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 2000, 1999, 1998, 1997, and 1996 editions of the Journal.
Sandy Starr
Sharron Egan Belson
P R Severaid
Kristina Dos Santos
R. N. Taber
Cherie Santos-Greenfield
Kim Rachell Lainhart
Brena Rosal
long dry in this desert
happy with home yet
dissatisfaction with place
a wave slapping against the dock
of subconscious
something is off balance
needing
more
isn't that the way it always is
we are happy yet need
more
something in the soul here
cries in the night
dreams in the days of sun
against rock face mountains
hawks and crows sail on thermals
seabirds sail above water
long dry in this desert the soul longs for
offerings from the shoreline
simple grit of ground up rock and shell
fog and mist and sunsets fast drop
into the water
the water
washing in and out in the
eternal dance
breathe in
breathe out
let go
Copyright © Sandy Starr 2001, All Rights Reserved.
The Poetry of Sharron Egan Belson
There it was
seven-oh-five.
Arnie dropped me off
and I climbed the steep
steps, overgrown with greenery
and fog. First I peeked
inside to be sure
and recognized Kristina's un-
mistakable smile all
the way to the back
of the wide family kitchen.
As I limped through the long
hallway, she came toward me
puzzled. I handed her a huge
pot of purple mums
and she said "Oh yes,
you're Arnie's partner"
and I nodded, wondering
if she imagined me
an interloper...there
stood David and Owen
pouring drinks, unwrapping trays
of canapés and Simon's famous
chopped liver. Tobin
appeared on the stairs taller
than I remembered. Jessica
pushed open the big door
carrying pastries
and Charlie followed
with wider trays, still silver
in their wrappings. Arnie
joined the fray with stories
of years before moi,
and Kimberly swept in
wearing gold at the edge
of her embroidered mandarin jacket.
(Made a mental note to shop for one
in black velvet) The table seated
twenty-five. Four little girls in Holiday
gauze climbed onto the front window seat
to tell secrets. The young men,
Fabian, Tobin, David
took over the knives, the bird, the gravy
the whisks, the creamy mashed potatoes
and Owen told us to sit
alphabetically based upon the second
letter of our first names.
And except for Dionne and Charlie
(who had recently rejoined)
and Jessica and David
(who had recently joined)
we were a true admixture.
David, in his measured Zen,
thanked the bountiful earth,
and Owen, raising an etched glass,
set us loose upon the wide platters,
while I made a bee-line for tasty thigh meat
and the air filled with oohs and aahs
and the scent of David's cranberry chutney.
Kristina said "this has been a difficult year
for me, so I would like to hear from each one
a word of thanks about something good
that has happened this year."
Owen, of the excellent hair,
smiled and said he is again employed.
Kurt said he was grateful for this
twenty-fifth annual event.
Arnie said he had recovered from tennis elbow.
Tobin blushed and said he had recently fallen in love
in Rochester. Danielle said she had just
dropped in and was happy to be included among
these many guests. Bob said he is now turning wood
on a lathe. Kimberly was grateful to have survived
the climbing of glaciers in Patagonia.
Simon said he would always take
a little credit for the way Jay had turned out.
Jay spoke of living in Hong Kong and of being glad
to again taste a tender turkey and climb
the mountains of California with his teen-age son.
Diane said she had carried her baby, two days old,
into this very room some years back
and would always keep that sweet memory each
and every year. Whitney said she had paid her own
electric bill and her own rent
(suddenly looking for all the world
like a super model).
Dionne spoke quietly of being together
and Charlie sincerely begged her forgiveness.
The room grew still. Jessica
said she was happy to be a new
part of this generous family.
David said he was grateful
for his ever-blooming Jessica
and for their new brick home in Chicago.
Jennifer said she had worked here
in this three-story house as a student
and had come to love this family
and return to it year
after year. Fabian said
he was the proud new husband
of Jennifer. Cameron said she was grateful
to have seen Spain. Kathy
said she was thrilled with Cameron's
SAT scores and with watching her daughter
turn into a tall and competent woman.
We all toasted another
glass of rich Merlot as I filched a second
helping of long French beans
while the room buzzed
and the children giggled
in the hallways and everyone held
back (or didn't) a few warm
tears.
Copyright © Sharron Egan Belson 2001, All Rights Reserved.
Smoking a Marlboro Red in the yard at Alcatraz
Across the Bay, a city of Baghdad fable
I huddle small in a concrete corner
bone-damp with the foggy past
of old bridge playing buddies.
Chill with morning mist, their ghosts mingle
gratefully with the exhalations
of my warm blue breath: they know
that I have come to collect my soul
lost somewhere down on Broadway.....
marks the ends of the earth where I fell off,
dropping unlamented into a sapphire sea
meant only for pelicans, gulls and barking seals, to become,
with a thousand other men, and more, this Rock.
I flick final fire, heaping propitiatory ashes on my shade,
not even knowing if he will leave this prison with me
or elect to stay, entombed, twenty-six forever,
on an island ever offshore of Eden, with the boys in the Bay.....
The tule fog does not
pussy-foot out of the delta deep,
but enveiled in the secrets of
insufflation, it is formed,
a denizen of night and scaly mystery,
crawling out of crawdad colonies
where jumpy frogs cluster,
flowing forth from the black cloaks
of muffled ravens;
and from the Oriental puzzle
of the ying/yang quills
of the magpiesh,
to crouch,
Komodo-like,
a sphinx presence
covenanting
with the dead rice-lands of winter
to wear Persephone's crown.
Wild horses have dreams
Wild horses have dreams
Wild horses have dreams
of birds in wet cedars
of long open canyons
hawk high in Sierras
of brown eyes in snowfall
of bees bumbling through clover
of when they had wings
when water beaded like silver
and clung to their manes
when apples flowered like copper
polished and green
of silver Sierras
of cedars in snowfall
of brown eyes like copper
of flowering birds, wet on the wing
of apples like clover in canyons of green
Copyright © P R Severaid 2001, All Rights Reserved.
The Poetry of Kristina Dos Santos
There is no reflection in your house
The date tree has spilled its fruit
A harem beetle scurries by
You always thought opium a substance
You, whose aura shines
No mirror to be found there
could you see it if it were?
in the dry sands of Atwater
Middle eastern fruit you are
both exotic and rare
procuring the ultraviolet rays of sunshine
its tracks, patterns in the sands
of jade and psychology
I see your opium as Bakersfield and Snelling
with qualities that dull your psyche
a hundred times brighter
than the sun
Copyright © Kristina Dos Santos 2001, All Rights Reserved.
Walking in the old town,
As the river flows, so
Soaking up the poetry;
Waiting at the station,
Journey into history;
Chatting with pioneers
Past-into-future;
Town, built on more than
Bricks and mortar;
O, spirit of a country!
Glorious endeavor;
Street festivals, victorious
Pulling together;
Men and women of courage
On the Capitol walls;
California heritage, in
Sidewalk footfalls;
Ordinary people, carrying
Within each striving soul
Seeds of hope and love
And freedom's call;
An ear for the music of life
Wherever we roam;
No finer rhythm than
Sacramento home
Our story goes…
California sunshine opens up
my heart, like petals
of a summer rose;
A poem grows, proud and free
like Bear all around
on the streets, in hills
that surround;
Though in a misty rainfall,
each word disappears,
its presence a comfort still
on California ears
like the songs of pioneers
that inspire us all
to plant poems, in
our home soil;
Through sunshine and rain,
our seasons turn again, again;
Yet, may summer roses
help ease our pain…
and poems, proud and free
about Bear - in
gold country
--written in San Francisco during a visit that fulfilled many dreams.
O, wide and tawny land!
O, wide and tawny land!
Coastal range that rolls but gently
as if to assuage the greater fears
of those who come as strangers
seeking a wealth even above gold
within a tangled web of tales told
of those who came before - pioneers
brave and steadfast in spite of more
(far more) than human spirit
should endure
Harboring bear in a City of Dreams,
where fog rolls like the mountains,
obscuring satisfaction with all that needs
be done - to draw a restless spirit home.
No distraction. Closeted in personal space,
rediscovering a precious identity.
Passing on. Come the sun, choices
clearing, a wealth of nations
all-enduring
(San Francisco, 1999)
-dedicated to a young painter-poet, Arthur Atkins, who emigrated to SF in the late 1800s. Atkins exhibited there and also contributed to an arts magazine, The Lark, that was circulated in the San Francisco Bay area during the mid-late 1800s. His grave overlooks the Piedmont Hills that he loved and often painted.
-from Love and Human Remains, poems by R. N. Taber, published in the U.K. (ISBN 0953983307) .
Roger Taber's book, Love and Human Remains is available through his e-mail address: RogerTab@aol.com
Copyright © R. N. Taber 2001, All Rights Reserved.
The Poetry of Cherie Santos-Greenfield
Pockets overflow with moonstones
and the homes of tiny sea crabs.
Ankle deep in swirling foam,
water shifting sand, standing still moving
backwards.
Decaying seaweed dries in the sun,
the fragrance of seaside bathers.
Metal pails brightly colored with
star fish and octopus' wearing bathing suits.
Carnival music blasts from loud speakers
surrounding the boardwalk,
competes with the squeals and screams
of adventurous roller coaster riders.
A buck-fifty for the thrill of losing lunch
from repeated loops and hair pin turns.
Red sugary syrup streaks down arms
as snow cones melt before the next hurried slurps,
paper cups disintegrating before the icy treat is finished.
Bronzed skin frying in the basking rays of California sun,
aided by coats and coats of Johnson and Johnson baby oil.
Gritty white sand under fingernails, in ears, in nostrils,
in everything, helping to masticate
the bologna sandwich on soggy white bread
that helps build strong bodies,
twelve ways.
Washed down with lukewarm Kool-Aid,
it had to be red,
the color of summer vacation.
Mom, pretty in her bright yellow culottes and Dad,
his olive skin shining as he sips Shlitz Malt Liquor,
watches all the pretty girls with
pony tails swinging round about their heads,
lips the color of summer too.
I wondered if they liked their Kool-Aid.
Sea gulls landing to close too the picnic
spread around the plaid wool blanket.
"Rats with wings," Dad yells
as he throws an emptied can their way
while reaching for another "cold one."
Tired ride home in the '55 Buick ending
with strong dark arms lifting me
gently.
Snuggling into his chest
the aroma of beer and cigarettes and ocean
drifts in and out of a sleepy awareness
as he lays me on the bed next to Barbie and Ken.
Pulling the sheet to my chin he whispers, "Night baby."
Copyright © Cherie Santos-Greenfield, All Rights Reserved.
The Poetry of Kim Rachell Lainhart
I went for a drive to Coloma
The rocks on the rolling green hills
Such a beautiful day
Perfectly laid
Rushing clear waters
Cascading through canyons
I fell in love with this beautiful place
This is where I'll stay
My peace. my home, my love
Coloma.
Copyright © Kim Rachell Lainhart 2001, All Rights Reserved.
A tree that has stood for a thousands years,
Try to build me a sand castle
Copyright © Brena Rosal, All Rights Reserved.
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and felt the rainfall with cleansing tears.
Talks among its' branches every night and day,
testing the winds to sense changes far away.
Thinking the deepest thoughts as one of noble birth,
keeping safe the animals and birds, rooted in the earth.
Who is wiser then you know and tells the trees when to grow.
Always the promise of rainbows crowning forest below.
Thank you sun for shinning on every living tree,
We're breathing in the oxygen and shaded by its' leaves.
Replanting a catastrophe we need more trees around.
Keep the forest of old alive, not mangled on the ground.
Together we can do anything, so don't ravage trees, please.
Recycling all the paper and products is now a necessity.
Bridges Built Over Sand
in miles of sand, where
there is no water.
Blinding me, burning my feet
the heat is soft
but I need relief.
Snake shimmers creep
along in front of
me as I walk the sandy path.
I try to cross to the ocean,
but Joshua's Tree is too far.
Crying the cause I speak
as tears dry too soon on pink cheeks.
I must counter effect the rotation
and tell the wind to come to me !
Now, build me a bridge over sand
because there is no water.
Watch as I cross over and pick up
a dolphin to hold him up to the sky.
This gray one so beautiful
and tame that he lets me ride
on his back to the
heaven of joy.
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