Paul Michael Guthrie writes: "I was born in Erie, Pennsylvania in late July of 1947. In 1952 my family moved to the Los Angeles area. In 1965 I moved to San Luis Obispo, California. There I remain today with a wife, a daughter, a son, and a myriad of other wonderful people.
I have been writing in my head since one day while I was walking to elementary school one day in 1956. In 1992 both my wife and myself were diagnosed with cancers. I began writing both inside and outside of my head.
Poems to read, and read, and read again are the poems I love and that I strive to conceive."
That I am a dreamer
is certainly true.
And that those
Dreams have been threatened,
has of late been
Constantly in view . . .
But today again, I sense the beginning
of the grasp,
of the edge of the cloud,
That I've known in times past.
Smile like the warmth,
Down here in the bottom
If you're searching for heaven . . .
Or miss a human voice
Than the heat from a nearby star.
the same as the music brings.
Liquid cobalt blue sky,
deepens most high,
and gentles at the edge
of canyon foliage,
framing the tops
of stilled, rolling ridges.
of nature's fertile kettle,
sun and sounds warm
my shoulders and soul.
Pleasant hollow, echoing twangs
and strums,
set the pace for Peggy's blood
flowing from my heart . . .
through my veins.
Don't look too hard . . .
or too far.
more gentle, strong, and warm . . .
It's a secret.
Only to be swept on,
Here and now . . .
Young women in varieties
The child, Eddie,
The kid pauses, wondering,
The man pauses again, wondering,
Poetry conspirator harking
"I heard him read one time
After class we went to
The whole class was there. . .
Poetry conspirator stays,
Eddie, the kid, the man
The children pass through
But hidden, somewhere
Poking here, shocking there
Instantaneous gas
Anxiety's children
that they pass through
incredible that fear,
Friends and passersby,
greet and encounter
a relaxed confidence.
like twigs and leaves
carried by the rainfall runoffs
that make up the moments
of our lives.
Mixed pleasant cacophony . . .
hot steamed milk,
murmuring of a dozen voices,
40's cable music,
coffee drink callouts,
rebounding throughout . . .
Light and sunlight poking
through glass doors and walls,
courtesy of the surrounding
trees, streets and structures . . .
of black,
blond, short and curly,
mixed blond and brunette
ponytail,
auburn, short pageboy.
Attractive and pleasant in demeanor,
they brew, chat, serve.
occupies a corner.
Empty coffee cup, banana bread,
favorite Saucelito cap.
Gary Snyder's
"Left out in the Rain"
atop the morning daily news.
when is he . . .
in this world, this place,
these friends, this time,
this gift.
why doesn't his parent
share this world?
from near the Sierra foothills,
pauses, crosses to talk
with the man of the kid,
sees "Rain" on my table.
at Fresno State.
In Bob Mezy's class there . . .
not really a professor.
Mezy's place in Academy,
a four-house town
in the Sierra foothills
on the way
to Shaver Lake.
It was the sixties,
you know."
waiting for his coffee drink.
The kid switches to medicine man,
and then back to the man,
who leaves for his favorite
pastime . . .
listening to his children.
the medicine man,
all anxiety's children,
all wonder . . .
about their ancestors.
this world . . .
loved and loving,
many times unseen,
sometimes lost,
always looking
for happiness, safety,
closure and companions.
Things surprisingly
often found.
in the cytoplasm tying together
the four children,
are the anxious sparks and spikes
of fear, worry, and ongoing
questionings . . .
frightening here
seemingly arising
from nowhere there.
flooding the lungs and veins . . .
with the release
of anxiety's cloud.
are in love
with each other
and this secular place . . .
with others
who sometimes,
but not usually,
recognize the presence . . .
of anxiety's face.
with the proper
embrace,
can somehow transform . . .
into amazing grace.
Sweet buff and rust
my aunt first made these,
And maybe . . .
For who's to say,
that flexes, stretches,
Do you really think
scallop-topped, spiral-tight rolls . . .
Breaking off wings
to enjoy between
sips of coffee and water.
back there in my youth,
maybe four decades ago.
right here and now.
that memories
are from the past.
Traveling on this glimmering
mylar, mobius strip
of our personal universe . . .
condenses, and vibrates,
with events and thoughts of our lives . . .
repeatedly crossing and touching.
you know exactly . . .
when we are?
Bits of chocolate drift
Nothing like a close look
And so I could see this one bit
to be certainly and truly . . .
through the world
in my mind.
at death,
to make them easier to find.
of chocolate,
That got caught up . . .
in a shifting window of time,
way beyond fine.
Somewhat relaxing
I catch a bit of the conversation
Without disdain,
"It's so boring here, there's nothing here . . .
Something about it, catches my mind
Their conversation continues . . .
A dance with death
"Are your parents moving
She came back sort of this way . . .
We talk, I ask questions,
52 to 15 . . .
Spoke some of myself
summer and winter hours
I said nothing,
The year she began
I listened some more
52 in parting,
The fair-haired, girl
I don't think, I'll forget
in friends' hillside home,
overlooking the bay . . .
taking in the ever-changing sea
and tranquil sandy beaches
that bring me such peace . . .
one of few safe places
along my way.
of two teenage women,
as I gaze at the view.
"Why are you going to
Rhode Island?" . . .
the one on my left
did say.
the one across said
in boring Morro Bay."
and brings it about,
away from the bay.
I'm interested, curious . . .
About what this girl
has to say.
one the friends' daughter,
the one across, I don't know.
I step over near her chair,
kneel down to the floor,
to listen or chat . . .
some more about bored.
has turned me
more bold . . .
I no longer pass chances
at fetching things that I hear told.
to Rhode Island?" . . .
the question I ask .
"No, I was born here,
have always been here
and will die here, I'm sure."
watchfully listening . . .
to her comments
of her feelings that day,
What can I say?
That has some kind
of meaning
to a girl who is just starting . . .
to walk her own way.
as I recall of those days . . .
surfing and stuff
some long ago times,
filled with the pushing
of nothing . . .
to its limits.
Throwing hundreds of rocks
on surfless, boring days,
trapped without the salvation
of times with good waves.
Someone there said
"these things, they will pass."
but later on thought . . .
the passing is true
but perhaps the year
won't ever be forgot.
to think her own thoughts.
till about to go my way.
as a last thought did say . . .
"So nice to meet you
and good luck,"
with porcelain skin,
and kind, genuine eyes.
The talk with bored 15
the most interesting . . .
of my day.
Maureena . . . or the bay.
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 © Paul Michael Guthrie 2001.
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