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By Tino De Guevara

Winter in the Valley
The Tule fog rises
Like a frozen ghost enveloping the sun
Trees grey, leaf less and bare,
Naked, stark, exposed
In the ghostly gloom
Grasp at any passing body
Who’s breath warms their arms
Everything has gone underground
Flora and fauna lay dormant
In a deep sleep of Winter equinox

The lights are carefully taken
Off the branches
Caressing each one with thoughtfulness
Careful to preserve the tenderness
For tomorrow’s bounty of fruit
Spring peeps around the corner
Joyous at the thought of
Soil churned and prepared
For rebirth and rejuvenation

My California 2024

By C. Warner Hensley

In my California
the discordance of competing songs permeates.
The flute-like timbre of Vietnamese, a delicate birdsong beckoning,
interrupted by the abrasive Armenian bass as a couple walks
the sweet smell of pita overwhelmed by wine-blessed shepherd’s stew
from the Basque Hotel where ancient Euskara harmonies blend with
a group baritone in the lower cleft in Russian walking to their crumbled church
In my California
the golden crocodile beneath the Buddha vibrates with
the chants of the orange-clad Khmer monks at their temple.
Refrains of Tai-Kadal, Lao, and Thai fill nearby neighborhoods
as Palestinian voices speak in the fast-paced staccato beat of Arabic.
to the slow songs of Lebanese with the smells of allspice, coriander, and cumin
and Mandarin and Cantonese emanate from nearby kitchens with five spices.
In my California
Japanese poetry and drums are shared by Buddhists and Christians
while Punjabi resonates from the golden Sikh spires chanting into the sky.
The bilabial popping beats of Tagalong and Filipino choired by caregivers
while the five scale songs of Hmong flood the fairgrounds
with the rubber sphere’s beats of their courting.
In my California
the mist from the returned great lake, Pa-ishi,
brings the smell of acorn meal bread
the drums and bells accompany Yokuts and Miwoks.
at pow-wows teaching once lost languages and culture.
In my California
The intense fermenting cabbage flows from Korean restaurants
where poems are read to inspire and continue the story
as the deep-throated Danish rumbles in Hygge happiness
Nearby Swedish float the musical speech over the Danish stridence
In my California
The rapid mariachi Spanish of Mexico slowed by Central American speakers
travels to the fields of fruits and vegetables and streets with the smells of chile,
“Sh” is added to the Spanish by Portuguese and deep smoky aroma of Chourico
In my California
in the other side of towns where the black national anthem rings
where the air is never filled with the smells from rendering plants and garbage dumps.
Past the redlines and railroads, the tapping shoes repeat the sounds
of the train wheels on the tracks and voices of rhythm, voices of blues
voices of hip-hop and rock are born from the pain of joy and sadness
sung in the churches as the African drums with complex patterns
ignore the white clouded storms that never distort history
In my California
rhythms, rhymes, and repetition of readings and slams bring
the sonnets, haiku, tanka
and villanelle, acrostic, epic
to the auditoriums and craft breweries
In my California.

Fresno: The Musical

By Wayland Jackson

Musicians take their places,
The oboe tunes the orchestra,
Lights dim, and Mother Nature
Strides to the podium, raises her baton, And sweet melody washes over the valley.
The arc she traces calls up springtime. Trees proud and tall,
Shrubs and bushes fully robed, Fresno flaunts her emerald,
Her mint, jade, and lime.
Celebrating the hours,
Violins, violas, and cellos
Serenade shrubs, leaves, and blossoms, The lushness of Mother Earth.
Her bosom bursts with color.
In the hands of a master composer, Foliage reaches a crescendo. Strings catch fire, colors shift
As, eyes lowered, Fresno blushes To purple, yellow, and red.
Mother Earth blows colder, And Fresno sways seductively, Drops a leaf or two.
Then, more and more float Down into open arms,
Leaving bare limbs outstretched For all the world to see,
Naked and unashamed.
The sky darkens.
The song turns ominous.
Winter melds into a Russian folk tune, Dark and doleful,
While Fresno shivers and trembles With the heart of a jilted lover Listening for spring.

Fresno Doubt

By Thomas Nance


Was thick as the Tule fog
When I was a boy
And the December frost
Crunched under my shoes
As I walked slowly
Across my lawn
Onto Pico Street
Where, if I stopped
In the middle of the asphalt,
I could turn and turn and turn
And still all was grey.
The houses became almost
Imperceptible shadows if close
And nothing at all if farther away.
But my faith then led me back home.
There I was warm.
There my shoes dried,
And there the tiny beads of fog disappeared
From my hair, coat and pants as I waited
For my parents to wake
And promise me the sun
Would return to burn
Away the fog
And bring back a world
That I remembered
But could not see.