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.

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

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

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

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