tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3563820089303452872024-03-13T06:15:45.133-07:002010 SGVPF Broadside ContestDon Kingfisher Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03563466200910098213noreply@blogger.comBlogger1125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-356382008930345287.post-9489451279833738212010-04-17T12:04:00.000-07:002010-04-17T19:43:16.182-07:0019 poems entered in the 2010 San Gabriel Valley Poetry Festival Broadside Contest!* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *<br /><br />Ellaraine Lockie<br />SEXED ON A KONA BALCONY<br /><br />All his lovers have fed the birds he says<br />This is after I've sprinkled the balcony<br />with pieces of pancake<br /><br />Well, we can't help it<br />Our wombs command the role<br />as surely as the moon dictates the slap<br />of waves against lava rock below the hotel<br /><br />We are hardwired to feed hunger, if not in children<br />then in pets, plants and wild things<br />I especially like the wild ones<br />The touch between feral and female<br />A scrap becoming energy that burns in both directions<br /><br />The myna who is empowered to squawk and walk <br />the perimeter as if giving orders<br />Zebra doves too dumb or smart to pay attention<br />House sparrows hopping like wind-up toys<br />as they pick up pieces for babies in a nearby palm<br /><br />All of them fueling to follow their own destinies<br />And me with the same small flame that must have<br />kindled Annapurna when she filled Shiva's begging bowl<br />It burns through my morning bath<br /><br />When I come out wrapped in a towel <br />A saffron finch with fluorescent head <br />is eating macadamia nuts <br /><br />that my man chopped with his pocket knife<br />He calls it male bonding<br />The nuts are coffee-coated, sugared and salted <br /><br />* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *<br /><br />Marvin Dorsey<br />BROADSIDE<br /> <br />Car started<br />belt buckled<br />staggered lines<br />start streaking by<br />concrete barrier divides<br />50 mile section of the 5 <br />up north to Frazier Park<br />down south to San Fernando Valley<br /><br />Exhaust pipes<br />red brake lights<br />speeds faster everyday<br />commuting to work <br />an hour or more one way<br />18 wheelers<br />compact cars<br />silver Saturn<br /><br />Sipping coffee<br />smoking cigarettes<br />nerves stretched tight<br />blank faces staring<br />into an abyss<br /><br />Silent waters<br />green grassed hills<br />the remains of a blown out tire<br />wreck consumed by fire<br />traffic alert <br />I'm late for work<br />someone's not gonna make it <br />home for dinner<br /><br />Constantly in motion<br />fossil fuel burning<br />polluting mass <br />CHP hidden in a sparrow's nest<br />waiting for another moving violation<br /><br />Who knows so many miles<br />round trip<br />around in circles<br />white knuckles clutching<br />down shifting from 4000ft<br />chasing a 15 minute gap <br /><br />* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *<br /><br />Toti O’Brien<br />SHOES<br /> <br />Like when I was ten<br />and wore clogs<br />still the one <br />of my steps<br />is my favorite <br />tune<br /><br />I adore when the heels<br />wear out and<br />(although treading on <br />naked<br />wood <br />is more dangerous)<br /><br />the tick tock of my<br />left <br />and right<br />finds the <br />nicest <br />pitch<br /><br />***<br /><br />Oh I guess I<br />remember then<br />country paths at sunset<br />medieval<br />streets of my land or roman<br />cobblestones may be<br /><br />But in fact I also <br />love flip flops, sandals<br />soft dance pumps<br />fit like gloves<br />cowboy boots and elegant<br />satin slippers<br /><br />As well as I appreciate<br />in terms of support<br />carpets, sand beaches and <br />grass where I delight<br />walking<br />bare foot<br /><br />***<br /><br />Thank you<br />mother earth<br />for letting me step on<br />you with myriads of<br />clicking sounds<br />or mute touches<br /><br />Thank you, for each<br />time that you <br />don’t <br />let me fall<br />Thanks, whenever I slip<br />for stopping my fall <br /><br />* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *<br /><br />Brenda Petrakos<br />SO - HE SAID IT WAS HIS MEDICINE <br /><br />Picking up a pipe - stuffing natural - instant fuck up<br />Pretending that he was 22 <br />Sadly looking everyday of 45<br />Loudly proclaiming - crazy - religion<br />double talking, weed logic, bitter ramblings, stupid flirtations<br />He needed to eat<br />He needed to talk<br />Picking up a pipe stuffing natural - instant excuse, instant superiority, no matter how filthy the hands, no matter how empty the pockets, no matter how the mirror reflects<br />and the words the painful, horrible, junkie, addict words, made me sad, sad, sad,<br />I feed him, I listened, I told him no about a lot of things<br />so he over-talked, and ignored me<br />I tried, really, really tried ...but in the end... I let him go<br />sliding down the crazy, drug, landslide hill, perhaps to jail? perhaps a shelter?<br />It's not my problem <br />It is my problem<br />but I can't do a thing about it<br />not a thing - <br />He used to be something completely different<br />and now he was broken<br />like a ceramic statue of a boy, put together with evaporated milk and Elmers glue<br />all put together--- but never the same<br /><br />* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *<br /><br />Jon Epstein<br />JOLLY ROGER<br /><br />We weren’t actually living on a house boat. It was more like a converted fishing barge. It floated, but that was about as nautical as it got. In the rear, where the hull would have been, was a makeshift shitter that emptied into the canal. It was no wonder why, in the three months I lived there, I’d never seen anything swim in the canals; even water fowl were suspect. “Here you go” Steve said, and handed me three balloons packed with pungent, Red Lebanese hashish. Each weighed about twenty grams. “Thanks” I said and grabbed them. I stepped behind the mill-dewy, plastic shower curtain. The cramped toilet was filthy. I was surrounded by stacks of decaying German newspapers, tarpaulins, and decomposing fishing gear. I undressed, squatted down, and grunted when the first one went up. <br /><br />* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *<br /><br />Jan Steckel <br />DREAM HOUSE<br /> <br />Splintery wood, cobwebs, cold. Door creaks<br />open to dark. Moldy lungful. Dead space. Crawl in.<br />Secrets in the hollow walls. Furnace filter: who scrabbles<br />behind blue lint? Squeaks and scurries under joists. <br />Small temblor, or bump of furry head against subfloor?<br />Skittering behind the lathe and plaster. Shhhh! Be <br />still.<br /> <br />Twittering under the eaves: Bats? Swallows? Mice?<br />Tiny droppings, gnawed shavings, billets-doux stuffed <br />in knot holes yellow in the horse-hair insulation. <br />Immured within these walls, the whole house history.<br />Jacks. Marbles. Indian nickels. Corncob pipe stems.<br />Newspapers mouse-ground to Pompeii ash over all.<br />Still--<br /> <br />Baby skeletons collapse between dry-rotten beams. <br />Termite-built powder castles rise. Foundation crumbles. <br />Water pools. Generations of house shrews snooze <br />under asbestos blankets in pine dust beds.<br />Lead leaches out of decades-old paint chips, <br />drips out ancient gutters like whiskey from a <br />still.<br /> <br />Daguerreotypes with newspaper backing,<br />manuscript fragments stiffening book spines, <br />antebellum glass shattered under the cellar. <br />Push into the house, always more rooms, more walls,<br />always more in the walls than in the rooms.<br />Always another walled room, further back <br />still.<br /><br />* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *<br /><br />Anita Holzberg<br />KINDNESS<br /><br />Kindness comes<br /> sometimes as smooth as glass<br />on the back of a watermelon<br /><br />Kindness covers the world with a cotton blanket<br /> a quilt that puffs with the touch<br /><br />Kindness is a river flowing<br /> that we dip into<br /><br />Kindness is an unexpected<br /> smile across a room<br /><br />Kindness walks on gossamer feet<br /><br />Kindness is the antithesis of sorrow<br /> that slumps even with the morning sun<br /><br />Kindness, we could color her yellow, or orange<br /> or hot pink, or even red<br /><br />Kindness is a shining thoughtful person that<br /> kisses on both cheeks<br /><br />When I am too tired to take in my garbage cans,<br />Kindness just does it (I don't know who, what, when)<br /> She's there.<br /><br />Kindness lets me sleep in the garden of angels<br /><br />When I am Kindness<br /> there is peace in my heart<br /> my heart rises up<br /> to meet what is<br /><br />Because Kindness is around<br /> the sound of beauty <br /> emerges.<br /><br />* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *<br /><br />Tony Peyser <br />THE VILLAGE PEOPLE<br /> <br />The creature was still on the loose but they were <br />gaining on him. The faces of the peasants in hot <br /> <br />pursuit flickered in the shadows made by the light <br />they carried. Most of the people in the mob that <br /> <br />night were angry and yelling, clearly out for blood. <br />However, one of the young men from the village <br /> <br />looked not only calm but happy. He even began <br />smiling as it dawned on him that chasing after <br /> <br />Frankenstein’s monster with a torch was more <br />fun than carrying one for his ex-girlfriends.<br /><br />* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *<br /><br />Phil Turner<br />LI PO AT KINGFISHER PAVILION<br /> <br />One day a long time ago,<br />Somewhere outside of Chang’an,<br />In the dense, mountainous,<br />Bamboo forests of T’ang China--<br />A drunken master ambled into a valley<br />By the light of a blue moon<br />Unlike any that had ever been.<br />He marveled at a pavilion built there<br />By some inspired rich man so far away<br />Hidden from the world.<br />Its marble frame was a deep shiny black,<br />Quite like Ozymandias’ polished diorite throne, <br />And from atop it there called to the lucid drunkard<br />A small bird which he made out to be a kingfisher:<br />‘Poet,’ the resplendent feathered specter whispered deeply,<br />‘Hear my words: your journey has been long and lonely.<br />You have sailed the seas of imagination<br />And recorded your exquisite finds for others<br />To treasure. This is the night of your fate. <br />Your name is already immortal.<br />There is a gift for you in the dark,<br />Silvery shallow of the lake beyond me.<br />Go to look at it and join us in the Heaven<br />You have created with words.’<br />I can see the tragic wandering scholar’s<br />Moist black eyes and hear his quiet sobs<br />As he shivers with anticipation, drunk no more,<br />And though he fears he is dreaming,<br />Walks over to the pool and sees the moon,<br />Which enraptures him so profoundly on this<br />Loneliest of his nights that he jumps in<br />To kiss it and drowns in its heavenly embrace--<br />Some say on that fabled night he was both<br />The kingfisher and himself to have found<br />Such a beautiful death.<br /><br />* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *<br /><br />julie larson <br />NOTHING PERSONAL<br /><br />carrion crow’s feet<br />scratch without a doubt<br />eyes of newborn lamb promise<br /><br />aluminum sheets rain foil<br />parades of charades<br />shadowing shar-pei wrinkles<br /><br />*spoiler* This Poem Wants to Sound Hot!<br /><br />are you choking on mere image smoke?<br />are you drinking the red? or golden bull?<br /><br />rest in peace: Death Knows which snide<br />window or door can’t be clocked<br />time after mind after<br />all<br />aware of the beasts Inside<br />Life glances Over<br /> * me *<br />laughing<br /><br />it’s not always about you<br /><br />* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *<br /><br />Rosalee Thompson<br />HERE IS YOUR SKYMAP<br /><br />I bury 7 endangered poet's books<br />under my plum tree every full moon<br />Their wild words whisper<br />while I try to sleep<br />Hold The Voice That is Great Within Us<br />to the Center<br />of your head<br /><br />My bed's in the air<br />The moon's eyes are purple plums<br />My arms hold a bouquet of trees<br /><br />A white bird flies by<br />with a gold key in her mouth<br /><br />* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *<br /><br />Jeffry Jensen<br />UP THE WAZOO<br /><br />I’ve got maturity up the wazoo and<br />a car with a recurring “service engine”<br />light that keeps coming on just to torture me<br />no matter how many times I fill up the tank and<br />tighten the gas cap or replace the gas cap or<br />tie my shoes with double knots on a Tuesday.<br />You can see what it is doing to me in my ripe<br />old age of sixty (the new forty I am told).<br />There is nothing new about it in my bones<br />(what is this complaining crap anyway?).<br />Life isn’t for wimps or three-legged pigs.<br />No retirement for the wicked, librarians, or<br />women with big tits (now the sexist impulse<br />rears its ugly head, can you cut a poet some slack here?).<br />OK, the car will live, I will live, the poem will<br />end, and my cat will curl up on the bed (as<br />long as I don’t make any sudden moves in my sleep,<br />but I’m sixty and sudden is no longer an option) for<br />the duration of a cat dream with frequent twitches and<br />the BBC rattling on about cricket scores on a clock radio.<br /><br />* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *<br /><br />Erika Wilk<br />LAST LEAVES <br /> <br />Huge sycamores <br />discard dead leaves<br />dried to a brown crisp<br />like the leathery skin of a sherpa<br /> <br />they sail to lawns, pavement<br />brittle yet strong<br />they do not shatter<br />unlike dreams<br /> <br />chased by wind<br />they race down the street<br />doing cartwheels <br />mischievously imitating footsteps<br /> <br />they startle me<br />I turn to look<br />no one<br />nothing<br /> <br />up ahead they gather<br />embrace into a huddle<br />I feel their strength<br />knowing it was a good year<br /><br />* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *<br /><br />Xochitl-Julisa Bermejo<br />MY L.A. LOVE POEM<br /><br />My L.A. dances to the out of tune twang <br />of “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” blaring <br />from rusty ice cream trucks <br />putputting down the road.<br /><br />It lives in the crowds patrolling <br />Santee Alley every Saturday morning<br />buying trinkets to sell: beads, scarves, <br />plastic baby dolls that walk and cry like real. <br /><br />My L.A. is weaved into every stitch <br />of an $8.99 turquoise blouse. <br />Blood, sweat, fear and dreams bound <br />together like thread <br /><br />running through industrial sewing machines <br />singing in a row.<br />My L.A. is painted on freeways<br />like a Native-American woman’s jewelry, <br /><br />it decorates cement waterways <br />snaking through concrete landscapes.<br />It breathes at Boyle and 1st; <br />expanding in carnecerias, Paneserias, loteria, <br /><br />exhaling the Virgen, always the Virgen, <br />watching over everyone with her three <br />wise men pollo, leche, y pan.<br />You may say this L.A. is ugly,<br /><br />but I say it is real. Unlike shiny <br />Hollywood fantasies, it is dark and sticky <br />like black tar bubbling and breaking <br />from city streets, and cannot be contained. <br /><br />* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *<br /><br />Lisa Marie Sandoval<br />THE 7 STAGES OF HUMANITY<br />(a haiku series)<br /><br />A humming bird sits<br />in her nest atop her eggs<br />warming the future<br /><br />The moon cries and sighs<br />drinking light from the sun’s breast<br />its first breath of light<br /><br />My rice paper soul <br />creases in flames with passion<br />consumed in itself<br /><br />My soul floats, nourished,<br />in a womb of warm honey<br />drinking in God’s peace<br /><br />My mind weaves worry<br />stretching the frames of wonder<br />needlepointing fear<br /><br />White carpet descends<br />eats my last breath into death<br />covers my ashes<br /><br />A new earth rises<br />a gold sky soars over me<br />Jesus sits, enthroned.<br /><br />* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *<br /><br />Cliff Moore <br />A DREAM MANTRA<br /><br />I tell this tale of tallness not for myself<br />But for the breaths of my kindred.<br /><br />Those breaths they breathed out<br />A time or so ago are the breaths<br />That I breathe in now.<br />Without filtering<br />And my acknowledgement,<br />I am destined to be poisoned<br />By the same toxins that poisoned them.<br /><br />A time or two ago a young man <br />Told a wise man, what is<br />And Polar bear died off <br />Only to come back as platypi.<br />And the sun rose in the west<br />To set in the east China sea.<br /><br />This thing we walk on,<br />This living rock in space,<br />Owes us nothing.<br />It spews out all kinds of life forms<br />And gives us cause to pause<br />To iterate how lucky we are.<br /><br />But I will wait for man to love man.<br />I know a time is coming,<br />My grandmother told me so,<br />When beavers will not be damned.<br />And Ra will once again<br />Rise in the east<br />And set in the west China sea.<br /><br />* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *<br /><br />Randy Cauthen<br />(poem removed by request)<br /><br />* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *<br /><br />Jessica Joy Reveles<br />SURVIVING THE DESERT<br /><br />You and I were busy <br />becoming pirates in the desert,<br />cumulous clouds surrounding our rose and sienna <br /><br />mottled landscape, palm tree yucca, <br />leopard lizards darting over and under<br />so little treasure.<br /><br />There wasn’t a way to tell you<br />I’d lied about the salt flats,<br />wanting nothing but mirage,<br />fearing the dunes, the northern slope, <br /><br />numbering our days<br />until the sun failed to make us sweat,<br />until the soles of our shoes<br />exposed stone feet.<br />I could have gone on <br /><br />tracing the shape of your heart with my tongue,<br />like taproots searching for water;<br />we were becoming strangers though, <br />unable to remember the arroyo.<br /><br />Your limbs stretched<br />along the desert floor, <br />a vain attempt at escaping erosion.<br /><br />We were busy sinking ships in the sand.<br /><br />* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *<br /><br />Patrick Thomas Jeffries<br />WHISPERING SUN<br /> <br />God pulls breath<br />From the solar plex…<br />A jumping spark reflects<br />A smoldering fire that collects<br />The dust, the fuel; the form being reshaped<br />Shadows stand still as wind blows and escapes <br />Through the window gently moving the drapes<br />The sound, the blow, the inhale like a hit of crack<br />The atmosphere is real; yet winks the eye itself<br />And that’s a trip <br />Translating could hardly say<br />A word that could blow the world away<br />Hangs gently silent, from the lips, hanging on with a tight grip<br />Move this, move this, the object is to continue to move this<br />Through this, a subtle bliss, a goddess kiss, solitude consists<br />In a recognition of a self non-distinct <br />From anything that ever thought or that could think<br />The heart skips a beat like leaping over puddles in the street<br />Skips another beat and almost sinks with this dramatic union:<br />Just whispering of the sun—Don Kingfisher Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03563466200910098213noreply@blogger.com0