Our California
Poems from Los Angeles County
Impressions
By Emmanuel Cabel
Fist bump!
An awesome way to say "hello,"
In a warm summer morning,
To a fellow Angeleno,
On my way to a Mickey D,
For a good wholesome iced coffee.
Just across the Wiltern Theatre,
Where both the young and elders congregate,
As breakfast should always be,
To meet new and familiar faces,
Which is what's best about my city.
Leaving my gas guzzler behind,
The Metro is what I always seek,
To get across from Santa Monica to Downtown,
Or from North Hollywood to Long Beach.
Always feeling nostalgic to visit an old friend.
It's terrifying to have this whimsical feeling;
Four decades in this city
And only felt a day older!
Blame it on the neon-lit entertainment venues
And the added noise from the crowd.
Los Angeles, never expect utopia
But never a dull moment in every season.
Whether it's the glorious scene
Of the snow-capped San Gabriel mountains
Or the shimmering blue water of the Pacific,
Beauty thrives within the city's
uneven rainy and sunny days.
Amid all the imperfections,
The friendship of Angelenos is special,
From sunup 'til sundown.
Lost in the Pacific
By J.D. Isip
I never thought I’d be so tired.
Jules, St. Elmo’s Fire
Before I was afraid of the ocean,
I’d swim in it. No thought of the depth
or its many ways of killing me. Once
I was young and brave or foolish,
kept going away from the voices onshore
telling me to stay where it is safe, to stay
close to land
close to home
close enough
until it all went silent. Out so far
the voices stop, you look around
and cannot find your way, what seemed
so clear just moments before an impulse
kept you moving in any direction
than the one you knew. When you pass
the shallow waters
the bright buoys
the rope
marking where you should end,
you start to feel tired, the seascape
a cold, black unknown that goes on
forever in all directions, your panic
a ripple on the surface that dies out
before it reaches back to land. Look
up at the sun, catch your breath, listen
for the seagulls
for the clicking pod
of dolphins
who somehow don’t terrify you
even though they are enormous, could
bat you down twenty feet below, could
be you’re too tired to care, could be
it wasn’t dolphins at all. But then
how did you get back? And how can you
explain what it was like out there? Why
you don’t swim anymore.
You’re afraid?
You’re wiser?
You don’t have to.
Silicon Dreams
By Aarav Gupta (8th Grade)
In the heart of Mumbai, where dreams took flight,
My father set forth, chasing hope's light.
Left behind his homeland, with courage as his guide,
To California's shores, where dreams reside.
Through the lens of a child's innocent eyes,
I see my father, with unspoken sighs,
In a land so vast, where palm trees sway,
He sought a new dawn, a brighter day.
From Mumbai's chaos to California's calm,
A journey of courage, a healing balm.
The streets of Mumbai, a distant echo,
As California's winds through eucalyptus blow.
In the glow of orange sunsets, he'd confide,
Of a world so different, where cultures collide.
The spice of his past, now a subtle trace,
In the melting pot of a foreign place.
The taste of samosas gave way to fast food,
Yet the dreams he carried remained eternally good.
In the hum of freeways and the ocean's roar,
He found new melodies, on a distant shore.
My father’s struggles were his alone,
Yet, in his eyes, a resilience shone.
He'd weave tales of Mumbai's crowded embrace,
Now traded for California's open space.
From the spice markets to the Golden Gate,
His narrative unfolded, a tale so great.
In the embrace of redwoods, dreams took root,
A tale of resilience, a journey afoot.
Through the prism of a child's loving view,
I saw my father, strong and true.
In California's glow, a new chapter unfurls,
A tale of an immigrant, transforming the technological world.
In the shadow of Mumbai, a distant refrain,
In the sun-drenched valleys of loss and gain.
A ballad sung by a child with pride,
Of a father who dared to turn the tide.
Are You a Star Yet?
By Annie Wood
time is a divided trophy
i don’t know whose turn it is to shine
my future, my body, my power
is a petty wonder
your love, a backhanded kiss
but i still crave this broken sideshow
this gentle curse,
this public moment
i was born into you
that’s how powerful i am
i am a manifesting master
i picnic under your tall letters
i’m not allowed up here
but i can’t be stopped
peggy stopped herself
in September 1932
our birthdays are only 5 days apart
5 days and 70 something years but still
i know what cutting room floor feels like, peggy
i know your pain, peggy
i know your want, peggy
i know your ambition, peggy
i know i know i know
i got it too
i got it real bad
your gardenia spirit fills my senses and i want so much to make you stay
but we can’t make anyone do anything, can we?
we can sit here under the W together and talk about the good ole days
before the talkies came and ruined it all
before the like and subscribes
before the box in the living room and the robots in the backyard
because more time, in any time, is a last-minute blessing
let’s try and enjoy it, okay?
On Nipton Winter Nights
by Erin Brown (College)
They burn the moon down in Nipton,
beneath massive wheels of welded shopping carts slicing twenty feet into the night sky
and nearby,
sequined dress and knees rosy in the black winds, the dive bar bachelorettes sip cigarettes
and lean on the shiny round hood of a crashed flying saucer, their arms around each other.
I hold a leash, and two dogs and I stand in the middle of the fog-huffing crowd
that has gathered to watch the white box capsule cabin rental window
where a couple,
well-lit in their sweaters and clean matching socks, the very picture of a portrait,
sit on a bed and look back out at us in the dark;
A pair of contrasting, madly assembled art exhibits
amused by each other
and the absurdity of this desert town night.
These are not my dogs, by the way. I am just borrowing them.
In the light of the burning moon we bundle in and out of our tents and campers and cabins and
crowded duffel-packed backseats
wandering steps in the snow reflecting starlight and firelight toward
the tall white yurts and mammoth detritus installations studding this place, sculptures lurching
brobdingnagian in the dark distance.
Inside one of those yurts, a man from very somewhere else, seated in lotus,
engages in complex percussive dialogue with a giant copper gong that sends
the sleepers at his feet
into vivid color dreams that melt their muscles and give soft eyes to the faceless cryptid things stalking their dark-mind places.
Under the statue of the two hands clasping the giant red anatomical heart
is a small bench where four or five lovers huddle and try not to freeze
as they consider tarot cards under the glow of a lone headlamp.
On Nipton winter nights, we burn among the snow, we
bonfires around the moon, we
jagged pieces nursing wounds from long casino weekends and
dusty desert drives and vanishing phone notifications.
Nerves in jangles, I walk the dogs to the edge of town
(only half a mile from the other edge of town)
and we peer down the well-paved road, so firm of purpose, pouring straight toward us from
the gray-lit distance,
as if it was a simple thing
to get to a place
like Nipton.
A peck of Gold
By Kyril Gurgis (4th Grade)
Dust was always blowing about the town, Except when sea-fog laid it down, And I was one of the children told Some of the blowing dust was gold. All the dust the wind blew high Appeared like god in the sunset sky, But I was one of the children told Some of the dust was really gold. Such was life in the Golden Gate: Gold dusted all we drank and ate, And I was one of the children told, 'We all must eat our peck of gold.'
Becoming a Bridge beyond Language
By Michelle Chung
My Colleagues in nine languages in the Unit are
not only having different hometowns each other,
but also becoming a bridge beyond language.
Tagalog, S. says he has his own island in Philippines.
No one has ever seen that kind of island, which is
submerged in low tide, revealed in high tide.
Vietnamese, Mr. C has been in the camp after the Vietnam War.
His merit was fluent in Vietnamese and French.
The portraits he drew as his hobby are unforgettable by time.
Beyond the Killing Fields, a butterfly flew into the Food Distribution.
It happened hums a song in bored air, and then N. found love.
Cambodian, Souvenirs mostly had Angkor Wat engraved on.
O. often went to Russia to visit her mother.
She brought Matryoshka doll or Pushkin Square calendar.
It was the first time to see A.’s writing in Armenian and
a picture of Mount Ararat where had been placed Noah’s Ark.
S. was typing Chinese characters using by tutor device.
Even if her nickname is a millionaire; she is living with a worry.
—What if my daughter with a disability dies before me?
J. who speaks Spanish had Telework at home during the Pandemic
was suddenly disappeared. No one had imagined neither he got stroke nor his posture with one arm leaning on a cane.
Farsi, Z. still runs a Taekwondo Academy. He said he learned Taekwondo from Korean sahbum in Iran. Sometimes he gave demonstrations: the ap-chagi, yeop-chagi, dolyeo-chagi.
I used to wear traditional dress, hanbok in the International Day.
The Korean Wave was displayed on the bulletin board.
The wind of K-Drama, K-Movie, and K-Pop.
LA county, Language and culture is alive and wriggling,
Everyday is the International Day at my work.
Untitled
By Solani Herrera (8th Grade)
My Pomona is an industrial grey
for the cars and trucks that fly
by on the highway
It's red and black for the fever dream
feeling at art walk or night event
when you're slightly overstimulated
It's green and yellow for the warm
sun and cool grass at the park
with your friends
It's a city of brown for its antique
shops, car mechanics, libraries, and
abandoned buildings
It's diverse, inimitable, unique
and beautiful in its own way
reflecting the diverse and beautiful people in it
Sounds of Home
By Stina Pederson
Belmont hears the keys, leash, and collar,
quickly sits at attention.
Ready, we go outside.
He sniffs around, marking his territory,
and I hear a familiar chuff chuff,
a sound you don't expect
from a bird
called humming.
A jingling bell gives away Chuck Norris.
The kitten meets us at the fence,
bats at Belmont's nose.
When they grow bored, we head home.
I know LA is home now
because I no longer notice
the loud whir
of helicopters
late at night.
LA MIRAGE
By Julia Knobloch
89 degrees in Echo Park and 68 in Venice, in one hour --
On Mulholland, the smell of warm soil in the dark
cicadas buzzing in the parking lot
sparks on Electric Avenue
palm trees bending in a neon-violet breeze
Grizzlies walked on Abbot Kinney, a mural says
camels, too, roamed between La Brea and the beach
and horses, before they went extinct and then returned
aboard the Spanish ships --
High tide rolls in, the hills are melting near Pacific Palisades
I suppose there was no sweet wine during the Pleistocene
but giant ferns, and mammoths swam to Santa Rosa Island
that floats veiled in moist air, 26 miles across the sea
In his house in Rancho La Ballona, a friend shows me an old map
the land grants pink and yellow --
I think of ancestors and horses, a poster in a vintage store:
Mission bell and fan palms, torch lilies and a Cessna plane
Where was LA, when they first found skeletons in bubbling tar?
Mud and derricks and the same mountain silhouette
no oranges, no studios, no Spanish-style --
On Third Street, garbage twirls along the curb
my purple month of May is almost over
Photos can’t do the jacarandas justice
in real-life and from afar, they seem like brimful clouds
close-up they are gauzy, flimsy petals sprinkling
sidewalks, like every year, like last year
when I crossed the swamps through light blue and green
holding a bouquet from the corner florist
the sunlight golden, as 11000 years ago
Untitled
by ellie bee
we can agree certain cities won’t relent
it’s a tradition of disrespect
remember the hierarchy
remember the hyphen
this takes me back
to rolling on sidewalks
open the politics
i’m getting those sentiments
hello, grocery store parking lot
i once crossed you after parades
you were my sancturary
this destination
it would be my honor
to defend you civilly
long live the san gabriel valley
and these roots don’t provide much to aspire to
but i made my own path
skyscrapers and legal pads
maybe be like my heros
and date the support staff
how many stories could i keep your interest with the difference between covina and west covina and what’s wrong with glendora and a train through san dimas and venues in pomona for community theatre kids
sometimes i swear i was born in the wrong valley
he’s from the intersection of the 5 and the 14
with lions as neighbors, no clusters of cities
i want to take him on a road trip out to Owens Valley
like Mulholland and Eaton at the turn of the century
buckboard and camping and travelling in secret
or we could drive someplace close
save gas
don’t take me too seriously
i know i can make him laugh
and someone should probably warn him
but if he won’t love me back
i’ll just love California
yeah, if he won’t love me back
i’ll just love California
Perhaps History is Only the Stories We Want to Hear
By Brian Dunlap
Contested ground I live on
roots thousands of years old
severed,
but not erased.
Los Ángeles
invented a story it tells the world,
that its residents
are rootless. There is no
there there.
Yet, I was born on this land,
raised in its soil,
feet rooted
in its dirt.
Your legacy hidden beneath myth making
turned stereotypes turned clichés,
inventing a palatable history,
building wealth,
power,
by dividing,
confining,
ignoring.
Peaceful Tongva made slaves
by the Spanish. The LGBTQIA
rights movement began
at the Black Cat Tavern in Silver Lake.
Japanese Americans waiting in line
at the corner of Venice and Lincoln
to be processed, then
sent to internment camps.
Civil uprisings in 1965,
1992.
My whole life
I’ve walked on your contested land.
Your myths unraveling
bit by bit
as we slowly confront
our true selves.
Untitled
By Barbara Osborn
There’s a story going around that the world is going to hell in a handbasket. Some days I try not to pay it no mind, but today I brought it up as table conversation over lunch, like, “how are your kids?“ which I’d already asked, so I followed up with “how are you dealing with our state of global despair?“
It’s hard to find despair in his face jovial and gay with a soul patch and bits of fuzz abuzz on his head.
Where is the despair at this restaurant? Our food is beautiful.
But two blocks away in his backyard someone tried to break in and then there was the woman scrunched behind his car smoking meth.
How do I explain this to my kids, he asks.
Or the people taking a shit on the corner in broad daylight?
He needs to go, there’s no place to go, he drops his rumpled pants below his knees and squats. Nobody sees him when he isn’t shitting, maybe he thinks no one will see him when he is.
Stands to reason.
In London people said to me, “I’m so sorry for what’s happening in your country,” holding up a mirror for me, proving that they too can see the vast ocean between our aspirations and our true selves.
Lately I look at other species, dogs, ants, rosemary bushes, and I think why can’t we do it their way, content with enough food, working together, grateful for the wind that keeps us cool, and an occasional glass of water.
What if we are the bottom of the pyramid instead of the top?
What if all the other plants and animals have been watching us over centuries, tearing their hair out, trying to send us warnings, yelling we had it all backwards, the engines were deafening the oceans, that we were awash in our own garbage, but what we really want is one daisy, one song, one sandwich, one companion, one body of water to bathe in, one finger of green to watch grow, the sound of the seagulls at sunset, and the foo fighter nosedives of the hummingbirds.
THAT MOON
By Denise Crosby
A clump of fur in forever sleep
Its sparkle gone like the moon I saw last night.
Once a light but there no more.
Brown, black, white tufts lay under the brush,
Resembling a dog toy from another life.
Days pass without change.
No food for the coyotes.
No sacrifice to the Chumash.
No offering made to the people who were here.
So many people before me.
It hurts.
I stumble.
Then fall.
I listen to the silence.
The absence of malice.
I think of the trees
And the sound of the forest.
I wish I could be more silent.
Less bite, more tree.
Hidden but not sad. Flourishing.
Quietly forgiving of the tears and fissures
The scorched Earth of my soul.
It's not about me.
Instead let's talk about the sea glass,
the black mustard and the orange blossom
That perfumes the night air.
Or the bee that brushed against me as I walked by.
I want.
And waste.
Then cry.
I am far from the Port's mouth
But I can see the harbor seals in the kelp beds.
The sea is calm, the color of slate.
No foam when her waves break and tumble
in their rhythm of silence.
A black head surfaces
From her breathless world,
Then slips back into the salty brine.
I hold my breath as I go under.
(VE)NICE TRILOGY
By Baihu Fāng Peter Zellin 西方白虎 方
Beach Haiku
palms and some people
standing besides each other
watching the sunset
Library Haiku
nature writes a book
inbetween the boulevards
about the blooming
Fame Haiku
no one celebrates
the cosmic discovery
behind the last hill
California
By Seth Kronick (College)
For Natalia
On the opposite coast
three-thousand miles from home,
the curls of your hair
take me back
to the beaches I’m used to;
your flowing orange pants
remind me of California sunsets
welcoming dusk along the coastline;
your smile reminds me
of life underneath the palm trees
where cares are light and worries are few.