San Diego Poetry Annual 2024-25

SAN DIEGO

POETRY ANNUAL

2024-25

SAN DIEGO

POETRY ANNUAL

2024-25

San Diego Entertainment + Arts Guild

San Diego, California

San Diego Entertainment and Arts Guild (SDEAG)

1953 Huffstatler St., Suite A

Rainbow, CA 92028

760 728-2088

sandiegopoetryannual.com

sdpoetryannual@gmail.com

sdeag.org

sdeag1@gmail.com

© San Diego Entertainment and Arts Guild (SDEAG)

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system

or transmitted by any means without the express written consent of

the Publisher.

First published by San Diego Entertainment and Arts Guild on

March 1, 2025.

ISBN: 9798307518601

Printed in the United States of America.

The views expressed in this collection of poems are solely those of the poet

and do not necessarily reflect the views of the Publisher, and the Publisher

hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

ii

CONTENTS

ISHMAEL VON HEIDRICK-BARNES

POEMS 1

Open Window 4

SAKURA

Words 5

ARWEN JAMISON

Gatekeepers 6

CAROL F. STABLER

I Had These Earrings 7

SUZANNE LUMMIS

The Big Lie 8

ALI ARSANJANI

Bridges 9

CARLOS ORNELAS

Spring is in the Air 10

CORINNE STANLEY

Eclipse 2024 11

SOPHIE DORMAL

I Am Hungry for Peace 12

ANDY PALASCIANO

Package Deal 12

LULU WONG

Tea Ceremony 13

JON VON ERB

Change Challenges Constrictions 13

MARIA MAZZIOTTI GILLAN

My Daughter’s Voice on the Phone 14

MAI-LON GITTELSOHN

A Bend in the River 15

NANCY ELIZABETH

The Mother in Me 16

JANICE ALPER

Sorry Hands 17

KATE MCGOVERN

Grief Cookies 18

WALTER STEPAHIN

Banta’s Bakery 19

iii

JOAN GERSTEIN

A&P Apprentice 20

BART EDELMAN

Belonging 21

CHRISSY CROFT

The Exegesis of Myself 22

KAITLIN DYER

My Therapist Asks Why I’m Writing 24

BRIDGETTE ROBESON

Love 25

CAROL MOSCRIP

Sandbox Therapy 26

MICHELLE SMITH

Ashes to Ashes 27

ELAINE WESTHEIMER

Clear Barriers 28

ALAN ARCHER

Tumbleweeds ‘n Popcorn 29

MAKAYLA WAMBOLDT

Woman at the Getty dreams of becoming stained glass 30

KEALA RUSHER

21 April 30

STEVE MCDONALD

The Last Thing I Remember 31

DENNIS FRATE

Found and Lost 32

STELLA WRIGHT

I’ll Only Fall Once 33

LESLIE FERGUSON

Expectations 34

MELANIE H. MANUEL

acceptance 35

KELSEY O'CONNOR

Refraction 36

EMILY IRISS

Blood Thirsty 37

BILL RATNER

Muse of Ruckus 38

iv

JAN BEATTY

Dead Orphanage 39

RON SALISBURY

Guilt 40

PENNY PERRY

My Mother Indicts Herself for Murder 41

NANCY LYNÉE WOO

Self-Portrait with Panic and Pillows 42

KRISTI ELLIS WITT

I’ve Never Liked the Saying that Youth

Is Wasted on the Young 43

SANDY CARPENTER

Goldfish Bowl 44

TERRI GLASS

Sex Appeal 45

ELYSE FARWELL

womanhood 46

JUDY REEVES

The Sound of My Voice 47

REGINA MORIN

John Wayne 48

CARLOS TARRAC

Story Without Words 49

SUSAN BLACK ALLEN

When the Center No Longer Holds 50

KATHY O’FALLON

The Absent Father, More Absent 51

ANNE TWEEDY

Parenting: a History 52

RICHARD L. MATTA

Forensic Botany 53

JOSEPH D. MILOSCH

A Perfect Irish Grave 54

DANIEL H.R. FISHMAN

Chucho in the Moon 55

AMIR SOMMER

Born Twice 56

v

CATHERINE DARBY

Neutral Buoyancy 56

MADISON VICTORIA

Consequences 57

NAJAH ABDELKADER

No words 58

MARCYN CLEMENTS

standing in front 59

CHIEFTAIN

Spirit of the Takeover 54 60

CHRISTINE SINRUD SHADE

The Poet 62

JOHN FESSLER

Another day in the USA 63

JUAN FELIPE HERRERA

It Must Be Compassion 64

JEN LAFFLER

Free Lunch 65

SHARON ELISE

To the body, to love, to lust to peace 66

JUAN LURUZIAGA

Zapatos y Luces 67

JEFF BURT

On the Opportunity for Out of Body Travel 68

ANITRA CAROL SMITH

I Rat You Out: a Testimony 69

LYNNETTE CAMPBELL FINCH

Crazy Eights 70

CAROLYN MACK

Objet Trouvé 71

DEBORAH ALLBRITAIN

Jaxon 72

J.K. WALLEN

Granny Annie, Queen of Serra Mesa 73

ANNETTE FRIEND

A Discontent Customer 74

JOANNE SHARP

Rolled Tacos on a Rainy Day 75

KRISTEN HORNUNG

Threshold 76

vi

JEFF ARMSTRONG

Nocturne 77

JOHN FESSLER

46 Years 78

TAYLOR GARCÍA

Roses 79

BLAIZE FONSECA

Purgatory 80

LISA LOW

At the Spa—a Love Story 81

GAYANA PARSEGOVA

10 months 82

KEP PECKHAM

In my universe 83

IAN KENDRICK

Next Stop 84

RAQUEL BAKER

Giving Way 85

GLORIA KEELEY

Behind the House 86

KATIE MANNING

Self-Portrait as a House 87

MARGE PIERCY

Among the climbing squash and beans 88

RAE ROSE

Everyone's Name Is Rae Rose 89

TOMMY WELTY

The Naming of Everything 90

ARIANA KRAFT

Shadow Self 91

RITA MELISSANO

we walk on water 91

CHELSEA WILLIAMS

It’s Just Hair 92

NANCY SANDWEISS

Stalking Errant Strands 93

JENNIFER CHUNG KLAM

Mosquito Tone 94

ESTELLE GILSON

Crabbed Age and Youth 96

vii

LLOYD HILL

Paradise Midnight Transit 97

CESAR MARTINEZ JUAREZ

Sough and Sigh 97

LENA PORTERA

Color of you 98

CARLY MARIE DEMENTO

Keep Going 99

FRANCESCA DIMEGLIO

Art and Science 100

ALAN GARZON-MONROY

Forest 101

KATHABELA WILSON

Bonsai Forest 102

CLIFTON KING

Beach Encounter 102

CASSANDRA KIANA MARTIN

Beneath the Surface 103

LAKE MCCLENNEY

Don’t Feel a Thing 104

RITA ZAMORA

Tartan Scarf 105

GORDON LU

Where I’m From 106

LENNY LIANNE

Saint Textus 107

CORA GREY HUOT

Strawberries 108

DONATO MARTINEZ

I Hope There Are Mangos in Heaven 110

EDDIE KRZEMINSKI

The Skateboarders 112

TANNER SMITH

he liked the cheap liquor store beer 112

JEFF BETTGER

Commencement Day 113

ANNETTE KETNER

Just One 114

CHARLES TATUM

Motorcycle Destiny 115

viii

JEREMY MCKAY

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a ‘64 Dodge Dart 116

BARBARA MOSQUEDA

Tunnel Vision 118

ALEX DEDDEH

A Poem about ADHD 119

TIM RAY

the discovery of fire 120

NELS GOÑI CHRISTIANSON

the heart birds 121

AMANDA LEIGH MATTIMOE

Two Dogs 122

RON LAUDERBACH

Johnny 123

JAMES COATES

Returning to the Sea 124

LORRAINE A. PADDEN

post-it notes 125

DAWN BROWN

Surf's Up 125

BRIAN KIRVEN

Holding Fast 126

SUNNY REY AZZARITO

Life 127

PAT ANDRUS

A Calming Face of Words 128

JANE MUSCHENETZ

Ode to My Teenage Son 129

LISA SCHWARTZ

Responding to a Letter from Billy Collins 130

JENNIFER KARP

Poetry Tantrum 131

DANIELLE SOUCY MILLS

The Silence 132

MICHAEL KLAM

Life will fall apart 132

PATRICIA AYA WILLIAMS

Kite 133

ix

KAREN DONALDSON

Cresting 133

HEATHER CIRCLE

Rainstorm 134

TERRY HERTZLER

Another Night at Ray’s 135

BRANDON CESMAT

Reading Second Skin 136

The STEVE KOWIT Poetry Prize

Introduction: ELLEN BASS 138

Honorees 139

DEVREAUX BAKER

KIM NORIEGA

JESSICA COHN

KAUA MĀHOE‖ADAMS

The Kowit 2024

Body of the Beloved 141

Runner Up

Spilt Milk Theory of Time 142

Second Runner Up

Imprint 144

Honorable Mentions

Hawaiian Baby Food, circa 1997 146

ROBIN BECKER

The Walking Cure 147

DEBBIE BENSON

In The Village 148

ERIKA BRUMETT

BILLIE DEE

Love Note, with Psychoacoustics and Elephants 149

Rosarium 150

KATHLEEN ELLIS

Looking for Allen Ginsberg

JORDAN HILL

in a Power Outage in Old Town, Maine 151

My Burrito 152

x

KATHRYN JORDAN

Calling All Angels 154

CLINT MARGRAVE

Side Work 156

STEVE MCDONALD

Reverence 158

KARLA MORTON

It was a Wednesday, for heaven’s sake 159

SUZANNE O’CONNELL

I'm Certain of This 160

YISKAH ROSENFELD

Zucchini 161

AMANDA RUSSELL

The Blizzard of 1888 162

GORDON TAYLOR

Ghosting 164

JOHN SCHNEIDER

Purgatory 166

JIM SIMPSON

Call to Action 167

NATALIE TAYLOR

JIM MORENO

In defiance 168

Native Poets

The Ocean Refuses No Rivers 170

MICHAEL TURNER-ORTEGA

In a Relationship with All Things 171

KIM SHUCK

Hot Weather Song 172

RAY BELARDES

What Is That Sound 173

RAEMAN

The Love Heart 173

NAVIESHUA BOJORQUEZ

I Am a Loud Native Girl 174

xi

TENNA PICO

The Native Cloud 174

MEYULK SANCHEZ

I Am Native 175

BELLA GUACHINO

My Jiu-Jitsu Way 175

ZOE MANZO

Hear That Sound 176

CAINEN JAIME

Sonnet 2 176

NEVAEH J. CALAC

Bird Dancing 177

ANDREW AGUILAR

My Tribe 177

LUIS GOMEZ

JAKE

REECE

A Life on the Road 178

We are still here 178

Culture 179

SONNI SALGADO

I Am Native 179

CURTIS IDE

I have a secret poem 180

RED EAGLE

I am a native 180

SHERLYN LOPEZ

I really enjoy music 181

OSHIILA CHAVEZ

The Sonnet 181

RITA CONTRERAS

I love music 182

OCTAVIA CALAC

Sonnet 1 182

EDWARD CALAC

LENNY

Sonnet Poem 183

If you knew my culture 183

xii

NAYALONI MAGEE

A Sonnet 184

JODI DIAZ

dance sing skirt 184

VALERIE NELSON

I am Lusieño and Diegueño 185

JESSALYN RIOS

My Sonnet 185

CONNOR MAJEL

Sonnet 186

DAVID LANGENHORST

Veterans

Relativity 188


Playing Fair Authentically 189

CARRIE ST. ANDRE

Night Jumps 190

JAY BRANTON

Connections severed 190

JERAMY STILLMAN SHANLEY

Internal Suffering 191

BILLIEKAI BOUGHTON

Straddle 192

ADAM CHRISTIAN NAVARRO-LOWERY

The Night Has Eyes in Kosovo 194

NICK AGUILAR

Waiting for Death 194

JOSEPH D. MILOSCH

The Israel-Gaza War 195

ELLA BARWICK

The Bird on Solstice 195

WILLIAM HARRY HARDING

Dogfight to Détente 196

GRAYSON WILSON

I Remember It All 198

SHEROD PATILLO

The Veterans 199

JENNIE SELBY

I Don't Know 200

xiii

TYRONE MOORE

The Love Doctor 201

SHARON ELISE

1960s Family Album Oakland 202

SUSAN NIEMI

Specter of My Queerness 203

JIM MORENO

Wounds or Scars: to Other Veterans Like Me 204

PAUL BANKS

A Mistress Unknown 206

SANDY DEE

Don't Ask Me What I Wore 207

DOUGLAS FREY

Lilith 208

VANESSA LOPEZ

His Name 208

DJAEL MERCER

Sultry 209

CHRISTOPHER M. BLANCHARD

Weekend Dragons 210

LEE LOR

We Marched 212

SAUL LOPEZ

Broken 213

DAVID CLARK

Morning Cup 213

JEREMY MAGNO

My Uncle’s Misguided Children 214

CASEY ROMERO

Take Heed America 215

SAMUEL PEREZ

America’s Team 217

ANTHONY A. LOBUE

For those of us who. . . 218

xiv

Poet Laureate

Introduction: Land as a Grammar of Liberation 221

JASON MAGABO PEREZ

Land Will Always Say 222

SAMIRA HASSAN

Land Displacement 223

MAJDAL CENTER YOUTH WRITERS & ARTISTS

I Speak in My Own Voice 224

Conversation with the Artist 227

The Architecture of a Poem: JAMES HUBBELL 231

KATIE KEMPLE

POEMS 2

Our City Replicates the Universe 238

LEE COULTER

I Love Me 239

ETHAN MCKNIGHT

Learning to be Human 240

PAUL A. SZYMAŃSKI‖

Amygdala 241

LISA SHULMAN

Algaphobia 242

CRYSTOPHVER R

Touching Down 243

WENDY SCHNEIDER

Delusion 244

MARY FREDRICKS

Mama Escapes Communist Russia 246

SUSAN TERENCE

Brethren 248

NANCY SHIFFRIN

Danger 250

CHRISSY BACLAGAN

Forever 252

JON WESICK

Crack Babies 253

xv

FRED LONGWORTH

Making the Streets Safe Again 254

KATHY KEOGH

The Wake 255

MICHAEL HUANG

The Hook 256

HANH CHAU

TEASER 257

FATHIMA NIDHA.V

Through the Graveyard 258

SHELLEY GETTEN

Breaking Up 259

LORA MATHIIS

Dust 260

JOHNATHAN WARD

You 261

DAVE SCHMIDT

The leafless trees 262

BARBARA HU

Rainy Night 263

COSIMO GIOVINE

A Bird’s Song 264

MATTHEW CHRISTIANSCHER

Blue Heron’s World 264

JILL G. HALL

The Gargantuan 265

MEL EDDEN

The Nest 266

DENA CARSON BERRY

Nevada’s Mountain Sheep 267

MICHELLE SMITH

The Butterfly 268

KARY LYNN VAIL

Mixteco 270

CARRIE ST. ANDRE

Green Valley Falls Cold Plunge 271

SHAIRA ORQUE

Childhood Pool 272

CAROL IRELAND ARCHIBALD

Reliability of the Moon 273

xvi

SUZANNE O’CONNELL

My Girl Scout Leader 274

SARA SHIRAZIAN

the sun’s breakfast 276

HANNAH TRACY

Over-ripe 277

SUSAN TAYLOR

What the Moon Jellyfish Knows 278

MONICA KAKKAR

Wanderlust 279

MARG WAFER

Hammock Moon 280

SHARON LAABS

Walk This Way 281

JIM MORENO

In Kindness of The Divine Children of the Sun 282

STEVE RODRIGUEZ

A December in California 284

JANELL STRUBE

The Sky Was Red at Sunset 286

ASHLEY MCLAUGHLIN

The Beginning of August 287

WENDY VAN CAMP

moonlight and notebook 287

ERIC LEHEW

Saving Daylight 288

ROBERT WINDORF

Before Sunset 289

RANDI HAWKINS GARCIA

Childhood Skies 290

NANCY FOLEY

Springtime in the Fifties 292

BOBBIE JEAN BISHOP

Bisquick Riff 293

JOSÉ CEJA

Nostalgia 294

PRARTHO SERENO

W is for Wonder 295

xvii

RODNEY L. LOWMAN

Transitions 296

LISA ALBRIGHT RATNAVIRA

Ode to the Pechanga Live Oak Tree 297

SERETTA MARTIN

Wayfarer / Intuition of Trees 298

GRACIE CORDES

Leaf Water 299

SHARON THOMPSON

Wisdom Worker 300

CLAUDIA ARAGON

The Orchid 301

NANCY LUJAN

Hope is a thing with trotters 302

MARJORIE PEZZOLI

Blue Lagoon 303

MARTYNA C. MILLER

Beauty Past Change 304

LOUIS FARACE

Part of the Plan 304

CLS SANDOVAL

memories after time 305

LLOYD LICKERT

Hortense 305

CHARLES HARMON

Removable Feast 306

TIM CALAWAY

As It Was at the Beginning 307

CAROL SHAMON

The Bench 308

GABRIEL RUBI

Perfection of Plumage 309

SAMANTHA FAKHIMI

Naked Blue 310

ANN M. ALVES

Young Love 311

KAREN RUIZ

Labor of love 311

CHRIS ERNEST NELSON

A Second Look 312

xviii

SHIRA SANDELL

A Love Infinite 313

ARCHANA RAJKUMAR

A Teeny Crush 314

JOHN OHL WEBSTER

Love is a flower 315

G. GAIL EASON

My Heart Is Not Set 316

JACKIE CHOU

The Queen 317

MARIA PAULE DELOS REYES

Sweet as Apple Pie 318

CAROLYN MOGAVERO

A Mother's Eden 319

RACHEL LEMMEN

Baby Blanket Prayers 320

SALINAS DINH

A Mother’s Hairbrush 321

ARI HONARVAR and JANE MUSCHENETZ

Love 321

VANDANA PARASHAR

tightening their grip 322

ELLIE SLADE

Slices of Peace 323

ALISON BELL MILLER

I Used to Think that Suicide Was Interesting

JENNIFER HUNT

But Now I Know I Was Just Envious 324

The Ascension 325

TIMOTHY PAUL EVANS

No Cause for Us to Tarry 326

MILAGROS VILAPLANA

12 hours 327

DANIEL CHOI

A Fly 328

JESSE GENE CUNNINGHAM

My California Bigfoot 329

DAVID GILDER

Humpback 330

xix

LESLIE HODGE

First Class 331

FRAN FINLEY

Portal of Wonder 332

MATTHEW JOY

Escape in the Rain 334

RICHARD WEAVER

Who knew a drop of rain could fall 335

BEN BIRD

Jawbreaker 335

MADISON VICTORIA

Solving Zeno's Paradox 336

JEFF ARMSTRONG

Koa’s Road to Hana 339

STARRY KRUEGER

Lotus Street 342

ISABELLE WALKER

Jesusita Trail 344

ROGER FUNSTON

Sierra Summer Days 345

ZOE GALLOWAY

The ole lake 346

RICHARD MARCELLUS

Relaxed Fist 347

KAYLA KRUT

Summer Swell 348

AARON BLUMENTHAL

The Shore 349

DOUG HABERMAN

Jazz on the Beach 350

KIRBY MICHAELWRIGHT

Solana Beach, California 351

WILLIAM HALL

California Me 352

JANICE HUILING ZHANG

Waves in San Diego 353

LESLIE L.J. REILLY

A Walk at Sunset Cliffs 354

xx

BENJAMIN FARO

Heaven Sent 355

CHUCK PFARRER

St. Brendan’s Boat 356

DIANE FUNSTON

Sanguine 357

KATHLEEN FELAN JAY

Golumpki 358

TREVOR RYBACK

All You Are 359

BJORN ENDRESEN

I Lost It 360

ELIZABETH YAHN WILLIAMS

A Simple Observation on Learning French 361

JEFF BETTGER

Eureka! 362

CHARLIE BERIGAN

Real Gravy 363

R.HAINES

Freckles 364

SAGE HERRIN

What Powers Do You Possess 365

PETER KRUMBACH

Transfer of Power 366

ROBERT HALLECK

Every Thursday Afternoon 367

ANTHONY AZZARITO

The Matter Behind the Motive 368

ADRIAN ARANCIBIA

for the dreamers 370

JEAN E. TADDONIO

Fractured Family 371

BARBARA HUNTINGTON

Praise This Child of My Flesh 372

JOAN GERSTEIN

Testosterone and Verse 373

RAJAK JAMAL

An Acquired Taste 374

xxi

WILLIAM SCOTT GALASSO

An Invitation: Declined 375

ALI ASHHAR

Screenplay 376


Writing Near Fruit 377

ADHARA MERELES

Fruit Fly Resurrection 378

MARY LENORE QUIGLEY

The Collection Basket 379

ROBBIE HAMMEL

We’re Only In It For the Money 380

BILL MOHR

Deathbed 381

MICHAEL KLAM

I poke you in the 381

ANNE RANDERSON

Chilled to the Bone 382

KEN BUHR

Un-Named Chapter 383

ANN-MARIE THORNTON

Whatever sorrows lay ahead 384

MARGAUX PAUL

Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one

wild and precious life? 385

MARY ANNE TRAUSE

Not My Robe 386

RAVI KIRAN

worm in the apple 387

CLAUDIA POQUOC

Don’t Hesitate 388

LESLIE CLARK

Coyote, Resting 390

THE POETS 391

REGOPMA; EDOTPRS 411

EXECUTIVE STAFF 413

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 414

SPECIAL THANKS 415

CREDITS 415

xxii

SAN DIEGO

POETRY ANNUAL

2024-25

Poems from the Region and Beyond

REGIONAL EDITORS

ADRIÁN ARANCIBIA

BRANDON CESMAT

KARLA CORDERO

ADAM GREENFIELD

JIM MORENO

RON SALISBURY

ROBT O ́SULLIVAN

JON WESICK

MANAGING EDITOR

SERETTA MARTIN

EDITORIAL DIRECTOR

AMEERAH HOLLIDAY

EXECUTIVE EDITOR

ASSOCIATE PUBLISHER

MICHAEL KLAM

PUBLISHER

ANTHONY BLACKSHER

FOUNDER


2

Poems

1

3

Open Window

for Karen Kenyon

When the queen of synchronicity

had a stroke and left her garden

for the last time

she lost

control of the hands

that composed haiku,

legs that walked

in the footsteps of Dickens and the Brontës

The voice that shaped students

into poets

could no longer reach her lips,

leaving us speechless

Like Guanyin, the goddess of mercy,

she was all ears,

spent her life dancing

in the eye of a lotus flower

When we came to sit at her bedside,

she opened her eyes

and revealed a new form of verse

inscribed on her retinas

Younger

than the nurses half her age,

she managed to grab our fingers

and hold them to her heart

Lighter

than a paper skinned luminary,

brighter than the sun

that swallowed her tongue

ISHMAEL VON HEIDRICK-BARNES

4

What could visiting poets do

except watch her fly

out of the window

she opened for

everyone who crossed her path?

Words

SAKURA

Origami cranes linger on these teeth

and they glitter along the syllables as they fly.

‚Calm‖down,‖count‖to‖10,‖and‖then‖you‖breathe.‛

Things you wish could satisfy.

But‖I’ve‖sung‖those‖songs,

I’ve‖sung‖them all at least once.

I’ve‖left‖my‖throat‖where‖it‖belongs,

I’ve‖left‖it‖for‖hours,‖days‖and‖months.

Left it for those who need

and‖those‖who‖must‖hear‖of‖all‖that’s‖good,

those origami cranes did succeed,

when all these eight billion people understood.

Oh, how beautiful people must be,

to save others with words.

5

Gatekeepers

ARWEN JAMISON

One Drop Rule dictates

I’m‖Black.

Black Girls in

High School dictate

I’m‖too‖white

to be Black.

White Grandma says

These white

Black Girls cannot

come to

this small town, to

this family, to

this country club.

I’ll‖be‖your‖Nana

in secret.

A whole week

worth of groceries

in the fridge.

Once you get

here we will not

leave the house.

A week living

in living rooms,

protecting.

6

I Had These Earrings

CAROL F. STABLER

I had these earrings. . .

stars and stripes

defined by rhinestones

which caught the light

blazed with every movement

flashing a Yankee Doodle confidence and pride.

Then came the war, The Longest War,

and rhinestones seemed too celebratory

for conflict based on questionable evidence.

I put the earrings away

where they could not signal false support.

Other images and causes came along,

demanding allegiance. Mean mouths with small spirits

whispered acid. Shouting ascended. Respect faded.

True American and Patriot shifted with interpretation.

To speak up for a party or a position, to signify,

no longer invited dialogue but rather

drew attack by tongue and tweet.

I took the earrings out of their dark box,

into the light once again. Gave them away,

donated them, to be redeemed by someone

willing to risk being assigned a tribe.

7

The Big Lie

from Nursery Poems for Adults

SUZANNE LUMMIS

is accompanied by a lotta little ones,

like a large, misshapen spider

that shrinks down some

when a horde of babies scramble

off its back. But I feel for those babies

in the hard world—the odds so long,

their chances. . . Maybe. But lies—I’d‖bet‖

on them. The climate suits them fine,

and, wow, what a lot to eat—feed on.

Hear the gobbling? And the swallowing?

And the mother of the lies, no, the Daddy

of all Lies, he feeds on his following.

But forget what I said about spiders—

that‖metaphor’s,‖like,‖crummy.

Anyway, when did you ever see—

and‖I’m‖counting‖horror,‖sci-fi,

monster matinees, post‖war‖to‖’63,

with giant crabs and ants,

and that radioactive bunny

that intimidates a town—

like I was saying, when did ever

spiders, even in the movies,

snare so many millions, and

take a nation down?

8

Bridges

ALI ARSANJANI

Bridges once spanned between our aisles, now they crumble and fall,

dust‖stirs‖in‖the‖wind’s‖quiet‖sigh‖too‖late‖to‖catch‖before‖it‖falls.

The oak bends not to creed or to color—its roots still grip the earth,

firm beneath us all, the soil thins, making the mighty fragile before it

falls.

Under a seamless sky, we still search for shadows in the light,

casting doubts where hope belongs, darkening before it falls.

The‖river’s‖song‖fades‖with‖each‖winding turn, growing thin,

do we listen before the silence reigns, before it falls?

The oceans rise and fires rage, the earth itself in revolt,

do we heed the warning cries, wake, before it falls?

From On Tyranny, Snyder tells us: beware the one-party state,

erosion of facts, blind loyalty—all signs before it falls.

He warned—stand for truth, resist the creeping lies,

protect‖what’s‖real,‖defend‖with‖hope‖before‖it‖falls.

In rallies, cries of "fake news" echo through the streets,

chants of division grow louder, inciting fear before it falls.

The march of power, unchecked, leads us down a treacherous path.

History will repeat—stand firm, truth to power, before it falls.

Seeker of Truth, see how the hummingbird flies, trembling across the

aisle—

will‖tyranny’s‖winds‖pull‖it‖down‖or‖can‖we‖catch‖it,‖before‖it‖falls?

9

Spring is in the Air

CARLOS ORNELAS

There is a crow outside my window.

His nest is inside an electric box.

It caws and feeds its babies

by regurgitating food into their beaks.

There are concrete flowers all around.

Planted homeless people

waltz like petunias in the wind,

up and down the busy trails.

Metro rails are metal caterpillars.

Trails in the air of planes

cloud seeding like bees.

Silver Iodine falls like pollen

upon unsuspecting flowers.

AR-15’s‖pierce‖the‖evening

like poisonous wasps.

And young gang members fall

creating room

for new ones to bloom

and continue the vicious cycle

of life and death.

Sirens blare like peacocks

as life proceeds.

We spill cheap wine

for the deceased.

And the blood flows like merlot.

There is a crow outside my window.

Spring is in the air.

10

Eclipse 2024

CORINNE STANLEY

Moon

covers the sun in parallel roundness

while we watch

with our paper sun glasses, protection

framing eyes but what do we see? The darkness

approaches in stealth on paws of predictable

silence Do you hear this? The future sky a numbing

of our senses 35 years ago

I sat on a hill in Mexico for my first total eclipse

I know the cool chamber

of‖what’s‖to‖come‖‖‖‖‖‖‖the‖eerie‖air‖muffling‖

all the astounded creatures

an unforgiving absence of light

roaming in dark corridors

a drop of fear rumbling in the solar plexus

How many eclipses does it take before

these wars upon the planet

go silent too until we quit manufacturing

our demise puddles of plastic

entering our cells with foreverness

I remember

the birds it was like they all left us

it was like we lost our mornings

in the fierceness of that moon, that persistent

moon daring to cover the light

which warned us all

11

SOPHIE DORMAL

I Am Hungry for Peace

Not a snack nor junk food

I want a long lasting

world peace-course dinner

with a bowl of kindness

a large service of collaboration

sharing rich desserts so generously

everyone will have a taste

of what it is like to be full

of love

Package Deal

ANDY PALASCIANO

We‖noticed‖that‖some‖of‖BBC’s‖shows

were streaming on Disney Plus

at around the same time they premiered on BBC,

so the obvious conclusion was made—

Disney has bought England.

Now they shall be known as the United Magic Kingdom

and the Princess Castle will hold royalty.

This will be the current state of things until Disney

purchases the rest of Europe,

which is a deal currently in negotiations.

12

Tea Ceremony

LULU WONG

Entering the gate

one contemplates poem on scroll

sits on tatami

sound of matcha whisked in bowl

harmony sipped with respect

JON VON ERB

Change Challenges Constrictions

Change, an effort, wears two faces

that of seeking a better slant on things

or having to settle for an alternate, that

often irritating change beyond control.

Change that grows at a slow pace

is often a positive method, one too fast

and havoc may occur. Gentle is a wise

choice, like a garden, it takes its time.

Without‖change‖we‖can’t‖expect‖different

results. New and fresh ideas ask time to

slow down, a little reserve from the ordinary

tick-tock allows for smooth transitions.

Just like the garden, a bit of thought-out

fertilizer and a calm rain will ease an

alternate idea, allows full potential growth.

Work together and our ideas flourish.

13

MARIA MAZZIOTTI GILLAN

My Daughter’s Voice on the Phone

I‖hear‖my‖daughter’s‖voice‖on‖the‖phone. There’s‖a‖tremor‖to‖it

that was not there a week or two ago. Even after they found out

her partner has ALS, even when the doctor told them it was terminal

and‖he‖probably‖didn’t‖have‖much‖time‖left.‖This‖sound‖is‖different,‖

her voice frantic as though she were balanced on the edge of a cliff.

Everything is too much for me.

Everything is a full-time job, she says, this daughter who always

handles everything as if she were a high-wire artist, the house,

caretaking,

doctor’s appointments, the pool, all full-time jobs,

and that’s on top of my real full-time job and how can I manage it all?

I’m a terrible caregiver. I can’t help him put a shoe on without almost killing

him.

I can hear her, teetering on the edge of hysterics as she repeats,

How am I going to manage?

I try to offer comfort, but she’s‖already‖in‖this‖moment,‖too‖far‖gone‖

down

the slide into the future where everything she would prefer not to

know, waits.

14

A Bend in the River

MAI-LON GITTELSOHN

When a wide, wide river takes a bend and twists

I may not notice that I am drifting

My life has taken a turn

Swept into this new river of widowhood

I struggle to get my bearings

In Chinese landscape paintings, the relationship

of man to earth is depicted by mountains and

waterfalls towering over the minute figure of a man

Grasping his walking stick

his eyes fixed on the path

he is secure in his universe

while around me everything shifts

A comet crosses the sky

Stars are in motion

And like a bewildered traveler

I ask myself, What does my small life matter

I have lost my footing

15

The Mother in Me

NANCY ELIZABETH

does not exist.

Trust me, if she did

I would have found her

when I bought a used copy of Stepmonster by Wednesday

Martin

when I would run my fingers through her silky, blonde hair

6- year-old head on my lap in the backseat of the car

when I stood with a group of moms 15 years my senior

talking about little league

and soccer camp for their own

when I included her in my vows to always provide a loving

and safe environment

but‖my‖stomach‖was‖telling‖me‖I‖didn’t‖know how to do that through

silent screams

The mother in me is not meant for a human child

the mother in me is meant for so much more

for the dogs I fostered with their trust creeping open, their tails

exercising a cautious wag

for my friends when I fold them in hugs so tight I can feel their

heartbeat

and spoon during sleepovers

when they can come to me and cry and know I am safe

for the queer youth I watched in silence as they danced

embraced

laughed without bounds during a prom thrown together by hands

filled with love

for Little Me, who needed an adult to stand firmly by her side,

actions speaking

you are worthy of love, play, security

what a small world I would have if I waited for the mother in me

16

Sorry Hands

JANICE ALPER

My child-sized hands grip yours

in greeting, or with an open palm

bang hard on the table. Unlike

my‖mother’s‖hands‖that‖scrubbed

away dreams, added up columns

of numbers, pointed a finger

in my face, these hands apologize

to‖my‖children‖who‖I‖didn’t‖hug

enough.

Hands clenched from grief,

regret, frustration,

thump on the wall to crack

the deafening silence. Shake

them loose, loneliness, anger

fade, and a reminder of warm

caresses, fingers entwined and

my heart melts like an ice cream

cone grasped in my hands.

17

Grief Cookies

KATE MCGOVERN

If you are lucky enough

to live to a certain age,

you will be unlucky enough

to spend too much time at funerals and their receptions.

You will sing at the service,

surprised that you remember each hymn.

You will cry at the graveside,

startled‖when‖your‖tears‖won’t‖stop.

You will enter the reception hall,

its sparse decor filled with floral arrangements.

Your friends will smile weakly as they wave you over

to a table in the corner.

You will pass the requisite sandwiches, their content ambiguous

except for the frills of lettuce peeking out of the rolls.

You’ll‖step‖past‖the‖salads—the pasta and mayo yellowing

around the circumference of the bowl.

You will head for the desserts

with a glass of wine in your hand.

You will pass over the grocery store sugar cookies,

their sprinkles too bright and cheery for the occasion.

The chocolate cookie you select will crumble with the first bite,

a small nugget falling into your red wine.

You will linger before swallowing,

and hope that somehow its sweetness can cut through the

bitterness of the day.

18

Banta’s Bakery

WALTER STEPAHIN

5:05‖a.m.:‖I’m‖late‖as‖I‖open‖the‖screen‖door‖step‖from‖the‖cool‖winter‖

darkness into the back of the small shop. Horace has been at work for

hours and baked good are ready for me to put into the oven. The heat

sucks me in and the bakery smells start to paste themselves to me

even before I put on my apron.

This part-time job, before and after school, is my spending money

source. I inherited the position from my brother who went off to the

military‖ after‖ high‖ school.‖It’s‖ a‖ small‖ bakery,‖ just‖ Horace,‖ Princess,

his‖wife,‖who‖works‖the‖counter‖out‖front,‖and‖me,‖baker’s‖helper‖and‖

dishwasher.

The mornings are hectic, so many things to ready for the day. Bread,

cakes, pastries, all need to be set to go when the shop opens. Early

risers are at the door to buy things still warm from the oven. I need to

leave by 7:15 to go home and shower and make it to first period, but

that is the busiest time of the day.

So each morning Horace and I play the just one more thing game; his

need against mine. Today I lose and there is no shower, and I run to

school,‖sliding‖into‖my‖seat‖as‖the‖bell‖rings.‖You’d‖think‖smelling‖like‖

baked bread and doughnuts would make one popular at least in

some‖subliminal‖way.‖You’d‖be‖wrong.

19

A&P Apprentice

JOAN GERSTEIN

With‖an‖artisan’s‖flair,‖I‖package‖pork‖chops:‖

scrape away tiny bone fragments, arrange

each pale piece of treyf * in Styrofoam trays

to conceal fat and discoloration, wrap, price.

Sometimes I handle rubbery chitlins and tripe,

insides‖of‖animals,‖although‖I’d‖never‖heard‖

of either, forbidden in my Kosher home.

I’m‖17,‖loving‖my‖butcher’s assistant job

in the A&P, one of two supermarkets in town.

Mom‖won’t‖set‖foot‖in‖there.‖She‖shops‖

Waldbaums, catering to her people.

I’m‖a‖polar‖bear‖wearing‖a‖white‖apron‖

over three layers of clothes, I handle

unsanctified meat in a frosty back room

with two cool butchers. Eager to please

in my first non-childcare job, Saturday

afternoons I dedicate to removing blood

of defiled meat and chicken. With my armory

of rough brush and pail of hot soapy water,

I climb atop surfaces to scrub white walls,

tackle the counters, then swab the filthy floor

with the enthusiasm of a religious convert.

* non-Kosher meat

This poem was inadvertently omitted from the SDPA 23-24.

20

Belonging

BART EDELMAN

To everything a place—

this sense of belonging—

home as we crave it,

where life begs to be lived,

if only for the moment,

hour, day, week, month—

whatever time grants us.

Here, there is space enough,

ample room we claim,

despite how the earth spins,

one revolution after another.

Yes, locate the harbor,

by any means possible.

Bring discarded faith.

Curl into calm so vast,

you’ve‖never‖known‖its‖joy.

21

The Exegesis of Myself

CHRISSY CROFT

I am queering

my own history.

I am interpreting optical illusions.

Adjusting my view of abstraction

until I Rorschach the meaning.

I am critically analyzing

gender, intimacy, truth, joy,

and the fallacies

of my own erasure.

I am letting my hips

synchronize with the Gossip

downbeat. Swaying without

assumption or precaution.

I am queering

the cross and purity ring I wore

as garlic. Sharpening my fangs to sink

into wickedness.

All this plasma, thirst, refreshment.

I am tucking sprigs of lavender

behind my ear. Screaming Tegan

and Sara through unrequited something.

Drowning in holy water,

gasping in blasphemous truth.

Celebrating skeletons in closets,

sturdy frames of possibilities.

Mannequins waiting

for their debut. Truth

regardless of perception.

I am believing myself flower field—

violets and green carnations.

My queer was tended. I am not

an invasive species.

22

I am making a monument

of all the suffering. The blood

and stomach aches and distorted

mirrors. Calling it Becoming.

Calling it Shameless Crucifix.

I am renaming myself Sappho.

Believing my words worth

having a parade about,

even‖when‖they’re‖fragmented.‖

I am considering continuity.

I was never dead

or in need of saving.

I was never anything

other than queer.

23

KAITLIN DYER

My Therapist Asks Why I’m Writing

Because‖I’ve‖been‖buffered‖

on hundreds of video conference

calls, hearing Are you there?

Are you there? We can’t hear you.

Because this paper is a mouth,

the lines my tongue. Because, at parties,

women swaddle into me, hushed,

saying divorce, saying abortion,

saying do you see me? I rock their

secrets with them, in lullaby: I see you,

I see you. Because I translated

a childhood from y’all to you all,

Pap Paw and Mam Maw to Grandfather

and Grandmother. Because I admire

the aureole of cardinals in the winter:

their audacious red mohawks spotlights

against the snow. Because of the accusation:

you’re not Appalachian. Because my cousin

was scolded to stop acting like such

a faggot. Bless his dead, gay heart. Because

cardinals know predators hibernate

their hate long enough to parade

through branches, singing loudly at a pitch

that travels further in the chill. Because,

hang on, let me mute myself to reduce

the echo. Because language is never

broken. It is bridged, bloomed

from what we have brewed

24

in the dark. Because, I have heard, personalities

can shift when sliding into a different

language, and knowing them completely

means reckoning each fracture

of light clustered into one prism. Because you

sit across from me; slide a sewing kit over

the coffee table, watch me needle myself

together—watch me graft myself

to‖myself.‖Because‖I’m‖overlooking‖

the landscape of my life and swinging

the gates open. Because, I was warned

don’t bring a black man home—how

that was the sock shoved in my bisexual mouth

—how we claim to be from the holler,

but muffle our loves. Because as a woman,

I must create or wither, like valkyrie—alive

and dead—couriers of choice. Because the cardinal

is the state bird for seven different states.

Because even when flying away,

we fly to each other.

Love

BRIDGETTE ROBESON

U pisseth against the wall

that i care nothing about

come lay by the fire just past the orchard,

that's become hard with dried fruit

where u can eat, drink, and lick your balls

25

Sandbox Therapy

CAROL MOSCRIP

First, I place the father doll on a little hillock of sand

or should the mother be first‖who‖didn’t‖know‖what‖to‖do

with me so let me cry while she covered her ears

where is the cradle of her arms that never was

can‖I‖ask‖for‖a‖cradle‖that‖I‖so‖long‖to‖place‖on‖the‖father’s‖knees

I make a hollow in the sand at his feet and place the baby there

the mother must walk through a desert to join him

the father, angry at expenses, kicks the baby down the hill

to‖the‖mother’s‖feet‖as‖she‖approaches‖(made‖to‖walk

from side to side by my hand) and now, giant

that I am, I brush the grains

from the tiny sandbox baby and cradle her in my palm

then crush her within my closed fist, at first the parent dolls

just stand there looking indifferent, then I walk them

away to their respective corners of the sandy ring.

The therapist cannot provide tiny boxing gloves

for mama and papa dolls

though‖I‖beg‖for‖them,‖‚It’s‖all‖about‖placement,

not‖the‖act‖of‖placing,‛‖she‖asserts.‖‚But‖I’m‖burying‖the‖baby‖

head‖down‖in‖the‖sand‖with‖a‖violent‖gesture‛‖I‖parry.

She‖responds,‖‚Her‖placement‖speaks‖to‖that,‛

‚What‖if I’d‖placed‖her‖headfirst‖gently,

wouldn’t‖that‖be‖different?‛‖I‖got‖her‖with

that‖one,‖but‖she‖rallies,‖‚Either‖way‖the‖baby‖

is‖suffocating.‛‖‖‚No,‛‖I‖assert,‖‚Time‖has‖passed,‖She’s‖dead,‛

‚It’s‖the‖action‖of‖the‖placement‖that‖is‖paramount‖here,‛

she comes‖back‖at‖me,‖‚There‖can‖be‖no‖deaths‖in‖the‖sandbox

only‖dying,‛‖she‖has‖the‖last‖word‖this‖time.

Now I am so tiny, I can hardly boost myself

over the lip of the sandbox, doll that I am now,

I’m‖so‖small‖I‖go‖rolling‖over‖every‖dip‖and‖bump

until I hit the bottom of a sandy crest. I lie there forever

dying in vain for someone to manipulate me into a new life.

26

Back to the work of hefting dolls, just palm-sized

but heavy as the grenades lobbed at the dining room table

by a maniac father, the mother an expert

at defusing them, most of the time, but now she misses

and the sand blows in all directions,

until‖the‖therapist‖can’t‖find‖me‖anywhere.

Ashes to Ashes

MICHELLE SMITH

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust

I‖don’t‖eat‖bread‖that’s‖ringed‖with‖crust

I‖don’t‖step‖on‖sidewalk‖cracks

else‖I’ll‖break‖my‖Momma’s‖back

I separate M&Ms, red ones from blue

I‖don’t‖tolerate‖rearrangement‖from‖you

or anyone else who dares disrupt order

I operate within a strict border

I pile building blocks upon each other

no one comes near, not even my mother

to‖shake‖apart‖what‖I’ve‖managed‖to‖stack

if it tumbles down, it all must go back

I like to repeat most of what I say

and nothing will stop me from having my way

green dragons are my friends, breaths of fire a must

you mess up my world—

ashes to ashes, dust to dust!

27

Clear Barriers

ELAINE WESTHEIMER

A piney, needle-clustered,

shaggy-barked kind of tree,

so close to my window.

I can't climb out to roost

awhile with local birds who

stop by for a shady breather.

At‖the‖zoo’s‖glassed‖gorilla

habitat, I should not interact,

make faces, or tap for attention.

Furtive glances from flighty and

mighty warn that they tolerate

me because I do not meddle.

I have found that unobtrusive

observation also works best

when visiting grown children.

If I resist the urge to bang on

the invisible pane separating us,

they're more inclined to open up.

28

Tumbleweeds ‘n Popcorn

ALAN ARCHER

On the TV screen James Coburn chews

at a cigarillo, pretends

to be Pat Garrett crossing a dusty Old West,

as‖I‖stuff‖my‖mouth‖with‖tumbleweeds‖‘n‖popcorn.

This Sam Peckinpah interpretation

of history, biography, rattles like a train

across the scrubby hours toward bedtime;

Bob‖Dylan’s‖nasally‖vocals‖&‖harmonica

galloping alongside‖Peckinpah’s‖watercolors.

I wander from the room like an autistic child

during commercials, missing bits of narrative—

yet I cling to the story, what there is,

like crooked fingers to a six-gun’s‖grip.

As‖the‖clock‖edges‖toward‖light’s‖out,‖Coburn

& his posse close in like walls of night, caging Billy,

who sprawls across a rack of dust

looking like Kris Kristofferson instead of

the‖simpleton‖in‖history’s‖daguerreotypes.

Then like a mortician, the hour hand beckons

& I scrub tooth powder across my smile, sling

the weary leather of my holster over the bed post,

clasp hands in callused prayer & blow out the lights.

29

MAKAYLA WAMBOLDT

Woman at the Getty

dreams of becoming stained glass

think about it:

a candy red heart

impenetrable bones

soldering everything

the body

a temporary cathedral

a body made of glass

brittle green eyes

silica veins

not immortalizing

but fashioning her into

light

that can be seen, but not touched

21 April

KEALA RUSHER

a spring ephemeral

in the desert basin—

an imprint of the life that

was and will be: where

stems hold enduring petals and

the sky is lashed by ocotillo tongues.

in the immensity of its silence,

the winds draw up creosote

at all hours, under the slatted

shadows of the sun and moon.

there is nothing to hear but heat,

beating, and the warming blood of lizards.

the desert makes few promises but one:

the snakes and stars are there, waiting,

even‖when‖they‖can’t‖be‖seen.

30

STEVE MCDONALD

The Last Thing I Remember

is not the three-tenths of a second

when some part of my brain

choreographed the twist of my head

as the golf ball I just bladed

into a boulder 20 yards away

compressed as golf balls do

then rifled back at me

at 50 to 70 miles per hour

not fast for a golf ball

but fast enough to break the bones

around my eyes

and knock me unconscious

when the tight round fist of it

rocketing toward my face

slammed into the bridge of my nose.

The last thing I remember

is not the bare gray frame

of the dead oak rising behind the boulder

ball-pocked from root to crown

its branches and trunk twisted and scored

like the torso of a wizened old man.

The last thing I remember

is the crack of the ball

against the boulder ringing

in my ears like a gunshot

the golf ball suspended midair

between my face and the rest of the world

as if ambered in time

my head rotating as if in slow motion

a planet staring down an asteroid.

31

Found and Lost

DENNIS FRATE

I found It unexpectedly

Squirrelled away Buried under fetid rubbish

In the dark back corner of a dusty storage bin

I thought it was gone

Forever lost

Yet there it was patiently waiting

Its untimely revelation

sparked kaleidoscopic remembrance

And I was gone again

drowning in a swirling complex of emotions

suddenly pulled back and down

tsunamis of devastating memories

viciously dragging and pummeling me

over the rocky shoals of lands long forgotten

and left unexplored

It‖isn’t‖just

that I was only a boy

It‖wasn’t‖just

that I had so much youthful ignorance

and such blind hope

What justice is owed

comes now from being powerfully swept away

in the violent flood waters

of agonizing loss and excruciating regret

pondering the powerful possibilities

of what could have been.

Sinking and clutching this beloved artifact

all buoyancy gone

the fossil record tells tall tales

of an empire of love

now as dry and lifeless

as‖Pharaoh’s‖tomb

32

I‖can’t‖unsee‖this‖beautiful‖archaic‖relic

and‖breathlessly‖I’m‖submerged

in a tumultuous oceanic prison

of a squandered future long past.

Shaking and gasping I find myself

my dry wrinkled aging hands still trembling

in the old dusty smelling storage bin

where my feet are rooted unmovable

and the only water

is on my tear streaked face

so much like the rain

on the windows

of our last day together.

I’ll Only Fall Once

STELLA WRIGHT

Maybe one day my love for self will ripen like fruit, it will become

soft and sweet,

a nectar that satisfies doubt

Hopelessness, no longer a seed that grows roots like a plague

spreading its deadly web

I’ll‖grow‖big‖on‖the‖vine‖until‖it‖breaks

And I fall

He will not catch me

But I will

33

Expectations

LESLIE FERGUSON

Cut the peach

slice the scallion

it’s‖a‖nonorganic

summer gloom salad

today 64 and clouds

my skin uncomfortable

on my body

fly the knife

wet the hand

drizzle olive oil and hot honey

a mix

a match

a bowl of unexpected delight

I spin the stainless

on the green granite counter

sweet fruit

does a dance

fingers full of juice

I drip away

oh how I want to lick the joy

34

acceptance

MELANIE H. MANUEL

a woman dreams the same dream every night.

she stares into a large round mirror, expecting

to see the curve of her jaw, small plump lips,

a nose inherited from her dead mother—

where she raises her hand, only a slight

shimmer in the glass. the other hand raised,

holds them tight together. now an obfuscation

of light. the stirring inside made true by this

gesture toward home. as if young again.

she closes her eyes. the way one does after

blowing wisps of dandelions away. watches them

cradled by wind into the horizon, then grass.

when she opens her eyes, there is still nothing.

35

Refraction

KELSEY O'CONNOR

I still dream of you.

Light catches off the water

and reflects off your smile.

Your hair is short, like it was in high school,

and your hands reach out to meet

mine, hazy in the sunset.

The warmth burrows into my chest

to sour when I wake.

I turn the dream over in my hands

and watch the light crack and warp.

Your hands never clung to me like that

until now, fighting to keep me

in my childhood bedroom,

caged into a life

that’s‖long‖since‖passed‖me‖by.

What your hair, your hands, look like now

I’d‖never‖know.

The light continues to refract,

continues to warp

the‖love‖that‖should’ve‖faded

into bitter resentment.

36

Blood Thirsty

EMILY IRISS

Mauling tigers reminisce

The taste of flesh

Bit by bit

Drink the poison

You’ll‖feel‖brand‖new

Revel in the splendor

Juicy and

Tender

Laughter slashes through

air

Conniving & witted

Prod by an ancient

Love affair

Remedies for the soul

Drops of vinegar

salt

and wine

Baby’s‖breath‖and‖Juniper

Purity and protection

Ponds ravaged by scum and

muck

One single lotus with fresh eyes

Beaming through the slade and

mire

Crested by courage and truth

Gape the heaven open to you

Claim the falsities

Devour monsters

Consume fate

Inhumane

Needles prick through bone

Steady hand

Psalms untold

37

Muse of Ruckus

BILL RATNER

Tells me to sharpen my pencil, big Ticonderoga #2

hold it like a scooter grip and take off.

Tells me to stick my fingers in my mouth and

make‖popping‖sounds‖like‖I’m‖on‖a‖Harley.

Tells me to make the bed,

it starts your day with folds.

Tells me, stretch those arms, heels, neck,

oxygenate, see the blood, see it.

She tells me, buck up, lighten with the sky,

raise‖your‖hands‖in‖song;‖if‖you‖don’t‖feel‖it,‖mock‖it‖up.‖

Tells‖me,‖don’t‖eat‖dogs‖or‖cats‖like,‖

well, you know, those people.‖(She‖doesn’t‖say‖that.)

She tells me, dress like Wall Street,

Mad Av, Sunset Strip.

She tells me, Lookin’‖sharp,‖lookin’‖sharp,

and teaches me how to polish my shoes.

She lets me sip a dry Martini,

spit it out if it tastes bad.

She wears bright cottons this summer.

She tries to help me with my homework but needs to rest.

She warns me about the shadows.

She says, I love you, man, I really do.

Be well, take care, thanks for being,

time’s‖running‖out.

She sets up a session with her shrink,

we should all talk, she says.

In a chapel, photos of water framed on the wall,

we share memories of her.

38

Dead Orphanage

JAN BEATTY

I take you there, but all you see:

St.‖Joseph’s‖House‖of‖Hospitality.

The brown brick building for men

with no home, that same spirit of lostness:

What is this place? you say.

I felt it when I first drove past,

where I was born, a dead orphanage,

what used to be Roselia Asylum, all those

bodies of women kept behind doors &

their spirits still in this place of nothing—

nowhere—to house / to hold

until someone claims a body.

39

Guilt

RON SALISBURY

The rough-coated man tries his hand at Grace.

Talent ends at the grave, spend it all now, friend.

It is a dark horse he rides these brutal nights,

saddle worn and bit ware. It takes him where

he‖doesn’t‖want‖to‖go,‖the‖brutish‖horse.‖

He’s‖not‖too‖pleased‖with‖the‖way‖things‖

turned out, not that anything can be changed.

How to jimmy open another day between

the nouns. It hardly matters anymore,

the weathered wind, bland rain. What

cares the person in his chair, waiting, waiting.

Paraphernalia.

Grief folds small hands in his lap and waits.

40

PENNY PERRY

My Mother Indicts Herself for Murder

She paces back and forth in the living room,

light streaming from a street lamp.

all 100 pounds of her worrying the rug,

her Lady Macbeth nightgown flowing.

I‖complain‖she’s‖keeping‖me up.

When I was 40, I found her letter

blaming herself for trusting the word

of a landlady that the doctor was safe.

My mother made the appointment, promised

to drive—and chocolate milkshakes

when the surgery was over.

At‖the‖doctor’s‖office,‖she‖couldn’t‖stop‖

her sister from insisting on ether, even though

the graying man with a quick smile told them

he had little experience with that drug. Maybe

she should have argued more

against taking that risk. But Leona,

nine years older, a successful writer—

two plays on Broadway!—

and a baby waiting at home,

overruled her then-childless little sister.

So my mother gave in, even agreeing

to remain in the waiting room.

If she had been beside her sister,

she would have noticed

the uneven breathing, the blood,

the silence.

So many ifs refusing to die,

borne by my mother

back and forth across that rug those nights,

while her own daughter, safe

in the dim light, fought to go to sleep.

41

NANCY LYNÉE WOO

Self-Portrait with Panic and Pillows

after Eduardo C. Corral

I’m‖an‖everyday‖panic

and‖nobody’s‖daughter.

I’m‖heaving‖and‖hiding

apples under my skirt.

I’m‖slipping‖out‖of‖sense

and‖someone’s‖mopping‖me‖up‖again.

I would like a redo.

I’m‖a‖gavel‖and‖a‖jail‖cell.

I’ve‖forgotten‖how‖sunflowers‖grow.

I’m‖skewed‖to‖the‖left‖

of happy, a headstone-in-waiting.

I‖can’t‖wait‖to‖be‖done.

All I want is an extra pillow

and a wallaby.

Will you pass the TV remote?

Put on some comedy.

This century is too heavy already.

I’m‖tired.‖I’m‖crying.‖I’m‖a‖tassel

on a graduation gown, though

I‖haven’t‖gone‖anywhere.

Fewer bugs on the windshield.

I am an animal banging

in me a question. I bury my trash

in‖the‖earth’s‖skin.‖I‖look

for direction in the wild lands

of imagination. A must, an urgent,

a need, a do, a desire. I plant

broccoli because it makes me feel

better.‖I’d‖better‖do‖something.‖

I’m‖better‖than‖nothing.

I’d‖rather‖be‖a‖baboon

than a bulldozer,

world-ending sadness burning

in me like an extinction.

42

KRISTI ELLIS WITT

I’ve Never Liked the Saying

that Youth Is Wasted on the Young

Father Time scratches like a branch against my window

reminding‖me‖he’s‖there‖and‖can’t‖be‖fooled

when I reset my clock

for an illusion of extra, of more.

What if Father Time has a child?

I imagine a daughter

who’s‖young‖and‖wise.‖.‖.

she’d‖tell‖me‖her‖father‖can’t‖be‖tricked

he stacks time like bales

reaping minutes, months, decades.

But‖she’s‖ageless,‖of‖the‖present,

unaware of beginnings and ends

or inclinations to have fortunes told

or palms read.

Her youth reminds me when birthdays were small numbers

and gifts were Silly Putty and Slinkies—

wobbly coils slinking down stairs

toward another year older

another year past.

I have more years behind me than ahead—

time yielded to her father.

But with his daughter here,

there’s‖no‖urge‖to‖manipulate‖time

or lament an end.

Unlike‖him,‖she‖doesn’t‖carry‖a‖scythe—

Silly Putty suits her better.

Following her lead, we step outside

but‖I‖don’t‖ask‖where‖we’re‖going.

We reach a street crossing

with changing lights and impatient drivers.

I‖hold‖her‖hand.‖We’ll‖cross‖together.

With her, I am present,

for now.

43

Goldfish Bowl

SANDY CARPENTER

The‖world‖swirls‖past‖our‖glass‖yet‖we‖don’t‖hear

that chaos on the causeway. Cacophony

coughs softly as it rushes by, growing

louder in the lesser seconds, minor

at the magic moments. We float within

our plush aquarium and notice nothing

but the temperature of our filtered fluid

opaque, limed glass dividing us from that

outer cosmos, the minerals of inner peace

etch those sheer sides so perpendicular

holding us in and the world without.

It is heaven, a haven where only

gentle sentences emerge. You and I

swim the balmy currents, bubbles rising

to the surface now and then. Sustenance strewn

from above and castle kept by unseen hands,

we nestle at the bottom and breathe deep.

That world swirls past, yet, oh the cost is steep.

44

Sex Appeal

TERRI GLASS

One moment, you had it—

the full bloom

sizzling and sexy as hell,

in your groove,

feeling it, working it.

The tight pants, the chic mini,

the strut, the gait

Armani, Gucci,

the coochie coo,

hair draped over one eye

flirty and fickle

the lure then spark

in a bar with a stranger.

And now,

only a flicker

a hint of smoke

a memory of heat

reduced to a simmer,

your sex appeal fading

like the sun setting into the sea

and what you turn to

is a good book before bed,

your imagination growing

larger and larger

like an unruly summer squash,

the last thing thriving

in the autumn garden.

45

womanhood

ELYSE FARWELL

what does it mean to be a woman?

we are not so easily defined

but‖look‖around‖and‖you’ll‖see‖them‖try

to confine us to a box

closed in on all sides

everyday patronized

too thick

too thin

too much

but not enough

too soft

too strong

poked, prodded, and trampled on

breathless, dizzy

discomfort and pain

you’ll‖feel‖a‖little‖pinch

suck it up and hold it in

sometimes my body

doesn’t‖feel‖like‖it‖belongs‖to‖me

policy after policy

my voice

my choice

disregarded by men

who‖don’t know what it is to live in this frame

but will do everything they can to

touch it

and control it anyway

lie with us

lie about us

shame us into silence

then‖tell‖us‖what‖we‖can‖and‖can’t‖do

with none of their own consequences

46

this‖may‖be‖a‖man’s‖world,

but‖they‖wouldn’t‖even‖be‖here

if‖we‖weren’t‖around

picking up after their messes since the

first ultrasound

this is my body, not their battleground.

The Sound of My Voice

JUDY REEVES

Put me on your turntable

put your needle in my groove

and I will sing old-time rock and roll

I will holler the bluest blues

I will raise my voice in an amen hallelujah!

Everybody join in!

The sound of my voice carries moonshine starship holy-roller

hallelujah song,

carries depth-charge song,

the long, low wail of the whale

the shush shush of wind in the pine.

When I open my mouth to sing

angels throw quarters and God taps her holy toe.

47

John Wayne

REGINA MORIN

At the Beverly Hills Hotel

the entrance overflowed

with the squeals of college women

who had been permed and painted

for the sorority event.

A traffic jam of tulle

clogged the aisles towards the

ballroom.

Bare shoulders threw bouquets of

flesh

against the dark blue suits of

young men

who glowed like

newly skinned puppies.

But slowly, as if every head

were fastened to a lazy Susan,

the man who towered over everyone

became the object of our gaze.

He was as tall as a monument.

His sun-crinkled eyes tilted towards

the dazzling young woman beside him.

His enormous sun-bronzed hand

pressed‖a‖father’s‖pride into

her silken back.

And none of us approached his daughter,

whom we had seen sweating every day

on the volley ball court,

with anything more than

fluttering eyelids, dripping with

Maybelline lashes that we had

curled and sharpened

into tiny, lethal spikes.

48

Story Without Words

CARLOS TARRAC

On the bright canvas, moments dance,

the camera, a silent artist, weaves vibrant tales,

between shadows and flashes, the world unfolds,

photography, eternal muse, in each image distills.

Shutter, opening the book of time,

each click, a page, a sublime fragment,

the art of freezing the essence of a sigh,

in every capture, I admire the soul of the moment.

Play of lights, stripping reality bare,

photography, a silent magician, attends to secrets,

captivates emotions, narrates without words,

in each frame, life embraces itself.

Behind the lens, everlasting worlds are created,

between shadows and colors, the sincerest is revealed,

in the corner of the image, the story is treasured,

photographic art immortalizes every dawn.

49

SUSAN BLACK ALLEN

When the Center No Longer Holds

He’s‖not‖fully‖gone,

but‖I’m‖missing‖him‖already.

Parts of him returning

to whenever we all go

when the center

no longer holds.

Atoms glued tight in utero

releasing their earthly bonds

so new grasses

can take root, grow.

A baby boy was born today:

roaring Little Río.

The river,

does not discriminate

between tears

of joy,

of grief.

It simply absorbs the flow.

(Dad,‖please‖don’t‖go.)

50

KATHY O’FALLON

The Absent Father, More Absent

Strands‖of‖sand‖fine‖as‖her‖mother’s‖

hair at 3 sift through my granddaughter’s‖fingers,‖though‖she‖inherited

her‖father’s‖dark‖weave,‖like‖the‖tangle‖

of seaweed whose bubbles I pop

while she combs and combs the grains.

I‖want‖to‖tell‖her‖they’re‖pneumatocysts,

this lover of words to know everything

grownups‖do,‖but‖quiet’s‖her‖name‖for‖now.‖

We sit until she adjusts to the sound

of the surf, her hearing acute—waves

the volume of bombs. I errand her bucket

to the water and back, so she can clean off

what gets under her nails.

It’s‖the‖longest‖day‖of‖the‖year,‖

the infinite granules of sand just

big enough to see against the invisible

denseness of space. She builds a mountain

and calls it a bowl for its wide concave

top—like a volcano, I say, but when I try

to explain, she wants none of it.

A seagull watches from her left;

out of the corner of her eye, she

watches‖it‖watch‖her.‖I‖say,‖‚I‖think‖

it‖wants‖our‖leftovers.‛‖She‖pounds‖

the‖volcano’s‖vent,‖and‖says,‖

‚there’s‖not‖enough.‛

51

Parenting: a History

ANNE TWEEDY

My‖father’s‖infuriating‖pressure‖

and‖the‖weight‖of‖my‖mother’s‖silent‖desire

On the other side so many strands of worry and anger—

My grandfather saying he hoped

each boyfriend had a job because I was sure to get pregnant.

His stark hatred of women an obliterating fire

I had to shape-shift away from.

My‖mother’s‖struggle‖to‖mother,‖bored‖through‖

by caring for another.

Courts’‖removal‖of‖queer‖parents’‖children,‖

the way imagined loss stymies.

Age leapt me finally into that cauldron

where the greatest joys are the most fleeting, where in retrospect

you wonder if your whole purpose was to be suffused momentarily,

afterward a husk.

52

Forensic Botany

RICHARD L. MATTA

I slit the packet

of Burpee seeds

spread them out

like a family tree.

Mishandling’s‖hammer‖

seen on some, signs

of disease on two or three.

One split—another

never was a seed.

Just a tiny stone.

And one stood out.

above them all

you might think

this will be a desert bloom

But who was I to name

the gloom. It carries on,

skips a generation or two.

53

A Perfect Irish Grave

JOSEPH D. MILOSCH

From the upstairs closet of my memory,

I‖removed‖a‖mason‖jar‖full‖of‖my‖mom’s

button collection: blues, reds, clear fasteners

from dresses, and some from Dad’s‖peacoat.

I reflect on these things of little consequence

and their pull on my history. After her death,

I traveled to Michigan and visited the home

of her childhood. Parking in front of the path

leading to an abandoned farm, I balanced

with care the weight of sadness with silence.

In the northern part of the yard, the barn

shed its paint in red flakes. Its door hung

lopsided and remained open to strays.

The corn crib slanted away from the silo

and towards the hen house. The years

unhooked‖the‖coop’s‖fencing from bent nails,

and the chicken wire curled like a flag.

To the west is the house with bleached wall

as cracked as the porch steps. Pausing

on the path to her childhood home,

I stooped and uncovered a portion of the body

belonging to the broken statue of a blue

and white Madonna. Her veiled head poked

from under the root burl of a wayward rose.

I knelt, and with my pocketknife, I shaved

the knot away from her head and shoulders.

Loosening the dirt beneath her ribs, I dug

a tunnel to remove her from the earth

and found a glass button buried inside her.

It‖reminded‖me‖of‖Mom’s‖collection‖and

her wish to have an Irish rose planted beside

her headstone. Here, a Burgundy Rose grew over

the‖burial‖site‖of‖the‖Virgin’s‖statue,‖making‖it,

as my mother would say, a perfect Irish grave.

54

Chucho in the Moon

elegy for a canine friend

DANIEL H.R. FISHMAN

I‖didn’t‖see‖the‖moon‖last‖night,‖your‖last‖night,

but I saw it tonight, and it is smaller, as we are

smaller, without you. Dear Chucho, my buddy, you healed hearts.

Thank you.

Thank you for healing the hurting heart

with your comforting company. Your lively engagement

in the busy businesses of life, of living. You served as model for us all

in patience and acceptance, in dash-after-it-again!

each‖in‖their‖seasons.‖This‖is‖that‖‚season‖in‖hell‛‖as‖they‖say

in those poems; this is that journey through the underworld. For you,

and for those you left behind. You never leave us behind. But just in

your body,

your comfy, comforting body, you affectionate friend. You were due

for a new one.

I‖hope‖you’re‖chasing‖away‖at‖all‖the‖best‖things,‖with‖your‖favorite‖‖‖

bushes and trees

all around. Your last night, your last sunset, at the park you watched

the‖sun’s‖colors‖drain,‖as‖your‖body’s‖life‖force‖drained,‖and‖Aubrey‖‖

said, There’s the sun!

Then you and your people turned around, looked at the Moon. La

Luna, Luna.

And‖that’s‖how‖we‖came,‖after‖our‖first‖day‖without‖you,‖to‖find‖you,‖‖

dear Chucho, in the Moon. You and La Luna, Luna. We, without you,

waning gibbous,

try to reflect your light, without your body presence, back into our

worlds.

55

Born Twice

AMIR SOMMER

I know I saw two

worlds die they orbited

the same sun and ended

in the same flame

I cry roses on their

graves because a

part of me is buried

Here

and

There

Neutral Buoyancy

CATHERINE DARBY

Landscape is blued the further you look.

Gravity does not exist.

Logic screams,

you‖shouldn’t‖be‖here‖more‖than‖a‖few‖seconds,‖

but the air flows,

the mask keeps eyesight clear.

Life under is peculiar, plants

wave as you pass by

variety of corals sing with the absorption of algae.

Crabs, shrimp, and fish, flutter or poke

crevices and inlets. The ears are crackling with sea life.

56

Consequences

from the latin for following closely

at the edge, ask "what follows?"

what follows light

is its shadow

what follows every numb

plastic flower

is its origins in the holy oil

bled of ancient remains

what follows the widow,

the orphan

is inheritance, an estate,

MADISON VICTORIA

life follows

spring cleaning

life follows

one lover left

for another

life follows

there is no end

when loss is the

medicine,

followed by sugar

the abandoned foghorn

of a dry sea,

and the bitter tone of birds

who can't hear,

but only fill an absence

at every edge,

life follows

there is no end

only falling,

following

the sudden move,

a missed turn,

going left instead of right

57

No words

for the girl with the Mackintosh box in Gaza

NAJAH ABDELKADER

No words:

No words from the girl with the Mackintosh box.

No words and no chocolate from the Mackintosh metal box.

The box is old.

The box is empty.

Hot soup burning her hands, no words.

Is she 4, is she 5?

No words?

No words, no words, no words.

Her fear is strong?

How is that possible?

She is about something else.

Something‖I‖don’t‖know.‖‖

She‖is‖about‖something‖you‖don’t‖know.

She is about something fierce. . . She is about—strength.

She is about an ancient strength.

She is about an old strength of the land.

Something what cannot be put in words.

There are no words.

She has no time for my looks, or yours.

She is about her mother, her brother, her, home,

she is about her land.

She is about what got destroyed hours ago.

This Mackintosh box is open.

The‖Pandora’s‖Box‖has‖unraveled.

The‖Pandora’s‖box‖is‖no‖longer‖a‖Mackintosh‖can‖of‖sweet‖‖

chocolate.

No words. For the horror.

No words for the fear.

No words for the rage. For the sadness.

No words for the silence.

58

No words for the strange world that a 5-year-old girl must see,

she must see, she must endure. And she must move on.

No words for the 5-year old girl being served some soup in a

Mackintosh box.

Her sister tries to close the box with its lid.

She looks back, and I think she is about to say something and then

she stops.

I think I know what she thinks,

but how could I know what she thinks?

There are no words to what she thinks.

How could her fear be so proud?

How could this anger be so quiet and so strong?

standing in front

of the open fridge door

MARCYN CLEMENTS

heat w a v i

n

g

59

Spirit of the Takeover 54

CHIEFTAIN

celebrating a takeover

para la gente

his story a victory

her story a victory

murals celebrating history

la raza keep fighting, striving

educated, can't take that away

no to the devil’s arm,

the fight lives on always

brown beret Mario reporting what he saw

logan ave to city college, putting out the call

chicano studies students, residents and all

we need a park, liberty and justice for all,

knocking out the driver of the bulldozer

commandeering it, taking it over

it wasn't an easy fight, 12 days, day and night

Tommie from the beginning, 54 years alright

we’re here and we’re not leaving


wer’e here and we’re not leaving

we want a park

people got arrested, beaten by police

no easy thing

but the community has power organizing,

we will defend these pillars,

this park

the spirit at the start

April 22nd land take over

now national landmark

our stories of resilience

and self determination,

deep in the heart of the barrio

chicano federation

60

educated, can't take that away

no to the devil’s arm,

the fight lives on always

a disrespected community occupation the spark

blocking bulldozers with their bodies,

picks, shovels, 12 days, at the start

sculptures, murals, kiosko at the heart


we’re here and we]re not leaving


created this park

the fight against the devil’s arm

Anastasio Hernandez Rojas gone

mural and alter, Victor Ochoa drawn

For Josie, Irma, Helen, Diane

For Tommie, for Jesse Tall Can

take a look around and hold it down

Salvadore Queso Torres,

Felipe, Ronnie all the way to the bay

Mario, Celia. Michael. Susan,

Jorge, Jose painting the way

teams of artists, creatives displays

singing linda chicana songs all the way

to freedom, Chunky awarded, Culture exported

from this national landmark, this sacred ground

voices firme, poetical acoustical energy, sound

revolutionary beret brown

danza azteca ballet folklórico

unión de barrio the youth the truth

the mechistas, abuelitas, señoritas, Alurista

Arancibia,

a bunch of poets at the taco shop

my chicanismo is a Julie Corrales poem

Steve Galindo sharing about his home

Nonie Tina Selina telling stories

restoration painted legacy Aztlan glory

Aztlan Libre, Aztlan bike club

Aztlan youth brigade

Aztlan car club [ . . . ]

61

our Berenice must be told

everything that we do make it count

we’re still out here and we’re not leaving

no pigs in the park

no pigs in the park

no pigs in the park

viva chicano park

The Poet

CHRISTINE SINRUD SHADE

The poet sang their lives,

and made them angry with his verse.

He was their father, soothsayer,

and their nurse.

He was their conscience and their heart,

he was the dart that struck their minds,

and slowly ate at their insides.

They thought of him as simple,

monumental, and sometimes, unkind.

What is left when the poet is gone?

Words, on crisp paper. . . a song.

62

Another day in the USA

JOHN FESSLER

A photo of a school shooting survivor in Nashville:

a terrified 9-year-old, the age of a granddaughter.

How many more kids to be killed?

How much more senseless slaughter?

Mass shootings are the rotten fruit we reap,

too common to be random incidents.

I know why I weep,

the social malignancy of gun violence.

Focus on the do-er, not the tools,

leaders share their slant,

ignoring other countries, playing us for fools.

I’m‖told‖to‖control‖what‖I‖can‖and‖accept‖what‖I‖can’t.

I‖retreat‖to‖my‖‚safe‛‖suburban‖home,‖

fix a strong drink, and pen this poem.

63

It Must Be Compassion

JUAN FELIPE HERRERA

It must be compassion

It has to be compassion

What else can it be or become

if it is not compassion

We’ll‖call‖it‖kindness‖it‖must

be‖kindness‖it’s‖gotta‖be‖kindness‖

What else can it be

When wars & fires & killing & guns

are flowing & flooding

the streets can you tell me come on

Can you tell me? Please answer the

question.‖Don’t‖you‖think‖it

Must be Compassion we gotta

have compassion the water will end

All fires & wars & deaths & violence

It must be compassion my friend

It must be you

64

Free Lunch

JEN LAFFLER

I ask my teen what she did for lunch and she replies,

we walked to the church across the street from school

and had pizza and Oreos, which causes my jaw to drop

because a) how odd, and b) we are Jewish. A bunch of

us do it every Monday, she explains. The church guy,

like, the leader dude, whatever, is really nice. I only

ever have one slice, but some kids have, like, four. OK,

but then, does he talk to you about church stuff? Yeah,

after we eat he does a whole talk. What does he say?

She smiles. I have no idea. So you tune that part out?

Yeah, everyone does. I mean, some people do the whole

[she closes her eyes and presses her palms together]

thing, so maybe they’re actually listening? Wow, I halflaugh.

How sad is this? You guys are using this man for

pizza. No, she levels back, soft but clear: sad would be

if he went and bought all that pizza, and no one came.

65

SHARON ELISE

To the body, to love, to lust to peace

These babies born of loving against

fear of contagion, of breath to breath,

flesh given to flesh, limb to limb, lips to lips and tongues.

This beautiful, joyful, boundless, growing multitude evident

refusal

These youth! The state banned homeless camping

youth took camps to campus, proclaimed solidarity with Gaza

protested the weapons kill kill killing. . .

These youth! How they sourced food and energy,

created community, did dance and drum despite the discipline

admin

from

Who yanked away their financial aid, raising their tuition,

calling them a criminal, calling for property protection, calling the

police.

This rainbow family! Calling color out in the street! A skin show, ain’t‖

no sin show!

Your‖pellet‖gun‖hatred‖won’t‖stop‖this‖show. No one runnin’ for

cover in this show.

Can’t be crushed by poverty. Can’t‖be‖quelled‖by‖racism.

Won’t‖be‖stopped‖from‖loving.‖‖

Won’t‖be‖bubble‖wrapped‖away‖ from each other.

This is a love poem to you and you and you.

Keep going. Keep it going.

66

Zapatos y Luces

Shoes and Lights

Tired streetlights barely hugging the paved hills.

My shoes, red-lighting the shadows,

when I see a boy with an empty look,

dirty clothes, and broken shoes.

His smile, an attempt that never takes off,

‚Me‖gustan‖tus‖zapatos.‛

I like my shoes too. I see them light.

Then‖I‖hear‖an‖echo‖of‖my‖dad’s‖warning,‖

Cuidado. Careful getting robbed.

I walk away, and he follows

the mesmerizing red lights in my shoes.

A predator stares, and a chill

from elbow to neck raise my hair.

His voice wet with a beg both gentle and sad,

‚Give‖them‖to‖me.‛

My heart gets soaked by his words,

but my brain is dry in defense.

A knot in my throat made by the shoelaces I wear

stop any words from flying out.

JUAN LURUZIAGA

I walk home, and he repeats his mantras.

In desperation, I make one up,

‚Come‖with‖me,‖and‖I’ll‖give‖you‖a‖pair‖tomorrow.‛

A lie—like‖the‖one‖I‖told‖God‖when‖I‖broke‖my‖sister’s‖doll

If she stops crying and doesn’t tell on me, I’ll never do it again.

There’d‖be‖three‖more‖broken‖dolls‖

by the end of that week alone.

‚I‖like‖your‖shoes,‛‖he‖repeats.‖

Finally, home. He stands looking at me,

I repeat my safety lie.

A lie to save myself from a false danger,

while I became a villain.

The next day, my dad asks if I told a niño pobre

that‖I’d‖give him new shoes. Another safety lie is born.

I throw away my zapatos,

because lights and shoes can only get you in trouble.

67

On the Opportunity for

Out of Body Travel

Two crows walk a power line

like aerialists without balancing poles.

One steps on a leaking capacitor

and electricity feathers the sky

companioned by an awful squawk,

and plunges to the road.

The other crow stalls, inspects,

dives and picks at its companion,

as if it could ingest a bite of the volt

and amp, but the first crow stirs,

shakes, rises in fury, triumphant,

as if performing a difficult trick.

A second-hand taste never works,

that to know the electric

one must wrap claws around the danger,

grip until it throws you off.

JEFF BURT

68

ANITRA CAROL SMITH

I Rat You Out: a Testimony

Write the stories that you're afraid to talk about. . .

Writing allows us to transform what has happened to us.

—Sandra Cisneros

With this poem, I transform that moment

with you, Mr. Johnson, in the bedroom of your home,

when I was 5 and your wife had gone shopping

and you decided to go shopping too,

bending me back over the chenille bedspread

and calling your two young sons to watch

as you pulled down my pants and

found the tender parts of me with your fingers.

I was powerless.

But now when I face that fear, I see something new:

you were not the king of that moment, Mr. Johnson,

and in this moment, I bend myself away from my confusion and

terror

to watch you morph into a rat dying under my heel.

I love that little girl, and like a big sister,

I hold her safe against every storm.

We're not going to be afraid anymore.

69

Crazy Eights

LYNNETTE CAMPBELL FINCH

Grandma’s‖soft‖voice‖vibrated‖through‖me,

curled in her lap, rocker squeaking back and forth,

an illusion of a peace filled room.

Across the table murmurs spoke of war, of

faraway countries, while the family card game

played itself out, like a pendulum slowing to a stop.

Daylight brought a sad goodbye, mama kissing

daddy, we girls wrapped around each khaki leg, crying.

His promise to be back home soon.

The postman became our best friend, letters splashed

with tears as she read them to us, pictures we drew,

smiling‖faces,‖hearts,‖to‖enclose‖with‖mama’s‖love‖letters.

Shoes forever scuffed walking the old dirt road to school,

no tire stamps left in the ration book, no car to drive.

Mama said, ‚it will make us stronger‛.

She tore into the front yard with a frenzy, like something wild,

determined to dig, rake every stone, plant a lawn.

‚Daddy is working hard,‛ she said, ‚and so will we‛.

Neighbors scoffed that such a tiny woman would

take on such a big yard. Their words made her work harder.

It seemed she had her own war to fight.

The‖crazy‖eight‖table‖at‖grandma’s‖lay silent,

bereft of brothers and husbands playing a

different game of their own far away.

Summers passed and he was home, wonderfully whole,

lifting us up, one in each arm, tucking us in at night,

playing with us on the new lawn covered yard.

Once again‖cards‖were‖dealt‖at‖grandma’s‖table,‖laughter‖spilling

together with familial love, words of hope for peace, a new

future.

We were among the fortunate, our loved ones had come home.

70

Now, reflections float, haunting, to imagine back then what

horrific lives other little girls faced in Berlin or Hiroshima.

Humankind seems to suffer from grave memory loss.

Repeat and repeat.

Is war just an addictive crazy game we play?

Objet Trouvé

CAROLYN MACK

Out at sea before the dawn breezes fade

as time in a frame of light withdraws, pure

essence, timelessness infiltrates azure.

In time summer’s midnight by bonfire’s shade

were lanterns of kerosene flickering

across the open field of gorse and briar rose,

sudden rustic feet, syncopates the flow

of seasons intersecting, timeless in

exhalations of land wave tossed driftwood;

scrimshaw etched lighthouse across the Coquille,

the broken objects that never join, shell,

glass globe of sea deep indigo. It stood

outlined on headland, like tusk of narwhal;

a cold wind shakes wainscot, a spark keeps well

in stone off the beach, sorrow no tear can cool,

skip broken halves that never join as one

in rugged, black perplexity, alone.

71

Jaxon

DEBORAH ALLBRITAIN

Steep stairs down Enter at Your Own Risk doorknob hanger

In the morning I like waking up to a little bit left over

Leans back against Carpe the Fucking Diem pillow God

I mean good There’s just enough Smoke cloud rises

Can’t handle the nausea if I run out Megan Fox poster in black

bikini My mom wants me to go for therapy but what good

would it do spilling my guts out to some stranger? I’ve done that

already Bicycle with missing tire Projected stars blue then green

on ceiling of ducts and pipes When I was homeless I’d call mom

and she’d send a pizza After a few months of her not knowing if I

was dead or alive they let me come home Crumpled cans of Monster

energy drinks The less dad sees of me the better for the most part

Sits on the edge of the bed Reloads Shuts blinds I wish I didn’t

hurt mom so much She deserves better Answers phone No man I

swear I didn’t take it Ends call Goddamit I would kill for—

Please no pamphlets on your way out I don’t need help okay?

72

J.K. WALLEN

Granny Annie, Queen of Serra Mesa

Remember Annie Pershall on December 21st:

Homeless Persons’ Memorial Day

The Queen of Serra Mesa lives in our hearts

forever enshrined in her loved hometown

She‖didn’t‖want to leave her community

Though homeless, Annie wanted to stay near

Despite the loss of her mother, home and job

the Queen of Serra Mesa lights our hearts

Annie often slept near the public library

Happy to be by the place she was raised

she‖didn’t‖want‖to leave the vicinity

More than 5,000 people are homeless in San Diego

Many, like dear Annie, are over 50 years

Queen of Serra Mesa brighten society

Teenagers‖from‖our‖town‖went‖‚hobo‖hunting‛

They shot sleeping Annie in the chest and head

They left Annie to die bleeding on her bed

Her daughter rushed to her hospital side

and when Annie died, made a memorial

The Queen of Serra Mesa rules our hearts

She will never leave our shared hometown

73

A Discontent Customer

ANNETTE FRIEND

Don’t‖try‖to‖sell‖me.

Her hunched shoulders

shut-the-door expression

forbid me to tell her

the orange sweater covered

in pink polka dots she holds

up to her splotched complexion

would look terrible anyway.

I’d‖like‖to‖guide‖her‖to‖the‖airy

blue and white flounced tunic

heralding a new spring,

might cure her distemper

but her pursed lips

advise me not to bother.

I wonder what cataclysm

brought her into the shop today?

A failed marriage, a job disappeared,

a loved teenager lost

to our epidemic of drugs?

Then I reframe, maybe nothing

so catastrophic transported her

to these shopping shores.

Perhaps perpetual indigestion

or a major personality disorder

has carved the lines in her face

downwards into the contours

of a shriveled lemon.

I‖know‖she’s‖not‖here‖to‖buy

a dazzling purple and white skirt

or a new pair of well-shaped pants

that would flatter her large rear better

than the tight jeans she wears now.

74

She’s‖here‖to‖kill‖time‖for‖whatever

reasons‖she’s‖running‖from.

I refold a smiling stack

of red and white striped tee-shirts,

plaster a pleasant smile on my face

that‖says‖I’m‖here‖if‖you‖need‖me.

JOANNE SHARP

Rolled Tacos on a Rainy Day

I'm trying to read the soggy newspaper

when my son comes in with a wet grin

and a white bag where two orders rest

cheerful and snug under silver foil blankets,

rivulets of extra guacamole oozing

onto their sturdy cardboard beds.

Soon our fingers are coated and messy

though we daintily lift the hot crispy mini-logs

one by one—green as gluttony, salty as sin.

Outside the cold grey rain pours down,

streaks the window glass with mournful tears,

its fingers drumming the plastic patio furniture.

In this bad-weather world, we warm ourselves

on guilty pleasures sprinkled with cheese.

75

Threshold

KRISTEN HORNUNG

The last thing you do before you leave home is

tell yourself you can come back for more

look back, see yourself as you were

a child so filled with dreams

you seemed likely to lift off

the ground, be carried away

by a ribbon of air unspooling

through an open window

look back, see your parents as they were

fickle gods fleshing out your map of the world

they turned the wheel while you gazed

at all the wrong things

street lights blurred by rain

look back, clock the time,

in church you held salvation against

the roof of your mouth until it dissolved,

squeezed a quarter in your hand,

thought about the donut you could buy later

look back, question

what has changed, who has changed,

hug‖the‖bag‖of‖‘80s‖plastic‖serving‖trays

and plates against your chest,

remind yourself this isn’t‖home‖anymore,

what‖you‖need‖isn’t‖here

the last thing you do before you leave home is

tell yourself you can come back

76

Nocturne

JEFF ARMSTRONG

It is the dead

of nicht they say

when man comes

closest to death

I wake and listen

for‖the‖bird’s‖song

but they too

sleep in the dark

it is now just me

and my mind—

chatting like weans

the first day of class

it says to me

today will be bleak

trouble agitation

frustration

I muse at this

prognosis—

apprehension

based in fantasy

in the dead

of nicht my mind

engages in deceit

and crabbit agendas

I smirk and return

to the land of nod

the morning mind

is far more couthie

Scottish dialect/slang:

nicht: night

weans: children

crabbit: ill-tempered

couthie: friendly

77

46 Years

JOHN FESSLER

The year is the new millennium and 23,

Hail! The coronation of a King.

What is happening, who could foresee?

The internet has changed everything.

The year is the new millennium less 23,

Johnny Rotten sang God Save the Queen

in the year of her Jubilee.

The last swing of the guillotine,

the rule of Brezhnev, Pol Pot, and Idi Amin.

Global extreme poverty was four in 10,

and the cold war was yet to be won,

I felt confident and optimistic then.

Extreme poverty now one in 10.

Not astronaut, nor teacher, or doctor,

today’s‖teen‖aspiration‖is‖social‖media‖influencer,

who shapes our culture and determines your contribution,

while‖their‖corporate‖benefactors’‖algorithms‖

cause widespread addiction, depression, and division.

Where news, sex, joy, and disgust are tailored it seems,

to make us prisoners to our screens.

What‖will‖today’s‖young‖and‖innocent‖have‖learned?

What of truth, love, happiness, community will be discerned?

When we Boomers have gone, and it is their turn

in 46 years.


78

Roses

TAYLOR GARCÍA

My deformities

exist on my

left side

Cluster headaches

knotted trapezius

Chin moles

Supernumerary nipples

Bent rib

Locked-up hip

Spider veins

And a bunion with a zip code

My right

oh my beautiful right

Such an entitled prick

No aches

pains

or creaks

Smooth moving

and even

Lubricated

and calm

But left has the face

from‖my‖mother’s‖people‖

My‖uncles’‖jaw‖lines

Smiles

My‖aunts’‖chestnut‖eyes

their laugh lines

deep and sincere

Stoic when

need be

79

Purgatory

BLAIZE FONSECA

Old man died

smiling when lowered in dirt.

His daughter and son

crying among wet grass.

After, old man waited

steady in my queue.

Two generations waiting before him,

sea of heads an ocean still.

Smiling, he waited.

Wrinkles sparkling with

shining white teeth

to greet me.

His matching white robes reflecting

the abyss that furnished the walls.

I processed him

and his application to continue

was accepted.

But before he went,

he asked of his daughter and son

now old as he when passed.

And bluntly, I asked

‛What‖daughter‖and‖son?‛

His stare splitting me in two,

silence drowning amid the dark.

‛The‖ones‖my‖wife‖bore

and‖I‖fathered‖after‖her‖pass.‛

‛You‖fathered‖them,‖you‖say?‛

His smile fled,

wrinkles sagged.

‛Of‖course.‖Who‖else‖could?‛

80

I responded not.

His mouth curved to frown.

Before another thought,

I froze him in stance.

Stuck in place,

I saw he was a good man,

only lecher in youth.

A proper father to two

but no children of his.

Do I tell him

they’re‖okay

and let him on his way?

At the Spa—a Love Story

LISA LOW

When she gets to the spa, the man from

Taiwan rolls jack rabbit quick on the thick

rubber wheels of his metal chair. He

unbuttons her shoes, fills the porcelain

bowl with rose, finger-tests the foam, and

lowers‖each‖foot‖into‖warm.‖When‖it’s‖

time for massage, he closes his eyes and

starts to sway: like a devoted monk in

a convent praying; or thumb-sucking

infant in its cradle rocking, or melancholy

lover lugubrious melody playing. She

wants to take him home. She wants him

to rub the rest of her. Up to the throat of

her. She wonders if she will have to pay.

81

10 months

GAYANA PARSEGOVA

In 10 months, what can you accomplish? What could happen? A new

job, a new child on the way, parenthood, finishing university,

preparing for your wedding day.

Blessings on blessings,

There is so much to look forward to.

In 10 months, what could happen to a country?

A‖ mass‖ exodus.‖ Electricity‖ and‖ power‖ cut‖ off,‖ children’s‖ youth‖ &‖

innocence robbed laced with fear of no longer attending school or

seeing friends, going to bed with the ringing of bombing in your

neighbor’s‖home‖accompanied‖with‖cries,‖asking‖yourself,‖‚Are‖they‖

still‖alive.‖.‖.?‛

Starvation leading to the slowest and cruelest deaths. . .

A landlocked blockade.

For 10 months.

Genocide‖in‖the‖most‖silent‖way.‖.‖.In‖the‖way‖that‖you’ll‖never‖hear‖

about it from the media. . .In the way you will always hear about it

from that one friend.

Because that one friend, has family and loved ones in their

indigenous Armenian lands that have been and is currently being

ethnically cleansed by Azerbaijan.

Because that one friend is hoping and praying her male cousins and

friends‖ don’t‖ have‖ to‖ re-enlist into the military to defend their

homeland on the front lines of war. Those boys, those men, are

younger than some of us here.

Because that one friend, prays all day and night, reading the news

and dreading‖the‖day‖she‖ sees‖the‖name‖of‖her‖loved‖one’s‖name‖in‖

print, that they had been killed in action.

The sacrifice given, in order to protect future Armenian generations,

traditions, language, religion and culture.

82

10 months. My indigenous land of Nagorno Karabakh, Artsakh, now

belongs in the hands of murderers.

120,000 Armenians displaced, while the world silently watched

without batting an eye.

Now I, scream into the darkest of rooms, hoping someone would

come and save us. Hoping someone could save me. Someone could

ask. Someone, could care.

Now I, get to look in the mirror, see the gray hairs around my

widow’s‖ peak.‖ Because‖ receiving‖ gray‖ hairs‖ is‖ a‖ privilege‖ and‖ an‖

honor,

that‖I’ve‖been‖able‖to‖live‖this‖long‖a‖life‖to‖see.

Too young to die, but old enough to die for cause.

I bury all my young brothers, but at what cost?

In my universe

KEP PECKHAM

one gives jewelry

to a person one loves

but now you say

you never loved me.

So do I keep all

the earrings

and necklaces

or toss them?

83

Next Stop

IAN KENDRICK

I missed my stop. I watched the bus breeze by where I usually get off,

without‖a‖word.‖I’m‖not‖sure‖why,‖maybe‖I‖just‖didn’t‖want‖to‖get‖off‖

there this time.

It’s‖ a‖ foggy‖ night,‖ the‖ gleaming‖ lights‖ of‖ the‖ city‖ passing‖ by‖ one‖ by‖

one, dimmed by the thick mist.

I’m‖sitting‖by‖the‖window.‖It’s‖cold‖as‖ice,‖stinging‖my‖cheek‖as‖I‖lean‖

against‖it,‖and‖yet,‖I‖don’t‖want‖to‖pull‖away.

No one speaks a word on the bus. Everyone seems to melt into their

seat somehow, the red cushions enveloping shadowy forms.

I‖ have‖ to‖ make‖ dinner,‖ don't‖ I?‖ Why‖ didn’t‖ I‖ get‖ off?‖ The‖ glass‖ still‖

stings.

Smacking my lips together, I can taste salt. My mouth is dry.

Everything feels dry.

I‖ can‖ hear‖ rushing‖ water‖ outside.‖ Is‖ it‖ raining?‖ It’s‖ probably‖ raining

somewhere.

This ride, I can feel it melting into one. I should have gotten off. Is it

too late to turn back now? Can I still turn away?

A loud ringing sound echoes across the bus, as it halts, the faint howl

of screeching tires echoes from outside.

The door slides open with a soft creak, letting the cold slowly seep in.

I‖rise,‖step‖towards‖the‖exit.‖This‖isn’t‖my‖stop.‖Or‖maybe‖it‖is.‖Hell,‖if‖

I‖know.‖All‖that’s‖left‖to‖do‖is‖step‖forward.

84

Giving Way

RAQUEL BAKER

To see, I strip layers of you. Two years,

five children, another 10, 10 more,

your breaking

a maritime trauma.

Y suavamente your children claim itinerant continents,

cling to abstraction of pelvic bone and press of waters

parted, forced

relocations, the doom

scroll buzz of this hydraulic morning, seams seeping

sulfur and glass. My windows flung open to

the petrol

hiss of progress,

while your grandmother lines gather up all that concrete

just to birth strip malls, just to shore me where my

silica tangles

in sweet bay,

my skin holding that familiar smell of something like

fertilizer, my sighted eyes, viscous pools burning.

85

Behind the House

GLORIA KEELEY

there’s a belief that if

a bird knew mathematics

she’d be unable to fly

her inner compass bearing west

into the pocket of space

below sky’s cul-de-sac

where existentialists factor climate

kite tails paint the sky

in their yearly regatta

stars in the yard mix

with fireflies

a dead bird

wings flapping in the wind

as if airborne, poised to fly

the black hole of its nest

behind the house

near the rumpus room

where the deceased respond

with their usual silence

86

Self-Portrait as a House

KATIE MANNING

The façade is cream with dark

brown trim. Near the front door—red

tulips where imaginary

children click their wooden

shoes. The doorbell

is the softest jingle, the ghost

of a bell. Just inside,

there is a table with a guestbook filled

with the names of everyone

I’ve‖ever‖met.‖The‖house‖smells‖like‖black‖

tea and baking brownies. In the living

room, my grandparents talk

happily‖with‖my‖spouse’s‖

parents. All of them

smile and gesture

toward‖me.‖I‖can’t‖hear‖them,‖but‖

I will sit with them

soon. In the kitchen, I open

the fridge to find

several gallons of milk, enough

for a bowl of cereal or a recipe

or a good cry. In the bedroom, my spouse

is sound asleep. I love

to watch his smooth forehead, his

strong jaw. I keep all of my childhood

diaries in the very back

of‖the‖closet.‖There’s‖plenty‖of‖room‖

in here for everything

I have to hide

87

MARGE PIERCY

Among the climbing squash and beans

She, the female hummingbird,

has built a tiny but sturdy nest

in the teepee of scarlet runner

beans. Those beans are off

limits now. If we approach

too closely, a miniature fighter

jet attacks, straight at our faces.

She is bold, aggressive, smaller

than a house mouse but far

less timid. How fragile, how

fierce she glints in the sun.

I know she constantly must eat

to support her speed. Her eggs

would fit in a thimble. I want

to protect her nest, her body,

but‖she‖doesn’t‖want‖my‖help.

88

Everyone's Name Is Rae Rose

RAE ROSE

for Marge

Google me—

I‖am‖not‖‚rae_of_sunshine_17‛‖who‖is‖a‖‚Child‖Of‖God.‛

I don't live in Seattle, Washington and wear red berets.

I am not a writer of Native and Asian heritage.

Not a gender fluid actor

and I don't write historical fiction.

Not a rapper in a pink and yellow hoodie

who‖‚came‖to‖conquer.‛

Not in any production of Spring Awakening,

a flower crown on my head,

clutching my black sweater.

Don't paint botanical illustrations

or make children's‖clothes‖‚with‖love.‛

Not in a bikini doing the back float.

Don't live in Alpine.

Don't‖make‖‚Rae‖Rose‖Pants.‛

Not‖a‖‛Truly‖vibrant‖light‖purple

that‖goes‖well‖with‖any‖outfit‛

for‖‚$8‖and‖free‖shipping.‛

Not a boxy pair of earrings.

Don't do Premium Ground

Maintenance and Landscaping

or sell plants on Etsy.

Wasn't born in 1942 and am now dead,

but I will die—

so I'd like to officially invite

every other Rae Rose to my wake.

89

The Naming of Everything

TOMMY WELTY

First the Flowers, Obligatory & Bright:

sun yellow tidytips & fiddlenecks

mingled in mustard weeds dried

into razor blades & kindling, violet

hollow leaf arroyo lupine & tumbleweed

(which is not native to the American Southwest),

cinquefoil, lavender, & bougainvillea. Again:

cinquefoil, lavender, & bougainvillea. Again—

fractalling like strip malls & tract homes

Also, Fences & Gates:

a wrought iron community with roads in a language

the‖homeowners‖don’t‖speak,‖cedar‖planks‖blistered‖

by the sun, & written on a broken gate: Private Property

Do Not Trespass, the trail cutting through the field,

the weeds dressed in red & arrayed in green. A sea,

a horizon, a black tree split by lightning

a graying brick wall tagged: Love

Then, Previously Owned & Gently Used:

one condom, a needle, an empty can

of‖Progresso’s‖Italian‖Wedding‖Soup,‖a‖shopping‖cart‖filled‖

with dew soaked cardboard, another cart upside down,

a‖pile‖of‖children’s‖shoes‖laid‖out‖like‖an‖altar—

an Ebeneezer raised or forgotten

How Then Should We Live?

I went to be quiet & alone

to find solitude & the blue jay

burst from the ground & cicadas chirruped &

the breeze sang sweet & I was

neither quiet nor alone & I was

laid by the runoff creek, like a seed

in the earth & all I found

was life & life

abundantly

90

Shadow Self

ARIANA KRAFT

It’s‖lived‖with‖me‖since‖I‖entered‖this‖realm‖we‖call‖earth

I‖inherited‖it‖from‖my‖mother‖and‖my‖mother’s‖mother‖and‖hers‖‖

before that

As I grew, it festered, thriving off the pains of life

trying to find ways to cope

shadows in my heart

like crevices in the moon

trigger-happy in the form of self-inflicted violence

It's not what you say but how you say it

Lies are told through clenched teeth

while words are thrown like grenades wreaking havoc wherever they

land

and there I am

scurrying to put the pieces back together

we walk on water

old cracks

a thousand kisses deep

RITA MELISSANO

91

It’s Just Hair

CHELSEA WILLIAMS

The first time I let the feeling sink in, I was working in a preschool.

I‖still‖don’t‖know‖what‖to‖call‖it.

My boss called me into the office telling me to pull back my hair into

a‖ponytail‖or‖find‖other‖styles‖that‖wouldn’t‖frighten‖the‖children.

I went to the bathroom holding back tears and finally sobbing in that

dim place as I tightened my curls into a ponytail.

The same one I had worn for years prior because a girl had made

jokes about my hair in the fourth grade.

It gave me a headache and made me feel small.

When I finally embraced my curls and wore my hair freely, I had

gotten compliments from peers and later from the same students who

were‖apparently‖‚frightened‛‖by‖my‖hair.

‚Can‖I‖touch‖it?‛

Kids‖are‖sweeter‖than‖some‖adults,‖and‖peers‖in‖high‖school‖wouldn’t‖

even ask.

I could feel them tugging on my curls, stretching them and watching

them bounce back into place.

When I turned around they only giggled unapologetically, telling me

how fun my hair was to play with.

But it was mine, being treated like public property.

So when I saw myself years later in that dim bathroom, eyes covered

in tears and my makeup smeared, I decided that was enough.

No one could tell me how to wear my hair or what I could do with

my own body.

I freed my curls and introduced myself to the student my boss

claimed was frightened because of my hair.

92

We talked and played together almost every afternoon following that

day

.

Now I notice more, the stares and how people cross the street when

they see me walking with my purple water bottle and mini purse.

Stalking Errant Strands

NANCY SANDWEISS

Her‖hijab‖can’t‖subdue‖the‖rebel‖hair,

she’s‖proud‖of‖her‖lips‖but‖oh,‖that‖devilish‖hair.‖

Darling of her father, she knows praise will come unbidden;

her jealous sisters curse her stellar hair.

A back-street merchant guards a stash of Vogue,

she scoops up the latest issue, news of health and hair.

Home life is easy—she’s‖bare-headed, bold;

outdoors‖she’s‖careful,‖always‖drapes‖her‖clever‖hair.

Morality thugs stalk streets in search of sinners,

her unbowed head reveals a glimpse of unruly hair.

She‖will‖not‖cower,‖she’s‖Kurdish—enemy of the Republic;

pulled‖in‖for‖immodesty,‖she’s‖beaten‖for‖the‖evil‖of‖her‖hair.

Her death ignites a firestorm, unleashes rage across Iran;

women young and old display the ultimate defiance: unveil their

hair.

93

Mosquito Tone

JENNIFER CHUNG KLAM

My 13-year-old daughter feels

the high-pitched whining sound

like a drill to the back of the head.

This‖constant‖‚mosquito‖tone‛‖

can only be heard by young people.

It’s‖meant‖to‖deter‖them‖

from‖lingering‖on‖Tokyo’s‖busy‖streets—

as if they are annoying little pests

to be avoided or gotten rid of.

Her father and I, in the

withering stages of middle age,

don’t‖hear‖it.‖

We hear only a city buzzing

with bright lights, conversations, music,

and so much movement.

It’s‖thrilling,‖this‖change‖of‖scenery.

But to our daughter, the sound is unbearable;

painful, confusing and disorienting.

As we age, we lose the ability

to hear high frequencies, and

understanding components of speech,

like so-called voiceless consonants,

becomes difficult.

And sometimes understanding

our teenage daughter,

her needs, her moods, her voiceless desires,

becomes difficult.

She’s‖at‖an‖age‖when‖friends

have more influence than family.

Identity is shifting;

hormones are surging;

tastes are mutable.

94

Embarrassment lurks around every corner.

Awkwardness is a damp, ugly shirt

not easily shed in the stifling heat

of a Japanese summer.

I want to shield her,

to protect her from this torment,

as her every fiber screams:

do not linger,

keep moving,

get somewhere safe.

Those years of teen angst

come for us all.

And‖I‖can’t‖stop‖the‖onslaught.

All I can do is shuffle her on, and

try to be a place of quietude,

a refuge, until the pain inevitably passes.

95

Crabbed Age and Youth

ESTELLE GILSON

Crabbed age and youth cannot live together

Shakespeare’s‖sonnet‖sets‖them‖far‖apart

if indeed it was the bard who linked them to weather

in that depressing poem that pierces my heart.

Youth is hot and bold

Age is weak and cold

So Will liked it hot

and thought it bold

But like it or not

he never got really old.

True, Youth is nimble, my age is lame.

True, Youth is wild, my age is tame

But memories endure and dreams can flame.

Crabbed age and youth can live together

however distant on a statistical chart

when bound within one soul and single heart.

96

Paradise Midnight Transit

LLOYD HILL

Blinds blink red

I sit up in bed Jesus

Mohammed Budda

an ambulance to transport

another resident of Paradise

Retirement Home to

more life or death

Living daily nearer death

life becomes me

as paramedic priests

strap the body in

I snuggle deeper in

in bed

CESAR MARTINEZ JUAREZ

Sough and Sigh

That night you dried out my lips

you took all my vocals and diction

all that remained was a glimpse

of murmur and voiceless intuition.

I perceived the tingling sensation

I relished the desired flavor

the bittersweet enchanted mixture

the madness and charm collision.

My taste, no longer vicious

your sight, no longer suspicious

my touch, played a new melody

your hearing, shaped a new memory.

97

Color of you

LENA PORTERA

I can

Find a vibrance.

In the color of me.

I sit deep in my closet.

Saturated in a horizon.

That tips out,

Just beyond my reach.

I stand boldly.

In front of,

Someone I love.

Everyday.

Will I be singing?

When I tell them to get out of the way.

Shadows‖give‖depth‖to‖the‖love‖I’ve‖been

painting.

But light,

Has been the courage.

I’ve‖been missing.

How could someone with so much

darkness,

Shine so brightly?

I guess you need both to have dimension.

Now I am reviewing my lesson on 3D

shapes.

How can I teach them?

If‖I‖don’t‖make‖my‖own‖mistakes?

Equal.

Important.

Give and take.

Do not ignore the light on my face.

Quick!

Catch it!

Right before it fades.

98

Keep Going

CARLY MARIE DEMENTO

Not because you're a writer

or you have thin wrists but

because you are an open field

a question

an earth-opened mouth of mud.

The rain has soaked you through

but still, you keep asking.

99

Art and Science

FRANCESCA DIMEGLIO

I’ve walked through many a cobweb,

startled by the sticky almost-invisible

ribbons clinging to my mouth, my arms.

Though too big to get caught in these traps,

I always spin, brush at my arms, torso, legs

with frantic palms to quell my instinctive

shiver. But today a black cobweb tucked

under the eaves stops me in my tracks.

I reach for my phone to learn the name

of the spider who built this marvel of nature,

this sturdy and brittle maze, this hidden

treasure, just for me to discover.

I imagine a carapace of gold, a black thunderbolt

across its abdomen, an artist so different and daring

who might scuttle out of a crevice

to declare itself, brandish its sinewy legs,

shimmy across its dark masterpiece,

spin and dangle, pluck and preen.

But the delicate veil I thought was woven by a spider

was an act of chemistry, an array of threads

formed when carbon and tar are let loose

by a flame that dances and licks, flickers and fools.

You see, last night we burned the chicken

on our backyard grill, flames flared

almost high enough to catch the house.

We grind our teeth to stumps

to squelch what we want to forget,

and yet other things, we forget so easily.

100

Forest

ALAN GARZON-MONROY

a verdant field stretches out before you

the‖forest’s‖beauty‖unfurling‖in‖hues‖of‖gold‖and‖green

above, white clouds reveal their whorled design

plastered onto a stained canvas of the purest blue

in the distance, a mountain summit shrouded in snow

completes the picture-perfect vista

placid sunlight filters through rustling leaves

liquid gold falling onto dirt

crackling as you step over it

punctuating the birdsong around you

a light breeze sighs its response

branches swishing to the windy lullaby

come face to face with a redwood tree

and trace your fingers along its bark

feeling every ragged mark under your skin

stem and roots worn by time

just as easily as you or I

101

Bonsai Forest

KATHABELA WILSON

Her indomitable spirit. Our community. She built it with her heart on

the hearts of others. She used the space between lines, forging new

connections, joining hearts and minds.

At a sci-fi meeting a button I bought to give her reads "I love

SPACE". Her wish list to visit every state. Only seven left. She had to

cancel a cabin in the redwoods. I ordered a whole bonsai redwood

forest that never arrived. What we do and what we cannot. . .

She was a waterfall. Left us all breathless watching. And with her we

took another deep breath before she left.

meteor shower

of your inspiration

Perseid moon

Beach Encounter

CLIFTON KING

Spring slips imperceptibly into summer.

The light changes, days hotter this past week

and‖I’m‖dreaming‖of‖a‖beach‖encounter:‖

We meet on a dark night along a windy shore

under that elusive eyelash moon, both barefoot,

feet frosted with sand, legs soaked

from frolicking in those cold shadowy shallows.

And up the beach, behind a small dune

where only that moon will see us—a blanket.

102

CASSANDRA KIANA MARTIN

Beneath the Surface

I slip into the cool embrace, the water giving way like silk. The air

clings to me for a moment, resisting, before the plunge swallows all

sound. My breath holds, caught between two worlds above, where

life is noisy, and here, where it is muted, a dream blurred at the

edges.

The surface breaks like glass behind me, leaving ripples that fade as

quickly as they are born. The water wraps itself around my skin,

heavy and light all at once. I sink deeper, the weight of the world

replaced by the weight of this liquid cocoon.

It smells faintly of salt and earth, the scent of something ancient,

untouchable.‖ The‖ kind‖ of‖ scent‖ you‖ can’t‖ name‖ but‖ know‖ from‖ the‖

deepest corners of your memory. Beneath the surface, everything is

slower. Each movement is drawn out, languid, as though thewater

itself is in no hurry to let me go.

Light filters through in broken beams, fractured by the ripples above,

dancing over my arms, and my legs, like fleeting whispers. The colors

shift blue and green, soft and endless like a watercolor painting still

drying. The deeper I go, the more the colors fade, dimming to a quiet

blue that presses against my eyes.

The silence here is thick, except for the rhythmic pulse of my

heartbeat, the faint bubbling of air rising to meet the surface, and the

muffled hum of something distant, as though the earth itself is

breathing somewhere far beneath.

I close my eyes and feel the weightless pull, the world above lost, the

world below stretching infinite. For a moment, I am suspended,

caught between breaths, between worlds, held in the vast, unspoken

quiet of the deep.

103

Don’t Feel a Thing

LAKE MCCLENNEY

If you forget to do the stingray shuffle out

to catch a wave, you might get stung.

Try to pretend it’s no big deal.

In five minutes you’ll stagger out of the surf screaming

for help. At the Dog Beach lifeguard station, you’ll

sit on a bench with other victims, soaking your foot in water

as hot as you can stand. Those are the directions:

hot as you can stand.

The guys on the bench bond over wounds—

sports injuries, car accidents, any kind of pain.

Male bondage, one of our kids called it.

And did you hear the story about that man who paid

thousands of dollars to be flown thousands of miles

to get lost? Well anyway

he did hike twenty miles in three days. With GPS.

And supplies air-dropped in.

But why judge?

People will pay to jump into a tub of iced mud.

The lifeguard—buff, bronze, crest of blue hair, Greek god

melded to ultramarine rooster—speaks of stingrays.

They’re not aggressive. They’re shy.

Just don’t like to be stepped on.

They’re going extinct. The ocean is warming.

On the bench, we nod.

The stingrays are migrating north, looking for food, a place

to live. On the bench, it gets quiet. We’ve heard this story.

Maybe to steer the conversational ship away

from political Scylla and Charybdis,

the rooster god tells us a tale about a guy

who cooked his own foot.

Internet directions on how to treat stingray poisoning—

hot as you can stand, right?

104

Turned out he had some kind of neuropathy.

Couldn’t feel a thing. Boiled his own foot.

The guys on the bench laugh, the way men do

when they’re horrified. The way we all laugh at a joke

about the end of the world.

Tartan Scarf

RITA ZAMORA

I do not know how it happened

as swiftly as it occurred

All the love was gone

I still remember your words

A goodbye that shattered me

putting me in a limbo

where I hope to be found

You left to chase a dream

leaving me thinking of your return

but she who returned

no longer expected me, it was no longer you

I want to know if you miss me

though your deafening silence

told me nothing, yet everything

105

Where I’m From

GORDON LU

I am from a place of cold,

covered with fine white powder

which collapses in a sudden crunch beneath you.

I am from a place where a cold exhale lingers through

the air,

but a place where a hard inhale vanishes numbly.

A place where -30° is suitable

for light slippers and a tank top.

I am from a place where white-covered days

are followed by pitch-black nights.

I’m‖from‖single‖seasons

where my basketball net is left abandoned,

yet still enjoys hearing laughter from afar.

I am from a world never thought to be

where‖‚Sorry‛‖is‖the‖only‖word‖spoken.

A‖world‖where‖the‖meanest‖person‖is‖from‖a‖kid’s‖cartoon,

or a place where white lies are most common.

I am from sunsets like no other

radiant with light and vibrant colors,

as if portraying a monumental moment.

A monument

that follows with the darkness of the darkest colors.

I am from comforting people

with affection

that provides the best time together.

I am from a place where pictures of ancestry are stored,

never to be forgotten.

I am from dying laughter,

memorable friendships,

massive fights,

yet I find myself valuing them equally.

A dream of all the ones I value

is where I used to be from.

106

Saint Textus

LENNY LIANNE

Every day, at his gray workstation,

Textus stayed hooked to his headset

as he fielded frequent inquiries

on the promise of future dividends

while his thumbs tapped teeny keys

on his cell phone, delivering

synopses of sermons or condensed

epistles—texts to the multitudes.

Full of abbreviations, his version

of‖the‖Lord’s‖Prayer‖went‖viral

as his voicemail maxed out

with entreaties for his intercession.

He offered up all the suffering

in his thumbs for forgiveness

of sins where the devil reigned

or‖his‖evangelism‖didn’t‖reach.

Martyrdom tracked him down

when his loutish, non-believing

supervisor swept through

his department like a Komodo

dragon looking left and right,

scarfing up (and later disallowing)

all cell phones. Thus suppressed,

for days and weeks, Textus

met with wretched withdrawal,

whilst his thumbs, without end,

agitated the air. As patron

saint of two-finger typists

and‖instant‖messaging,‖he’s

invoked by those who text,

even in bed, like needy birds

pecking at the bread of life.

107

Strawberries

CORA GREY HUOT

Shards of selenium, potent medicine bars

for shareholders sleepwalking into liquor stores,

clears sins of the silent, cleans droplets of

hunger from their chins with white cotton

cloths woven on a loom long departed

from Baja California bombarded by cyclones

that remain little as an image on news reels

nestled between spreadsheets marking profits,

returns on investments, consummation of

the land ravaged and discarded.

We barter for the sky while rhinestone

eyes retreat into clementine sun, creeping

over the horizon—bakes earth, fractures

without prejudice to agricultural spoils,

pill bugs crushed beneath boot heels,

broken treads beneath bent brown backs

scooping strawberries into plastic baskets.

We peruse markets for just desserts

to fill our pantries, pots, and pockets.

Imaginary money exchanged for strawberries

harvested cheap, consumed without regard

to sweat dripping on dewdrops suspended

on green leaves needed to sustain rewards.

We go hungry in the eyes of prairie fields,

who fractures her treasures for apartment

windows overlooking apartment windows

seeking scenery and spoils that used to be—

now fallow due to the pit and pinnacle

of wealth measuring the fallout of weathered

hands carrying green lines to percentile peaks.

Shards of crystalline glass, dewdrops

glittering over fractured meadows,

drips down from steel beam buildings,

108

evaporates like doobies donated to

a Chicano with all his belongings sitting

on the corner of 6th and El Prado,

who sits upon a sofa couch of laundry,

highway poppies, asphalt dandelions, and trash

bags of soda cans—aluminum traded for

strawberries that he harvested weeks before

the season closed the market for labor.

He barters his weathered shoes, dried mud

caked into crevices, rubber treads with

cracked heels, exoskeletons, and remnants of

organisms petrified without equal payment

for their hard labor. Laborers swindled, federal

crumbs doled out in exchange for blisters and

eyes wrinkled by time under cinnabar sun.

He peruses urban corridors, chasing shadows

to evade the afternoon sun beating down

like a carnival cheating children of dreams.

Carnations in five gallon buckets exchanged

for invidious tickets handed out of monochrome

sedans, slips of carbon copies passing through tinted

window to concrete median, placed in pocket for

hind quarters bent over crushed ice plant.

He hungers for places no longer offered

by farmers reluctant to fracture their fields

of prairie grass and alfalfa, which bakes in the

summer air, is then replenished by Colorado

aquifer, stretched thin like sun-burnt skin

catching marine layer mist for a morning rinse.

And the scent of strawberries in the wind

catches like memories of anthocyanin staining

calloused hands with sweet crimson. Red like the

generational inheritance of promises long overdue

for realization by the wealthy—who care nothing for

strawberries, so long as their profit margins remain steady

and the Chicano on the street corner foots the bill

for his own slavery to a system where the homeless

can feed the hungry, but not themselves.

109

DONATO MARTINEZ

I Hope There Are Mangos in Heaven

I hope there are mangos and pozole every day in heaven

and unlimited supply of warm hugs

and that no one ever runs out of blankets

I hope there are clearance racks of the coolest and dopest sneakers

But‖I‖hope‖that‖Nikes‖don’t‖run‖so‖tight

I hope libraries and Del Taco and K-mart stay open all night.

I hope there are enough baseball fields with night lights

and plenty of parks with slides and monkey bars

I hope that when it rains, it comes in streams of cheerful colors

and that the rain drops taste like fruit punch or strawberry lemonade

I hope to play in leftover puddles on my way to school the next day.

I hope every class at school is art or music

And that recess is one hour

I hope they serve pizookies and nachos as the main dish for school

lunches

And that all pizzas come with extra cheese

I even hope there is nap time during high school and college classes

I hope music is played and heard everywhere in heaven.

And that the saxophone and violin can be heard all night long.

I hope that Coachella is once a month

and that I can finally see Tupac live and not on a hologram

and I hope that in heaven there is finally a Smiths reunion

I hope in heaven there is daylight savings time,

but only when we gain an hour.

In heaven, Sundays will be meant for cruising in lowriders

and yes, Sundays will be lazy days

I hope in heaven there are only amazing jobs that everyone loves

And that every other Monday is a holiday.

And that your boss is Mister Rogers or your kindergarten teacher.

110

I hope I drive a convertible in heaven

and that my gas tank is always full on Mondays

And that the traffic jam is only for the street tacos

that the compas are selling on the side of the freeway.

But the compas live in mansions

and tacos on the freeway is their side hustle.

And‖they‖never‖worry‖about‖next‖month’s‖rent.‖

Or health insurance

or shoes or backpacks for their children

or being illegal.

I hope no one becomes old or sick in heaven

And if someone has a slight fever, or a cold, or a mild headache, or a

nauseous stomach

or a sore throat or has early symptoms of arthritis,

that Vicks Vapor Rub will be the cure all for all ailments.

I hope that in heaven women do not reject you or break your heart

I hope that all men love their sons and daughters

I hope in heaven there are no diseases.

No cancer or covid or dementia or growing old.

I hope there are no mental illnesses in heaven

And no generational trauma. Because those were left behind on earth.

I hope there is no war or blood or hate in heaven

and there will never be sadness

because rainbows

and happiness will fall from the sky every day

like confetti and candy falling from piñatas.

111

The Skateboarders

after Gwendolyn Brooks

EDDIE KRZEMINSKI

We ride fast. We

switch stance. We

carve hard. We

schoolyard. We

cut skin. We

snap limbs. We

bust ass. We

road rash.

he liked the cheap liquor store beer

and the fishnet on his skin

the dry grass

and‖dog’s‖fur

its big, brown eyes

reflecting snowy palm blooms at dusk

in a 1940s bungalow courtyard

the feel of pedaling with conviction

wind on his thighs

the empty streets at night

staring down cops

dark circles and eyeliner

he liked being free

TANNER SMITH

112

Commencement Day

JEFF BETTGER

A caliche-filled shovel,

another cavity in the ground.

Black clad figures like shadows

gathered on this misty plain.

Goodbye dear friend,

a final kiss and prayer.

We will miss you more

than you will miss this life.

Eight seasons spent alone,

your wife the first to cross.

You hungered to follow her soon,

pain not even morphine could soothe.

All that once gave you joy,

now forgotten and numb.

The priest recites the ancient words,

consecrating your soul to God.

Your huddled friends and family

shed tears as the casket descends,

into the same hardened soil you produced

corn and wheat from water and seed.

A single ray of sunshine,

piercing the cloudy canopy,

illuminating your chiseled headstone,

registering your name. This granite garden.

This silent congregation. You are home.

113

Just One

ANNETTE KETNER

I know, I know,

Time passes, Things change.

Over and over I tell myself

it’s‖just‖another‖day.

And it will be over soon.

But I know better.

There are gatherings

in the neighborhood,

inside homes, that is.

Outside, its oddly quiet.

At my house

A TV is blaring

The‖Macy’s‖parade.

Too hyped.

Too happy.

Too much.

It’s‖not‖‚just‖another‛‖day,

it’s‖Thanksgiving

and my family has

grown, changed.

Like‖I’m‖telling‖the‖butcher,

‚A‖small‖turkey‖breast,‖please.‛

‚For‖how‖many?‛‖he‖asked.

‚For‖one,‚‖I‖reply.

It hangs in the air

like a pitiful scream

in the now silent store.

‚Just‖one.‛

114

Motorcycle Destiny

CHARLES TATUM

The rider drove in coal-black night

desert spread out

on either side

grey wolves of the past nipped

at his back tire

thrust him forward

toward roadrunners up ahead

His eyes remained focused on

his headlamp beam

gaping hole in the night

opened up, swallowed him, then

closed behind him in a

continuous tunnel of light

In wilderness surrounding him

there might be secrets to uncover

clues lying just past lights edge

hidden at the base of

some sandstone ridge

lodged in the crevices of

rock formations

but maybe the answer

was straight ahead

He chose the lighted path

away from his past

toward a mud-soaked road or

rolling onto a sunlit highway

115

Thirteen Ways

of Looking at a ‘64 Dodge Dart

I

JEREMY MCKAY

inspired by Wallace‖Stevens’ Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird

Among miles of impound lots,

I wondered which one would have

my Dodge Dart.

II

I was of three minds.

My father loved his version.

I loved my Dart. I bought it used for $650.

My partner loved it almost as much.

Did we love it enough to pay the impound fees?

III

The‖‘64‖Dodge‖Dart‖was‖sexy‖

in 1964, but by the 21 st century

it was a rusty relic.

IV

A man and a woman

are one.

A man and a woman and an old car

are a disagreement.

V

I do not know which to prefer,

the slant-6 engine,

the push button automatic transmission,

or‖that‖it‖was‖just‖like‖dad’s‖Plymouth‖Valiant.

VI

Icicles filled the long window.

The heater took forever to warm up

and the defroster blew the best with the windows open.

116

VII

Oh, thin men of Tesla,

why do you frown upon the gas guzzling Dart?

Is it jealousy? Are you threatened by its barbaric simplicity?

Do you see how much I enjoy standing over her carburetor,

screwdriver‖in‖hand,‖to‖give‖her‖more‖air?‖I‖don’t‖need‖a‖computer‖

to talk to her.

VIII

I know noble accents

and lucid, inescapable rhythms.

And I know, too,

that the gas guzzling Dart will no longer be

involved in what the world knows.

IX

When the Dart flew out of sight,

it marked the horizon with a cloud of smoke

and left a trail of various fluids.

X

At‖the‖sound‖of‖the‖Dart’s‖slant-6 engine

cruising through a yellow-red light,

even the bawds of euphony

would cry out sharply.

XI

We rode over the bay area

in this sporty classic, hoping the brakes would hold.

Once, we overtook a Plymouth Valiant.

It was a shadow of

Dad’s‖pristine‖automobile‖and‖smoked‖less‖than‖we‖did.

XII

The river is moving.

The Dart must be drowning.

[ . . . ]

117

XIII

It was evening all afternoon.

It was snowing

and it was going to snow.

The Dart sat silent in the impound lot

I‖turned‖the‖key.‖She‖didn’t‖even‖choke.

The impound fee: $450. I left her there to rest.

Tunnel Vision

BARBARA MOSQUEDA

Bread crumbs,

you gave me bread crumbs.

I collected them until the very end

trying to make the bread that was my heart

w h o l e.

118

A Poem about ADHD

ALEX DEDDEH

Sometimes my head is filled with rodents and bugs,

the thought I want lost among the

multitudes of scuttles, squeaks and buzzes,

like trying to find a needle in a wheat field.

Sometimes‖I’m‖ruled‖by‖two‖deities:

Fridge and Phone.

Up to either eat or scroll my feed because even if my body

is exhausted, my mind is still hungry.

Yes my own mind separates,

becomes the lousy upstairs neighbor,

keeping the lights and music on all night

while everything below suffers.

Now, you may be expecting an abrupt end,

a‖quirky‖declaration‖of‖‚Squirrel!‛

to‖show‖I’ve‖been‖distracted.‖

Instead‖I’ll‖conclude‖with‖an‖image‖of‖a‖frozen‖body.‖

A body watching stress ignite fires, seeing piles of work tower

beside it.

A body that knows it must do, do something but. . .

119

the discovery of fire

TIM RAY

not the big one

back when we were

scuffling naked apes

but personal discovery

by pilfered match or magnifying glass

feeding the dancing flame with twigs and leaves

then scavenging the landscape for soda bottles

to convert to money at the corner store

to by a box of kitchen matches

regiments of red-headed sticks

bright strike-anywhere phosphorus tips

almost three quarters

of a century ago that enterprise

today sun awakens late summer hills

the trail powdery dust

through waist-high common wild oats

inflorescence stretched out along the stalks

florets opened seeds dropped

leaving what once enclosed them

translucent papery membranes

like tiny gold flags aloft

like billions of tiny flags

each surrounded by air

the perfect condition

for a rip-roar of a blaze

I‖wouldn’t

120

the heart birds

NELS GOÑI CHRISTIANSON

did I tell you the heart birds have left

carrying their speckled plumage to some other place

curious, it was only days after you died

the ones I drew on paper took flight too

and‖if‖anyone‖asked,‖I‖couldn’t‖prove

they’d‖ever‖been here

I’ve‖taken‖to‖drawing‖a‖cross‖on‖top‖of‖boxes

with an altar inside or a single flower leaning to a wall

sometimes I color it red to show a friend

other times yellow

the flower never disappears

I still imagine a heart in the top corner

but I leave it blank

the flower by itself

I drew a whole church with the light pouring out

it could have been in Mexico or Spain

only the people in the churchyard were missing

mantillas and dark clothing missing

I could never draw a real person

I used to pen hearts in corners instead

or anywhere on a page

as if I was talking to someone special

some of them had wings

and speckles outside and in

I used to let them fly all day

knowing‖they’d‖be‖home‖by‖night

121

Two Dogs

AMANDA LEIGH MATTIMOE

The old boy sleeps like the dead, with one eye

open.‖Energy‖ripples‖over‖the‖youngster’s‖fur

as he paces. Two spectrums on a short

measuring stick, exuberance and lethargy,

where life lived unfurls along the middle stretch.

Rehabilitation is beyond the first one. The other,

frolics unrestrained in animated excitement.

Do they count their days like humans, balk

at unending repetition? In a wild wood, they might

follow a familiar path trampled to packed dirt

by the thud of hooves, where water puddles in dents

formed by passing coyote paws along the verge.

They might bay at the moon or tear at the grass,

but in our home, the youngster play-bows,

drops‖his‖toy‖on‖the‖oldster’s‖bed.‖A‖gray‖muzzle‖

nudges the toy away, sinks back to a comfortable

resting spot. Each day this ritual of hope repeats,

but the youngster relents easily enough as though

sensing‖his‖mate’s‖impending‖departure,‖despite‖

how‖mock‖runs‖enliven‖the‖old‖boy’s‖sleep.

Each‖morning,‖the‖youngster’s‖head‖to‖toe‖inspection

of his pal tells him things I can’t‖sense‖or‖know.‖

He looks at me as if to say, not long now, but not yet,

not today, and I accept this solace. They come to me

at mealtime side by side, one dark as midnight the other

a splash of morning sun. Here, the divine resides

in‖an‖old‖dog’s slow‖pace‖and‖a‖young‖dog’s‖eagerness,

in a place where I am crushed between

extremes of love and looming loss.

122

Johnny

RON LAUDERBACH

I see a guy standing outside the plate glass front of my office.

It’s‖raining‖and‖he‖ uses‖two‖hands‖to‖hold‖a‖big‖box,‖covered‖

with a newspaper. I open the door for him. He sets the box on

top a file cabinet, removes his coat, and drops the soggy

newspaper in the waste basket. I thought Johnny would like to

have these, he says. The first framed photo shows a couple of

logs the diameter of a tall man, resting side by side on a horse

drawn sledge. Perfect for a lumber yard office, I think. The

loggers have snow in their beards and wear wool caps, mittens,

and coats as they lean on long-handled axes. Ten-foot, twoman

crosscut saws hang on the sledge. A second photo must

have been staged on a Sunday because there are five

lumberjacks as clean as they have ever been, standing on a

platform in front of a steam donkey with a 12-inch winch and

fat cables. Two guys wear short, eggshell neckties that barely

show on starched, white shirts. A rough sawn board covers

mud between the neatly stacked log-deck and the donkey.

Dress shoes are shined. Well, says the visitor, I hope Johnny likes

‘em. Tell him I’m sorry I missed him. Name’s Ralph. My partner

returns and as he admires the photos, I say A guy dropped these

by for somebody named Johnny. You know ‘im?

123

Returning to the Sea

JAMES COATES

Poetry is like water.

It's inside everyone,

even the people that don't believe

they need a thirst quenched,

even they cannot live without hydration.

Poetry is inside every tiny cell of our body

moving and shifting as oceans over time.

Like you I am born from water

precious liquid streaming in my blood

like rivers that refuse to be held back

like waterfalls not afraid to leap from cliffs

and make a splash.

Like‖you‖I’ve‖known‖of‖still‖lakes‖

filled by dew lost in forbidden forest

seeking out the serenity of peaceful sunlight.

Like water I have no allegiance to place.

I go where the wind carries me.

I land where the ground calls my name,

to feed any nation, every people with life

with love,

with the question only answered by the deepest parts

of our own understanding.

Like you I have traveled

a great distance to be here.

Still unraveling each new state of my being

still holding together a hope

even after hurt has hurricane to my world

and what was up is now upside down

and the places that were once home,

today feels so foreign.

124

I still find my way into everything.

Every flower-song pulsing by a riverbed.

Every tear leaking from an innocent child's eyes.

Every word stuck in the silk of your saliva.

I am the part of you that stays

And the part that returns to the sea.

Like you,

I love and wish to be loved

and I am here with you now. Open.

Waiting for you to love me back

however long that takes.

LORRAINE A. PADDEN

post-it notes

poems in search

of a seed

Surf's Up:

DAWN BROWN

On a wind-free day,

the glassy wave beholds

the rider's awe-struck face.

125

Holding Fast

11/31/20: McClure’s Beach, Point Reyes

BRIAN KIRVEN

Leaning back against steep granite wall

beaded with baby barnacles, thumbnail

mussel shoals, irregular rock

stacked and solid

as the wobbly firm steps of this

wounded Aries Ram to get here

and soak in late afternoon sun

baking sturdy stone shoes

racked across cobbled wall face

over eternal ephemeral bustle.

I take in the surf below,

a surging disordered boulevard,

jostling wash cycle,

big swells spanking jagged cliffs,

spewing forth tawny foam spray.

Breathing in the sea

where it meets land,

what if I could relax

within the process of dying,

within the cold burning Pacific,

into the center of bashing breakers

as if a still pond,

as harbor seals, surf scoters

and other free floaters

mirror‖mussels’‖byssus‖threads,

swaying sea palms

rooted by the holdfast

and other sessile species,

all move easily balanced

within constant turbulence,

seesawing shore waters

infused with so much life

intrinsic with death.

126

Albeit uneven,

like the path ahead,

there’s‖solid middle ground

these wavering feet feel for.

Can I withstand such fury,

un-swayed too far either way?

Life

SUNNY REY AZZARITO

Hits‖when‖you’re‖looking‖for‖softness

Becomes gentle at the end of the hurricane

Rains down memories you will to forget

Pours out compassion as the heart settles and absorbs the gain

Life

We‖all‖just‖started‖in‖the‖middle‖of‖someone‖else’s‖middle

Inheriting stories mid-sentence

Traumas before breakthroughs

Triumphs long past survival

Leaving us to reset and start anew

Will we leap into the shadow that stalks us?

Will‖we‖blend‖with‖the‖passerby’s‖near‖us?

Wither like trees draped over unattended?

Allow ourselves to be bent down to the knee?

Life

The almighty sum of it all adding up to nothing

The nothingness, perceived as everything before one leaves.

127

A Calming Face of Words

PAT ANDRUS

I am of the blue and yellow river.

And‖I‖climb‖a‖Nasturtium’s‖stem

or‖a‖mountain’s‖granite‖boulder

for a language

that behaves with grace.

And I seek a plain

where the rose petals

reemerge as gods.

For today the clouds and the sun merge.

Today, the words of pickled memories

dissolve into a pink forest.

Today‖I‖walk‖towards‖afternoon’s‖break

where the dandelions whisper

and the moon

washes herself

clean.

to Sappho: an unfragmented fragment

grow me a spirit of

almond eyes, limbs

muscled, and hair

black strong

give me your garland of grapes

and hyacinths—

out‖of‖your‖sky’s‖song

I, shadow woman no more

you, a sun-raw poem

128

Ode to My Teenage Son

JANE MUSCHENETZ

You are already perfect the way you already are

and, yes, you must still brush your teeth every morning,

and do your own laundry.

Also, about cleaning your room—

how do I instill in you this certainty

of just being yourself being enough

as a working ethic

for not letting messes pile on top of us?

The day you were born—everything

was life and death, I swore on all that is holy

I would never again ask for another wish granted,

would strive my whole life to deserve you.

So,‖when‖I‖say,‖‚For‖the love of God!

Please, put‖on‖deodorant,‛‖know‖that

I love you

more than the echo of my own heart,

more‖than‖the‖breath‖that‖I’m‖still‖holding.

129

Responding to a Letter

from Billy Collins

It sounds easy, or it ought to be.

You know everything about him,

you’ve‖memorized‖his‖poetry

swooned over his YouTube videos

and written him repeatedly

until at last, he responded.

You long for epistolary romance

with your favorite poet

but you want to tread gently, play it a little cool.

So you ponder. You call the muse,

you read Milton and Shakespeare.

You wonder just how far the word infatuation

can travel in a middle-aged freight car

with bad brakes and a faulty suspension.

You drink Two Buck Chuck from a chipped wine glass

as you recite iconic poetry to your microwave.

When sleep comes

You dream of sloppy stanzas and cringy clichés

and line breaks that leave you stranded.

This is sad, you tell yourself in the morning

as you nurse a grammatical hangover

and try to grasp your unraveling.

What if your hero is a fraud?

What‖if‖he‖isn’t‖the‖wise‖man‖who‖gives‖wings‖to‖the‖wind

and song to the seas?

What if his breath smells like rotting fish?

In that moment of doubt

you behold the sacred envelope

creased from too much fondling

sender Billy Collins resting

in the top left corner like a patient lover.

LISA SCHWARTZ

130

You decide you will never write back

because neither pen nor cursor can do

justice to your pining.

Instead, you give in to

the last impetuous urge that remains:

you lay the envelope on the driveway

and dance in a circle around it

hurling your age-addled body

to and fro like a nymph

as your curious husband

watches from the porch, wondering.

Poetry Tantrum

JENNIFER KARP

No,‖I‖don’t‖wanna

It flows so well, no way

I like that line, I can’t‖stop‖reading‖it

I worked so hard on it, it stays

Oh my darling, my lovely golden

I will not forsake thee

Oh terror, thou devil speaker

Oh my soul, my heart, my wit

Your absence will be my death

Cutcutcut

Oh, wait. . .

that’s‖much‖better

131

The Silence

DANIELLE SOUCY MILLS

The silence does not define you.

It does not grade or degrade

even when your head conjures up words within—

profanities, put-downs—the mind is good

at making the absence of answers look ugly.

You know, it will all be okay. Especially

in the stillness. Responses inaudible become

clear and speak in Knowing the words

will always come and go.

They‖are‖you‖and‖aren’t‖you‖

in the best possible way.

So quiet the unpleasant inner argument

and breathe in the peace of your essence

solely—wholly

you exist without even writing

a single word. Silence—listen. It will all be

beyond what you call amazing

in the end.

Life will fall apart

like a taco at midnight.

Be ready with spoon.

MICHAEL KLAM

Ta-ku (Taco Haiku)

132

Kite

PATRICIA AYA WILLIAMS

& what if I told you the grass

was my mother

& every summer threw

open her arms to me—raised me

on daisy chains & daffodils,

dressed me in dew

-drops, sun-dapple &

dirt, sturdied me with pine,

with oak, took delight

in my delight, meadowed

& gleamed

as I tied myself to the sky—& flew

Cresting

KAREN DONALDSON

It all began with a holiday. Valentine's Day to be exact—the day of

romance and reminiscence. Then it picked up speed like the swell of

the ocean gradually lifting me ever so much higher through the end

of February and cresting over into March where this wave finally

plunged into the first day of spring, sending me rushing with the

tide, furiously sweeping away all that was in my path. Replacing that

path with pebbles of an existence while friends and family on shore

threw out their arms and all measures of support keeping me

anchored to our lives. This went on spanning the vernal equinox with

the endless days of the sun and heat of summer. Then quietly this

wave began to slow its speed and collect its path gently placing me

on a sure footing just as the rain heralded the beginning of fall with

its autumnal equinox and the golden glow of a reassuring harvest

moon.

133

Rainstorm

HEATHER CIRCLE

She said I wish It would rain so I can feel something again

Remembering its gentle roar take over quiet spaces

Promising renewal or at least a peaceful moment

Rain drops on her window, she would light a candle for the special

occasion

Where she would let herself be still and her thoughts would give in

and quiet down

The world would spin a little slower and she would run outside to

feel it

It is nothing like the desert she spends her life in

So she will check the clouds each day waiting for the rain

134

Another Night at Ray’s

TERRY HERTZLER

So Ray and I were sitting in the kitchen

of that small house he rented in Tempe,

both of us Vietnam vets in our 20s

attending ASU, just having a couple

of beers and talking about this nurse

he’d‖met,‖when‖a‖mouse‖poked‖its‖head

Around the corner.

And Ray, crazy motherfucker that he was,

looked at the mouse for a few seconds,

shook‖his‖head‖and‖mumbled‖something‖‘bout

‚rodents‛‖and‖‚hell,‛‖then‖reached‖into‖

a drawer next to the sink, pulled out a Colt

Model 1911 .45 and popped off a round

at the mouse, missing it completely.

A minute later, our hearing partially

returned, both of us squatted near

his refrigerator, peering at the neat black circle

in the linoleum of his kitchen floor.

‚Went‖all‖the‖way‖through,‛‖Ray‖grunted.

‚Probably‖scared‖the‖shit‖out‖of‖the‖roaches

and‖scorpions‖under‖the‖house.‛

‚Shit,‖man,‛‖I‖said,‖‚You‖always‖keep‖that‖fucker‖

locked‖and‖loaded?‛

‚Yeah,‖well,‖you‖know,‛‖Ray‖said,‖and‖I‖nodded

as we returned to our chairs and popped open

a‖couple‖more‖Michelob’s,‖neither‖of‖us‖

saying anything for a while, just kinda staring off

into the distance as we drank our beers,

the Arizona night clean and hot and dry.

135

Reading Second Skin

BRANDON CESMAT

In the dusk, Terry said,

‚Hurry‖and‖read,‛

his magnifying glass

over my right palm.

Not the lines so much,

made by use and, therefore,

useful,

not the five whorls,

a quintet of hurricanes

at my fingertips.

I read the scar hooked

across both life &

head lines from when

I refused to die,

read the mottled red

from applauding dangerous ideas.

Words rise in the blood, or

rather, they’re‖what’s‖left‖as

the tide of circulation rolls back.

Terry knew we were in trouble

when we dropped Agent Orange in October

on trees rudely refusing to drop their leaves.

‚Now‖read‖my‖scar,‛‖Terry‖said,

lifting‖his‖hand.‖‚It’s

a bitter line, which says Into night

coyotes exhaled stars that

the dawn’s early light swallowed

word by word.‛

‚Hurry,‛‖Terry‖said.‖‚Lift‖hands.‖Read‖

before‖it‖gets‖too‖dark‖to‖read.‛

136

The

STEVE KOWIT

Poetry Prize

Judge

ELLEN BASS

Program Director for Judges

VALARIE HASTINGS

137

I

t was a privilege to read the many fine poems of the finalists and

I was pleased to select these three as outstanding:

Body of the Beloved [by DEVREAUX BAKER] is a compelling narrative.

Most‖people‖who’ve‖been‖married‖a‖long‖time‖know‖at‖least‖some‖

times when they feel disappointment and even despair with the

relationship and then, as in this poem, the possibility of loss awakens

them to the absolute preciousness of their beloved. Body of the Beloved

delivers‖this‖experience‖powerfully‖in‖lines‖like‖‚where‖blood‖loves‖

the way of veins and darkness/becomes light, where there are no road

signs and ghost deer drift/with smoking hooves.‛

Split Milk Theory of Time [by KIM NORIEGA] is a smart and surprising

investigation‖of‖time,‖space,‖and‖love.‖And‖who‖wouldn’t‖love‖seeing‖

spilled‖milk,‖Schrödinger’s‖cat,‖Einstein,‖and‖chai‖in‖earthenware‖

mugs, and the milky galaxy all getting along together in a poem!

Imprint [by JESSICA COHN] is a vivid evocation in which the speaker

finds‖a‖snapshot‖of‖their‖mother,‖taken‖‚before‖she’s‖had‖a‖chance‖to‖

comb‖her‖violet‖hair.‛‖The‖poem‖ends‖with‖the‖poignant‖truth‖that‖so‖

many of us have experienced looking back—‚I‖did‖not‖see her in full

color‖then.‖I‖did‖not‖see‖any‖of‖them,‖really.‛

— ELLEN BASS

Judge,

The Steve Kowit Poetry Prize 2024

T

he Kowit 2024 received a record number of entries. We wish

to thank ELLEN BASS for her thoughtful judging of the prize

this year.

— VALARIE HASTINGS

Program Director for Judges

138

The Kowit 2024

$1000

DEVREAUX BAKER

Body of the Beloved

•

Runner Up

$250

KIM NORIEGA

Spilt Milk Theory of Time

•

Second Runner Up

$100

JESSICA COHN

Imprint

•

HONORABLE MENTIONS

KAUA MĀHOE‖ADAMS

Hawaiian Baby Food, circa 1997

ROBIN BECKER

The Walking Cure

DEBBIE BENSON

In The Village

ERIKA BRUMETT

Love Note, with Psychoacoustics

and Elephants

BILLIE DEE

Rosarium

KATHLEEN ELLIS


in a Power Outage in Old Town, Maine

JORDAN HILL

My Burrito

[ . . . ]

139

KATHRYN JORDAN

Calling All Angels

CLINT MARGRAVE

Side Work

STEVE MCDONALD

Reverence

KARLA MORTON

It was a Wednesday, for heaven’s sake

SUZANNE O’CONNELL

I'm Certain of This

YISKAH ROSENFELD

Zucchini

AMANDA RUSSELL

The Blizzard of 1888

JOHN SCHNEIDER

Purgatory

JIM SIMPSON

Call to Action

GORDON TAYLOR

Ghosting

NATALIE TAYLOR

In defiance

THE KOWIT 2024 awards ceremony

Tuesday, April 22, 2025 6 - 8:30 p.m.

Shiley Event Center

atop

San Diego Public Library

330 Park Blvd., downton San Diego

Host: Marc Chery

Humanities Section Supervisor, SDPL

Emcee: Michael Klam

Executive Editor, SDPA

140

Body of the Beloved

DEVREAUX BAKER

The morning the roof caught on fire we were not speaking.

I forget now what happened. It could have been a tone of voice

that made me think I was drowning.

Could have been a held resentment, entering me like something

familiar, rising in dark water swelling higher and higher,

until all my seasons were storms and I was a hurricane.

For whatever reason when the house caught on fire

we were not speaking until I heard you call my name

saw the flames roaring up from the roof and called 911.

But the wait for the fire department was too long,

you and your son climbed that roof and put out the fire.

I watched you standing up there, mythic in all that smoke

and thought how it took the damn house, bursting into flame

to make me swear I was done with small things that could never

match the sight of your body stepping out of smoke and fire,

clothes black with ash, hands burned.

When you climbed back down, I looked at your face and saw you

as though for the first time, felt you in me, like a great thirst

and knew this is our meeting place, beyond measurement, beyond

beauty and terror, where blood loves the way of veins and

darkness

becomes light, where there are no road signs and ghost deer drift

with smoking hooves.

This is the crossroads where we meet face to face and I say

I can bear this life full of constant returning from the edge of

despair

or disaster, if you are there, waiting, where living is all we want

and I am stunned with the lips and hands, eyes and fingers,

arms, legs and heart of the body of my beloved once again.

141

Spilt Milk Theory of Time

KIM NORIEGA

People‖say‖there’s‖no‖use‖crying.‖You‖can’t‖unspill‖the‖milk‖back‖ into

its glass.

And no matter how you interpret superposition as applied to

quantum

physics,‖Schrödinger’s‖cat‖is‖going‖to‖die‖in‖that‖pandora’s‖box‖if‖ no

one

feeds‖her.‖And‖why‖a‖cat?‖Why‖not,‖hypothetically,‖Schrödinger’s‖

son?‖And‖yes,‖you‖guessed‖it,‖I’m‖a‖cat‖lover.‖A‖card‖carrying‖

member

of PETA. (And you know as well as I do that some sick fuck

somewhere

has put a cat in a box—with or without a vial of hydrocyanic acid

and a small

amount of radioactive material—to explore this conundrum of

quantum theory.)

And, yes, I do own two pairs of genuine leather cowgirl boots and

a black leather

jacket—bought second hand—but‖still‖paradoxical,‖like‖Einstein’s‖

insistence that

the milk never spilled in the first place, or rather, has not yet

spilled, will spill, is spilling.

Consider‖this‖missive,‖written‖on‖the‖occasion‖of‖his‖dear‖friend’s‖

untimely death:

Michele has left this strange world. This is of no importance. The

distinction

between past, present, and future is an illusion, although a persistent one.

Which is to say, Letitia, that we are (will always be) drinking chai

from earthenware

mugs, lounging in hammocks under twinkling lights strung from

the pergola you built (will build) last

summer. That your cat, Scottie—not interred beneath your prized

Blue Girl roses—

is‖purring‖on‖my‖lap‖while‖I‖stroke‖her‖fur.‖Or,‖we‖haven’t‖even‖ met.

All our laughter, all

142

our halved sorrows and multiplied joys are yet distant stars. That

by the time their light

reaches us, I, too, will be spilled into the swirling arms of our

spiraling, milky galaxy.

143

Imprint

JESSICA COHN

She’s‖wrapped‖in‖the‖blue‖of‖the‖long‖robe‖with‖the‖zipper‖

at the neck, pockets lined with tissues, coins from seat cushions,

things‖she’s‖found‖out‖of‖place.‖In‖the‖photo,‖the‖blue‖is‖off.‖I‖

know,

because folding night clothes and towels was one chore

I could not screw up, and I still smell the Tide wrapped inside

those warm folds. So much cannot be captured on film,

especially from the Polaroid era. Were you there, then? Phones

were for phoning people. We had a landline. It hung on a wall in

the dining room. The telephone was beige. A twisted cord reached

to her green chair next to the front door. Cameras were cameras.

The Polaroid folded. If you wanted a snapshot, you pressed a

button.

The flash flashed, and you waited for what developed. Waiting,

still in style. My father would hold the photo paper with two

fingers, like a sock pinned to clothesline. My mother would place

the snapshot into a shoebox. And that’s‖how‖I‖found‖her,‖in‖her‖box,

one hand cradling the broken neck of the uncooked bird, which

rests in the white dishpan inside the stainless-steel sink.

In one small square, Portrait of Woman with Bird.

The bird is the color of death. Woman, in blue. She is annoyed.

You can see tension in her lips, her stare.‖He’s‖taken‖this‖slice‖of‖her

before‖she’s‖had‖a‖chance‖to‖comb‖her‖violet‖hair.‖Her‖eyeglasses‖

have‖slipped.‖Her‖other‖hand,‖stuck‖up‖the‖bird’s‖cavity,‖fishing‖for‖

gizzards, liver, the bits he would chew with his GI teeth while his

children pretended to gag. Each year, a bird roasted, we circled,

144

ate our fill. It would be years before someone else said, Yes,

I’ll‖take‖gizzards,‖not‖long‖before‖his‖heart‖stopped‖on‖the‖service‖

road,

driving her home from K-mart. This is how I know any moment

could be one that recalls you, the rest of this life, and beyond. I

know

when I hold her in her square of film, sometimes her eyes light up.

I did not see her in full color then. I did not see any of them, really.

145

HONORABLE MENTIONS

KAUA MĀHOE‖ADAMS

Hawaiian Baby Food, circa 1997

And when Wākea [our father, the sky] and

Ho‘ohōkūkalani [our mother, the stars]

gave birth to a still born son

they buried him.

But Hāloanakalaukapalili [the unborn]

found

a place to root

in Papahānaumoku [our grandmother, the earth]’s warm mud.

And from his huluhulu [the rootlets] he grew tall,

shuddering hā [the stem] to fleshy lau [the leaf].

And Hāloanakalaukapalili [our brother]

became the kalo.

A woman with half-moon eyes

stood‖knee‖deep‖in‖the‖lo'i.

She thrusted her bare hand in and yanked

the kalo out.

Her grandson pounded the kalo

into‖pa‘i‘ai,‖just‖as‖his‖father‖had‖taught

him to do. He paused to wipe

the sweat from his brow before

continuing on.

A neighbor gifted‖us‖the‖pa'i'ai, wrapped

tight in shiny green ti leaf.

My‖papa‖mixed‖water‖with‖the‖pa'i'ai until

it was silky, until he could call it poi.

He scooped out a mouthful with two fingers

and placed it on my tongue.

He nudged my lips closed and

told me to eat.

146

The Walking Cure

ROBIN BECKER

My dead sister is walking the island

beaches, from Forest Beach to Driessen

and the length of the island twice.

On June 24, 1986, she walked twenty-three

and-a-half‖miles,‖noting,‖‚Hot.‖97‖degrees.‛‖

On July 5, 20 miles in the rain.

Twenty-eight miles on July 7, when calories

burned totaled 2,280. On 22 July, she walked

30 miles to reach her goal: 5 pounds.

The intake papers from Duke Medical

Center show that my sister, at 114 pounds,

was below the ideal weight of 116 pounds

for medium-frame women,

as calculated by Metropolitan Life

Actuarial Tables. They admitted her anyway.

I study her food diary: 3 ounces halibut,

105 calories, five spears asparagus, 25 calories.

This patient has achieved remarkable success, wrote the doctor,

in his discharge letter, bringing her weight to 105.7.

Sometimes,‖we’re‖seven‖and‖nine‖again,‖

playing Chinese checkers on the dented,

red,‖tin‖board,‖and‖she’s‖winning‖because‖

she always did, clever despite her seizures.

She wears the tartan kilt she loved, with its silver

pin and leather buckle, knee socks and penny loafers.

Sometimes‖she’s‖thirty-three with an excellent

memory—and all her life behind her. I walk,

a disconsolate woman with unstable knees

who abandoned her forty years ago,

who out-walked neither the phone call nor the grief.

147

In The Village

DEBBIE BENSON

Goats engrave the earth roads

of Vadukachimathil with spade-shaped hooves in search

of unoffered, river-fed greens;

They yowl with want in honks like horns, rusted

from monsoons that quitted without quenching

the village’s rice field fevers.

Here, a 9-year old girl, Muthammal—named ‚kiss lady‛—

rises, rubs small damp palms

against her cheeks in the reflection of a pan. Today she will be married—

His crop hands large as crocodiles.

The day’s new sun stings like pepper

to the tongue, rising faster than the night’s shadow drains.

Her mother and grandmother stir pots with arms bowed

like questions, sweating

their thatched family home with a cloud of tamarind steam;

Muthammal turns from the fire, tucks a coiled

coconut vine for jumping

rope into the cloth of her golden sattai.

This is not play; the skipping of the Earth, the spooling

of its minutes nearer,

the mutton of marriage mattering much to her mother.

148

ERIKA BRUMETT

Love Note, with Psychoacoustics

and Elephants

When we hear our own names, the surface of our frontal gyrus activates.

Regions near the temporoparietal junction ignite in synchrony and atypical

frequencies. Which is all just to say: resonance can create radiance.

— James Sorrel, The Aural Force of Names

Poured forth from some source, comes the sound

of warmth. Thrummed out along atombounce

and compound—along molecules

bumped toward decibels—comfort’s‖wave-

form. Hammer. Anvil. Stirrup. Cupped

in caves of membrane, ossicles

quaver. Pump levers to force up

and open the oval portal

for the brain. Long ago, Lover,

before the ocean showed us the way

of names—the way ripple after

billow made it whole, yet no billow

rippled the same—sones sank. Unfired

inside myelin, ions spiraled

then drained. Which is all just to say:

tones no one owned, pitchless without volts,

fizzled away. Dearest, I read today

about elephants. The richness

of their resonance. How twilight

trembles to trunk-lifts, how grassland flames

at its tips, as they rumble out

individual names. Sweetness,

when my three syllables oscillate sinewaves

off your lips, sounds curved like ships

drift bright fish from your mouth. They fin

in quiets where your wake breaks, while down

through the channels of my veins, clouds

burst hertz. Bathing me radiant.

149

Rosarium

BILLIE DEE

When‖I‖say‖blue,‖I‖don’t‖mean‖fat‖guitar‖string,

but the Guadalupe draped in folds of desert sky—

overturning arroyo stones, gathering the bread

of Scorpion flesh, dark wine of Gila blood.

Hail thee, Goddess of Light from burned-out galaxies,

and blessed be the blue-gray face of my dead mother.

When‖I‖say‖green,‖I‖don’t‖mean‖sinful‖Envy—but

the grass-stained sleeves of lovers in a meadow,

how fiddlehead fronds cycle with an ashen Moon,

a linden grove dapples the Spring of John the Martyr.

When‖I‖say‖pink,‖I‖don’t‖mean‖pretty‖sunburn,‖

or‖my‖new‖lover’s‖pussy‖hot‖with‖cream—try the rosy scent

of beeswax drooled on altar cloth, the raw knuckles

of a rectory scrubwoman—Stigmata of her ordination.

Bring me the asshole of Garcia-Lorca,‖Rimbaud’s‖knee‖

pickled‖in‖a‖jar.‖Show‖me‖the‖color‖of‖Peter’s‖crucifixion,

the quivering shadows in Christ’s‖broken‖Chalice—yea,

drench me thus in Gothic umber, for Ever and Ever Amen.

150

KATHLEEN ELLIS


in a Power Outage in Old Town, Maine

When the lights went out at Hannaford's in Old Town, Maine,

I clung to the handlebar of the shopping cart and took out

my mini keychain light, searching for you. At first, I was two

hands

on the bar and then when my eyes adjusted to the dim emergency

light, I pawed the shelves for ease of motion. Items kept falling

off the shelves as I dodged the other shoppers. Making a sharp turn

for the frozen food aisle, the light was flickering on and off, like you,

chaotically, Allen Ginsberg, dancing your head off at the Human

Be-In years ago

in Golden Gate Park. Tambourine in one hand and your wild head

of hair

bouncing to the vibes. I even have the photo to prove it.

Back in Old Town, the lights were having their go at it, attempting

to dance

the dance, and I was skirting the traffic buildup of carts near the

steamy

Ben & Jerry's freezer aisle. Lights coming back on, and I found you

ranting about the lack of frozen veggies while I was choosing

between

flavors, knowing all along you'd given up lactose. But somehow

I knew you hadn't given up on America, as you shivered with the

sliding

glass door open between us,

Humming in the mist,

17 syllables,

American haiku.

151

My Burrito

after Campbell McGrath

JORDAN HILL

My burrito wins, bro, no contest.

My burrito is five stars. Your burrito is two inches.

That little donkey of yours is garbage, untreated sewage,

a pelican corpse washed to shore,

hemorrhaging feathers and scaring the tourists.

My girthy flour folds groan, overflowing

with sour cream for tu novia.

I am the Oprah of salsa,

indiscriminate with my creamy generosity.

My burrito is the surf-spray after a mean cutback,

the tanned pecs of your favorite lifeguard,

bouncing in slo-mo stereo, diving into the Pacific

to save some kook drowning in the undertow—

wait,‖that’s‖you!‖You‖can’t‖even float,

weighed down by that joke you call a burrito,

that poisonous gut-bomb, that unraveling second-hand suitcase

vomiting Tapout shirts across the baggage claim.

Your palate is a pallet—

best set ablaze and turned to ash.

The moon and the seas sway to the pelvic shift

of my burrito. My burrito blesses all:

nurse sharks, angelfish, lumpsuckers, slippery dicks,

an endless ocean, a stadium of sentience

all doing the wave during halftime. The score?

My burrito: 69. Your burrito: 0.

Your burrito raises the rent, practices price gouging.

My burrito shits on capitalism

and still receives a GRADE A health inspection.

152

My burrito makes the people of San Diego

lick their lips, clap their hands, Cupid Shuffle, hit the woah,

dap up their bros, prance to and fro, listen to Yo-Yo Ma.

Oh,‖it’s‖nonsense?‖Your‖burrito‖could‖never‖admit‖to‖freeassociating!

Have fun with Bob Ross, go paint by the numbers,

leave the bowling alley bumpers up, training wheels on,

play it safe, put your blinker on, take it easy, sleep through dawn

patrol.

Your burrito will never get shacked, will never get so pitted.

A trafficless 805 north is my burrito

A Good morning :) text is my burrito.

Your burrito is a cardboard reconstruction, saliva simulacra,

a broken-down Disneyland ride.

My burrito is Aristotelian goodness. Derridean deliciousness—

nothing exists outside of the bite.

Death, rent, and the marine layer slain amidst

mandible-jamming.

My burrito is the gateway to an altered state,

Extradimensional. Omniscience. Ego death.

Finishing‖my‖burrito‖is‖squeezing‖a‖loved‖one’s‖hand

hospital bedside, wiping spittle,

dabbing cheeks, whispering

goodbye.

153

Calling All Angels

I need a sign to let me know you’re here.

— P. Monahan

The nutritionist said avocados, cream and whey powder.

Whey-- like curds and whey? Yes, she said— and butter.

KATHRYN JORDAN

Driving to the store, Elton John comes on. Turn it up loud.

When the New York Times said God is dead! Anvil lifting

off my chest, I sing, He shall be Le—von! Wave of violins

and I’m sixteen, driving around Virginia Beach with friends,

singing at full strength, our bodies waving like green corn.

Pulling into the parking space: And he shall be a good man!

Elton young then, too, voice I loved, rocket man. Instead

of running in to buy fats and probiotics, I stay in the car,

belting my heart out. When it’s done, I head for the carts,

singing quietly. Out of nowhere, a homeless guy appears

at my side, asking, ‚How can you sing when it’s so cold?‛

I have to sing! I stop and look into dark eyes, wooden skin,

scraggle hair, holy mouth. ‚Well, I used to live in England,‛

he says, animated, ‚I was the King of England but it’s cold.‛

I reply: Yeah, I lived in England, too! When I was fifteen

and, god, I’ve never been so cold! I feel him consider this.

‚Did you live about 8,000 miles from London?‛ Eyes wide.

No, a little town, closer to Oxford. ‚Well, I’ve never been

out of California!‛ he tells me now. When I say Take care,

he says ‚Okay,‛ in a low voice; he doesn’t want me to go.

Passing through the market doors, a security guard rushes

over, exclaiming, ‚I’ve been here nine months and that guy

hasn’t said one word! People give him stuff; I didn’t know

he could even talk!‛ His hand on his heart, he keeps saying

154

how he can’t believe it. He wants answers. My brother died

of homelessness, I say. ‚Maybe he felt that,‛ the man says.

I see his mother in his eyes. I’m moved, then I remember:

I was singing, I tell the guard. ‚That’s it!‛ he says. ‚Must be.‛

As I walk the maze of aisles, scanning for oils and ice cream,

Calling All Angels by Train comes through the sound system.

And if I hadn’t stayed with Elton, hoisting my flag, forgetting

for a moment about my diagnosis, singing for all I’m worth?

155

Side Work

CLINT MARGRAVE

You‖can’t‖remember

the first two volumes of Proust,

but‖you’ll‖never‖forget

how to shake a ketchup bottle

the right way to make it

pour quicker

like you used to do

back when you waited

tables at the Olde Ship,

always in a rush to finish your side work,

marrying the half-full bottles

and tossing the empties,

so you could count your tips

then clock out.

And honestly,

it‖might’ve‖been‖a‖more‖useful‖experience

than reading

Within a Budding Grove

two summers ago,

none of which you remember,

since tonight

when‖you’re‖with‖Diliana

and‖she’s‖ordered‖French‖fries

and is sticking a knife into the ketchup bottle,

you get to be the hero,

and you wonder

if Proust

ever waited tables,

not‖that‖you’re‖comparing,

just thinking

maybe you’ve‖finally

got something on him.

156

‚Can‖I‖bring‖you‖anything‖else?‛

says the young server,

who‖looks‖as‖if‖he’d‖rather

do anything than bring you

anything else,

except maybe the check.

And‖you’re‖thinking

how later

when‖you’re‖at‖home

in bed possibly

scanning the next volume

of the modernist epic,

he will be refilling this same

ketchup bottle,

or throwing it away

like some metaphor,

and‖you‖don’t‖have‖the‖heart

to tell him

that even after you quit working

at a restaurant,

you never really stop

serving others,

that the side work of living

isn’t‖over‖yet

and not to be in such a hurry

to end his shift.

Besides, who wants to be that old guy

tipping rusty platitudes,

so when the check comes

you just give 20%

and let him keep his dreams

which are probably better than yours

and‖don’t‖involve

reading pretentious books

he‖won’t‖remember

with pretty lines

about lost time.

157

Reverence

STEVE MCDONALD

There’s another one, you say, as you bend

to pick a yellow-orange bloom

from its lion-toothed bed.

And because I have opinions on many things,

I‖tell‖you‖it’s‖useless‖to‖pick‖them.

I tell you the blowball has already formed.

I say the seeds have already blown away.

And you say, No, first the flower blooms.

Then the seeds rise in their white globes.

You approach each one with reverence.

Which‖I‖don’t‖have‖much‖of‖these‖days.

Let‖me‖tell‖you,‖I‖don’t‖want‖to‖know

who people think will be the next President of the United States.

And‖I‖don’t‖care‖that‖someone‖hid‖a‖quart

of Ben‖and‖Jerry’s‖peanut‖butter‖ice‖cream‖

behind‖the‖Hungry‖Man‖dinners‖in‖the‖supermarket’s‖freezer.

It’s‖all‖the‖same‖to‖me.‖

Reverence is watching our fourteen-year-old dog

take its final breath with the help of the vet,

how her Papillon spirit rises from the flesh

and butterflies its way through the aperture

that I can almost make out there in the middle of the room.

Marsha de la O says The only answer to death is love.

That works for me.

And now you kneel in the grass below the pepper tree

and wrap the stems of your fingers

around the serrated leaves with the sun at their center

and twist the dandelion from the earth.

You toss it into a paper sack and say,

We’ll eat the leaves and the blooms with tonight’s meal .

And I ask, We’ll eat a weed? And you say, Yes, we will.

158

KARLA MORTON

It was a Wednesday, for heaven’s sake

I asked God to use me.

I asked what I could do for Him.

There was silence.

There was the discovery of

my Great-Grandmother’s‖quilt‖top‖–

too old, too frail to repair;

nothing to do but rub my hands over

every thread,

every faded triangle

of this 1891 Indian Wedding Quilt,

and think of her

blind,

hand piecing every point.

What we do matters.

What we hum to ourselves as we sweep the floor

matters.

Words,

scattered like spilled flour

could feed the world.

There is an extra stitch here,

a double knot there;

a flour sack

cut and quartered and dyed

that suddenly warms our

great-granddaughter

128 years later.

Our lives bind and layer forward

even in our quiet days;

even in the middle of the week.

159

I'm Certain of This

after Lucille Clifton

SUZANNE O’CONNELL

This is what I know.

My mother went mad

long before my father's house

maybe it was

the letter my grandfather wrote:

'will you marry me and be my

best girl?'

It gave me the icks.

She never spoke of him.


She thought she'd be a star

her shiny pageboy

beautiful legs, winning smile

a perfect combination

but no agent knocked on the door

no script

no audition.


Some women's days are spooned out

in the kitchen of their lives.

Hers was sipped

from a chilled glass

after she served us chicken knuckles

with gravy

adding resentment to every bite.

This is what I learned.

The word asylum can mean

two things,

the offer of protection to a helpless refugee

or an institution for the mentally ill.

A home can be either one

or both.

160

Zucchini

What I love most is that you grow

in spite of me. After days of neglect your fruit—

my daughter reminds me you are fruit—

have burst and lengthened like balloons

about to be twisted into swords or giraffes,

blossoms flipped inside-out to drink the rain.

When I stay in bed all day in pajamas

scouring my phone for any crumb of news

with a hint of justice, just a lick of good, and fail,

you grow. When I watch one cooking show

after another in which you are fried or scooped out

and made into goat cheese boats, you grow.

And when I pad barefoot into star-salted dark

to finally twist the squeaky faucet

and accidentally turn the spray from mist to jet,

just as earlier I aimed my words too harshly

at my daughter, herself long and thin,

delicate and strong, like you, you grow.

It’s‖here‖in‖the‖garden‖so‖late‖the‖Big‖Dipper‖

tilts at a rakish angle over the roof

and a sliver of another day glows faintly

that I love my daughter most, under stars

she never sees. I count again the beans

that escaped whatever insect ate every leaf,

lean down to let the peppers swing like earrings

and the tomatoes be the planets and moons

they believe themselves to be. She sleeps

inside in the dark with her door shut.

Remember‖when‖she‖couldn’t?‖‖I’d‖sweep

the room with a flashlight for monsters,

crack the door. This much? Less. This much?

Less. This much? No, more! And now she sleeps

through my fiercest love for her,

my dizzying constellations of love,

my take off my bones and my skin kind of love.

Growing in spite of me.

YISKAH ROSENFELD

161

The Blizzard of 1888

AMANDA RUSSELL

a glass mural by Jeanne Reynal, in Nebraska’s State Capitol Building

In the guest room my son watches

the history of serial killers. Again.

What if the Child is

father of the Man? He is ten and

wants to be president

but only after being an animator and

a history professor. He never practices

piano‖and‖doesn’t‖believe‖the‖deep‖end

is‖for‖kids‖who’ve‖learned‖to‖swim.

He spends his time drawing

timelines. Lecturing us. I learn and relearn

how to listen. Budget my speech. Today

is‖Labor‖Day.‖School’s‖out,‖and‖at‖5‖a.m.‖

horror movie soundtracks

overturn my porous gate of sleep—

What do we do when our nightmares grow hooves?

—what if he becomes president.

When I was a kid, TVs told us we could be

Anything. My son wants to be Everything.

How will he make it in this world

where Amber Alerts flash along the interstate.

where Jesse James hid ten days in Lost River Cave.

where a postcard gives us the height and weight

of the pedophile down the street,

and the Zodiac Killer may live long as a redwood tree—

where my parents in me still say, don’t let him watch that,

what if he becomes a serial killer?

Who was it said, you are

what you eat? Who was it said,

a prairie can’t hide from sun nor storm?

Yolk of my yolk, he was born

162

in a land that birthed a blizzard with lungs

big as a hurricane. We dropped our jaws

in the capitol building

looking‖up‖to‖Nebraska’s‖Fearless‖Maid

as the docent told the story—

One nineteen-year-old schoolteacher tied

thirteen children together. . .

And these nine years later, I turn to her:

Minnie Freeman, how did you do it?

Which knot did you use

to tie your whole life

to each of theirs? All of you

in this

together—

One mile on foot from the sod

schoolhouse through the blinding

unpredictable …

With what light

did you guide them

through the ice wind and deep static

of certain death

to the nearest farmhouse?

And, did it have a guest room, warm-lit

like the one my son cocoons himself in

on the cusp of adolescence? Something steady

inside his brick façade

and the wilder inscape where a rain barrel

catches each ping of sunlight—

To the brim, it overflows.

https://nebraskacapitolart.com/art/the-blizzard-of-1888/

163

Ghosting

GORDON TAYLOR

I dreamed theatre curtains of melted butter

opening, my father attending the premiere of my play

Constantine, performed on a rotating stage.

The‖producer‖was‖furious‖I‖hadn’t‖cast‖actors.‖

I offered to read every role myself

except the king, I mean, the father

because he dies in the penultimate scene.

I dreamed my father in the audience.

He‖couldn’t‖remember‖who‖I‖was,‖and‖I‖wept‖purple‖

lava. He left a procession of blushing faces

across the playbill. I drew paralyzed hearts

beside them. So much for family.

So much for heaven.

I dreamed men glowing in white t-shirts,

condom wrappers crinkling in jean pockets

a decade before treatments. We paraded

round the park, craving gazes, breezes on bare legs

a cold burn of moon, slowly waning.

I dreamed Keith Haring at a museum.

The only finished life is an unfinished one, he said

passing into the white corner of his painting.

I met my latest love as bees bumbled. My knees seized

as we lumbered the steep path to the AIDS memorial

littered with grasshopper corpses and lilac petals.

My lover, like everyone, was younger and his face

shone like butter. He demanded to know my past—

hiding in rooms from the damp midsummer

of myself. Kisses that felt fatal. The rusted pickup.

Boys that beat me in my own driveway

while my father watched through the living room window.

164

I dreamed my first love, fighting

queerness, leaping over barrels and acquiring coins

while I longed for a winged house and the weight

of glossy magazine men on my bare back.

We twinned in matching pink gingham

shirts under an early spring sky of crumpled grey flannel

waiting for test results, holding each other

like climbers scaling jagged rock.

And I dreamed we survived.

165

Purgatory

JOHN SCHNEIDER

When I got the call, despite the years

apart, the long silences, little frictions,

I stuffed some clothes into a carry-on,

rushed to catch a train to the Philly

airport. As I stumbled down the moving stairs

ticket‖in‖hand,‖doors‖I‖heard‖but‖couldn’t‖see

closing before me—the doctor still in my head

said it was touch and go.

Underground, through stone and steel tunnels,

like a burial box, the train leaves me

on an empty platform, that neon sign

announcing where our line ends

abuzz like cicadas missing their partners.

And I am there again, that last autumn

as a kid, pulling what remained of deep-rooted

turnips together from a soil hardening

earlier‖every‖year.‖How‖we’d‖fill‖bushel

baskets till brimming, each trying to burden

our arms with one more load, lugging everything

between us to the cellar for winter storage.

Then how he showed me the damage

cicadas had done to the elms out back.

How, deep underground, they nourish themselves

for years on sap and roots, eventually

surfacing to become something more.

And I wondered if there was still

something more to ask about the distance

between us or if the next train

would even arrive in time to ask

if the elms had survived.

166

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167

In defiance

NATALIE TAYLOR

She sings first, her throat opens and ripples across long

grass. He answers, a back and forth, echo and repeat,

introducing surprising new trebles and tones, small

claws gripping an iris stalk. And they lift. These two

goldfinches with cheerful chests

cannot contain their happiness, so

they lift with the wonder of life. The power of one voice

to amplify. So, what if I feel happy while the planet is burning?

What else could I feel? Belly full of garden

tomatoes, the luxury of warm red flesh and salt. Two birds like

green

apples lift their wings. Blue stones in my ears. This bouquet on the

first

day of autumn; apricot roses and zinnias, blue larkspur,

hydrangeas and a single russet ranunculus

left quiet to open in the morning. It is everywhere, the joy,

offering solace from the terrified noise

we have grown too accustomed to. Look, an avocado

sunning in the window, a grasshopper flinging

itself into the soft butter of the day, a rat fattening on fallen apples.

There is much to weigh in love. How bold, the blazing canna lily

rising over the tall deck as we sleep. Stars cooling a dream.

It is everywhere, the joy,

waiting for our attention, our participation, our healing.

And‖isn’t‖that‖the‖greatest‖rebellion,‖

to acknowledge joy alongside suffering?

To stand, barefoot in tall grass as the vines pulse their last

blood into pumpkins, to lift our voices in laughter or song,

throats open, balancing on a slender blade and love the world

as it wants to be loved.

168

Native Poets

Editor

JIM MORENO

169

The Ocean Refuses No Rivers

for Leon & Nancy

Great minds discuss ideas. Average minds discuss

events. Small minds discuss people.

—Eleanor Roosevelt

There’s fry bread in heaven

and sweetgrass too. Medicine

for the empty heart and the hungry tongue.

There’s white sage in heaven

and yellow corn pollen. To

smudge the negative, to offer

and bless with prayer.

Captain Jack is in heaven.

John‖Trudell’s wife and children are there.

Poet/warrior John joined them not long ago.

Leornard Peltier has a special place

waiting for him in heaven,

It’s where all scapegoats reside.

The‖men‖and‖women‖who’ve poured

the water all these millenniums are

all in heaven with the children, women,

and warriors who prayed in the 3 rd round.

There's no whiskey in heaven,

No blankets with small pox,

No doctors who sterilized our women,

No men who murdered or raped them.

No Cointelpro FBI or Pine Ridge goons in heaven.

J. Edgar can't ever, ever get there.

There are red angels in heaven

They went there after Wounded Knee,

after the missions and boarding schools.

JIM MORENO

Smuwich Chumash

170

The Sundancers are all in heaven,

The bear dancers are there too.

The buffalo are in heaven.

The dolphins play in the waves of heaven,

singing to drums, keeping our traditions green.

The ocean refuses no rivers.

The Great Mystery refuses none.

There’s fry bread in heaven

with sugar or honey and sun.


Mayan Nation

In a Relationship with All Things

energy osculation vibration coherence

emotional resilience the knowledge of the

inner‖self‖the‖unknown‖hasn’t ever let me down

matter of fact matter always matters in the

foundation of four directions

that sacred circle in all dimensions

weird‖or‖woke‖there’s change with that

everything barters with each other

exchanges dark matter with star bursts

generation after generation

as we all circle up

speak our peace

171

Hot Weather Song

KIM SHUCK

Cherokee Nation

Afternoon like an infection

Even though

Even still we

Pull the shades like

Grandma used to

Beads silent

Overwarm and staring

Waiting for the thread to

Pull them into sense the

Welcome wind

Come up

Up from where the

Redwoods rooted now a

Ghost forest this year-mark the

Next and

How will we listen to the

Absent frogs the

Memory of salmon the

Creek in my lifetime the

Madwoman

Hands flat on the pavement

Before the traffic sparks and

Slides

Before the ever-noise here the

Bridge was here and on a day that will

Prove dangerous hot

Creek-singing and small poems

Lay a prayer now at these

Hopeful crossroads

172

RAY BELARDES

San Pasqual Reservation

What Is That Sound

Do you hear what is being said?

Do‖you‖know‖it’s not just a song,

a story, or language, or even just words

in‖our‖heads?‖It’s a way of life and how

we're supposed to live. They are here

for us to sing and share, to love, and to

care; to have a clear head we must listen

to what is being said.

The Love Heart

Raeman

Rincon Reservation

Live life with all your heart.

Your heart is like bread

Your heart is soft and great

And sometimes you heart is hard

and can get hurt very easy

And your heart is sensitive

and loved by someone

173

Navieshua Bojorquez

La Jolla Reservation

I Am a Loud Native Girl

I am a loud Native girl.

No, I will not be quiet.

No, I will not stop myself from speaking.

And no, I will not shut up just because you

told me to.

You‖won’t shut me up.

You‖can’t.

If you duct tape my mouth, I will speak.

If you rip my tongue out, I will speak.

No matter what you do, I will cry and yell

until I am heard by and from anyone.

I will never be silent.

The Native Cloud

Tenna Pico

Luiseño Tribe

As the storm clouds

cover the bodies of

the mountains

the thunder hits

the water

and I remember

I'm native

and I could

never forget

who I am

174

I Am Native

Meyulk Sanchez

Pauma Reservation

I am native

I think differently

I am native

I run on native time

I am native

I believe in God and the way of life

I am native

I like the way the water moves

The air blows, the sky changes color

in the day and night sky

I am native

I love the way Mother Earth

does her way of life

I am native

My Jiu-Jitsu Way

Bella Guachino

Pala Reservation

I love Jiu-Jitsu, it is fun

I can win, I can lose

But no matter how much I lose

I will never give up

175

Hear That Sound

Zoe Manzo

Tucson, Arizona

Hear that sound, hear those rattles

Hear my people sing their songs

Watch my people dance to their songs

The way we dance, the way we sing

is to keep our culture alive

Sonnet 2

Cainen Jaime

All Tribes Charter School

People‖tell‖me‖I’m‖crazy‖for‖doing‖boxing‖

But‖they’ll‖never‖understand‖how‖much‖I‖love‖the‖grind‖

My‖mind‖is‖completely‖focused‖when‖I’m‖sparring‖

My‖name‖will‖shine‖and‖I’ll‖have‖a‖clear‖mind‖

The‖best‖part‖about‖my‖day‖is‖when‖I’m‖training‖

This‖sport‖is‖the‖most‖dangerous‖so‖it’s‖not‖kind‖

I‖keep‖pushing‖even‖though‖on‖the‖inside‖it’s‖draining‖

I’ll‖come‖out‖with‖a‖couple‖bruises‖but‖I’m‖fine‖

Amateurs is where your name gets out but also the beginning

My power is so much stronger I bet I can make them blind

I go out for a run everyday even if it’s‖raining‖

what‖sucks‖though‖is‖your‖record‖is‖how‖you’re‖defined‖

This‖what‖it’s‖like‖doing‖the‖hardest‖sport‖of‖them‖all‖

The bigger they are the harder they fall

176

Bird Dancing

Nevaeh J. Calac


My favorite thing about my culture

is the Bird Dancing

I love Bird Dancing because it looks

really cool.

And one day I want to learn how to

Bird Dance.

I also want to learn Bird Dancing so

Bird Dancing stays alive.

My Tribe

Andrew Aguilar

Rincon/Pala

I am native

I am from Rincon Reservation

What I like about my tribe is that

it feels like everyone is my cousin.

I also love the events, like fiestas,

the smell of fry bread in the air,

and the screams of joy & laughter.

What I love about my culture is my

fellow natives strive to help our tribe

have a fun & great time.

177

A Life on the Road

Luis Gomez

Brazil

I’ve spent a lot of my life on the road.

From house to house, state to state,

Place‖to‖place,‖I’ve spent a lot of my life

on the road.

I've been to many places, from Reno to

Florida, from Texas to California.

I’ve spent a lot of my life on the road.

Jake

Philippines

We are still here

Watching you from above

We are here in your hearts

We work hard to continue life

this life where we live in cheer

We love this cheer that no one sees

We love, we live, but still no one knows

178

Culture

Reece

Pala Reservation

Culture is beautiful

Culture is meaningful

Culture brings people together

Culture is different

Culture is a part of everyone

Food, language, songs are

a part of everyone

Culture is amazing

I Am Native

Sonni Salgado

Rincon Reservation

My name is Sonni Salgado

and‖I’m‖from‖Rincon‖and‖I’m‖Native

I am 14 years old and I am autistic

and I wear a hat made of straw

I have a dream of going into a black hole

and coming out to tell people what I saw

And then get to a different galaxy

to see if there were other humans.

179

Curtis Ide

Pala Reservation

I have a secret poem

I‖have‖a‖secret<not‖long‖ago‖

a friend of mine told me something

very very funny.

Unfortunately I am not able to tell you

what exactly my secret is

because my friend told me not to tell anyone

and I would not be a very good friend

if I told anyone

because my friend trusts me enough

to tell me his secret.

So I will not be able to tell you my secret

but I can tell you it is a very good secret.

I am a native

Red Eagle

Mesa Grande Reservation

My name is Red Eagle

and I am from Mesa Grande

I play games and skate

I also go to Peon games

And I stay all night with my brothers

till the games are over

Then I go home in the morning

smelling like smoke

180

Sherlyn Lopez

Quechan Reservation

I really enjoy music

Music makes me calm

When I listen to music makes me happy

When I put my headphones in all I hear is music

The Sonnet

Oshiila Chavez


As I lay my head down to sleep

After a long exhausting day

I think of all things deep

Sleeping the day away

Dreaming of all the sheep

Sleeping when the day feels grey

Dreaming of all things I keep

Things‖I‖don’t‖keep‖on‖display‖

Thinking of things taking a big leap

Remembering things that replay

Helping with things that feel steep

Fixing things that feel dismay

Sleeping makes me happy

Even‖when‖I’m‖feeling‖sappy‖

181

I love music

Music lights up my day

Without music I'd be a very bland person

When I listen to music all my problems go away

Rita Contreras


Sonnet 1

Octavia Calac


Love shows itself in many different ways

Through gentle words or silent acts of care

In steadfast hearts that weather stormy days

Or‖tender‖smiles‖that‖ease‖another’s‖fear‖

It lives in hands that comfort and console

In eyes that see the soul beneath the skin

In patience when the tempests take their toll

And strength to lift the weary up again(

Love speaks in whispers, shouts, and quiet tears

It walks beside the lost, the broken, blind;

It conquers doubts, dispels the deepest fears,

And leaves its mark on the heart, soul, and mind.

So countless are the ways that love imparts,

Yet all converge within our human hearts.

182

Sonnet Poem

Edward Calac


Love is such a silly thing yet so complicated

Easy yet hard to understand wired but simplistic

Love is such a silly thing, that needs to be contemplated

Hard to grasp always feels so off and mystic

But try your best to understand and not to get to frustrated

Love is hard because what you look for is not materialistic

Nothing will show you what is wanted or needed

So look hard because what you see might be uncharacteristic

But first make sure your are really wanted

Just‖don’t‖be‖weird‖and‖question‖no‖need‖for‖logistic‖

And make sure your not being teased or taunted

And do your very best to be realistic

This poem was hard and difficult but now its ending

But maybe this is just a great beginning

If you knew my culture

Our museum is wonderful

It has everything you need to know

From beginning to now

Lenny

Barona Reservation

183

A Sonnet

Nayaloni Magee


A spark of light that brightens all my days

His laughter lifts the weight of all my cares

In quiet moments or in playful ways

His kindness shows in everything he shares

With eyes that shine like stars within the night

A warmth that reaches deep into my soul

He turns the world from shadow into light

And he makes my heart feel perfectly whole

Each word he speaks is music to my ear

Each smile a gentle balm to soothe my mind

With‖him‖there’s‖nothing‖I‖could‖ever‖fear

His love is constant patient and so kind

In‖him‖I’ve‖found‖a‖love‖so‖pure‖so‖true

A love that grows with everything we do

dance sing skirt

top rattle sing

beads and wood

Jodi Diaz

Agua Caliente/ Palm Springs

184

I am Lusieño and Diegueño

I love film

I love all movies

Horror movies are my favorite

Valerie Nelson

La Jolla / Mesa Grande

My Sonnet

Jessalyn Rios


My older Sister standing right by me

Nervous feeling faint sweaty clammy hands

Watching the men sing so free and carefree

Getting ready to dance on our homeland

Young and old women swaying to the beat

Ribbon skirt full of colors joy and pride

Barefoot dancing with dirt under my feet

I look up and see my grandma bright eyed

Long hair blowing freely into the wind

Enjoying the beauty of the Bird Songs

My sweat glistening off of my dark skin

Knowing‖where‖I’m‖from‖and‖where‖I‖belong

Dancing in front of people proudly now

Ready‖and‖can’t‖want‖for‖the next powwow

185

Sonnet

Connor Majel


In fleeting‖days‖we‖drift‖through‖time’s embrace

Each sunrise a canvas yet unpainted

Our joys and trials leave their mark with a trace

Every story of ours is to be planted

From life’s‖first‖breath‖to‖twilight’s gentle sigh

chase dreams to the other side of the light

A dance of hope beneath the endless sky

With love and loss we conquer darkest night

Yet in the shadows wisdom softly grows

Each tear and laugh a brushstroke on our soul

Through seasons turn the human spirit grows

That‖in‖life’s journey we are truly whole

Embrace the now for life is but a breath

a sweet wondrous tale from birth to death

note: Some of the poems in this special section were written in workshops, led by JIM

MORENO, at the All Tribes American Indian Charter School on the Rincon Reservation,

Valley Center, CA. The SDPA and the Kids! SDPA are grateful to the school staff for

making these workshops, and these poems, possible.

alltribescharter.org

186

Veterans

Editors

BILLIEKAI BOUGHTON

and

JOAN GERSTEIN

187

Relativity

DAVID LANGENHORST

So, I finally understand the Theory of Relativity. When I was young, it

took the earth a full year to complete a loop around the sun. Now, in

my advanced years, it only takes a few months.

On the other hand, things that used to take minutes, now take hours.

Time‖may‖be‖linear‖but‖it’s‖not‖on‖cruise‖control. Light travels at the

speed of light. Sound travels at the speed of sound. Time can speed

up, slow down, and change lanes.

Apparently, we each have our own time vehicle. As youngsters, it is

pedal powered and has training wheels.‖As‖we‖get‖old,‖it’s‖a‖V-12

Ferrari on a deserted, straight highway. Only slowing down for pit

stops.

It’s‖kind‖of‖funny‖that‖when‖we‖would‖like‖to‖slow‖down and enjoy

the scenery, the throttle is stuck wide open and the‖brakes‖don’t‖work.‖

I am a little concerned about how this trip will end.

188


Playing Fair Authentically

Experience as a flight deck

crew member that continues

throughout my life.

Can't‖help‖but‖think‖about‖it‖‚Being‖Authentic‛

on a fundamental Carrier Frequency because

everything is everywhere to be found

in different plains of existence

on the level by the highway drawn to a

holy fountain made by our Sacred Mother

is an aquifer full of love

a meaningful existence on many levels with a

sanctified code to honor all beings

running down the road to connectedness

living on in a purposeful life making joyful

noise and playing fair authentically

the fountain continues to flow

never ends

overwhelms

the right place

the right time

189

Night Jumps

CARRIE ST. ANDRE

First‖there’s‖the‖ door.‖In‖Airborne‖school,‖they‖say,‖‚STAND,‖in‖the‖

door.‖.‖.‛ Your‖feet‖are‖standing‖on‖metal.‖Even‖though‖it’s‖flying,‖it’s‖

holding your body weight, supporting. Once you pass through the

opening, or door, although there is no door, the doorless door, that

which‖ is‖ supporting‖ you‖ is‖ gone.‖ It’s‖ between‖ you‖ and‖ your‖

equipment, and your equipment is only as good as the functioning of

your mind in the moment. Once you pass through that opening,

there’s‖no‖going‖back.‖It’s‖like‖being‖born;‖you‖can’t‖go‖back‖in‖and‖do‖

that jump over. Watching people disappear out the door, leaving a

batch of empty static lines dangling uselessly in the wind, is surreal.

They‖were‖there,‖then‖they’re‖gone‖and‖they‖don’t‖come‖ back.‖It’s‖a‖

one-way‖trip.‖Night‖jumps‖add‖a‖whole‖layer.‖It’s‖one‖thing‖to‖poke‖

your head out the door of a plane and see lights on the ground like

little ants, like looking at a miniature town of a toy train set, but to

look straight ahead from inside the plane and launch yourself into a

dark and endless void requires complete surrender.

JAY BRANTON

Connections severed

And with my mind’s eye blinded

The heart is my truth

190

Internal Suffering

JERAMY STILLMAN SHANLEY

Will my torment ever end stop at this bend

Break me down Knock me around

Smash my sanity onto the ground

Will my torment unfurl on me forever

Give me a reprieve never

Leave me in silence spew more violence

Bind me in sleep body tense

Will my torment finally claim me Continue to shame me

Cuss at me for no reason

Send forced images no one’s believing

Will my torment release upon an other hurt a brother

Lie to me day in and day out

Stain my brain like mud on grout

Force my lips to an eternal pout

Will my torment loose upon my physical sense

Destroy my dream of a white picket fence

Eyes out of focus yet cast towards vice

Restricting breathing My lungs filled with ice

Will my torment continue or cease to exist fully

Lose momentum Give up being an internal bully

Answers lie on the path ahead

If I can’t escape am I better off dead

191

Straddle

BILLIEKAI BOUGHTON

You

occasionally‖tell‖me‖what‖you’re‖thinking

a surprise bright Monark in Winter

landing with grace

drinking gently from my skin

filling my heart with hope

filling my dreams with flight

You

smell like the side of a California mountain covered in sage

after it rains

I want to linger in you

You

this desire for you

my desire for you

is palpable

when people look at me

they see the elements of you on my skin

and expect this glow

to manifest a replica of you

You

sit next to me on a bench

body heat radiating

drawing me into your flammable atmosphere

I ache to throw pretense aside and straddle you

I yearn to sit in your lap

light a match

and ride you until we burst into flames

burn with you

in an orbit of sweat and fire

192

We

avoid a certain word when we talk to each other

because it is too soon

say things like

I adore you

you amaze me

I am so grateful for you

while the truth is full and round

in labor

panting with each contraction

of‖NOT‖saying‖what‖we’re‖avoiding

But the feeling arrived months ago

without a gender reveal cake

without party invitations

stuck‖to‖the‖bottom‖of‖a‖black‖cat’s‖paws

unaware that the birth of a word might be useful

this feeling tip-toed quietly across the welcome mat

slid wordlessly across the living room

gently leapt into your bed when no one was watching

on an unassuming night in the middle of the week

this feeling did not care that it was unannounced

or uninvited

or unnamed

she just curled up into your heart

into the space that you made for her

and said

All I want

is

You

193

ADAM CHRISTIAN NAVARRO-LOWERY

The Night Has Eyes in Kosovo

continuous operations,

MSR routes

border patrol,

checkpoint,

Body searches,

enemy activity

foot patrols

land mines,

Sniper fire

Return fire

fire fight,

bullet wounds,

MED EVAC

MASS grave

ghost town.

It was like a dream.

just flashing through my mind.

the night has eyes in Kosovo.

Waiting for Death

NICK AGUILAR

I‖wait‖and‖wait‖for‖death‖that’s‖near

But when youth abounded

death’s‖call‖was‖nowhere‖near

The call of war was loud and clear

But now when old age is hovering in the here

I‖wait‖and‖wait‖for‖death‖that’s‖near

194

The Israel-Gaza War

JOSEPH D. MILOSCH

1,478 Israelis died in the Israel-Gaza War.

40,602 Palestinians died in the Israel-Gaza War.

In Hebrew, the word for a screw is boreg.

In English, screw means jailer.

What happens in a prison when billy clubs are bombs?

In the Israel-Gaza War, 1,478 Israelis died, and

40,602 Palestinians died.

‘Afsad is the Arabic word for screw.

Screw is the English word for jailer.

Is the Israel-Gaza War a prison riot?

1,478 Israelis died in the Israel-Gaza War.

40,602 Palestinians died in the Israel-Gaza War.

Mishpat is the Hebrew word for justice.

‘Adala is the Arabic word for justice.

When the ratio of the executed is one to twenty-eight,

has justice prevailed?

The Bird on Solstice

ELLA BARWICK

A cockatiel appeared

come to die in my care on the winter solstice.

The shortest day of the year

when the earth is at maximum tilt.

On omen of transformation.

The first day of winter.

The day before I moved.

The days will slowly start to get longer.

195

Dogfight to Détente


1 p.m.

The two of them sit heads bowed until

a much younger man joins them. The big old man

in the Fly Navy cap‖shakes‖the‖newcomer’s‖hand,

then falls back into his chair, as if shot.

A‖moment‖later‖he’s alone, sobbing.

I take the empty chair beside him, my arm too short

to reach his other shoulder. He leans into me.

‚July 10th—my‖first‖and‖only‖Mig‖kill,‛ he says,

‚and‖49‖years‖later,‖our‖recollections‖match,‖

turn‖for‖turn.‛ He's gazing at the stage,

where Vietnamese fighter pilots

are taking their seats for the next panel, but

he’s‖seeing‖every‖maneuver,‖feeling‖all‖the‖g’s:

‚I watched him parachute into a rice paddy.

Said he broke‖his‖arm‖in‖the‖ejection.‛

His stare finds me:

‚That‖was‖his‖son.‛

1:45 p.m.

Squadronmates‖joke‖they‖don’t recognize me

without my white flight boots and crossed bandoliers

of Tootsie Rolls. I’m no longer the comic relief,

just another graying tourist, searching faces

for memories. The big man has found

his smile again, joins us, asks

about the guy he took over from

as C.O. of Top Gun. To get to our hanger

at Miramar, we had to walk past

the funky little trailer that housed Top Gun

before it was called that, when

a big paw might shoot out from the lone window

and grab any of us by the flight suit, pull us close,

bark:‖‚You're‖flying‖with‖me‖today.‛‖That founding C.O.

unfurled his parachute by hand when it failed to open.

None of us can imagine this legend ever dying.

We‖share‖grins,‖hoping‖we’re‖right.

196

3 p.m.

One of the hosts hands out gift bags

embossed with Hanoi to San Diego in gold script.

Inside, a tie with the same logo,

a hand-painted silk scarf, and, in a red-lined box,

Vietnamese Air Force wings:

the number 1 on a blue shield under a gold star,

with KQNDVN on a red banner below

Không Quân Nhân Dân Viet Nam.

Lurking behind us at the Air and Space Museum,

an F4J Phantom from our sister squadron

chases a Mig 17 in the life-size display.

The aircraft carrier Constellation

and the Yankee Station destroyer Josefus Daniels

that fished me out of the South China Sea

have both been decommissioned, as invisible

as the 25 year-old me. Someone laughs:

‚Do they even teach dog-fighting‖anymore?‛

Handshakes, hugs, silent goodbyes.

5:15 p.m.

I stop for milk and bananas, puzzled

why the Vietnamese pilots seemed so elegant,

what it feels like to meet the son

of the man you once tried to kill. My wife

recognizes the look I walk in with, finds

her gardening hat and gloves,

takes the compost out.

Now

I carry the gift bag to the edge

of our oak-studded ravine.

Green and gold silk, soft in my fingers,

looks slippery in the breeze.

Those boxed wings catch sun.

I scan the sky

for familiar birds of prey.

197

I Remember It All

GRAYSON WILSON

I remember everything, from their favorite sports teams

to each of their post service hopes & dreams.

I remember what would bring a smile to their face,

I remember how we fought in that hellish waste.

I remember the lines & curve of each face

I remember where they died & the details of each place.

I remember the sounds of their screams

& the slow fading of that light in their eyes which once held such

gleam.

I remember the sounds of the weapons, from the M4 & AK & how the

burning flares would turn dark of the night to brightness of day.

I remember the sound of the helicopters circling above, descending

from on high to evac a brother we did love.

I remember the odor of charred electrics & material mesh

as MATVs would ignite mixed with choking smoke & the smell of

burned flesh.

I remember it all, the sand in my hair

& the whizzing of bullets through the air.

I remember applying the tourniquets & sweeping for blood,

I remember shielding their bodies in the Iraq sand & Afghanistan

mud.

I remember the local patients, woman & children with injuries from

accidents or sick with disease,

I remember too these little ones littering the market space after a

suicide bombing & hearing their dying pleas.

I remember the way their revered me when I healed their lived

ones, some even getting on their knees

& when we weren't enough how numerous their tears as if rivers

to the seas.

198

I remember the funerals & flag draped coffins some right after and

others still years on,

I remember the empty chairs & the playing of that chilling bugle

song.

I remember the families some who expressed thanks for the effort

made

& I remember those who cursed me for my failures & their child now

prematurely in his grave.

More than anything I remember that copper smell in that place of

living hell,

I remember it all from the Euphrates River to Kabul's fall.

I remember it then, I remember it now,

all that was done in the name of our duty & vow.

I remember it even when I wish it wasn't so

for with me now these memories remain in tow.

Yet. . .& yet it is time for me to let them go,

time for me to shed my skin and begin again, this I now know.

The Veterans

SHEROD PATILLO

The veterans fought for this country to be free

only to come back to homelessness and PTSD

They risked their lives for pennies on the dollar

unknowing if they’d live through the next hour

They sacrificed themselves for the freedom of others

So sad some don’t return to their mothers

The most some get is a Thank you for your service

Makes you wonder if that sacrifice was worth it

199

I Don't Know

JENNIE SELBY

I‖didn’t know that my dad's passing

would hit me so

I just didn't know

He was my hero

I had to finally let him go

I‖just‖didn’t know

I‖didn’t know that to be born Navajo

would hurt me so


I‖didn’t know my past would

come back to haunt me


to be born in the USA is a big

responsibility


Home of the brave

Land of the free

Man,‖I‖just‖didn’t know

When did it become alright to kick veterans

in the teeth?


To be born in 1954, my generation


What happened to the human condition—

kindness, hope, faith, courage,

integrity, truth, and justice

and the American way of life

Man, where did it go?

Dare to speak, read, and write

On‖that‖I’ll‖never give up the fight

Always been the red, white, and blue

That‖I’ll‖never‖let‖go

One lie built upon another lie

never helps anyone

200

National Guard was supposed to be

for civil unrest

It‖wasn’t supposed to be a suicide test


War is hell and if I had to do it all

over again

I’d‖say,‖‚Hell‖no,‖I‖won’t‖go.‛


I’ve read the names and it won't change

‘Til the day I die, and, yes, I still cry

Now I know.

Man, now I know.

The Love Doctor

TYRONE MOORE

I am the Love Doctor here to give you some advice

Take heed to my words and you’ll have a hot date tonight

So listen with your heart and not your head

unless you want to end up alone in bed

True love can be dreamy and also organic

but I’m no impersonator when it comes to romantic

My final advice I would like to say to you:

before loving another, love yourself through and through

201

1960s Family Album Oakland

SHARON ELISE

Daddy’s‖‚change‖of‖command‛

when he got his first destroyer

We are lined up like a postcard

middle class Negro family.

Hats and fancy overcoats, hair done up!

gloves and little pocketbooks. Our lacey white

anklets. Our light-skinnedness. You can well imagine

the manners. The grammar. The enunciation.

These are the grandparents, both sets, the immigrant West Indian

couple,

their married sons and daughters in law and teen daughter, the lone\

widow,

her teenaged son, me and my sisters lean on our extendeds.

Other photos will show my dad snappy in his uniform, my mom

posh

in her Jackie K pillbox hat

202

Specter of My Queerness

SUSAN NIEMI

If there were phantom feelings of being

enamored with a girl, they swept away

from existence like a breath-blowing

spent candle smoke.

Non-existent echoes of a slammed door

held shut by veiled hands. Parents,

peers,‖fingers‖of‖hell’s‖fire,‖and

my fear-driven compliance.

Haunted by inadequacy, I question. Is my

desire for women chosen since I was a

victim of men? Can I belong to the

queer community in the closet?

I trembled on the floor. Kept turning the lock.

When I cast the door open into the first

intimate‖stroke‖of‖a‖lover’s‖hands,

ecstasy pulled my body home.

My true identity—released. I grew as a

lesbian. Incest and shame were origins

shadowing my sexuality, severing

the bond to my queer birthright.

I wanted rainbow hues draping the ghost of

my memories. To trace my awareness to

childhood. Discovering my sexual identity

beyond abuse is an act of restorative joy.

203

Wounds or Scars:

to Other Veterans Like Me

What‖I’ve survived are now scars, sensitive

to the touch, but no longer stinging or biting.

You see when I remember that front bunker

watch‖in‖Saigon―June‖of‖'69―that‖red-headed

First Class P.O. knew he handed me‖a‖rifle‖I‖didn’t

know

how

to

fire.

I‖didn’t know when I took that piece, I went from

being a boy to a man. I wonder about other

veterans who were like me, 21 years old, first

moments in a war zone, boots on the ground,

legs

shaking. . .

I wonder if other vets felt like I did when he taught

me to curse at human beings in Vietnamese if they

loitered in front of the billet, and after two reviling

shouts, if they still remained but didn't leave, shoot them.

JIM MORENO

I wonder how many veterans felt a storm in their stomachs

when they were told to carry out an order that repulsed them.

Like a storm of bile that grew to a tsunami mushroom cloud,

a burning cloud that they

never

felt

before.

Did any other veteran say to themselves,

‚This‖is‖not‖what I signed up for!

This

is

not

me. . .‛

204

That day in Vietnam, the old skin and bones grandpa

driving his rickety, rusty bicycle, stopped right in front of me.

12 baskets piled one on top of the other, tied to the

back

of

his

bike.

I obeyed the‖cursing‖command‖but‖he‖didn’t leave.

I pointed the rifle at him, and this time forced a piercing scream. . .

He retreated, wide-eyed, pedaling furiously away

. . .to live,

to live!

and in that moment I realized I had saved a grandpa

while refusing that command,

Refusing

to

kill.

Sometimes being a man of peace is simply keeping your

finger

off

the

trigger.

Two weeks later I was onboard my LST when I found out the sailor

who had my front bunker watch had himself, the front bunker, the

concertina wire behind the bunker, and half the Annapolis hotel

blown away by a satchel

charge thrown from the back of a motor bike.

I missed my death

by

two

weeks.

That’s why it's not easy to write letters home when you're

in

the

rivers

of

Vietnam.

205

A Mistress Unknown

PAUL BANKS

Down by the roadside. Dripping. Dripping.

Drop by precious drop. Earth. Root. Rock.

Each greeted along the way.

What tales shall be told to the sky? Remembered to the sea?

Whence comest thou this eve? Are we yet strangers ever to be?

Down from the hilltop. Howling. Howling.

Branch and twig bent. Icy fingers unfeeling find night or day.

Stories sad are sung. Maiden lost. Lonely babe.

Fallen king of stone.

Endureth thou my grip? Or does time passing freeze thy bone?

Across bridge and stream. Creeping. Crawling.

Ere the day dawns, friend found. Foe fled.

Shadows lonely light the way.

Names summoned be of all who tread the dreams along this road.

Asketh thou more than this?

What can there be more true than Gold?

Between rock and stone. Dancing. Dancing.

Frozen dawn banished, weary traveler is welcomed to stay.

Myths and legends live a life although brief upon the stage

that all call home. Why weepest thou? Knowest thee not the sage?

Mistress by the door. Waiting. Calling.

Ever is she there, eternal seductress tempting and fey.

Secrets shared and knowledge lent to those beneath her sway.

Come. Why waitest thou? Here comfort take. Joy for all that stay.

Loving. Liking. Wishing. Wanting. Fearing. Fading.

206

Don't Ask Me What I Wore

My hopes like

the wind

shattered the

moonshine light

down on me. But

in the break of

day, they shun

my voice and

said,‖Don’t speak!

My clothes ripped

and my tears flowed.

My voice was

shattered now

on the barbed

wire fence.

The pain was so

intense and

the fear was

stronger.

SANDY DEE

If only I could

raise my gaze

and then

they would know

what my voice

has always been

trying to say.

If only, you

would listen!

I am a survivor

of rape!

Like you who

have survived

a plane crash.

Don’t ask me

what I wore!

207

Lilith

DOUGLAS FREY

Your whispered silence

sings to me eternally

of only love and violence

Oh, Lilith. . .

Why is it that you never take anything except

my innocence away

Falling through the warmth again,

this life’s cold fury’s never-ending

There’s never any rest for those of us

who truly walk alone

—way out past the edge of time

Hand in hand,

within the velvet ebony-black

where my absolution is only fed with vengeance

I find her lonely solitude’s companionship

sublime.

His Name

VANESSA LOPEZ

She hated the way

the sound of his name

scraped at her heart

until it shed waterfalls of red

and flooded her body with

a painful rush of flames

seeking to burst forth from her chest

and burn her down to ash.

208

Sultry

DJAEL MERCER

After the rain, the empty street

at twilight makes for a real summer treat

Once the heat offers no more solace

at its climax, overexciting the populace

the built up pressure in the sky

gathers pools of water and human sighs

Then runs a celestial river

from one stratocumulus cloud to another

A real harbinger of precipitation

preventing the meltdown of a population

And when the outpouring has past

there is an opportunity for renewal at last

A cool sensation, now that water can be found

on previously fallen leaves on the ground

‘Tis the golden hour for refreshments

Creepy crawlers are the first to make new arrangements

Up above, a vortex of light pierces through the haze

and brings a glimmer of hope before the next set of dog days.

209

CHRISTOPHER M. BLANCHARD

Weekend Dragons

Monday through Friday I work

climb up and down cold concrete stairs

through wind tunnel hallways

help people turn computers off and on

fix classroom projectors

An ongoing task that never ends

Don't get me wrong

I love what I do

I Help bring education to the young

But by the end of the week

The peopling wears me to exhaustion

But when the weekend comes

I grab my bag

filled with heavy books and dice bags

Go to a local spot where a game table waits for me

I sit with people like me

Who work all week long

and are worn and ready for some recreation

I open my bag

a whole other world flows out

Players at my table transform

A rugged warrior, a mysterious Wizard, a dirty Dwarf and a snaky

goblin

Adventurers

ready to brave dangers that have killed lesser men

My voice changes the world

our table transforms to a damp cave

cries of a monster within

But the party had heard treasure was lost here long ago

Their phones transform

a torch to light the way

a sword to battle the beast

a shield to protect them.

210

Dice roll

swords clash

dragons fly off my tongue

Together we have this adventure

Together we play

Together we leave the world behind us

Together‖we‖lift‖each‖other’s‖burdens

A‖task‖we‖can’t‖do‖alone

together we subside a week of woe

Imagination, dice, paper, pencils

Our tools

create adventures

the goblin broke his leg falling down a castle wall

the puzzle box solved and opened

magical aid given to a dwarven princess

the favorite bard that sang the truth out of a villain

The clock invisible to us

four hours pass

before the real world returns

the cave disappears

our table manifests

We say our goodbyes and go our separate ways

eager for next week.

Memories of dangers battled and overcome sustain us

we gird up for another week at work

those baren concrete stairs seem warmer

this job has a little more color

And though it may wear me down

For now

my battery is full

when I am drained and annoyed by the world

I know those next energizing four hours are coming

When dice roll

swords clash

and

dragons fly off my tongue

211

We Marched

LEE LOR

On the tall green grass, to the sounds of brass, we marched.

Crossing the River Styx, led by our commodore.

For great men, passing under the Cyclopean Arch.

Through the gates of Valhalla, of gods and omens.

All men who answered the call, faithful, they swore.


Through eyes of angel’s innocence, curse of demons.

Oaths broken, oaths taken, our strength came from the core.


Through the jaws of warriors, of Aegis and dens.

Valkyries flew over the battlefield of gore.


Through the radiance of stars, of fire, of lens.

No need to imagine the devastation of war.


Through the ages of ancestors, of voices and pens.

The glory of our fallen are remembered through lore.


For the great men, passing under the Cyclopean Arch.

212

Broken

SAUL LOPEZ

My heart is broken I feel lost inside

away from family for things I’ve done

I can’t stand it I’m now just one

like a groom without a bride

Can’t even run Can only hide

This lonely place It’s meant for none

My freedom gambled The DA won

Lawyers promised but they just lied

Through my fogged window I see the world

I can’t be there but I still dream

of real freedom and no more bars

The worst outcome of my life unfurled

Deputies laugh just like a meme

Soon I’ll be gone to somewhere far

Morning Cup

DAVID CLARK

Don’t‖get‖angry‖at‖your‖demons,

it’s‖not‖their‖fault‖you’re‖old‖friends.

You guys first met long ago in some

backroom, bar, or battlefield.

You’re‖the‖one‖who‖bought‖them‖lunch‖and

stood a round or two.

Can you blame them for hanging around?

Sure, you shared some laughs

those midnight ambushes and hilarious crank calls

seemed like a good idea at the time.

But now you must admit those memories

have not aged well at all

gone off like sour milk in the morning.

If that steaming cup at your lip tastes

strangely bitter

whose fault do you think it is?

213

My Uncle’s Misguided Children

If you really knew me, you'd know I am lost

a lot. Sometimes suddenly, often unaware

occasionally on purpose

On line, in order, count them off

Motivated, good to go

Misguided Children

Smashed to pieces, then manufactured

Empty vessels filled with knowledge; molded, and fired

Misguided Children

Boxes, grids, sectors

squared away, oriented

Misguided Children

JEREMY MAGNO

If‖you‖really‖knew‖me,‖you’d‖know‖I‖haven’t‖always‖been‖lost

I was taught, I knew, I declared

This is The Way

Steel sharpens steel

Forged, tempered, pointed

Misguided Children

Built up, ground down

Worn out, broken, and left

Misguided Children

Lines wiggle, DIS - orders, count them off

Out of line, tuned out

Misguided Children

If you really knew me, you'd know that I am learning to get lost

more and more

and more and more

on purpose

214

Take Heed America

You‖don’t really want to help me.

You are setting me up for a let down.

You are trying to hurt me.

Whenever I open myself up to you

and be truthful, you use it against me.

Take Heed

Just like when I was 18 years young

and innocent, you tried to destroy me.

You built me up to believe I was invicible

and sent me out to die

I‖didn’t die though so you ignored that.

I was alive.

I‖didn’t get discouraged.

I continued to live.

You did not lift a finger to help me.

You denied me every benefit you promised.

Why?

Why were all your promises lies?

Was it just the carrot you dangled in front

of my face to get me to do your bidding?

Take Heed

Ho County! Brave, strong, and free, tell me

I am wrong. But prove to me your honesty

and your sincerity Now. . .

Help me to overcome the wreckage of the past,

Don't tell me that because I was in Vietnam I

don’t qualify.‖Give‖me‖a‖reason‖to‖hope,‖don’t

give me that crap about be all you can be in

the army either.

Take Heed

I want to know if I qualify

to be treated as a human being

who bleeds when cut, who has

CASEY ROMERO

[ . . . ]

215

feelings when hurt, feels disappointment

and has a heart and a mind that can be crushed by war.

Evem worse, by being disrespected

as a man for doing what you wanted me to do:

To Kill

Maybe I did not bleed my life out in

physical blood, but I do bleed. And

maybe I did not lose my mind, but

I surely have mental illness.

I am like a powder keg and the fuse

is not lit, but it can be.

Take Heed

I have no more excuses for you.

I have given you lots of chances and

you have let me down every step of

the‖way.‖I‖can’t trust you, but can you

ease the pain in my heart? Can you

help me deal with these issues before

the explosion of all senses and emotions?

Take Heed

Can you understand the voice that is

crying out to you? Do you care? Here

is someone you can help to regain a sense

of hope and pride in America and it's

people. And in turn I will help others.

Take Heed

There is no glory for America if

Her soldiers come home mentally

ill, deranged individuals living on

your streets and in doorways, sleeping

in parks, bushes, and cardboard boxes,

begging for food all over your cities.

Take Heed

216

Where is the glory and pride for America

when the wealthiest country in the world

cannot help her soldiers that fought in \that ugly war?

And where is the help for the families

that remain of the fallen ones; the

mentally and physically ill?

Have You No Shame?!

Wake up America and see that your riches

don't fall or rot from the inside out.

America’s Team

SAMUEL PEREZ

The Patriots are America’s team

To them that title does truly belong

The birthplace of the American dream

The land of the free because of the strong

For where did the revolution begin

that led to our country’s independence

Who led our nation to fight and win

It wasn’t Philly It wasn’t Texas

Boston Tea Party Lexington Concord

Most Cowboys don’t know of these events

when we had refused to be conquered

were more than flukes led by Carson Wentz

217

For those of us who. . .

ANTHONY A. LOBUE

For those of us who

served, sacrificed and survived,

we have memories. . .

Some of them are true

likes facts in a book of facts,

while others are false. . .

Some of them we choose

to remember, others not,

those that are nightmares. . .

For those of us who

served, sacrificed and survived,

we have memories. . .

•

Somehow‖I’m‖still‖here.‖.‖.

Somehow‖I’m‖still‖here.‖.‖.

despite or in spite of all

the threads of my life. . .

The threads of my life

that weave a unique design

like a mosaic. . .

Like a mosaic

of shattered mirror pieces

of my own image. . .

Of my own image

of who I was or might be

or am here and now. . .

Or am here and now

threads and pieces of my life. . .

218

Poet Laureate

Land

as a

Grammar of Liberation

JASON MAGABO PEREZ

San Diego Poet Laureate

219

220

Land as a Grammar of Liberation

A

Kumeyaay elder once reminded us that settlers brought to

these lands their guns and their alphabet. As a child of

Filipino diaspora, I can say the same of U.S. empire—its guns

and its alphabet waged against the archipelago.

Every time I arrive at the writing table, I work within and against

the‖contradictions‖of‖using‖the‖colonizer’s‖language‖to‖make‖sense‖of‖

our realities, of navigating the long genealogy of slaughter deeply

embedded in the English language. During my term as San Diego

Poet Laureate, I navigated and hoped to expose these contradictions

as a way of inviting broader communities into the potentially

liberatory space of poetry.

I turned to the land and touched the earth to listen, to gather new

syntax, to disrupt colonial architectures. I stay here to listen to what

the movement for Land Back is teaching us, to listen to what it means

to finally rematriate the land to indigenous peoples here in

Kumeyaay Land, and across the globe.

Witnessing brutal genocidal war in Gaza, Sudan, and the Congo,

amidst escalating global climate catastrophes, and in bravely

countering the daily violations of colonial capitalism, a return to the

grammar of land feels urgent and absolutely necessary. Land before

property, song before policy. In what follows, I have assembled three

relational meditations on land.

First, a humble cento poem I composed in honor of the land for the

State of Balboa Park address back in August 2024.

Second, a powerful poem that explores the layers of history, land,

and migration—this poem has been installed in a City Heights alley!

And lastly, a collaborative poem about homemaking and

storytelling composed by Arab youth at the Majdal Center in El

Cajon.

In each of these works, we hear varied histories of land, the fight

to tell our stories, a grammar for liberation. These poetics of land are

the past, the present, the future.

Land back! Makibaka! Huwag matakot!

— JASON MAGABO PEREZ

San Diego Poet Laureate 2023-24

221

Land Will Always Say

JASON MAGABO PEREZ

we are sorry to be so reckless with our silence

we replant olive tree & we say to ourselves

this earth is black & living a favorite child of universe

listen to language & life & dance of land back

we plant olive tree & we say to ourselves

we are sorry to be so reckless with this soil this sun

this water listen to language & life & dance of land

back in the deep horizon of our word we say to ourselves

we are sorry to be so reckless with this soil this sun this

water so we water grass pulling sky water roots pushing

concrete in the deep horizon of our word we say to ourselves

listen for land will always say altar say archive say ancestor

we water grass pulling sky water roots pushing concrete

this earth is black & living a favorite child of universe listen for

land will always say altar will always say archive will always say

ancestor we are sorry to be so reckless with this silence

note: This poem samples, remixes, and draws its intellectual and

political and lyrical energy from the following poems:

JOY HARJO: Remember,

ADA LIMÓN: Salvage,

LUCILLE CLIFTON: the earth is a living thing,

and MAHMOUD DARWISH, I Belong Here.

222

Land Displacement

SAMIRA HASSAN

Your spirits still lay in the streets I walk around.

It's what makes the air fresh and the grass green.

We still dance to the sight of the moon and stars

hoping your spirits hear us. The Spaniards now

wear blue and black, their faces still white.

They continue to shoot down the Red-tail hawks,

leaving their bodies for the soil to soak up. They

continue to place the black ravens in cells

watching them closely never allowing them

to peek at the skies that their flocks once soared.

They return home here in the heights.

I'm almost home, with every step I take, rhythm

is what my feet create. Can you hear me? I hope

my existence is what your prayers created.

I'm not tan. My skin is the color of the black berries

you'd eat. My hair is curly like the loose ties that

you'd dye. My grandmothers bang a drum like yours.

Her name isn't Aiyana.‖It's‖Shammas.‖And‖she’s‖from‖

Somalia. Her kisses are stained onto my cheeks and

it’s‖what‖I‖cherish‖when‖she’s‖away.

The Spaniards killed your people, their homeland,

and their dreams. They did the same to me.

Your men were hunters and gatherers. My men

are trying to protect‖what‖you’ve‖left‖behind.‖

But‖they‖couldn’t.‖Our‖people’s‖graveyards‖

no‖longer‖exist.‖They’ve‖built‖their‖homes‖over‖it.

Our families no longer live here.

I‖know‖you’re‖angry.‖So‖am‖I.‖

Nothing can save us from your men who

were taught to just take. Colonizers are their names.

After all, that's what their treaties say.

note: This poem previously appeared as part of Memoria Terra,

an art installation in a City Heights (San Diego) alley, led

by artist Shinpei Takeda and the AjA Project, in collaboration

with Back Alley Poetry Club.

223

MAJDAL CENTER YOUTH WRITERS & ARTISTS

I Speak in My Own Voice

I speak in my own voice.

The homeland asks who I am:

I am unworthy of your lofty wing.

O, homeland! I was born and

raised in your wound.

I was born as everyone is born.

The homeland asks who I am:

I am unworthy of your lofty wing.

I was born to tell my story.

I was born as everyone is born.

If the homeland asks,

the answer remains the same.

I was born to tell my story.

If I must die, let it bring hope.

So, if the homeland asks,

I will say‖it’s‖my‖duty‖the answer remains the same.

And the oak tree is my witness. I ate the fruit of your trees.

If I must die, let it bring hope.

O, homeland! I was born and

raised in your wound.

And the oak tree witnesses/testifies:

I ate the fruit of your trees.

I spoke—speak—in my own voice.

224

اتكهم بصىت ي

ارض انىطن تسأل من انا ؟

انا انغيرجديرا بجناحيك

وطني انا وندت وكبرت بجراحك

انا وندت كما تىند انناس

ارض انىطن تسأل من انا ؟

انا انغيرجديرا بجناحيك

وندت أل روي حكايتي

انا وندت كما تىند انناس

فأذا أرض انىطن سأنت

وندت ألروي حكايتي

فانيأتي مىتي باأل مم

فان جىاب هى

فأذا أرض انىطن سأنت فسأقىل هى واجبي

وشجر انبهىط يشهد

فانيأتي مىتي باألمم

وطني انا وندت وكبرت

و يشهد شجر انبهىط

سردت كه ه بصىتي

بجراح ك

note: Collaboratively composed and translated into Arabic

during a poetry workshop at the Majdal Center (El Cajon,

CA) in August 2024, and first appearing in the chapbook

titled, Homeland & Homemaking, this poem samples from

and is inspired by the work of MAHMOUD DARWISH, REFAAT

ALAREER, MOSAB ABU TOHA, JABRA IBRAHIM JABRA, and

NAZIK AL-MALA’IKAH.

225

226

Conversation

with the

Artist

an interview

FERNANDO PHILLIPI

with

MICHAEL KLAM

227

Conversation with the Cover Artist

FERNANDO PHILLIPI

with

MICHAEL KLAM

Executive Editor, SDPA

SDPA: Tell us about the cover photographs. How did you choose

the locations and subjects? What inspired you to create and publish

the images?

FERNANDO PHILLIPI: First‖ of‖ all,‖ I’m‖ very‖ humbled‖ and‖ honored‖ to‖

have my work featured on the cover of the San Diego Poetry Annual.

Thank you for this opportunity!

Like most of my favorite photos (non-commissioned), there was no

planning or much thought involved. It's usually something that

catches my eye, something that evokes a feeling, a memory, or

curiosity. Once the moment is captured and the work is done, I can

only hope it resonates in some way with the audience.

My connection with the ocean has always been strong and present,

so it was natural that the chosen images were taken at the beach.

The front cover with the seagulls was taken in Pacific Beach, where

I worked as a surf photographer for many years. I remember listening

to the audiobook version of The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho that day

while shooting surf, and this line resonated with me:

‚We‖ are‖ travelers‖ on‖ a‖ cosmic‖ journey,‖ stardust,‖ swirling

and dancing in the eddies and whirlpools of infinity. Life is

eternal. We have stopped for a moment to encounter each

other, to meet, to love, to share. This is a precious moment. It

is‖a‖little‖parenthesis‖in‖eternity.‛

The back photo, with the man and the pier, was taken in Ocean

Beach,‖ where‖ I‖ used‖ to‖ live.‖ The‖ sky‖ was‖ beautiful,‖ and‖ the‖ man’s‖

outfit caught my attention—he was having a good time.

SDPA: You were born in southern Brazil, spent years in San Diego,

and now live and work in LA. How have your travels and your

trajectory affected your work?

228

FP: Absolutely.‖Not‖only‖has‖my‖work‖changed,‖but‖I’ve‖also‖changed‖

a‖lot‖throughout‖the‖years‖on‖this‖journey.‖The‖places‖I’ve‖lived‖and‖

visited have definitely influenced my perception of the world and my

photography.‖ Since‖ 2020,‖ I’ve‖ been‖ studying‖ documentary

photography, and that has had a big impact on my work as well.

SDPA: Your early photography focused on fashion, then you turned

to surf photography, and now cinema. What is the connection

between these subjects for you?

FP: The connection is a mix of passion, opportunity, and risk-taking.

In 2014, I left a promising corporate career to pursue photography. At

the time, I was living in a Brazilian city known for its fashion

industry, and I was in a relationship with a fashion designer. It felt

natural to connect the dots—I got invited to shoot for a small clothing

company with no expectations, and the rest is history.

Something similar happened when I first moved to San Diego. I

was about to head to NYC to work for a fashion company when I

received a job offer to work as a surf photographer. I was hesitant at

first but decided to give it a shot, and I ended up loving my time at

the beach. That experience also led to my first solo photography

book, A Day at PB Drive.

Movies, though, have always been a huge part of my life. I like to

say‖I‖was‖‚brainwashed‛‖by‖them—they’re‖part‖of‖the‖reason‖I‖came‖

to the U.S. In October 2023, the Ray Sisters saw my book at a coffee

shop in Del Mar and invited me to shoot stills and behind-the-scenes

for their short film Spit It Out. That experience brought me full circle,

inspiring my move to Los Angeles to pursue a career in cinema.

SDPA: What is your general process for choosing photos for

publication? Has it changed over the years? How do you know

when a photo is ready to publish?

FP: The‖process‖varies‖from‖one‖project‖to‖another,‖but‖it’s‖similar‖to‖

the moment of capture—it has to feel right. The photo must evoke

something—a memory, a feeling, or a thought—while also being

visually interesting and telling a story.

SDPA: There is certainly drama and, at times, weird and wild

fashion on the beach boardwalk, but LA seems so far from Pacific

Beach! Do you think you’ll ever loop back?

229

FP: San‖Diego‖holds‖a‖special‖place‖in‖my‖heart,‖and‖I’m‖very‖open‖to‖

the possibility of returning. Time will tell. For now, Los Angeles is

home,‖but‖thankfully‖it’s‖not‖too‖far‖from‖my‖beloved‖San‖Diego.

SDPA: How can people find your work and what’s next for you?

FP: My website (fernandophillipi.com) is the best place to view my

work, explore my projects, and check out my products. I also offer

free eBooks available for download—feel free to check them out; after

all,‖they’re‖free!‖Instagram‖is‖another‖great‖way‖to‖connect‖with‖me:‖

@fernandophillipi.

I recently spent a week in Tokyo—my first time in Japan—and‖I’m‖

working on a project that blends poetry in three languages

(Portuguese, English, and Japanese) with the photos I took during the

trip.‖I’m‖very‖excited‖about‖it,‖though‖it’s‖still‖in‖the‖early‖stages.‖I’d‖

love to find a publisher or grant to help bring this project to life.

Right now, most of my focus is on getting more work in cinema.

One of my goals for 2025 is to shoot at least one feature film and,

most importantly, establish myself as a unit still photographer.

230

The Architecture

of a

Poem

I Will Build a City from the

Discarded Wings of Dragonflies

JAMES HUBBELL

(October 23, 1931 – May 17, 2024)

Salón de Música y Cuarto Grado

Music room and 4th Grade

Colegio La Esperanza • College of Hope

Tijuana

EDITOR

BRANDON CESMAT

231

S

o,‖I‖want‖you‖to‖wire‖these‖together,‛‖Jim‖Hubbell‖told‖me.‖‖

A cluster of rebar jutted up out of the cement foundation we

were standing on on top of a hill in Colonia Esperanza, Tijuana.

I‖was‖writing‖about‖the‖late‖architect’s‖building‖a‖school.‖A‖lot‖of‖

my‖questions‖had‖been‖about‖Hubbell’s‖education‖and‖his ideas as an

educator, nothing directly about poetry. Colonia Esperanza was a

project for students of The San Francisco Institute of Architecture, so I

expected to see some blueprints, hardhats, an office, all the trappings

of serious construction. Instead, all kinds of people—serious, late-20-

twenty-early-30-something grad students, neighbors from across the

dirt street, volunteers of all ages from Estados Unidos—were doing

jobs all around the site. Mine was to bind these steel prongs of

different lengths. Months prior, Hubbell had quickly stuck them in

the cement when it was wet and left them. Now, he left me with one

instruction: wire them together. As I worked, one rebar seemed to ask

for the next, not so much by heights but by proximity, so I proceeded.

The cluster became a tower, which was twisting and turning to the

right. I was sure I was doing something wrong.

Hubbell‖came‖back‖and‖asked‖me‖‚Do‖you‖see‖how‖that‖works?‛‖‖

‚It’s‖supposed‖to‖curve‖like‖that?‛‖I‖asked.

‚I‖ like‖ curves,‛‖ he‖ said.‖ ‚It’s the chimney for the outdoor

kitchen.‛‖(A Conversation)

I’ve‖often‖thought‖of‖that‖task‖and‖how‖the‖prongs‖of‖rebar‖were‖

lines and the chimney was a poem. Hubbell himself wrote a book of

poetry titled I Will Build a City from the Discarded Wings of Dragonflies.

Now that Hubbell has passed this year, I want to go back to his

poems, as they are part of the city of homes, fountains and

amphitheaters he made.

Some people read I Will Build a City. . .as one poem, which I

suppose it is. Hubbell, however, has bordered the pages with

illustrations that ameliorate the edges.

One poem seemed to flow from the page and into my work of

constructing a Hubbellesque chimney. I look back on it now as an

artisan’s‖prayer:

232

Take my hands.

Open to love.

Search the right stone

to help build

the temple.

This‖ stanza‖ is‖ representative‖ of‖ Hubbell’s‖ collaboration‖ with‖

others, all the hands doing sacred work. It reminded me of a small

crucifix he had on the wall outside his kitchen. Jesus was climbing off

the cross, the nails out of his hands, as if already ready to continue his

work.‖ Hubbell’s‖ crucifix‖ made‖ a‖ new‖ metaphor:‖ the‖ crucifixion‖ and‖

the resurrection intersecting—not attempting to depict the two as

separate events in the linear way narrative would, but—but to show

visually that the intention was present in every action before the

traditional climax.

I Will Build. . .opens with a poem in which Hubbell alludes to

John Keats and John Donne:

If there is no beauty

There is no truth.

There is no God.

To see beauty

To see all of life

To see the sprout, the bud

The flower, the withering and dying

As part of a whole.

To reconcile birth and death

To see chaos and harmony

As breathing out

To celebrate the mighty galaxy

With the lowly flea.

There is beauty.

There is truth.

God does still smile on us.

233

His primary conversation seems to be with the theme of Ode on a

Grecian Urn, but cleverly, the architect through his poem questions the

poet’s‖ metaphor‖ of‖ the‖ ‚flea‛‖ being‖ a‖ ‚temple,‛‖ which of course is

built by the stone found by the artisan who has made his or her heart

an‖open‖‚gate.‛

W

hen I first met Hubbell, we had breakfast in Chula Vista

before crossing to Tijuana. The restaurant had planters on

a‖ shelf‖ that‖ ran‖ just‖ under‖ the‖ ceiling.‖ When‖ I’d‖ asked‖

Hubbell about his concept of beauty, he told me that his favorite

quote came from his‖father,‖who‖told‖him‖after‖his‖parents’‖divorce‖

was six-years‖old,‖‚We‖love‖someone‖for‖his‖or‖her‖faults.‛‖In‖my‖own‖

work,‖ divorce‖ would‖ play‖ a‖ significant‖ role.‖ Hubbell‖ must’ve‖ seen‖

some confusion on my face that beauty, love and divorce were

wrapped together.

‚Look‖at‖those‖roses,‛‖Hubbell‖continued,‖pointing‖with‖his‖chin‖

up‖ to‖ flowers‖ in‖ the‖ planters‖ around‖ the‖ room.‖ ‚Would‖ you‖ say‖

they’re‖pretty?‛

I agreed.

‚Some‖wax‖roses‖are‖so‖greatly‖detailed‖that‖at‖twenty‖feet,‖you‖

can’t‖ tell‖ the‖ difference‖ between‖ it‖ and‖ a‖ freshly‖ cut‖ rose,‛‖ Hubbell‖

continued.‖‚But‖those‖roses‖are‖up‖ there‖ because‖they‖don’t‖require‖

sunlight‖or‖ rain,‖maybe‖ just‖dusting‖once‖a‖month.‛‖He‖ then‖patted‖

the‖table‖between‖us.‖‚If‖we‖had‖a‖real‖rose‖with‖its‖scent‖and‖petals‖

and thorns‖right‖here,‖would‖you‖describe‖it‖also‖as‖‘pretty’?‛

I‖hesitated,‖which‖apparently‖was‖the‖answer‖he’d‖hoped‖for.

‚Or‖would‖you‖call‖it‖‘beautiful’?‛

‚Beautiful.‛

He‖nodded.‖‚Why?‛

I hesitated again, not knowing the reason for my answer.

‚Because it will lose its scent. Its petals will lose their color and

fall‖off.‖Because‖death‖is‖a‖part‖of‖beauty.‛‖(Another)

T

he‖ beauty‖ of‖ Hubbell’s‖ own‖ home‖ was‖ something‖ he‖ shared‖

annually‖ on‖ Father’s‖ Day.‖ I‖ interpreted‖ that‖ as‖ an‖ homage‖ to‖

his love for his wife and his sons. Near the end of I Will Build<‖

Hubbell writes:

234

Tumble my love

over purple shadows

on spring green hills.

Fall up to where rainbows are born

in mists that turn to crystals.

Let the blue birds

dust your velvet skin

in silver stars

with songs of distant seas.

Fall within my arms.

We will sing what

no one dared to breathe.

When all the far worlds

are one,

when the earth trembles

and opens its arms to heaven,

it is our love that beckoned

when the universe began.

We will sing adulation

when the last sigh is long forgotten.

It is our love that calls

a universe beginning.

The‖form‖of‖the‖poem‖collaborates‖with‖Hubbell’s‖sketch‖on‖the‖

page. He writes these cascading lines and then draws a woman with

sun and leaves in the upper right corner. She reaches up and to the

left, against the natural syntax of the poem, yet as she touches the

sun, petals (or are they leaves?) fall down toward the lower right

corner.

There appears to be a face looking at us from the leaves in the

upper‖right‖corner.‖I‖like‖to‖think‖of‖this‖as‖‚Jim‛‖himself,‖addressing‖

us, inviting us into what he has made, the universe of his buildings,

fountains, sculptures.

W

hen we were waiting in la linea on our way home from

Colonia Esperanza,‖ Hubbell‖ said,‖ ‚Everytime‖ I‖ cross‖ the‖

border,‖it’s‖like‖a‖thread‖has‖been‖stitched‖and‖as‖I‖go‖back‖

and forth, the‖ thread‖ pulls‖ Tijuana‖ and‖ San‖ Diego‖ together.‛‖

(Palomar).

235

What he said made me think about lines of poems as stitches

across the distance from ourselves and whoever will read what we

show. The task of wiring the rebar made me conscious of the

subconscious factors of a poem. The poem has a surface and an

internal structure. As a reading poet, I discovered that I appreciated

the interior spaces of architects and—by metaphor—of other poets,

not so much that I need to enter those spaces, but from the outdoors I

can sense the interior resonance of the rooms the other poet has

passed through.

— BRANDON CESMAT

2024

Works Cited

Brandon Cesmat:

A Conversation with Artist James Hubbell, Designer of Colonia

Esperanza (Vision Magazine: January 1995).

Another Visit with James Hubbell (Vision Magazine:March 1996).

Palomar woodsman lends a hand in Mexico (Times-Advocate,

August 29, 1994) .

Hubbell, James:

I Will Build a City from the Discarded Wings of Dragonflies

(Santa Ysabel, CA: 2005).

note: The day after James Hubbell died, San Diego Poetry Annual founder

Bill Harding, Executive Editor Michael Klam, Regional Editor Karla Cordero,

and‖artist/author‖Mario‖DeMatteo‖toured‖Hubbell’s‖studio‖and‖home‖at‖the‖

invitation of his non-profit foundation, Ilan-Lael, near Julian. led by

Executive Director, Marianne Gerdes.

That warm and sunny Spring day, discussions began between Ilan-Lael

Foundation and the San Diego Entertainment and Arts Guild, (tne non-profit

sponsor of the SDPA), exploring potential partnership events to celebrate the

poetry‖in‖Hubbell’s‖architecture,‖art,‖and‖poetry.

For more information about James Hubbell, visit ilanlaelfoundation.org.

236

Poems

2

237

KATIE KEMPLE

Our City Replicates the Universe

The sunset looked like a desert fire

in the distance, coming to get us

as we flew into San Diego. The ocean:

was it there to protect us, or to walk

us down the red plank to Mars?

I pictured myself walking over water,

over miles and miles to warm my

hands over the flames. To dip myself

in the sun. To marshmallow my body.

We land‖into‖the‖stars.‖Interstate‖15’s

white snake, a mere constellation

of‖California’s‖making.‖We’re riding

on the fumes of some other human's

creation.‖We‖are‖some‖other‖human’s

creation. The present meets us on

the tarmac, with a smack of the lips.

Born into the dark side of the sun.

238

I Love Me

LEE COULTER

I love me, yes I do.

I love me on good days, even bad days too.

I‖love‖the‖body‖I’m‖in,

to live what life may bring,

to delight in all my senses,

to even think a thing.

I love me from birth,

I love me to death,

because no matter what happens,

I take another breath.

I’m‖in‖awe‖of‖my‖feelings,

love‖is‖what‖it’s‖about,

but even pain has a purpose—

it’s‖me‖just‖looking‖out.

I‖do‖love‖everything‖I’m‖doing,

it’s‖all‖me‖just‖me-ing.

What a wonderful thing,

this being a human being.

I could have been a rock, I could have been a tree,

I could have been nothing, but I am me!

So I love me, yes I do,

and for all the same reasons,

I love you too.

239

Learning to be Human

ETHAN MCKNIGHT

I stretched my lips tight,

because‖that’s‖what‖the‖clerk‖did

when I bought Powerade.

I threw it away when my friends said

Gatorade was better.

Their words spill out

in a single breath,

but I always stutter,

choking on the air

that fills my lungs.

I‖don’t‖know‖how‖to‖cough‖it‖out,

so I laugh instead.

I learned how to cry

from watching a girl

get dumped in a park

but‖I‖don’t‖know‖when

I’m‖supposed‖to‖do‖it.

Most emotions I feel,

I borrowed from movies.

The rest are from books,

but‖I‖don’t‖know‖how‖they‖look,

so‖I‖can’t‖feel‖those.

I‖don’t‖think‖I’m‖good‖at‖this.

People must know how alien I am,

but‖that’s‖okay.

I’ll‖keep‖watching,

and maybe, if I try long enough,

I can be like them.

240

Amygdala

PAUL A. SZYMAŃSKI

Considering your amygdala, as I do,

your dull eyes fixed, watching for a glint,

maybe a bug or a new dew drop,

frozen as a Sphinx, belly pressed flat,

vulnerable yet unreachable. Always watching.

soaking in heat on your hot rock,

unaware that your mosaic skin,

may be stretched into pumps or wing-tips,

snatched up as an avian snack, or abused by a passing cat.

Your tail is expendable.

I‖pity‖your‖sloping‖noggin’—

no frontal lobes, nowhere to hang a protective hat.

You‖don’t‖miss‖your‖mother, off cavorting with an iguana.

Were‖you‖human,‖you’d‖be‖a‖basement-dwelling, chainsmoker.

You seem entertained by cactus, sandstone.

Truth and reason are as fish and ice.

They are not real or‖relevant‖so‖they‖don’t‖exist.

Lies and truth are equivalent, except lies are flies that

don’t‖land.

Heaven is a temporary, shady place, and hell is hunger.

Community means conflict.

Face me please, my kindred in being:

tell me what you think about and why.

I want to understand you, understand?

Am I staring at glass eyes—or mirrors?

I‖think‖we‖think,‖don’t‖we?

241

Algaphobia

fear of seaweed

LISA SHULMAN

It’s‖what‖is‖hidden‖that‖can‖pull‖you‖down;

those‖tangled‖fronds‖that‖mask‖the‖sea’s‖salty

secrets—glinting flickers of silver fins,

gaping mouths and bulbous dark-sighted eyes

in constant motion with the rocking tides.

Slick grassy branches that can wrap around

an ankle or thigh, strong enough to hold

you far from the light, lungs filling with tears.

And even beached and bleached of vibrant green,

these dried weeds snake across the shifting sands

so lost, abandoned, so out of their depth.

Just desiccated memories that still

carry a message, remind us of what

we‖fear,‖where‖we’ve‖been,‖what‖we‖will‖become.

242

Touching Down

CRYSTOPHVER R

Had a stroke

half good

almost bad

ironic

absurdly fortunate luck. . .

Let’s‖pass‖out

a few bricks

shy of a load

there you are

where you were

was not there

with feeling

don’t‖miss‖a‖mister

on foggy nights

by the way

cats see better

with whiskers

you made

up your mind

assuming the worst

you found

your way out. . .

pointless directions

without cause

taking pause

for effect

who knows

who asked

knock knock

who‖cares‖‖‖who’s‖who‖‖‖why‖not?

since you know

or

was that an echo?

just about. . .

243

Delusion

WENDY SCHNEIDER

I do decree:

This is what delusion sounds like to me—

Falsity, feigning, fallacy, artifice, artificiality

Glib, glimmer, gilded, sham

SHIMMERING SCAM

Sounds‖like<

unstable, unsteady

Flimflammery, humbuggery, skullduggery,

incessant jugglery

Acting, playacting, bluffing, four flushing,

spoofing, duping, fooling, befooling

Bamboooozled

Error, erroneous, sanctimonious

Mythomaniacal, antifactual

Suspended‖disbelief’s

temporary relief

Stubborn adherence to false belief

Machiavelli’s‖promenade

The‖Trojan‖horse’s‖masquerade‖

Song and dance; beat around the bush

Cunning, careening, cajoling, conniving, contriving,

attitudinizing

Pretext, pretense, false pretense, unfounded

defense

Ploy, decoy, death trap, artful craft, sneak

attack

Stealthy subterfuge

It’s‖a‖ruse

Hit snooze

Denial, denial, guile, beguile

Contorted, distorted, synthetic, phantasmic,

Hypnotized by a lie. . .suspended in time

Diluted, polluted, uprooted, upended

Do you see that humanity needs the outliers?

244

Malicious intention, calculated deception, misdirection,

forced intervention

Ensnarl, ensnare, entrap, entrench, emmesh

Cheat, swindle, overreach

Net, bait, lure, hook,

Yank, twist, turn, hurl, burn,

Deceiver, believer, complacent, complicit, erasure, effacing

Stonewalling, gaslighting, inciting violence. . .

And what of

our roots?

The‖untold‖truths<

Whitewashing, window dressing, smoke screen, false

confession<

Hoodwinked into group think

Empire, eradicate, placate, machinate, subjugate

Birth of a nation

Desecrate the landscape,

Pillage, plunder, rape

Forced confinement, forced restraint

And we try, and we try, and we try to escape;

then relate. . .

to escape

We, who are mere reflections of this insanity

Cutting across as clear as day

They call us mad

They lock us away

They call us mad, and lock us away


245

MARY FREDRICKS

Mama Escapes Communist Russia

Mama had heard Geppeu informants

walking up the stairs knocking on door.

Gasha and Simon, her mother and father

let nuns worship in their house

in spite or because the communist forbid prayer.

They could be shot for that.

Mama married Papa

to escape the Communists

to escape starvation.

Papa left for Iran.

Mama in spite of being pregnant

with my oldest brother, Leopold,

kept getting refused a visa.

One day as her belly grew

the Communists agreed

and handed her a visa.

Mama left her parents,

and got on a train to Tabriz, Iran.

With Leopold in her belly she rode to Papa

to escape the Communist.

I was the third child, the only girl.

Mama held me tight,

breast fed me, watched over me,

handed me colored pencils.

As I grew and we lost

Vosky, Harik, and even Papa,

Mama managed to get a Visa

to the United States.

She left most of our belongings

but for a trunk of silver platters,

and gold-plated filigreed bowls,

and her Russian antique china.

246

Yes, we were on our way to America.

After six months with relatives,

the‖boys‖at‖Uncle‖Alex’s‖and‖Mama,

and I with Uncle Vaghinak,

she managed to find an apartment.

In the back seat of the car Mama

whispered‖to‖me‖‚I‖love‖you.

I will aways be with you even after I die.

You can still turn to me. I will‖be‖there.‛

247

Brethren

SUSAN TERENCE

I have no voice.

I have told you that

but you neither see nor hear me.

I line the streets of your

fair city. Your brethren.

We’re‖the‖knotty‖sleeping‖bags

of those who no longer sleep.

We are the sleepless—on alert always

although you doubt we are alert or sentient.

You assume we are the mustiest of refuse

the roughest of fabrics

that we have no story or beginning

but you pray for our swift end.

We‖spoil‖your‖plans,‖I’m‖told.

We are your reminder that all

does not go as planned.

That cities long ago lost their moral directive

to care for the less fortunate.

I’m‖sorry,‖does‖my‖presence‖‚bug‛‖you

fester in your thoughts

like the Chagas disease that lodges in the heart,

throwing all impulses awry.

Yes,‖we’re‖full of sickness. It’s‖our

specialty. We do it so well.

We clog your health

system drains.

If only. If only—

there‖are‖only‖so‖many‖‚ifs.‛

I‖dream‖sometimes‖I’m‖elsewhere.

Not here of course.

248

Not a flowery place

but quiet—minus sirens,

shifting gears of garbage trucks,

car horns and yelling.

Yes, I am here

Holy, scratched & bitten,

scabrous, unrecognizable

except for misery you assume

I wear like a holey coat.

Maybe since you have

stopped seeing me, I

am no longer here—

249

Danger

NANCY SHIFFRIN

Sharks invade waters where

once I ran joyously into the waves

allowed myself to be pulled down

into the churning surf beached out

onto the sandy shore to collect

weathered glass and popsicle sticks

for my secret drawer.

I do not dye my hair any more.

The gray grows long and ragged

reveals a history of coloring

blond auburn shiny black all fade now

to brownish red a few yellow highlights

‚I‖loved‖that‖gold‖pixie‖cut‖‖‖‖‖‖tell‖me

about Prophecy,‛‖my‖High‖School‖beau

calls with hurts claims questioning

beyond imagining. I learned with a Rabbi

dreamed a poem in which I draped tallit

spoke from the Bimah. I earned a doctorate.

I agree to judge a contest for Voices of Israel

Jewish women poets writing in English.

I ask about his name change. His Drisha class.

‚I‖heard‖you‖married‖black,‛‖he‖says‖and

I comprehend that a bot has me confused

with my niece Mayan Belorussian.

Her husband African-American Arawak

my gynecologist treats me for a cancer

first identified in Scandinavia

not usually found in Ashkenazi Jews.

‚Would‖you‖like‖to‖know‖your

biological‖father?‛‖the‖doctor‖asks.

250

I think about the Daddy who was

with me every day how we both

bore the pain of Mother's rejection

her nose job her battering how

Daddy would have killed

for silence about the afternoons

she spent in demon worship my sister's

dumb uncomprehending complicity.

A hurricane threatens the West Coast.

We are locked down advised to stay inside.

I want to ride the soft eastern waves

once more run along the shore

feel jelly fish sting my feet

gather glinting jewel-like junk

though sharks bloody the water

their teeth crunch boogie boards

never before seen in the Atlantic

free from the dangerous deep suck

of knowledge buried in the genes.

251

Forever

CHRISSY BACLAGAN

Too many people believe

that forever

means eternity

or longevity

or something that goes on

and on

and on

but they forget

that forever

is an undisclosed case

of some ever

and a number

without you

in it


252

Crack Babies

a found poem

JON WESICK

The Scare (1989)

375,000 crack babies born in the last year alone!

Brain-damaged, malformed or seizure-prone

because mothers smoked crack during pregnancy!

In the first five years, they do not speak as well as other babies!

Unable to develop into adults with basic employment skills!

AND THEY DIE, a lot of them JUST DIE!

Money counts more than the lives and brains of CHILDREN!

The lack of Congressional action is INEXCUSIBLE!

Congress Acts

5 grams of crack carries a minimum 5-year prison sentence,

a 100-to-1 crack versus powder cocaine sentencing disparity.

Following stiffer penalties, Black incarceration exploded.

The Aftermath (2010)

"Crack baby" scare overblown

Little proof of any major long-term ill effects.

Failed to show a statistically significant effect on I.Q.

Not a medical diagnosis but a media stereotype

That‖generation‖of‖‚crack‖babies‛‖never‖emerged.

253

FRED LONGWORTH

Making the Streets Safe Again

Acting in accordance with police policy,

I cornered the kid in a darkened alley.

In accordance with police policy,

I ordered him to drop the bag of M&Ms

he’d shoplifted.

Instead, he curled his fingers around the bag,

and brandished it like a mugger's sap.

In accordance with police policy,

I drew my Heckler and Koch VP9

and unloaded a full 15-round clip.

As his body bled out on the blacktop,

he kept clutching and dropping the M&M bag.

I had no choice. In accordance with police

policy, I jammed a second clip into my pistol,

and fired 15 into his heart.

What really pissed me off, though, was how his

forefinger and thumb seized the bag of candy.

He obviously intended to grab the M&Ms,

struggle to his feet, and come charging at me.

I emptied a third clip into his skull.

Then I saw two teenagers filming me

on their smart phones. In accordance with

department policy, I asked them to give me

the phones. They refused, so I put down

one of them. The other little fucker got away.

254

The Wake

KATHY KEOGH

I took my seat in the front row.

Sure, I hadn't seen him years

but his words live with me every day:

"No one will ever want you."

"I'm just trying to help you by telling you—you looked stupid."

"You have the kind of face that should never wear your hair up."

"Your eyes are battleship gray."

I wore my hair up in a messy bun

with the red dress he hated because it hugged my curves

dabbed on the perfume he called cheap.

I sat alone

Waiting

I looked around

There were no tears

No sniffles

No hankies being offered

Just lone people

Sitting

Waiting

Standing room only

Which would suggest a much loved

popular

positive person

As I looked around

my eyes were not met with mourners

but victims

like me

who had been wounded

by the man in the box

The man in the box

The man in the box

The man in the box

I got up and left.

255

The Hook

MICHAEL HUANG

Surveying my chamber for inspiration

encaptured in contemplation

to start a sentence i saw long ago

lurking the depths of memory

head overhanging my stomach

like a crooked palm covering the canopy

peering attentively at my chromebook

midnight black surrounds me in its sheets,

as if to comfort me;

no barriers between me and the keys

fruitlessly stretched arms

Sunken in deep, paralyzing waters,

Hungry for fruit dangling above;

When my grasp creeps near it snaps away,

For Tantalus branches forbade me.

Pomes seem sweet, yet so bitter

the thought whispers

an audible mumble,

language, refined and fair;

piercing through the darkness

never rusts nor tarnishes

echoes in our cavern.

Yet, these hands cannot translate,

combing volumes and tomes

for these words beyond my own.

Glaring at the screen

a rectangular star, painful cyan light,

radiates a singular small black strip

blinking a constant rhythm

the beats tells the tale

how it has a power,

conjures mountains and seas of endless description

compressed into an inscription

for the iris to cast,

but is restricted

256

for its master is not ready

stared at in disdain

as the little line flickers

flashing day by day, i return,

not used but watched

and questions why it was summoned

why did I come so often yet do so little?

Its query remains in heartbeat

awaits for release from solitude

gazing back in its white, blank cage.

Teaser

HANH CHAU

A teaser she is

as she moves her luscious lips

softly as she speaks

in a seductive tongue

in a gentle tender touch

running down the skin

sending lustful desire

from a flame of passion ignited

by the alluring gaze

the murmuring sighs

of her captivating words

led by emotional embrace

as she casts her spell

mimicking, portraying

arousing, displaying

her beauty showcased

fascinating the mind with fantasy

a vivid image at first sight

with speechless intrigue

enchanting and engaged

257

Through the Graveyard

FATHIMA NIDHA.V

Standing at the edge of reality and

disbelief,

a broken soul shivers deep,

was torn and shattered on the reef,

the petals of life fell in the aisle,

as I walked through the graveyard,

on the night when the screams of truth

and falsehood were heard,

I walked forward as if no one was

bothering me with cries and screams,

the bones of the bodies that were buried

long ago were soaked in the rain and the

bones came out,

cracky noise of stepping on the bone

didn’t‖make‖me‖tremble,

black butterflies sleeping on the

echeloned tomb at night,

the blue butterflies are still roaming

without sleep,

maybe the restless souls were asking me

for help, because they are trailing behind

me. . .

In the dim light of the darkness I held the

beacon in my hand and I moved forward

through the graveyard.

258

Breaking Up

SHELLEY GETTEN

My socks

keep

breaking up.

They get as far

from each other

as they can.

Soon, one

ends up

in the wash

while the other

lies hidden

under the bed.

And then,

the inevitable from

being apart so long—

a renegade mismatched

duo is caught

in a public place—

not even trying

to hide it

anymore.

259

Dust

LORA MATHIS

When I was born

Slip of silence

I tied a cloud

Went walking

In my cloud

Spent a night there

Torn moonlight

I still recite

This world

Yes

In my cloud

I was nothing

Handful of air

To my wrist

Many things go

Even the moon

It was long ago

Pocket messages

Dust and ashes

Was made for me

All the dust

Carries me home

260

You

JOHNATHAN WARD

Long ago—

under glittering stars one night

hearts together, I held you tight

from castle walls we watched the skies

fill with golden light of sunrise

and diamond light still fills your eyes

now that I seek the light alone

do you feel my love for you is gone?

No—

within my heart is a prayer

that in the land of golden dreams

I find you there

in wildflower meadows where light gleams

from a silvery star.

Know forever I am your friend

and deeply loved you are.

261

The leafless trees

DAVE SCHMIDT

The gallows were brightly lit by the noonday sun.

Alone and unique, devised as a simple tool of death

the kill is quick and clean, perhaps superior to the gun

respected and feared by those observers close by.

After found guilty, he anxiously awaits death in a cell.

Judge and jury had little sympathy for his plight.

Now the gallows draws near, his dread a living hell,

too late for saving, only thoughts related to his crimes.

Time and society are not on his side, wants to avoid sleep.

No visitors to console him, only a minister with little interest.

Led up gallows while bound, head inched into the noose.

At loss for words he weeps, trap door opens, drops him to doom.

The pain intense, then a clean break in the taut rope.

Freedom feels great, he runs up the hill away from the gallows,

another lease on life, when he thought there was no hope.

Flowers abound with intense colors and fragrances.

His senses, alive with purpose, treasure every sensation.

Bluish sky overhead with a slight warming breeze.

Notices farm animals feeding their daily habit in slow motion.

The light especially intense as he spies a long path between two

lines of tall leafless tree stalks, strangely translucent and slightly

greenish in color, while being drawn toward a large white cloud.

262

Rainy Night

BARBARA HU

Last night I heard the wind, as rain rushed in,

the avocado branches knocked on my window, hard,

another night without deep sleep.

When can my circadian rhythm be normal?

Does my brain have the chance to repair dead cells?

I‖don’t‖know.

Two slanted lights from the bathroom nightlight

shone on the ceiling through the door hinge,

white ceiling fan with a black inner ring gazed at me,

the brown feather dream catcher hanging underneath

whispered to me—it has stopped

working for how long?

Thinking of your coming surgery soon,

wishing I can find a healing melody

lighting the path to the after

because I am too old to take care of you

instead of taking care of myself.

This morning is sunny and clear.

I water the avocado and cut our birds of paradise.

The plants greet me,

no trace of the storm,

but fallen leaves on the ground.

263

A Bird’s Song

COSIMO GIOVINE

Majestic—bejeweled:

Red gorget shines like a shield—black-tipped, dipped in gold.

Courting bluebirds stir‖the‖swarming‖insects‖into‖the‖sun’s‖rays.

A fluffy-feathered sparrow swoops down and pounces

on the ground, up with an earthworm. A lark swoops down

and pounces, up with an empty beak, then shrills upwards.

A boy, bubbling and toddling, grasps his daddy’s‖fingers,

hears‖a‖bird’s‖song,‖spots‖the‖flicking‖wings

among the leaves. They clap in bejeweled majesty.

MATTHEW CHRISTIANSCHER

Blue Heron’s World

Striding through

his mucky temple

reflective twin in tow.

Spearing through the

algae carpet, nature’s‖

buffet just below.

Does he know of God,

truth, or love

the‖world’s‖to‖and‖fro?

Or is the heron happy

to lunch on fish and frogs?

Digesting‖in‖the‖summer’s‖glow.

264

The Gargantuan

JILL G. HALL

We turn a corner and there he is,

big bachelor bull making the jeep

back up.

Trunk blasts a warning sound

loud‖as‖a‖Mack‖truck’s‖horn.

Tusks shine bright in African light.

Wild-eyed with flapping ears,

mud-caked body drips sweet

elephant testosterone musk.

He’s‖irate,‖looking‖for‖lost‖mate.‖‖

My heart beats a rhythmic

drum, ba-bum, ba-bum.

Hope he finds her soon.

265

The Nest

MEL EDDEN

Finches arrived in April

to build on our front porch,

enthusiasm trumping

common sense—

their grassy weave, carefully

crafted, yet precariously perched

half-on, half-off

a small wall-mounted lamp.

We debated collaboration

with supports or nets

but, after some debate,

let nature take its course.

With phones raised high

on selfie sticks

we snapped their progression

to fledging from chick.

Then, one morning,

they were gone,

leaving behind

a mere tangle of twigs

and the sweet souvenir

of sharing our home,

with theirs.

266

DENA CARSON BERRY

Nevada’s Mountain Sheep

Unready, I could not focus my camera

as the mountain sheep crossed the parking lot,

passing parked cars, and crowds of tourists taking pictures,

elegant, crowned with majestic horns,

coats in shades of gray, black,

contrasting with the sunny colors of

their rocky surroundings, yellow, orange.

A procession of deities could not have been more impressive,

as they moved, sure of their place in the world

disdaining the watching crowds,

and disappeared into clefts in the canyon walls

away, too soon, leaving only a memory.

Some are thrilled by the sight of kings, popes, presidents,

I am content, to have seen the mountain sheep

traverse the Valley of Fire.

267

The Butterfly

MICHELLE SMITH

Stained-glass wings unfold with grace

to retreat with the whimsy of a child at play—

your capture as elusive as the loss of that child

before‖he‖knew‖life’s‖purpose.

A grieving father observed your flight

saw you alight

upon‖his‖son’s‖outstretched‖finger.

A believer in miracles, he conjured and waited

in wistful anticipation of this shape-shifting vision,

an apparition of desire.

And then he chanced upon a Butterfly brooch

amid a languishing array of dusty baubles—

your bejeweled twin, a gaudy doppelganger—

that whispered unto him an earnest plea

to salvage its luster, to refashion its purpose

in commemoration of his long-lost son.

And in his waning days and nights beset with anguish

he muttered and mumbled

of Butterfly visions—

of sightings as tenuous

as‖his‖son’s‖innocence

as wholly intangible

as‖his‖son’s‖embrace.

And when it was time to

to give up the ghost

of a reluctant host,

slough his shroud,

the dazzling brooch clung to his lapel

nestled above his quieted heart

now snuffed of its own brilliance

268

and long ago shattered like a soul

scattered among passing rainbows

where interminable grief exists no more.

And you, Butterfly, alighted again

upon the childlike hand

that led the old man home.

You spread your wings

and whispered once more

to bid the man farewell.


269

Mixteco

KARY LYNN VAIL

Itan‖de‖hΰi,‖her‖name‖meant‖‚flower‖of‖the‖sky.‛‖A pint-sized woman in

an elaborate huipil dress festooned with embroidered colorful birds and

phantasmic‖long‖eared‖rabbits‖on‖the‖run.‖Itan‖de‖hΰi‖accessed my‖6’1‖

blonde blue-eyed self. Chocolate ojos stirred my soul. I shone a spotlight

of joy in return upon the flower of her face.

Miniature chickens pecked an invisible maze at my feet. Speaking

adequate Spanish I asked about her menagerie of birds. Itan responded,

‚Venga,‖venga‛ to the back of her house which sat on the north bank of

the Cuale River. To a chicken wire fenced in pen. Where Itan stopped

gravely at the entry way pointing her hand at an elaborate spider web

which sported a palm sized broach of a spider.

‚Ten‖cuidado‖muy‖peligroso.‛

‚Puede‖matar‖a‖me?‛‖I‖asked.

‚Si‖claro‖que‖puede!‛‖then‖her‖4’9‖self‖passed‖easily‖into‖the‖pen.‖I‖needed‖

to‖fold‖myself‖in‖half‖to‖pass‖through.‖Itan’s‖relationship‖to‖her‖plants,‖

montan as, rio, was a spirit fog she exuded. She took me to a hawk,

recounting how a campanero de tribo found the injured bird on the

mountain top and brought it to her to heal. Which she did and then they

re-released the bird twice. Both times the hawk returned to her. So rare to

be so close to a five foot wing span. Itan’s‖checkerboard‖grin‖of‖missing‖

teeth whistled clicking noises as she hand-fed him dried fish.

Then out of the Rio emerged a fierce preciousa young woman who glared

at me standing with her abuela. As she crossed her arms over her chest

and ran into the house.

Itan and I trailed behind and when Itan reached the top step of the porch

our eyes were even. I reached for her hands thanking her profusely.

‚Muchas‖gracias‖que‖amable‖de‖tu‖parte!‖Gracias‖a‖Dios‖por‖el‖placer.‛‖

Itan sat in her rocker and smiled gently back. I thought I saw a touch of

concern in her eyes. Maybe she could see that I too had a broken wing.

injured wild birds rest

pon seashell conch-shell kisses

hearts supra-vistas

270

CARRIE ST. ANDRE

Green Valley Falls Cold Plunge

I submerge my body in the icy river and

watch the world come alive:

metallic blue dragonflies,

honeybees bobbing among flowers

like a floating cork,

fucia-throated hummingbirds that

hover between boulders covered in

grey-green lichen,

granite rocks polished to smooth glass

that‖catches‖the‖sun’s‖glint,

bark of oaks, willow, cottonwoods,

a collage of texture,

my aching muscles surrender to the cool water,

a massage of all my senses,

heavy thoughts drifting downstream

with fallen leaves,

the toll of yesterday lifted.

271

Childhood Pool

SHAIRA ORQUE

I see from a distance, a faint shimmer of the pool waiting as my

mother sits on the edge. She calls us to the water, and my brother

is already there, navigating his way through the embrace of the

pool as more of its coldness laps him.

Frigid water flows and wraps itself tightly around me.

The unforgettable sharp scent of chlorine stings my nose.

The‖ dissonance‖ of‖ my‖ mother’s‖ voice‖ fades‖ as‖ I‖ sink‖ deeper,‖

feeling the chilling sensations disperse throughout and all over

my body.

I further submerge myself under, staring at the distorted world

above‖and‖its‖wavering‖palm‖trees‖as‖I‖sit‖on‖the‖pool’s‖steps.

Coldness soon became a familiar sensation, and the idea of

drowning felt foreign to me.

272

CAROL IRELAND ARCHIBALD

Reliability of the Moon

I‖don’t‖know‖how the moon

can stay her course suspended

in space for millenniums,

rotating on the same axis

never venturing out of orbit

or flinching in her duty.

I wonder in her tedium

if she ever looks down on us

as we gaze up longingly

at her shimmering snow glow

that waxes and wanes like a pie

halved, sliced, made new again.

Does she know how vital her visage is,

how lovers hold hands and hearts,

children reach up to touch her,

how much, in this unhinged world

we desperately need the assurance

that she will always be there.

273

My Girl Scout Leader

SUZANNE O’CONNELL

She wore her Girl Scout jacket

over a bulging house dress, gaping

at the buttons,

the jacket covered with patches and badges.

She had an eye twitch.

More than a twitch really.

One side of her face

gripped like a fist.

I would count the seconds between grips.

We gathered,

dressed in motley pieces

of Girl Scout regalia,

every week

in a trailer on the playground.

She was the kind of woman

who ate cottage cheese,

because she was dieting,

but ate the whole container

with a box of crackers.

She was the kind of woman

who said she believed

in‖‚good‖works.‛

She tried to forge our criminal minds

into something socially useful.

She tried to teach us

right from wrong,

to be helpful to others,

to bandage an arm,

offer water to the thirsty,

rake leaves for a neighbor in need.

274

Until we drove her away.

That last day, she told us

about a young man with cancer.

‚He‖is‖going‖to‖die,‛‖she‖said.

She wanted us to write him letters,

supportive and loving.

Someone‖asked:‖‚Is‖he‖cute?‛

‚That’s‖a‖very‖rude‖question,‛‖she‖said,

‚He‖only‖has‖months‖to‖live.‛

‚But‖is‖he‖cute?‛‖several‖of‖us‖asked.

She gathered her coffee mug,

her car keys, her purse.

‚I‖quit,‛‖she‖said.

We watched, giggling,

as she walked across the playground.

275

the sun’s breakfast

SARA SHIRAZIAN

the sun squeezes the juice of a grapefruit,

melts the remnants of her orangesicle,

mixes them together and pours

the

mixture

throughout her thinly stretched scattered clouds,

creating a sorbet masterpiece

at 6:35 in the morning.

and at 6:35 in the morning,

there sits a man at his chair,

admiring a display of pixelated characters

that only he can control with a

click of his index finger and a

click of squared letters,

but‖his‖masterpiece‖is‖nothing‖compared‖to‖the‖sun’s‖sorbet.

and at 6:35 in the morning,

95 percent of the snoring population are

dreaming of said grapefruits and orangesicles,

maybe even bringing them to life,

like a Frankenstein or a Shakespeare play,

but‖their‖masterpiece‖is‖nothing‖compared‖to‖the‖sun’s‖sorbet.

and then at 6:35 in the morning,

the birds soar through the sky,

sipping‖on‖the‖sun’s‖dripping‖sorbet,‖

quenching their thirst enough to

fill the air with the cheerful chirps

meant for a certain few to hear.

and then

at 6:35 in the morning,

the grapefruit-orangesicle light shines

through my blinds, waking me up

to‖the‖sun’s‖breakfast‖special:

a grapefruit and an orangesicle.

276

Over-ripe

HANNAH TRACY

Over-ripe tears burst on my tongue as I break

into‖a‖plum’s‖glossy‖flesh.‖I‖didn’t‖mean‖it,‖when‖I‖said

I hated you. Juice spills onto my chin

while staining my lips with a loyal kiss. Thick glacial deposits

hidden

under thin, crisp skin.

I take a bite after bite.

The tight buzz in my gut is killed slowly by the

acid traveling through me, but never slower than my pride.

The roots of my teeth sting and I know, I know, I know

I should see the dentist, but my gums are slick

with something shameful:

leftover plum skin

something obscene

something mean to mom and forgiving of dad

So I avoid the dentist, devour plums.

277

SUSAN TAYLOR

What the Moon Jellyfish Knows

Moon jellyfish glow at night,

like bobbing stars in black skies,

in shallow green waters, ever-moving.

Their glossy ribbons appear and disappear,

float, even in the churning ocean water.

Feared and loathed, moon jellyfish call out,

‚My‖sting‖is‖mild.‖‖The‖reaction‖on‖your‖skin

reminds you that you are alive, watching.

and‖wondering.‛

Do they have teeth, eyes, babies?

No, no, and yes.

They have no heart; they are water in water.

An injury means loss of limb,

leaving tentacle ribbons adrift

until they surrender on the shore.

Moon jellyfish do not pity themselves.

They‖don’t‖wring‖their‖hands,‖and‖wail‖walking

behind the funeral hearse.

They receive no sympathy cards, no mentions of being in our

prayers,

thinking of you at this time, this will pass. It takes time. . .

The Moon Jellyfish remains humble and ambitious, accepting loss

as natural.

Green waves move in and around their mushroom bodies.

Off balance, they tread water, determined to survive.

Days pass, each attached tentacle knowing what to do.

The parts reposition themselves to create a whole,

functioning as they were first created.

Moon jellyfish surprise and intimidate,

all the while, prospering among the turtles and birds,

rays and tiger sharks.

love and loss,

promise and sorrow

entangled as seaweed

278

Wanderlust

MONICA KAKKAR

billows by sunup. . .

teahouse at a waterfall

tucked in the hairpin

maze of masonry. . .

overspreads the uprooted

peekaboo Peepul

between the highways

yield to meandering tracks—

fields of golden wheat

stirs on the Ganges

potpourri of aromas. . .

wind in the verdure

kiosk with kebabs

pinkens on the promenade. . .

the ebb of heat wave

withered weathergrams

glisten in the afterglow. . .

luminaria

pearl drop in pin drop

crescendos on the bayou. . .

halfway summer moon

279

Hammock Moon

MARG WAFER

Ocean waves asleep for now, the lull

and lift of my body floating

on top of the sea.

Grounds lush with ginger, fuchsia cones

and slender leaves. Hibiscus wears

her frilly yellow skirt. Sweet plumeria

with their tender petals.

Later in the day waves

make a lacy foam. A soloist sings

traditional Hawaiian songs, music

cradles me into a deep dream.

An alligator cloud yanks the sun

into its mouth, but the sun steals away.

Palm fronds clap their slender hands

as the sun leaves a rim of fire on the horizon.

The quarter moon lounges in her hammock.

Stars blink morse code, a universe of spies.

They settle into their quirky constellations: Gemini,

Orion with Betelgeuse, and Rigel its brightest star.

This waning moon with her tipsy smile

will be pregnant again,

then lose her belly

and be back showing off her curves.

They’re‖lying‖together‖in‖the‖hammock‖moon.

My mother and father.

I’ve‖missed‖them‖for‖so‖long.

They’re‖smiling‖down‖at‖me.

Then they disappear.

280

Walk This Way

SHARON LAABS

Shoe leather was scarce during WWII.

I was forced to wear a pair of boys

winged tipped oxfords, making me

look like a mini-bank manager.

My feet continued to grow.

The next pair, long, slim and green,

reminded me of an alligator.

I kept them tucked under my desk.

The war over, my eager teenage

toes slipped into my first pair

of‖stylin’‖high‖heels,‖making‖me‖

wamble like a giraffe in stilettos.

Speaking of shoes. . .

Old mother Hubbard lived in a shoe.

Now how could she do that, there must

have been a foot in there too?

281

JIM MORENO

In Kindness

of The Divine Children of the Sun

And we were made afraid, and being afraid we made him bigger than he

was, a little man, and ignorant, wrapped like a vase of glass in bubblewrap

all his life, who never felt a single lurch or bump, carried over the

rough surface of other lives like the spoiled children of sultans of old.

—Eleanor Wilner

The 3.2 million Puerto Ricans are Divine Children of the Sun.

The Native Ortoiroid, Saladoid, & Taíno of Puerto Rico are

Divine Children of the Sun.

The lakes, rivers, lagoons, and bays of Puerto Rico are

Divine Waters of the Sun.

The 239 plants, 16 birds, & 39 amphibians/reptiles of Puerto Rico

are Divine Creations of the Sun.


The endangered Puerto Rican sharp-shinned hawk, the elfin

woods warbler, the Puerto Rican broad-winged hawk & the

Puerto Rican boa are Divine Creatures of the Sun.

The forests and the rainforests of Puerto Rico are Divine Trees of

the Sun.

The coqui is the Divine Frog of the Sun

Spanish, English, Taíno, and African are Puerto Rican Divine

Tongues of the Sun.


The music of Puerto Rico, the bomba, the plena, the aguinaldo, the

danza, the salsa, the reggaeton, the Orquesta Sinfónica de Puerto

Rico and the Orquesta Filarmónica de Puerto Rico & The Casals

Festival are Divine Songs of the Sun.

The people of the mountains of Puerto Rico, the Jibaro, are

Divine Musicians of the Sun.

282

In kindness, let's remember the food of Puerto Rico, mofongo with

plantains, arroz con gandules, with rice, pigeon peas, and pork,

Christmas pasteles, with pork and adobo stuffing encased in a

green plantain masa and wrapped in banana leaves, and let's not

forget lechon, pig roast or arrroz con dulce (sweet rice

pudding), & shaved ice piraguas, Divine Cuisines of the Sun.

In kindness, let's remember Puerto Rican baseball, soccer, and

basketball are Divine Sports of the Sun.


In kindness & empathy, let's remember the starved slaves brutally

shipped to Puerto Rico, chained together like animals, thrown into

the Middle Passage sea in bloody, sweaty chains; slavers collecting

cruel insurance payoffs; the chained & drowned were Divine

Martyrs of the Sun.

In kindness & empathy, let's remember those innocent, unwilling

immigrants, many of the reasons there are Black Angels in heaven.

Heaven, heavy with our fellow citizens, Puerto Ricans, that in

kindness & empathy, we fellow Americans can't allow to live or

die in vain. In kindness, empathy, & strength, vote the racists out!

Our America is not spelled with three K's. . .


& a whispered, Yeah!

283

STEVE RODRIGUEZ

A December in California

We shut all the windows,

pull a long-forgotten jacket

out of the closet.

Brisk nights alarm us,

as we see the mercury drop.

Chilled by morning air

that threatens the sense

of spoiled comfort baked into

our thin skin and blood.

Forty-eight degree

evenings make us wince and shiver;

we Californians

pretend to be cold,

like bad actors in a corny

Hallmark Christmas film.

In the meantime, we

secretly take profound pleasure

in our current state.

Sitting on the couch,

The thermostat turned up too high,

we count our blessings.

The weatherperson

waves her hand at the Midwest Plains

and warns of whiteouts.

An approaching storm

about to grip those far away,

friends and relatives

locked indoors tonight,

their snow shovels at the ready.

Bleak frozen tundra

284

is‖their‖season’s‖fate.‖‖‖‖‖

No planting or growth until spring.

Snow and ice looming—

the dead of winter.

Yet, this morning we awaken

here in our warm beds

to find young saplings

have appeared on the median.

December surprise!

City workers plant

a Friars Road leafy orchard; they

choose to disregard

the seasonal norms.

Drivers note the newcomers while

steering toward the beach.

A twelfth month like no

other, as slender trunks soak up

blinding noon sunshine.

285

The Sky Was Red at Sunset

JANELL STRUBE

Raspberry light filled the house

like the pink of the morning

when you lay in bed and tapped

out a poem one-thumbed on your phone.

Coffee perked in the kitchen.

Twenty-six poems for 26

dawns or 26 years, rough

cut stars tossed aside in your wake.

In the end, there is only

the waiting. Waiting to live

again, waiting to die, waiting

to fall sick, waiting to survive.

The silence is loud in the dark.

The freeway has stopped running.

Cold knocks at my ankles, my wrists.

Overhead, the Big Dipper

shoulders Orion aside.

Maybe tomorrow when I wake,

they’ll‖say‖the‖pandemic’s‖over,

but‖you’re‖not‖here‖to‖tell‖me

to go to bed tonight.

286

ASHLEY MCLAUGHLIN

The Beginning of August

Strange what poetry can do to you.

How slowly it moves through time,

how inefficient it can be.

One Louise Gluck poem about rebirth

and‖I’ve‖suddenly‖taken‖an‖almost

scientific interest in the flies of the windowsill,

the way their hair-like legs comb over one another,

over their paper wings—

a small sacred bathing ritual.

And all this time, here I was, thinking

flies had only to do with filth?

How many other ways of being have I misunderstood,

for not reading poems?

moonlight and notebook

telling her stories in ink

transforming within

WENDY VAN CAMP

287

Saving Daylight

ERIC LEHEW

They told me that in the middle of the night

this coming Saturday,

it was time I saved some daylight

but then again

what would I do with it

but put it in a corner of the garage

where it would stay for some time

until eventually I would take it

to the local thrift store

where I would hope

a nice young couple

could find a use for it.

288

Before Sunset

ROBERT WINDORF

I awoke from an afternoon nap

sitting on a couch

with my feet on a tattered ottoman

at the back of this old café

that faces the Sea,

a lime drink

nearby.

Children happily

chased a worn fútbol

down the semi-paved street as

a cage of green parrots

slept in the corner of the room.

My watch showed Four

but I sensed

it was much later.

Julia then

came for me.

Her cousins

were expecting us

before Eight.

A few presents

still needed to be wrapped

and‖we’d‖promised

to dance on the patio

under the backyard

mango tree

before the last

sparkles of sunlight

jumped off the waves

on the darkening horizon.

289

Childhood Skies

a memoir

RANDI HAWKINS GARCIA

This morning is my childhood sky

warm and thick from camping on the river,

recalling hints of days wrapped in sweetness.

Many blankets of mackerel clouds hung folded over my cot,

songs rising above brown bodies

tanned by the sun.

Embraced by weeping willows and

pepper trees, I knew I was safe

in my floppy blue hand-sewn hat sporting

appliqué daisies.

Sequoia giants nestled nearby peachtree

orchards heavy with fruit the size

of‖a‖stranger’s‖fist,

yielding‖cobbler‖crafted‖by‖a‖campsite‖witch‖who’d

memorized her recipes.

My father towed me behind his

V8 inboard ski boat,

showing me how to strap on those boards, my feet

hooked into buckets skimming over

the wake.

Transported I became

part‖of‖the‖riverbank’s‖natural‖life,

charmed by minnows, polliwogs and

skeeters,

the smells of dank root

systems and motor oil permeating my brain.

One with the water at last, my final

emergence on that singular foot

broke his heart,

a young zinc-nosed

Aphrodite speeding away.

Sing:‖‖‚and‖she’s‖there,‖in‖my‖dreams

I’ll‖make‖a‖fist,‖I’ll‖make‖it‖count

Don’t‖‖lea‖‖ee‖ee‖ee‖eave.‖.‖.‛

290

I‖never‖imagined‖that‖I’d‖come‖this‖far,

or be away for this long,

birthing paintings and poems,

digging out a life for myself

all these many years later.

My boat has flipped a few times,

yet I’ve‖always‖longed‖to‖return‖to

the‖river’s‖shadowy‖banks

where‖I’d‖stay‖quiet‖and‖moist,

relishing solitude, wandering black

sand shores flecked with gold,

alert to myself in sacred green skin

in the Valley of the Kings.

Instead, my canvas is

an arid land

of white noise and pink skins,

my peach fuzz eroded

settling for skies laced with turpentine and

not knowing what I may encounter

in groves of different trees.

291

Springtime in the Fifties

NANCY FOLEY

Skipping to school on a mid-April day,

I chase the smoky clouds across the sky.

My pig-tails flap from side-to-side while

I zip up my new purple corduroy jacket.

A slight breeze rustles the trees like

starch-stiff sheets. Buds of possibility

poke out from their seed-green leaves

as puffy white clouds overtake the grey.

The scent of hyacinths skirting

the sidewalk brings smiles as

I pass yellow daffodils and tulips

joining the seasonal parade.

I search for the Lilac Wonder Tulip

that we learned about in science: pink

buds with a golden circle inside, like

an egg yolk sitting on a rosy saucer.

This April as I drive my grandson to school,

he shares about the danger of rising sea

levels causing hurricanes, tornadoes,

and landslides, putting families in danger.

His science class is studying the effects

of zombie ice melting in Greenland and

the dissolving of blue-white glaciers

like a snow cone on a warm day at the Fair.

What steps can we take to remove the dark

foreboding‖clouds‖of‖today’s‖silent‖spring

and help provide our planet with a more

hopeful future for tomorrow?

292

Bisquick Riff

BOBBIE JEAN BISHOP

Joy is in the biscuits,

how we beg our dad

to whip up a viscous batch

of dough made from a box

of premixed ingredients—

just add water. He protests

but finally yields to our pleading:

Daddy, you make the best biscuits.

Our plates are Melmac,

a durable plastic engineered

to outlive any of us at the table,

but‖that‖doesn’t‖concern‖us

over Sunday breakfast as crumbs

disappear into runny yolks.

Fingers jam-sticky, lips greased

with bacon, we sail like syllables

of a nursery rhyme on the faux buttery

Blue Bonnet lather of childhood.

293

Nostalgia

JOSÉ CEJA

A jealous sun rises

before I even know that

anything can go wrong.

At 9 a.m. it will protect,

keep everything as it is,

exclude everything that

was, preclude everything

that was about to be.

The jealous moon hangs

in the sky waiting for a time

that will never come.

A rooster crows, and then

another, and then another,

and then another, and

then another. A dog drinks

out of a bowl that will

never go empty.

Architecture and furniture

that will never go out of

fashion. A diet that will

will never hype with tension.

A cancer that will never

mature out of stasis.

Sun sees a white fence,

freshly painted. And a

murder of roses,

freshly bloomed. Sun sees

pomegranates

bursting off the branch, all

of us children sitting underneath

with our hand cupped fulfilling

our daily ritual. Ants lick the

juice off our feet until

we’re‖tickled:‖

it’s‖still‖9‖a.m.

294

When it is time for us to play

we play. Grand games of

life and more life. Of acting

and immortality. We eat three

different kinds of Pop

Tarts: Cinnamon, Wild Berry,

Strawberry: The holy toast.

A doubtful TV pretends to

know what we feel like watching.

We can live like this forever.

We can always be home.

W is for Wonder

PRARTHO SERENO

for the wilt and the whoosh

for the where’s and the when’s

for the wanderers & wonderers

for the waves and the winds

for the woes, yes,

let’s‖hear‖it‖for‖the‖woes

without‖which‖we’d‖wallow

in the shallows

Come, Winter, we whisper to the one

we call Old Man. Come wobbling

and withering into our wilds

Let the weathers take us long & wide

Turn now, you watchful ones

wise women & wondering men. . .

open your windows—and let in

the wriggle of the willows, shake

out your waterlogged wings

and whirl

295

Transitions

At a Bach Collegium

of Mozart and Salieri

Viennese rivals—

or so the movie went—

Eine kleine Nachtsmusik and

Ah Sia Gia sailed over the rapt heads

and cupped ears to the peaked wooden eaves.

Ageless music and arias sung at noon to an

appreciative audience who paid their praise

with politely clapping hands

and wadded dollar bills.

Gazing‖at‖the‖ceiling’s‖peaked‖perfection

wondering who had to clean it, and how often,

glancing at the discreetly coughing crowd,

I took pause. Who was this bunch of grey-haired

enthusiasts whose time will surely soon be nigh?

Looking closer, I saw who they were.

They were me, and I was them—

me as others now saw me

with‖too‖much‖deference,‖too‖many‖‚sirs‛

too‖much‖said‖by‖people’s‖eyes—

but not me, not yet.

It seems I

had been looking

in a mirror but not seeing

what others saw—

dragged past an

invisible

line of no return

to old age

if not yet

to disease.

At least there was still

Mozart.

RODNEY L. LOWMAN

296

LISA ALBRIGHT RATNAVIRA

Ode to the Pechanga Live Oak Tree

As an acorn

furrowing into my destiny

earnestly becoming a sapling

bathing in sunshine

I carry within me

my‖ancestor’s‖wisdom.

My live oak leaves fall away

as I transform

into full branches, arching canopies

protecting the emerging lives below.

My deep roots communicate with my brethren.

We survive floods, famines, host life within us.

My tribe harvested and flourished beneath me

over 1,000 years of laughter, love, tribulations

and still, I am fertile,

yielding acorns every other year,

this life teeming with hardships and

sunshine floating within my canopy.

Bobcats visit me,

towhees, hawks, barn owls, sparrows, hummingbirds hover in my

sprawling branches.

I remain, bent in prayer

like a once powerful warrior.

I sustain, I remain, and yet wonder of

possibilities yet to awaken.

297

SERETTA MARTIN

Wayfarer / Intuition of Trees

1.

Wayfarer

after Frank Lloyd Wright, Sr. 1867-1959

The‖artist’s‖vision:‖a‖Tree‖Chapel‖

with the power to disappear into nature—

On bluffs above the Pacific Ocean

the Wayfarer Chapel is made of sky

held in place by trees, triangles of glass

columns of terrestrial light.

Ocean breeze drifts through doors

a red dragonfly flirts with clouds high

in the arches where songs ascend.

It has been this way since

she was built in a grove of redwoods

where quietness rules.

In my memory this will always be

just as it was the afternoon I wandered

up stone steps into another world

held in the hearts of couples

who married here, bowed in prayer

vows ascending into the spirit

of reflected trees. I go there often

to feel a congregation of peace.

2.

Intuition of Trees

It's easy to forget the intuition of trees—

how gravity and sky hold us in place

on this spinning patch of earth.

298

We pray louder now as the ground moves

the full length of a hammer each week

beneath this Wayfarer Chapel—glass

shatters, her ribs bend, the stone entrance

moans‖tectonics,‖the‖cornerstone’s‖crack‖

runs the length of a long prayer

our prayer for her resurrection

as‖experts‖work‖against‖time’s‖landslide‖

to save her, taking apart each piece of glass

each length of redwood—catalogued

to rebuild on solid ground.

This memory of quiet makes my heart ring

though the bell on high is silent.

Leaf Water

GRACIE CORDES

Night wanes by wake and wonder,

meandering through morning moisture,

towards eastern clearing of a cold kettle.

To begin the brew and conclude to choose

a tea to travel the days tick of time.

This repertoire repeated for revered and reviled,

the flames of a fateful friend proclaimed my flat;

was where a witch would live, while winged by

bright blossoms and a brick wall of books.

Lost in the memory smelling of earl grey and still air,

but brought back by bubbles bellowing beside.

Not a single spell to cast as the sun signs for surrender.

Irish breakfast, lofty lunette and a venal vow to dust later.

299

Wisdom Worker

SHARON THOMPSON

I believe

in days of deep pine wilderness,

where cooking stones lower into baskets of thick soup,

there are elders still, to seek.

Huts in which to kneel and learn,

dreams of smoky revelation.

Heart beats measured on drums of stretched skin.

Someone

with wisdom

given as gift from soul to soul,

offers understanding, steadfast insight,

fortification, even,

against the incongruity of this sense of bleakness

in a life of such lush bounty.

In myth, if not in flesh,

a gnarled woman

stoops with curved awl,

sculpting graceful sides into an oaken bowl.

Laughing at my unrelenting woefulness,

lifting, hefting its weight easily, scolding,

‚Go‖swim‖in‖the stream

take some hard, young man to your breast.

Forget your own babies today.

Rub your mouth with raspberry juice.

Dance in the current with your knees high,

laugh.

That‖is‖all‖there‖is.‛

But I am no longer a girl with streaming black hair,

out tasting the world.

Almost aged,

I will shift blindly

overlooking shrines, passing prudent ones to query.

300

Nearing, empty-handed

the threshold of things.

Inept, I will gather what I can,

practicing my smile as I go.

The Orchid. . .

CLAUDIA ARAGON

I watched the orchid slowly change

Her flowers once lush, began to gray

Then they began to wilt and fall

Soon her leaves were gone as well

until the only thing remaining were the two scant limbs that once

held her glory

Unable to give up on her

I continued to nurture her. . .

water her. . .

and kept her in the sun

Like Venus rising she awakened from her slumber

New life sprang forth

Buds of a new beginning littered her once barren branches

Reborn. . .

The full glory of her chromatic beauty was on display once more.

301

Hope is a thing with trotters

with apologies to Emily Dickinson

A cloven hoof smashes the bird feeder

a greedy snout devours the seed

even the crows flee

Broken tiles fall

as the novice flyer

strikes the roof in his ascent

Befuddled farmers search the sky

for missing stock

branches fall under the weight

of a new sort of nester

And as for me

I cheer their flight

as in my heart

a small hope grows

For now I know

that pigs can fly

NANCY LUJAN

302

Blue Lagoon

MARJORIE PEZZOLI

meet‖me‖at‖the‖water’s‖edge

feel waves pull sand across our toes

with each surge we auger in

become one with this place

two palms bend with the wind

graceful resilience curves forms

high tide—low tide

pools form nearby

spontaneous communities

contained until the next wave

gulls fly overhead

we see through their eyes

a lone coconut begins its journey

a fruit

a nut

a seed

this trinity of truth travels azure seas

waves become mountains

mighty currents drown out self-doubt

doldrums become a place of rest

stars on the horizon shed light on possibilities

vibrations of whale songs rise up

the husk of divinity dips into the salinity of being

becomes liquid poetry

inner ocean mingles with rip currents

the shoreline comes into view

our journey of change began with ocean spray

toes dug into the sand for stability

watched bean clams tumble by

become part of the beauty that surrounds us all

303

Beauty Past Change

MARTYNA C. MILLER

is what Hopkins called it.

I’ve‖seen‖it‖for‖myself

through speckled windows.

As the colossal piebald system on the horizon licks

and grazes the pasture below it.

The moss revived by the drink off the bark

tells me that beauty is change

and we are all better for it.

The dead bush I was scheduled to dig out

kept a little longer in the dried soil.

Upon its lifeless brambles, a tired fledgling decided its usefulness.

Bouncing from branch to branch testing and strengthening its

flight.

I’ll‖have‖to‖wait‖now‖to‖pull‖it‖up‖by‖its‖roots.‖

Maybe‖I’ll‖use‖this‖time‖to‖name‖

the part of myself—that drumfire.

Part of the Plan

LOUIS FARACE

Blue turns to black and another day passes

The light resides and hides from the masses

The sun falls to the horizon and crashes

Then I go back and try to pick up the fragments

Each day is precious‖though‖you’d‖have‖never‖knew‖it

by looking at the people and the way they rush through it

searching for purpose or something close to it

in what seems to be a circus of repetitive movement

where some get caught in a monotonous rhythm

Some fall victim and try to bring you down with them

And every day it gets harder to stand

until‖you‖cultivate‖faith‖and‖see‖that‖it’s‖all‖part‖of‖the‖plan

304

memories after time

CLS SANDOVAL

nostalgia does to a memory

what time does to a photograph

the sharpness

the pain

the anxiety

not knowing

is all erased

or at least clouded

by the slightly turned edges

tiny rips

tears along the sides

the fading gray sepia tone

technicolor of those rolls of film

cotton around the borders

of‖the‖mind’s‖eye

soften what was once high definition

Hortense

LLOYD LICKERT

She was a strumpet

born a nymphomaniac

followed her fervor

I was like a grain of salt

in her jar of seasoning

305

Removable Feast

CHARLES HARMON

Circe, daughter of Helios, God of the Sun

though without sons, you have many husbands

and often waken, walking in your sleep.

Who do you find in your outstretched arms?

Suitors about your feet, oracles of orifice,

dancing firelight in starry eyes, fingers flashing

inflamed thighs decrying pyrogenous magic potions

fever dreams straddling swollen rocking horses.

What did you catch when you caught the fisherman?

Greek wine can turn men into monsters and beasts

but also creates something closer to the gods

seasoned with herbs, flowers, magical mushrooms.

Collections of butterflies on the walls,

souvenirs of those who sampled your nectar. . .

I hear the grunting and low pants

late in the fulsome midnights

when all the doors are sealed and the drapes

have been pulled shut against the moonlight.

Of so many enthralling enchantments

yours are airless in the force of your breath

more permanent, and will remain

until some vagrant prince comes

and remains, to free his men.

306

As It Was at the Beginning

You were meant to be here

From the beginning

—Greg Lake

TIM CALAWAY

From the beginning I should have known

it‖wouldn’t‖work‖out‖between‖us.

I was pessimistic, but you had hope.

Blinded by beauty I succumbed

to that torture called a relationship.

You thought there was enough clay to mold

not realizing it had already been thrown

too many times on too many wheels

of others to have any more elasticity.

What came from that kiln was brittle

ready to crack at the slightest shock

and there were oh, so many, tiny ones

at first; do this, do that, change my hair,

change my life, and I did it all for you,

but‖it‖wasn’t‖enough,‖it‖never‖was.

And so you left, and I was alone,

as I knew I would be, from the beginning.

307

The Bench

CAROL SHAMON

The big camphor tree

in the front yard

asked for a bench

It asked the way

a painting in progress asks

for a new color

We found a used bench for 50 bucks

the wood worn gray

decorated with marks from dog teeth

Then the bench and the shade

asked us to sit

we felt shy

more at ease with

the back yard privacy

We sat on the bench

first the husky dog with blue eyes and white silky fur

asked for a pet

and then the tiny hand of the kid being wheeled by

asked for a wave

the scraggly old man led by three miniature dogs

asked for a geranium cutting

The next time the bench asked

we‖didn’t‖feel‖as‖shy

We sat on the bench

The surfer guy with long hair from across the street

ambled over with a printed blue flyer

through sputtering speech

he explained the invitation

to his fish fry at the beach

celebrating 10 years since his stroke

308

The woman from next door came out

and poured water from a pot onto her tree

she looked like summer and cooking

The sky began to spin its colors

It asked for nothing

covering us with belonging

GABRIEL RUBI

Perfection of Plumage

The shape of the wing is key for birds to lift from the

ground, even the rotund ones. Seagulls. Pelicans. The

study of planes started with the study of birds and

how their feathers angled along a crest, countering a

wave’s‖ force,‖ like‖ the‖ combed‖ hair‖ of‖ a macho type.

Pomade extra hold. The wave of hair. Plumage. The

flight takes hold accumulating lift under the angled

wings of perfectly parted hair.

309

Naked Blue

SAMANTHA FAKHIMI

Roaming each street aimlessly,

one objective in mind,

one daydream drained,

cursed to crave one light.

I limp to catch a glimpse

of pursed lips as you sigh,

splitting amongst the glint

born from amber eyes.

My only want, my only wish:

to capture and calcify

your shooting star descending

down my empty sky.

Still the source of all my rue,

entangles white with noon,

in all I see. . . in all I do,

I waste this life for you.

Soon all that I croon,

lingers in the eclipsed night,

one‖with‖seasons’‖cusp,

inchoate, end in sight.

I tread each road so carefully,

so prayers soon come true,

there you hunch beyond the tree

where budding flames once brewed.

Your mouth spreads soon a smile,

twin lids close on cue,

the navy sky, once lit ablaze,

stares back in naked blue.

310

Young Love

ANN M. ALVES

Holding hands

Walking on the busy sidewalks of Mexico City

Past street vendors and dog walkers

Waiting for traffic at the corners

Stealing kisses, unabashed

Ours is a young love

Dazzling in the slant afternoon sun

Still Warm Autumn

Some relief in the shade and

Susurration‖of‖the‖city’s‖lacy tree canopy

We are happily in the childhood

of our old age; a widow, a divorcee

Hearts no longer surrendered to solitary lives

Easy in conversation, content in silence

We are in Fall, we are in Love

Labor of love

KAREN RUIZ

Take this orange slice as a token of my adoration.

My fingers labored, hearing your stomach rumble,

tearing apart its citrusy peel, revealing golden

sweetness you desire and deserve to savor.

Sharing this fruit with you I share a slice of love.

A piece of my vulnerability, my heart on my sleeve.

Nourish your tired body, fill your belly with contentment.

Oranges come with a perfect half to share

so sit with me as we watch the world slip by,

indulging in every drop of amber sweetness

full of the tenderness of my devotion for you.

311

A Second Look

CHRIS ERNEST NELSON

It was all revealed in that second look,

keener and more piercing than the first.

A look that proffered something more.

Was it a look of purpose, or passion?

A question:

Have we met somewhere before?

Did it all begin with those enquiring eyes,

with that furtive yet probing look?

A look offered like a blessing in the temple,

a tender nod stronger than a passing fancy.

Something more like recognition.

Like we were old friends.

Like we knew each other from another time.

Were you my master when I was your slave,

a thousand years ago?

Or was I your brother, your mother, your wife;

or the comrade who fought at your side,

or the enemy who gave you to the earth?

Was I your anointed lord, or an eager lover;

or all these things in long-times past?

Or was this look the first time I saw you,

yet prophesied in so many lifetimes

of knowing you yet to come?

A look that spoke of a love being born

in a new now, a first breath after coming up

from the depths of loneliness and longing.

A first taste in the feast of togetherness

that celebrates both time and space.

312

SHIRA SANDELL

A Love Infinite

In this quiet moment

comfort envelops me.

He listens to a melody.

Aware of my presence,

comfort surrounds him.

Conscious of other sounds:

nature whispering,

soft ringing in my ears.

Stillness brings a sweet awareness

that constant motion precludes.

Outside our realm of reality

others long for love.

Were there a means

to bestow it,

in a heartbeat, I would.

So they might feel

if only for a moment,

this love absolute,

vast,

infinite.

313

A Teeny Crush

ARCHANA RAJKUMAR

He walks into the class with a face full of pimples and a bad

haircut and still looks the cutest to me.

We go on a short trip and he makes me laugh. His jokes are

lame and nobody laughs yet they sound the funniest to me.

While coming back we sing together our favorite song, I

lock it in my heart and cherish it forever.

We go away to study together, coz that's what friends do, but

there we talk and talk and laugh and laugh.

My back hurts so he lends me a shoulder and a sweet smile

and we go back to study.

‚I’ll‖be‖single‖forever,‖love‖isn’t real," he suddenly says.

And without missing a beat, I say, "Me,‖too!‛ and laugh a

painful laugh.

His friends push him between the narrow wood where I sit, he

falls on me and I catch him with worry. He says sorry and we

never speak of it again.

I wrap an arm around him for a picture and he will never

know it remains my favorite picture.

We have a friend and she‖leans‖on‖him.‖I‖wanna‖say,‖‚Back off

bitch,‖he's‖mine.‛ But we're only friends and that isn't what

friends say, so I keep quiet.

They call us a couple and my stomach does a flip, but I assure

them we're only best friends.

I see his ID and he is a week younger, he calls me sissy and I

almost‖slap‖him.‖‚No‖ugly‖brothers‖for‖me,‛ I say, though he's

the cutest thing in existence. We still sit together and do tests, he

corrects mine and I

correct his.

We top the test with the same grades and appear together on

the school banner.

I go to his house and he takes me to his room, he shows me

around while his little sister trails behind me with her little

plushie.

He cries to me, out of everyone in this world, I wipe his tears

and say‖everything‖will‖be‖okay.‖It‖will‖be,‖‘cuz‖he‖is‖the‖nicest

gentleman there is.

314

He switches school and my heart aches in his absence.

I think of him every day and he says he misses me too when he

calls on my birthday.

We're‖still‖close‖‘cuz‖he‖messages me when he's free.

But I never tell him how I feel, not because I'm afraid but

because I don't want to.

‘Cuz,‖you‖know,‖crushes‖are‖cool‖only‖when‖they‖remain

crushes.

So I write a poem for us and bury it within the deepest depths

of my heart, to be seen by nobody but me.

Love is a flower

that must be pollinated to

produce its scent.

JOHN OHL WEBSTER

Warmth of summer makes

Cool folk glad angry folk feel

warmth is cool now.

Come near and whisper

the joy of loves and lovers

that we may know them.

315

My Heart Is Not Set

G. GAIL EASON

My heart is not set

upon

much of anything important

these days, times are uncertain,

the world promises nothing

upon

permanent love, now instead

I can only count on electronic love

TikTok, Instagram, X, fake love

upon

much of anything cherished—just

a blurred image in the rearview mirror

as we escape

the flash of a storm

the hatred of the wind

the howl of the hurricane

the fire took what was there

the river took it for its own

the wind tore the roof and ate it.

What‖once‖was,‖wasn’t‖permanent‖after‖

all. We lived an illusion of permanence

only to be fooled by something bigger.

Now I understand not to have my heart

set upon much of anything but this moment.

316

The Queen

JACKIE CHOU

When‖I’m without you

my world is a galaxy

where I am not a star

but a meteorite

It is a cold room

where I do not turn heads

when I walk in

but draw blank stares

from the crowd

A dark stage

where I play

a palace maid

instead of the empress

Then‖when‖I’m with you

I become the queen

of your universe

illumined

by the light of your gaze

317

MARIA PAULE DELOS REYES

Sweet as Apple Pie

Breastfeeding my sweet brown-eyed baby girl,

with her crocheted strawberry winter hat,

while I sing her a lullaby

puts her to sleep.

I place her quietly in her stroller,

as we step out of the hotel

to enjoy our time in Julian, pie country.

The little baby girl is the apple of my eye.

She yawns and stretches her arms.

Her family adores her.

Cold winter wind gushes by

and morning turns to dusk.

Caramel apple pie is eaten.

The family of five returns to their hotel room,

not a word was uttered,

just a deeper understanding

that we might be away from home

but home is where I am

‚an‖apple‖of someone’s‖eye.‛

318

CAROLYN MOGAVERO

A Mother’s Eden

While watching my daughter with her children;

I see fairy dust, sprinkled with colorful lights of illumination.

Silently, I watch as she coos and plays

with my grandaughter, Julia.

Under and into the spirit, her gentle spirit flows and connects,

with her children.

Softly, the light and fairy dust, touches my spirit.

While visions of the bright lights, flow inside my spirit.

So closely, the children are bonded to infinite delights,

of the loving spirits,

within the soul.

Whenever I can, I consume all around me, all the love.

Without my children and grandchildren, that space would feel

empty and

dark.

Carefully, I photograph all my memories of motherhood, and

grandmotherhood, to stay with me eternally.

Between rows of light, in the connected Eden,

my heart dwells in delight.

Without close visions in the garden, time couldn't be cherished

as wisely for me.

This is my love and light, eternal

319

Baby Blanket Prayers

RACHEL LEMMEN

Lying‖close‖by‖his‖side‖for‖an‖hour,‖I‖tell‖him‖I’m‖going‖crazy.

It’s‖something‖inside‖in‖the‖pit‖of‖my‖heart.

I’ve‖looped‖prayers‖and‖wishes‖into‖the‖stitches‖of this baby

blanket

for our friends.

Yarn over, into the stitch, yarn over, out of the stitch, yarn over,

pull

through.

Over, over, over.

73 stitches in each row

Searching my body,

I count the minuscule symptoms

aligning them neatly in my mind

stacking them precisely,

tying them together with hope,

cupping them tightly in laced fingers.

I tied off the baby blanket just yesterday,

weaving the ends through the patchwork stitches.

I imagine a tiny body swaddled in the warmth, poking her fingers

through the holes.

A tender weight in my arms.

I fold it into thirds, then in half,

slipping between the layers whispers just behind my lips.

320

A Mother’s Hairbrush

SALINAS DINH

My mother has her hands firmly gripped around the hairbrush,

her wrist moves slightly downward,

the brush gently stroking my hair.

When we think of acts of intimacy,

we think of a warm embrace exchanged between two friends,

a‖lover’s‖kiss,

but intimacy is closeness,

it‖is‖tenderness‖that‖comes‖from‖a‖mother’s‖hairbrush.

Sometimes, when the strands of my hair have been too deeply

tangled,

she has to apply pressure.

A frown would appear on her face,

and although I am not facing her

I cannot escape her discontentment.

She scolds me for not taking care of myself enough.

It hurts to detangle these knots

and it hurts to hear her scolds,

but‖my‖hair‖has‖been‖detangled‖by‖my‖mother’s‖hairbrush.

ARI HONARVAR and JANE MUSCHENETZ

Love

The other day, I saw a mother—

I will not tell you from which country.

I will not tell you if the child in her arms

filled her with joy or with grief.

I want you to love her,

to love her child,

to become so full of your own love for two strangers

that the flock of wings beating inside your heart

would return to them, every winter.

321

VANDANA PARASHAR

tightening their grip

on the sky

winter clouds

window seat

the sun falls on my knees

through ripped jeans

deep summer

roadside trees the colour

of dust

scriptures say

we go to heaven or hell

after death. . .

where does love go

when‖it’s‖gone

seven round

around the sun

my daughter answers

my question

with a question

322

Slices of Peace

ELLIE SLADE

She woke up early

leaning back leisurely

to watch the steam

rise from her coffee cup

and reflected upon her life

divided into slices of decades

celebrating friends passed

places already traveled

upon two continents.

She‖considers‖that‖2/3’s‖

of‖her‖life’s‖pastry

had been consumed

so she seeks to taste

those last slices of her years

crafted into the poetry

and canvases of color

savoring the sounds and flavors

of adventures still untaken.

She recalls the appetizers and energy

of her wild child twenties

still baked now into her something seventies

where she sits today

and swallows the rest of her café ole

carefully conceiving a new whipped creamed adventure

with one electronic finger at a time.

323

ALISON BELL MILLER

I Used to Think that Suicide

Was Interesting But Now I Know

I Was Just Envious

Not of the process of death. Jesus Christ is it ever pleasurable?

Fentanyl‖maybe.‖Fentanyl’s‖the‖talk of the town. What I want to do,

what I almost always do in my head before I go to sleep is eat that

or some other drug, slug it down with expensive champagne. I keep

changing my mind about the IPA, trends and carbs but listen, my leg

won’t‖be‖tossed purposefully but not really across his body because

he‖won’t‖be‖there.‖I‖only‖let‖him‖in‖when‖he’s‖here.‖I‖will‖eat‖pizza‖

at‖some‖point‖probably‖or‖probably‖not.‖I‖don’t‖know‖anything‖about

other‖pills.‖I‖don’t‖know‖anything‖about‖a‖noose.‖I’ve‖bled too much

already.‖I‖will‖not‖be‖in‖a‖hotel‖room‖even‖though‖I’ve‖loved‖them,‖

their sweet strawberries, their sparrows, their chocolate down the drain.

324

The Ascension

JENNIFER HUNT

When you spoke, sparkles shone

through the sunlight

tipping

toward

the grass

The way you looked a picture

Brown green pale twinkle

lying in, side lit soft focus

and all the tiny details

It’s‖how‖I‖knew‖

you were, really

I felt something, that way

That moment when

lint ennobled your lapel

the way dust can be,

magical—the hum of a lawnmower

across

distant

yards

small-large-visionary-flutters

enchanting the slumbering light rays embracing the twirling air

Seeping through branches and leaves and finely textured window

screens

suffusing the liquidity of spaces

while the prisms bend in dance

And,‖this,‖is‖a‖Summer’s‖day

he said

325

TIMOTHY PAUL EVANS

No Cause for Us to Tarry

Winter. . . , a freak of letters

crossing down a rare

Path bleak with poplars.

— Lucie Brock-Broido:

How Can It Be I Am No Longer I

slush coagulated in the dilapidated day

its reign swarmed by a bloom of silversceptered

frost, the elms bare-lumbered, their

paradise splashed in black putrid sludge

the‖snow’s‖moth-eaten edge an arid moan

resting beneath bleak dahlias, fields of wheat

shorn of their intent, spring a fragile riddle

eloquently obscured. The dead inhabit‖the‖grave’s

shallow embrace in anguished protest

splashes of light pooled with gunk

their warmth disattired, the world,

quite naked, unscarved against

the cold, drifts pitch their tents against

the stones and trunks half swallowed, the sun

hoards its‖collateral,‖precautions‖against‖winter’s‖ire

the drunkenness of boots searches for space

between the angles, we have done all we could to avert

winter’s‖heavy‖industry,‖there’s‖no‖cause‖for‖us‖to‖tarry

326

12 hours

MILAGROS VILAPLANA

on its axis

the world

turns away

on its halfdarkened

side

high note

tunes

whistle

missiles

like fireworks

and the

shepherd

boy atop

the hill calling—

his sheep

still grazing

indoors

the table set

for dinner

the wolf was real

327

A Fly

DANIEL CHOI

Boots on wooden trodden floors.

Bright light fingers on a golden knob. A raincoat cinched on a

vintage night.

A few chains and trinkets jump on a seashell

that‖smile‖behind‖the‖glass‖still‖chides‖‚What‖will‖you‖do?‛

Rubber buttons in black plastic. We love Forensic Files.

A friend on cashmere, fishing and braiding in tails.

Murmurs and gossip. God is showering next door,

charlatan. Skipping ropes, motels, and bayous.

Orange marmalade on our faces. Landlord insists.

Upward we go. The chem trails of a housefly.

Window shopping at the futility.

How I wish I could suffer in irony.

328

JESSE GENE CUNNINGHAM

My California Bigfoot

a love poem

sorrow moons your face

memory image shudders

between shade and sun

pairs of huge muddy footprints

pooling light spring rain

piercing howl and shrieking woods

hair hangs braided rope

woven strands in morning mist

drip river water

your melancholy ghost eyes

and sad loping walk

your UFO connections

elusive as myth

furtive starlit scavenger

creeps in night forests

floods sprawling fortress redwoods

a tsunami wave

but leaves no fossil record

lonely human ape

I believed in you so hard

that you became real

329

Humpback

DAVID GILDER

arc of blood and forbearance your black back rises out of the black

sea and disappears back into the sea rhythmically you are the

blackness of the arctic night

of one sea and sky

the living representative of creation harpooned, lashed, your heart

pierced made to die inhaling your own blood now your sudden

presence attests you did not die

having committed these crimes will we now enter into the room

inside your wisdom where forgiveness does not dwell?

330

First Class

LESLIE HODGE

After three years stuck at home, First Class

sounds enticing—fewer folks fly First Class.

Squeezed in the galley, there should be a brass

band to welcome you and your kind to First Class.

And‖more!‖You‖board‖first!‖You’re‖offered‖a‖glass

of champagne, toasted nuts, hot towels in First Class

while coach folks stagger, stink-eyed as they pass

‚reserved‛‖bin‖storage,‖banging‖bags‖through‖First‖Class.

Pert flight attendants, blessed with spunk and sass,

bring you lunch and drinks and snacks in First Class.

So get up off what God gave you, Leslie. Move your ass,

cash in your miles, and book that ticket—First Class!

331

Portal of Wonder

FRAN FINLEY

Where were you

when all the fine print

of the world was tucked

into the atom

when the cell unfolded

when you came into communion

with others

and the crumbs of existence

were scattered throughout

the earth

Did you choose your body, your soul

the time of your arrival

or by grace were you sent and given

opportunity for a secure and full life

was there division in your world

a lack of possibility, love, understanding,

acceptance, caring

or did you receive it all at birth

Was there barren land between you and the world

Did you ever stand at the wall and weep

Did you ever arrive at the gate of hell

that drove you to cross the desert of division

young innocents

survival their mode

shelter, food, safety

lost in their land

separated from the dream of possibility

their world of fear and hunger

Where division stands

the barrier made

the fence rises higher

the concrete wall divides

the eye watches

as we reap what we now sow

332

Let the ear hear

the sorrowful cry

the pounding heart

of a child walking

through the dark

of the wild across

clothed in fear

each step mindful

of the watchful eye

Hear the tears being drained

from the reservoir of sorrow

to flow into a mournful form

filling the void

of the world from which they came

333

Escape in the Rain

MATTHEW JOY

I step outside,

the sky heavy with gray,

and the rain begins—soft at first,

just enough to quiet the noise in my head.

The world feels far away,

muted beneath the steady patter,

as if each drop pulls me further from everything.

I walk without purpose,

without destination,

just needing the air, the cool,

the rain that soaks through my clothes

and presses against my skin.

Out here, no one asks anything.

No expectations, no voices,

just the soft rhythm of water against pavement.

The rain hides me,

wraps me in its steady fall,

turns the world into a blur

of gray and silver,

and I let it.

I let the wetness cling to me,

soak away the weight of today,

wash‖away‖noise‖I‖can’t‖carry‖anymore.

Out here, in the rain,

I’m‖a‖body‖moving‖through‖the‖quiet,

a heartbeat of the downpour,

small and unnoticed.

And for a moment,

enough.

334

RICHARD WEAVER

Who knew a drop of rain could fall

and a village, a town, a city the size of a missing continent might

overflow, be reduced to moldy despair, become uninsurable and

therefore uninhabitable? What math, what cyber-algorithm

imagined or created the probability of death, not by drowning, but

by unpaid insurance claims? What are the odds? The

probabilities? Of a hundred-year phenomenon happening in

consecutive years? Statistics be damned, reality says it is and has

nothing to do with God in his many forms, disguises,

incarnations, or iterations. (The Celestial‖Almighty’s‖council‖have‖

instructed us to include this disclaimer. We are powerless, it

seems, to not do so). (Damn us). It is noted, factually, that too

much rain is one drop more than enough. Another 40 days is a

failure of Divine imagination and an affront to what survives as

humanity.

Jawbreaker

BEN BIRD

The night is an open sore with beaver teeth

G-d just made his way into the tabloids

He was caught eating candy on the back porch of oblivion

Sometimes I wonder what life tastes like

melted down then hardened into an ore

335

Solving Zeno's Paradox

MADISON VICTORIA

I could only bare to open my curtains halfway

today

and only put away half my clothes

I'm only half hungry,

half full

Fast broken, half eaten

half rested

My body,

half washed

In school, I used to bring double the lunch

to give half of it away

Pisces, martyr,

the self-undoing sign

Half the glass is half the battle

and you don't know the half of it!

I only want more

to give more away

Half dream, half literal

Half the truth, half a lie

by omission

Half a sip of water,

half swallowed

If I had half a mind,

I'd stick this out,

but she's doubled herself

just to give half the body away

Two halves of the same whole

waging a war in the dark

336

Half in, half out

How many more halves can I give?

How many more halves do I have?

and halve and halve

and halve

and halve again

until it's the barest minimum

that only half of me could stand

until my life is another meal

that's never

finished

like flesh is just a theory,

abstractions,

numbers,

funny lines on a page

like a suicide note,

half written,

is the graph of a function

infinitely approaching zero

and the only thing keeping me

6 feet above the x-axis

is an arbitrary limit

set by the denominator,

by the facts of life,

by the paradox of touch,

that electro-repulsion means

nothing really does

But I'm a whole number,

I'm bigger than my parts,

and it's not just math,

it's not just funny lines

or a room half-tidied,

my life and my death aren't just six of one

and half a dozen of the other [ . . . ]

337

The body decays,

the brain changes,

you do less,

people notice,

you halve more,

and more, and more,

until you're as small as "calculus"—

Latin for the pebbles of an abacus,

until you're smaller still,

a little dot on the screen,

until you're there with the electrons

You halve again,

and again, and again,

until you can't get any smaller,

Achilles beats the tortoise,

you walk the Planck,

and you're alone

This poem inadvertently appeared in incomplete form in the SDPA 23-24.

338

Koa’s Road to Hana

JEFF ARMSTRONG

Koa got home late

last night in time

to see all his family

gathered there

for his homecoming

now he is awake—

the sadness in his heart

sits on top of him

crushing him

and his soul

the rain stops

tin roof is quiet

he is home now

in his old room

for the first time

in over three years

the war is over

Uncle Sam sent him

back home to family

here in Maui

he has grown, now

too tall for this old bed

the sports trophies

pictures yearbooks all

seem like they belong

to a different person

who is he now?

[. . .]

339

the war has filled his

heart with grief—

he can never tell them

the‖things‖he’s‖done

Koa is no longer

the boy that got drafted

his‖letterman’s‖jacket

doesn’t‖even‖fit‖anymore

it is good to be home

on Christmas day

Aunty brews coffee

and the house fills with

cooking rice and eggs

smells of his childhood

she embraces him

and tears start flowing

there were many times

Koa did not think he

would ever see her again

as he helps Unko and brother

Kapono round up the chickens

his childhood home in Hana

seems so much smaller now

than his dreams told him

the fence now seems short

the shed roof has holes

the house is so warm

and inviting

the guava trees

he and Unko planted long ago

now burst with fruit

the calf Kapono found

now a full-grown cow

340

the misery in his heart

subsides

he feels peace—

this is who he is

another winter storm

is on the way but

Koa is happy, safe

home with family

‘Ohana‖love‖has

eased his sorrow


341

Lotus Street

STARRY KRUEGER

When I first moved in I was not thrilled

about your patchwork carpeting that

always looked dirty

your lack of soundproofing

and your window that opened directly

out to the dumpster.

But‖I‖thought,‖‚this‖will‖do.‛

Anything can work for a few months.

Then life had other plans.

The months grew into years.

You became my cocoon

through many seasons of

metamorphosis that I did not sign up for

but‖I’m‖grateful‖for‖today.

I grew fond of the sounds of airplanes.

‚Every‖plane‖is‖a‖prayer,‛

my yoga teacher says.

Mother, Father God, take me away and

home again.

Stories were born here

Truths were shared.

Salt water on the floors and pillows.

I lost my sister inside your walls

but I found new ones too.

My heart broke and loved again and

again.

My therapist tells me some scars are

never meant to heal completely.

They’re‖reminders‖of‖your‖capacity‖to‖love

and your life grows bigger around them.

(There’s‖a‖mermaid‖in‖her‖office‖so‖I‖trust‖her.)

342

I feel so much compassion for

the versions of myself that made you

her home

and so proud of the woman who

emerges today

and turns in her keys to the past.

I‖hear‖they’re‖demo-ing this place.

I’m‖no‖longer‖afraid‖

of when things fall apart.

I’ve‖learned‖how‖to‖make‖mosaics.

So apartment 49,

I open your windows and lock your doors

and leave behind only prayers

for the ones who come next.

343

Jesusita Trail

ISABELLE WALKER

The‖trail‖winds‖through‖what’s‖left‖of‖summer,

Queen‖Anne’s‖listless‖arms,‖

a mélange of brown stems and fennel heads

nodding. Where needlegrass rises

from sunbaked manure, an old white mare

kicks up dust behind a splintered fence.

Her mate gone six months now,

no explanation, just a little sign:

Do Not Feed Horse. She lopes up the hill,

greets‖my‖open‖palm‖where‖I’ve‖placed‖

an oatcake. Stroking her velvet nose,

I breathe the loneliness of dry earth,

want to tell her a story of barrels spilling over

with oats, anything that does not end in parting.

Often after sundown, barred owls

call to each other from this oak canopy.

I linger and listen so I might know a little

of what it is to love the night—

that there might be something good

in all that darkness.

344

Sierra Summer Days

ROGER FUNSTON

Hidden mountain creek

Riffle runs, rocky bottom

Cool breeze refreshes

Green mountain meadow

Snow fed alpine lake nourished

Respite at lake shore

Old growth stately trees

Spared wildfire ravages

Quiet moments, joy

Web on fallen tree

Sunlight highlights fine detail

Busy spider work

Shoes sitting dry sand

Wading ankle deep in stream

Tadpoles, memories

345

The ole lake

ZOE GALLOWAY

Sweet grass sways in the wind gliding across a set of red cowboy

boots. Click-clacking, they make their way across a wooden dock.

Within the boots stands an inconspicuous figure. The ole lake

which watched them age, lain out before them. Gazing in, a

reflection looks back. As the water stills a clearer image appears,

10 years younger.

The lake ripples as the two make eye contact. The younger

reflection tilts its head through the ripples: what exactly they are

looking‖at,‖they‖aren’t‖sure.‖The‖older‖figure‖wonders‖the‖same.

The red boots fly onto the dock, ducks squawk, a running start,

then a large splash as they cannonball into the water. Submerged,

still for a moment, bubbles rise. As the chill of the lake overtakes

them, a smile‖ forms,‖ suddenly‖ the‖ world’s issues don't seem so

catastrophic.

Heavy breath makes its way in and out of their lungs acclimating

to the chill of the lake. Paddling in the water, they turn to face a

wooden cabin, noticing the grave stones of their grandparents are

missing.

‚Honey!‛‖A‖familiar‖voice‖travels‖from‖inside‖the‖cabin.‖

The‖ figure’s wading of water switches gear into a submerged

sprint. Smoke rises from the chimney, as if someone is in the onceempty

cabin. They‖swore‖they‖heard‖their‖mother’s‖mother‖calling‖

out to them.

The figure makes its way up the shore and out of the lake with

haste. Their breath heaving, the smoke fades to a clear sky.

Gravestones seem to reappear, reality and the world creep back

in.

346

The water calls them back, reassuring them it will be alright. The

ole lake of glassy water is interrupted again and once more, smoke

appears in the air. The figure curiously stays put. Swimming in

circles enjoying themselves, they almost forget the strange

occurrence when their grandmother opens the creaky cabin door.

She calls out in search of the figure, tears stream from their face

and they answer the call:

‚Coming!‛

Relaxed Fist

following Ruth Zardo

RICHARD MARCELLUS

Late each afternoon,

as the sun dies a little death,

I see who I must release and forgive,

not to be forever unloved,

but forever untouched.

347

Summer Swell

KAYLA KRUT

Remember that night half an hour after dusk that Rhonda came

hiking up from the beach with her foam board, rangy wet hair like

gold kelp down her back and freckled eyes fawn-wide like darts

aiming for a board? There’s a guy out there who’s still out there, she

said, I’m always last in the water, I like watching the stars come out you

know it’s part of my new coming into alignment. Well out in the water

when people were out for the sunset still catching waves and stuff this

guy was acting funny, talking to everybody in the lineup, nobody

recognized him, and he wasn’t catching any waves, well nobody noticed

but me apparently but the last thing I heard him say was there aren’t any

good waves in California I’m going to go find real surf in Hawai’i, and

I’m not kidding you guys by now there were some number of vanlifers

changing in front of their doors into warm clothes listening

in I’m serious, you guys, he turned around past the break and just

starting paddling out to the horizon, like out to sea, due west, he just

kept paddling after the sun set and it got dark and the stars came out, he

disappeared, he said he was going to Hawai’i, and Rhonda, turquoisepupiled,

long whipstraight hair like a soaked mop of hay in a

raised voice tremulously did anybody see him come back? What are we

gonna do? I mean who do you call for something like that?

348

The Shore

AARON BLUMENTHAL

I love a wave. It met my feet and dug

rushed, grain-lipped pockets for my curling toes.

It hugged my ankles, slipping up my leg

as I sank. Clear once, now my calves are rose-

red, scratched as sea salt sticks to rubbered skin.

The ocean leaves; cold comes—is it the air

or‖water?‖Science‖says‖it’s‖both.‖I‖think

evaporation’s‖when‖you‖miss‖what’s‖here:

sweet grapes you bite so gently, tongue against

the sugared pulp, and ruckled towels, warm

and bunched by hilly sand beneath, the last,

staunched light of evening in the stretching gloom,

pruned, sunburned fingers, mostly brushed-off sand,

a‖happy‖memory,‖a‖parent’s‖hand.

349

Jazz on the Beach

DOUG HABERMAN

I had a dream Chet Baker was alive

Alive in San Diego

Haggard and rumpled

He’d‖tramp‖with‖his‖trumpet‖to‖the‖beach

and from its bell would pour a rainbow

of notes, of heartache, of memory

My Funny Valentine ringing out

over the Pacific

and when he sang

in foggy, world-weary, bittersweet tones

the wind ceased to blow

the waves quieted down

and every living thing had its heart torn in two

Yet when he stopped playing

their hearts were somehow whole again

and fuller than before

350

KIRBY MICHAELWRIGHT

Solana Beach, California

Strand fattened by sand

poses as a golden desert

welcoming beachcomber footprints

and tread marks from lifeguard trucks.

The desperate sea laps the shore

trying to reclaim what was lost.

The shallows glint piss yellow

from clouds of silt.

Breeze stinks of diesel.

A red dredge chugs south

having finished the mission.

Its captain vacuumed sand

and creatures off the ocean floor

west of the breakers.

The sandpipers are missing—where

have their tiny tribes gone?

Seagulls dig beaks for groggy fish

and crustaceans smashed

in the sand avalanche

spewed by floating pipes.

Sun kills whatever survives.

351

California Me

WILLIAM HALL

There is that born-to-be-bred-California me

a taut tight form fitting feature

as magnetically attached as any original skin

that‖I‖just‖can’t‖seem‖to‖shrug

Yes, it is noose tight and form fitting and,

did I mention sweat producing and hot

No pinch and pull tab

displaying the take-2 movie scene option

No film-worthy release hatch

finally inhaling a full free relief breath

exposing Montana mountain possibilities necessary for

my escape and release into the wild

352

Waves in San Diego

JANICE HUILING ZHANG

I’ve‖seen‖mists‖and‖lightnings

in the air,

passed dreams and illusions

along the way.

But nothing compares to the waves here.

They come and go in endless rhythm,

captured in the eyes of beachgoers,

tickling surfers,

hiding whales and eternal mysteries.

It’s‖my‖third‖year‖in‖San‖Diego,

from the northern Rockies

to this southern shore.

Old years blow nostalgic winds to my face,

until I see enough surfboards

carried toward the sea.

My eyes embrace the scene,

redefining what home means.

It’s‖the‖ocean’s‖power‖that‖draws‖wave‖chasers,

Roaring the songs of thrill—

intoxicating, haunting,

purifying joy and fear alike.

I feel the magic when I get close,

when I wade in;

the restlessness brings me peace.

In this third year, I bought a board of my own,

and I wonder: what if I, too,

could ride the waves

as a wanderer of the sea?

353

A Walk at Sunset Cliffs

16 years later

LESLIE L.J. REILLY

I am the feather you hold in your hand.

I am the waves crashing on the sand.

I am the rocks on the windswept beach.

I am the butterfly floating just out of reach.

I‖am‖the‖pelican’s‖shadow‖on the street.

I am the spiritual person that you meet.

I am the dolphin frolicking in the surf.

I am the dog playing on the turf.

I am the penny on the ground.

I‖am‖the‖sea‖gull’s‖chirping‖sound.

I am unconditional love.

I am an angel from above.

I am Dylan,‖‚son‖of‖the‖sea‛

354

Heaven Sent

BENJAMIN FARO

We jumped from cliffs, intentionally

holding hands to see if the water would break

us apart the way surely time one day would.

Sometimes shirtless, sometimes tie-dyed

and sun-glassed, the waves we watched

sloshed against sandstone, as if digging

for treasure we could not see

beneath our feet. Bikes pedaled

from OB to Point Loma lay strewn

on the rock in the rush of young life.

Onlookers gasped as we flung our bodies

into the roil. Then we scrambled, frightened

and smiling up to the top, to do it all over

again. Eleven, twelve times. Once for each

month of a year of a decade (an era we knew

would come to an end) we called endless.

And long after our word for sun has set

itself alongside old age and us, the precipice,

then, will become a beach untouchable

but by the swell, though the ocean

will be one we all swam in.

355

St. Brendan’s Boat

CHUCK PFARRER

Sails of leather, keel of bone;

above you, angels of fire—turning, turning

South and West across the trackless sea.

In green the water, your prayers abide

rolling on the open main;

there closer to God, closer to Nothing,

In the cold heart of vastness

no man can comprehend.

Circle of sunfire, circle of night.

Then upon the roof of heaven, the motion

of sun and moon lapsed suddenly together—

the blood of man became the blood of beasts.

And the dull sound of your blade upon them

struck each into the wet earth.

Take their sinews to stay your masts.

their braying in death shall become the wind.

For you have weaved from their bones, a boat

to sail beyond the transit of the sun.

356

Sanguine

DIANE FUNSTON

Newly pruned trees in the cemetery

a hack job of branches

resemble the ends of bones

dead body limbs

circadian circles

of‖a‖butcher’s‖saw

a rhodochrosite gemstone

polished like raw pork

Porcine wobbly body

whines saliva on fencepost

teeth shined on old wood

A shadow on the barn

mimics a great-horned owl

I‖call‖out,‖‚Who’s‖there‛

Hamlet for the pig

somehow appropriate

All these visions have blood

the moon also

creamy and pink-tinged

wheel of aged cheese

I eat my dinner

under the sanguine orb

it appears to wink

a droplet of wine stains my arm

Distant and invulnerable

mercy does not come

No begging or bargaining

can call her forth in need

She sits seemingly within reach

We believe in mercy

choosing not to believe

she, too

is just a phantom

357

Golumpki

KATHLEEN FELAN JAY

My mouth is watering thinking

about this tasty treat.

If‖you‖can‖make‖it,‖let’s‖meet.

It tastes like comfort and love,

something heavenly from above,

I’ll‖get‖some‖when‖we‖meet‖again‖up‖there.

I know you are waiting for me,

sitting at the chrome kitchen table,

in your favorite red chair.

Golumpki from your homeland of Poland,

is how I grew up.

Boiled the cabbage to start,

then cook the rice.

Had to cook the hamburger,

it always turned out nice.

A special thick tomato sauce on top.

The scent of hamburger

with your secret herbs and spice.

A big roll of cabbage stuffed goodness

brought me great delight.

Most of all it was from you,

Bushie, my Polish Grandmother.

You were like no other.

I lived with you a while after my mother died.

Any mention of her, would make you cry.

I miss you, and the Polish food,

and also other meats that you stewed.

Every day after school we had rye bread

and butter for a snack, leboosh and maswa.

Milk from the milkman every day.

I wrote a note to him for more,

in my first grade handwriting.

358

You never learned to write in English,

we did it for you.

Our love for you did outpour.

Had to miss the Polish Festival

because I was traveling,

but‖I‖knew‖it‖wouldn’t‖be

as good as yours, so dazzling.

All You Are

TREVOR RYBACK

All you are is a paper trail. What can be written can also be

burned.

The time that you hurt me, you should've said it'd only be the first

All I need is a dust pan, to pick up those pieces of me.

We are dust in the wind, but hey well at least that's something.

All you left was a blank shelf, all the substance you took from me.

All you are and all you were my everything.

All you are is a sad song, to sing all of my feelings.

And please don't get me wrong. It's all just part of my healing.

All I needs ya to listen, but you won't hear a damn thing.

I played it so hard on my guitar, I broke a damn string.

All you left were five strings, and this aching feeling.


All you are is a movie, a romance and a tragedy.

Treated me like an antagonist, when I treated you like your

majesty.

All I need is a sequel, a remake or another try.

The end would’ve‖been‖better,‖if‖we‖never‖said‖goodbye.

All you left was a pissed crowd, cause they counted on us lasting.


359

I Lost It

I had finished

the marathon, sort of,

far behind my friends.

My hips sore and stiff

one knee obviously injured,

something torn or broken.

My time too slow, a shame

and my smug bet

of a case of wine lost.

My brain a black nothing,

empty but for pain

and disappointment.

BJORN ENDRESEN

‚What‖is‖that‖for?‛

‚Marathon,‛ I replied,

tired, uninterested.

‚London‖marathon‛.

She thought about it

for a minute or two,

then returned, her

innate optimism not yet broken

by‖life’s‖lost‖bets,

and made my day:

‚Did‖you‖win‖it?‛

I got a medal around

my neck, mocking me.

I was spent and lost,

confused and tired.

Beaten, hurt.

Not crying, but close.

Solving the puzzle

of the Underground

was close to impossible

even‖if‖we‖didn’t‖need‖

to‖buy‖tickets.‖‚The‖medal‖

is‖your‖ticket,‛‖they‖said.

I limped through stations

far below the surface

from one train to another.

On the last leg a girl,

9 or so, looked at me

for a long time, shy,

until she came closer,

pointing at my medal.

360

ELIZABETH YAHN WILLIAMS

A Simple Observation on Learning French

for Tony Hoagland’s Summer Literary Seminar Class Prompt in Montreal:

‚The best way to—‛

If‖you’d‖like‖to‖learn‖French

please‖remember‖to‖‚Ssh‛—

not because you recall some Parisian shopkeepers

correcting your adolescent diction—

but, because, a half-century later, as an SLS scholar,

you‖desire‖to‖honor‖the‖hushed‖sounds‖of‖terminal‖‚Ss‛‖and‖to‖

show

respect‖for‖initial‖‚Hs,‛‖especially,‖

while savoring Spring in your Montreal garden.

At your l’hôtel, you may relish a marginal victory

if you omit such sounds. . .

and just smell their floral bouquet

as one might with a fine Bordeaux wine

sipped in an Antibes café along the Côte d’Azur.

If you would keep a proper silence,

who knows. . .?

Your abeyance could cause

your judicious Francophile hosts to smile

as they recall former Garonne gîtes

and‖vacational‖views‖of‖Auvillar’s‖sunflowers‖

at August art shows.

Might they offer you some Camembert,

sweet seedless grapes, and freshly baked croissants?

361

Eureka!

JEFF BETTGER

During the Gold Rush,

miners set out daily,

a worn metal pan in hand.

In a river all day spent,

sifting through dirt and mud,

back-breaking work,

hoping to find tiny flakes

of the precious yellow dream.

A hint that the elusive

mother lode hides nearby.

These days, I too am a miner.

Sifting through streams of

vague words and disjointed ideas.

Until the perfect combination

produces a magical phrase,

instantly recognized by all

as a deeply buried truth,

an ounce of wisdom,

a golden nugget of humanity.


362

Real Gravy

CHARLIE BERIGAN

Kudos, cheers, plaudits, applause

‚Going‖over‖in‖a‖big‖way‛

Vaudeville‖had‖it‖right,‖I’d‖say

Nothing‖like‖a‖major‖‚Yes,‖indeed‛

that not only feeds but nurtures sweet

the best of your best

‚Going‖over‖in‖a‖big‖way‛

Plaudits, applause, kudos, and cheers

and for some, say, starving just a bit

for‖some‖kind‖of‖‚yes‛‖to‖their‖dreams

that gravy referred to

by old school masters and matinee marvels

can’t‖get‖served‖up‖often‖enough

Sometimes just a taste, or maybe a drop even

when‖it‖comes‖to‖‚who‖are‖you,‛‖esteem‖and‖self‖worth

The‖table’s‖now‖set‖and

snack turns to banquet

363

Freckles

R.HAINES

If‖you‖don’t‖have‖freckles‖now

you will never-ever wear them,

so you may want to skip this poem

and‖admire‖your‖tan’s‖bronze‖blush.

Those be-freckled would rather sport

a consistency of monochromatic skin

(white, brown, olive, sallow or black)

in lieu of a pale canvas spattered with

drabber colors of a melanin rainbow:

Jackson Pollock-ey splotches flung

with a smirk by a pointillist god.

Akin to wisdom, you are born freckled

but‖they‖don’t‖rise‖to‖the‖surface

of your albino-esque derma sac

until you expose your skin-scape

to the awakening fire of the sun.

Wisdom‖reveals‖you’ve‖seen‖the light;

freckles‖betray‖you’ve‖been‖in‖the‖light.

Stay indoors and freckles blend and fade

into a bland, non-committal oatmeal slurry;

step back into the bright wisdom of the light

and welcome the skin-deep‖fireworks’‖return.

364

SAGE HERRIN

What Powers Do You Possess

after Jane Hirschfield

The body asks, as it asks daily:

and what powers do you possess to heal yourself, to heal others.

I count, on this first month of the year, what remains.

I‖have‖the‖rooster’s‖crow,‖a‖cloud‖hugging‖the‖mountain,‖a‖cup‖of‖

black coffee.

Can spiderweb my dreams into reality.

Can cocoon your faded love into memories.

\

Can make a feast of instant ramen, soft-boiled eggs and sauteed

mushrooms.

Can make a clothesline from a hotel bathroom.

Can climb a mountain of lava rocks in the valley,

jump river flows in the middle of a rainstorm.

For 10 years, I woke first to the ocean

then to the question.

What can you do with these empty hands?

This empty bed?

Someone I loved once said:

You are always in a crisis.

For 10 years, I brought black sand, I brought tropical dew drops.

I brought black candles, broken shells, and sea-glass.

For 10 years, each day something.

Bruise did not become blossom.

Silence did not become your mouth.

Yet strength still stays strength.

Sunlight stays sunlight.

Words still prism, still trillium.

Today, I woke without an answer.

The day answers, unfolds a message from a friend,

Yes, let’s just get louder and louder.

365

Transfer of Power

PETER KRUMBACH

A despot stands in a room of mirrors.

The multiplication is unnerving. Even

the despot seems bemused by the reflections,

uncertain‖whether‖he’s‖made‖of‖photons

or meat. He touches his hair, his epaulets,

the plush belly of the goose resting on

his shoulder. We might be at an amusement

park. We might be in a gallery. We might be

in‖a‖hunter’s‖dream‖or‖a‖church‖penetralium.

We look at our phones. The newsfeed claims

the despot craves cake. Like all strongmen,

he adores sugar, the mild delirium it brings.

He opens his small round mouth to shout,

but nothing comes out, an indication he is

in a vacuum. Now the goose wakes up.

All the mirrors show the green droppings

issuing from under its tail, landing on the back

of‖the‖despot’s‖blue‖coat. Now the goose

climbs‖on‖top‖of‖the‖despot’s‖head,‖stamping

down his hair. He should have worn his cap.

It is funny, but we know it will lead

to bloodshed.

366

ROBERT HALLECK

Every Thursday Afternoon

My client sits in her wheelchair

shaded by the lone maple tree. She waits

like a lover hidden in the shadows.

Death waits for fall in the green leaves of summer.

For three years she has been waiting to join her

husband and now does not remember why.

When I ask how she is, she no longer cries.

It adds to my sadness and I worry her memory

will come back and she will walk into an empty

house stripped bare by relatives and listed for sale.

I hate myself for noticing her weight loss. I want

to give her my Milky Way, but that is forbidden.

We sit like husband and wife waiting for cocktails.

Only I know that it will be pills, chocolate, and a stupor.

After the King of Terrors does come, I will carry

her forever. She will be no burden to my heart.

367

ANTHONY AZZARITO

The Matter Behind the Motive

You’ve‖been‖living‖in‖a‖safe‖atmosphere‖and‖you’re‖unable‖to‖

breathe,

Eyes blood shot, with the fist streaks on your face

White knuckles and shaking, cause every inch of your body is

infected by a nasty disease.

They say wounds can heal, they say the scars will fade,

But what advise do you have when the shadows start calling your

name?

Who’s‖going‖to‖stop‖the‖shovel‖from‖piling‖on‖the‖weight?

Into an empty grave where your final resting place will be made

Eventually,‖there’s‖a‖certain‖type‖of‖feeling‖that everybody craves.

In that moment,

cash in the exact fraction of a static Bible passage that makes a

difference,

you‖know;‖it’s‖matter‖over‖passion,

Turn the sorrow into acid,

Become the master of a habit,

It‖doesn’t‖matter‖if‖you’re‖an‖addict,‖

There’s‖not‖a‖single‖human‖action‖that’s‖worth‖their‖own‖personal‖

casket.

Maybe your father physically terrorizes- mentally abuses you,

Your past is still bruising you,

teachers have excluded you or if the solitude comes in shades of

blue,

I can imagine what‖you’re‖going‖through,‖

I felt that way too.

There was a time where I used music as a simple coping tool,

Tuned out of reality to indulge in a lonely mood, a defenseless

recluse

Anger‖got‖the‖best‖of‖me,‖because‖my‖father’s‖venom‖still‖

continued to spew

He imposed a vendetta of vindictive rules,

Phrases soon turned into feuds,

fists and Batman action figures flew into other rooms

368

And if he only knew,

Of course, I was going to bite the hand that feeds me

all I got served was moldy food.

I’ll be damned if I turn out like you,

I’m a man now and that’s the truth,

I’ve had it with the burnt-out disputes,

Get out of my head, DAD, I’ve banished you.

You see. . .we all have different situations,

Some have bigger scars then others and are very impatient

Just sitting there waiting in a basement, for their souls to be

awaken,

You are not the problem in this equation.

Maybe, you just need a little more time to patch up those

lacerations,

Traumas crash in cravings and leave holes in many places,

survivors by mistake in the making

But you can overcome anything

You

are

amazing.

369

for the dreamers

for eduardo

ADRIAN ARANCIBIA

i seen you

see me

and my mountains of failures

seen you see me

in all the love i shared.

even‖when‖i‖wasn’t‖enough.

i seen that live in you too.

you keep hemming and hawing.

you keep finding flaws.

but I seen you.

when your girls'

smile is the widest

thing on my screen.

when you make me feel

i need to go to the home

land.

and what places

do i need to visit

and eat at.

i know the tours

took pieces of life

from you.

and that divorce.

and custody shit.

and you still are your

girl’s‖papi.

you still offer years

of advice.

you still have much

to share.

370

even when the old neighborhood

gentrified us out.

so much of my love.

is in your space.

of survival and taking

care of viejos.

y poco a poco

vamos

aprendiendo.

Fractured Family

JEAN E. TADDONIO

We peer through

their cracked glass

all but broken.

How did this happen,

was it a great fall

or a tiny chip that grew

too great to mend?

Is there hope?

If a heart can be

shocked into beating

and a lung be renewed

to breathe again

what about them?

What about us?

Can we be fixed

to love again

in our brokenness,

or do we need replacing?

Can we learn to love

and forgive. . . again?

371

BARBARA HUNTINGTON

Praise This Child of My Flesh

Praise this son, the hot black of the street

the dried excrement on the sidewalk

glass and discarded needles

Praise his walk with the hopeless

his kind word to the addict

the Narcan he carries for whomever comes his way

Praise this man who speaks for the woman

his words of kindness when she knows

only bruises and pain

Praise this street pastor

living among his sheep

his children learning to be street smart

in this neighborhood he cares for

Praise this child of my flesh

Let him not see my fear

sirens and bullets, gangs and cops

his faith much greater than mine

372

Testosterone and Verse

JOAN GERSTEIN

Dressed in blue, shod in laceless sneakers,

each man holds a pencil and a black

and white soft-covered composition book,

like ones I used in elementary school.

Incarcerated vets from every branch—

army, navy, air force, marines—

are in my mandatory poetry class.

We talk hip hop, rock, country musicmelodic

words amidst rhythm and sound.

See—everyone loves poetry! I introduce

different forms, techniques, poetry samples.

After I read a poem, a new inmate declares,

‚It’s‖not‖rhyming.‛‖Rhyming’s‖what‖they‖know,

but they try it all. I teach metaphor, simile.

One poet compares his addiction to a dragon,

overpowering yet magnificent. Another calls

fentanyl his poison. A 25 year-old pens poems

to his wife and two daughters. Others write

of aspirations, substance abuse, God, regrets.

They do it sober, excavating and chiseling

away at boulders to find the silver within.

Forged together in forfeiture, they shake loose

shame that sticks to them like tar. They poke fun

at each other and applaud as more men share.

Like playing handball on these gray concrete walls,

they bounce off each other, compete for best lines.

Once a week, poetry makes them forget where

they are and reclaim honor in who they are.

373

An Acquired Taste

RAJAK JAMAL

I‖didn’t‖get‖it.

For‖a‖long‖time‖I‖didn’t‖get‖it.

I read poetry as if knowing the alphabet, but not understanding

the

words.

Lines written with power and feeling

lost in translation,

never picking up their meaning.

Poetry is like coffee, wine, and beer.

An acquired taste, but

refreshing on a Sunday afternoon.

Rhymes were my Starbucks and Stella Rosa.

Shel Silverstein was my Corona.

Spoken word introduced me to the roast, the hops, and the

tannins.

I drank heavy.

I dove deep.

I‖wouldn’t‖say‖I’m‖a‖master‖sommelier, but I could appreciate

good

taste.

I can savor the love and intention with every brew,

I could say my palate grew,

and without any doubt,

I get it now.

374

WILLIAM SCOTT GLASSO

An Invitation: Declined

Write with AI! The advert shouts.

We want to hear from you. Who’s‖we, I wonder.

Are They the same entity that asks me to prove

I’m‖not‖a‖robot.‖Excuse‖my‖reluctance,‖spam

has‖made‖me‖suspicious,‖I‖trust‖no‖browser’s

sales pitch.

I’m‖a‖poet,‖not‖a‖statistician‖why do you want

my words? Why do Siri and Alexa spy on me,

why is their gender female, sounds sexist AI.

Yes, you, ubiquitous frenemy can mathematically

jumble a phrase here, a rhyme there, or mimic an Ode

by‖Keats,‖a‖Dylanesque‖lyric.‖But‖your‖matrixed‖heart’s

immovable and your mind is lost in the cloud.

Does it take talent to regurgitate loops, confined

to verbal Muzak? Call me ambitious but I want more. . .

drummers drumming, pipers piping.

I‖want‖to‖hear‖a‖noun’s‖bass‖thump,‖see‖fingers

glide down silver strings of language peppered

with dialect. I want to feel pain in a blues

singers voice or a breathless orgasmic release.

My poetry is what you will never be. Human.

Yes, ten thousand chimps at a keyboard

may recreate a Shakespearean sonnet, a chant by

Ginsberg, a canto by Pound—but they will never

capture the meaning of what fills the page?

No‖AI,‖you‖can’t‖buy‖me,‖be‖me,‖love‖like‖me.

You‖can’t‖know‖my‖cathartic‖hunger‖to‖connect.‖

Or the lost chord bliss that washes over me

when I unearth the perfect word.

You create by rote what I struggle to earn,

step by grueling step. So, thanks for the offer—

but‖this‖journey’s‖mine,‖I‖decline‖your‖invitation.

375

Screenplay

ALI ASHHAR

The soul watches from the roof

as the screenplay of life goes in action

the innocence of infancy plays the prologue

teen-hood gives a call to the aloft wings

a nascent wish displays itself across the inquisitive horizon

the stage gears up for an impulsive action

the subsequent characters are a by-product of the event

the audience rotates its attendance at different intervals

some peers fleet with life

while others turn into life lessons

the plot starts getting melodramatic as it nears its end—

a lone chapter comes into existence

in the book of universe

as critics review it through the ink of deeds

and hang the curtain

376


Writing Near Fruit

On light blue paper and folded

like a love note, her list looks too short:

Death Notes.

A Guilty Thing.

The Vault.

‚Sir,‖are‖you‖all‖right?‛‖Dark‖eyes‖squint‖

over the bin of limes. My laugh

must have startled‖her:‖‖‚I‖took‖the‖wrong‖list.‛

Her‖name‖tag‖reads,‖ALMA‖‖‚These,‛‖

I‖wave‖the‖note,‖‚are‖book‖titles.‖.‖.Alma.‛‖‖

She backs away, disappearing

into the safety of the cereal aisle.

In contacts, my finger taps letters on my phone.

Nothing comes up. Another mistake:

I’ve‖typed,‖Alma.

A new laugh starts, quieter. Maybe

I should ask the guy unpacking melons,

‚Where‖do‖I‖find‖a guilty thing?‛‖

Over in the Deli, I could order,

‚Half‖a‖pound‖of‖death notes,‖please.‛

At the pharmacy, where, sadly, they know me:

‚Hi—I’m‖here‖to‖pick‖up‖the vault.‛‖

Sounds like a robbery in progress.

(What does Monday store security even look like?)

‚You‖okay,‖man?‛‖‖He’s‖leaning‖on‖the‖pole‖

of one of those wide flat-brooms

that stealth-glide over buffed floors.

I swallow the echoes of a laughing jag,

wave him off— ‚I’m‖good.‖.‖.GLENN.‛

—then slide by toward the oranges,

pocketing the blue note. I can guess

what she needs. Besides,

red seedless grapes are on sale today.

377

Fruit Fly Resurrection

In the middle of a Zoom call

a passing fruit fly

taunts my peripheral vision

I paw at it discreetly

trapping it in my hand

The fallen corpse

lays on the wooden counter

I revert to the screen

but minutes later

the insect awakens

as though from a slumber

returning to its body

Resurrected

Such a small fragile thing

whisked away on tiny wings

I consider all the times

I’ve left my body

Rushing on autopilot

Numbing with drugs and alcohol

Scrolling on my phone

Surfing TV channels

Judging others

My original fruit fly frustration

conjures up admiration

I watch it soar through my apartment.

It doesn’t attack

or express anger

it simply exists

as a reminder

to return home

to inhabit the body

to be with discomfort

to be with grief

to be with insecurity

to be with joy

to be with whatever arises

with illness

with health

embracing the wealth

of self-acceptance.

ADHARA MERELES

378

The Collection Basket

a new writers group

In the beginning

disciples of the written word

gathered around the altar

to celebrate our gifts

We read from Genesis, Chapter I.

Our homilies: memories of classrooms,

families and friends,

filled our hearts with hope.

Our confidence grew.

We can do this—can’t‖we?

We reflected and sang,

images swam through our minds.

With apprehension

the collection basket was passed.

At first, we donated sparingly,

not giving our fair portion.

As each celebration progressed

we gave more willingly,

some generously.

Months passed.

We began to borrow from it

returning more than we had taken.

Some days we sat quietly,

listened—comfortable.

Now, as each year ends,

the collection basket overflows.

Disciples smile with gratitude and praise,

anxiously anticipating the coming year.

MARY LENORE QUIGLEY

379

ROBBIE HAMMEL

We’re Only In It for the Money

First‖I’ll‖buy‖some‖hats.

Perhaps some tight pants too, that look experienced

and a neatly bound journal with a clasp.

In the cafes I will wear my hats and my oval shaped glasses, or no,

the square

frames, the square frames are hip, and I will sip strong coffee like

Arthur Rimbaud.

I‖will‖be‖conscious.‖I‖will‖know‖I’m‖overpaying‖for‖coffee‖but‖I‖will‖

buy it anyway and tell the

cute barista about the rent being out of control.

I will micro-dose mushrooms and wear my hats, and my phone

will direct me to the groovy

poetry events around town where the young people go.

I will read my poems from my phone because I forgot to put them

in my fancy journal.

And if times get rough I can always shit in the library. God bless

the library, if there was a God.

I‖will‖ask‖the‖librarian,‖‚Where‖is‖the‖poetry?‛

And he will say such and such and I will go there and look for

myself.

380

Deathbed

BILL MOHR

1.

Though chaotic years soar by,

I will not want to die

not having been with you

alone the whole time through.

2.

Deft memory prolongs regret of all

the vows I broke, and will recollect

on my deathbed, should I be

so lucky as to perish in a comfortable bed;

or‖suppose‖I‖don’t‖remember‖any‖of‖it,

but the bed does: and that is why,

and how, it is comforting me.

MICHAEL KLAM

I poke you in the

morning‖so‖I‖don’t‖have‖to

face the day alone

381

Chilled to the Bone

Frozen fingertips throb,

white, then pink.

Cheeks rigid under teary eyes, I brave the pain,

struggle to breathe through clenched lips.

I’m‖chilled‖to‖the‖bone.

Birds fly overhead, nonchalant,

swooping under branches,

chirping in unison. I spot a lost feather

pinched between two bricks,

stoop to pick it up.

When I head toward the pasture,

my special pony darts from its shed,

nostrils flaring, flaunts its wisdom. I wave.

It whinnies, stamps a hoof,

penetrates the ashen snow.

My pony seems lonely today.

again, it whinnies.

To my surprise, another whinny echoes

from the barn. A conversation.

my‖body‖listens,‖soaks‖up‖nature’s‖vibrations.

I am alive.

The ponies are alive.

So are the birds and the trees—frozen yet vibrant.

A ray of sun glistens through naked limbs,

hits the snow.

A branch, brittle, deformed

like‖a‖grandmother’s‖knuckles,‖pokes‖out‖

as I walk home through the pasture.

My boots sprush-sprush, my breath gasps,

a cloud spirals like a snake from my nostrils.

Yes, I am chilled to the bone.

But I am alive. Alive, and taking

in the beauty around me.

A smile cracks my freezing lips.

at last.

ANNE RANDERSON

382

Un-Named Chapter

KEN BUHR

I turn for the next chapter.

‚Just the first few words‛

I think, but sense a caution,

a hesitation

a non-urgent pressure

but pressure nonetheless

to catch and hold on

to words of my own forming. . .

about the novel’s appeal?

about conflicts in the news?

about. . . ? maybe about

the next chapter in my life.

A different kind of uncertainty

introduces itself

from the dark where it has lurked

since my last birthday.

That’s it—the word last

meaning most recent?

or the introduction of finality?

A page I haven’t turned

or have I, catching the final wave

and riding it to shore?

I can’t say. You can’t tell me.

This chapter—un-named!

My attention shifts outward,

the gray morning,

your back ache, the heater

turned-on in our house

for the first time this autumn,

beginning to feel winter,

noticing the bare patch in the lawn

to be re-seeded in springtime.

383

ANN-MARIE THORNTON

Whatever sorrows lay ahead,

great joys lay behind

if loneliness comes to lay in my bed,

deep love has already been mine

whatever demons lay in wait,

angels have walked by my side

any famine planned by fate,

plenty has been to provide.

When living well, One might forget

the sorrow that is due

to any life, lived right

with light comes darkness too.

this I pray, when lowness comes,

that I might be reminded:

the highs I've lived, comparative,

may have my senses blinded.

and even if, all joy is gone

some comfort may I find

in having lived this life at all

my God, you have been kind.

384

MARGAUX PAUL

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

after Mary Oliver

I plan on washing my sheets, cooking pasta, and cleaning broken

glass off the kitchen floor quickly lest it cut up any little feet. I plan

on eating peaches in the summer and oysters only in months that

end in -er because that's what my mother taught me. I plan on

making lovers out of poetry and poetry out of lovers. I plan to eat

tomato salad with salt, oil, and hot French bread while my cousin

regales me with her stories. I will swallow the bitterness of

missing entire years together. I plan to say bless you when

someone sneezes. Excuse me when I pass them by. I plan to

forgive—even‖ the‖ people‖ who‖ don’t‖ deserve‖ it.‖ I‖ plan‖ on‖ giving‖

loneliness a warm place in my bed when I need her. I plan on

hosting dinner parties and listening to my friend's laughter in the

half-light of evening. I plan on sending the letter. I plan on falling

in love often. Often, with the wrong people, which will make the

right one's love go down like milk and honey. I plan on making

mistakes, making love, getting sunburnt, and still basking in the

sunlight.

What is it I plan to do with my one wild and precious life?

Mary, I intend to live it.

385

Not My Robe

MARY ANNE TRAUSE

Pelting drops drench my purple poncho

soak my feet on the red clay floor.

We duck into the ghetto passage,

sheltered from rain as we enter

the Mukuru art collective

in‖Nairobi’s‖largest‖slum.

Steven, a 20-something Kenyan man,

a friend of my daughter who teaches here,

smiles broadly, cheeks widening, as he

hugs her warmly. His dark brown eyes

shift to mine as he reaches for my hand.

‚So‖pleased‖to‖meet‖you.‛‖

The artist leads up the rickety stairs,

moving gracefully, elegantly,

despite wearing worn jeans and tee.

He ushers us into a humming room:

gray walls, three easels, two bare bulbs,

one man paints, two chat, drink tea.

Outside the window, I see potholed streets,

tipsy bikes heaped with wood, food, boxes,

zig-zag through crushes of people and cars.

Inside, brilliant canvases crowd the space.

Steven lifts each in turn for us to see: in one,

sunsets glow above tin-roofed shacks,

in others, kids splash in puddles, women

braise sweet potatoes on open grates.

I find beauty in the slums, he says,

My aunties, uncles, brothers, are always here.

We share food, work, troubles, mugs of beer.

We’re a robe of 10,000 brown velvety threads.

386

I listen. Feel the warmth in his work, his life.

But‖it’s‖not‖my‖robe.‖I‖flew‖in‖from‖a‖land

where families live alone, separate from kin,

poor people unhoused, exist on streets,

maybe a shelter or car for sleep,

if noticed, unseen, completely dismissed.

RAVI KIRAN

worm in the apple

this struggle to live

with my choices

387

Don’t Hesitate

CLAUDIA POQUOC

I‖didn’t‖hesitate‖to‖accept‖

her wavering invitation

in spite of having to

fly during a pandemic

to get there.

I‖didn’t‖hesitate‖to‖be‖brave

in 50 mph winds when

we‖couldn’t‖land,‖had‖to‖circle‖

while the runway was reconfigured.

Nor did I hesitate to step into

a mountain hot springs

while it snowed, purchase

another stuffed buffalo

at the smoke shop,

a mystery at Sundance Books,

or a coffee at the co-op where I

didn’t‖hesitate‖to‖hug‖

a former poetry student,

who remembered how, in the

fourth grade, we found

surprise constructs between

head, hand, and heart.

Realizing the permanent

loss of many chances

I‖didn’t‖hesitate‖(at‖76)‖to‖

watch Lady Chatterley’s Lover

with you, feel the low rumbles

of intimacy rise again

after 50 years.

Sometimes something

happens in an instant,

as when I notice

someone‖I‖haven’t‖thanked‖

or forgiven.

388

Or when I practice

opening my door

to a wayward daughter

who returns after 10 years,

pushing her baby daughter

into my outstretched arms

every time we meet,

having said to myself,

joy is on the other side

of a life that sometimes aches. . .

I‖don’t‖hesitate.

389

Coyote, Resting

LESLIE CLARK

On hot and humid summer days, we all seek shade.

That includes the neighborhood coyotes.

One smaller, rust-colored guy frequently sleeps

in the shade of the large tree directly in back of our house.

I watch him sometimes as he languidly moves

in‖accordance‖with‖the‖sun’s‖voyage‖across‖the‖sky.

I have to wonder why a wild animal would linger

where people from adjoining house often stroll,

during daylight hours, some with their leashed dogs.

When I see the smaller dogs being walked,

I‖warn‖their‖owners‖of‖the‖coyote’s‖presence.

I’ve‖heard‖many‖tales‖of‖demise‖of‖tiny‖

canines due to ravenous coyotes.

This one, however, does not seem malevolent.

Let sleeping coyotes lie, my husband says.

So, we just keep tabs on him as he flattens

himself out in slumber, often with only his ear

visible protruding from the grass.

Occasionally, one from his pack will join him.

I wonder if coyotes, too, enjoy the lovely view of valley,

foothills, misty mountains. Can they see the many shades

of green, from lime to deepest emerald that grace

the area? Do they prefer these beautiful surroundings

to a common den deep in the nearby ravine?

Perhaps these coyotes are attempting to remind us that

their kind occupied this land long before humankind

encroached.

390

About the Poets

Najah Abdelkaderm, born in Baghdad, is a professor at Southwestern

College, San Diego Community College, City College and Miramar

College. Her work has appeared in the SDPA. 58

Kaua Māhoe Adams is a mixed Native Hawaiian author and poet living

in San Diego. Her forthcoming debut novel is An Expanse of Blue (Heartdrum/HarperCollins:

2026). 146

Deborah Allbritain has work appearing in Ploughshares and New Ohio

Review. Her book is Osgood (Brick Road Poetry Press: 2024). 72

Susan Black Allen’s‖first‖poetry‖collection‖is‖The Best Sex I Never Had:

Secrets and Solace of a Psychotherapist ( The Libros: 2025). 50

Janice Alper lives in La Jolla and is pursuing an MFA at SDSU. 17

Ann M. Alves earned a BA from UCLA. Her work has appeared in the

San Diego Poetry Together Challenge and the SDPA. 311

Pat Andrus earned an MFA at Goddard College. Her collections are Old

Woman of Irish Blood (Open Hand: 1996) and Fragments of the Universe

(Blue Vortex: 2018). 128

Nick Aguilar, born in Mexico, immigrated to the U.S. at age 7. He was

awarded a Purple Heart in the Vietnam War. A UC-Davis School of Law

graduate, he receives PTSD therapy at an area Veterans Center. 177

Claudia Aragon has had work appear in Magee Park Poets Anthology,

Summation, San Diego Reader, and the SDPA. She lives in Escondido. 301

Adrián Arancibia is a Regional Editor of the SDPA. 370

Alan Archer lives, works, and writes in the San Diego area. 29

Carol Ireland Archibald has had work appear in San Diego Writer’s

Monthly,SDPA, and Waymark. 273

Jeff Armstrong studies in the San Diego Community College District. His

work has appeared in the My California project with Lee Herrick, San

Diego Reader, and the SDPA. 77, 339

Ali Arsanjani has had work appear in Lyrical Iowa, the Year in Ink

Anthology, and the SDPA. His recent book is The Words That Bring Us to

Dance (1st World: 2024). 9

Ali Ashhar is the author of two poetry collections: Mirror of Emotion

(Notion Press: 2021) and Across the Shore (Zorba Books: 2024). 376

391

Anthony Azzarito, an Army Infantry veteran, co-owns Poets Underground.

368

Sunny Rey Azzarito, co-owner of Poets Underground, promotes healing

through poetry, based on experiences in foster care and social work. 127

Chrissy Baclagan lives in San Diego. 252

Devreaux Baker is the first Poet Laureate of Mendocino County and a

recipient of a PEN/Oakland Josephine Miles Poetry Award for her Red

Willow People. 141

Raquel Baker is an Associate Professor of creative writing and

contemporary Black literatures at CSU Channel Islands who has had

work in Africology and The Arrow. 85

Paul Banks describes himself as a recovering physicist. 206

Ella Barwick, an engineer and photographer from an island in Texas, is

now based in San Diego. 195

Robin Becker won the Lambda Literary Award in 1996 for All-American

Girl. Her books include Tiger Heron (2014) and The Black Bear Inside Me

(2018) [University of Pittsburgh Press]. Professor Emeritus of English and

Women’s‖ Studies‖ at‖ Penn‖ State,‖ she‖ serves‖ as‖ poetry‖ and‖ contributing‖

editor for the Women’s Review of Books. 147

Ray Belardes III is a Kumeyaay and Luiseño poet who teaches middle

school at the All Tribes Charter School and was a spiritual leader for the

State of California Department of Corrections. 173

Debbie Benson’s‖ poems‖ have‖ appeared‖ in‖ Best New Poets, Radar Poetry,

and Mid-American Review. Her awards include an International Merit

Award from the Atlanta Review. She lives in NYC and works as a clinical

psychologist. 148

Charlie Berigan is a member of the South Bay Scribes. His work has

appeared in the SDPA. 363

Dena Carson Berry lives in San Diego. 267

Jeff Bettger, a Realtor from Chula Vista, served on the board of the

Escondido Arts Partnership and co-hosts a community podcast. 113, 362

Ben Bird, an MFA student at SDSU, has had work appear in the Chicago

Quarterly Review, Catamaran, and NCR. 335

Bobbie Jean Bishop has won poetry prizes from Tidepools, Oasis, and the

University of Texas at El Paso. 293

392

Chris Blanchard works in IT at UC San Diego. 210

Aaron Blumenthal, a fiction writer and tutor in Irvine, visited San Diego

by train with his parents. 349

Billiekai Boughton, an Army Veteran who holds a graduate degree in

Leadership, has worked as a Unity Minister. She co-edits the Veterans

special section of the SDPA 192

Jay Brandon, Jr. is a Navy Fleet Marine Force Corpsman veteran from

San Diego. 190

Dawn Brown was raised in Honolulu. She recently retired from teaching

at a local university and community college in San Diego. 125

Erika Brumett won‖the‖RHINO’s‖Editor's‖Prize.‖Her‖work‖has‖appeared‖

in North American Review, Prairie Schooner, New Ohio Review, and Nimrod.

She received a Special Mention in The Pushcart Prize 2021 Anthology. 149

Ken Buhr has lived and practiced as a Marriage and Family Therapist for

50 years in San Diego's north county inland. His poetry collection is

Beautiful Son (Garden Oak Press: 2023). 383

Jeff Burt lives in Santa Cruz County. His work has appeared Williwaw

Journal, Red Wolf Journal, and Heartwood. 68

Sandy Carpenter wrote feature columns for Gannett newspapers and

leads a memoir writing class at a Carlsbad Senior Center. 44

José Ceja, a San Diego native from National City and Chula Vista, is a

middle school science teacher. 294

Brandon Cesmat is a regional editor for the SDPA. 136, 231

Chieftain studies at San Diego City College. 60

Daniel Choi studies at Chinese International School, Hong Kong. 328

Hanh Chau hails from San Jose. She holds an MBA and works at Kaiser

Permanente Hospital as a patient care services representative. 257

Jackie Chou has had work appear in Lee Herrick's Our California Project.

She is the author of two collections of poetry, including Finding My Heart

in Love and Loss (Cyberwit: 2023). 317

Matthew ChristianScher is a retired kindergarten teacher. 264

Nels Goñi Christianson, a native of rural Merced County, served on the

CalPoets board (2009-2023) and co-coordinated a CalPoets-Beyond

Baroque collaboration poetry program. 121

Heather Circle has had work appear in the SDPA. 134

393

David Clark,‖a‖native‖San‖Diegan,‖moderates‖a‖weekly‖writers’‖workshop‖

for‖UCSD’s‖Osher‖program.‖His‖work‖has‖appeared‖in‖the‖SDPA. 213

Leslie Clark taught English for 41 years in Virginia and at Cochise

College in Arizona. Her chapbooks are Cardiac Alert (2008) and Ward Off

the Night (2018), both from Finishing Line Press. 388

Marcyn Clements sings in the Claremont Chorale and is a member of a

recorder ensemble. 59

James Coates hosts The Change: Social Justice Writing Workshop. He

was a 2023 Pushcart Prize nominee. 124

Jessica Cohn, a Michigan native, lives in Santa Cruz. Her first collection is

Gratitude Diary (Main Street Rag: 2024). 144

Gracie Cordes, born and raised in San Diego, has had work appear in the

SDPA. 301

Lee Coulter, an Australian-born musician, lives in San Diego. 239

Chrissy Croft, a Licensed Clinical Social Worker, won the 2017 National

Poetry Slam with San Diego PoetrySLAM and was the 2024 San Diego

PoetrySLAM Gladiator Slam Champion. 22

Jesse Gene Cunningham is a poet with musical experience. 329

Catherine Darby earned an MFA from UC Riverside and served as editor

for Vox Populi Anthology and The Coachella Review. Her work has appeared

in Long Island Quarterly, and A Year in Ink. 56

Alex Deddeh holds a BA from USD and an MS from the University of

Edinburgh. 119

Billie Dee, former Poet Laureate of the U.S. National Library Service,

earned a PhD from UC-Irvine. She lives in New Mexico. 150

Sandy Dee was born to deaf parents, shaping her understanding of the

world and its diverse narratives. 207

Carly Marie DeMento, a third-generation San Diegan, has had poetry in

the North American Review, Kestrel, and Green Hills Literary Lantern. She cofounded

SDPA's Ta-ku (taco haiku) series. 99

Francesca DiMeglio lives in Carlsbad. 100

Salinas Dinh writes fictional stories and poetry. 321

Karen Donaldson writes about her observations. 133

394

Sophie Dormal, an art teacher and drummer in the Cars On Fire band,

has had work appear in Wildfire, Poets Undeground, and the SDPA. 12

Kaitlin Dyer has had work in Midwestern Gothic and Hawaii Pacific Review.

Her book is Alter Lives of Alter Egos (Dancing Girl Press). 24

G. Gail Eason, a visual artist, assists the Poets Inland North County series

at the Escondido Arts Partnership gallery. 316

Mel Edden, a British poet living in Maryland, co-hosts a monthly open

mic series. Her work has appeared in The Loch Raven Review, Gargoyle

Magazine, and Welter. 266

Bart Edelman lives in Pasadena. His new poetry collection is This Body Is

Never at Rest: New and Selected Poems 1993 – 2023 (Meadowlark: 2024). 21

Sharon Elise, former chair of Sociology at CSU-San Marcos, was the first

San Diego Poetry SLAM winner (1998). 66

Nancy Elizabeth, a Kansas City native, is a queer, full-time van lifer,

visiting deserts, forests, and coasts. 16

Kathleen Ellis grew up in the San Francisco Bay area and teaches at the

University of Maine in Orono. She was awarded the Pablo Neruda Prize

(Nimrod). Her latest collection, Body of Evidence (2022), won the Grayson

Books contest. 151

Bjorn Endresen, a journalist born in Norway, met his future wife while

sailing around the world. He lives in San Diego. 360

Timothy Paul Evans has had work appear in California Quarterly,

CHAOS, and the SDPA. He has authored a collection, Litanies of the Moon

(Human Error: 2022) and two chapbooks. 326

Samantha Fakhimi is a law student. 310

Louis Farace , a poet and musician, graduated from CSU-San Marcos and

is pursuing an MA. 304

Benjamin Faro is the editor of Equatorial Literary Magazine and a USD

alum. His poetry has appeared in American Literary Review, Nimrod

International Journal, Portland Review, and Saranac Review. 355

Elyse Farwell is a teacher, life-long learner, and world traveler. 46

Leslie Ferguson, an editor and writing coach, authored When I Was Her

Daughter (Acorn: 2021; Memoir Prize for Books 2022). She holds an MFA

from Chapman University. 34

John Fessler lives in Serra Mesa. 63

395

Lynnette Campbell Finch, born in San Diego, is the author of a Civil War

biography. 70

Fran Finley, a retired teacher and counselor, has had work published in

the SDPA and in Magee Park Poets Anthology. 332

Daniel H.R. Fishman has had work appear in California Quarterly, the

Paterson Literary Review, and the SDPA. His book is Everyday Sublime

(Garden Oak Press: 2018). 55

Nancy Foley has had work appear in California Quarterly, A Year in Ink,

Summation, and the SDPA. She won the Catholic Literary Arts poetry

contest in 2021. 292

Blaize Fonseca is a student at Miramar Community College. 80

Dennis Frate, a masseur, yogi, and sound therapist, lives in Oceanside. 32

Mary Fredricks 244

Douglas Frey, both an Army and Marine veteran, lives in San Diego. 208

Annette Friend, a retired Occupational Therapist and school teacher, had

had work appear in Tidepools, Summation, The California Quarterly, The

Paterson Literary Review, The Jewish Writing Project, and the SDPA. 74

Diane Funston, recent Poet-in-Residence for Yuba Sutter Arts and

Culture, has had work appear in F(r)iction and Still Points Quarterly. Her

chapbook is Over the Falls (Foothills Publishing). 357

Roger Funston came to poetry late in life after a long career as an

environmental scientist. 345

William Scott Galasso co-edited two anthologies, including Eclipse Moon.

His latest collection is The Years We Never Saw (2024). 375

Zoe Galloway studies at Miramar Community College. 346

Randi Hawkins Garcia, a third generation Californian, was educated at

SDSU. She maintains an art studio at Spanish Village Art Center. 290

Taylor García authored the novel Slip Soul (Touchpoint Press: 2021) and

is a columnist for the Good Men Project. 79

Alan Garzon-Monroy is a student at Miramar Community College. 101

Joan Gerstein is a retired educator and psychotherapist. Her first

collection is Theories of Relativity (Garden Oak Press: 2021). She teaches

creative writing to incarcerated veterans and co-edits the Veterans special

section of the SDPA. 20, 373

396

Shelley Getten is a printmaker living in Minnesota. Her first full-length

collection is Of Cows and Crows (Nodin Press: 2024). 259

David Gilder retired from practicing clinical psychiatry, but still does

research. 330

Estelle Gilson has had poems appear in the SDPA. Her collection is

Foundlings and Other Misfits (Garden Oaks Press: 2020). Her latest

translation is Ernesto, by Umberto Saba (NYRB Classics: 2017). 96

Cosimo Giovine earned an MFA from Columbia, taught in high schools

and colleges, and is publisher at Zio Apollo Press. His work has

appeared in Glimmer Train and Close Up. 264

Mai-Lon Gittelsohn earned an MFA from Pacific University. Her poems

have appeared in the Patterson Literary Review, the SDPA, and the Raven

Chronicles. Her chapbook is Chop Suey and Apple Pie (Finishing Line Press:

2014. She lives in Del Mar. 15

Terri Glass has had work appear in Eastern Iowa Review and California

Quarterly. Her recent collection is Being Animal (Kelsay Books: 2020). 45

Doug Haberman is a retired newspaper reporter and high school teacher

living in Oceanside. 350

R. Haines has had work published in the SDPA and Pearl. 350

Jill G. Hall is author of the Anne McFarland fiction series. Her upcoming

book is inspired by the life of clairvoyant Madame Katherine Tingley

founder of Lomaland in San Diego in 1900. 265

William Hall is a San Clemente financial advisor. 352

Robert Halleck writes to make sense of events that may or may not have

happened. His work has appeared in the SDPA. 367

Robbie Hammel lives in San Diego. 380

William Harry Harding is the founder of the SDPA. 196, 377

Charles Harmon had his first story published when his teacher submitted

to a local newspaper. 306

Juan Felipe Herrera is the former Poet Laureate of the United States. 64

Sage Herrin, a trans non-binary poet based in San Diego, is the Editor-in-

Chief of Beyond The Veil Press. 365

The late Terry Hertzler served as publisher and editor of The No-Street

Poets’ Voice, featuring San Diego voices in the 80s and 90s. 135

397

Jordan Hill is a Fulbright Fellow whose work has appeared in Beloit

Poetry Journal, Islandia Journal, and Whale Road Review. 150

Lloyd Hill, a longtime Ocean Beach poet, now lives in Carmel Valley. 97

Leslie Hodge has had work appear in Catamaran, The Main Street Rag, and

Whale Road Review. Her chapbook is Escape (Kelsay Books: 2025). 331

Ari Honarvar founded Rumi with a View to bring music and poetry to

war-torn regions. Her debut novel is A Girl Called Rumi (Forest Avenue

Press: 2021). 321

Barbara (Chi Ping) Hu is a Chinese-born American and San Diegan who

joined‖the‖San‖Diego‖College‖of‖Continuing‖Education‖Emeritus‖Writer’s‖

Workshop. 263

Michael Huang practices archery and builds furniture and robots. 256

Jennifer Hunt, born in South America and raised in California, holds an

MA from CSU-Northridge. She lives in Carlsbad. 325

Barbara Huntington was just starting her MFA in poetry when she

survived Covid, a stroke, breast cancer, and heart failure. Through San

Diego‖Writers,‖Ink,‖she’s‖back‖writing. 372

Cora Grey Huot, a spoken word poet, has self-published five poetry

collections. 108

Kristen Hornung lives in Encinitas. She has had work appear in Zooscape

and Kelp Journal. 76

Emily Iriss is San Diegan lyricist, academic, blogger, and comedian. 37

Rajak Jamal lives in San Diego. 374

Arwen Jamison lives in San Diego. She has co-written and performed in

stage plays, including A Night of Life Issuez at the Lyceum Theatre. 6

Kathleen Felan Jay, retired from the Department of Defense, studied with

the Amherst Writers & Artists Group. Her work has appeared in Dime

Stories Anthology and the SDPA. 358

Kathryn Jordon has twice received Special Merit for the Muriel Craft

Bailey Poetry Prize. Her work has appeared in The Sun, Atlanta Review,

Catamaran, and New Ohio Review. 154

Matthew Joy studies at Miramar Community College and hopes to

become an astrophysicist. 334

398

Cesar Martinez Juarez, a bilingual poet from Veracruz, studies at UNAM

and lives in Escondido. 97

Monica Kakkar has had haiku and short poetry translated into three

languages and published on four continents. 279

Jennifer Karp earned honors in The Kowit 2023 and as winner of the San

Diego Reader Poetry Contest. 131

Gloria Keeley earned a BA and MA from SFSU, Her work has appeared

in Spoon River Poetry Review, The Emerson Review, The MacGuffin, Floyd

County Moonshine, Straylight, and the SDPA. 86

Katie Kemple won the Chestnut Review chapbook competition in 2024.

Her work has appeared in Ploughshares and Pembroke Magazine. 238

Ian Kendrick studies at Miramar Community College. 84

Kathy Keogh writes poems and songs. 255

Annette Ketner served two decades as Director of Foundation Relations

at the University of San Diego. 114

Clifton King is a widely published Southern California poet. 102

Ravi Kiran, an Electronics Engineer, is a web-editor with the haiku-

KATHA and an editor with Leaf – The journal of The Daily Haiku. 387

Brian Kirven, a California Poet in the Schools, is the author of Shorelines:

A Traveler Comes Home to the Tide Zone (Fault Lines Press: 2015). 126

Michael Klam is Executive Editor and Associate Publisher of the SDPA

and Publisher of SDPA's bilingual volume. 132, 381

Jennifer Chung Klam was the cover artist for SDPA 2024-25. A San Diego

creative, she founded Cheeky Cat Paper and Swink Boutique. 94

Ariana Kraft, a former TV reporter from Chicago, recently moved to San

Diego. 91

Starry Krueger is founded the Imaginary Theater Company. Her plays

include Dream Train and Canary Cockroach Phoenix (Drama Notebook). 342

Peter Krumbach is the author of Degrees of Romance (Elixir Press: 2024),

winner of the Antivenom Poetry Award. 366

Kayla Krut, from Del Mar, is a PhD candidate at UC-Santa Cruz. 348

Eddie Krzeminski earned an MFA from Florida International University.

His work has appeared in Grist, Split Lip, and Saw Palm. He teaches in

Southwest Florida. 112

399

Sharon Laabs taught music in the public schools and then retired from

group sales at the Birch Aquarium at Scripps. Her work has appeared in

the SDPA. 283

Jen Laffler, an educator based in Encinitas, has led poetry workshops for

the KSDPA. 65

David Langenhorst is a veteran of the US Navy, serving during the

Vietnam era. 188

Ron Lauderbach holds an MFA from SDSU and a Poetry Certificate from

San Diego Writers, Ink. He earned honors in The Kowit 2022. 123

Eric Lehew is native of San Diego County who has worked with children

in creative writing and is a lifelong educator. 288

Rachel Lemmen studies at Point Loma Nazarene University. 320

Lenny Lianne has authored five books of poetry, most recently Sunshine

Has Its Limits (Kelsay Books). She holds an MFA from George Mason

University and lives in Arizona. 107

Lloyd L Lickert is a Korean War veteran and California Swing Dance Hall

of Fame inductee. 305

Anthony A. LoBue, a Disabled Vietnam War Veteran, U.S. Army

Airborne Infantry Officer, retired as Arts Director of The Veterans

Museum at Balboa Park. 218

Fred Longworth, owner of Classic Audio Repair since 1994, has had work

in online and print journals, including Comstock Review, Pearl, Spillway,

and California Quarterly. 254

Saul Lopez, an Army veteran and father of two sons, grew up in Logan

Heights. 213

Sherlyn Lopez 181

Vanessa Lopez, a performing artist and writer from San Diego, starred in

The History of Joy, a film by Vanguard Culture and The Rosin Box Project,

earning her a 2023 Gold Anthem Award. 208

Lee Lor, a Marine Corps veteran, served a tour in Iraq and was stationed

at Camp Pendleton in 1st Combat Engineer Battalion. 212

Lisa Low has had work appear in Ploughshares and American Journal of

Poetry. Her essays and interviews have appeared in The Massachusetts

Review and The Boston Review. 81

400

Rodney L. Lowman is Distinguished Professor Emeritus, CSPP/Alliant

International University. His poem was chosen to represent San Diego

County in the My California project of Poet Laureate Lee Herrick and the

California Arts Council. 296

Gordon Lu attends college in San Diego. His work appears in print here

for first time. 106

Nancy Lujan was born in Mississippi, schooled in Iowa and has lived for

50 years in California. 302

Suzanne Lummis hosts They Write by Night, a series on film noir and

contemporary poetry. Her poems have appeared in The Antioch Review,

Plume, Poetry Salzburg, and The New Yorker. 8

Juan Luruziaga, born in Ecuador, holds a BA from UC Merced and

teaches poetry in prisons, at Cuesta College, and California Poets in the

Schools. His work has appeared in Monterey Poetry Review. 67

Carolyn Mack lives in San Diego, and Cortes Island, BC. 71

Jeremy Magno deployed with the 11th Marine Expeditionary Unit aboard

the USS Bonhomme Richard. 214

Katie Manning, editor of Whale Road Review and a professor at PLNU,

won a Main Street Rag Poetry Book Award. She has authored eight

collections, most recently Hereverent (Agape Editions: 2023). 87

Melanie H. Manuel is a Filipina American poet with an MFA from SDSU.

Her work has appeared in North American Review, Grist: A Literary Journal

of Arts, and Los Angeles Review. 35

Richard Marcellus, a retired professor at Northern Illinois University,

lives in San Diego. 347

Clint Margrave bas three poetry collections from NYQ Books, including

Visitor, (NYQ Books: all). He lives in Los Angeles. 156

Cassandra Kiana Martin studies business and accounting at Miramar

Community College. 103

Seretta Martin is Managing Editor of the SDPA. 298

Donato Martinez, born in Zacatecas, Mexico, teaches at Santa Ana

College. A coordinator of the Puente Program, his poetry collection is

Touch the Sky (El Martillo Press: 2024). 110

Lora Mathis, originally from San Diego, lives in Oakland. Her latest

poetry collection is The Snakes Came Back (Metatron 2023). 260

401

Richard L. Matta, originally from the Hudson Valley and living in San

Diego, has had work Glint, Slipstream, Hole in the Head Review, and Healing

Muse. A poem of his earned a Pushcart Prize nomination last year. 53

Amanda Leigh Mattimoe earned The Kowit 2017. Her collection of

romance poetry, as Aleigha Siron, appeared in in 2019. 122

Lake McClenney, a writer and psychotherapist, lives in San Diego

County. 104

Steve McDonald , a two-time Puschart Prize nominee, has earned awards

from Tupelo Quarterly, Tiferet, Nimrod, and Best New Poets. His book Credo

was a finalist for the Brick Road Poetry Prize. His chapbook Golden Fish /

Dark Pond won the Comstock Review chapbook contest. 31, 158

Kate McGovern is a teacher, poet, and essayist whose work has appeared

online in writtentales and fridayflashfiction, and in the SDPA. 18

Jeremy McKay completed the Poetry Certification, taught by Ron

Salisbury, at San Diego Writers, Ink. 116

Ethan McKnight studies at San Diego Christian College. His work

appears in The Maudlin Press. 240

Rita Melissano, has had work appear in Haiku Dialogue, Poetry Pea, and

Mariposa. Born in Italy, she lives in a forest by the Mississippi River. 91

Ashley McLaughlin, a California native, works as a nurse and lives in

South Park. 287

Djael Mercer grew up in Paris, graduated UCLA, and now lives in San

Diego where she is a nurse. 209

Adhara Mereles. born in Mexico and raised in California, earned an MA

from Columbia University. Her work has appeared in A Year in Ink. 378

Alison Bell Miller, owner of sex-positive adult boutiques in Richmond,

VA, has two chapbooks: Flowering (Weasel Press) and blink (BarBar Press).

She has had work in Hobart Pulp and Anti-Heroin Chic. 324

Martyna C. Miller, a native of Brooklyn, has had work in The Junction

Magazine and Stuck In the Library. 304

Danielle Soucy Mills is the author of Tina Tumbles (Aerial Awareness

Media: 2024). Her work has appeared in Us Weekly, People.com. and

Chicken Soup for the Soul. 132

402

Joseph D.Milosch, an Army Vietnam Veteran, has authored four books

of prose and poetry. A Walk with Breast Cancer was selected for a San

Diego City Library Local Poet Award. 54, 195

Carolyn Mogavero is a wife, mother, and grandmother. 319

Bill Mohr, a professor at CSU-Long Beach and editor of multiple books

and magazines, earned a PhD at SDSU. His book is Hold-Outs: The Los

Angeles Poetry Renaissance, 1948-1992 (University of Iowa: 2011). 381

Tyrone Moore is a Navy veteran living in San Diego. 201

Jim Moreno is a Regional Editor of the SDPA. 170, 204, 282

Regina Morin has had work appear in San Diego Writer's Monthly, Magee

Park Poets Anthology, the Reader, A Year in Ink, and the SDPA. 48

Karla Morton, Texas Poet Laureate (2010), has written 16 poetry

collections. She co-authored The National Parks: A Century of Grace (TCU

Press: 2020). 159

Carol Moscrip has written a book of poems: Straw. A Pushcart Prize

nominee, she has had work in A Year in Ink, and the SDPA. 26

Barbara Mosqueda finds purpose through writing. 118

Jane Muschenetz is a Ukrainian-born, Russian-speaking, Jewish refugee

who fled the Soviet regime as a child. Her new poetry collection is Power

Point (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions: 2024). 129, 321

Adam Christian Navarro-Lowery served‖ in‖ the‖ Army’s‖ 101st‖ Airborne‖

Division, with service in Kosovo 2001. He lives in San Diego. 194

Chris Ernest Nelson, a graduate of SDSU, is a retired teacher and author

of the collection Harvest (2017). 312

Fathima Nidha.v believes poetry can transform and heal. 258

Susan Niemi is a Queer poet living in San Diego. Her poetry has

appeared in Beyond The Veil Press anthologies and the SDPA. 203

Kim Noriega worked for San Diego Public Library for nearly 30 years.

Her newest book is Naming the Roses (Aim Higher: 2024). She consults for

Pacific Library Partnership. 142

Suzanne O’Connell lives in Los Angeles. She has earned honors in

multiple years of The Kowit. Her collections are A Prayer for Torn

Stockings and What Luck (Garden Oak Press: 2016 and 2019). 160, 274

Kelsey O'Connor is a student at Miramar Community College. 36

403

Kathy O’Fallon’s‖poems‖have‖appeared‖in‖Rattle, Spillway, and Salt Marsh

Press. Her chapbooks: include At Higher Elevations. 51

Carlos Ornelas, a Mesoamerican artist-author, grew up in Los Angeles.

His new poetry collection is Villain's Vernacular (Riot of Roses: 2024). 10

Shaira Orque is a San Diego-based Filipino American creative with a

passion for storytelling. 272

Michael Turner Ortega, a Navy flight deck crew member, holds foot

runner clan ancestry in the Mayan Nation. 171, 189

Lorraine A. Padden‘s‖ first‖ book,‖ Upwelling, was shortlisted for a

Touchstone Distinguished Book Award in 2023. 125

Andy Palasciano’s‖latest‖book‖is‖Revolutions: Night and Day (Garden Oak

Press: 2023). His memoir is The Warrior: The Tales of a Substitute Teacher and

Job Coach (Garden Oak Press: 2019). 12

Vandana Parashar is an associate editor of haikuKATHA. Her second

chapbook is Alone, I Am Not (Velvet Dusk: 2022). 322

Gayana Parsegova, a first-generation American-Armenian, earned an MA

from SDSU. Her work has appeared in Pacific Review and Hyebred. 82

Sherod Patillo is a Navy veteran from San Diego. 199

Margaux Paul holds a BA from UCSD. Her poetry has appeared in

TidePools, The Atlanta Review, and the SDPA. 385

Kep Peckham feels her life has been enriched by knowing writers in San

Diego, including contributors to the SDPA. 83

Samual Perez, a Marine Corps veteran, is a history buff. 217

Penny Perry has had work appear in the Paterson Literary Review and

Summation. Her new collection is The Woman with Newspaper Shoes

(Garden Oak Press: 2022). Her novel, Selling Pencils and Charlie (Lymer &

Hart: 2020), was a San Diego Book Awards finalist. 41

Marjorie Pezzoli is a visual artist and storyteller. Her newsletter on

Substack is The Cosmic Gumball Machine. 303

Chuck Pfarrer, a former SEAL Team Six squadron leader, can be heard on

Bullet Points. 356

Claudia Poquoc, a poet-teacher for Border Voices Project and the KSDPA,

received the Vision and Performing Arts Award (2020) from San Diego

City Schools. Her latest book is Mangoes Without Borders (2021). 388

404

Lena Portera, a kindergarten teacher who worked throughout the

pandemic, says she goes to work scared. 98

Mary Lenore Quigley lives in Lake San Marcos. Her books include

Mother to Mother Reflections of the Rosary (2017). 379

Crystophver R, a native San Diegan and actor-writer-director-producer of

theatre and film, received a Lifetime Achievement honor from

AmeriCorps for volunteer service. His collection is Intellectual Suicide:

Poetry To Die For (Garden Oak Press: 2019). 243

Archana Rajkumar is a high school student in Tamil Nadu, India. 314

Anne Randerson teaches at San Diego Writers, Ink. Originally from San

Diego, she lives in Belgium. 382

Bill Ratner is a voice actor and author of Fear of Fish (Alien Buddha Press:

2021). His work appeared in Best Small Fictions 2021 (Sonder Press). 38

Lisa Albright Ratnavira creates books with her artist husband, Gamini:

Maiden, Mother & Crone , Traveling with Pen and Brush, Hummingbirds

(ECO: 2024) and Grief's Labyrinth (Garden Oak Press: 2017). 297

Tim Ray lives in Northern California where he walks in the hills. 120

Judy Reeves teaches at writing conferences internationally and at San

Diego Writers, Ink, a nonprofit literary center she cofounded. Her books

include Wild Women, Wild Voices (New World Library: 2015) and When

Your Heart Says Go (She Writes Press: 2025). 47

Leslie L.J. Reilly, a longtime Ocean Beach/Point Loma resident, served as

Art Director for the Border Voices Poetry Project anthology. 354

Maria Paule Delos Reyes, born in the Philippines, is a member of Poets

INC in Escondido. She earned a BA from CSU-San Marcos and an MA

from the European Graduate School. 318

Bridgette Robeson studies poetry at SDSU. 25

Steve Rodriguez, a retired Marine Corps officer and high school English

teacher, lives in Linda Vista. 284

Casey Romero is a Army Vietnam Veteran who served at DaNang, Phu

Bai, Cameron Bay, and Quan Tri. 215

Yiskah Rosenfeld, author of Tasting Flight (Madville), was runner-up for

the Arthur Smith Prize. She holds an MFA from Mills College. 161

405

Gabriel Rubi earned an MFA from SDSU His work has appeared in

Poetry International and The Indianapolis Review. 309

Karen Ruiz studies at CSU-San Marcos. 311

Keala Rusher earned degrees from USC and National University. 30

Amanda Russell (she/her/hers) is an editor at The Comstock Review. Her

second chapbook is Processing (Main Street Rag: 2024). 160

Trevor Ryback, a singer-songwriter, works at CSU-San Marcos. 359

Sakura lives in Japan. 5

Ron Salisbury, the inaugural Poet Laureate of San Diego, is a Regional

Editor of the SDPA. 40

Shira Sandell is an educator presented a poetry workshop for the

California Association of Bilingual Educators. 313

CLS Sandoval, a Pushcart Prize nominee and a professor, hails from San

Diego and is currently living in Walnut, CA. 305

Nancy Sandweiss is a long-time member of OASIS poetry class, with two

poetry collections and‖a‖book‖of‖children’s‖stories. 93

Dave Schmidt grew up in the Midwest and lives in Mission Hills. 262

John Schneider earned the Kessler Prize (2024). His poetry collection,

Swallowing the Light, (2022) won awards, including the Pinnacle Book

Achievement Poetry Best Book winner (2023). He lives in Berkeley. 166

Wendy Schneider is native of San Diego. She has been featured at Poets

Underground and Palabra. 244

Lisa Schwartz served as Poetry Editor of The Newtowner Magazine, and

five years as Poet Laureate of Newtown, CT, stepping down in 2020 to

move to Solana Beach. 130

Jennie Selby is a retired Army veteran. 130

Prartho Sereno is Poet Laureate Emerita of Marin County. Her

latest Starfall in the Temple (Blue Light Press: 2023). 295

Christine Sinrud Shade wrote features, biographies, interviews, and

book reviews for the USC Chronicle. Her work has appeared in Westways,

the Los Angeles Times, and the Sacramento Bee. 62

Carol Shamon has had work in Seedlings, Spillwords, Summation, and the

SDPA. Her first poetry collection is Stronger Than Salmon (Finishing Line

Press: 2024). 308

406

Jeramy Stillman Shanley served in an Army 13M Multiple Launch

Rocket Systems Crew member. 191

Joanne Sharp holds a BA from UCLA and has had work appear in

various journals. She lives in Del Mar. 75

Nancy Shiffrin is the author of four poetry collections, including This

Sacred Earth (Kindle: 2022). She lives in Santa Monica. 250

Sara Shirazian, recently graduated from UCLA, is an editor at the Orange

County Business Journal. 276

Kim Shuck is the Seventh Poet Laureate of San Francisco (Emerita). She

has authored 11 books and edited 11 anthologies. Her most recent poetry

collection is Pick a Garnet to Sleep In. 172

Lisa Shulman teaches with California Poets in the Schools. Her

chapbook, Fragile Bones, Fierce Heart, is forthcoming from Finishing Line

Press. 242

Jim Simpson is an Atlanta-based music journalist, poet and writer. 165

Ellie Slade served as manager of the Ramona Library. 323

Anitra Carol Smith writes essays and poetry. She is also a photographer,

biographer, fabric artist, filmmaker, and musician. 69

Michelle Smith has had work appear in The Sun and Ms. She was a

Finalist for the Writer’s Digest 2023 poetry award and took First Place for a

haiku in SouthWest Writers 2024 contest. 268

Tanner Smith grew up in Texas and studied at UCSD. His poetry has

been published in the SDPA. 112

Amir Sommer, child of a Palestinian and an Israeli, bas had work

published from LA to Europe and in the Arab world. 56

Carole F. Stabler lives and writes in Carlsbad. 7

Corinne Stanley lives in Iowa City. Her collection is Breathe into the

Knowing (Azalea Art Press: 2014). 11

Carrie St. Andre, an Army veteran, lives in San Diego's back country. 190,

271

Walter Stepahin, a long time San Diego resident, has had work appear in

Oasis, Medical Literary Messenger, and Dash Literary Journal. 19

407

Janell Strube, an adoptee, has had work appear in A Year in Ink, the

SDPA, and UC-Riverside’s‖Mosaic Literary Magazine. 286

Jean E. Taddonio is a native San Diegan and retired hospice nurse. Her

children's picture book is The Tale of R-Qu (2014). 371

Carlos Tarrac, a writer, teacher, and illustrator from Mexico City living in

San Diego, earned honors at the Paris Book Festival and International

Latino Book Awards. 49

Charles Tatum, a psychologist who taught at Cornell College in Iowa,

then moved to San Diego to work with the Navy, retired after teaching at

National University. 115

Gordon Taylor (he/him) is a queer emerging poet whose work has

appeared in Rattle Poet's Respond and Nimrod. He won the Toronto Arts &

Letters Club Foundation Poetry Award (2022). 164

Natalie Taylor lives in Utah. Her chapbook is Eden’s Edge. Her work has

appeared in Hubbub, Kettle Blue Review, and New Ohio Review. 168

Susan Taylor hosts a weekly radio show about poetry, prose, and spoken

word on KNSJ 89.1 FM. 278

Susan Terence has worked as a writer/performer/artist-in-residence. She

earned an MFA from SFSU. 248

Sharon Thompson retired as a high school English teacher. Her poetry

has appeared in Excuse Me, I’m Writing and the SDPA. 300

Ann-Marie Thornton enjoys word play, witticism, and whimsy. 384

Hannah Tracy plays the piano and lives in San Diego. 275

Mary Anne Trause, a retired psychologist living in Encinitas,. has had

work appear in Summation, Paterson Literary Review, and the SDPA. 386

Ann Tweedy‘s first book, The Body's Alphabet (Headmistress Press: 2016),

was a finalist for a Lambda award. 52

Kary Lynn Vail, born in San Diego, is a poet, actor, and writer. 270

Wendy Van Camp is the Anaheim Poet Laureate Emerita. Her debut

collection, The Planets (2019), earned Elgin Award nominations. 287

Madison Victoria, a native San Diegan, has had work in the SDPA and in

Bizarre Bazaar "creative vending machines" around the city. 57, 334

Milagros Vilaplana, daughter of a Spanish Civil War refugee, straddles

Tijuana & San Diego: U.S.-born, raised in Mexico, she earned an MFA

from SDSU. 327

408

Jon Von Erb writes poetry for a local newspaper, distributing his poetry

free to coffee shops in University Heights. 13

Ishmael von Heidrick-Barnes has two collections: Intimate Geography

(Ragged Sky Press: 2012) and Urban Legends (Moufflon: 2016 ), a Tatiana

Ferahian. His artwork appeared on a cover of the SDPA 2013-14. 4

Marg Wafer is a retired Physical Therapist. 280

J.K. Wallen, originally from New York City, lives in Solana Beach. 73

Isabelle Walker has had work in December and The Maine Review. She

earned an MFA from Antioch. 344

Makayla Wamboldt, a community college educator living in San Diego,

has had work appear in Rise Up Review, New Feathers Anthology, and Last

Leaves. 30

Johnathan Ward lives in Lake San Marcos. 261

Richard Weaver has had work appear in Misfit, Slippery Elm, and

Magnolia Review. His book is The Stars Undone (Duende Press: 1992). He

helped found Black Warrior Review and was its first Poetry Editor. 335

John Ohl Webster is a poet, artist, and musician. 317

Tommy Welty, from Fallbrook, has had work appear in Vita Poetica, Stone

Circle Review, and Ekstasis. 90

Jon Wesick is a Regional Editor of the SDPA. 253

Elaine Westheimer is a member of an Oasis poetry workshop. 28

Chelsea Williams, an aspiring writer of children’s‖ literature,‖ attends‖

Miramar Community College. 92

Elizabeth Yahn Williams travels in French-speaking countries. 361

Patricia Aya Williams is a Red Wheelbarrow Poetry Prize recipient and a

Steve Kowit Poetry Prize finalist. Her work has appeared in Santa Clara

Review, Dunes Review, and the SDPA. 133

Grayson Wilson is a former Navy Fleet Marine Force Corpsman and Iraq

and Afghanistan War Veteran. 20

409

Kathabela Wilson is Secretary of Tanka Society of America. She performs

internationally with her husband, Rick Wilson, a flute player. 102

Robert Windorf resides on Long Island where he taught creative writing

courses at a local university for several years. 289

Kristi Ellis Witt has had work appear in Dime Show Review, Flash Fiction

Magazine,‖and‖Lake‖County’s‖The Bloom. 43

Lulu Wong, a retired attorney, is a Buddhist Chaplain and poet-teacher

with California Poets in the Schools. 13

Nancy Lynée Woo earned an MFA from Antioch University. Her first

book is I’d Rather Be Lightning (Gasher Press: 2023). 42

Kirby Michael Wright was born and raised in Hawaii, His grandmother

was the first woman to drive cattle for a living on Moloka'i. 351

Stella Wright, a sophomore at USD, won the 2023 Poetry Ourselves award.

33

Rita Zamora, a college student living in Mexico, is studying to become a

translator. 105

Janice Huiling Zhang has written nine books. Her poems have been

featured in various journals, including the SDPA. 353

SDPA SOCIAL MEDIA AND MARKETING COORDINATOR

Alana Rodriguez, an MFA poetry student at SDSU, is a submissions

reader for Poetry International and a recipient of the Sarah B. Marsh-Rebelo

Scholarship for Poetry. Her work has appeared in Unfortunately Lit, Boats

Against the Current, and Zone 3. She is passionate about encouraging

young poets in both the Latinx and LGBTQ+ communities to pursue

publication and share their work with the world.

410

REGIONAL EDITORS

Adrián Arancibia, born in Iquique, Chile, co-edited the Taco Shop

Poets Anthology: Chorizo Tonguefire and authored Atacama Poems

and The Keeper/El guardador. With a PhD from UC-San Diego, he

teaches English and Creative Writing at Miramar College.

Brandon Cesmat is a writer & musician from Valley Center. His

books include Ice Drum (2001), Driven into the Shade (2005), and

Light in All Directions (2009). His album of original songs is Califor-

Noir. As a journalist, he has written extensively about the late

architect/artist/poet James Hubbell.

Karla Cordero, a descendant of the Chichimeca people, is a

VONA, Macondo, CantoMundo, The Loft Literary Center, and

Pink Door fellow. Her book, How to Pull Apart the Earth (Not A

Cult: 2018), won the San Diego Book Award (2019).

Adam Greenfield has produced podcasts for himself and others,

including Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT), and has

moderated panels at Comic Con and WonderCon. His book of

poetry is Regarding the Monkey (Puna Press: 2015).

Jim Moreno has served as the Poet-in-Residence for the Juvenile

Court and Community Schools since August, 2005, teaching

poetry workshops for at-risk youth in lockups and community

schools. He hosts an open-mic event in La Mesa.

Ron Salisbury holds an MFA from SDSU. He teaches the

Certificate in Poetry class at San Diego Writers, Ink. His new book,

Please Write and Tell Me What I Looked Like When You Met Me

(Wholon: 2022). He served as the inaugural Poet Laureate of San

Diego (2020-22).

Robt O ́Sullivan has impacted the regional poetry community

since 1997, hosting readings. Since August, 2007, he has led the

Poets INC (Inland North County) reading at the Escondido

Gallery.

Jon Wesick, has had work published in the Atlanta Review,

Berkeley Fiction Review, Pearl, and Slipstream. Nominated for a

Pushcart Prize, his poetry collection is Words of Power, Dances of

Freedom (Garden Oak Press: 2015).

411

EDITORIAL DIRECTOR

Ameerah Holliday, a former SDPA intern, directs the digital

production of the San Diego Poetry Annual and serves as Editor of

the Kids! San Diego Poetry Annual. She is an associate literary agent

with the Serendipity Literary Agency. A dancer, she holds a BA in

English Literature from SDSU.

MANAGING EDITOR

Seretta Martin, a Phillip Levine and Washington prize finalist, has

work published in Patterson Review, Gyroscope, Poetry International,

Web del Sol, Oberon, Serving House, Collateral and Modern Haiku. She

teaches‖at‖Oasis‖Learning‖Center‖and‖San‖Diego‖Writer’s‖Ink,‖and‖

holds an MFA from SDSU. Her newest book is Holographic Reality:

Poems of an Eclectic Life.

EXECUTIVE EDITOR/ASSOCIATE PUBLISHER

Michael Klam organizes the Poetry & Art Series in San Diego,

ongoing since 2001. He serves as Treasurer of the San Diego

Entertainment and Arts Guild. His books include Emma and the

Buddha Frog (Puna Press, 2007), The Cheapest Flight to Paradise

(Puna Press, 2017) and Anything for a Dull Moment (Garden Oak

Press, 2020).

PUBLISHER

Anthony Blacksher, known as Ant Black in performance poetry

circles, earned a PhD from Claremont Graduate University. A

professor at San Bernardino Valley College, his performance

poetry has appeared on YouTube and in the San Diego Poetry

Annual. He serves as Vice President of San Diego Entertainment

and Arts Guild.

FOUNDER

William Harry Harding has written four novels, including Three

Women and the River, or The Englishman Who Forgot His Own Name

(Lymer & Hart: 2018). He founded Garden Oak Press and chairs

the San Diego Entertainment and Arts Guild (SDEAG) non-profit,

which sponsors the San Diego Poetry Annual.

412

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

To our partners and host venues for committing resources and effort

to support the San Diego Poetry Annual.

@Spacebar·

atspacebar.com

Centro Cultural Tijuana, Feria del Libro Tijuana

Encinitas Library

The Escondido Arts Partnership

escondidoarts.org

San Diego Writers, Ink

KRISTEN FOGLE, Executive Director

sandiegowriters.org

La Jolla/Riford Branch Library

Mission Hills Branch Library

Point Loma Nazarene University

KATIE MANNING, LEONORA SIMONOVIS

Poets at the Grove

Balboa Park DEBORAH RAMOS

Poets Underground

SUNNY REY and ANTHONY AZZARITO

poetsunderground.com

Pt. Loma/Hervey Branch Library

San Diego City Central Library

330 Park Blvd., San Diego, CA 92101

MARC CHERY, Supervisor, Humanities Section

San Diego Writers Festival

sandegowritersfestival.com

MARNI FREEDMAN, Director

UCSD Cross-Cultural Center

413

SPECIAL THANKS

Poets & Writers Foundation

for continued support

of our community outreach programs:

including Native Poets, and Veterans

Ellen Bass

for judging the Steve Kowit Poetry Prize

Maria Mazziotti Gillan, Leslie Ferguson,

Lee Herrick, Suzanne Lummis, Ron Salisbury

Al Zolynas, Mary Kowit

for supporting and promoting The Kowit

Marc Chery

and the San Diego Public Library

for supporting The Kowit award ceremony

Jason Magabo Perez

SAN DIEGO POET LAUREATE

for his generous grant to support the SDPA

To all who hosted SDPA readings:

Michael Klam, Robt O ́Sullivan, Adam Greenfield

Seretta Martin, Jim Moreno, Judy Reeves,

Katie Manning, Leonora Simonovis, Olga García

Sunny Rey and Anthony Azzarito, Deborah Ramos

Charlie Berigan, Jane Muschenetz

CREDITS

photographs by FERNANDO PHILLIPI

FRONT COVER and FRONTISPIECE: Travelers

FRONT COVER: It’s a Good Day

INTERIOR SECTION PAGES: various sites, San Diego

fernandophillipi.com

414

This edition features 364 poems by more than 350 poets,

including the STEVE KOWIT POETRY PRIZE 2024 honorees,

plus Marge Piercy, Juan Felipe Herrera, Maria Mazziotti

Gillan, Ron Salisbury, Jan Beatty, Suzanne Lummis, and

many of the finest poets from our region and beyond.

Also featured are community outreach special sections,

including the San Diego Poet Laureate, Native Poets,

Veterans, and a retrospective on the poetry of famed artistarchitect

James Hubbell, who died in 2024.

San Diego Poetry Annual 2024-25

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