Electric Shards is a regular feature of The Central California Poetry Journal. You will find individual poems, or a small group of poems by poets who may or may not be featured on other pages in the Journal. Each group of poems on this page is linked to the list of featured poets at the top of the page. Electric Shards pages remain on-line in the 1999,1998 , 1997 and 1996 editions of the Journal.
Elizabeth Barrie Buck
Jay Stinson
David Joseph
David Blanc
Charles Schubert
Melody Scott
Juan Antonio Rodriguez, Jr.
Robert Claus
David Tillinger
John Gurney
Lynn Winters
William E. Simpson II
Sue Hacking
Bradi Grebien-Samkow
Kristina Dos Santos
Melissa Lynn Alfano
Frances Johnson
The Poetry of Elizabeth Barrie Buck
I walk through a fogged reality,
Swept by rugged coastline
I push away the shadows
But as the shades appear
Suspended mist of perception
Hovering like a veil over my psyche.
I come back to where I have never been.
You arrive to join me.
Dazzled by the illusion
Your subtle words of wisdom,
The incredible sameness
The comforting differences.
And soon I come to believe
What I see is real.
Of beauty and jagged symmetry--
Soft colors, sharp exteriors,
I see you,
my man of many faces,
Longing for what you
dare not risk.
Your words say one thing
but your actions and gestures speak
A different language.
You puzzle me,
My dear conundrum.
Clinging to the redwood branches,
Doubts echoing warning-
in order to enjoy this moment---
Intense and Full.
And dance over the Pacific
In the cover of nightfall,
I confront the darkness and
The echoes make sense---
Forcing me to admit
That what had been, was not real,
And what is now, is nothing.
Copyright © Elizabeth Barrie Buck 1999, All Rights Reserved.
Stillness stuck in time
Loss enfolds breathing
Forgotten yesterdays
Promises of forever
Silent echoes
Angry tears
Small shadows
wind-stirred branches
sway like pendulums of
clocks with hands unmoving
frozen in summer
noontime always.
slowly, deeply, barely beginning
before ending
forever sunshine
dark inside
silent movies cast
upon familiar screens.
flood back
missing pieces projected
on still noon
memories of joy
simple things
cutouts from time
when hands moved
and clocks had faces.
interrupted, betrayed
stopped suddenly
forward movement
prevented by future
recently ended.
To continue, disloyal
not to, impossible.
lost pictures
saved unknowingly
for tomorrow's yesterdays
snap into view.
Breath held
heart stops
then begrudgingly
continues.
burning cheeks
rage against surely
turning wheels.
Another cycle
another season
one deep breath
followed by another…
enlarge reluctantly
as upon near branch
young robin lights
bits of twine
held firmly
in her beak.
Copyright © J.M.Stinson 1999, All Rights Reserved.
The wind hustles through the canyons
The dust is singed like parchment,
A tree can tell the whole story -
the day the fences went up,
Now the daisies are flushed with yellow,
just past Sullivan Canyon, a mountain
where a green meadow talks in whispers,
before spring can be heard.
and power lines no longer trace
shadows into late afternoon.
how the squirrel ran for cover,
or the way the coyote shook his head
and the equipment was brought in,
sheathing target-ranging radar.
and the hills roll perfectly down to the water.
But somewhere out on the backbone trail,
lion crawls up California's bent leg,
stands poised, remembers.
Copyright © David Joseph 1999.
The Poetry of David Blanc
I see sparkling rivers clogged with trout
I see blankets of hills rushing to their banks
I am the silent enigma - hidden oak amongst it all
Cast out by difference but accepted also by
I know truth, for it has whispered to me
Acquiescing to me that I would feel its pain
And myriads of time passed while it spoke
Listening carefully as a tricking flow carries on
As trout lay egg to new life and new birth
When done - I arrived at my final conclusion . . .
Born of new insight and purity
Of the nature by which great stars collide to make heaven
I knew man and animal were both divine and precious
But foolish for the lack of understanding the simplicity of a rose
For neglecting an amorous call of affection from the hummingbird
That soon . . . beauty would come to its untimely end
And that it was best to appreciate it now
These blankets of lush hills and folds of pine . . .
The spirited laughs of children at play . . .
Smiles cast out from grandparents with hope . . .
I know truth, for it was whispered to me one foggy day
As I stood, the lonely hidden oak,
Next to riverbed . . .
Copyright © David Blanc 1999.
The Poetry of Charles Schubert
This evenings gray sky
While hungry-eyed men
Some ancestral clock
Through this invisible flow
The violet flowers glow,
mixes uneven with purpled hills,
as stumbling birds
lurch at each brief gust.
fly with shimmering lines,
blue tags on dirty flannel,
baited hooks of bread and breath.
ticks moments past our eyes,
parading them before us
filled with the promise of event.
another crested wave falls,
Droplets dance crazily along rocks
and erode the safety of our perch.
casting their colors up and out,
into the misty gray
eluding the eventual dusk.
Copyright © Charles Schubert 2000
California golden leaves now lay cast upon the ground
But, alas, they run away and ignore my fantasy
by winds descending over hills as rain begins to pound.
I want to keep the treasure there, lying strewn and free
carpeting the paths I take in golden harmony.
prodded on by God's great breath and blown into the sea.
A secret life beneath the ground is sleeping in the sand
bleak and dry, pruned and parched, in a wizened dusty land.
Oppressive heat to dog a man, to wither up his life,
to bleach his bones who falters near, yet tuneless, almost blithe.
River paths deceitful lie, with proof of moisture past,
barren now they undulate like ribbons long and vast.
Siren mountains beckon clouds and lure them for their rain
then shed their drops like fickle girls left to cry in vain.
Angered by their treasure spurned, the clouds amass their size
and, darkened, blanket every vale, immune to alibis.
Trickles merge with rivulets which mingle more with streams,
cascading soon to river beds, forgotten but for dreams
and little sprites of color pop with flowers on their heads,
tiny hats of yellow pods, purples, whites and reds.
They chatter, nod and look about, faces clean of stain,
bobbing, laughing in the breeze, flush and bold with flame.
Across the miles and miles of sage their little lights prevail
enhancing cactus, rocks and sand, decorous in detail
but relentlessly the sun invades, taking back its toll,
banishing the clouds of life and burning up the soil.
The little buds just close their eyes and fold their leaves to store.
They pack their tiny seed size bags and go to ground once more.
Copyright © Melody Scott 2000
The Poetry of Juan Antonio Rodriguez, Jr.
Next to my house I planted ivy
hoping to help it climb my exterior walls,
and like my two grown children,
the ivy soon grew tall.
The ivy I guided onto the walls
long after showing my children
the values that I held in life;
my children and the ivy have made my wish come true;
now for the children and the ivy,
there is not very much
that I still can do;
the children like the ivy
have grown so much while out of my control;
I still give some support to the children
and the ivy as they continue to grow;
each day my children and the ivy
become more independent and so strong,
but it will never be time to let completely go:
the ivy will get occasional clipping to control its size,
and both my children will sometimes receive some fatherly advice.
Copyright © Juan Antonio Rodriguez, Jr. 2000
the wading shorebird
hears voices in the surf
past his thin black stilts and
the restless, wading shorebird
sometimes proceeding in slow-motion
the wading shorebird beats a slow tattoo
that stalks the tidewashed edge
of sand, of certainty and land
and counts the souls that dance
atop the spume that floats atop
the cold clear salty water surging
keen inquisitive beak, that ignores
the haze-smudged sun and dimming sky.
stalks back and forth, sometimes
fast-forwarding himself away
from something only he can see;
through liquid slabs of pewtered heaven
that swirl beneath his thin black beak.
between the souls on furlough from the deep
and those beyond the tuft-haired dunes
still waiting to be counted by his small black eyes.
Copyright © Robert Claus 2000
Calm and quiet
Please drop your guns and weapons
Like remote rain forests
Only Mother Nature speaks
Birds chirp
Insects hum
Diurnal and nocturnal animals call out, hunt and scurry about
Gossamer mists of rain plummet to earth
Like easy flowing waterfalls off steep ridges
Can you feel the peace?
Peace
Termination of disturbing thoughts and actions
Peace
Unity and friendship
Peace
Perpetual and global campaigns against all violence and oppression
Peace
The ultimate path to survival is love.
Take my hand in eternal friendship
Are you with me?
Are you with me?
Are you with me?
Yeah, I knew you would be.
Absent of binocular vision, my world is
Diplopia, headaches, nausea and vomiting
Avoided by those who won't accept me
I keep to myself, family and friends
I am not alone
I am a human being, too.
Visual training
Eyes muscle surgeries
CAT scans
Neurological consults
Persistence is my power to see normally
Do not judge me
I am like you
I am a human being, too.
Moist and comfortable
Quenching all thirst
Providing nutrients
Sustaining life
Rekindling and soothing to all
With discretion, it's mother nature's call
Please, please, let the rains fall.
Copyright © David Tillinger 2000
Assume one day,
Yesterday
through chance
or province,
that all words
are flawed,
drier than papyrus leaves,
poor metaphors for the living
they attempt to describe.
ten generations of farmers
watched as their fields
turned to salt,
today,
you turn your hand to plough,
a patient student of the Nile.
Copyright © John Gurney 2000
Crushed, bleached, and smooth as ice,
Shiny baubles of the deep,
So too our spirits, turned inside out,
tiny pebbles of the sea
are clasped
then tossed like dice.
pale as winter woe,
lined up in a row,
are polished 'til they glow.
tossed to and 'fro by the wave
of God's desire
to bring us day by day,
into the joy and ecstasy,
rough edges worn away.
Limbs with graceful outreached fingers,
The sight can take your breath away
In one still life picture,
silhouetted in white against the dark sky,
cotton balls of ever changing shapes,
moving slowly side by side,
slices of glorious sunshine slipping through,
as they silently glide toward the next image.
and bring tears to eyes tired with the
day in, day out grayness of life.
and one minute, God reveals,
all things are, after all,
black and white
and brilliant light.
Copyright © Lynn Winters 2000
The Poetry of William E. Simpson II
What is the price of a dream, your dream?
What are we willing pay?
Shall we pay with the currency of our lives?
Some say, to live the dream is worthy of any price
What value shall we place on our dreams?
How can we measure the value of the infinite?
The price has become meaningless.
Some say we pay too much for our dreams
While others claim they are out of reach and fanciful
What sacrifice are we willing to make?
What currency shall we pay with?
Blood, sweat and tears?
Hours, days, months and years?
Overcoming our fears?
And many have already paid the ultimate price
What shall we pay?
What value can we place on that which is priceless?
What value must we place on that which is timeless?
What value do you place on a feeling?
Once gained it fills the boundless soul forever
Transcending its physical origins
Eclipsing that which came before
Copyright © William E. Simpson II 2000
Isolate in clear skied
Ha, Away, away from grey Davis,
Escaped into gorse words,
Flapping…. I still see it…..
singing,
Flap, flap, flap
In flurry breaths. A bird
Falling with the wind on the glide.
Suspended, an alien piping
Scented thick with word
unstated
above the burrowing broom.
from faded inquisition,
Long, I sought into the forever streets,
among immaterial men and corporate acquisition.
dwellers like me, with yellow hopes
But nothing lived, so rode alone.
in dottings and heather.
Far from home I fear not the flat men.
Their knowledge blooms dark and rich,
Like their squashed olives
Mashed into the very tarmac by hard leather.
Pulping in the drain,
leaking away like their lives unliv'd.
Impossibly still in plummeting descent
And then flap/flap/flap
Up, it went
Twirling, a mad, mad twittering
Round and round a speck in infinite ultramarine.
Flap/flap/flap,
dizzy rising.
Copyright © Sue Hacking 2000
The Poetry of Bradi Grebien-Samkow
In cattle hills outside of small town Oakdale California, I watched a hawk soar
in the morning's breeze, almost cool, and wondered
at the peace of it- a quiet ranch, calm yellowed grasses,
and the hang of a powerful bird.
I searched through vocabulary, mental dictionary, phrases of imagery,
to find some play on words, an attribute to this hawk
which in solid sunshine had become partly me.
(Was I his owner, or was he mine?)
Thought to find some picture I could paint behind the eyes,
some touch point in the mind where Man could say-
"those colors are metaphoric,
and I once too have owned that bird, no, not the bird,
the moment."
But there was no poetry in the still of wordless Old California air,
there was no poetry,
there was only a movement against movement-
the whispered tension of a muscle,
against the whispered breeze, a standstill
over the sky warmed earth, of movement against movement.
And I a visitor, caught inside a breath, a fold in time,
where only hawks see past the golden hills.
Copyright © Bradi Grebien-Samkow 2000
The Poetry of Kristina Dos Santos
Beaten gold against a turquoise sky,
And oh how silently they lie,
As soldiers proud and straight,
Under the cover of the moon,
And oh how silently they will lie,
Golden bales, so divine,
a whispered breeze,
it's hot in July.
in the fields, those bales of hay.
in the fields they lie and wait.
sun reddened men shall move them soon.
in the barns, those bales of hay.
a means of sustenance,
to the gentle bovine.
My home is this valley so wide,
This valley my home is where I find peace,
A burning sun bathes this valley in light,
When at last I am cradled to sleep in this
embraced by mountains from either side.
Caressed by a gentle, benevolent wind,
passionately kissed by a burning sun.
under the shadow of the red-tailed hawk.
Burnished gold against sky-blue sky,
I fly with the hawk, across this valley
so wide.
all day long, from dawn to night.
And the stones at night, are warm to my touch,
a gentle reminder of a passionate sun.
valley so wide,
I dream of the sea on the other side.
Copyright © Kristina Dos Santos 2000
The Poetry of Melissa Lynn Alfano
Capture the moon with soft hands
Dress the moon with sweet music
Paint the moon with soothing color
Nude in her grace;
glistening in the languid sky,
caressing the gentle, dusty, night,
passion wild in black.
Sing a frantic song;
velvet goddess blues,
fluttering under the rain,
shimmering wild & playful!
Smooth angel of life,
flooding oils on her black gown,
slipping fast through the night!
The shepherd of the garden....
Garden of dreams, oh such a lovely place,
His lips will touch their petals
His tongue will pull out to catch
He'll stand by the river as the garden
Sweet dream garden my lover will find
will pull him into my lap tight.
the garden that grows leads him to wake
in fear of what will happen if he leaves me today.
a garden so vast, a garden to tend
his fingers will cut a rose from my hair
his loving will do all but leave me bare
so softly they wilt at his feet
and lie on the ground
death so bittersweet.
my tears falling from the sky
he will outstay the moon till she leaves him to the final hour of the night.
And speak into the tiniest corner of my heart
lie down in the dry dirt
rub his soul through me to finish his work.
Copyright © Melissa Lynn Alfano 2000
Luminescence slithers across the silent expanse
A lone coyote howls joyful praise
Echoing back from the foothills the
Pregnant with the moment, the owl again calls out.
losing itself in the netherworld of the foothills
with hardly a shadowy trace visible as the twice
reflected day illuminates the underside of
low growing burro bush and creosote,
survivors of years of drought.
Few are the secrets lurking here.
to his own existence,
causing a petite kit fox to flee to
one of its many burrows in fear for
its life, thus startling a small kangaroo rat
which leaps for cover while in the distance
a long-eared jack rabbit pauses,
ears held high for maximum reception,
nose twitching and sniffing the evening for tell tale
signs of danger. Finding none, he leisurely hops away
in pursuit of his rabbity pleasures.
plaintive cry of the owl interjects itself into,
becomes one with the reveries
of the lone observer heretofore
unnoticed by the stirrings of the evening.
No absent companion, no recalcitrant owlet
replies to the lonely echo fading in the distance.
The spreading stillness is broken by the susurrus
of large wings caressing the still air as if
to pursue that elusive, missing voice.
Alone, mute, he stands and stretches
waiting for the answer
that does not come,
searching within the waiting,
receptive to the waiting, waiting together
to stare down the moon.
Copyright © Frances Johnson 2000
All text and images in The Central California Poetry Journal are copyrighted. Copyright by © by Scott Galloway 1998. All rights are reserved. See main Journal page for
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