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and the poetry of

MARIA ARANA
DAVID BORTIN
CALOKIE
DON KINGFISHER CAMPBELL
MICHAEL CLUFF
PAULI DUTTON
MEG ELGIN
JOE GARDNER
THOM GARZONE
CARL HARMON
JEFFRY JENSEN
JULIE LARSON
THELMA REYNA
RINA ROSE
ROSALEE THOMPSON
LORI WALL-HOLLOWAY

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HAPPY HOLIDAYS AND NEW YEAR!
Don the editor

14 poets read from SGVPQ 52

MARIA A. ARANA

California

California,
You have killed me

You the abomination
of my lifeless body

California,
You have slaughtered my ambitions
and kept the souls at bay

California,
You have scattered my remains
to the four corners of the sea
Whose current would not withstand
solitude

California,
You have cremated my amputated limbs
and crushed my soul
so the four winds blow
my ashes to nevermore

California,
You abomination

You have killed me

Are you satisfied?

DAVID BORTIN

Such Stuff as Dreams Are Made On

I wonder if that other, secret self
Who wakes within when e’er I fall asleep
Has been up to some deviltry of late.

He had the crosscut shredder on last night,
Slicing with its sharp-edged dreams
My too-few hours to slender strips of sleep,
The strips into confetti to confound the memory.

I woke a dozen times at least
With each remembering the minute of the last
But nothing of what happened in between.

Can these unremembered dreams be such a torment
To that other self
That I awaken over and again
To find escape?

Or were they part and parcel of a plot
To swap personas?
When my alarm clock stopped the rhythmic beat
Which one of us, I wonder, found a seat?

Which self have I assumed? Whose dream is this?

CALOKIE

Ode to Dirt
(Reflections on Dirt, the Movie)

Blessed be
millions of biodiverse
biodegradable
microorganisms
in a handful of dirt
and each shovel of soil
which holds more living things
than all the human beings ever born
in our wandering world
O my soul

Blessed be
the topsoil
the skin of the earth.
the face of our mother
an orgiastic organism under our feet
the Dirt from which we come
and the Dirt to which we return
O my soul

Blessed be
grounds of villages
wherever children dance in ring
stop
stoop
scoop
handfuls of dirt
fling to skies
and get showered by
laughing cloud of dust
O my soul

Blessed be
the Dirt which grows
corn in torrid tortillas
rice portion on porcelain plate
frijoles covered with melted Jack cheese
avocados y Jalapenos in guacamole
and limes squeezed in frosted margarita
O my soul

Drink to
the life I feel within the land
the mountain I am
the tree I am
the river I am
the soil which is my flesh
O my soul

DON KINGFISHER CAMPBELL

The Antique Traveller

read the classic poem
two hundred years
after sandy inspiration

saw those ruins again
what romantic poet decided
to capture of the passed

an attempt to warn the future
so we might recognize tyranny
when we experience it

but the 99% don't act as one yet
this empire's cycle continues
with the reassurance only that

kings and paupers die
buildings and slogans fall
fragments sink into earth

CARL HARMON

Leaky Bucket

You’ve asked me to carry water for you,
To chop your wood and stoke your fires,
To wash and dry your dirty laundry
And raise your rotten wilding kids,
To fight your wars and feed your pets,
To hunt your dragons and pay your bills,
And to listen to your lilting little lies….

But you’ve asked me to carry water
In a cracked and leaky bucket,
And you asked me to chop your wood
With a dull and blunted axe,
And you’ve given me clothes to wash
Without soap in dirty water,
And you asked me to plow your fields
With a broken stick and a crippled cow.

And to hunt these dragons and kill these bears
While you’re twisting my rifle into a knot,
And you’ve given me wastrel children to teach
Who already know it all, know everything.
And you’ve killed the golden goose
In this golden state of the promised land,
And you’ve asked me to carry water
And give you a hand.

I won’t carry any more water, any milk or any wine,
In your cracked and leaky bucket full of lies.
I won’t wash your dirty laundry, chop your wood or plow your fields
In decaying burning cities full of lies.
We won’t hunt your dragons, raise your kids, and fight your wars anymore
In this sinful sinking country full of lies.

GARY IMPERIAL

1000 Things

The future is a myth story
told in hopeful gray,
as the past is seen through
eyes that went teary
from perspective.

To those frozen memory moments,
you will thaw in my favorite ink.
To the mercury moments yet to be,
I look to affect your fluidity.

However, it's the hardly soft tick tock
of the watch I no longer have
that summons the spiced holiday coffee
with it's aromatic confidence to the moment
now.

There are 1000 things you can take
or give, or share...

Of these, I release 999 joys of neon splendor
to violin legato rhythms so that they will be
savored with the scent of sweet chocolate
and tasty salted treats as they are gripped with
a comforting firmness.

But the last one,
that last joy is mine alone.
Only to be known by my
pencil and paper.

JEFFRY JENSEN

Birdland

I came across crows on the jungle gym,
a gaggle of sea gulls on the swings,
magpies making castles in the sand,
parrots poking their heads over the chin-up bar,
Canadian geese playing a mean game of dodge ball,
and nervous mynah birds looking for a free lunch.

I remember recess being my best subject.
The crows were always really good at math.
I made sure to sit next to them during tests.
The sea gulls couldn't care less about any of that jazz.
They all taught me how to give the teacher the bird whenever
he turned to scribble something on the chalkboard.

I moved away before I got the hang of long division.
The crows promised to write but never did.
The sea gulls did a fly over in memory of past mischief.
At my new school pigeons had control of the sandbox.
I took up the saxophone for extra credit.
Before long I was making a name for myself with all the birds.

CLAIRE KOEHLER

Remembering ‘63

I smell a Christmas orange--
bringing back first grade.
Santa’s pulling sacks of candy
to leave with us for trade—

our smiles and our giddiness
in exchange for candy ribbons;
His Ho! Ho! Ho! to take us away
from our long division.

Sister’s smile is new to us.
Our little faces wonder.
We take our precious gifts in hand
caring not to ponder.

The scent of Christmas left behind
by Santa’s magic visit
will ever warm my fondest dreams
and build them so exquisite!

KARINEH MAHDESSIAN

she is broken.
time has glues mosaic pieces
of pain while stained-glass eyes
are
shattered shut.

she is broken.
sharred memories meteor-shower
on sidewalks
while tarnished heart
bleeds.

she is broken.
limbs torn assunder
esophagus singed.

but her love.
oh, her love.

it is candy-coated
acid drops.

once poured,
it
tattoos
the skin.

TOTI O'BRIEN

The Hen

My neighbor
has a chicken.
They were two
but the hawk
killed one.
The survivor
alone is
restless.
Also quiet ‘n
very beautiful.
All dressed
up with a
maculate
grey coat. Poised
and elegant.
More than all
furtive.

The hen likes
my backyard
‘n my garden
she’s my
silent visitor.
When I leave
come back
open a
window or
door the
chicken is
there. We
never exchange
direct gazes
we were not
introduced. We
don’t talk.

But she’s
there and it
must be for
something.
Pretending
great shyness
she always
disappears
at my sight
she runs jumps
turns around
flies away whenever
I approach.
That looks just
like a dance of
clandestine
lovers.

I must confess
that it thrills me.
I don’t feel alone
she guards me or
she spies on me...
doesn’t matter. I
do like her smooth
elusiveness... I
don’t even know
her given name
but she’s very
close in a way.
Like an angel
a soul mate
a humble
incognito
god.

THELMA REYNA

Chicago Winter

Winter people, people of parkas, flecked
beards, eyebrows dusted with flakes
and mist, people with necks craned
to concrete slick with mud and slides, ducking
winds that pierce their bones and paralyze.

Winter people, babies swaddled beyond
recognition, lumps of down, acrylic, wool,
zarapes, bunting balled into carriages navigating
walkways perilous with slush and hail, nannies
with eyes squeezed against pummels of chill.

Winter people, homeless men hunkered in
detritus, doorways dark and cramped, army
blankets damp from dew, sneakers brown from dirt,
broken sidewalks chapped by wind and ash, grizzled
lips pressed in prayer found again at last.

Winter people, gathered ‘round the open fire
roaring in the parking lot, orange tongues embracing
sticks and crumpled paper sacks thrown in and stoked,
asphalt warmed with embers that light the frozen night,
flames casting shadows gaunt against stone walls.

ROSALEE GURROLA THOMPSON

Dec. 2, 2011

The nameless woman, who pepper sprayed Black Friday Walmart shoppers, drowned in her dirty bath tub while playing Angry Birds.

California CEO of Bank of America, Simon Snars, retired last Friday with a million dollar bonus. Snars died suddenly, yesterday, of undetermined causes. An autopsy is pending.

Last week's millionaire secret Super Ball Winner, crashed his 2012 Lexus while reaching for a $2,000 bottle of champagne. He is recovering at a secret location.

1,600 trees died today in Pasadena. The crashes were like l,600 earthquakes.

6 billion red bees fell from the smoggy sky over Los Angeles City Hall. Federal investigation is in progress.

6 million Homeless Children levitated to the Kardashian Empire Headquarters. Details at ll.

I know you have many choices for Newz.
Thank you for choosing ME.

LORI WALL-HOLLOWAY

Genesis Sonnet

Addiction can fill the dark empty void
in a lost heart looking for some purpose
anywhere to soothe the soul and stop pain
that throws a life into misery, disdain
and turmoil while trying to cope with wounds
hidden and passed down from generation
to generation with no chance to heal
because the hurt is too great to reveal.
But if damage is faced and a choice made
to stare down the long, dark road of the past
with the light of understanding, then walls
made by lies and fears that ruled lives will fall.
Once eyes are open to truth, fear is stopped
and new choices will affect the future.

DENISE WALSH

schrodinger's god

nothing is as empty as a boxful of god
open the box and
there is no god
shake the box and
god rattles like a fistful of bees
open the box and
there’s still no god
and no bees either
in a godless world people still
hate each other
but god is not the reason

32 poets being published in SGVPQ 52

MARIA A. ARANA
DAVID BORTIN
JACK G. BOWMAN
CALOKIE
DON KINGFISHER CAMPBELL
MICHAEL J. CLUFF
ANDREW DORSEY
JOSEPH GARDNER
THOM GARZONE
HELEN GRAZIANO
CARL HARMON
LINDA MARIE HILTON
GARY IMPERIAL
JEFFRY JENSEN
LALO KIKIRIKI
CLAIRE KOEHLER
MARIE LECRIVAIN
ELLARAINE LOCKIE
RADOMIR VOJTECH LUZA
KARINEH MAHDESSIAN
KATHERINE NORLAND
TOTI O'BRIEN
TONY PEYSER
MARICELA RAMIREZ
THELMA REYNA
E.R. SANCHEZ
MIKE THE POET SONSKEN
ROSALEE GURROLA THOMPSON
TIM TIPTON
MAJA TROCHIMCZYK
LORI WALL-HOLLOWAY
DENISE WALSH