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 1997 and 1996 editions of the Journal.
Hidden in the night.
I, for one was
A renewal of faith, hope, aspiration
This is a poem of love
My hope for that moment
Quiet and peaceful.
We met under terms
From an agreement
We had reached many
Years ago.
Surprised--No shocked
Might be a better word for
This quiet interlude
That amounted to
A magnificent resurgence
In my hope and spirit.
Respiration, inspiration, joy, love
All of the above,
Things I had never lost.
Faith in pieces of our soul
Interlocking again.
The decision was based on
Circumstances beyond our control.
Tied to an emotion
That can go unmeasured
To be exclusively enjoyed.
Is not temporary or elusive.
I want it to be permanent fixture
In the filament of my life.
Copyright © Stephen M. Fine 1998.
We arrived too late to be of help,
At the time we'd altered course,
As I looked down
"Is Mickey's daddy drowned?" I asked.
and closed the crumpled aircraft,
almost submerged,
just as an Army tug steered away with it
to Fort Mason, a couple of miles away.
at a point past Alcatraz,
Granddaddy said a plane was down.
As we neared the aircraft's wreckage
he said the pilot drowned,
a word I did not know,
and told me who the pilot was:
Major MacMurdo, a family friend.
at the dark green water
of San Francisco Bay,
an element I had thought benign,
I knew that it had somehow changed.
"Yes," he said.
"Does drowned mean dead"?
"Yes, it does," Granddaddy said.
Copyright © James M. Moose, Jr. 1998.
Black and white pictures of a young
hard muscled man, smiling out at the camera
on the beaches of Monterey
haunt me. Showing off, a handstand
a cartwheel, another with an arm slung
around a friend, those photos pull me
tug me, call me in.
He took me there once, my father on his
trip down memory lane--
an older man
full of tales and longing, looking everywhere,
trying to find that young man in the photos
who looked out with such confidence,
a cocky air around that winning smile.
It was a sad day, yet a good day-- sad
that the past was so far away, that the friends
in the photos were gone, the feisty young man
doing hand stands a memory,
yet--
for moments in the day he came out to play
again, and the years disappeared
like foam bubbles on the beach bursting
in the wind.
I can't think of Monterey without seeing
those pictures, the black and white photos
of long ago,
the ones in full color in my mind's eye-his memory traded
for mine-
on a magic beach where in the blink of an eye
time stood still, rewound, fast forwarded.
There are those who think I'm crazy
not to love the snow,
wild winters on the mountain
the stark white landscape against
that heartbreak blue sky. Storms rolling, gray clouds lowering,
covering, hovering, promising.
I admit freely, there have been times when I have missed
the mountains, longed for the energy of clear, crisp air
scented with dark earth and pine and pungent smoke--
Dark nights
when I have waited for the sound of the first snow,
that stillness, that whisper, the sound of silence
broken only by the tinkle of a snowflake falling
on soft grass, colored leaf, brittle twig.
But my heart belongs to the ocean, you see,
where white spray flies off time etched rocks,
scents the air with brine and life and dreams.
My soul soars with the rise of seagulls, the dip
of the pelicans, the roar of the waves, the howl
of a monster surf, the fizz of bubbles of foam
breaking gently, as softly as those snowflakes,
falling on colored leaves in the dark night.
Foamy champagne fizz against sand, warm sand
that wraps and clings and stings against hungry skin
that loves, no, craves, the feel of salt and grit and the wetness
that swells with each rising and falling of the wave, the air
that breathes a sigh, the breath of life.
And yet, there are those who think I'm crazy
not to love the snow.
Copyright © Sandy Starr 1998.
Go to the tidal pools.
Look in the shallow pools.
Pass the clapboard houses.
Hear the night bay rhythm.
Smell the fresh salted air.
You can feel the passed dream.
Go when the weather's foul.
Go alone to see life
left after the deluge.
Look to the sea's power.
Look for eternity
in delicate bounty.
Pass dew leaden cypress.
Pass fishing ghosts waiting,
mending dormant nets.
Hear the water's old voice.
Hear an easy rejoice,
coaxed by afternoon light.
Smell the slow burning oaks.
Smell the sweet fog finding
its self-charted courses.
You can taste the lament.
You can still catch glimpses
of Steinbeck's Monterey.
Copyright © Jonathan P. Dyer 1998.
Walking the rainy Round Mt. hills today
I met an obscure subspecie of man,
"Homo Pluvius."
I saw him standing with his simple black umbrella
Off the muddy trail with a creek in it,
Surveying the pine canyon below beset with flying sheets of rain.
I saw him skidding in the snowslush ravines above Minaluta,
Hunched in his wet coat when the wind would rise
& Pepper him with wet excess from the branches overhead.
I saw him slogging through cold pools where no detour existed,
Pushing his way through the closeknit manzanita,
Trying to piece together deer trails to the top.
Boots soaked, hair matted, mud on tattered clothing--
What was he doing there
Wandering the storm-lashed hills,
Fit for neither man nor beast?
The forest itself affords little defence
Against the unanticipated shower
That catches you far from home,
Obliging you to roust about for oak canopies
Or the like for cover.
Even then you are heir to the flying, spritzing, kerplunk!
Of rainslivers working down the branches.
Poor dumb wanderer skidding & slipping in old snow,
Feet wet, jacket wet, hair matted,
Slogging through mud looking for what?
The faint shortcut trail that just isn't there.
Copyright © Craig Steiger 1998.
When it is raining out, above
Yet, this prowess, shall behold
And when in fleeting, her eye has changed
When I see her dance, a buoy lost
In rain, I fail, to guard my gaze
the domicile earth impounds the dove
and withal, she flies, in euphonic storm
cast into an ethereal class of scorn
non other than, the ancient mold
her face in me, upon every venue
aches to decipher and continue
about the merriment, her pupils ranged
and I, beneath, a God half-named
cannot remember her being tamed
I will rue the day she learns the cost
For I love her coat of scintillate nobility
it's fire has breathed the air of sanctity
I see through a crass, divine maze
her thin, shot frame, so close to touch
I am afraid we are alike in much.
My agenda, to your dismay
Me any harm, nor benevolence
My orchid has lapsed, into my serum's spray
Covering the sphinx, cervix, and membrane
The postulate lies, partly in theory
all I have left, rough in heart
All that is past you, all that is brief
concerns no ancillary, nor play
of which is diffused, by you
of which is reposed, cannot do
shall extend my wrath, to an essence
that concerns any hairbreadth of yours
any missile counterpart, of course
honey and hair hold together a dim ray
partook in an anthem, of swell lover's heat
In ravishing torment, I feel the stench of meat
without each, you are a crass and tasty insane
patriot; I wish to detain your scruples
searching, however, would rid me of vigors
of mind against matter and every memory
what does Sun differ in your pupils
your malice is shocking, and quadruples
all I have spoken, that is art
all in the meadow, of disgrace and torment
all in demeaning, a behemoth's servant
all that moonlight shuns, all that is grief
anything plenty, in solitude's hands
all I can see, without adhering demands.
Copyright © Mandy Arjmand 1998.
No hometown eyes watching
The promise of a better life
Aboriginal genocide:
the go ahead people.
Failure walked three thousand miles
and miles.
The thirst of many for dollars paid
the way go easy,
the way go wrong.
Chosen few to fleece the many
this hell on earth at golden gate.
Two groves in the earth to mark the way,
the ocean froth, the golden bay.
These go ahead people.
lost to tortured moonless nights.
The rain to wash the soul away
to the tailing piles.
For miles they came to see her
woman's face, though not handsome,
a woman’s face.
Locust heart with leather boots
swarm over the land.
No conscience here; the greed of heart.
The takers lawless land these parts.
The go ahead people.
they had no need for locust heart.
Taken family, soul and slave
lost these wanderers their soulless grave.
Scored and broken this river bank;
poke of gold for shattered sort,
came to this broken Sutter fort.
Bring you hither bring you fool taken
fleeced you foolish fool.
No hometown eyes watching you.
The go ahead people.
Copyright © Chris L. Enos 1998.
(for Doc Ricketts)
observe and learn
the trilogy of life
and the Sea of Cortez
it is indeed anticlimactic
I am sure though that he would not mind
between the pacific tides
waves of decades wash over
memories and philosophy
pulling us in
to the interconnectedness
of it all.
preserved in formaldehyde
bottled, packaged, and shipped
passing the knowledge
to those less local
continues.
beckons, calling him back
calling me like it had
eaten the sirens resting
on its foam sprayed rocks
and become a haunting voice
unto itself.
that in the face of this
my connection leads me
to drink beer on his stoop
to listen for gramophone records
played sixty years earlier
leads me to tears.
my trespass.
I am sure he would teach.
And I am sure I would listen.
These hills could be a landscape.
Or a skyscraping landscape.
But I wouldn't believe you
either way.
At one o'clock
Wednesday morning
Crickets, boats in foggy Frisco
Even the freeway sleeps
Lights on the docks
Lonely airplane.
Cigarette ashes
grow too long and roll down
My page, there, can you hear them?
Blue Herons over Oakland.
Copyright © Jeremy Graybill 1998.
The clock tower swings round - endlessly
As a hammersmith's dark arm
Pounding meaning into exquisite
Leaf, so thin that not a single atom
Can move freely between the several
Layers of concrete floors and
Abstract ceilings. A grand victim of poetic
Fission.
syllables split
race tangential lines
form maddening clouds
eclipse intellect
for seventy years of winter
before they are collected in cigar boxes
by official looking men with
credentials and nailed to
Babel's front door like the
Winning lotto ticket of the
last
revolution.
We stand together on a plain weave rug,
And test ourselves against steamy waters
Of the bath. Stepping, as two whooping cranes
Do in the early spring over the white steel wall
Into a slow water-step we both know. And I'll
Wash your hair. It has grown to your shoulders
Since we first made love, and I rub the new
Growth between my fingers, oiling it with thin
Bubbles. You sway to quiet strings and winds
And I trace from your mantle to your grooved
Shoulders, each melting to a different ray
Of the same light; like the way Brenno
Stuck the molten red feather to the glass hat
He blew for you in the old auto shop. Remember
The way the three hungry furnaces sucked the
Door closed behind us and how we sweated in
The glow of his furnace, loving.
Copyright © John Shepherd 1998
I stroll upon the crowded sand
giggling kids running
the voices of couples
dogs in frantic play
such sweet pleasures to find all around
luxuriating in the softness
licking tangy salt from thirsty lips
feeling the warm flowing breeze
upon a tired burning back
and I forget all that I lack
into the incoming tide
spotting a saturated beach
with tiny tan footprints
the charming vision
softening my inner core
ride the sun warmed wind
enjoying the time together
away from dreary work days
I revel in the illusive peace
chase the lapping waves
horses trot along the shore
in concerted tempo with the sunlight
and I squeeze within the blissful harmony
in one special place graced
by so much living energy
to ease the failing spirit
of all who walk her face
Copyright © April Joy 1998
In the thick foggy winter air
A giant serpent sleeps.
It coils, up and around, twisting,
A dark monument peeking out between the buildings
and the trees.
Often I wonder what goes on beneath it's poised belly.
Carnival stands and souvenir shacks,
Maintenance men wander between giant circus pictures
Splashed all over with basic colors of orange, green
yellow and red.
A white tower stands tall,
Many other rides wait patiently for the crowds,
But nothing draws my attention like the passive stance
of the roller coaster.
Copyright © Craig Schoonover 1998
On this headland
I crouch like a scout
standing watch
over the broad Pacific,
framing uncounted sunsets.
I inhale
salted breezes,
tolerate the drafts that push their way
through my dense head-dress,
imbibe the cool
dampness of morning mists
firmly anchored
against coastal winds that
primp and distort me,
sweeping me flat
and directional,
like a compass needle
pointing east.
I shiver hours on end,
gnarled lifelines
cracking stone in reflex,
claiming new fissures.
I adapt and prevail
as living monument,
kneaded silhouette,
celebrant of creation.
Admiring eyes trace my sharp
fractal edges daily
until dusk obliterates
the sun's orange filter
and my deltaic exhibition
retreats into darkness.
I am Monterey Cypress,
sublime and aged,
like these craggy highlands,
born of land, sea, and sky
at their juncture,
tooled by centuries
for Spartan fitness.
Copyright © Charles Albano 1998
Cigarette's burning
End; sun-rise smoldering a
Swaying willow
Sable kitten crawls
Into the laps of mountains;
Indolent, she sleeps.
Voice sprinkling on
Metal ears; legions gushing
Towards fertile soil.
Copyright © J. Marcus Weekley 1998
Your forgiveness came
like the scent of rain
and plum tree blossom
in pacific winter.
Copyright © Jake Richardson 1998
Thick fog settles on the ground.
Bovines bellow low across the sodden land
Fog's here, here to stay!
Lights try to push through it
With patches up and down
No breeze nor rain come to wash
Peering deep into the gray-
It's not rain- it's not water.
Thick fog settles to the ground.
For vines in vineyards and branches in trees
it's pulled over and snuggled into
a woolen fuzz of gray.
a sea of dew they seem to swim through.
Fog sits down heavy on the land.
Fields take on a load of it.
All's compressed and slowed.
My first thought is a gray day of vapors
that block my way.
to no avail.
It's a gray grail which pauses us-
forcing from us a moments due hail.
between which we dash!
Hoping, hoping not to crash!
Trusting, trusting what-
That our speed is not to rash?
this wet wool from our Valley plain.
Deep in the hollows and along country creeks
it sits for what seems weeks and weeks...
sight is useless.
Sounds turn our heads we only
to see more gray in the way!
It does not drop nor spray.
Yet all is clinged with damp and wet.
If you leave your door open
it will move in to stay!
It lays its head near the soul of the earth.
A giant slumbering without a sound.
Resting 'til spring comes around.
Copyright © J.W. Gurtis 1998
Love on the beach,
With waves slowly coming in,
Caressing you in my arms,
Oh how good it feels to hold you here.
We make out all night long,
Into the day we lay beside one another,
What happens from now on to forever?
As we lay here I feel all the pain disappear.
As the sun slowly rises,
I think to myself how even the most beautiful thing in nature can't compare to
your beauty.
The feeling of your hands touching me,
Can't compare to the wondrous feeling of the waves closing in on us.
Morning has come,
We must be off.
Back home we go,
Home to the winter cold.
Home to the beautiful snow.
Our love on the beach,
It will be missed.
Copyright © David Thomas Kittell 1998
Risen from dust, a dreamer is born
painted on the canvas of the Master
he is set into motion, and hopeful is he
of wondrous dreams
Idea's knitted, across the fabric of mankind
Some call them dreams, and some may not
Rejected by those, who have failed before
And now they dream, no more
Hearts hardened, they venture not
Yet take satisfaction in those who cannot
And delight in their loss, to justify their own
Failed lives, who dream no more
Yet some continue on, daring to dream
The dream elusive and so easily fractured
It promises a wonder of being fulfilled
And now the dreamer, weary in mind
Dreams fleeting, far and behind
Almost beyond, the reach of the mind
The dreamer weary, of which he may find
Fearing that soon, daylight's at hand
Beloved by the nay-sayer's
That harsh light, that fades the wonders
Of the infinite colors, of imagination
And replaces them, with black and white
That which is safe, for those who dare not
The dream, so long in the making, and easily lost
It is easy for them, to caste a doubt
Upon that which, they cannot perceive
For they must reside, in the shadows, or light
Its limited duality, is their plight
Not able to discern the colors of light
The colors of feeling, so delicate, white
Far and away, they cannot travel
Limited, by yes, and or no
Light or dark, not daring the dream
Of infinite flight, in colors that stream
Should the dream be cast down
So to, may the dreamer be lost
So few are those, who are we?, who try again
Only to, soon, face the dawn, and its light
And they who hide, in its simple delight
Avoiding the risk, of the flight
The voyage that which, the dreamer lives, only to make
A dream, so long, and so hard to make
Far and near, he casts his spell
Distance only, and time will tell
Standeth he upon the rock, the dreamer
Some can see, and some cannot.
I stared into, her eyes of Blue
A thunderous scene, below the starlit night
But she has waited, and has plans for me
I look to the quite, calm above
And when this eternity, finally ends
Her eyes upon me, asking, is it you?
Her waters wash around me, threatening a cold embrace
Singing in the wind, her voices race
She asks again, as the sea foam flies
I dare not answer, too afraid to reply
I trim my sails, and try to defy
Her attempts at my ship, and my mind, I deny
The mighty roar of the Blue, a loveless plight
I sail on through the night
Struggling, in a desperate fight
In search of dawn, that I hope will come
Before this night, and my strength succumb
Like those of so many other sailors, under the sea
Her boiling swells are now crashing for me
And for the stars, I so dearly love
I seek the route, for my ship
And hope to escape, her treacherous grip
Of her deep blue bonds, from upon my ship
The Morning Star, its light it sends
A light that shines, and breaks the dawn
And saves the ship, and souls upon
Copyright © William E. Simpson II 1998, all rights reserved
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