Untitled

By Ricky Valadez

A land of rat races and plastic faces.
A land of gilded lies and rotted promises
A land of irresponsible wealth, obsessed with itself.
Dead dreams pave the streets lined with those broken spirits turned towards doom.

Natural depressions and electronic heights.
People known by none and people unknown to none.
Groundbreaking ideas borne on land quaking with energy.
Skies of bright blue and greyed by ash.
This land of extremes is my home.

I've been witness to both.
The luxury in a privileged position and the freedoms it affords.
The torture that is the desperate struggle to succeed and prisons it peddles.

How I would love to live in this land without that sense of guilt.
I am okay, I know many are not.
How I wish I could stand underneath the Bear and be filled with unapologetic pride.
Many do, I cannot.
Still I have hope.

Hope that people still come to California with golden dreams.
Dreams that fuel a life in the pursuit of happiness, that envision a future in balance with nature, and
a desire to make those dreams a reality.

What do you long for?

By Carol Dorf

And what took you so long to ask?
It’s raining raining raining
which feels like fear

What would it be like to be new?
That’s the point of this rain
fat buds on the mulberry trees

Is there a way to avoid sentimentality?

Is sentiment sedimentary?
A mark of the accumulation
of the fragments of a life?
Of many lives in sandstone?

Weathering or not?
Waves pounding
against the cliff’s base

Vow to the Hendy Grove Redwood

By Karen Marker

I’m curled in the hole

of your burnt black bark,

your charred threads covering

my quiet breath as you speak

of what you’d seen on this coast.

Rivers had bled brown logs

that rushed down stream.

The clear cut trees had screamed

like those born Indigenous

who were slaughtered

or marched out to Round Valley.

Somehow you’d remained hidden

so now you can be here for me

to make vows. I promise

to learn from you how to live

through fire, reach towards water

make witness a calling.

Pacific Coast Highway

By Connie Post

The clean-up crews

are long gone

the floods have eroded the soil

and still

we drive

as if we believe

this day has no end

pretending this road

has never washed out

pretending the sneaker waves

don’t find us in our sleep

who are we

if not this long narrow highway

that tunnels its way into our memory

who are we

if not the sound of an ocean

before and after we are gone

Trucks run past us…

By Scott Bentley

                                          Afternoon, greets

Evening day. And the sun shone

Rose, riven still in what waters

Lit, however. Go, read some

Gussied up guests               , smudged

Screens that hope so      , dreamily

A healing screams

Reality tv. The road home rises

Under the seashore, meandering

The fault-line the forest fell all along

A low horizon, cracking up

            and the seas broke open.

                                       —after Kit

Passing Your House at 17th & Sanchez

By Jenni Olson

Rooftops slick with rain

at cherry blossom week.

The cool gray sky of

thirty winters in this town.

One cracks the heart open

still

at moments we expect

yet fail to predict.

The way it was in 1995 —

I find myself at street corners in sudden tears.

In the Castro or South of Market

or, naturally, approaching Marin.

That black day of your fatal leap returns.

The sight of certain mutual acquaintances has the same effect.

Having comforted each other long ago —

I now avoid our old friends.

Who too vividly remind me of your unspeakable departure.

In memory of Mark Finch, former director of Frameline’s San Francisco International LGBTQ Film Festival, who took his own life by jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge on January 14, 1995.

WORLD CUP EAST BAY

By Norma Smith

Ash on my tongue as I wake
to a language I never spoke.
It interrupts me, pushes back
against my teeth, presses
against my throat, unintelligible.
I can’t understand

Fires to the north,
among the large lakes, Clear
and Berryessa, where the yanqui
land cheats pushed indios y californios
from those rolling hills—
Was it just last year?

Flat screen nailed high up on the wall
blaring in the café here
on San Pablo, in Berkeley,
State Route 123. Los mexicanos
nos sirven espresso mientras
we all watch —ojo en la pelota, compas,
eye on the ball. The empire loses
because they don’t know how
to play the game honorably. The goal
erupts and slides across the field.

We wake to all this
on a day when the earth
moves stiffly, the waning moon passes
smooth in the corner
of our surf-ridden eye,
dragging us back, forward, back.
A tide confuses
the molten center. Mountains climb
into the air, throw off cornfields

To our south
crows rise, warning the other flocks
along the sidelines, the no border where
eagle meets condor.
They take it all back—
smoke, tide, wind,
gravity itself, spinning reckless,
another pass blocked.

Ghost Map

By Kimi Sugioka

In a victorian flat with 14 foot ceilings, 3 fireplaces

and a fainting room we each paid $150 in rent

Mark penciled wall sized drawings

of houses and buildings he rendered

one brick at a time

Al wrangled black & white photos

of Jerry & Johnny’s, a 1950’s newspaper bar,

& long gone SOMA SROs

Micheal, edited his film

over and over and over again

Randall, practiced slack rope,

devil sticks, juggling tricks,

unicycled a little dough

for apple pie, red beans and rice and ratatouille

After 3 days and nights of $3 an hour a day pay

surrogate parenting autistic children

my comrades and I ate

Clown Alley hamburgers, drank André’s champagne,

and took 2 hour jacuzzis at Grand Central Station

sidestepping sex workers and johns,

we drank and ranted

impossibly tragicomic

vignettes into gallows humor and

stray small talk

Walking east

Pacific Heights to North Beach

we ate focaccia at an Italian bakery on Grant Street

wandered Coit Tower and studied:

Diego’s murals

The Cameron House in Chinatown

Clifton Chenier & Sam Shepherd at The Coffee Gallery

we made Botan rice paper wishes

Snuck into San Francisco Art Institute film classes

Developed photographs and lithographs til 4AM

Dinner anytime at Sam Wo’s that might or might not be

what you ordered

Walking west to Land’s End

we balanced on the walls of the Sutro Bath ruins

gazed into the Camera Obscura

meditated on the convict constructed

thousand toothpick ferris wheel,

the impassive clunk of The Guillotine and

ghoulish Laughing Sal at Musée Mechanique

Gobbled corn dogs and soft ice cream

We haunted the seminal, and forgotten, ghosts

of San Francisco

No ubers or lyfts

Just an occasional bus or trolley

when the dogs gave out

Cartwheels and Somersaults: Happy Hayward Birthday!

By Bruce Roberts 

A birthday for a city is different:

A cake may arrive,

But a city can’t plug its ears over “Happy Birthday to you!

Make an eager wish for its future,

Slice up that scrumptious cake,

Rip colorful paper from lovingly wrapped packages

And leap for joy over the perfect gift.

City celebrations depend on the people now,

Gathering in thanks for the place they call home.

And the people of the past

Whose mountain of memories,

Whose lasting lifestyle

through the good and the bad

Form the foundation

Of modern life.

The party then

Must have them all—

Today’s folks, appreciating what they have,

And Yesterday’s folks,

Spirits joyous

At the continuance

Of their once loved home.

Swirling then through current consciousness

Dance the Ohlone, living in this paradise for 10,000 years,

DeAnza, exploring, discovering, for Spain in 1776,

Guillermo Castro, land grant holder

of acres and cattle by the thousands,

William Hayward, name and hotel centering all,

William Roberts, ships traversing the bay

With Hayward harvests,

Mt. Eden and Russell City, our bayside bread baskets,

Railroads and street cars and salt ponds galore,

Duck-hunting the bay, trout-fishing the creeks,

Hunts’ Cannery’s tomato soup—our summer fragrance,

And Hayward Union High School, uniting the whole town

For half a century,

Before Chabot, before Cal-State Hayward

Pushed “Made in Hayward” to the 21st century.

Here we stand then,

Wishing Hayward,

Heart of our Bay,

Our jigsaw storehouse of past and present memories,

A back-slapping, high-fiving Birthday

For centuries to come!

Ancestor Oak

By Judy Wells

Our Mestiza American meditation teacher
Inez suggested trees are our ancestors.
That gave me a jolt!
I immediately thought of the oak—
the sacred tree of my Celtic ancestors.
The Druids worshipped the oak.
I thought of the now cut down
mighty oak which towered over
our cabin in Twain Harte—
home of so many squirrels and birds.
We’d find the acorns
on the ground with their little caps
and I thought of them as my friends.
So sad the oak died, providing
shade and beauty for so many years.

Now a memory of the small oak grove
at St. Mary’s College in Moraga arises.
At lunch time I’d take the path
behind the campus to visit
“Our Lady of the Oaks” in the grove—
a statue of the Blessed Virgin
over a stone monument and plaque
inscribed with the names
of St. Mary’s vets who died in WWII.
It was a quiet place.
I was usually the only one there,
sitting on a crumbling stone bench,
meditating, escaping from my
busy people job as a counselor.

Sometimes, I’d hear a rustle in the leaves
and a deer would venture by—
a couple of spotted fawns might appear.
I was connecting
with my oak worshipping ancestors.
I was connecting
with my spiritual self I left behind
when I abandoned Catholicism.
I was connecting with the natural world
which did not care I had a counseling
appointment at 1 p.m.—a staff meeting at 2.
I had shade from oak leaves,
graceful deer, Our Lady
overlooking us all in her blue cloak.
A Goddess of the oak grove.

There is a There Here

By Jennifer D. King

Here. Right here
in Oakland--- my city
our City
where we prefer our jazz smooth, our gospel contemporary, and our blues down home
China Hill and Pill Hill
Lake Merritt and Trestle Glen
Here where we savor fruit smoothies, seek out craft beers, and proudly pour 2 Buck Chuck
Maxwell Park and Montclair
Temescal and Sobrante Park
Chinatown and Fruitvale
Grizzly Peak and Cypress Village
Here where we love our lake, our hills, parks, and even our creeks


Here. Right here
in Oakland—my city
our city
where we celebrate Juneteenth and Cinco de Mayo
Kwanza and Easter
Día de Los Muertos
Hannukah and Ramadan
where we keep the sabbath
on friday, saturday and sunday
where we love Jesus
Jehovah
Allah and Buddha


Here. Right here
in Oakland—my city
our city
where senior centers teach Zumba, Pilates, and line dancing
where, the Raiders skipped town
but the real warriors
still walk the halls of Summit, Kaiser and Highland
where our real heroes continue to teach
still reach for all the incoming stars
in the classrooms of Castlemont, McClymonds and Skyline
Bishop O. Dowd, Tech, Head Royce, and Oakland High
 

Here. Right here
in Oakland-my city
our city
where we birthed
the Panthers and the Pullman Car Porters
where we created
Fantasy football, the Wave, popsicles, and Rocky Road Ice cream
where we appreciate
obedient dogs, brilliant children, and faithful men
where everybody knows
that a good woman
can take care of business
own her business
and mind her business

Here. Right here
in Oakland-my city
our city
Sheila E , Too Short, and MC Hammer’s city
Eddy Anderson, Jack Kerouac and Michael Chabon’s city
Andre Ward, Rickey Henderson and Bill Russell’s city
Jack Soo, Bruce Lee, and Tom Hanks’ city

Here. Right here
in Oakland-my city
our city
Samuel Merritt and Julia Morgan’s city
Richard Aoki, Huey Newton and Bobby Seale’s city
Amy Tan, Jack London and Ishmael Reed’s city

Here. Right here
In Oakland--my city
our city
C.L. and Ron Dellums’s city
Lionel Wilson, and Frank Ogawa’s city
Earl Warren and Kamala Harris’ city

Here. Right here
in Oakland--my city
our city
Mom and Pop Green’s city
Mother Wright’s city

 
Oh, but there is a “there” here
There’s always been a there here!
Right here and right now
in my city
in our city
in Oakland

Hayward Neighborhood

By Patricia Doyne

150 years ago, my neighborhood was farmland--
owned and worked by immigrants from the Azores.
Their gathering place was All Saints Church.
When we moved in with three young sons,
our neighbors answered to Iberian names:
Alfaro, Barreiro, Medeiros, Vargas, Gonsalves.

Our kids grew and changed. So did the ’hood.
Across the street, the black family
who shared car maintenance tips, waves, and smiles
was replaced by a family with Punjabi roots.
The whole neighborhood shared their son’s wedding,
dancing in the street to snappy drumbeats.
The family next to them speaks only Russian.
Each summer, at “Neighborhood Night Out,”
I meet newcomers-- two veiled ladies from
the Middle-Eastern family up the street;
a Cantonese-speaking mother and her toddler;
the lady who shares Ethiopian coffee
brewed in a can with a Bunsen burner;
a Cal State student from Iran.
In my neighborhood, there’s a place for everyone.
I could not be happy among those who ban books,
ban binaries, ban burqas, ban boat-rockers,
People who say, “Bonus days” instead of Buenos dias,”
and expect you to laugh.

Neighborhood walks are meet-and-greets--
I move aside for a guy being towed by two malamutes.
Pass the patient, gray horse standing in a weedy field,
and sometimes bring him apples.
Stop and chat with the lady who sweeps streets.
Greet the dad repairing his son’s fancy race car.
Wave to kids doing wobbly wheelies in bicycles.
Check out lawns—one sports a headboard and bed frame
blanketed with blooms. A sign says “flower bed.”
In another front yard, huge stuffed animals
sit around a giant chess board.



One yard is an ever-changing a stage—
On Halloween, life-sized skeletons jitterbug.
Across the street, wild turkeys lurch along single file.
Familiar faces, familiar landscapes. Home.

My neighborhood is like a raindrop—
small; but sufficient to water the tangled roots
that depend on it for life.

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By Dan Alter

When the Spanish
first came floating
on their leather & hooves here
to the feather covered alluvial plain
saddlebags loaded with how shiny
& dangerous great heat
can make things

Huichuns & Ssalsons filled hand
woven ways of carrying
with acorn tamales
Along the shores Chupchuns waved
Puichuns Rumsens shouted
& ran god of open
arms they ran wind

doing what it does in live oaks
& bunch grasses that were
coming to an end When tons
of the San Carlos entered a strait
American eyes had not yet named
golden floating

on its fitted planks 30
Spanish seamen a friar a deity
whose body was a gift
of particular pain Carquins
at their rivermouth called out
Tamsens let their arrows
go happy packed hampers to share

from all there was
with the men in cloaks & amazing
distances

& our days
come untied Sea level
beckons Wave

after wave of superheated
winds we call Santa Anna
come to fan our tinder

White Mountains, July

By Lawrence Ruth

Weathered timber
in a zig-zag line

Grey-barked Limber,
Black-billed Magpie,
Bristlecone pine.