Central California Poetry Journal

Volume 2001 Number 1

The Poetry of Central California Page 0106

The Poetry of Sandy Starr

Sandy Starr is a journalist, writer/photographer for a newspaper and business publications. She currently resides in the foothills of Albuquerque, New Mexico. She makes an annual pilgrimage to California. She has written poetry for as long as she can remember. She has been published locally in several publications, and in InkLit, Artisan and A Writer's Choice Literary Journal (http://members.spree.com/writer/) Starr has lived all over the country and the world. Her heart however still lives in San Francisco, where she lived for two years in the 1970's. She says that she loves the California coast, and that her favorite thing to do is drive up Highway 1 and take it all in," the view, the smell, everything." Starr wrote the poems in this collection about California. Sandy Starr's poetry is also featured in the 1997, 1999, and 2000 editions of The Central California Poetry Journal on pages 0001 9102 and 7107. She is currently doing freelance work for the Mountain View Journal, doing arts and entertainment pieces and photos. You may wish to visit Sandy Starr's web page by using this link to Sanstarr's Page

Landlocked Self

The gift of new black shoes on my feet
I stepped onto the glass beach
where sky reflected on sand
and begin to walk
saltwater sand grains clinging
to the new black soles
stepping on slickness
walking in others footprints
in the tracks of gulls
soaking into my shoes
from the soles up
to the soul
nothing ruined
all filled
breaking in the new of shoes
taking in the way I feel
always
stepping onto the sand
my landlocked self breathing again
pulse elevated
heart racing
all
excited
brand new.
I brought them home, the new shoes tinged with
watermarks
and sand. Memory walks in each footstep now.

Untitled

I had forgotten
about the fog
the way it is suddenly
there
wrapping softly
silent
moving slowly
the way a cataract clouds the lens of an eye
changing the scene from crisp
to opaque
distortion becoming real vision

what is the signal
I know there are atmospheric
meteorlogic explanations
for scientific minds
but really you know
the fog is alive
and all equations fall short
as it begins to move from its established presence
just off the coast
it gathers what it needs from air and water
to build itself into this dense
hovering
mass
a solid wall at the edge of a watery horizon
yet deceptive once it advances
one can walk right through
like a ghost
unlike anything else
tales cannot do justice to the way
it takes over highways
takes back and owns the beach
breathes on its own
as you breathe in its wetness
becoming part of the elusive being
it
melding into your molecules
as you become
part of beauty
mystical
fearsome

Wild Thing

this one is a hot one
headstrong
with a wild streak
a dark beauty
fascinating
mesmerizing
loves to dance and shimmy
shimmer and shake
gives off heat
sends it up in waves
oh this one is wild
this one
has gone bad
it covets
steals
teases and takes
shameless
turns up the temperature
men sweat
women stare in disbelief
its undulating swirling dance
creates wild winds of its own
spawns chaos
home wrecker
leaves behind empty shells
smoking
glowing hot with blinking coals

this one holds the colors of heaven
and hell
has the mouth of a starving animal
gobbles up everything
goes where it pleases
it grabs possessions
greedy
runs again
nobody has tamed it
this one leaves mortals standing idle
in awe
in fear
this one is a wild thing
brazen
getting bolder
running with the wind

I Miss The Crows

the rabbits found me
little cotton tails bobbing in the dusk
as something scares them
off the patch of barely green lawn
and birds flit from tiny trees recently planted
hummingbirds came in warm summer
their shrill echoing as they flitted from one bright bloom
to the next

I am trying to build my Eden again
but it all grows so slow
and winter grasps the leaves in its breath
sucking them off gray/brown scrawny branches
brilliant bursts of blue from morning glories
orange-gold zinnias and the blood red rose
have vanished for the season
only the pine tree holds color
green against the gray
it all sits there in slumber
muted and dreary
sleeping through a winter dream
I can live without the color for awhile
but what I really miss
is the crows
their blackness glistening in the sun
their gatherings decorating huge old branches
in a snowfall
surreal landscape of gray
white and black
their irreverence made into mystical
by the softening snow and clouds

I miss being privy to the spectacle of them sailing in the harsh winds
the cackle and caw and calls to one another
the way one boldly washed food in the birdbath
leaving crumbs and crumbles

Against a bright blue sky I watched them
fascinated by their brassy bravery
indifferent to weather
spooked only now and then
by an opening door
they would rise in a black wave and whoosh away
into nearby trees
watching
indignant
now and again
over the rocky canyon I see a hawk sail
soaring free
nature slowly builds here in my new home
but so far
the crows have not come

All text and images in The Central California Poetry Journal are copyrighted. Copyright by © by Scott Galloway2001. 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. Copyright © Sandra Starr 2001.

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