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 2002, 2001, 2000, 1999, 1998, 1997, and 1996 editions of the Journal.
Erica Mayyasi
Amelia Glaser
Joanne Smith-Hileman
Lorraine S. May
Melanie Simms
R. N. Taber
Harry Owen
Kelly Ann Malone
Cindy Haynes
Cathy Hodsdon
Maxine Landis
Cynthia Nelson
Deborah Kolodji
Brady Norvall
Robert Hackney
Thunder echoes through the mountains
We don our rain gear and
Take shelter under majestic trees
Somewhere in the Stanislaus.
I lose a roll of film
27 exposures
of an incredible journey
Perhaps some other hiker
will take shelter under the trees
And discover this roll of film
Perhaps they will take it
to be developed
27 pictures
in vibrant color
Perhaps they will see
eager eyes and wide smiles.
Perhaps they too will smile
Understanding
only as a backpacker can
why these young faces
are so illuminated.
They will see
eager eyes wide
and faces still smiling
under majestic trees
as thunder echoes
somewhere in the Stanislaus.
I measured out the mileage
The California sun
on the map
with dental floss
its cherry flavor
left red smudges
highlighting the fine blue marks
of the contour lines
releases the scent
of artificial cherry
and reminds me
of the few intoxicating flowers
in Paradise Valley-
where it rained most of the time
Copyright © Erica Mayyasi 2003 All Rights Reserved.
You really didn't need me either.
Genius branch,
No inspiration needed
So I'll spill your armload of caviar,
eggs burst on bedclothes,
oil the sheets, stain white pillows
in calamine pink.
another wise unnoticed self
until I've overstepped those bounds
your February face, obscured
by meadowlands, moss-covered limb
in mossy oak's embrace. We were
each distinctly unimpressive.
Sour of sorrel, whining shadow of pine
flowed into photogenic field.
And paintbrush
red, forget-me-not lattice
fade in spring-like dusk.
With us: it all was accidental touch.
to recall our nightly recklessness.
(what human soul could move me less,
my poison concubine?)
But later, waking in your arm (once mine),
It's you who fit my form,
I, who conform.
Copyright © Amelia Glaser 2003 All Rights Reserved.
Taking time,
Greens and grays,
Mesmerizing,
Clouds of snow,
Air is crisp,
Colors change,
Earth rejoices,
to absorb all the beauty;
Mother Nature provides
in all their splendor;
washed with rain
towers of rocks; standing
in front of you, proudly.
envelop the peaks;
watering the terrain.
plants sigh; thankful
for the drink, again.
from gray to white,
sparkling; a welcome sight.
long awaited relief.
We give thanks for rain.
Copyright © Joanne Smith-Hileman 2003 All Rights Reserved.
Would you know what I see when I look at you,
What would you say if I told you I feel in love with you last summer,
And later, when pears mold and drop banging in the bin,
In a summer past,
A simmering day years ago,
Hands hanging freely, plastic apricot lips,
A thundering heart pressed against my rib cage like a magnet,
Braided summer grasses through I ran,
Could I catch you?
As we drove through an asphalt mirage,
And I hurled jargon at you.
What fine lovers peaches can make,
When I saw you devouring my heart,
I wiped its juices off your chin..
And in fruit uneaten I hibernate and scrape my wrists with dried pits.
I hug myself in a tiny silver box as the stillness of reality settles in for the night.
Do you know I love you,
You'd say you understood,
but the moat around your castle would deepen.
Would you blink your fire green eyes,
Making me shrivel into a sticky mud puddle,
dripping down and covering the bottom of your sandals?
I could tell you about the dullness in my chest,
and the fierceness of the blood flushing my sunburned palms,
But I am silent now by a truth that you can see,
Only sometimes, the sticky truthful darkness of my heart leaks,
just a little bit onto you.
Copyright © Lorraine S. May 2003 All Rights Reserved.
She's new,
She is touched by West Coast paradise,
If these land-lubbers could, these country
Sweet child of California,
polished by the California sunlight
into a brown-sugared sweetness; with
eyes the color of lapis, reflecting a
Pacific Ocean that stretches out
eternally.
and even in these dismal, proper corners
of the East, she delights in sharing smiles,
illuminating a world with a heart that says,
"Follow me. Let's party, catch a wave!"
farm-folk who've forgotten how to dance,
they would ride that wave with her,
into that sweet ocean of joy,
but she is an enigma here,
a girl outside her element,
defied by an alien sunlight.
touched by the light of a much kinder god,
follow Rand-McNally's little blue roads back home,
back to paradise!
Copyright © Melanie Simms 2003 All Rights Reserved.
Arms, legs, faces, like splotches
on the sidewalk, abstract
paintings in a gallery;
Eyes, ears, noses, like mosaic
tiles on floors and ceilings,
walls of museum halls;
Dodging acid rain like Indian
arrows - on the way
to the office;
(Wonder how they survived, who
never tapped out their lives
on a keyboard?);
Killing off the buffalo, building
a railroad, digging
for gold;
Stories, legends, told for men
and women to live by
or run on empty;
Daydreaming a package vacation;
converted ranch house, cabin
in the mountains...
salvation of a people making
in-roads to the pulse
of a nation;
Merge documents, save, exit;
Computer graphics done,
back to basics
Copyright © R. N. Taber 2003 All Rights Reserved.
Burn again, your heat an immolation,
Listen . . . and waters still plunge
So burn, you white-hot double helix,
Listen on this plain that was a sea
blade-flame thrusting high,
Hades penetrating night.
with dugout canoes, fishing nets
and women waving from the shore -
A broth of something simmers here,
thick with whales and dugongs,
sweeps in wild rollers, groaning
with the heft of seabirds
beneath a bursting sun . . .
bright in fervent desiccation!
as you scorch, blister, waste
to dark cinders - moonscape,
Fossilized, dust - listen
for the soft white hiss
of ancient futures in the breeze.
Copyright © Harry Owen 2003 All Rights Reserved.
Small clear caps of pebbled beads that glisten in the light
Tiny drops of precious water collect upon a flower
Gentle rain from pregnant clouds release a cooling mist
Pools of liquid gather proud into a dancing creek
Roaring rapids gather steam, their destination clear
Sure of what her calling is and where she's meant to be
race across the sidewalks edge, aborted in mid-flight
Thirst is what the rose projects, intending to devour
Mixed with rays of warm sunlight, a rainbow in the midst
Sent below from high above upon a mountain peak
In the distance luscious waves proclaim the sea is near
What was once a simple drop, is now part of the sea
Copyright © Kelly Ann Malone 2003 All Rights Reserved.
Potato bugs crawl across yellow
There is one yellow flower
Florin Road is polluted by
This is not Arizona-- not Mesa.
This is not Oklahoma-- not Tulsa.
Wet things mold here, we stay.
linoleum. It still smells
like paint thinner in this apartment.
standing on my rented concrete patio
and Ants line the cracks of
pollen-stained sidewalks in Sacramento.
oil drips from ghetto cars
living less than two miles away.
not ugly stucco pre-planned neighborhoods
with white sidewalks and clean streets.
not a Christian church on every corner
with big brick houses lining treed streets.
and pollen will stain us.
This is not affordable, not even close.
Copyright © Cindy Haynes 2003 All Rights Reserved.
One summer day is gone,
The mighty Sierra Nevada Mountains,
Copyright © Cathy Hodsdon 2003. All Rights Reserved.
Looming off the central California Coast
Only ten nautical miles from the mainland
Santa Barbara, San Miguel, Santa Rosa, Santa Cruz,
From Ventura to Santa Barbara they spread
Once the home of Indians who planted, fished, canoed, and
where Condor feathers were gathered into headdresses--
I saw the rock called chert, the Chumash Indians
I climbed and hiked up a peak
I heard but didn't see
I learned about the blue whales
I saw a giant starfish clinging in the clear water
I saw snorkelers swimming in the arch formations
I heard about the geological find
I saw the old ranch and farm where wild horses roamed free
These isles least known or visited of our state parks
The rangers say they are trying to restore and preserve
I saw a black Raven very large
Now visitors who want a quiet escape come to camp,
Lost on the horizon.
Heat burned my skin,
My head filled with steam.
Understand what I say,
Take me to the mountains.
Summer is mixing my signals,
Filled with endless yellow.
Winds blow the dirt all over,
I squint to see the line,
Praying for the spray of color,
Cool the night skies so sleep
Can be endless and silent.
Summer days are one long moment.
Return to the seasons, the sights
And smells of change.
Turn down the thermostat,
Sit and stare at the line, look
For the color, watch and wait for the cool.
SIERRA FORTRESS
Guard the eastern California border.
Sawtooth is the English translation,
Assigned to these jagged creations.
Lakes and rivers flow through their canyons,
Rushing to the dams built below.
Electric power generated from the overflow.
Surveyors, hikers, and forest rangers,
Map out the terrain still unknown,
Finding ways to traverse the mountain the passes,
Reminding us of Carson and Donner,
Familiar names we all know,
Who risked their lives in freezing snows
Conquering the mighty mountains.
Respect, and protect this monument built by God.
Be thankful for the beauty and serenity.
Travel the winding roads and highways,
Get lost in the fortress, if only for a few days,
Recharge your senses in simple ways.
The Sierra Nevada Mountains,
Like an arm around California.
Keep us safe amid the turmoil,
Hold us upright, don't let us fall,
Let us hang on for just a while,
While we catch our breath, as we prepare to move on.
Central Coast Ghosts
The Channel Islands stretch as Ghosts.
by boat, five islands with mission city names afloat.
and Annacapa, half buried in the sea.
Mostly shrouded in fog and mist
Sometimes as clear as Hawaii Isles bliss,.
Only wildlife and nature reside, few humans tread.
hunted.
These once famous "Islands of the Blue Dolphin"*
now ruined by ranches, bases, farming and oil messes.
used as a tool for making beads to trade other tribes.
to see sea lions in the deep.
the pigs that dig up trees.
who play along the coast's volcanic shales.
among the seaweed by the shallow beach.
and caves, carved from erosion and crustaceans.
of bones very old, a geologic gold mine.
now only deer tics run like bees
where brown pelicans swoop and loop.
the glory of these isles where condors use to roam and curve
Gold and Bald Eagles come here to forage
kayak, fish, hike, snorkel and swim on summer nights.
Copyright © Maxine Landis 2003. All Rights Reserved.
Two ridges at the edge of unkempt nowhere
Inside it an anvil
The corrugated tin eaves serve the stillness.
feathered with foxtails
backstop a barn,
while wind plays chromatic timbers
in quavering scales.
some picks and a milk can
brew orange oxides.
They percolate
drips of iron light.
They distill shadows
into hierarchy. They order
soft shades of light
against August hills.
Copyright © Cynthia Neslon 2003. All Rights Reserved.
golden poppies
We drive
Frothy
Clumps of
We walk
as I drive through the pass
descent into spring
Past Mojave
the long flat road
heading north to Mammoth.
The mountains watch us from both sides,
distant.
Kern River
whitewater rush -
gift from the Sierras.
We ride life's rapids in fragile
kayaks.
Packsaddle Cave
manzanita
dot the trail with color -
we share old cave tales, our flashlights
ready.
Trail of a Hundred Giants
in the shadows
of giant sequoias.
Dwarfed by ancient stillness, our feet
whisper.
Copyright © Deborah Kolodji 2003. All Rights Reserved.
like my grandfather's chevy cutlass,
the fog rolls into the drive
tainted white,
purchased many years prior to my birth,
as grey.
it was the ride of choice
often serving a young soul as its own destination.
grandma never told me how fog,
on nights when
cold fingertips to knuckles,
teeth to throat,
was heaven for deserted souls.
when the clouds would rise above the sky,
and make way for a morning of dew
and frost and not-an-inch of visibility,
is when the souls of the lonely come all together,
hold hands and build a seemingly endless wall of gloom
that infects all bodies to stay inside,
in bed with their dogs, cats, chicken broth and poetry.
all warming the lonely soul-
accompanying him in his cutlass,
headlights searching the fog
for lost war buddies and
friends passed to better places- though he never thought so.
with his headlights searching the fog,
driving through the thick white haze,
i search for him,
and times when i never had to wear a seatbelt.
Copyright © Brady Norvall 2003. All Rights Reserved.
1.
Changing, changeless folds
Native Temescal sweats leave beaded skin,
Shinto kettles slosh under
Just inland, full-tanned primavera
It was easy for us to make music then,
2
And Eucalyptus perfumed gorges down
Of coast endure the full rolls
Of sea bursting Mandelsblot patterns
Below this backbone for far horizons,
Oceans containing the salt solution
In which our structured selves swim
At the apogee of foam risen
Through blow-hole fissures,
Bespeaking the force
Of life guided members
Suspending moon churned
Liquids within....
Breasts in half light, balls in the wind.
Joss sticks lit by paraffined bark
In an atmosphere of odored
Oils, warmth and caress--
Shining forms, half holy hands
Performing rituals borrowed, in reverence,
Whole from less-than-foreign animist lands.
Maidens flicker in woodland bowers
Clasping hands, their souls
Singing with eros.
They dance into deep autumn
Through the sweetness of seasonal
Sequence; the earth also spins friction's flint
Sparked kindling, glowing amidst
Rapture groves meant for fiddling,
Fondling, the vibrous trilling
Of gut and reed against a rustling
Counterpoint of artesian tones and brush--
Ripples through boughs, breeze over stone.
Keeping the beat of other continents
Close to our own ribbed runs
The coveless cliff's margin
Opening westward.
Those enclosures offer ridges of foliage,
Fair cover for hawk-armed stalker
And the tusked boar.
They also offer shelter and forage
To those who still keep memory
Pitched to perfect stillness or melody.
Copyright © Robert Hackney 2003. All Rights Reserved.
All text and images in The Central California Poetry Journal are copyrighted. Copyright by © by Scott Galloway 2003. All rights are reserved. See main Journal page for
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