SLO County residents’ poems celebrate National Poetry Month | Week 2

Poems and other words — jotted notes, rhymes, long loping song-like lines, short acrid barks of released emotion. It is emotion that often distinguishes poetry from its sibling, prose. Emotion is often suggested, held back bravely and stoically, rather than being sung out loud and proclaimed for all to feel.

Poets choose surprising words to identify, pin down, share and even betray inner feeling to the reader. Details are specific and can be followed like fairytale breadcrumbs into the mysterious living hearts of these poems. They use language like others use paintbrushes, digging and boring tools, musical instruments, needles and chemicals to vaccinate and to heal. Read these poems and you will see into human hearts, naked, pulsing, and very much alive.

-Marguerite Costigan, San Luis Obispo County poet laureate

A Poet Who Makes Pear Pizza

Evy drinks retsina when she eats at

the Rock and Roll Diner.

She travels by train rather than fly.

David Ochs might not let her travel —

she gets sick or has surgery, but

we’re so lucky to have her with us

with her all-encompassing laugh.

What a cheerful, welcoming chuckle

as she greets one and all at Poets.

She whips up great poetry as well as

pies — there she stood on her birthday

removing cheese, herb miracles from her oven,

the way she reads them from her books.

She finds new talent and encourages it.

She cheers on young lesbian women

with their transgender lovers —

an infusion of fresh energy.

We feel so grateful for the gift of

Evy’s elan and generous enthusiasm.

Kathy Bond, Grover Beach

Away

In the center of the room

Stands

A sculpture

Arms lifted as caryatids

Holding up an unknown sky,

Its moon and sheltering fog.

The Greeks make this

A Dionysian temple

But those lifted arms

Will bear me, as offering

To the skies’ beauty, fog and moon.

Linnaea Phillips, San Luis Obispo

Bearing It

The doctor said two to six months

three months ago.

I must bear reluctant witness

to his slow disappearance

from this earth, from me.

I rise at sun-up full of resolve,

to be cheerful, kind, accepting;

I anxiously fall asleep in the dark,

weary, sad, alone.

I devise ways to distract myself:

a walk on the beach, gulping in tangy sea air,

a cup of strong tea in the garden,

breathing in the sweet wisteria,

a chapter in my current book,

willing myself to be part of the story,

a handful of bittersweet chocolate morsels,

melting slowly in my mouth,

and music, sweet soul-saving music,

any kind.

The days tick by, pushing me forward,

almost bearing it.

Myra Lathrop, Paso Robles

Carry On

In California, even the vultures hang out,

dry their wings, cool down

stretched across fences

like so many Batmobile insignia,

trading desultory gossip:

who’s in, what’s dead, and where.

Urban coyotes drop by poolside

for a drink and a snack —

your cat, your small dog, or child —

then slip off into the chaparral to nap.

No eagle’s shadow slides over these hills,

no lions in the barranca.

In Los Osos, the bears live only on signs;

no wolves at Point Lobos.

Their enemies vanquished for them,

the carrion-eaters adjust,

slouch along fences and golf courses,

shadow the schools and malls,

waiting to inherit.

Lani Steele, Los Osos

Cattle Walking a Fence Line in the Fog

Disappearing one by one

A line of shadows

Flows black to white

Johannah Varland, Morro Bay

Cherry Pie

All I can think of is the cherry pie in the kitchen.

It was on the discount bakery shelf for a dollar fifty.

Now it’s here, right around the corner from where I sit,

Cat on lap, New Yorker in hand.

But the article on Cuba is slim competition for cherry pie.

Cubans are coping, but they look hungry,

Possibly for cherry pie, although doubtful.

My mom made THE BEST cherry pie,

From fresh cherries, of course.

She must have used one of those pitter gizmos

That you see in antique stores.

Once, during a visit, we went out to lunch,

“Anything you want, mom, my treat.”

“Cherry pie a la mode, with a big cup of black coffee.”

I sure miss her.

Jane Brechler, Morro Bay

Elements

We are fire and water —

elements that can often harmonize

like a perfect bath.

He is the volcano at Arenal.

I am the springs at Tabacon,

warmed by his core,

spilling over rock pools in tropical gardens —

a unity blessed by nature.

But it is also cursed —

his fire can make me boil,

I can bubble over and douse his flame

and we are blinded in a cloud of steam.

Who wins?

It’s like the fable of the sun and the wind

placing bets on who can make a man take off his coat.

I forget how it ends.

But we won’t have to end

as long as we can meet in the middle,

passing through the fog

to the place where we count shooting stars,

carve our names in wood

and kiss in a slow dance at midnight.

Michaelann Dimitrijevich, Atascadero

Flora

This morning landing on a snag across the river

an eagle brought your memory to camp

filling my thoughts with your soft eyes and gentle admonitions.

“Be patient, it bears fruit.”

Now a married woman I walk upstream to fish your favorite run

in water hurrying to the Gulf.

The eagle flying with me.

So many years spent missing you

In this moment I know

you never left.

Sally I. Stoner, Halcyon

Interpretation

So random. A glance, a word, a touch

Becomes conversation and a kiss,

Then love.

So random. A curious observation

Gives a question light,

Then ingenuity invents an answer.

So random. Words on a page, a melody,

Or strokes upon a canvas,

And one soul speaks to another.

We feed our appetite for legend,

Whether we call it happenstance

Or random by design.

Sherry Eiselen, Cambria

Loving Neva

Loving Neva meant a bouquet of freshly cut flowers on the dining room table throughout the year reminding you of her love,

Loving Neva meant having a teacher available to you anytime you wanted to learn something about the world because she knew it all,

Loving Neva meant receiving tapes in the mail of herself reading children’s books so she could read you stories even when she wasn’t around,

Loving Neva meant a supply of Cadbury eggs in the fridge to last all year because Cadbury eggs were your favorite treat,

It meant feeling like what you had to say was important even though you were just a kid,

Loving Neva meant knowing each moment with her was special even before it ever was just a memory.

Losing Neva was like every day being the worst day of your life.

Losing Neva meant keeping stories to yourself because now they were only important to you,

Losing Neva meant reading her bedtime stories with your tears staining all the pages,

Losing Neva meant no flowers on the table or Cadbury eggs in the refrigerator,

It meant wanting to squeeze her tightly but having to give her a gentle hug instead so you wouldn’t hurt her,

Losing Neva meant calling her Neva because you couldn’t bear to call her Grandma Jean anymore,

Grandma Jean was strong and she didn’t need other people to take care of her.

But we all needed Grandma Jean.

Carrie Kounanis, San Luis Obispo

Moonlight

Stars believe in the moon.

They twinkle and say,

“I know you,”

And that old, late riser

smiles

Like an old lion.

Tony Olson, Grover Beach

Railroad Town

Living in a railroad town,

you may hear a whistle

at 4:34 in the morning.

The engineer sometimes

creatively plays a whole tune

as his freight rumbles

past the depot in the dark.

Otherwise, under the cover of night,

oil tankers stealth through

on the rails headed south.

Carol Pappas, San Luis Obispo

San Bernadino

They are dead now

but live for a while

at least in memory

washed by tears.

Add them to lists,

another fourteen to

how many was it

at Columbine.

Sandy Hook, Denver,

numbers uncertain,

tears have dried,

memories faded.

We pray for them,

think of them, then

move to the next

waiting graves.

Marvin Sosna, Morro Bay

Sex on the Beach (Confessions of an Elephant Seal Voyeur)

Waves frothy crashing.

Aromatic brine wafting.

Orgy of Romanesque proportions,

overwhelming the tenderloin district of Piedras Blancas.

Unwieldy blur of blubber quivering.

Pods of pinnipeds libidos raging.

Aroused cows estrus peaked,

libidinous bulls deranged in rut.

Ancient granular sand spits trembling.

Phalanx of frenzied behemoths heaving.

Hundreds of pounds of consensual inertia,

alpha males trumping up their genetic lineage.

Nature’s primordial urges converge unhindered,

as pairs of pelagic pachyderms posture to procreate.

Stephen IomBARDi, San Luis Obispo

Sour Flowers

Drench your drought in sour flowers

Whose chickie yellow petals star

Atop a stem withstanding breeze

A stem who stores a secret sauce

A crunchy bite of childhood

The dare me taste of spring

Donna Crocker, Cambria

States of Matter

She’s a child, four or five years old, missing

Teeth like her Grandpa. They sit

Side by side on a bench nearby, sucking

Ice cream cones before the sun melts them.

The little girl asks him why it has to melt,

And Grandpa simply says,

“Not everyfing can lasht forever, shweetheart.”

The words whistle off his tongue.

She looks down for a moment

At the mess she’s made on her dress,

Slowly dripping down into

A puddle on the pavement.

She says, “Oh … okay,” and then proceeds

To lick her sticky fingers clean.

He sits by, silently, and watches her,

Wondering if she understands.

He looks at his own wrinkled hands.

The cone is still there, but now, empty.

Ice cream never mattered so much to him.

Samuel Shrader, San Luis Obispo

Subject to Change

Last night San Andreas fault

burped, registering 4.5 on

the Richter scale.

Plates squeeze past one another

release a little pressure

live quietly for a while.

We breathe easier, toast

planet earth with raised glass,

slip quietly into our beds

knowing conditions may change

with no advance notice.

Norma Wightman, Morro Bay

Untitled

Gore Vidal shared he had kissed his lover as he lay dying

I continued my commitment by being there as you lay dying

You waved away the unknown deacon who arrived when I asked that you be given the last rites.

You wanted it bare to the bone, no whispering about the pain I suffered.

They say the dying still hear.

I asked for forgiveness for both, you and I

From the young priest who arrived late.

Never did I consider the dream I had last night,

Myself, alone, driving your SUV to the front line, behind big rigs, through golden motes in a dusty yard.

Recently I sat opposite a troubled dark-eyed young man whose wife brought to mind the scent of lavender

I thought to advise them:

“Watch out! How quickly it goes,

The earth is seared.”

Marne Trevisano, Atascadero

When the Rains Come

The clouds let rain fall

for two days

onto our parched Central Coast

in California

When the sun came out again

our world wore a new green dress

I drove toward town

on Corbett Canyon Road

that meanders among

the vineyards, pastures, and hills

of our Fairyland

each showing off

its unique shade of green

as if the rain

like Prince Charming

had just kissed

our Sleeping Beauty

She, so breath-taking, I wept

in gratitude, awe,

and outrageous joy

Evelyn Cole, Arroyo Grande

Without Her Here

I sit here in my mother’s chair

inhaling her nicotine scent.

Snow slides softly off the roof,

piles mounded under the window.

Lawrence Welk

keeps perfect 3-4 time.

Six, eight, ten mule deer,

skittish and wary,

lick salt from the gravel road,

milling quietly as if listening

to the hum of my mother’s television

in the light spilling from windows

tinted golden from the tar.

The glow reaches out

across the snowy carpet

to the creatures of the failing light,

pushing back the dark

that fills the canyon —

Maxfield Parrish over the Aspens.

I sit here alone for the first time

in this house,

my mother’s house.

Laurel G. Smith, San Luis Obispo