MARK A. FISHER

gravity

innocent souls

light

would waft towards heaven

on dust devil dreams

if such things exist

but the weight of sin

holds our obese shadows

to this tacky world

of cakes and candies

and cinnamon sticky buns

that cling

to all except ascetic anorexics

lost in their own madness

while we

upon death

are rendered down

in some Zoroastrian hell

to make candles

– illumination

that reaches past

mere sky

ROBIN WYATT DUNN

approach

and now

as we approach and then defend

this end of the court

will we resort of course to madness

to sort out the leap, from the feint?

will we contain the measure of our need

within the doctrine of this measured sport

not tennis or war

but city life

we care to know just what sorts are coming over

visible now on the horizon

wearing boa contrictors and jiggling babies

with their jeans on overload

and their hair striated

like alligator muscle

our leering worth

extends our girth

our mirth works:

"hey fatso!

let's get a divorce!"

we shout to the tribe across the street

what more can we contend with

than love?

BEVERLY M. COLLINS

Clown

Silly as a duel with moonlight,

I leaned in and pulled away.

Broke my own heart in the process.

My efforts have proven as futile

as selling sugar to candy.

Like a small cube of ice that pleads

its case to a volcano.

What is real, can burn with no chaser

Make one feel vast, tiny and

naked on a highway that is the road

to a solid story filling in.

We can give breath to procrastination

or to stillness that brings new light

to the emotionally-blind.

The clown under a spot light

without makeup or coping antics.

JACKIE CHOU

Harley

Why do I assume you have a soul

that your eyes speak heavenly words

and your mind is filled with thoughts

that I try to read everyday

even though you cannot say a word

Why do I give you the power

to say whether or not I’m okay?

Why do I put you above everybody?

Are you not simply a creature

that is motivated only by

physical needs and desires

Do you even know why you’re alive?

Or who I am?

the “mommy” who feeds you

and romanticizes you
when your owner is away

DON KINGFISHER CAMPBELL

The Skies Speak In Light

(a line by Mary Monroe)

Regular warmth for the planet below

The earth feels the message

Offers flowers and animals

A billion year gift exchange

Sons of our sun remake

The bounty into concentrated energy

Alter the colors of the heavens

Wonder if we are damning each other

And can we change it back

Cancer is a sign we need to

Return to the pristine beauties

We once were before greed

Become again worshippers

Of the temples of clouds

Sending tears to mix clay
From the dust which is ourselves

MARIA A. ARANA

Before My Commute

morning greets tired eyes

entering through open window

clouds uncover

a drunken sun

birds mingle on power lines

like vultures

waiting to devour

what remains left

from last night

washed on the banks

of my yard

I smell the basil

planted out back

to keep the flies away

air cooled

on skin contact

it wakes

fingers reach for the rod

to close the blinds

to rich earth

cut into slabs

of places
we call home

PETROUCHKA ALEXIEVA

It Is Friday

And I’m kind of busy

Cleaning the shelves in my heart

From debris and dust;

Releasing free all the ladybugs

and the butterflies from  inside.

I bundled all memory treasures

at once

and locked them deep in my soul.

In fact, I’ll be conscious

And preserve my feeling of joy.

It is Friday. I am cleaning

in enormous proportions!

tossing  out from  the rack 

my crinkly corroded emotions.

It is Friday. I’m in a hurry

With a smile on my face

and kiss on my lips;

I’m shining today. I feel gorgeous
For the upcoming weekend indeed.

32 poets being published in SGVPQ 67

MARIA A. ARANA
PETROUCHKA ALEXIEVA
JACK G. BOWMAN
CALOKIE
DON KINGFISHER CAMPBELL
JACKIE CHOU
BEVERLY M. COLLINS
ROBIN WYATT DUNN
MARK A. FISHER
DAN GARCIA-BLACK
STACY DE GROOT
CHARLES HARMON
LINDA MARIE HILTON
ROSE ANNA HINES
ANITA S. HOLZBERG
GERDA GOVINE ITUARTE
BRIONY JAMES
JEFFRY MICHAEL JENSEN
ZACHARY JENSEN
SEAN MAHONEY
MATT McGEE
KATHERINE NORLAND
LORINE PARKS
JONATHAN VOS POST
JLS
KIYATANA SAPP
ALISHA GRACE SCOTT
MARY LANGER THOMPSON
BRIAN THORPE
TIM TIPTON
LORI WALL-HOLLOWAY
ROBERT WILSON

18 poets read from SGVPQ 66

LORI WALL-HOLLOWAY Spring Shorts

Spring buds push through dead

dry leaves to repurpose old

visions and ideas

May my fragmented

self be pieced back together

with glue of your love

Plantings emerge in meadow

of family to bear fragrance

of hope to those who follow

THELMA T. REYNA Bonsai

cuts are gentle, kind

a nick from blade

snip from shears

bending of the limbs in nuanced arcs

baby branches coaxed

with copper twined

on base and slender arms

jadeite pebbles meld

with moss mounds ranged

like eggs beneath the bonsai’s

infant shade

velvet ground for mist

and dew, droplets from

long- throated sprinklers

waved like magic wands

at shoots and tender leaves

slants of sunlight

swath this princeling

from the fabled east

replete with promise

for ages hence:

gnarled trunk, burly arms,

roots pushing toward gods,  

leaves filled with centuries

of air and cloud

LORINE PARKS today is a beautiful California day

a brilliant October California day
when the clarity of the sunshine
arouses your heart
like your first sip of a good wine
like the dry whisper of a Blue Oak Merlot
or the shimmer of a Napa Chardonnay

today the sparkle of light on ordinary objects
makes you eager to do extraordinary things
climb a glass mountain
dive like a peregrine
the day hands you a mirror
and in it you see stars

and it was just as beautiful
on that other October day
when you met your husband-to-be
the blue of noon split open
and inside lay as many
good intentions
as a pomegranate has seeds

don't blame him
now he's your husband-that-was
she seduced you both
led you astray
bewitched you with her special light
blame that bitch of a California day

TOTI O’BRIEN Charm

Among them she preferred the youngest.

Remember, when she rode her bike, his hands wrapped around her?

She’d never forget, she said.

I heard her. By then I had an infant son.

Time went fast. I recall a teen, eating dinner.

He reached for a fork from the drawer, behind him.

He fished a small one for dessert. His hand huge by contrast.

A man’s hand. 

How many more times would he sit there?

The table was also too small. He must have known.

He must have played dumb, for my sake. That large hand betrayed him.

That fork.

I looked down while eating. I wanted the picture to sink in.

A tattoo, each pixel a drop of my blood.

Those long scorched fingers. That risible silver.

That amulet, dangling.

MINA V. KIRBY *Mother’s Day Flower*

She brought it to me
straight from its garden
Large circles of deep red petals
seeded golden center
long thick pale green stalk
ready to soak up life-giving liquid
In a tall transparent vase
across from my chair
it speaks to me of love
from my cherished child
gives pleasure to my day
and intrigues the curious cats
For a whole week
its stately self stands erect
Its grandeur permeates the room
providing a lovely interlude
in an otherwise ordinary place
until finally its time is spent
Despite fresh nurturing water
it withers
I watch
as frail petals
droop from its stem
and it dies
But its essence is immortal
living in my heart
reflections of it
instantly available
intertwined with soft feelings
for my grown-up child 

LALO KIKIRIKI A Miracle: Portrait of She and He

We are always

constantly

amazed

by tiny miracles

jewels

in the dust of days

               -Alice Q. Palmer Wood

For thirty years she has managed

the monthly miracle

of "paying the bills"

dipping just enough from that money river

         to last

                 past the flipping of a calendar page.

He calls it "keeping the wolf from the door"

and she wonders,

has he ever felt the fangs –

         the drip of its hot saliva

                  slide into the pulse of his clavicle?

She feels the wolf's breath hot

         on the nape of her neck

                  as she signs each check

with the hyphenate name he gave her

making the miracle happen

         one more time

SCOTT C. KAESTNER *intelligent design*

a 50/50 proposition
that ended well
if you ask me

for if it were
up to us men
to birth a child

none of us would
be here, never
would’ve made it

nine months too long
for Y chromosomes
to power through

let’s be honest, gents
we do not have
what it takes

not just physically
but also mentally
to provide nurture

to fully sacrifice
ourselves, let alone
our bad habits

so let us praise
our amazing women
the miracle of birth

be there for her
and honor her
with our gratitude

and the occasional
2 a.m. burger run
to satisfy her craving

JEFFRY MICHAEL JENSEN Take the Green Escape

I search for the wind in the deep black sidewalk of sound straddling

motion with the mouse of a ounce down the water line feeling bright in

a twist of a diagram through the underground kissed softly in the

rubble of mix and tricks feast to feast shattering on English noise

cracking freedom riding rip to round rocket to space of the backbone

wandering in the rise of exhaustion instructing drummers to fall rapid

weave up the floor in the grit of thighs flattened by groove smoking

throat to bridge to rasp of tongue to breathe over pile of hearts

steaming propel to place carry unguarded piece of sunny side cell

division schooling on tour sharp to tenderloin beautiful everything

spilled I am the smuggler standing on the pylon cracking the sugar

middle in half loud as a regal organ in theory waxing stained glass

salvation to early consent streamed instrument outcast machine costume

antique delay apprehension song sailing Scandinavian nest dominant

whirl to orbit

CHARLES HARMON Little Red Wagon

I hadn’t seen you in a hundred years, wondered
What happened to you. Found you buried alive,
Essentially dead , all rusted out, paint peeling
Off your glossy skin, “Radio Flyer” barely visible.

Grandma had promised you to my son when
He was born, but you were nowhere to be found.
I went ahead and bought a new one, plastic made,
Proof against rust, more expensive, not nearly as
Classy as the American made steel and red paint original.
But we took it to the Grand Canyon, around the block to

School, to the park, on picnics, and to the beach.

Years after Erick had outgrown his little red wagon
I found mine, buried under the red apple and weeds
At Grandma’s house, rusted out with a rat family
Nesting inside, unsalvageable, had to be thrown out.
Inside the house there had been a flood from lack of
Maintenance, a supply line ruptured, everything on the
Floor was ruined. I spent months cleaning up, and there’s
Still more to do. On the floor next to hundred year old
Photos of grandparents and great-grandparents, a
Grocery receipt from forty years ago, mold growing on both.

She took home the junk the other teachers were throwing out.

Now I had to overcome that hoarding, Great Depression,
World War Two pack rat mentality that had been passed
On to me. Be selective, be judicious, save for the sisters
What the sisters would want, but give to the Goodwill, the
Salvation Army, the Wounded Warrior Project that which
Will never be used again in this home. Move Mom in with us,
Later assisted living, then the nursing home with memory care.

She could have cleaned up that house herself, but

Procrastination, indecision, and sentimentality prevented her.
If everything is precious then nothing is.
And aren’t we all hanging on to our own little red wagons
Full of memories and junk?

GREGORY FOSTER August 1969

Her afro was so big and mini-skirt so short it was like watching Sandro Botticelli's Venus walk up and down Telegraph Avenue dripping wet draped in a single sea shell while selling Little Red Books

So you watched

Power to the peep-hole sister

Power to the people brother

Where the broom does not sweep

The dust will not vanish of its own accord

Buy a red book and come to the meeting

Will you be there

Right On

Then right on then

And before you knew you

Were an agent of change

Right on right on right now

But she was a demi-goddess

Bound to a petite demagogue

Who espoused Power to the People

But whose soul believed the masses

Were unredeemably benighted asses

Argued  true power should rest

In hands of intellectually best

Small select politically correct central committee of  three

Then promptly appointed himself the group's Leading Cadre

He loved her knot, she had been very deeply envolved in the fray

Been there seen Bunchy Carter gunned down on campus UCLA

Anti-Nixon anti-war Black Panthers Pink Panthers Brown Beret

For her and me it was philosophy and support for common cause

Hippies  Blippies street people blight and all anti-capitalist laws

For him had been sheer power he'd sung

Dialectically and historically  I stand

Following the anti-imperial capitalist plan

Of Lenin  Joe Stalin and  Mao Tse Tung

His vision for second American Revolution dashed

By lapse of time and lame lip excuses

For freshly disclosed Red Guard abuses

Dogmatic and adventuous strategies that clashed

With my own and more importantly too many others

Who were also forward thinking sisters and brothers

Black Student Unions  SDS   United Front  CORE

Freedom Riders  SNIC  and  Veterans Against the War

No way!   It was an iron on patch too foreign to hatch

Even in babylonian Berkeley

But back to her or was it me

At whom she flaunted sexuality

Answering the door in thin neglige

Without bra nor pantie down under

Repeatedly toying taunting enticing

Me to make a political blunder

Hind her glasses  followed the eyes

poised with anti-chauvinist thunder

It seems the sexual gratification revolution delayed

Although revolutionary musical bed  later played

Shortly after the glass jawed movement

Hit the brick wall in seventy-two

She'd had enough to tell him after

Two dogs and two babies we're through

To tell the whole truth he had forced her hand

Had taken a solid steel pipe and killed a man

For all legal fees and her loved one's life

She vowed to become the barrister's wife

Divorced her husband, married his attorney

And thus did end her revolutionary journey

Occasionally seen haunting the East Bay

Poor chap quite delusional to this day

He recognized and confronted me to say

I alone revolutionary remain

Was it the truth or is he insane

Was so long ago a distant Shangri La it seems

Those hopes now most dust lost utopian dreams

Chance at  true social revolution  never so real

As the cold hard pipe used by angry hands to kill

MARK A. FISHER trump

“turn the card”

she whispers

in an atmosphere

of anxiety

the smell of peppers

and cheap incense

trapped by frayed

curtains

that make the room

dark enough

to hold arcana

not trumping

piles of losing scratchers

tossed into drawers

with her dreams

as laughing children

remnants of her magic

fill the backyard of now

still

another card is turned over

on her kitchen table

while she looks for
a better future