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 1998 , 1997 and 1996 editions of the Journal.
Sherri Braddock
Don Piccolo
Jim Herlihy
Lauren Gordon
George William Weber
Gary Gibson
Jonathan P. Dyer
k.a. magnatta
Rain Whispers
Gloria K. Spurgeon-Smith
Dorothy Gerstein
Peter Tomassi
Oh cold waters of the pacific coast how you overtake me
As I go out into the night I feel the deepness of your powers
Mysteries abound as I gaze past the fishing boats placed
Though I am far from your gentleness and enchantment
and draw me to the edge of Heaven and Earth
As your pearly shores receive gentle tides...I remember...
And my eyes tear up with the sweet memories that are set
Against the backdrop of the Pier and the little shops so
Quaint and friendly....oh how I remember!
So neatly against a red setting sun falling beneath the skyline...
Waters that entice the soul you are, Oh Pacific...
Darkening waters that bring a rush of what was and
Yet What is not now...
I never really left you
As a lover never really lets go of the one loved...
Someday, Sweet Pacific of Pismo, someday I will return...
A fog-laden beachscape on a Fall morning...Highway 101 winding around
the backdrop of an ocean Paradise...a young man peddling his bike
on a narrow mountain road...an abundance of Rosemary gracing walkways
and landscapes...a farmer's market on Thursday night in Slo...the annual
Clam Chowder Festival at the Pier...a quaint little shop filled with
shells and candles...the Moose Lodge by the beach with such friendly
fun loving people inside on a Saturday night...a man kneeling as he
prays facing the ocean...a young girl writing her memoirs as she
reclines in a folding chair....a man and his dog chasing the tides...
an old couple strolling hand in hand satisfied with the good life
here...fishing vessels coupling with the sea as the day begins...
cold salt water dashing up to meet feet unable to escape...the magical
sounds of the ocean as it bathes the smooth sands...the hope of the
sick that the magic of the ocean waters will heal both the body and
the mind....young people testing their stamina with surf boards dotting
the oceanscape....the smells of a beach BBQ and clam bake....the feel
of wet sand beneath your feet and between your toes...the beauty of
a Winter Sunrise as it encompasses the startling beauty of the
hills and ocean....the pleasure of finding a sand dollar intact...
Ahhhh....memories....sweet sweet memories in time....
Copyright © Sherri Braddock 1999.
Sandhills are back
Geese in form'd flight
Big horse baby can't
Mice invade the drawer
A cold, a cough dominate
In the fields in droves
Headed somewhere
Seem to get enough
and cupland space
My head and time
The fog seems eerie
Oh, tell me grey fog
Do you want me
You've seen the explosions and inner conflict
Just creepin' around
The trees and bushes
On winter's grey morn
Just given it's meaning
To those who tune in
What you want to say
About life ‘n the Creator's great plan?
I know it must be weighty
As heavy as you
Hangin' like a shroud a‘beckonin' me
To come and run thru the mud
Or just sit by the window all cuddled and warm
On grey mornin' fog of a day?
This cold grey mornin' danky forlorn
You know the beginnin' the creator's first twitch
The stirs and writhin' and fawn's first wobbly stand
And now, I embrace you and accept you today
The way that you're made all quiet, settled and staid
As life is all worth it on grey, foggy days
‘Cuz the Creator has deemed it this grey fog of day
Copyright © Don Piccolo 1999.
Morning dawns, the coffee's up,
This is how I start the day,
The aroma of coffee wafts through the air,
Our java is honest, it's strong and it's good,
Latte, espresso, mocha we know,
I take my time to fill a cup.
The inky brew steams smoky hot,
I pour the cream which tends to clot.
With a ritual drink from far away.
Colombia, Ecuador, Kona, Brazil,
Give birth to a bean we all love to mill.
The complex perfume lays our senses bare.
A hint of a hillside, sunshine and rain,
Are there in the flavor we long to remain.
But today a new breed invades the neighborhood.
Starbucks and Pasqua and Tullys all sell
Fancy concoctions we all know too well.
Are the drinks of the moment, not simple old joe.
They froth and they hiss and they stick at the touch,
But it's really the coffee we all love so much.
Voice is sound that comes from the mouth,
Does it have accent, pitch or tone,
Once voice speaks, it will not be stilled,
We are swept along in the prose,
We talk and opine, sometimes we shout.
A writer should not just make noise,
We seek his insight, that is his voice.
Is it silent, only self known ?
Nuance, values shadings of gray
Are the essence of what he says.
Vision on paper, his life's thrill.
As characters form, scenes take shape,
Momentum builds, surge to the tape.
Just the effect the writer chose.
Listen for silent voices too,
They open our minds to the truth.
From time to time I take a bus,
As I leave my corporate lair,
The trolley bus assaults the hill,
Smells of fish, noodles, poultry too,
Old and young Chinese riders push,
A tonal conversation cracks,
We approach the destination:
Through Chinatown, with little fuss.
Buses slink through concrete canyons,
Snaking up through Chinese bastions.
I board a bus and pay my fare.
Sights and smells are so exotic,
Will they drive us all neurotic ?
With jerky jolts, it stops to fill.
Passengers board with bags of food,
And quickly comes a change of mood.
Half cooked food and bok choy stew.
I think: suburban super mart ?
Pink plastic bags, no shopping carts !
To board, to sit, to hold, to crush.
All sit still with eyes half lowered,
"No free seat ?" the old man glowered.
The sullen quiet on our track.
The buildings dense along our route,
Remind us here, that space is moot.
I reflect, my ride was Asian.
Short bus rides are often gritty;
Not in my mosaic city !
Copyright © Jim Herlihy 1999.
The Poetry of Lauren B. Gordon
not walkabout, yet dreamtime at 25,000 feet, commuter airline,
dreaming american black bear, grizzly, brown and kodiak,
opening my eyes, i cannot read another line
grey wolves travel from yellowstone
under this same moon
santa barbara to sacramento, the flight is in sunlight between cloud layers
standing in streams, rivers, creeks, and inlets
fishing for cutthroat, brown and rainbow, reds, sockeye and chum.
bears dreaming from hibernation of melting snow nourishing
black berry, brambleberry, gooseberry, and chokecherry
remembering raindrops on salmonberries
from hemispheres, the inflight magazine
seeking dreamtime and walkabout
begins on the great plains mustang herds
ghost of appaloosa, paints and morgans
quarterhorses-mares manes tangled and free
in wind currents moving buffalo grass
there are no distances too far in this my walkabout
standing under the moon
watching the now quiet herds
i am the red haired outlaw woman
called she of the fine and wicked pen
waning three days past full
above the clouds, the pilot announces the descent
to the sacramento airport
leaving dreamtime
preparing for walkabout to find my mustang
now transformed into a small foreign car
in the overflow parking lot
Copyright © Lauren B. Gordon 1999.
The Poetry of George William Weber
Frost has brought -- fall to life
Driving along three ninety five
Gray sage profuse blooms of yellow
Align the road in a golden glow
Aspen tree’s yellow red adorn the crest
Surrounding evergreens frame aspens nest
Lost chlorophyll natures canvas bright
Sun dances across the river in delight
Water dancing shore to shore
Glistening reflections shining galore
Tiny wave reflects suns glaring light
Thousand waves revealingly bright
Repeat by over small rocks bouncing
Water narrowing deepening flouncing
Race toward a pool which quietly waits
Hidden behind boulders in deep shade
Rainbow trout in a home they’ve made
You see their shadows fleeting
Clear water an aid to their eating
Shadow falls upon this deep pool
Gone they flee as if from school
Fishing forbidden this time of year
Men protect fishes lair
Trout waving tales wiggle and wait
For food their hunger to satiate
Behind rocks there continuos chore
Wait for food always able to eat more
Meadows run to mountains base
Gradually climb up mountains face
Weather gets cooler as we climb
Happens every year about this time
Aspens glorious colors about to shed
Winter coming trees prepare to bed
Trees reflect change of season
Eyes behold all that is pleasing
Evergreen trees refuse to disrobe
Some of the sights on walker river road
Copyright © George William Weber 1999.
Like the divergence of waves time casts its people
Jesus left the comforter for those whom would be saved
Residing in California the l.e.m. is so far away
residing in California the govenor is a political statue
where is the lem when cosmic ray storms assault the sea of tranquility
where is the lem carried in spirit
Are politicians so many statues posing
somewhere in the vicinity of California.
from beach to beach, from hope to hope
in search of liberation from the oblate tyranny
hanging like a shadowous pluperfect praetor enchained
in sonorous cadences marching like Redwoods to a pulpy end
composite materials made sur la tabla
A Spirit such as Created the universe
the pluralverse from particles swollen roundly
arguably in time equated at a ratio of distance to gravity
a relative approximation of the curvature of light
slowed to near freezing, plopped as a theory
as coins into a well reached absolute location
beyond Clatsop, Kitsap, Bainbridge,Seattle the inside passage
to an unalaska Michener never encountered
one beyond the Pacific of California
yet not better than the sea lion's turf at Point St. George
whom must flee the pollution of expanding mankind
sterlizing every yard...nothing lives
the plagues overcome, the very news of a social net
pummelling dissident creatures into the glue pot
an incareration of lifetime amidst profit or power
burghs of bureaucracy compacting everything to one idea, order
the Salton Sea withers away like time, borders/margins/cities
dry desert dust outside mansions blossomed with orange petals
mnemonic highways driven blindfolded by chauffer broadcasters
tryming to ryhme ming era vast cracked pots shattering e-motion-ably
real estate values like civil de reches
couped de wilsonville
favored rhettism of farthest dissimulant
plausibly placed like all on-off advertisements
influencing masses of
Californians residing
once hop skipped and jumped across by Neil
whom has changed as has the airless orb
in Alaska, upon Mars
what private property could be a foe of America
so free, so poor, so targeted by non-sense
to be deleted from decades passing
a ghost town of one hut-like base
for media marionettes
the ocean ignores eroding cliffs that collapse along roadways
rain spatters on the million square windows, curlews flyby
from Tahiti to Alaska
as squid remain
Copyright © Gary Gibson 1999.
The Poetry of Jonathan P. Dyer
A summer stream bed,
Gathering heat rises
The oaks' sun-drenched shade,
Great expanses pause.
between dry banks
crowded with spring's dying grasses,
lies hard-packed and empty,
long after dangerous life's
furious wash.
supporting a scavenger's flight
while dust devils swirl -
their hectic form quickly lost
to the patient day.
with the last morning texture
of fading moisture,
crosses small meadows,
revealing ceaseless motion's charity.
Their near silence grows -
fed by slow afternoon drought -
until twilight brings the nervous noises
of instinct's driving mystery.
Copyright © Jonathan P. Dyer 1999.
the old redwood knows,
the old redwood knew,
how to live feast and famine,
can you teach me, tree?
how to live feast and famine,
he tried to teach me.
Copyright © k.a. magnatta 1999.
A daffodil smile
the taste
caressed
brings back memories
of lips kissed
in the soft evening sun
of a smile
traced across
a petals gentle curves
by the memory
I blow a kiss
to a love long ago
Most dreams
Feelings
Softly
~~ leave nothing behind
~~except the glow
~~the color
~~of a sunrise
~~brushed
~~upon your soul
mist of morning
The time between
tiny tear drops of dawn
when kissed by the setting sun
they become a rainbow of gems
covering even the smallest blade of grass
(untitled)
Being with you
Seems to get distorted
By ripples of images
Of past moments
Shared with you
Reflections
I try so hard to catch
Copyright © Rain Whispers 1999.
The Poetry of Gloria K. Spurgeon-Smith
I am dancing along the street
a pigeon swoops into my arms and as we spin
A leaf pretty enough to paint lies on the sidewalk;
And another leaf I could pick up and take with me
the clack and grunt of the cable car
A cold wind fiddles with my scarf,
Heavy machinery breaking up the street nearby crashes
The music plays on as I
I see a sign crying
twisting and gliding smoothly in and around
small crowds loitering about;
a band is playing our song:
"C'mon let's go little darlin'"
we perform a dozen pirouettes in time.
Pedestrians pass without noticing.
but I don't. I leave them where they belong. Like wild creatures
living easily in this bewilderness regardless of
pulling itself up California,
the hum of the tracks like the meditations of a million workers.
its bony hands searching for a finger hold around my warm neck;
wrapped tight like a hot tamale, I tango across the street.
in waltz time, and we crraaasshh! two, three,
crash! two, three - I could dance like this all day.
glissade around a bicyclist
bringing up the rear after the light has changed.
"Your body is a battleground."
So, who's fighting the battle?
Copyright © Gloria K. Spurgeon-Smith 1999.
The Poetry of Dorothy Gerstein
The ground reflects with smooth simplicity,
The objects that slide, and gravitate along
it's surface,
The air is clean, and quickly filled with
clear uninhibited drops.
Copyright © Dorothy Gerstein 1999.
If I told you
You would have pointed
I would have said
I would have seen the wind
We watch his tattered pelvis
And there is more you see
The fog was escaping
With the stolen breath of trees
Or that his eyes seemed
Cut from bed sheets
Passing us a streaming ghoul
Late for an afternoon séance
To his safe reaches, the boneless cotton
Dancing like a healing man's smoke
Around an assembly of the faithful
Their hair crowned a heady
Amalgam of sugar and rainwater.
His darkened belly warned of thunder
Twitching your dog's nose
While she barked, just once, figuring
Not to run and catch up
But hide in your pant leg.
Swing the fog like a bag of rock salt
To pummel tourist windshields
While you draped him around hood
Ornaments with a halo of good will.
Stretch a soft wet bone
The pitch-forked tail
Slit the palms down Dolores Street
While you make bowed strips of sunlight
Lead the pigeons down to the valley.
Hobo legs, shoes ridiculous
Hobbling over apartment block props
Thrown down for our giant clown
To hop-dance-twist-keel over on
Grin with a bow.
Copyright © Peter Tomassi 1999.
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
copyright information.
Authors and poets submitting original materials to this journal retain all rights to their
original work, except those rights specifically assigned in writing to Solo Publications including the right to publish the submitted work in The Central California Poetry Journal. The poems on this page are copyrighted by the author.
Return to Central California Poetry Journal Table of Contents
Send email to the Central California Poetry Journal
Return to Solo Publications On Line
Return to Solo Publications Web Index
Back To The Top
