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

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