24 poets being published in the 2015 San Gabriel Valley Poetry Calendar

PETROUCHKA ALEXIEVA
JUDY BARRAT
JACK G. BOWMAN
LYNNE BRONSTEIN
CALOKIE
DON KINGFISHER CAMPBELL
TOBI COGSWELL
BEVERLY M. COLLINS
MARVIN L. DORSEY
THOM GARZONE
CHARLES HARMON
TRISTA HURLEY-WAXALI
GERDA GOVINE ITUARTE
BRIONY JAMES
JEFFRY MICHAEL JENSEN
JAN KING
NORMAN MOLESKO
RINA ROSE
NANCY SHIFFRIN
WANDA VANHOY SMITH
TIM TIPTON
MAJA TROCHIMCZYK
LORI WALL-HOLLOWAY
ROBERT WILSON

14 poets read from SGVPQ 64

NANCY LYNEE WOO

Lament for a Skin (Ode to a Silkie)

Salt flurry of wind rush

the boy running to his mother

          breathless—

this one moment agape forever.

Eyes like the crest of a wave

sea foam locks

heart stricken for the blue

          she sees what he holds.

Slick black skin, pelt shining

damp of seal—

she grabs it and the music plays.

          Doesn’t even ask

where he found it

but kisses him tightly, yelling

for the others, sun-beaten arms

closing around them like a lid.

Quick, hard love and she

turns to release the door,

as blown about as

          the western wind.

Honey legs tumbling down

to shore, pillow of dress

sloughing down to the sand,

          she catches

sight of a man, shadowy

in the distant green,

          stopping

as his fishing pole drops

toward a gallop.

But she is already at the sea

glistening joy of ocean mist

and her hands are already gone

and her legs are kicking into fin

and her lips are whiskering away

as the light plays upon the waves

and she calls to her children, goodbye.

LORI WALL-HOLLOWAY

Queen Gizmo

Queen Gizmo

sitting in your tree

Looking out the window

what do you see?

Tiny spiders spinning

webs

outside the screen

Speeding cars whizzing

past

what a scene

Barking dogs cooling

paws

in green grass

Can you see them

when they trespass?

Queen Gizmo 

lounging in your tree

Looking out the window

enjoying the breeze

THELMA T. REYNA

Let There Be Light

I flood my rooms each daybreak--

slide drapes, lift shades, swing doors to

do the god thing: bring in light.

Outside, the moon’s a faded coin

on trees and clouds, an old woman with

her luster stripped who knows and waits.

Inside, the sink streaks gold, rays swathe

stone floors, the cat blinks and slinks down

from the tabletop, sun-blind.

My calendar can’t tell me how my day

will go, lauded or denuded, how far my

psyche slides, or if  I shine.

But at dawn, my hands are wands

that banish blackness, for it’s true: what they

say, about god inside, god in each of us, how

we’re

all

god.

SEVEN POET

Xanadu in Bamiyan

A lady laced in lazuli

In a vision once I saw:

It was a Scythian maid

And on her lute she played,

Singing as I sat in awe.

Strum did she so carelessly

And furrow her crescent brow.

Could I revive within me

Her braid lank and visage wan?

To such a deep delight 'twould win me

The crinkle of her crown,

That I would hang a disc in her hair --

That golden dome! those eyes of ice!

And all who heard should see it there

And all should cry, Beware! Beware!

Her flashing eyes, her floating hair!

Weave a circle round me thrice

And close my eyes with holy dread.

Admit, she sings, admit you're scared.

For she on nectar-dew hath fed

And savored the Soma of Paradise.

Now stones fall flat, spell is broken,

Scattered like frost, teal blue tokens:

Talismans, amulets, airy moons,

Woven, arranged in gilded plait.

Still stand I, somehow I've spoken,

Mere token that I'll not be afraid.

And still lilts she her reverie,          

A warrior of wounded knees

And bitter burnt offerings.

TOTI O'BRIEN

On Quality

Are you very spiritual? He asked.

I hesitated, ill at ease.

Are you very political? Someone else inquired years ago. I don’t remember my answer: it must have been unclear.

Are you very religious? He insists. I hold my breath.

I can tell anyway, he adds, you are very artistic.

Do I have to be very something? To possess anything in a prominent, remarkable fashion?       

I am very human, I murmur after a pause. A tad too long of a pause.

I’m afraid it sounded horribly banal.

If he knew what it took me to become

simply

that.

DAN LAMBERT

Did You Ever?

Did you ever really love me?

I think these words, and wonder…

Am I being fair to you?

Perhaps the better question is:

Did I ever really love you?

Does love require the convergence of bodies?

If so, then we loved each other intermittently, like seasons

Spring became passion

Summer became love

And Fall has withered into indifference

Does love require the convergence of souls?

If so, then we loved each other three times per day or more

Love was transmitted through the air

And transported from our throats to our ears

With the cold efficiency of microchips

Love buzzed in my ear courtesy of a blinking Bluetooth:

The name now seems so apt

My teeth are blue from missing you

Does love require the convergence of cultures?

If so, then we loved in ebbs and flows

Like waves crashing upon distant shores

Or a pulsing circuit

Connecting and then breaking, over and over

My heart is like that circuit now

Breaking, yes, but also buzzing with unanswered questions

And aching with doubt and possibility

Did we ever really love each other?

Will we ever really love again?

Is love like a current that we tap in to

Or a well that we draw from?

Has the current been breached

The reservoir of electricity damaged beyond repair?

Has the well run dry

Its stone walls drying in the sun?

Have we burned the forest of love?

Salted the earth so it will never grow again?

Did you ever really love me?

Did I ever really love you?

These questions sear my heart

And burn my soul

Forever.

JEFFRY MICHAEL JENSEN

Branches

Dad died mid-morning

it was cat feeding time

Mom watered a garden

full of sticky weeds

I broke all the family

branches in the kitchen sink

Dad almost made it to 65

it was time for the moon

to fill a double bed

I put my head parallel

to a pillow and cried

MARK A. FISHER

meditation

flowing sand

whose whispers fade

into the whistle and moan

of desert wind

wild beneath bright stars

giving way to silence

as night fades away

leaving space

for the voices of birds

and wisdom

as wildflowers chant

in the hum of bees

BEVERLY M. COLLINS

Modern Candor in Coffee shop

Woman at corner table pricked by the

needle of unnatural-selection, shouts into 

her cell phone, “I'm done with on-line 

dating...Those men are bleeping crazy!”

For 7 minutes, her coffee cup cringed 

before a slew of sweeping negative 

generalizations. Her scone twice bitten 

by her mouth and bitter words.

JACKIE CHOU

Winter

Why does winter have to be a sad time?

Even God sheds His tears on such blue days,

With raindrops falling like rhythm and rhyme.

Why does celebrating seem like a crime,

On days when everything is lonely and grey?

Why does winter have to be a sad time?

There are times when I think the fault is mine,

To think that winter is all dreary days,

With raindrops falling like rhythm and rhyme.

Some think that winter is the greatest time,

With Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays.

Winter doesn’t have to be a sad time.

Sometimes the ground is slippery like slime,

And the sun has lost all of its bright rays,

And the raindrops fall like rhythm and rhyme.

Winter is a time to cherish our time,

Not knowing when is the end of our days.

Winter doesn’t have to be a sad time,

With raindrops falling like rhythm and rhyme.

DON KINGFISHER CAMPBELL

Sit

In a box

Surrounded

By rectangles

At a desk

Covered

With sheets

Overwhelmed

Amongst thoughts

Pipe steam

Walk away

From paper

Clip ocean

Watch colors

Night lights

Reproduce

Sunlight wakes

Mind while

Underwear hangs

On soft belly

Examine cricket

Grass blades

In lotus

Part of

Lily pad

Gaze under

Illuminated cloud

Pathway

Fly into

Swirling force

Flowing waves

CALOKIE

Here comes Gertrude Stein--

Queen of Pasadena Library’s daily Doo-Dah Parade

          riding

in her “rose is a rose is a rose” float, followed by Walt Whitman

          high-strutting

before Redwood Chainsaw Massacre Marching Band

          chanting

“PIONEERS, O PIONEERS!” and Cleopatra in front of Langston Hughes

          singing

“ AMERICA...” from a Nile River gallery deck over 

          smiling 

Uncle Tom and Simon Legree as they pull oars before Bukowski

          washing

in four-wheeled bathtub with cockroach metamorphosed Gregor Samsa 

          inline-skating

on six legs behind the dirty old man! Fortunately portly clown Falstaff is  

          unicycling

with mucous scooper behind Gregor. Oh my! Emily Dickinson at funeral is

          popping

out of her casket to swat fly she hears

          buzzing

over her--Hey! Ezra Pound’s in a cowboy suit 

          hopping

along over a broom horse with his fascist gun in the West and

          firing

blank verse bullets above a raft on the Mississippi

          carrying 

Jim, Huck and Langston Hughes again

          singing

“ AMERICA.” Can you believe this? Scrooge dressed as Santa is 

          throwing

$1,000 bills from his bag to the crowd while Babbit is 

          fighting

Tiny Tim for one of them. Look--Romeo’s at a balcony

          French-kissing--

Good golly--Mrs. Molly Bloom! Wow! Watch  J. Alfred Prufrock

          measuring 

out his life in coffee spoons followed by Joseph Conrad

          driving

Congo River boat deep into rainforest before who but Langston Hughes on rowboat

          singing

“ AMERICA.”  Does he ever know his rivers?  And in grand finale, Allen Ginsberg

          directing

the Beat Poets’ HOWL-e-lu-jah chorus!

I LOVE THIS PARADE!

MARIA A. ARANA

Phoenix Song

I stand in middle of quad

3 doors face me

walls as high as skyscrapers

lean over me

blocking the sun

touching clouds

stirred into submission

my forehead squeezes

moisture from my eyes

leaving dry lips

in place of shackles

the doors stay shut

their handles gone

and I’ve lost the key

days pass and my feet

melt into the stone

my body burns wings

scratching the sky with talons

leaving the mark of death

littered across its canvas

PETROUCHKA ALEXIEVA

Before Leaving My Past

Before leaving my past,

I'll open the door of my heart,

I'll throw the key in the grass

Because I already know

I'll never be back: so, I must...

Before leaving my past,

My cloths will be thrown; 

My jewelry and my shoes

They all will be gone...

Going naked to the unknown.

Before leaving my past,

A magical spell I will cast 

With my name in midnight.

I will cover my innocent self

With invisible vale - that's right!

Before leaving my past,

I must touch with  my hands

The sunrise coming tomorrow

Having no regrets and no sorrows

But today... I am just one night away...

38 poets being published in SGVPQ 64

PETROUCHKA ALEXIEVA
MARIA A. ARANA
JUDY BARRAT
JACK G. BOWMAN
CALOKIE
DON KINGFISHER CAMPBELL
JACKIE CHOU
MARCUS CLAYTON
BEVERLY M. COLLINS
LEE A. COLLINS
VIRGINIA MARIPOSA DALE
MARVIN L. DORSEY
ROBIN WYATT DUNN
PAULINE DUTTON
MARK A. FISHER
JOE GARDNER
THOM GARZONE
CHARLES HARMON
KEVIN HEATON
LINDA MARIE HILTON
ROSE ANNA HINES
JEFFRY MICHAEL JENSEN
DAN LAMBERT
MARIE LECRIVAIN
JONATHAN LEE
ALEX NODOPAKA
TOTI O'BRIEN
SEVEN POET
THELMA T. REYNA
KEVIN RIDGWAY
RINA ROSE
LING SENA
WANDA VANHOY SMITH
MARY LANGER THOMPSON
TIM TIPTON
LORI WALL-HOLLOWAY
ROBERT WILSON
NANCY LYNEE WOO

18 poets read from SGVPQ 63

CHRISTINE ALEXANIANS
The Rock of Morro Bay

Born of fiery entrails

of ancient mother earth

The rock stands proud

guards the blue waters

Sun penetrates fog

Halo of mystic light

crowns the sacred dome

Flocks of sea gulls

pelicans

solitary falcons worship

at the sanctuary of life. 

PETROUCHKA ALEXIEVA
On The 35^th Floor

It is almost midnight.

The large summer moon

Throws misty light

Over my shoulders.

It is past midnight.

I’m supposed to be home

At this time, but no…

I am still at the office.

Shall I go?…On the 35^th floor

Time is silently frozen.

Below

The city is sleeping,

Taxis and trolleys are slow

Blinking their million lights.

Shall I go?… I locked the door

From inside.

Until the morning,

No telephones, no meetings.

35^th floor

Is my insomniac island.

…and It is past midnight.

MARIA A. ARANA

Only Live in Americas

beautiful

tiny ballet dancers

flex shoulders

allow wings to bend

backwards

seem to float

rather than fly

perfectly balanced

in the air

internal

navigation system

help them conquer

skies

whizz by

like jets

stopping traffic

speedy little bird’s

metabolism

stuck in overdrive

heart

beats superfast

(even at rest)

constant feeding

on thousands

of flowers

keeps them on the move

swift
aerial dogfights

have birds

defend flower patch

for survival

they dine on nectar

while hovering

and become pollinators

for plants

           

from long bills

to curved bills

to short bills

like a key to a lock

between flower plant

and bird’s bill

evolution

plays a role

in amazing adaptations

dull feathers

surface observation

but in light

magnificent colors

shimmer

shine

flash

created by special cells

in feathers

not pigment

they can perish

in their sleep

so at night

they lower temperature

vital signs

like hibernation

to save energy

long migrations

track resources

adapt

flexibility

key to survival

as long as habitats

and food sources remain

Hummingbirds

can live in the Americas

for about twelve years

so let out the feeders

witness their brilliance