Wednesday, May 25, 2022
Now Available!
Monday, May 2, 2022
Saturday, April 30, 2022
Tuesday, April 12, 2022
2022 SAN GABRIEL VALLEY POETRY FESTIVAL EVENTS
ALL EVENTS CAN ALSO BE ATTENDED ON SATURDAY AFTERNOON POETRY'S ZOOM...
Saturday, April 2nd, 3 to 5 pm at the My Place Cafe on 2057 N. Los Robles Ave. in Pasadena - THE BIG OPEN hosted by JACKIE CHOU and LORI WALL-HOLLOWAY (Prizes for every open reader.)
Saturday, April 9th, 3 to 5 pm at the My Place Cafe on 2057 N. Los Robles Ave. in Pasadena - THE BIG SHARE hosted by CALOKIE and GT FOSTER (Read poetry by anyone other than yourself.)
Sunday, April 10th, 2 to 3 pm at the My Place Cafe on 2057 N. Los Robles Ave. in Pasadena - THE BIG PRACTICE hosted by COCO and PTJ, special guest San Francisco poet laureate TONGO EISEN-MARTIN (Prepare yourself for THE BIG SLAM in two weeks.)
Saturday, April 16th, 3 to 5 pm at Truly Fresh J on 411 E Huntington Dr. in Arcadia - Publishing party for Four Fearhers Press' SCENES OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA: A Directory of So Cal Poets hosted by DKC and JRT
Saturday, April 23rd, 3 to 5 pm at The Reverse Orangutan, 440 E. Rte. 66, Glendora - THE BIG WINNERS hosted by DKC and JRT (Entrants in the 2022 SGVPF contests and those published in Four Feathers Press' THE POETRY LOTTERY read their poetry. Winners announced.)
Sunday, April 24th, 2 to 3 pm at the My Place Cafe on 2057 N. Los Robles Ave. in Pasadena - THE BIG SLAM hosted by COCO and PTJ (Win prizes just for participating in the slam!)
Saturday, April 30th, 3 to 5 pm at the My Place Cafe on 2057 N. Los Robles Ave. in Pasadena - Publishing party for SPECTRUM 31: Well Done hosted by GT FOSTER
THREE CONTESTS...
...FOR THE 2022 SAN GABRIEL VALLEY POETRY FESTIVAL!
Celebrating National Poetry Month, sponsored by Spectrum Publishing (http://spectrumpublishing.blogspot.com) and Four Feathers Press (http://fourfeatherspress.blogspot.com)
Broadside Contest Winners (all entrants published below): ROBERT FLEMING (present), MEGHA SOOD (popular)
Chapbook Contest Winner will be published in print by Four Feathers Press (25 saddle-stapled copies): MARY McKEEL
Book Contest Winner will be published in print by Spectrum Publishing (25 perfect-bound copies): R A RUADH
Broadside Contest Entrant #15: JESSICA LEA
Kudos
For that day
(week month years)
when
giving your best
gets shitty results
and inside your brain is
San Bernardino Valley on a hot summer evening
and it feels like
everyone else breezes by
and when your lips part
tears slide with the words
and yet here you are still…
please accept this secret salute
well done!
Broadside Contest Entrant #14: MICHELLE SMITH
How high is the moon?
A yellow white creamy ball
A lapel worn
on the suit of a global black sky.
How yummy is the moon?
Am I reminded of Swiss cheese
and want to take a bite
with Ritz crackers
and pepperoni--yay and yum!
How bright is the moon?
A circle that glows
its light shimmers romance
and dances diamond steps
on the high seas.
How Kraft is the moon?
A bagel spread
with Philadelphia cream cheese
and a butter knife all around,
served with
Bigelow's "I Love Lemon" hot tea
in a marigold Fiesta cup
and saucer good.
How historical is the moon?
A high, yummy, bright, Kraft
strong arm memory by Neil who says:
"That's one leap for man, and one step
for mankind."
Broadside Contest Entrant #13: DANIEL YARYAN
Georges Méliès Poem
a trip to the moon
Georges Méliès made it sooner
mind flight spectacle
effects wizard king
Méliès brought eyes everything
then left with nothing
filmmaker magic
illusions hold up past his fate
barouche bound for stars
may planets align
marvel his celestial hearth
feast on Méliès films
Apollo might hear
artists plight at tycoon hands
fire vengeance arrows
new immortal Méliès
brings artists favor to Gods
create in peace - yes!
Broadside Contest Entrant #12: DAN GARCIA-BLACK
Premature
As the end approaches
There is no longer the time
To make more memories
Do something in the present
And make "now-meries"
Dreams much like flowers
Don't always bloom
Live like there's no yesterday
Because as you see the future loom
It comes, it comes...
And always too soon.
Broadside Contest Entrant #11: PAMELA SHEA
Trail Guru
I meet a trail guru wearing a worn, torn bandana,
With a handmade walking stick of which he is quite proud.
He smiles broadly as I hold it; no crowds pass as we chat
On this foggy autumn day with dust beneath our feet.
He speaks of broken glass. I remark how it returns to sand, from whence it came.
“No matter how special it was--that’s Zen” I say,
“Just a matter of when all things return to their essence”.
The words surprise me as I speak them.
And so here we stand together, beneath majestic mountains,
Supposed strangers, but not really so.
“All things pass” echoes in wind.
Grass withers beside us, yet cheerful sunflowers dot the landscape.
This rugged land is being rejuvenated
One year after the fire passed through, raging and blazing.
These trails meander through foothills; up, down, and all around the mountains.
In winter and spring streams flow, making things grow, quenching the landscape,
But in summer and fall they are dry beneath sky’s heated expanse.
Paths dance and prance all year long, their songs guiding the seekers.
We all converge at the seashore to dive back into the primordial soup,
Swimming through black holes, across the universe, dissolving into oneness.
So, we must let go of earthly brokenness,
Embracing wholeness while it lasts.
We all move from womb to tomb,
Hopefully befriending strangers along the way,
Because danger is over-rated.
All things will return to their natural state
Of being, in non-being; the hidden and obscure
Can cure afflictions and addictions,
As attractions, alongside redactions, become meaningless,
Causing restrictions to melt away.
Do not mourn torn cloth,
Shattered glass, or dead grass,
For things pass and nothing
Ever remains the same.
Rains will come as sun rises,
Even if it is hidden.
All await returning with yearning,
Sojourning through the process.
I too have become guru
And so can you!
Broadside Contest Entrant #10: DEAN OKAMURA
Summer of '42
I imagine sounds of the incarceration during the Summer of '42. In searing 115-degree heat of the Sonoran Desert. At the War Relocation Authority Japanese Internment Camp at Poston, Arizona. Built by Del Webb. He later built Sun City retirement community. But forced evacuation did not become golden years in the Valley of the Sun. Groans of suffering arose. "Gaman" (Japanese perseverance) arose. They built elementary and high schools. They dug miles of irrigation canals to the Colorado River. They built roads. They grew crops. They survived.
I imagine sounds of the Colorado River Indian Tribes (CRIT) when the U.S. government proposed the creation of Poston on their lands. CRIT disagreed. Saying that it would be a prison inside of a prison.
I imagine sounds of those who said grabbing land and moving Japanese was part of winning the War. World War II and many wars before.
I imagine a man I knew. His wife died in '38. He sent his teenage children to Japan in '39. Pearl Harbor in '41. He lost his job after this incident. He lived with bachelors at Poston in '42. I imagine his desert dry tears and silent sobs.
This Summer of '42 was not a vacation to remember with nostalgia. No beach outings on the island. Not a time of granted wishes, but generations with untold wants. It was not a movie with a beautiful musical score. Most did not speak about those years. Even though nothing since has ever been as frightening and as confusing. If it strengthened them, made them more insecure, more important, or less significant, we will never know. They never said.
I imagine those sounds eroded in Sonoran Desert winds.
Broadside Contest Entrant #9: MARK A FISHER
Kelso
I have stood on silent drum sands
where lizards swim like fish
and the sex lives of blister beetles
roll on like endless waves
where lizards swim like fish
through these sandy dune seas
roll on like endless waves
touched by unknown tides
through these sandy dune seas
deserted and still forgotten
touched by unknown tides
in distant human affairs
deserted and still forgotten
with the ghosts of many years
in distant human affairs
remote and nameless
with the ghosts of many years
and the sex lives of blister beetles
remote and nameless
I have stood on silent drum sands
Broadside Contest Entrant #8: MARY MAYER SHAPIRO
The building
consisting of brick Stone and cement
means security
A home
holding us up against ignorance
The room also implies a meaning
as we go from day to day year to year
we venture from room to room
As we ascend
we leave behind the past year
but bring its learning
into the new year
The window symbolizes the future
as one looks out
they cannot see all that is before them
with our compression of all we have learned
we are able to seek out goals
yes
School reminds me of life
Broadside Contest Entrant #7: JACKIE CHOU
Poetic Discretion
You write about me
though you don't know me well.
Like an impressionist painter
you're prone to use exaggerated hues
to fill in the blanks
with your imagination.
It’s how you gain approval.
You even fictionalize my looks
for dramatic effect.
My black hair turns auburn.
My brown eyes gleam
with amethyst light,
like some tipsy anime character
confused about her identity.
I exist only under your pen,
held at an oblique angle,
so distorted you cannot tell
the truth from fancy.
Broadside Contest Entrant #6: LARRY JAFFE
Speak to Me from Open Wounds
Dedicated to the people of the Ukraine
Speak to me from open wounds
and how memories are lost
It is a luxury
to laugh out loud
It is a luxury
to eat bad food
It is a luxury
to still have neighbors
It is a luxury
to be able to cry
It is a luxury
to hug your children
It is not a luxury
to fight back
It is not a luxury
to still have hope
It is not a luxury
to have strong spirit
It is not a luxury
to be victorious
Broadside Contest Entrant #5: J MARTIN STRANGEWEATHER
Repurposed Love
It’s simply called The Toy Ball.
A ball made from castoff baby dolls and teddy bears,
currently measuring over eight hundred feet in diameter,
painted uniformly white.
…like ghosts
…like faded memories
…haunting, and inescapable.
It took form in Manhattan, in the middle of Times Square.
No one knows who started it,
but it’s been funded by the New York City Council
for the past ten years,
ever since the pandemic of 2112.
Over a million children died that year,
and that’s just in the U.S.
Nowadays,
rather than throw away a doll
or stuffed animal that’s been outgrown
or become ratty,
people from all over the country
donate their toys to The Ball Fund,
giving the toys a new life…
an afterlife.
The Toy Ball grows larger every year.
Every Winter Solstice, the toys that
have been donated throughout the year
are affixed to the artwork
and the whole thing gets a new coat of
weatherproof white paint.
People come year-round
to marvel at the ghostly colossus,
many of them trying to find their forfeited childhood
buried within the multitude of repurposed love.
Childhood memories piled high as a skyscraper,
toys dominate the Manhattan skyline
and blot out the sun.
Broadside Contest Entrant #4: ELISE SWANSON OCHOA
Come One Come All
Welcome to the museum of Dr. Swanson.
Within the museum you will see
me deep at work as the guardian of the “windows of the soul.”
I am an optometrist.
I protect the eye,
I worship the eye,
I know all of its ways and means.
In the space of an hour’s time, watch me transform
From optometrist
to judge, teacher, ER doctor, therapist,
As from room to room we go:
The first room to your right, is the room of Dr. Swanson, the judge.
A sure, stiff, admonishing me.
“I don’t need glasses; I don’t drive at night.”
I am the judge here and you are guilty.
Guilty of endangering others with your conceit.
I pound my gavel and declare
that your long, nearsighted eyes are a danger to society
and must be behind lenses without probation.
The second room on the left is the room of Dr. Swanson, the teacher.
A wise, educated, counseling me.
“My son is falling behind in school, what’s to be done with him?”
I am the teacher here and I advise the frowning parents
He means well, the little boy.
His eyes strain too much for his five years.
We need to help them relax and focus.
Take these glasses and watch him bloom.
The room at the end of the hall is the room of Dr. Swanson, the ER doctor
A sharp, quick-witted, encyclopedic me.
“I am in so much pain, my eye, please help.”
I am the expert here, strong in front of the writhing patient.
I know what caused your eye such pain.
The veins throb, let the tears fall.
With drops and prudent words, I offer:
Here is my plan and together we will heal your precious eye.
The last room, the most taxing of rooms, is the room of Dr. Swanson, the therapist
A tender, soft-hearted, conciliatory me.
“Life is hard. I fear the stress has weakened my eyes.”
I am an empathetic ear, tell me more, dear one.
Your eyes are not weak, you are not weak.
Let me show you, in sharp, blissful clarity
what life has in store, yet.
Please, take your eyes and your independence back.
As from room to room we go,
doors opening, doors closing,
I am an optometrist.
Dr. Swanson, the guardian of the “windows to the soul.”
I protect the patient,
I worship the patient,
I know all of their ways and means.
Broadside Contest Entrant #3: ROBERT FLEMING
what happens in the barn stays in the barn
not the cupola / not the silo / not even the hay store
know what old MacDonald does in the barn
a mare’s gossip neighs in the tackroom
a stallion’s shoes stammers farmer’s rumors to the field
Mac nips manure-shine roosters the dawn alarm in the slurry cellar
Don is a sheep molester baas to the paddock door
only the gilts know what Nald does in the loft
the boars squeal in the breezeway Old no slaughter / no tell
Broadside Contest Entrant #2: RADOMIR VOJTECH LUZA
Falling Light as a Feather in February
Leaving us much too soon
By the gas in the room
A poet ransacking the establishment
Wrecking the status quo
Reminding of Sylvia Plath
All tattoos and nose bleed
No nonsense
Blue bubble gum
The nectar from your bosom
Drowning the lion's head
And the tiger's tail
For in the end
You are invisible
Like a metal mule
A white raven
The reason for reason's fall
Into the ghost yard of guilt and gas
Bordering design's disgust
With the blue beauty of your breath
The very children you swear to believe in
Slaughtered at the shore
The dreams you divide and multiply
Forgotten after the feast
Broadside Contest Entrant #1: MEGHA SOOD
Complexities of Knowing a Poet
I
They say it's not easy to know a poet,
a deluge of words punctuating each emotion
wrapped around the anxieties of those who
you love, those you lost—
life is a succession of intricate menageries of our curious heart
that gets stuck like a bottle near waves pushing against the bulwark
getting bullied by the waterfront
mercilessly.
II
They say it's not easy to love a poet,
who sees the pain neatly carved in the tight-lipped horizon
bleeding into the heaving bosom of crimson skies
as its births the next day,
love is an elegy for acceptance, they say
another language mispronounced
by those who want to claim you
hold a lien to your soul,
when your only desire is to be a wren hand boat
floating above the skies
Untethered;
Unmoored.
III
They say it's not easy to understand a poet,
Words are the language of the wound—
that sits quietly beneath scabbed layers of grief
there is a chasm of deniability
that sits between us tied together by a thin thread of responsibility
when I utter the words
of hunger, of love , of acceptance
in a language foreign to you.
IV
They say it's not easy to know a poet,
a shifty-eyed moon carrying the diabolical mind
ready to strip your verses
till its find meaning of the self
Words have the power to be the language of the stone
sitting still and heavy with grief,
a long desire of a blind stone to make ripples
on the thin skin of the lake.
V
They say it's not easy to define a poet,
a soul anointed with the desire
of freedom and tenderness
while facing atrocities of life
as the hand reaches out in empathy
towards the silhouette of your ephemeral existence
trying to meet another in solitude and deep connection.
It’s not easy to know your lost self,
It’s not easy to know a poet.
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