30 poets being published in SGVPQ 68

MARIA A. ARANA
JACK G. BOWMAN
CALOKIE
DON KINGFISHER CAMPBELL
BEVERLY M. COLLINS
POET COOPER
SEVEN DHAR
ROBIN WYATT DUNN
MARK A. FISHER
GREGORY FOSTER
KATHLEEN GUNTON
CHARLES HARMON
LINDA MARIE HILTON
ROSE ANNA HINES
ALEX ANDREW HUGHES
JEFFRY MICHAEL JENSEN
JAN SEE KING
MINA V. KIRBY
DEBORAH P KOLODJI
MARIE LECRIVAIN
JOAN McNERNEY
KATHERINE NORLAND
THELMA T. REYNA
JOSHUA ROARK
LING SENA
LUKE STILWELL
JERI THOMPSON
TIM TIPTON
MAJA TROCHIMCZYK
LORI WALL-HOLLOWAY

18 poets read from SGVPQ 67

LORI WALL-HOLLOWAY

Rainstorm

Light illuminates darkness ushered

in by loud thunder that shakes ground

accompanied by water pounding

the earth.

The splash of tires on rain soaked streets

are calming to hear while cuddled
in warm bed inside home.

BRIAN THORPE

I Saw An Old Man Weeping Alone

I saw an old man weeping alone as he sat on a city bench.
His open sobs seemed even louder than the urban
din that enveloped us.
His tears were more torrential than a hundred summer storms.

A multitude scurried past him,
paying little if any attention,
let alone allowing the time to inquire as to what it was that saddened him so, or offer a gentle touch.

I did take notice but I didn't act,
steeped, mired, consumed as I was in
some myopic maelstrom of vain distractions.
My head was tilted down, my jacket collar turned up as if
to brave a blizzard.
And thus I moved past him, icy and brisk like a north Atlantic wind.

I came to the end of the block and something unseen compelled me to turn around.
When I did the bench was empty. The doleful man had been swallowed by the chaos of concrete and car horns.
I went on my way, tossing the image and sounds of him behind me as if they were handfuls of worthless coins.

I made my way to an amber lit tavern.
Once inside, I bathed luxuriously in oceans of Bushmill's
and rivers of Merlot, while the juke box kept me sweetly
sated with Nashville cliches and moldy oldies.

Yet above the clinking of ice, the drunken laughter,
at the bartender's jokes, the riffs of Chuck Berry and the twang
of Hank Sr., I could hear the old man's sobs as though from a distant vale.
They became faint words of admonition.
His remembered tears were now a message scrawled on
the bar with invisible ink.

What if, they wrote, there comes an hour when some chill pair of hands takes hold of me like a set of medieval shackles,
rendering me motionless and, as such, a victim to some onslaught of grief.

What will it be about or threaten to become?
The death of a lover, a terminal malady, the imminence of war or some epic upheaval?
Faith  elusive, abandoned, misplaced or betrayed?
Mirages once prized by a cocky, foolish boy esteemed and
exalted them years before to venerated plateaus, only to have them, in more wizened years, reveal the true nature of what they'd always been:
Paint by number portraits, sophistries cloaked in the
tongues of wisdom, salacious encounters disguised as love,
All as void of any true value as the ring in a crackerjack box!

And should the sundial signal that moment, will I take the place of the old man who sat on the bench so distraught and abandoned?
Will a blind, impervious, throng whirl around me as it had him?
Will I silently beg for comfort like Oliver Twist with my bowl in hand?
And should I look up, will you be the ones who keep walking,
uncaring, remote and awaiting your turn to weep?

ALISHA GRACE SCOTT

Shadows Outcast

I miss the sensation of a shadow--

That dark friend connected

heel to earth,

trailing me silently,

reassuring me that illusions

are still possible and

wonder remains-- I can

appear eight feet tall and

my fingers can turn into wolf heads.

Nothing follows me softly,

nothing creates wonder as I walk.

Shadows are outcast, hidden now

under freeway tunnels,

living off stray drops of water

laced with melted tar, tire rubber.

They don't miss me at all--

they miss their castaway past

chasing marooned and orange

leaves in fall, dancing with them,

dipped down into a cool paradise.

I remember when they still fought--

tip toed to my toes, defied the

whirlwinds of fuming dust, but

they lost the war to the sun,

gained only vertigo in battle, and

spinning from ground to sky,

they unraveled the shade in retreat.

The bees dart past recklessly,

trees are stained yellow,

thirsty, dizzy, we cry:

Will the shadows ever return?

Solar flares burn this valley,

reply only in snickering freckles--

They leave me with tiny, dark

new marks. Forever summer

tattoos and brands new

constellations on my arms.

JONATHAN VOS POST

Metasonnet: "Day Mom Died"

.
It becomes a season:
Day Mom Died --
Night Dad Died --
a season of frozen sunlight
like Hiroshima Day
.
As surf rolls in
breakfast with Portuguese fishermen
asking: "Have you read
a good book lately?
Listened to beautiful music?"
.
Numbing myself with a calculator
at the funeral
the wake, flowers,

corpse, lobster rolls

LORINE PARKS

a reader’s guide to sleep  

nickel   silver   copper   gold

tin mines in Cornwall

lemon   chili   mustard   mold

Porlock   flintlock    oarlock   lock jaw

jack straw   jackdaw   see-saw Marjorie Daw

sweet marjoram’s the password    Lear at Dover Beach

once more into the breach   do I dare to eat a peach

Riki Tiki Tavi   Rin Tin Tin   tintinnabulation of the bells bells

will o’ the wisp   whip-poor-will   poor Tom’s a cold

my heart leaps up when I behold

indigo   vertigo   verdigris   chrome yellow

Quinn the Eskimo   a damsel with a dulcimer 

that sunny dome of opium

Waterloo   Rubicon   Wenlock Edge    Kubla Khan

leprechaun   la belle dame   Winken Blinken and Nod

anthrax   Achilles wrath   the topless towers of Ilium  

fiery furnace Rosebud   flaming sword Uriel    person from Porlock

bells bells bells   Big Ben   Big Chill

Alfred Lord Tennyson  

draw the curtains so so so

we’ll go to supper i’ the morning so so so

Big Bertha   Big Sleep

after many a summer

dies the swan

let me go

take back thy gift

the charm’s wound round

tin mines in Cornwall

nickel   silver   copper   gold

JEFFRY MICHAEL JENSEN

Superhuman Fog

stillness is taking over the nice nowhere

that walks and talks like a zero sum game

scattering ironies into the canyons

running neck and neck with machines

belching nerves in the luxury of limp nation

pure normalcy cries in the mountains

pumping strangers for the chase around the moon

altering clouds exploding trailer Zen

numbers condemning me to games of chance

deep download intimacy shattered

distracted by the speed of blinking emptiness

pocketing bloodshot doorway freaks

a morning of mammoth bacon blues

a jumpy shining buckle cruise

mistaken dribble evolutionary butts

in a superhuman fog of philosophy and flesh

BRIONY JAMES

Polishing Dirt

If sound bytes could be used to clean

turning themselves black as their cores

they would blare empty phrases

disconnects of clashing brass

gaseous explosions of trivia

If news feeds could be used at all

they couldn't even compost

rancid thoughts couched in wretched tongues

bellowing nonsense

sounds of fury

signifying nada

if pundits could speak any words

that revolved faintly around the truth

like erratic comets wobbling around stars

they would scream to the universe

with Barnum's acid

but never his veracity

So silence the pundits, the news and the bytes

before they bite too hard at intellect

rendering it numb

before the endless polish of excrement

talk a walk and talk to a tree

it has more honesty

and the sense to stay still

GERDA GOVINE ITUARTE

Girls

juvie camp in the woods

illusion of freedom 

lush gardens  succulent haven

officers on patrol 

watch monitor  listen

keep the peace

trip to doctor dentist

hands cuffed behind back

every day jewelry

womanhood wanders

future opaque.

ROSE ANNA HINES

The List

of patients numbered by priority

Nurses, doctors, added.

Check with each

as they are the authority.

Running at high speed is a necessity

but, since Carol called in sick

and the computers are down,

I'm getting explosively testy.

A thirty seven year old mother

of two young children

lies struggling for breath,

pale, so little muscle left

she has bones covered in Saran Wrap skin

The morphine drip can't keep up with her pain.

Yet, she smiles at me

her words at snail pace are

"today is a good day,

I saw my children

my husband held my hand

a long time while he

reminded me of treasured moments.

I was able to swallow

and keep down soup.

Now, you my friend are here.

I am so blessed"

It was impossible

to keep the tears

from running down my cheeks

as I held her hand.

I moved her arms and legs

gently, with profound care

as if carrying a child.

Before I leave,

I give her a hug and kiss her cheek

and reminder her,

she is dearly loved.

I know, she may not be here tomorrow.

I walk out of her room

down the hall,

down the stairs

out of the hospital.

Walk for blocks

around the neighborhood

looking at houses, trees, flowers, cars, people

Being so happy and grateful

to be alive, SO ALIVE,

Aware of my very cells singing with joy.

No it wasn't on my list,

but the most import priorities

often aren't

CHARLES HARMON

Birds in Fog

That night I drove back late from your place
The fog was so thick
I could barely see the road
And the brightest lights on the freeway
Resembled parallel moons obscured by cloud.
Somehow I got home safely
And looking out my window
As I walked to my own bed
I observed two birds sitting
Perched side-by-side on the telephone wire,
The same wire that carries our conversations
Back and forth between your life and mine.

As I shut the window, startled,
They leaped from the cable
Soaring into the air, dancing in spirals
Around one another, disappearing into mist.
Lying down between the sheets, closing my eyes,
I could hear them singing, even through the glass.
When I opened the window again, this time
They did not fly away, but held to their perch,
Glancing at me momentarily, then
Resuming their song, courting in duet
As the fog swirled around them.

How had they been able to find their way home,
By what instinct, how could they intuit their path
Through this world of darkness and obscurity,
Of cloud and confusion?
Can we ever learn to find our way
To be together again?
We only get to keep
What we are willing to let go of,
By holding on too hard we lose all….
So if these birds seem so content and comfortable
Within this world of ambiguity,
Of imperfect knowledge, limited powers,
And incomplete freedom,
If they can find their way through the fog

Then why not also we?

DAN GARCIA-BLACK

Wonders

Ready for some serious drinking,

I board the metro bus 180

from an early happy hour restaurant/bar

to my fave late happy-hour, hipster-free dive.

Fare paid, I turn to find a seat

where I see an older woman about my age

sitting in front reaching into a bag at her feet.

Bending down she is showing a lovely décolletage.

Captivated, I am mesmerized.

She looks up and I am caught staring. 

Awkward.

After an uncomfortable trip avoiding her gaze,

I inebriatedly try to apologize.

I get up for my stop and say 

that seeing her on this bus

has proven to me

that the wonders of the world

may be getting older

but they, certainly, have not fallen to ruins.

I disembark and turn back to wave goodbye.

She looks at me and gives me the finger.

(Upon Reflection) 

I guess that's no wonder after all.

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