalt
not steal: tithe runs to Colombia to double your pesos in a dope deal gone

blasphemoso. Call Dog the Bounty Hunter to prey for us and track
the tithe, only to get arrested for indecent haircuts in a public

place. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbors daughter! But Preacher
spins a new tail to chase. Momma and Daddy thinks she’s being

sanctified, I suppose she will see the light. I reckon
she’ll learn the meaning of The Bible Belt.


Eli Goitein
SITE UNDER CONSTRUCTION

All day it’s down to the shreds
to where all that’s left at quit-time
is a gorge carved out of the ribs
And wires tight in the legs
Holding out for the weekend

days on the worksite
Command a steely view;
a frugal regimen beating a tattoo
on stretches of tautened skin
sets the tempo of our
putting up and fitting in the pieces

Screw together, then muscle and
manoeuver steel wall-frames into place and
Shot-bolt to the concrete is what we do
Before the next crew comes in
To span and hang sheetrock,
Spackle and sand and smooth to
miles of powder-wall finish

But the job wears on,
rolling costs, a running clock
exact a toll/ momentum falters, work
grinds slow grit into the gears
no way forward, no return;
parties retreat behind barricades,
alter forms, write off promises made.
I sigh and sign away domains in Jericho
suspend the term of contract.

Crowds and markets shudder and lurch
through an age of aftershocks.
On the scaffold-rig
We see the new construction pickup man
talking into his phone.
We peer, barely a glimpse to be had
Through the debris, of
Motive moving under the bone but
the job will get done
no one wants to go it alone; The kingdom
will come, on earth
though maybe not
as it is in heaven


William Goldstein
POEM

Handwriting takes the place of psychological insight.
Never reading the diary was a brilliant decision
despite the lengthy proceedings now ensuing.

I maintain credibility
with the accused
by farting everyday in the shower.
I cough to signify displeasure.

Exhuming the field report I discover
the formalist etchings of a lich
with which a settlement may be procured.

Returning to the Bat Cave
I find my wigs in disarray.

As Jews
our natural enemy
is constipation.

Pull up your pants,
walk off into the sunset
like a man.


Toti O’Brien
SHOES

Like when I was ten
and wore clogs
still the one
of my steps
is my favorite
tune

I adore when the heels
wear out and
(although treading on
naked
wood
is more dangerous)

the tick tock of my
left
and right
finds the
nicest
pitch

***

Oh I guess I
remember then
country paths at sunset
medieval
streets of my land or roman
cobblestones may be

But in fact I also
love flip flops, sandals
soft dance pumps
fit like gloves
cowboy boots and elegant
satin slippers

As well as I appreciate
in terms of support
carpets, sand beaches and
grass where I delight
walking
bare foot

***

Thank you
mother earth
for letting me step on
you with myriads of
clicking sounds
or mute touches

Thank you, for each
time that you
don’t
let me fall
Thanks, whenever I slip
for stopping my fall


Margaret Elgin
POEM AFTER THE STROKE

Visions and lies.
Fill my skies
Keep your lies to yourself.
You don't need me to sort them out.
And I won't do it,--
anymore.
I survive, -- to try to maintain.
I'm not quite sure what I'm striving for.
Surely--there's
more.

Swiftly--take away--
my purpose.

My reason
for continuing to try.
So that I can fall,--
from the sky.
Actually,--don't take
it away.

Breathe in,--an excess
of needs.
I don't know what I'm
mad at.
I'm trying to run,--when I can't walk
at all.
Without falling.


Charles Harmon
PHILOSOPHICAL HAIKU

HERAKLEITOS
River conjures change
Rapids, shallows, waterfalls
Harness the power.

BORN ON HALLOWEEN
Tonight Devil’s night;
Tomorrow All Saints Day.
Such a quandary.

TYRANNY
Power must corrupt
Absolute power enslaves
Also the tyrants.

YIN AND YANG
Cosmic wheel revolves
Revolution and reform
Destruction creates.

PHILOSOPHIA BIOS KYBERNETES
Learning how to steer
‘Tween Scylla and Charybdis—
Helmsman now awake.

BARBARIANS
Our near ancestors
We would call barbarians.
And our descendants?

Saturday, March 6, 2010

45 poets being published in SGVPQ #45

MICHELLE ANGELINI
KARINE ARMEN
JON B.
JIM BABWE
TERI BORDENAVE
JACK G. BOWMAN
PERRY DUANE BRENNER
CALOKIE
DON KINGFISHER CAMPBELL
BARBARA COGSWELL
YVETTE CORRELL
MARVIN DORSEY
MARGARET ELGIN
JON EPSTEIN
FRANCISCO EZEQUIEL
ELI GOITEIN
WILLIAM GOLDSTEIN
HELEN GRAZIANO
RON GREGUS
CHARLES HARMON
ANITA HOLZBERG
JEFFRY JENSEN
MINA V. KIRBY
KAREN AUDIOUN KLINGMAN
DEBORAH P KOLODJI
JULIE LARSON
RADOMIR LUZA
KARINEH MAHDESSIAN
MIRA MATARIC
TERRY McCARTY
KATHERINE NORLAND
TOTI O'BRIEN
RONA GARCIA PANGILINAN
BRENDA PETRAKOS
TONY PEYSER
JESSICA JOY REVELES
DEBBY ROSENFELD
LISA MARIE SANDOVAL
MARK STATES
JAN STECKEL
ROSALEE THOMPSON
MAJA TROCHIMCZYK
PHIL TURNER
LORI WALL-HOLLOWAY
ERIKA WILK

Each poet being published is invited to attend the publication party and reading on Saturday, March 13th 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 copies for $7 (includes $2 for shipping) or subscribe to the quarterly for $20 a year (postage paid) and get a free 2011 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