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By Namrata Singh

I was looking for acceptance, but the snow, you see, is difficult to please. It bore into my skin and buried me so deep that no warm potluck or the Christmas lights could unfreeze. I can now say with certainty that there are five seasons to experience in life- spring, summer, autumn, winter, and then there is another. It's called California, and here, the alchemy of exhilaration is unrelenting, unyielding, and unremitting. Our lives are exquisitely complex, and more often than not, mine has been wonderfully dysfunctional. The winter blizzard back there and the plummeting temperature made outrageous demands on my being that I didn't have the resources to meet. Caught in the morass of life's battles, I hobbled on my snow boots, leaving behind craters on the white graveyard. I was amazed at the indigence of winter as it stripped trees of their leaves, the ground of its soil, and me of hope. I wondered if I could repudiate the agreement life made with me, and so I continued to exist without any misgivings of resurrecting myself until the day an obscene fortune flew me to this blessed land of California.

I have found hope here;

I have found strength;

I have found gratitude

at my arm's length.

What is it about this marmalade sun that every night, as I crawl back into my hole, I am certain that I will pop out again?

What is it about the tangerine California poppy that I am certain I can grow alongside its shoot?

What is it about the chestnut sequoia that makes me experience awe under the contrived condition of life?

What is it about the lush wild trails that create a silence that doesn't ache to be filled? What is it about the ultramarine Pacific waters that stitches a beachcomber's heart, however broken it is?

What is it about California that I feel at home?

Beach Seen

By Michael H Payne

The underlying stillnesses pervade
Despite the crowds' tumultuous excess,
The sand, the sky, the water all arrayed
To welcome contemplation's sweet caress.

Except they're rarely noticed, don't impress
The partiers whose howlings never fade:
"It's Newport Beach!" Below their frantic stress,
The underlying stillnesses pervade.

Exuding calm but nothing dull or staid,
The air invites with delicate finesse.
Attentive souls can find the truth displayed
Despite the crowds' tumultuous excess.

Concerted effort serves to dispossess
The hedonistic impulse. Seize the blade
And cut away the useless! Acquiesce,
The sand, the sky, the water all arrayed!

Cocaine and alcohol cannot abrade
The elemental force that seeks to bless,
That reaches forth when reason can't persuade
To welcome contemplation's sweet caress.

I walk the shore in semi-formal dress
En route to work: the library's my trade.
Attending parties? Never. Nonetheless,
I love the place, alive where beauty's made
The underlying.

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By Siaansh Singh (5th Grade)

Amongst the shamrock grass,
As it swayed, the wind blew its mass.
Under the defense of the jacaranda tree,
Sat someone reading a book; that was me.

The shade extended its spindly arms,
To make sure from the sun came no harm.
A glow pulsing, the sun sat high up with a yellowish hue,
This is my California; wow, what a view.


I just couldn’t believe that this was my home,
That day, that time, this land served as a protection dome.
No one could dispute our friendship with the seasons,
Supporting our needs, it came out to help without reason.

Centuries of history, once occupied by Native Americans,
No other state can come in comparison.
As I walked, a few jolly kids raced by,
The graphite cloud slowly moved in the sky.


I started in New Jersey, where rain was common,
Then to Chicago, where snow was hoppin’.
When I shifted to California, it was love at first sight,
I leaped up and down, joyfully waving my kite.


Grass, trees, and shrubs beautify my state,
Out of 10, a million I would rate.
Down south, everything is perfect,
The mix of shrubs with houses has an effect.


Up north, winter’s ruthless snow smacks on the window,
But in the spring, it is kinder, letting out the bored kiddos.
West toward the coastal area, the waves show their might,
It is awe-inducing to see them touch the sky; they’re a million feet in height!

In the Central Valley, the weather is warm year-round,
If your happiness is lost, over there, it will be found.
With an abundance of farms, from there our crops stream in,
There is a can of beans in the store, from there, made of tin.

California’s calories are just right,
A million reasons it is perfect that I could write.
As I sit in the evening, the clouds shielding the sun,
I ponder on my stanza, the last one.

Though this may be the final thought,
This is not the end, there’s more to be sought.
Thank you, Lee Herrick, for this opportunity,
With you and me and others, our state shall remain in unity.

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By Shijoon Bae (High School Junior)

cotton hung
on a system teetering
in a lack of soy; your takeaway
bag sings to public transport enough
to make you wish
the sidewalks weren’t thick
and college-ruled, the trees layered
in fish tackle.

beside your paper plates, the good kind
of baseball paints the walls; caked in garlic sharpie
and chewing gum
the table growls as the bass of outside
cars snap and snark; geriatric parodies
of nightmares back home.

the bar jukebox, a Pacific cold
till you feed it; Presidents’ faces
whose names lay hollow
in your mind
eagle eye as I nail country
roads, note perfect
hymns to the crackling heat; stone bowls
of years passed.

asking for soju, single malt,
brings stares that I have no time to answer,
cities with too many questions,
the ones without smokestacks of beef and kimchi
or the Dodgers.

through the hallway, to the right
i trip
over a cup of salt; feng shui
says opportunity ran out the back door
forgetting
to turn on tomorrow’s alarm.

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By Millie Gess

50 Years since we landed in Los Angeles
The Angels introduced me to
Pink’s hot dogs and Canter’s Deli

We set roots in Orange County when
Commuters spied acres of citrus groves
From the 405 in the 70’s.

Our patriarch, an immigrant,
A man of Davidian courage,
Led his family to freedom
Is buried beside a tree in an OC
Cemetery that’s at max capacity

Today, we crowd together,
In limited space yet unlimited dreams.
Under blue skies and spendy sunshine,
We crowd together in dwellings
And on the freeway.

EVERYWHERE.

Diverse voices eager to be heard.
In Person
And Online.

California is mocked.
Sometimes it hurts.
At times I tell myself that she
Is the inveterate “it” girl.
Labeled and over discussed.
She sets trends in tech,
Teslas, and cuisine.

The girl that is used to the stares,
Glares, the prying eyes and
Naysayers—some holding
Unconfessed envy.

She spins an illusion
A tranquil and perfected neurosis
That captivates and also unspools at
Her edges.

When There Were Orange Groves

By Kate Gonzalez Long

Last night I dreamt
I was beautiful

still

or again
for a moment

I’d forgotten that

Beyond the irrigation ditch
blossoms and bladed earth
lovely worms and rot
under soon to fruit branches
cloaked from the eyes of our mothers
who peer out at the darkness
from under our front porch lights
and then turn back shaking their heads

Across that muddy frontier
we laughing run
unable to deny coming summer
liquid night
the delirious scent of your neck and
the tee shirt your mom washes in Tide mixed with
whatever it is that draws the bees

Secret rows
dim betweenness
bows bending their future yield
heavy with acres
buzzing with unspoken
me swimming ripe through the cricketed thickness
the idea of your lips
my shoulders against the roots
looking past you the stars flame among the branches
the flickering and the reaching for something

something, anything in this deep furrow we sew

This deep furrow
that will someday be
long-ago subdivided, buried under asphalt

and you and your mother and your brother and your sister
will all have died untimely
when I write this

But when there were still orange trees in Orange County
you grinned at me as we lit the grove on fire
you called it an experiment

When I Begin to Forget California 

By Lizeth De La Luz

When I begin to forget California;

Bring me back to where

I painted golden lines

Encompassed it all

In purples and blues

In splashes of green,

oceanic and desert hues

Where I blended everything in wine and honey

Intertwined it in poetry of

Summers and winters

Autumn skies and sprouts of spring

Hid song lyrics under rain belts

Plateaus and valleys

Take me back to where the butterflies live

Where mountains replenish life after

Being consumed

Where the waters are rays

And the winds are birds

Grapetowns Gone

By Grant Hier

They once called Los Angeles "City of Vines"
(long after the wars and the legal "Compromise,"
after the treatise ceded control, the "New Spain"
kingdom dissolving like smoke, long after migrations
out of the Great Basin, the hunters and gatherers,
Millingstone Horizon with its odd cogged stones
and lost stories.
Once Anaheim grew grapes, too
(until Colonizer profits were eaten by the plague,
vineyard lines then strung instead with "Anaheim"
chili peppers, or plowed to grow the surer
sugar beets).
Soon walnut trees were shading
in rows. Lemons, then oranges, brought more gold,
brought more and more in—both profit and people.
To make room for housing and booming industry,
bulldozers razed the orchards, one by one. Soon,
just the "original" grove remained.
Now
that’s gone too.
But once
the sky here was thick with scent of citrus,
offshore flows blended with Mexican Sage,
their grey-green and purple flowers swaying,
soft spikes sure camouflage for hummingbirds.
Those have remained—both the velvety sage
and small darting birds. Rather, their descendents
have. And bees swarmed in golden abundance.
Santa Ana winds blew hot and strong.
Still do.
Northers, some called them back then. Cajon Winds.
Those in Pasadena called them The Riversiders.
Mainly they were known as Electric Winds,
those warm blasts sweeping off the Mojave,
funneling through the mountain passes,
swooping down and across this basin,
storing static charges from the friction,
crackling electricity to snap both cloth and skin—
a harsh curse for both groves and growers.
Leaf tissue collapse. Allergies.
Then,
in 1891 (the newspapers reported) the static
in the air was so strong that entire orchards
began glowing in the twilight, their charge
illuminating the earth beneath them once
the dark set in: soft light pools where
the trees once cast their shadows.
Like magic. But the Diablo Winds.
No. Those trees were on the brink.
Once
the first leaves sparked into flame,
history changed yet again. Tree became torch
as leaves ignited, then twigs and branches,
entire canopies. The fire leapt and roared.
The fruit rinds crackled. A neighboring orchard
soon boomed ablaze in a new state of matter,
tinting the spiraling smoke a billowing orange.
Overhead, cloud bottoms echoed the eerie glow
from before, but inversed and larger, as if
spotlights for the premiere of a new era.
Embers carried by the hot winds ignited
the next grove over, the next, the next—
passing the terrible news along
that the crops were gone.

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By Shrey Mehta (8th Grade)

From the gloomy gray mornings of utter dismay
Where the vexation of waking creeps into one’s day
To the baby blue stage where the sun dances in delight,
The cumulus clouds of 12 PM like gobs of cotton at a height
Or the winsome Ombre of scarlet, orange and yellow
With the evening breeze making minds feel mellow
Where the glacial gales of the unforgiving night
And the whites of the boasting stars light up one’s sight
The sensational sights and welcoming weather
A California special, a special to keep you tethered
A splendid specialty that further adorns the
peerless plains and plateaus of our home, California

From the bounteous mountains of the Sierra Nevada's
To the vast Pacific whose beaches always are known
To the Delphic depths of Tahoe and Angeles forests
To the barren Mojave and empty desert zones
A single state, yet so much land, so much terrain
With fishes and cacti guarding nature’s domain.
There is always more to see, always more to explore
Each region with a twist, whether it’s sea or shore
The Horned lizards of desert, the Striped Bass of the seas
The cougars of the forests, and the mountain’s coyotes
Yet, another splendid specialty that further adorns the
peerless plains and plateaus of our home, California

From India’s festive fetes of Diwali, Holi, Navratri
Foods like paneer, pani puri, paratha make any mouth ooze
To the Italian delicacies of pasta and arancini,
Bursting with culture, bursting with differing views
Or the congenial crunch of tacos and nachos from
Mexico’s munificent menu, there’s so much to choose!
And the Chinese New Year and Lantern festivals
Festivals that excite anyone, lighting their blue hearts’ fuse
The compound of California’s culture won’t bore or tire
The kind of compound no one can see anywhere prior
Yet, another splendid specialty that further adorns the
peerless plains and plateaus of our home, California

The land of opportunity, the land of fortune
“The Golden State”, they’ve always called it
In its golden land, where dreams take flight,
Opportunities abound, from dawn until night.
From tech to film, and oceans wide and blue,
Endless chances await, for me and you.
In Silicon Valley's immense innovation's embrace,
The land where entrepreneurs find their special place.
The land with Hollywood's allure, with stars that shine,
The land where preferences are pleased, aspirations align.
Just another splendid specialty that further adorns the
peerless plains and plateaus of our home, California

Thank You, California

By Ana Hernandez (College)

California, its dry land scattered with wealth and dreams
California, the land we call our savior, our only hope
Los Angeles, where riches and poverty meet at once, together they share their madness
Beneath the well-known streets like Hollywood Blvd to the forgotten ones like Merced Ave

California, the land with prestigious education
The land where students commit suicide
The land where students go into poverty
The land where students fear being near these prestigious grounds

California, where the sound of pain echoes within the streets
Where civilians fight for their freedom in the land of the free
Known for the number of bodies and buckets of blood drenching their lands
The land that is supposed to be safer than our ancestor's lands

California, where our accent and mispronunciation are scarier than our crimes
Where I whisper in my mother’s ear, translating the unknown to language
Do not let them see us; we are different creatures within these lands
California, thank you for completing our dreams and breaking our generation's chains
Thank you for being our savior, California, the land of dreams and opportunities
Right?

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By Pritha Sankar (8th Grade)

In the California I cherish, the sun warmly greets each new day,
Melting away our icy skin in its golden ray.

As the rest of the world is in Antarctica’s freezing icy bind,
I’m cradled by California poppies, a vibrant floral kind.

A gentle breeze sways the lush green reeds,
Farmers’ Market treasures - onions and tomatoes in colorful beads.

Early morning rituals, fresh pastries from Paris Baguette,
Witnessing the sun rise, breaking from its slumber, a spectacle to set.

Little India, then a turn to Little Italy,
Laughter fills the air, a vibrant symphony.

Diwali celebrations echo through the air,
While Hanukkah lights softly glow with care.

Late-night runners, families strolling at twilight,
Tennis and soccer fields at Great Park, a plentiful delight.

In the California I cherish, sunsets paint the sky in confetti of red, pink, and orange,
Pacific waves waltz, splashing on the shore

Surfing at dawn in Malibu’s shores to Death Valley’s heat,
Yosemite’s majesty, a visual treat.

Afternoon roadtrips in Laguna Beach’s coastal winding,
Mountainside night drives to Big Bear, where icy peaks are rising.

Influencers claim their throne,
Nurturing high-end possessions they own.

Here, in the California I cherish, ever

mythology of my home

By Keira Deer (College)


the severed roar of the freeway falls
in through the slats of backyard fences: a quiet bottle-

hum, a lullaby for sleeping children. engines turn
& Sublime exits the open windows of

pickup trucks & Toyotas, white paint freckled
with dirt picked up from miles of ten-lane travel.

hear, also, parrot cries.
they sing their rumored histories,

feathered green & crowned
with sunburn between their eyes,

wing-to-wing on telephone wires
looking down to the kennel of an empty street.

the entry bell rings at the doors of early morning
Donut King shops. incense steeps the lobbies of

dim sum restaurants & H-marts. everywhere,
an eye roving the neon of an OPEN sign.

drive twenty minutes to reach one edge of the country.
the sand stretches on for several cities. umbrellas open

to the sky and say ¡buenos días!
say were you here when the last earthquake hit?

& look at the ocean, remembering the way the water danced
over the ledges of backyard swimming pools

when the earth shuddered in heat.
palm fronds toss in the quarrel of Santa Ana winds

& wish the smog would blow away,
gray horizon receding to reveal

California. this is the mythology of my home:
the roads are erased & rewritten everyday.

the scrawl reads the names of
every bent-backed laborer, every

body whose feet have kicked over the jagged teeth
of broken concrete, every

dream that breathes against the pulse
of the freeway roar at night.

My California: Santa Ana

By Kimberly Zavala (College)

The people in my California

talk about the lives on the streets

They talk about their broken skin,

clothes and shoes.

The streets of my California

remember all of the lives

that have begged for something.

The streets of my California

want to forget the young lives

who roamed them high on drugs.

In my California people hope

for those on the streets

to get the help they need.

In my California my people eat

what is brought to the table.

They eat it as it can be

their last meal.

My Santa Ana California

By Dalilah Vazquez (College)

In Santa Ana, we all have dreams

Dreams of getting out

Having a bigger house

Living like our neighboring cities

In my California, there are dealers trying to get a quick buck to put food on the table

To make their mother happy

To buy the clothes they have always desired

In my California, there are impersonators escaping abusive homes

To fulfill their inner child

To be sole providers for themselves

In my California, there is free medical insurance

Free housing

Free clothes

No need for violence and felonies.

In my California, all my friends would not need to be at risk to survive

To live peacefully

To be children

To be alive.

Amtrak moans into the midnight

By Alexis Jaimes 

A whale song of progress echoes down alleys & spray-painted trees
rumbling through disrupted life
waking the awaken
spiders in the sinks
roaches underneath
cats hunting the mice
& people who set poison for them all

Headlights blur in & out of focus
leaving traces of ruby smoldering underneath the smog that steadily rises
sprawling into the shadows
as rubber scrapes onto the asphalt
leaving scars that read “I was here”

A howl full of hurt is swallowed by the oblivion
leaving only reverberations down paper-thin walls
leaving only
the awaken
spiders
roaches
cats
& people

Loneliness

By Sabina Veizaj

When you want to escape from the demon
Inside you and run and run and run
But you can’t meet any familiar face all over the city!

My City

By Peter Gerrard

My city is carefully manicured, like
the perfectly painted nails on the women
who sashay from the salons into the
perfect malls carefully laid-out
here and there.

Once, my city was endless rows of fields
cut by a thin ribbon of road,
beans and berries bounded by
regiments of orange trees
in perfect rows.