From soul to paper: The Tribune kicks off its 12th annual celebration of National Poetry Month

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Just as winter rains poured down in March this year, writers across San Luis Obispo County rained down poems to celebrate April as National Poetry Month.

The number of entries reminded me of the many people who share their poetry at locations throughout the county every month. Lisa Coffman, a respected poet and Cal Poly lecturer, commented on the pleasure and meaning of listening to this variety of voices. She recalled that one of her mentors, Major Ragain, often said, “We are all working on one long poem.”

Coffman’s words echoed as I began reading the many poems reaching out to fight illness, loss of love and life, but also to celebrate twilight, trees, children and new love. These lines in the form of haiku, sonnet and free verse, rhymed and unrhymed, were filled with mystery, humor and lament.

As you share in this creative outpouring of verse, I hope you will be touched by all these voices “working on one long poem.”

— Bonnie Young, San Luis Obispo poet laureate

THE SINGULAR SMILE

Grover Petersen, Santa Margarita

Nothing is so wondrous to me As someone who’s a part of me How can she, just barely one, Be absolutely so much fun?

In her world, so filled with wonder, “Who is this Dad, with scratchy face, Rough-edged hands, and voice of thunder?” “He is the one who made this place, Picks you up and keeps you safe Against your wish but for your sake”

As she high-tails it down the hall Shoes on hands, butt more tall, How can I love, to tell the truth, This beautiful child with just one tooth?

BLACKBIRD BYE BYE

Paul Alan Fahey, Nipomo

The day you left me, Crows invaded our garden. They swooped through the jacaranda, Then landed in the large avocado. They squabbled over sunflower seeds In the birdfeeder.

I watched from our bedroom window. I can’t say how long, Several minutes perhaps, Before one cawed and signaled the others To move on.

Rising in unison, The birds headed east, Toward the Santa Lucias.

Crows invaded our garden The day you left me.

Without a backward glance Up, away, Gone.

KNITTING

Jeanie Greensfelder, San Luis Obispo

There’s a thread that you follow

William Stafford

I hold out my arms — Mother places yarn skeins around them. Starting with a thread, she winds ball after ball, colors for her afghan.

I did not know then

that life holds out its arms, and starting with a thread, I wind ball after ball, colors and textures, memories knitting my story.

LES, SPRING 1947

Suzanne Parker, San Luis Obispo

Contained by a scalloped paper border is a small and crisp image of a lean man standing tall in rolled shirtsleeves, squinting against the sun. A limestone house flanked by bare trees and a car of dark, curved lines stand quietly behind him: the dark countenance of one so admired.

I recognize his hands first. (I know them, now.) The star sapphire ring in sepia tones beside his thigh, a curve of the opposite thumb. Below more hair than recent decades have known, past and present focus on the contours of his face and the faint curl of a pleased, impatient lip.

Was it she who stood before him in the pale and brittle grass with camera in hand, framing that moment for this — more than sixty years later? I gently smooth the broken surface of a crease at one corner. In overwhelming silence, nostalgic for a memory not my own, I resolve to ask.

UNTITLED

Ruth Sheffer, Atascadero

Waves were hitting the beach with force, as if hands were pushing The water closer to the couple sitting quietly each thinking of a past Forgotten but now a raw and hurting pain.

They only met not long ago to soothe their loneliness and anguish Of their loss. His pain was real and new, hers muffled by the many Years of crying for something she had lost that scarred her soul.

She held his hand to gather up his pain and ease his hurt so deep within Himself that no one knew.

The waves were rolling closer now and spraying them with Droplets cool and clear. And then, he moaned and held her Close. The dam had burst, the tears began to flow. They washed his Cheek and dropped upon her clothes and then became a part of Both of them.

They were so close, like one, and then they knew. They were alive And there was life to live and lots of love that only now began to stir Their hearts.

What more was there to honor one, now gone, but live with love,

And cherish life itself.

LITTLE GIRL

Carol Russell, San Luis Obispo

Quiet and shy Fragile as if she might break.

Fine crystal.

Soft essence of wild flowers.

Tender sensitivity

Music her gift — She, my gift.

UNTITLED

Sidonie Wiedenkeller, Los Osos

Muse on the corner

Waiting for me to collect

Wayward thoughts and write

SONRISA

Susan Lara, Atascadero

As the clatter of pellets hitting the pan

Two greedy goats come running.

They jostle and nudge for their share.

I wait for Sonrisa, but she doesn’t appear.

“Sonrisa!”

But no distant stumbling footfall rustles the grass.

“Sonrisa.”

But no large form emerges from the twilight.

Armed with a torch I slice through the darkness

‘Til I come to the grey mound resting on the steep hillside.

“Sonrisa” I whisper

But no brown ear turns its soft curled tip towards me.

“Sonrisa.”

But no soft donkey nostrils taste the night for my scent.

THE WILDNESS

Eve Cone, Atascadero

As a child I wanted to be close to

wild animals. I coaxed the squirrel into

my grandfather’s abandoned

blacksmith shop. The squirrel wandered in

but stayed only a day. Then came a feral cat near the old well. I sat very still, barely breathing, as it

came so close

hoping it could be tamed, that the

wildness would leave. But the wildness didn’t leave and the

cat and the squirrel left

as they had come. Now you have gone, too, though I lay very

still, barely breathing,

as you came so close, hoping you

would stay, near the well,

that your wildness would leave.

SPIRIT

John F. Collins, Arroyo Grande

Were you once asleep inside a boulder Resting on crystals and ancient dust Not moving ‘cause molecules held you How did you finally wiggle a toe or so Discover subtle air a quiet breeze And silent shadows that showed the way Were the origins of shadows a thrill Did the light reflecting doers delight Did you touch then become the eternal Discover what was has always been Do you return sometimes to what you were Immobile in the learned interpretation Knowing where you have been you can go Plus how difficult it is to bring a friend

VIXEN

Tom Bauer, Morro Bay

A dress billows in an April breeze, Accompanied by a winsome smile, Or is it just a ploy to tease A lover with a coquette’s guile? While bare feet test the ocean’s chills, And winds weave patterns in her hair, Diving pelicans emerge with fish-stuffed bills. She splashes water with a cunning flair, Her laughter mocks the squawking gulls. Framed against the splendor of the sea, The hypnotic rhythm of the surf lulls Her into a romantic reverie. Nature and flesh conspire To ignite the sparks of youthful fire.

UNTITLED

Rick Tibben, Nipomo

on the gleaming sidewalks

men wearing torn clothing and shoes

trudge by the giant

corporate skyscrapers where greedy men

in their Armani suits

gloat over

their avarice-earned wealth and into this soi disant species

is lured a fly and it being solely righteous

is smashed

on a gold-dusted Krispy Kreme

CHEMOTHERAPY (ADRIAMYCIN)

Margaret Geever, Morro Bay

Sekhmet! Enter me. Let me not die of that roar; Rampage! Claw! Destroy all, O ancient goddess, with your fierce fangs. Now, prowl the dead. Cradle the vital cells in your gentle paws. Lick to resurrection. Nurse them with the divine milk of your women’s breast Let me heal with that purr, O Sekhmet!

TINGE OF TWILIGHT

Cynthia Linn Bates, Atascadero

A lavender tongue licks the heated air, tasting a sun-baked rise. Amethyst breath cools scorching sand, blows swirls in shadowed swales. Plum lips kiss an ancient adobe, nibble the hem of a purple-robed cactus, whisper mauve farewells to the blue. Night kneels behind the horizon, waiting with reverence for this violet end of day.

TOPPINGS

Judith Bernstein, Arroyo Grande

The crème of crème brûlée, pale yellow carrot cake icing, thick slab of melted cheese on onion soup, hamburger, macaroni. Toppings lure, my tongue goes whoopee.

Not an inside picker — toll house nuggets, the slobbery ingredients of wraps, I assault the outer layers and retire to lick my chops in a quiet corner, unobserved by fellow diners.

Like an anteater, whoosh the tongue unfurls and snap, the morsel is secured and whomp, it enters heaven, the mouth. I cherish my captured toppings, thumb my nose at jeers of superficiality.

We top grazers have the joy of instant access, know the pleasures of first come, first served.

THAT MOMENT

Kalila Volkov, Morro Bay

Wine sweet wine in a fish-shaped blue bottle sweet wine shared at your grandma’s beach house we’d fled college for the night and heavy with spring fever, were alone

You, a blue-eyed, Irish fisherman with hair longer than mine served filet at the back yard picnic table we drank to your catch with flimsy plastic cups

You, who smelled like the cod you cleaned on a dock in Newport had hooked me with your smile

Wanting to be lovers, my body pulsed, awaiting an embrace, and I hungered for that moment of tasting the wine on your lips.

SOUTHERN WOMAN

Michele Hall, Los Osos

Your fingertips, stained brown from the garden you tended, danced through the air as you spoke. And my eyes burned from the afternoon sun, and you laughed loudly. Mosquitoes and that rickety old dock we sat on together. The Bayou rippled in the afternoon breeze, . the trees swayed and the birds called. And you were me and I was you — yet two strangers together. But then it didn’t matter because there we were — my life was just beginning — yours, winding to an end. I didn’t have a chance to know you, I didn’t have a chance to hear you laugh or sit beside you on that dock in the Bayou or see your auburn hair dance around your face. All I know is that light in my Father’s eyes — The faded pictures and old movie reels. Stories of a Southern Woman, who loved and lived and then went off to die.

DEATH OF THE GIANTS

Evelyn Cole, Arroyo Grande

The tree men came early hooked up thick wires climbed, measured and projected direction for the fall of six dying Monterey pines

A mercy killing Six thousand dollars to topple these kings When each fell the earth shuddered

Afterwards the scent of broken wood in sawdust-flush air and the keening sound of saws skewed perception

much like the sound of breaking hearts

BEATS

Drexel Richardson, Morro Bay

When I was a boy, fourteen or so,

I listened to music at night and wondered

where it came from, how it began. How did it start,

and what was the first instrument?Was it a drum,

fashioned from a hollow log? Or hands clapping?

Or a rattle made from dried gourds filled with pebbles?

Sitting by the window,

seeing a distant past listening with my head to my heart,

I chose the drum. From the heart beat came the drum beat.

The first drum was born

in the breast of the first human.

We heard our blood. We were our own first instrument.

This story was originally published April 2, 2012 at 5:21 AM with the headline "From soul to paper: The Tribune kicks off its 12th annual celebration of National Poetry Month."