9 poems from SGVPQ #42

Theresa Antonia

THINGS WE TAKE, THINGS WE LEAVE BEHIND

The things they took

1. An old leggo my eggo box, full to the brim, with paperwork, from the first divorce.

2. “I love you” folded twice on yellow legal paper, tucked in the side pocket of the briefcase, stuffed with old deeds from the desert property, he no longer has anymore, either.

3. Every single photo album or framed picture of the baby, in case of a fire, she said.

4. The computer, with the porno web sites still marked on the history, and the e-mail letter his mother-in-law wrote- about what it takes to have a good marriage.

The things they left behind

1. Matching motorcycle jackets from when they tried to conceive a baby, but couldn’t, so he taught her to ride together instead.

2. Small shampoo bottles, from that little roadside hotel along Big Sur, from the honeymoon.

3. Magnetic Photos, stuck to the refrigerator, with no longer mutual friends, each, holding the baby.

4. While he pretended to sleep so he wouldn’t have to kiss the baby goodbye that last morning, the still echoing sound of his child calling out “daddy”.

Barbara Cogswell

HAPPY BIRTHDAY
For Ron Kovics, born on the 4th of July

Firecrackers pop crackle boom all day
facimile bombs flare in the night time sky
flags twinkle in lapels of conservative suits
dogs whimper under the bed
tongues move, lips serve
eyes stream, throats lump
flowers are laid on the hero's grave

My generation fought the big one
saved the world from a torturous
scourge, survived to elect another

It must have been hard once you realized
sacrifice was for shame instead of glory
Yours was a war that everybody lost
although nobody likes to admit it

Recruiters use video games now
a ruse to sign up high school juniors
for this endless war on an 'ism

Suicide rates rise, no attention's paid
to the "would be" dead
PTSD is described as cowardice

So roll your chair over here, Ron
we'll have our own little peace rally
looks like it might be just you and me
(we'll ignore the parade)
before you head back to Mexico,
where your gringo pension
stretches through the month.

Charles Harmon

LIGHTNING STRUCK

In my life I have met three people who were struck by lightning
And lived to tell the tale.

The first an old man climbing Canada's Mount Robson,
He had been hit on the chest when much younger,
The brass zipper of his parka carrying the million volts of charge
Away from his heart, melting and fusing the metal.
He continued to wear the much-worn and torn jacket
As a pullover, for a lucky charm.
"You know," he said, smiling,
"Lightning never strikes twice in the same place."

The second a carpenter, working on my neighbor's house at Big Bear.
Down by the lake, starting up his boat, readying his fishing gear
He had been slammed by a seven thousand degree hot arcing blue bolt
Setting his clothes on fire and melting the skin off his hip and leg.
The scar was very visible, but he just laughed it off.
"Nothing's going to keep me from going fishing."

The third person is myself and to be honest the lightning is only
Figurative, symbolic, metaphorical, yet more real than reality.
But I also was struck by lightning the first time I saw you,
My sweet wife, when I looked into your eyes for the first time.
And I not only lived, but you brought me back to life,
Resurrecting me from my Frankenstein's monster sleep of ennui,
And I not only survived and prevailed, I am reborn,
Day after day, again and again, each time I see you
And you strike me to the heart.

R. Romea Luminarias

TO THE BLUE SEASTAR [Linckia laevigata]
For Birgitte Wilms

What is it that breathes fire into the equations
and makes a universe for them to describe?”
- Stephen King

You encompass the sea with five arms
As if you alone embrace the whole universe.
Yet you patiently bear the juvenile Ophiothrix
Like it’s a truly special friend despite its pernicious spines,
In spite of its stern, ancient countenance.

Are you both, immersed in clear, salving current,
Engaging in a dance
Of pentagonal illusions?
Or simply playing peek-a-boo with clown-fishes and corals
Edging slowly into jungles of spoils
So that you’d soon realize there is
No escaping from such tentative tentacles of desires
From all, all buoyant, fractal blossoming
Digital maps of Atlantis, grandiose domes of fallen empires

Radomir Luza

NEW YORK ONCE MORE

hell it flies like an eagle on speed it never pauses does not say hello cannot stop to yap
my town my city my pink saint my black dove my yellow concubine my purple priest and red dinosaur

but the quicksand here in l.a. has me flying circles around scattered twilights and called bluffs

it has me brainwashed like an injured steeple like a yellow beelzebub

i do not want to be here but things are going well i am beginning to distrust fear and lean on courage in a way i never have in a way that pays more dividends than barack obama's smile and john mccain's trembling hands

the furniture of my life lifts the indigo rainbows and silly elevators of love in these dangerous hills but i don't want it anymore i need soho tribeca greenwich village noho chelsea and the upper east side like a body needs a heart and a ghost needs a soul

fly you new york fly like a rose with teeth

Karineh Mahdessian

SHORT ANSWER TO YOUR LONG QUESTION

yes.
yes it's taken me 24 hours to pen these
lines while cognizant of the socio-politico
rammafications of my declarations of grown
woman's jealousy vis-a-vis a slice of pizza.
it brings you instant gratifications.
while i,
with almost-there kisses and silly demarcations
a few wise cracks and plenty of facial expressions
four-inch black and white bcbg heels and random pontifications
cant seem to get your attention.

next time they ask. what i want to be when i grow up. i’ll respond.

a slice of pizza. to come from your mouth and leave taste dancing on tongue.

Michael McLaughlin

PREVIOUSLY UNPUBLISHED POSTCARD # 30
Rauschenberg Port Arthur TX

rockets falling off
their launching pads
oil refinery flying whales.

Janis Joplin
Jimmy Johnson of the Cowboys.
Filling in that gap
between the two.

It’s as if the materials
collaborate
when humans are not
around

Merce Cunningham
Barbara Billingsly.
Wally, The Beav, Hugh Downs.

Houston?
Can you read me?
Over.

You’re in a situation
that is serious
and you’ve left all the faucets
on.

Mark States

APPROACHING STORM

Standing on edge of glen, watching the storm
come in, giant thunderclouds and a jolt of cold.

Standing on edge of storm, where rain
falls in sunshine, where bright and wet
are the senses.

Standing by the window
watching truck take away boxes of forsaken dreams and
vapors of roasted asparagus, the world of books
and academia that kicked me back to reality
unceremoniously.

I'd pulled your letter out of a box of books.
It's 1995 and you're on your death bed
writing to your son who'd just lost 3 finger tips
and in this hallucinatory dream
not of peyote but of high-powered sedatives
I stand on the top of a refrigerator
and threaten to jump to my death
onto the hospital bed below --
most assuredly, death exists

in the space in between ...

Standing on the edge of understanding
how time tells you
far better than you tell time
even now, in 2009,
and the jolt of cold felt watching the
approaching storm
did not start as the flap of butterfly wings
half way around the world --
it was drenched in the sadness of knowing
you'd been dead three months

before I'd slit open the flap of the envelope
and my dreams flew out like emaciated moths.

Erika Wilk

THE FATHER

I hardly knew – just as well
from what I’ve been told
he didn’t portray a good paternal image
his influence could have poisoned my life
made me a different person

mother once said he was egotistical
didn’t nurture his children
expected to be catered to
lamented who would fix his breakfast
when mom decided to leave him

in a letter to his oldest son
he expressed his anti-Semitism
an easy transition into the Nazi Party
I never knew, until recently
he hated Jews with such passion

I visited him in Germany in 1956
the grandeur had left him by then
he was in his 60’s
not nearly as tall as I remembered
but then- I had grown taller

we never corresponded
I left for the United States 50 years ago
what would my father think, say, do
learning that I married a Jew

I can hear those bones tremble

SGVPQ #42

The 35 poets being published in the Spring 2009 San Gabriel Valley Poetry Quarterly are:

JEFFREY C. ALFIER
MICHELLE ANGELINI
THERESA ANTONIA
JACK G. BOWMAN
LEAH BROWN
CALOKIE
DON KINGFISHER CAMPBELL
BARBARA COGSWELL
MARVIN DORSEY
MICHAEL GONZALEZ
HELEN GRAZIANO
RON GREGUS
CHARLES HARMON
ANITA HOLZBERG
JEFFRY JENSEN
SCOTT C. KAESTNER
MINA KIRBY
SHARMAGNE LELAND-ST.JOHN
ELLARAINE LOCKIE
R. ROMEA LUMINARIAS
RADOMIR LUZA
KARINEH MAHDESSIAN
TERRY McCARTY
MICHAEL McLAUGHLIN
RUTH NOLAN
KATHERINE NORLAND
TOTI O'BRIEN
RONA GARCIA PANGILINAN
RYFKAH
KAREN SCHWARTZ
MARK STATES
MARY TORREGROSSA
ANN TWEEDY
LORI WALL-HOLLOWAY
ERIKA WILK

All of the poets being published are invited to pick up their complimentary copy of SGVPQ #42 (a $5 value) at the publishing party and reading on Saturday, June 13th between 2pm and 4pm inside the backroom of the Santa Catalina Branch of the Pasadena Public Library on 999 E. Washington Blvd.

14 poems from SGVPQ #41

Maja Trochimczyk
BLADES AND BLISS

2. Bliss, unveiled

the more I love
the more dangerous
life becomes
in its graphic beauty
carved with a dagger
stolen from time

the blade cuts
old wounds open

it slides on the skin
of the moment

pierced by knowing

Ryfkah
BEACHES PAST OR PRESENT

The sun seared skin even at its impending setting
We watched as a golden pagoda appeared in the west
and then metamorphosed lavender pink also melon
Two poets on a Pacific beach stared at the magic
trick of an appearing and disappearing configuration

North Avenue Beach on Lake Michigan
The sun glowed and tattooed burn marks on skin
I embodied but a teen listening to easy rock and wishing
for a bikini figure clear skin and a more flirtatious demeanor
The years ran like antelope outmaneuvering a lion

My daughter strongly stated she would never leave
She would stay home forever
Next week she leaves for Newport Beach
The waves call her name The sand caresses her skin
Dinner once a month would be nice by the beach

Today I stand on the beach of my imagination
Residing in a blanched villa on some ancient shore
I speak in alliteration and near rhyme
in loud metaphors and simple similes
I am confused as I hear whales or sirens sing

Beaches rise and fall much like the dreams of empires

Rona Garcia Pangilinan
GREENS

Whenever there was any green
in the patch of brown soil to the right of the orange tree,
I pinched and pulled it.

Raking the ground until everything was even and brown,
made me feel that the area was how it should be,
bare and smooth.

But today, there was no brown,
it was all green.
Days of rain soaked the ground,
pampered the greens, and even made them bloom.

I asked myself why I did not check for greens sooner.
Would I have caught them when there were only two, three, or four?
Oh yes, I could have.

But I would have missed writing letters and talking to friends,
reading books and quickly falling asleep,
laying a relative to rest,
cramming on a pressing task at work,
and posting birthday greetings in my favorite website.

How could I give up
daily dances with my daughter
when she puts her feet on top of mine,
as I wrap my arms around her, hum a tune,
while we dance with only two feet on the ground.

The weeds snuck in while I lived my life.
So I lifted my arms with the palms toward the sky,
put on my straw hat, coat, and surgical gloves,
and proceeded with a major operation.

I scooped the ground with a flat spade,
laid the patch of green on my palm,
and in revenge,
tickled it until it gave up the brown.

Now, as I sit on the handle of the spade,
and prop myself against the wet, cold wall,
I stare at my dirty jeans,
and thank the weeds,
for giving me a reason to stay out in the rain,
reflect, and live life some more.

Toti O’Brien
PROPHECY

In her bed
half awake
she heard a voice
it said
you’ll be happy
one day
in a place that’s named
California

Is it why
the girl came?
For what was predicted
that night?
Not at all
Life brought her
and the prophecy
she forgot

***

When she came
did she look
for happiness
still?
Of course
Did she find it?
So she believed
once or twice

And each time
oh well
she remembered
the mysterious
words
and she thought
that it was for good

***

‘Cause indeed
she was where the oracle
had pointed
but Lord
can you please
explain?
What’s the promised land
and what’s happiness?

‘Cause
it keeps sliding
behind clouds
and over
the rainbow
‘cause she
still
doesn’t know

Katherine Norland
PUNK PARANOIA

The punk-rock gentleman in front of me, overcome with fear;
Asking question after question whenever the waitress is near.
Scared of the content of every item in his vegetarian food;
Heard the warning that recalled the spouts left him unglued.
What got him so paranoid about the water set next to his plate;
Examining the glass and asking the waitress if the water’s safe.
I wonder how much brain power it took, how much he had to think,
When he got sleeves of tattoos, did he question what was in the ink?

Ruth Nolan
FIGURES OF THOUGHT

You were so young I couldn’t embrace you,
small as you were,
your hair blonde, shoulder length,
we could not aptly name

the scary man tightening his belt,
we could not presume
to know his name
the fire tip of his cigarette, small flame

young, oh, you were so old
as not to know the figures in a dream

the moon, in her small stepping
over ancient beach stones, the fish traps
are lonely without the sea, without their catch
the people are so few they seem large
and men take young boys aside

your sun, waiting to show its face
too bright in its asking for love

and far too wide to hold
your shoulder length hair, the unnamed man
hovering behind you
rising with the tide, a sleeper wave
and the villagers run to greet you

so few, they seem large, not cruel,
spears ready with burning arrow tips

Terry McCarty
IMPOSSIBLE DREAMS

I want to write the first self-published
chapbook that sells a million copies.

I want to be the first poet to sell out arenas.
Not once.
Not twice.
But five nights in a row.
And perform three-and-a-half hour sets
just like Springsteen did in the 70s and
80s.

I want to invite my brothers and sisters in
poetry to help me create an annual festival
called WORDSTOCK.
It will consist of three days of peace, love
and metaphors.
I want it to be so big and important that
people will smash through the fences
to witness incredible poetry for free—
but not until we’ve turned a profit.

I want to see an hour of verse on prime-time TV every night of the week.
Think about it, NBC.
It will be cheaper to produce than a
ten o’clock Jay Leno show.

I want to kickstart a new kind of future.

I want to teach the majority of
humankind that poetry doesn’t suck.

I want to….think about this to-do list
some other time.

It’s getting really cold in the break room.
Time for me to go back to work.

Ellaraine Lockie
THEY SPEAK STARBUCKS IN ITALY

When I order
two shots of espresso
The order taker and coffee maker
at the Bar La Cisteria says
You want two espresso
holding up a demi-cup in each hand

No, two in one cup, I say
He carries both cups to the machine
No second cup I say louder
He flings arms wide enough to hold
every American word he's ever heard
Palms open to the heavens in a plea
probably for no more customers like me

In my first Italian body-talk lesson
I take a used cup from the counter top
With a sweeping flourish hold out two fingers
and poke them into the cup
His prayer slips into shoulders that shrug
You want doppio, why not say so

Sharmagne Leland-St.John
MICHAEL

Michael
Your moods intrigue me
Quiet now brooding
I wonder where your thoughts have been
Then at dinner
I see a side of you
That I have never seen
You make us laugh
The things you say
The smile you flash
Makes the evening slip away
Today you're pensive
Your mind is occupied
I cannot read your thoughts
No one can who's tried
Sometimes you're like a puzzle
That's hard to put together
You're moods are always changing
Just like the English weather
Has the sun come out?
No there's rain, but I think
The sun is trying
I thought I heard you laughing
Or was it was just the murmur
Of a winter wind sighing

Karen Klingman
IMPRESSIONS OF MONET

I wonder what it is about Monet
I'm not the only one
drawn to quiet
peaceful skies
seas of rippled calm
reflecting life in such an easy way

I see no tension in his strokes
moss green poplars float along with breeze
majestic skiffs glide without destination
old world white buildings
crowned with caps of sienna and ochre
await my visit

I'm lost in pleasure
just being here
vibrant hushed blues and greens
embrace me
indulgent clouds caress me
I surrender to the bliss

Mina Kirby
DRAMA ON THE DECK

On the deck
outside my bedroom
my seventeen-year-old tabby sleeps
curled up
beneath a chair

A frisky backyard squirrel
climbs onto the deck
looking for adventure
furry tail wrapped
around the railing
front paws
below on the post
ready to jump onto the floor
until
he spots the cat

Backing up
onto the rail top
he darts quickly
until he has kitty
in full view
His sleek body turns to face her
muscles tense
beady eyes focused
on the gray bunch of fur
under the chair

Wide squirrel tail
fur now puffed up
starts to undulate
up and down
up and down

The cat
sensing something afoot
opens her eyes
lifts her head
and watches the squirrel

Then
being an old cat
realizing she has seen it all before
curls up a little tighter
and goes back to sleep

Ron Gregus
THE UN-HEARTBROKEN SONG

I'm a sittin' here not drinkin'
Un-heartbroken I'm a thinkin'
How a foolish man loves swimmin'
In the guilt that's spilt by women
Even though he gets insulted
By the women he's exulted
This type of man will swear it's wrong
To sing the un-heartbroken song

When a woman's heart is broken
Lots of sympathy is spoken
And the man who bursts her bubble
Soon finds out that he's in trouble
But a man who's been rejected
Finds no sympathy projected
And he who has a heart that's broke
Is celebrated as a joke

All my heartbreaks last a minute
I don't have to bare and grin it
Like the fool who pines forever
Losin' all of his endeavor
Takin' drink, weed, pills, or powder
Just to advertise it louder
How he's been jilted in a sham
By women who don't give a damn

Michelle Angelini
CONVERSATION WITH THE FULL MOON

I have seen
curving roads
and curiously followed where they led
a starless night sky as she conversed
with the full moon
and in the sun's light i have
dreamed that each billowing
cloud through which jets passed
turned into a sailing
ship that took me
far away

i have held
rainbow-hued leaves
after they fell from the branches
which rejected them
a spatter of unsalted raindrops on my
cheeks as if they came from my eyes
and velvet burgundy rose petals in my hands
comparing their softness
against a thorn's piercing harshness

i have nurtured
words from singleness blooming
them into poetic expressions
experienced the stretched pain
of sadness that grew
into a numb vacuum
where my shredded heart
allowed me to love again
and i have always considered
the full moon an equal partner
in conversations about what
she understands
and i have yet to learn

Lynn Allgood
FEMALE LEGS AND FEET

Girls were not allowed to wear pants
In my elementary school.
No education for female pant wearers,
Until hot pants burned away
The ban on legged garments for girls.

In Afghanistan, the Taliban
Arrested and imprisoned women
For “walking in loud shoes.”

If our clothes
And sound of our shoes
Pose such great threats,
Then our legs and feet
Must be very powerful.

SGVPQ #41

The 29 poets published in the Winter 2009 San Gabriel Valley Poetry Quarterly are:

LYNN ALLGOOD
MICHELLE ANGELINI
LAWRENCE BERGER
JACK BOWMAN
LEAH BROWN
CALOKIE
DON KINGFISHER CAMPBELL
BARBARA COGSWELL
HELEN GRAZIANO
RON GREGUS
CHARLES HARMON
LINDY HILL
JEFFRY JENSEN
MINA KIRBY
KAREN KLINGMAN
DEBORAH P KOLODJI
SHARMAGNE LELAND-ST.JOHN
ELLARAINE LOCKIE
RADOMIR LUZA
TERRY McCARTY
RUTH NOLAN
KATHERINE NORLAND
TOTI O'BRIEN
RONA GARCIA PANGILINAN
RYFKAH
MARY FRANCES SPENCER
MAJA TROCHIMCZYK
LORI WALL-HOLLOWAY
ERIKA WILK

All of the poets published were invited to pick up their complimentary copy of SGVPQ #41 (a $5 value) at the publishing party and reading on Saturday, March 7th between 2pm and 4pm inside the backroom of the Santa Catalina Branch of the Pasadena Public Library on 999 E. Washington Blvd.