Katie Ryvolt

Heat
Consumed,
Entranced,
By 3 measures and a beat,
Heat,
The flames of eternal fire, laying just beneath my feet.
Which are spoken softly entranced within a slight romance,
Mistaken rhythms, lost within a sudden glance,
Memories once whispered, now forgot,
Moments needed now, are all distraught.
Left alone and cold and beginning to rot.
Tormented with in the heat,
That climbs ever higher,
A boiling point, consumed within a baptism of fire.
Thoughts within passion,
An emotional seduction,
Entranced,
Consumed,
By heat of eternal fire,
Of theirs and mine,
These and toughs,
Within this and that,
We meet
Composed, entranced
By 3 measures and a beat.

Julie Larson

UNTIL THE HUNDREDTH POET SCREAMS

evolving nit wits swing beastly jungle moody
co-ruminating common monkey mind flatter
primal preening purely screeching infinite
dirty laundry roaring insignificance
proud of ubiquitous pissy wildcat odors
offending visiting specters who snap sheep
images bleating safely behind separation glass
while fearful gated communities amplify
surround sound cliques of painlinked fencing
pacified seeing modern technologies
abound as bleeping territorial symmetry
showcages the mammalian brains of the busy
busybusy Oh-So-o-o busy - what could be -
bright burning carbon soulprints - now -
collectedly sorted whitewashed rinsed dried
unbecoming faded tyger hides precisely folded
matched opposing stripes creased in the middle
exactly smoothened wordless to silently shelve

Until the Hundredth Poet Screams

Mina Kirby

A SPECIAL PLACE

It is warm here
Golden rays of sunshine
brighten green fields
fragrant with yellow flowers
The air sparkles
with hums of bees
and chirps of soaring birds
A gentle breeze ruffles my hair
In the distance
are sounds of an ocean’s roar
as it splashes against rocks

I could be here
yesterday
tomorrow
and today
I could be here in the sun
and the softly falling rain
in the cheerful daylight
and in the velvety night

I could be here with you
feel the warmth of your hand in mine
talk until the moon goes down
and stars sparkle in the night sky
We could walk
for miles and miles
absorbing the beauty
surrounding us

Or
I could be here alone
a little sadder
but content
as perhaps
some day
I will
cloaked in sunshine
remembering you

Jeffry Jensen

TRAINING FISH IN MY SPARE TIME

I was no good with the neighborhood bears.
They always got the better of me on canned tuna day.
I was thrilled to be walking ferrets on Friday afternoons,
but once my knees gave out I had to turn in my leash.
No one told me that chamber music gives turtles hives.
They don’t take well to lotions or creams either, so I
experimented with deep neck rubs whenever I could
trick one into coming out of its shell for some quality time.
We both agreed to disagree on this one, and the turtles
took up residence in the high desert outside of LA.
I found training fish to be an acquired taste that can
go south at a moments notice if I’m not careful.
I went from a small bowl with a few lazy Goldfish
all the way up an aquarium full of Neon Tetras,
Dragon Fish, Mollys, Barbs, Pink Kissers, and Pufferfish.
Like any cruel master, I played one against the other
in order to get the best flips, gurgles, and bottom walkers.
My spare time turned into half time became full time,
took my dream time on a wild sea hunt into the deep recesses
of a freaky world few can even fathom in this century.
My act was booked on every cruise ship going up
the California coast for two years solid before
the industry tanked and I was left floundering on my own.

Gary Imperial

STREWN ABOUT

Strewn about the wondrous white
by a God-like fickle muse
some thunder in while others are light rain

The Lilac mist is heady
pause take in the sweetened air
let fragrance finger in the words to use

Middle, index and my thumb
they are empty as I wait
come fill them with your stylus form for me

Through the gray I see your form
as a charcoal sketch on pad
embrace me now so we may be complete

Whets my appetite for words
each minute grows my hunger
sublime the thought it will be fed by you

(no picture available)

Don Kingfisher Campbell

FROM BREAK TO DUNK

Irregular heartbeat of
dribble on hardwood

Then glissando whistle of
sneakers preparing for takeoff

Comes crack of orange rim as
basketball is slammed through

Resulting thunder reverberates
throughout building air like

Notes of a concert followed by
ascending cheer in massive hall

Rex Butters

GIVING MYSELF THE FINGER

first winter rain
third day/new market job
ten days till xmas
floppy boots
old Uggs
sole peel slide
slick floor slip trip
store too new to have glue
two block walk to Westwood Rite Aid
lunch break rush for rubber cement tube
they only stock a jar full
paid for/no bag/out the door
newly wet pavement
rubber sole folds underfoot
right foot flies up
land left hand down fall
broken jar glass jams into hand
deep gash blood floods
emergency room liquid skin
instead of stitches
wound sealed
3 weeks inactive
swollen cartoon hand infection
nerve or tendon cut
index finger no longer clenches
can’t close like before
white palm scar tight
hurt healed changed
loss of movement and power
for a measly $10 an hour

Gina Bove

SHOUT!

I hate the sounds of July
and October . . .
of innocence lost and
mostly I hate . . .

Crack- hissss . .. pop and BOOM
Pow! It’s here!
It’s there
And they’ll never learn

I keep washing, washing
And the spot won’t come out.
I can’t shout them out of my mind,
Any easier than I can make it go away.

Nicholas Barrett

MERCY TREE

This is why I fled upon the open sea,
with dread and glee, your storm hastened my heart,
from the start, lowly I ran, dreaming free.
An exile, roaming this loveless rampart,
a wretched heap on shores of self I keep,
yet, by ships aground, Nineveh falls apart.
Awaken blackheart as cities burn and weep,
for as you sleep, the seas cry justice—fury,
and sailors pray to gods—parlay: Calm this deep!

Cry out! Cry out! That captain screamed in scurry,
for judge—me—jury, on seas of self we keep;
and so, amazed, I gazed at ole death’s hurry.
Methinks, I am to blame for this storm we reap,
and despite my plea, overboard—they threw me;
now free; baptized in water’s deep, I sleep.
O self I keep, ever rest apart from me,
for thrown I lay, on shores of brother’s keep.
Alas! Love’s song so sweet—new wine revelry!

Mercy tree, withered shade-no-more, burn deep—
love’s trill—ancient Liberty—song of wealth,
by worm’s hungry carve and stealth; self now sleeps.
Who am I, O Great I AM, wrecked on self,
lost of health, I can’t believe, under this tree,
I see, by loving enemies, blooms true self.

Prince of Peace, mercy tree, drown—me—misery.
Restrain the senseless self—dark beckoning;
Great Reckoning, beautify—we—history.

Jim Babwe

THE CATCH

New science,
brilliant math,
expert logic
will never explain
how I caught
one
heavy
avocado,
which fell unexpectedly
into my open hand
while I swept dry leaves
into a pile
in the shade
of the avocado tree.

Nudged silently from the limb
by invisible gravity,
I did not see the descent--
had no time to mistake the avocado
for another falling thing.

Skeptics lean toward
odds against
almost everything,
but someday,
I hope
to see a disbeliever
make the same
kind of catch--
comfortable,
effortless.

36 poets being published in SGVPQ 49

JIM BABWE
NICHOLAS BARRETT
GINA BOVE
JACK G BOWMAN
REX BUTTERS
CALOKIE
DON KINGFISHER CAMPBELL
MICHAEL CLUFF
THOM GARZONE
RON GREGUS
CHARLES HARMON
GARY IMPERIAL
JEFFRY JENSEN
KHOURY JOHNSON
LALO KIKIRIKI
MINA KIRBY
KAREN AUDIOUN KLINGMAN
JULIE LARSON
KATHERINE NORLAND
TOTI O'BRIEN
JENNIFER PUGA
JESSICA JOY REVELES
JOHN ROWE
JEFF WAYNE PATRICK RUSSELL
KATIE RYVOLT
DAVID SHAFRAN
LESLIE SILTON
WANDA VANHOY SMITH
JAN STECKEL
ROSALEE THOMPSON
TIM TIPTON
CHRISTOPHER LUKE TREVILLA
MAJA TROCHIMCZYK
LORI WALL-HOLLOWAY
ERIKA WILK
KATIE WOODS

Each poet being published in issue #49 (Winter 2011) is invited to attend the publication party and reading on Saturday, March 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 the publication party, you can still order copies of SGVPQ 49. Singles issues are $7 (includes $2 shipping), or subscribe to the quarterly for $20 a year (postage paid) and get a free 2012 San Gabriel Valley Poetry Calendar. This offer is available through PayPal only (http://paypal.com/). When on PayPal, please select Send Money and make payment to kingfisher1031@charter.net


WANT A POET IN YOUR CLASSROOM?
Email: poetrypeople@charter.net

Poets Take Pictures: 2011 San Gabriel Valley Poetry Calendar is ready!

The full-color, completely glossy 2011 San Gabriel Valley Poetry Calendar is finished and ready for distribution. Makes a great holiday gift...featuring the poetry and photography of 20 poets: Jeffrey C. Alfier, Michelle Angelini, CaLokie, Don Kingfisher Campbell, Thom Garzone, Charles Harmon, Jeffry Jensen, Mina V. Kirby, Deborah P Kolodji, Marie Lecrivain, Vicky Luu, Radomir Vojtech Luza, Toti O'Brien, Douglas Richardson, Allison Santos, Sharon Lynne Thompson, Tim Tipton, Maja Trochimczyk, Lois Michal Unger, and Lori Wall-Holloway. The poets are invited to read and receive their complimentary copy this Saturday, December 18th between 3 and 5pm inside the backroom of the Santa Catalina Branch of the Pasadena Public Library on 999 E. Washington Blvd. Additional copies will be available for $10 each. You may also order via http://paypal.com where you simply choose to Send Money ($12, includes $2 postage and packaging) to kingfisher1031@charter.net, then wait by the ol' mailbox for lightning-fast first class postal delivery.

20 Poets read from SGVPQ 48

Jeffrey C. Alfier
THE FLOWERS OF HER DECEMBER

So this is all the earth she knows now.
Winter could fracture stone and spill

into graves, the wind scuttling leaves,
petals and US flags into the year’s terminus.

A man breathes warmth into ungloved hands,
her name strained through a fist.

Jim Babwe
DONUT QUEEN

You told me
you felt bored and suicidal--
and not to tell anyone.

I took notes.

You told me
the fabric of life
was infinitely
crashing at your feet
like an unlimited number
of bricks
falling from a wall
too tall to climb,
too wide to walk around--
beyond sight in every direction.

I tried to make you laugh
when I asked about why
you were not wearing
a helmet--
bricks falling and all.

You said,
It's not a joke;
stop making fun of me.
And I don't like it
when you call me
Donut Queen.

I said,
Why don't you want
me to call you
Donut Queen.

You said,
Stop making fun of me.
Apologize.

For the helmet remark
or for calling you
Donut Queen?
I asked

You said
to take my pick--
either one.

I said,
I'm sorry
for calling you
Donut Queen.

You said,
You're just saying that.
You don't mean it.

I said,
Okay.
I'm sorry for making fun of you.
Why don't you want me
to call you Donut Queen?

You said,
Never mind.
You're not sorry.
Call me Donut Queen.
I don't care.

I said,
I thought you wanted
me to say I was sorry.

That's different from being sorry,
you said.
Since you're taking notes,
Write this down.
The fabric of life
turns into broken rocks
and piles them
into mountain of rubble at my feet.
The weight of these stones
is too heavy for any trash can.

You told me
not to write down
that you were
bored and suicidal.

You said,
Don't tell anyone.

Then you changed
your mind and said,
Go ahead.
Write it all down.
Tell everyone.
I don't care.

I said,
I'm worried about you
(and don't take this the wrong way),
but depending
upon how you kill yourself,
how much of a mess
are you planning to make
and where
is it going to be?

You said
I wasn't funny.

You said you
weren't kidding
and you probably
won't kill yourself.

You said
I wasn't listening.

You asked me
why I was taking notes.
What are you going to do
with them?

Then you said
it didn't matter.

You looked up at the sky
and you said,
Write this down, too.

I waited
while you were thinking.

You said
you forgot
what you were
going to say
before you walked away
and locked yourself
into the bathroom again.

You used to laugh
when I called you
Donut Queen.

CaLokie
TO MY OKIE TRIBE

No, the flood over a quarter of Pakistan following
128º scorcher wasn’t because nation harbors
a bunch of them Islam-fascist terrorists

Global warming’s here!
Shit’s beginning to hit the fans
but, folks, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet!

I don’t give a shit what Okie Senator Dumbhoff, Rush Lamebrain,
Glen Beck-to-Barbarianism or any cracked teapot scientists
funded generously by fossil fuel corporations say!

I’m sure as hell gonna take words of smartasses like Al
Gore, Jim Hansen, Bill McKibben and thousands of climate
scientists who have had a mountain range of data peer reviewed

in scientific journals over them Mother Earth fuckers
who wanna keep things as they are so U.S.’s top
2% can continue to rake in obscene profits!

But hey, them’s slick sons of bitches!
If I didn’t have such a high I.Q. I mightta
been fooled by their bullshit too. Harty-har-har!

Man-up. Tea Party boys and girls! Time to leave
feudal world of four angels guardin’ each
corner and face our planet as it is.

If we reach the tipping point,
we’re all gonna be in deep shit and
America ain’t gonna be worth takin’ back

unless you don’t mind livin’ in world with more
deserts but no rain forests while Wall Street
and Disney World are buried in ocean

But hey, liberals sayin’ they believe
in global warming but act like it don’t
exist are as full of shit as right wing nuts!

Mama Nature is pissed off and she ain’t a gonna
take no crap about cap and trade or carbon
off sets to keep this planet from meltin’

If world leaders think they can bullshit
Big Mama like they always bullshit everybody
else, they ain’t a bullshittin’ nobody but themselves!

Of course, you gotta defecate and for most of human
history, our atmosphere held only 275ppm
or parts per million of carbon dioxide.

But then along came the Industrial
Revolution and before you knew it, them
turds had increased 70% from 1970 to 2004

They continued to grow 2ppm each year till holy shit,
by 2010 we had reached a level of 392ppm,
the highest in 650,000 years!

Now scientists tell us
we gotta get that shit down
to 350ppm or we’re all fucked!

I know. It takes a lotta shit to make the good
shit we all enjoy and for military to
defend American way of life.

Like Woody Guthrie said
to a couple of rich snobs, “The
more you eat, the more you shit!”

Sure, breakin’ our oil and coal addiction ain’t gonna be
easy but unless we don’t start leavin’ that shit in
the ground instead of’ shootin’ it to stars

all hell’s gonna break loose! Our children
and grandchildren a gonna be shit out of luck
and oh my friends and oh my foes, that’s no shit!

.....................................................................................

Don Kingfisher Campbell
(no photo available, because I was taking the photos)
VISIT

ergonomically correct
blue cushioned
waiting room chair
with black arms and legs

when I sit on it
I immediately feel
my back is upright
90 degrees of correct posture

rest my arms on the arms
I could be in interrogation
or even worse
the electric chair

put my arms down
to each side
I get the urge
to turn wheelchair wheels

wrap my arms
around the back
and I'm a hostage
in a home invasion

I rise up
leave the feelings
behind on the chair
like an old friend

Michael J. Cluff
SHOOTING

Death will dash by
my leftmost finger on my right hand
funny how it sidles in and out
as it is wont to do.

Passing me along
to another day
it will skip and prance
over a cypress
between a juniper
and besides a banyan
to come down hard
on Burke Clarke Arias
and set his heart to stop

That man wears
a watch fop
like Uncle Harlan
once did
a movie extra
during the mid to near late sixties.

His head now tomato red
as is his silk tie
draped over the stick shift
still racheting his tender
teacup rose raw shaven neck.

Dan Garcia-Black
SLEEP, BABY, SLEEP

A car alarm is crying in the distance.
Cop car siren speeds close
then fades away wailing.
the slow sound of dribbling water
refills the toilet tank.
The neighbors in apartment 2
start arguing again.
A truck rumbles heavily
down a nearby alley.
I listen to my heart beat in my ears
replaced by the sound of
helicopter blades hovering over my bed.
Somewhere blocks away
a confused cock crows.
Somebody buy him a clock.
It’s four AM for Christ's sake!
Now, it’s 6.
and the shower starts in the room
next door.
These are the musical tones
Brahms could not have imagined,
sung to me by the city ,
that keeps me awake
all night once again.
Just then the oldies station
radio alarm blasts on, Beatles singing,
“Good Day Sunshine, Good Day Sunshine!”
I close my eyes to rest just a minute
before getting up to dress for work
attentively listening to the daylong cadenza
warning me of tomorrow night’s
coming L.A. Bedlam Lullaby.

Gary Imperial
MY WORDS ARE

Some are the wind strewn wordlings from off a dead poet's Redwood. In the breeze of speech and speculation looking to be rooted in moist fertile mind soil. While others are embryonic embers keeping my campfire coffee warm with inspiration. They are the sound of accomplishment. The last draw of the violin bow at the end of a holiday concert with its final note at its most elevated point, separating performance from praise till it dissipates and becomes one with the holly and spice in the air. They are the sprinkles of green and red on the cut out cookies of Snowmen and Santas, the walnuts and white chocolate chunks that make up the tasty textured landscape of gift cookies. My words have been all these things and more. And now my words are yours.

Jeffry Jensen
THE RUBBER VARIETY

Crime in a Dixie cup and a safari across the shell
hole of a hankering for Heaven to take the plunge in
a nasty nodule buried in the burlap left at the desk where
dogs go to eat corn flakes and cheese chunks with
epoch banana sweetness submitting to standard
testing with a number 2 pencil leaking honey twice on
Sunday and served to catfish in a creamy sauce with
a distant doorway 8 miles longer than the average
Mother’s Day parade squeezing out miracles on its
knees inside of a third-class trickle down a pant
leg with waffles taking the side of a maelstrom on
stem rooted revelation behind a screen of taffy
love and lingering brushes with toy trains in a circular
intention of concrete orchid raspy spit too close to
my toothbrush in mid-flight from throbbing cheek to
parrot chin knockers cushioned by cat vengeance and
loneliness pirating the top drawer of the runway to
weepy sideways discontent of the rubber variety.

Lalo Kikiriki
SNAPSHOTS, 1985
for Charlie

It was the day we climbed to the back
of Runyon Canyon
and up a rusted drain pipe to the road.
Was that the day you learned
that love is pain,
loving that place, with the sweat burning into your eyes?
If you were five, then I was thirty-seven,
on that white-hot day you declared yourself
King of the Mountain.
There on the steps we took each other's pictures,
gritty and triumphant in the breeze
through the brand new park we championed,
you and I.
Look at us grinning, bare-kneed in summer shorts.
That was a day for ice cream in the car,
driving one-handed down Sunset Boulevard,
licking, licking, licking sticky fingers.
So proud and foolish, Charlie – that was the day!

Mina V. Kirby
NOT WORTH IT

Sex
without passion
is like
a chocolate brownie
without nuts
Just not worth the calories

As are
salt-free chips
poems I don’t understand
beer
crude comedy
dark chocolate candy
cheap furniture
carob flavored desserts
unwaxed dental floss
al dente anything
good looking men
who are in love with themselves
and
ice cream
without hot fudge
and whipped cream

They cost too much
effort
money
and love

Karen Audioun Klingman
BEIGE BEDROOM

a box of 64 is hidden in my nightstand
along with 7 Snickers bars and a training bra
they're below school papers from two years ago
not sure I want anyone to find my dreams
its dark
moonlight a beacon
I hear snoring sounds
from the my folks' room
at the end of the hall
I rustle under the papers
pull out the box
feel their slightly flattened heads
bodies standing at attention
in stadium fashion
I like their feel
comfort myself in their presence
peaceful at last
I munch on a Snickers bar
imagine myself wearing a real bra
a magenta dress
enchanted
under a rainbow

Radomir Vojtech Luza
ON VENUS

the mind like a tight mongoose arrived on venus quite by accident no
luggage no passport like a baby in the cavity it needed no way out no sentence
for its crime.

the pearls on its bed were made of glass. the clouds over its head were too
white to sled and the sun dressed in red would never be dead.

venus oh venus you strumpet you zoo you live too close to the mirror
without even a view. your angles of refrain bend to the right your angels of
forgiveness hardly strain for a fight. i find myself on your island because you
at last can massage my life with a blessed bite.

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…