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. The 1996 edition of the Journal also inclues an Electric Shards page.
Jerry Threlkeld and Steven Stetson
I remember the colored hills,
It was me, my dad and sister,
But now when I look back,
I'm glad I went to Death Valley,
Devil's golfcourse, nature's arch.
All these sights play music,
To run a memorable march.
My mom couldn't make the trip.
It took eight hours to drive,
No air conditioning, our sweat did drip.
I realize it was fun.
It didn't seem like it then,
But it was when it was done.
Went through hell to get there.
It was a great experience,
Go there if you dare.
Copyright © C. Mosman 1997.
The waves clash and roar one after the other.
Waves of anger splashing into sea,
Now, the rain is airy, it's no longer injurous.
Black clouds thunder into a storm.
The winds firecely blow the waves ashore.
How long will it take for the rage to fade?
rythmically attacking the family at ease.
Tremulous and rattled the family takes the gushing rage.
All the lightening has been lustrously blinding,
but no damage has been done.
For now the storm has ceased its rage.
Its waves clash and roar at softer pace.
Daddy will now take a nap and rest.
Tomorrow, the storm may take shape again.
Copyright © Mirna Ramirez 1997.
Your hate is boiling up inside,
It has no place to run and hide.
Your heart becomes a lake of fire,
To hurt someone is your desire.
You want to make somebody feel the pain,
That
Is almost driving you insane.
You then look up so silently,
Into the eyes of your enemy;
And instead of ugly mocking glares;
You see your pain reflecting there.
Copyright © Sal Lopez Jr. 1997.
The Poetry of Damian Judge Rollison
Tall bottlebrush bush,
tan garage with
crumbling asphalt
mossgrown roofs
a slice of Tennessee in my
patch of lilies,
rich loamy earth,
grass deep waterlogged green;
flaking paint,
wet wood the color
of burnt umber;
soaked and puddled,
bare tree's lacey branches
fanned against the
pale sky;
of tar and tile,
water-streaked fence boards
once maroon now
lichen-colored;
California window.
Copyright © Damian Judge Rollison 1997.
The heart beholds the hatred that we bear The heart can open and admit one dove
It lashes out on a sadistic rave
It knows no friends of which to trust, to spare
Destroying all that one had hoped to save
The hatred was the teacher of young Cain
The heart was that which made this hate of use
This hatred is too strong to wince at pain
The heart of hatred can withstand abuse
The hate is power that can test and fill
It causes pain amongst the flesh and soul
It hurts and thrives upon what it can kill
It leaves a void in its destructive goal
For what comes from the heart that knows no love
Copyright © Joseph Keeler 1997
The Poetry of William Lombardo
I remember the trees
I remember you,
I remember you,
I remember you,
and their hearty smiles
always leering at me
with an odd contented look
I remember the rain
a constant deluge
pouring down continually
with its utmost affection
the ocean, raging on -
as only local drunks can
with a steady fury
your vibrance to live
shining down everywhere
with definitive brilliance
cascading into nearby souls
showing phenomenal brightness
where dreary dimness ruled
your pursuit of dreams
with unblurring persistence
as you tear across life
attaining wild desires
with an inexpirable flare
forever radiantly glowing
powered by heart alone
your courageous love
an explosion of feeling
erupting from deep within
shattering all senses
bursting out
it seeks the fortunate
and fills them
consumes them
unravels them
this is what fills me
this is my strength
this is how I can leave
Copyright © William Lombardo 1997
In our old stucco apartment,
And
My angel,
In our old apartment,
on stilts
of auburn,
where the windows
separate from the walls
by air
and where the neighbors
see through our yellow veiled curtains,
I look back at them
turning my lips politely up.
With your lacquered touch,
You-
are killing...
Me-
You look into me
and I am gone-
while you kiss me,
Hard.
where delicate blue glass
is corked on the shelves,
lives the vodka bottles-
turned on their sides,
like emaciated war camp prisoners
Copyright © Ryan L.T. Brown 1997.
I hear the rumbling and I think
California sunlight.
It is a cruel yellow; and he is unmoved
My mother leaks shy tears
I am five; I hide behind the doorway.
the sky has never seemed so heavy.
There is my father, standing thick-
waisted at our blue-lit window,
smoking fat cigars (like a sailor
waiting for a hurricane)
blowing blue-grey smoke into the glaring
(but we are frightened by the thick air).
into the kitchen sink,
thinking of the broken glass
and seas of dirt
she will have to swim through
when we return.
Copyright © Anna R. Hall 1997.
We were there to ride the Grizzly.
A snapshot of falling timbers
was what it looked like.
Cars rattled overhead.
The timbers heaved in and out.
Next! the man yelled and waved us over
urging tourists into a taxi.
This taxi had no meter,
and no brake pedal.
Okay, I managed, my frozen smile
no comfort to my pal.
It was dusk, and we were like
coal miners scrunched into a coal cart,
a deep slope crouched below us.
Down we went, the wood cracking
as if it were breaking up.
The earth fell out beneath us
like a collapsing
cliff. The Grizzly was toying
with us. I dumped my stomach
into a rising wind but the Grizzly
was looking for more leftovers.
It twisted us on our side
and swung us back over.
I swore (to myself) that if I survived
I'd stick to bumper cars.
No more roller coasters.
My stomach swore allegiance
to my plans. Let my buddy
call me chicken.
Swear to my friends I played
with dolls. Anything,
I prayed, just get me off this
splintering trestle.
Mercifully, the cart chattered
to a stop. I held my sigh
tightly, as if holding back gas.
My friend looked at me. What's
wrong? "Oh, man,"
I said, "like I needed
a stomach pump." Great,
huh? he asked. Let's ride it
again.
Copyright © Robert Bradshaw 1997.
If there was a star,
You may not understand it,
Live what you love,
Stop for a time,
If there is a star,
For every word I wrote.
No room would be left,
For this little note.
But please read it anyway.
And if you still don't get it,
You've heard what I have to say.
And love what you live.
Give all you have,
For you have all you give.
Talk for a while.
You'll live a little longer,
If you choose to smile.
For every word I write.
You may not decipher,
When day becomes night.
Copyright © Rebecca Zeyen 1997.
We drive east exiting Yosemite
The road snakes
There is no love of stone here.
At the hem of a moraine
There is no love of stone.
We are driving upon the highest
There are no straight lines in Nature.
In the rising altitude ears pop
We turn off for a scenic look,
Cliff and peak loose their teeth
The size of the landscape is mesmerizing.
Every step coaxes me for a better view,
At night, stars shiver and blink
up to Crane Flat;
a place where cardinal points
prove farther than
the eye can see.
above the burnt red skin of Sequoia;
its branchlets kissing
the skirt of the sky,
its muscular roots splitting
the granite floor
Flesh through stone.
Bone to dust.
glimmers a small sub-alpine pond.
The surface flutters a shaped
breath of wind.
In the shallow pristine water
meditate massive boulders
that sit like worn furniture.
Snow curls in patches at the shore.
road in California: Tioga Pass.
A blacktop ribbon road that
winds round the hips
of fault-blocks.
Rock slides taunt its level stretch.
There is no loss of stone here.
as if in an airliner.
At two miles the sky falls
into mountainous crags,
reflecting off zenith ice.
Stones chatter ancient morse
curses at wild winds.
standing in shivering awe--
witness to the depth of the day.
A sky azure as an angel's soul.
in cold currents of cloudspeed.
Their frozen spit maps
the crevices with white
frozen shadows.
Judging distance becomes numbing.
Light whistles nothing
and infinity.
bringing closer a false path
to finding myself lost.
while the moon hangs
like an iced coin.
We stare in a stellar vertigo
driving down from Tioga Pass.
Copyright © Stephen Lindow 1997.
A paper plane, abandoned
is a two-mile-run,
by neighborhood kids
on the hood of my
secondhand Datsun 280Z,
became wet in the drizzle,
matted itself, blended,
into the white steel.
I left it there to dry
and rest its wings,
while I traveled
my daily miles to school.
Racing with me at 70 mph
north on Freeway 41,
the plane lifted
and flew up the embankment,
over the hedge,
over apartments and houses,
malls and mansions,
farms and ranches,
surfing the wind
towards the Sierra Nevada.
LIFE'S GREATEST PLEASURE
vast empty locker
room, rolls of shower
stalls all to myself
to stand underneath,
like a hungry karst
mountain welcoming
cascading showers
of hot rain, thinking
nothing.
Copyright © Soul Choj Vang 1997.
The view here is given generously
John is subdued;
I wish I could draw! These tops of houses,
But musts are plenty
and pressing,
As words rise and fall
All this while it sits in
me.
Rory is on the balcony swing,
Stand at the threshold of 40,
To each house built densely
On a hillside. The fog ends
At the freeway, and
Just short of the top of the rock.
I think it's me, then think I'm paranoid.
Bekah is quietly bored.
Emily is sweet
And mellow and being raised well.
These swallows and their noise.
The wires and the traffic.
Beyond, the great Pacific.
Investing me with serenity I may attempt to maintain.
Shoulds so numerous too;
If I can be a phoenix I'll
rise and shine
For you and you
And you and you and you
And you too.
Like tides unceasing, flow of cars
On an interstate. As children grow,
Become adults, babies grow into children,
Eggs turn into babies.
It flows through me.
It becomes me, like
A soft light
On a late night
In a dark room
Where I'm happy, and
Allowed to be.
Imperiously demanding, "Faster!"
In the distance I hear Journey sing
"Wheel in the Sky," which seems to be
Appropriately philosophical, as I
Dusting off my knees,
Homeless but not yet hopeless.
Copyright © Barbara Bales 1997.
He paints creamy golden,
On the sky's living canvas,
Apollo dies in an explosion,
Before the magic turns to black. . .
Copyright © Luke Tomycz 1997.
The Poetry of Edward S. Henderson
Wildfire burn from West to East.
Weather sometimes causes you to appear.
Man contributes to your inception.
Your flames reach to the heavens above,
Many creatures perish in your flame,
Wildfire burn from West to East,
Fed by the wind you’re not easily tamed.
Just like the Puma and other carnivorous beasts,
You devour your woody prey unashamed.
Started by lightning, and bright sunlight,
Glowing brightly through the atmosphere,
And sometimes as a spark in the night.
Carelessness, and malice are two perennial reasons.
Campfires left smoldering, and arsonists’ sickness offer your conception.
No matter what the cause, forest fires occur in all seasons.
As woodland creatures flee from you in fright.
The squirrels, snakes, deer and dove
Have nowhere to go, nowhere to light.
Others merely move on to greener grazing ground.
Both man and beast are losers, but only one shares the blame.
Invectives of scorn for you, Wildfire, resound.
Fed by the wind, burn on your course.
Woods and grasses offer a veritable feast,
Sate your appetite, Wildfire, without remorse.
Copyright © Edward S. Henderson 1997.
The Poetry of Betty J. Hengemuehler
Harvest time draws near,
The workers are jubilant in anticipation,
Mother Nature and God are entwined,
The harvesters come with their equipment,
Many long hours of toil are worth every minute,
Once again, the pistachios of the high desert
Thanks be to God for this abundance.
We have all been waiting for this moment;
A large crop is expected;
Each is a vital part of our success;
Dreams soon become realities;
The crop is large and the nuts are good sized;
are naturally greener and sweeter.
Copyright © Betty J. Hengemuehler 1997.
When track ribbons of freight trains
When you give me news of rigid quietus,
travel like lonely fingers of devotion
when Central Valley nights and days
brush the greasy dynamos' thunder
carried on wind above the supine ground
how can I be sure I'm not also hearing
Travis airplanes bound for Baghdad?
a howl of I-80 traffic? A rumble of cattle herds?
when our wedding rings drop like cracked beads
to the barren soil in our garden,
whipping dust like incubi (or is it succubi?),
how can I be sure I'm not also listening
to the chord of a new season's harp?
How can I be sure its strings aren't simply
glistening spider webs, dew-clotted?
How can I tell you of the vibration's deft tickle?
Copyright © Ron Laran 1997.
The Poetry of Jerry Threlkeld and Steven Stetson
Late in the game:
After checking the sign,
Squatting in position, fingers wiggling,
With a nod of his head,
Hanging curve-ball and the swing--
Batter's thoughts rushing: two strikes, protect the plate,
Crushing blow, deep to center field,
Two outs--three-two count.
The man on the mound
Holds the runner at first.
The batter digs in, closed stance.
Maximizing his lead, the runner
Sets for the steal.
The catcher flashes the signal.
Peering from the mound,
The pitcher shakes it off.
The pitcher sets.
Quick check of the runner,
Leg kick and delivery.
Souvineir to the upper deck fans--"foul ball"!
The next pitch released,
A split-fingered fastball in the zone.
Hit behind the runner, God I hope it's fair!
Tight grip, short stride,
Bat and ball racing toward a rendezvous.
"Back, back, way back", past the warning track.
Two run blast, party in the clubhouse,
Playoff hopes gleam in the eyes of the team.
Copyright © Jerry Threlkeld and Steven Stetson 1997.
my feet take me past the bench on the quad
where i sit in the february sun
one late afternoon before comp lit
an orange in one hand
charles bukowski in the other
waiting for class to begin
across the grass i see a classmate walking towards me
his soon to be familiar
faded grey jeans and red backpack
coming my way
passing me by he stops
sits down
we talk about a poem i'm reading
"new year's eve"
and i offer him a slice of bursting orange
somehow or another we turn to jazz and duke ellington
and i know from the magazines he carries
he is some kind of musician
maybe a guitarist
maybe a drummer
and then together we pause,
gather our books,
and walk to class
passing beneath the silent sycamore trees
on the way to olsen hall
i try to treat life as a journey
not a destination
but driving back across the causeway
fog hugging the flooded rice fields
a wave of melancholy always washes over me
-- behind, the dull glow of headlights receding
and davis growing
ever smaller
Copyright © Nicole Collins 1997.
Among the dainty marvels of the modern world,
Cutting through fields, meandering through pines,
The palpitations quicken at the splendid vision,
The mansion's gothic towers rise to azure heights,
Constituents of the extravagant collector's booty,
Recounting gallant allegories of a distant time,
Views from palatial terraces open onto foothills aglow,
The shimmering pools tiled with gold and glass
Night falls in sable folds onto the stately mounds,
A brief sojourn imprints a lingering impression,
Which had not yet fallen to mighty progress prey,
By Neptune's watery daggers carved and curled,
Pacific coastline stretches up to San Francisco bay.
A winding road leads inland to a rocky knoll
Where the Sun's saintly light benevolently shines,
Waking a passion in the most dispassionate soul.
Doubting one's sight and yielding to the thrill,
Trembling with awe, one yearns to gain admission
At the grand entrance gates of the Enchanted Hill.
Flanked by the houses of the Mountain, Sun, and Sea;
But where exclusive privilege once claimed its rights,
A common visitor may wander proud and free.
Scattered in nooks or intricately ordered for display,
Treasures of art, exquisite fineries of craft and beauty,
Crowd the gothic chambers in a brilliant array.
Medieval tapestries embellish the Assembly Room;
Over a sumptuous table where no guest will dine,
In the Refectory, the massive candelabras loom.
The ocean pressing brazenly against the yellow shore;
Blue herons who, venturing out from wetlands below,
Into the heaven's vault with hungry resolution soar.
Calmly reflect the idly drifting clouds' silver lace;
The sculpture gardens, orchards, flowered paths
Exhale languid luxury, quiet elegance and easy grace.
The timid moon peers down in regal stealth,
Shedding a noble light over the castle grounds,
Lending her magic to this monument of wealth.
One's thoughts revert to the bewitching theme
In search of solace, in a temporal digression,
Escaping coarse reality to a fair waking dream...
Copyright © Jamie Goferman 1997.
All text and images in The Central California Poetry Journal are copyrighted. Copyright by © by Scott Galloway 1996. All rights are reserved. See main Journal page for
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