Home

By Bob Stanley

for Tom Hoffman

Somewhere out between Acampo and Clements
there’s a long, tall stand of oaks – some interior lives and some valleys –
along the bluff where the dirt road above the Mokelumne
splits the levee.

When sunset splashes horizontal strokes of orange,
I see the silhouette - those oaks from your patio and remember
when we camped out there one summer and cooked two doves
over a wood fire, using little oak sticks to rotisserie the tiny birds,
birds we shot that afternoon tramping through corn stubble.

Grandma lived and died here, and her mother too, walking that trail
between the two houses, two barns, that generations of Hoffmans called home
where flickers and woodpeckers foraged and dug,
living their short lives above dry, mild, flat land.

It’s a place in California. 2 million, 14 million, now 40 million
people live here and that means the Interstates are full
of us -- people day and night, going where people go.

But not here. It’s still quiet here. You can hear a red-shouldered hawk
from far off, you can see sandhill cranes against white mist in the glare.
Though winter could change things and undercut levee walls, right now
there’s not much water in the river, at least not in the summer of fall
when the harnessed Moke winds muddy and thick in branch and bramble.

I’m not a quiet man and I don’t seek solitude or wild places that much,
but when I see that line of oaks stretching along the river that carries
the snowmelt to the meandering Delta, well, I watch the sun
take its slow time, and know I’m home, or at least on my way there.

Each Step Writes This Poem

By Jennifer Pickering

the river your pen, the slipstream your ink.
You are the poet of trumpeters in feathered tuxedos,
of cottonwood’s lacy shade, the hawk’s sharp perception
arc of wings, of willows dangling jade necklaces
in deep pools of history: Patwin gliding in Tule canoes netting the dance of the Chinook’s fiery iridescence
of hope lumped in the pockets of the 49ers and immigrants
hungry with ambition crowding steamboats from San Francisco come to build the railroads, till the fields, and raise the mirrored edifices, a sacrament of new beginnings, the Sacramento their elixir.

Sacramento River and Interstate 5

By Doreen Beyer

My Sacramento will always be about two rivers--

one that flows from the Klamath mountains
to San Francisco Bay,
the other from the Canadian border
to Mexico's. And back.

The first river carries with it the sky--
on those clear, still days when
surrounding foliage rolls with light
the pastoral transforms to the sacred.

The second river carries with it
hints of ozone and exhaust--
its rolling ribbon of asphalt echoes
with muscular hums

of semi-trailer trucks and cars
that move with substance
and purpose--
One river allows for the luxury

of refuge,
scent of earth,
moon showing her face--

the other a smoke-colored dance
of human-engineered systems
and forces--

One brings connection.
The other, brings me home.

Saturday Night on the River

By Laura Garfinkel

The four of us motor the pontoon past Old Sacramento,
under the Tower Bridge whose gold paint glistens
as the sun prepares to set. The Lights of the Delta King
and giant Ferris wheel decorate the shore in perpetual holiday.
A row of men, up to their knees in water, fish on the shore.
I wonder what it looks like to the fish underneath, all that bait,
like taffy from jars in the tourist shops nearby.
Free Samples. Temptation. I feel for those fish—
even as I pop a piece of Negi Hama Maki into my mouth.
Our host fishes from the back of the boat, one small striper
unhooked, thrown back; almost immediately snatched
by a Canada Goose who flies a victory circle around our boat.
As party boats speed by, water droplets splash our faces.
This is a multi-use community, an ecosystem
of creatures, some better behaved than others.
Twelve ducklings swim in formation, adults at either end
mind the group like diligent chaperones on a school field trip.
Sea lions sleep on the pier, others dive and bob in the water
like happy-go-lucky children. We like to believe they are smiling.
How do they navigate the boats, find free space to surface?
In the Bay area twelve whales washed up from boat strikes,
entanglement, and malnutrition. We pass tent encampments
on the bluff. Once gold was discovered here. People rushed
the banks to pan for riches. This river has always provided.
It has been a source of beauty and life to all living beings
who dip in and out of its generous waters, or make lives
on its expansive shores. It connects the ocean to the mountains;
the present to past history, as it flows into an uncertain future.

25th and R

By Daniel Kemper

1. lower and lower

commuter train bonging loud

approaching faster, faster, bang and clack and whoosh

skittery skittery skittery

passing

the bell will bong but lower and lower

until the echo overwhelms the sound

and another pounds

another softly lower and lower

until alone again

downtown

down

the moon is rising

bitter beer bad yellow and I'm hungry

and my head hurts

my hands hurt

and a dozen people on the train

faces bitter broken angled

like terra cotta dropped

to dirt

at unnatural angles

then a couple blocks ahead it stops

again

only

red dots on an orange plain

and golden double lines

under black

with stars scattered like salt

in cookie dough for bringing out

the sweetness

of solitude

a distant shout

a dog barks

bong bong bong

car tires over gravel crackle

like plastic covered furniture

the city doesn even

whisper

gonging on a dumpster

a mickey's hand grenade

fails to detonate

no reason to elaborate

come on a little further

almost everyone's asleep

and I'm scribbling on a tablet

afraid

to lose a single word of it

25th and R

2. just one stop more

and the people in the windows,

collage of earth tones

collage of pants and dresses

suits and sweats

all discheveled

all the people in the windows

books and covered ears

heads pressed against the glass

eyes looking forward, forward

vanish

as the windows vanish

as the trains vanish

red lights gleaming toward an unseen station

toward a blinding sunset

toward an unmet

vanishing

point

just one stop more

desire

people in the window squares

have passed

just as they lived,

and boxed up nicely

go from boxy home

to boxy work

in boxy trains

and back

and even those who want to leave it all, they jump

on boxcars

this is no horror,

homily, or holocaust

this is human

and even on the trains to Auschwitz

crowded and confused, they

craved arriving.

the station up ahead meant

no crying chaos, no crippling doubt

no slicing crisis, mordant torment

craved

order out of chaos

as sugar dropped in oversweetened tea

creates precipitating crystals

before quiescence

just one stop more

desire

chaos

into order

organically

just one stop more

a poet's voice

whispers

those, who die subject to the wrath of God,

All here together come from every clime,

And to o’erpass the tracks are never loth:

For so heaven’s justice goads them on, that fear

Is turn’d into desire.

25th and R

3. Abandon All

Let's turn around

it's not our time

a little guilty

--maybe--

remember when we

used to tip the forty

pour a mouthful out

and remember?

what's inside your backpack?

blackness

and a couple mickeys

turn around

silhouettes slip by

and we fall in

almost eye to eye

and not so far ahead a courtyard

gently lit

behind gates that are

open

chain link gates turned

pearly in the moonlight

P-dog, wild hair and eyes

welcomes us inside

where, yes, the light is gold

and for a moment

no one's old

and no one's young

and all the hymns inside

are Spoken Word

Abandon all

fear

you who enter here

Abandon all fear you who enter

The Sacramento Poetry Center.

Sweet Cities, My Capital

By Cheryle Mclaughlin

How an orchestra of chirping birds

Perched in a firm Magnolia tree and how it makes me feel at home

White sidewalks are left with black streaks from many shoe marks made by children teenagers men and women.

Black street of Asphalt

Electric cars Suv's and 4 Runners in back to back traffic

Light blue adorning mouth and nose in a face mask

To protect from covid & RSV virus

Hand sanitizer and 2 to 3 feet distance

Working in the office turned virtual

Meetings on Zoom or Teams and more

Projects have deadlines

Dining and Entertainment remains

James Beard Award

Frank Fats

An immigrant dishwasher made history

I will retire in my Sacramento

Farewell are the days of congested traffic on the days I had to go into the office

My mornings will be embraced with sleeping in and awakening to the symphony of birds chirping

Living in the Cities and my Capital has been a privilege

Balance of nature and City life

Birth Life and Death

I lived in Santa Clara Aptos and Sacramento

I kissed and said final goodbyes to loved ones who lived and passed away

in our beloved Cities

California Mind

By Ella Labutina (College)

California, you are the hope of many,
The beautiful painted skies that change time after time.

The loud roaring oceans and seas take away the breath of its viewers,
Oh how beautiful and kind, you California mind.

You amaze us day after day.
Your warm rays of sunlights give life and joy,
Where there is laughter and smiles, crying will be no more.

How blessed are those who find life in you,
And establish their home within your beautiful view.
The bright orange sunsets, that are always painted new,
Will always be a view to those who are in love with you.

The Golden State

By Julia Smith (College)

Our Golden skies

I love our waters and our dries

The dries are too much the drought is too long

We have no drought of the bird's song

The bold bald Eagle, flying firm

Flitting pollen, and dirty worms

Sprouting walnuts, oranges, grapes

Fruity flavored bathroom vapes

So many choices of what to eat

Want Mexican? Or faux meat?

Faux fur, or risk the paint

Risky Cali ain't for the faint

I may faint for the heat can be unbearable

But the forests have bears, you know the parables

Parables of people past

People here who didn't last

Last I checked we wiped them out

Killed all of the salmon and trout

Salmon is pink like our skies

Do you like our battle cries?

Us immigrants and natives to this place?

The beautiful, broken, Golden state

Sacramento

By Brandon Sousa

O Sacramento
Flourishing with life
So green like a meadow
Filled with life so precious
Delicate like a newborn baby
Yet life so anxious
Started out empty
Now full of new faces
Sacramento
O Sweet Sacramento

Untitled

By Alanna Alvarado

In California's sunny glow,

Sacramento State, we proudly show.

From towering peaks to ocean's spray,

In this land, we learn and play.

In busy cities, dreams ignite,

From Hollywood's glitz to tech's light.

But in the calm of coastal breeze,

We find our peace among the trees.

In California's warm embrace,

We chase our dreams with grace.

With Sacramento State as our guide,

In this golden land, we'll take pride.

Untitled

By Arshdeep Singh (College)

In Sacramento County, where the sun shines bright,
There's lots of stuff, from day to night.
We've got cool art and music in Midtown's scene,
And Old Sac's history, like a time machine.

But things ain't perfect, we've got problems too,
Like not enough homes for me and you.
Traffic jams and crowded streets,
Sometimes it feels like we can't catch a beat.

But we're hopeful, we've got dreams to chase,
For a better future, for every face.
Community gardens and parks to roam,
In Sacramento County, there's no place like home.

So let's make a place where everyone's okay,
With fairness and love in every single way.
Sacramento County, from the rivers to the zoo,
Let's make it awesome for me and you!

From farm-to-fork restaurants to trails for a hike,
There's so much to love, it's not just hype.
Neighbors helping neighbors, when times get tough,
In Sacramento County, we've got the right stuff.

So let's keep dreaming, and working together,
To make our home even better and better.
Sacramento County, shining bright and true,
With hope and love, there's nothing we can't do!

Untitled

By Hannah Lugtu (College)

On some nights the burden I carry
Feels heavier on my shoulders
And I can't explain why
I just know I would find my head glued to my knees
And my arms wrapped tightly around me
Desperate to attach reasoning to my sorrow
Because I thought what good are tears
If they aren't telling me something worthwhile

It took me too long to realize
That even a flower as bright
As the California poppy
Closes in on itself each night
Because when the sun tucks itself away
It figures that it should, too
Because it knows not to yearn for the light
That doesn't already shine down on it

But even then,
No one complains
When the Sun rests for half a day
Or when the poppy
Doesn't explain why it hangs lower at night
It's only nature

So maybe if I stop looking for reasons
To why I collapse into myself some nights
And accept that it, too, is just in my nature
I will only find that my limbs are no different than petals
And I will finally grant myself
The same grace as the poppy

Thirteen ways of looking at (a dozen) tricolored blackbirds

By Jan Haag

1.Yes, they have red on their wings, but they are not red-winged blackbirds.
2. Only breeding males look this glossy, this fancy, all spiffed up for the ladies.
3. They may sing in the dead of night, but they don’t have the same lovely voices as their red-winged cousins.
4. They’re found in marshes and adjacent fields.
5. Once they bred in immense colonies in natural freshwater wetlands of California’s Central Valley.
6. In the 19th century flocks could consist of hundreds of thousands of tricolored blackbirds.
7. Their numbers—like the birds themselves diving for insects—have plummeted.
8. Since then the population has declined from several million to fewer than 200,000.
9. Because so much of their marshy habitat has been lost, they are endangered.
10. Because they now often nest in fields where grain is grown, harvesting can destroy tens of thousands of nests.
11. But hope is the thing with feathers, after all, and birdfolk report seeing tricolored blackbirds flying in weed-filled fields set aside by farmers.
12. Take these broken wings and learn to fly.
13. All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise.

(With thanks to Sir Paul McCartney and Wallace Stevens for their indelible blackbirds, and to Emily Dickinson for that feathered hope.)

A Summer Day in California

By Farida Corkery-Smith

As if to beat the early morning sun
A symphony of rooster crows and heavy traffic noise
Awakens me and I feel the delta breeze
Through opened windows sweeping in a blast of sharp cold air…
A subtle sign to put my bootie slippers on
I clear my windshield from glistening beads of dew
Go for a nourishing protein and hot espresso run
Inch back through lines of steady morning rush
Hoping to spend some time toiling in nature’s grace…
And I note my coffee quickly turning into cold brew
My tender seedlings wait to finally dine
On beds of nutrients I hasten to prepare
As noon is drawing close, in beads of sweat and dirt
Resembling the looks of a weather-beaten drifter…
I soon give up, deciding a cold salad will do just fine
I pray for a mildly sultry afternoon
Rid my garden of lush invasive growths
Put production back to the task, only to hand over
A colorful vocabulary of frustrations…
To the whims of California summer that now is turning soon
Into a hot and crushingly torrid day
That, like a swarm of ants, blithely marches on:
A smothering shroud of radiating needle points
We languish under its pressure with no option…
But cave in to the relentless attacks of ultraviolet rays
On a thirsty earth… in quiet defeat
Rivaling a cowering coyote hiding under
The shadows of sparsely spaced clouds, exhausted
Awaiting acceptance of the unescapable…
And praying for salvation from the ever stifling heat
Save for a dog’s baying in the distance
Calling for a truce to end this torturous day
However not succeeding and submitting to surrender
As twilight finally rises in waves of soft auroral glows…
Hope reappears, patiently waiting for deliverance
And in the company of the rising Delta breeze
Anxiety and fatigue is rapidly replaced
In the coolness of the night, by blissful gratitude
And happiness, and at morning’s dawn…
I wake and pull my blanket up, lest I will freeze

The Land of Roadside Poppies

By Victor Schnickelfritz

In the land of roadside poppies, I hear daisies flailing against

the backwash of impending commerce, camellias wilting

from the criticism of the clouds, the rose garden positioning

itself to exfoliate profit.

And everywhere the sound of someone taking on more

responsibility at work.

There are students living in their cars using the rear-view

mirror to apply their morning make-up. In my California

everyone is fashioned to appear . . .

hyperflexing in front of the big store window; they regret

their tattoos. One says "generational opportunity."

Another one says, "I crumble for kindness." Neither of them

hope to inherit money as much as they hope to inherit

a pet. They both want a respite from the signaling.

They are tired of someone putting up

yellow caution tape around a dog turd on the concrete

instead of just picking it up.

Now there is all this data leaking off brown, black, white,

beige, peachflesh skin. It is assembled by the tech

companies advancing with their silicon sword and shield.

They are tracking the location of the phone toters,

the microchipped dogs, the beer imported from Mexico,

the migrating geese.

Everything will be assigned its own place, and the happy tribesmen

of my California will blissfully recount the number of UFOs

they have seen, their zodiac charts for the best time of year

to buy a home.

When the floods and fires come, they'll tie their fates to insurance

or dabble in bitcoin to make a quick score, then wait for

a dead relative to visit them. These people of the past

touch down in a dream and establish a circular pattern

where descendants take turns receiving their rewards.

In the many twists of colored wires of my California the tribes

keep to their core and hold on to an identity like it has been

sold to them by the makers of Dreamfabrik.

Take care to cross over into another territory . . .

there overriding the particular dissent is

one big pop monoculture which keeps everyone together

and maintains the internet at its freshest.

The praise is slathered on each mega-Disney moment papered

over with limp and unforgiving platitudes.

Meanwhile

they send the librarians home and parents worry about their

children's mental health. Every click and screen blip is measured,

yet no one can figure out how to measure achievement.

In my California children stagger to the starting line unsure of

which direction they should be running while they swim among

the images that stratify their attitudes and behaviors.

In my California there are more styles than there are square miles

to put them in.

All roads lead to institutional die-off, then sleep deficit.

Employees are more satisfied with the culture of the workplace

when they don't have to go in, then attend the virtual meetings

while they're stoned.

They eat lab-grown meat, tissue culture chicken breast,

and are charged the same as for the hand fed beasts

found in the backyards of the suburbs.

The housing markets are being gobbled up by professional investors

in my California because they know having a roof over one's head

justifies taking on more debt.

The neighborhoods are once again haunted by a speculative ghost

who maddens the masses with the message

the American Dream is now a rental.

In my California you face reality with a cracked windshield

and smile a lot. You face reality and claim you have

a headache.

In my California the work day has lengthened,

but people congratulate themselves about how it has been

extended equally for everyone. They praise the growth of

the managerial class and submit to classifications

based on skin tone, ethnic clan, stature, gender, retina scan,

preference in the bedroom.

Look at how the division is parceled out between them and reinforced

by the factory of images that keeps them twitching.

In my California everyone is a type, but nobody is themselves.

I am just a bastard from the heartland, but I've been told to

get with the program, join the band, adopt the new

ideal of quiet encouragement, the shiny virtue of

a strong group ethos.

Yet I'm a single comet, a sticky problem, politically naive and

in need of re-education. I am wandering through

the labyrinth of players in my California,

where I can be found not guilty if I can learn how to live

among the tectonic plates shifting all these bodies around.

Miracle on the Sacramento

By Oswaldo Vargas

If our feet

can stay in

place, then maybe

I can believe

in blessings, in

pant bottoms that

somehow stay dry.

There’s a crowd

watching from the

river’s other side,

questions on how

and why we

did what we

did on tile.

They don’t wait

on the silt

between my toes

to be rinsed

off by my

man, my mishmash

of atoms, of

cosmos, a collection

who I nicknamed

A Miracle,

one worth scratching

into the walls

of this place.

California

 By Lisa Murawski

I.
a people who share so little
write a new history of being
original sin discarded
like plastic packaging
or somehow, forgiven:
we run with the dawn
and laugh with the night.

II.
a daydream of granite peaks
then of volcanoes
thunderingly quiet,
sequoias indifferent to awe.
on the coast of
our cold sea one crest,
one vortex upon another
churns in ecstatic dance.
joshua trees, strange lone soldiers
as our headlights paint color
on the desert night.
we live outside
feed on peaches dried
in fresno sun.

III.
molecules dance in glowing white labs,
genius of back-room tinkering, the new
alchemy of selling tiny things:
lines of code,
a cure,
a palm-studded fantasy.

IV.
somehow I can even believe
boardwalk psychics with their neon
wispy voices in the fog—
a current flows through this place.
on the shore of lake merritt
moms affirm each other over banh mi.
martha plys rockfish spines
on the filet line. farm hands cross
father, son, holy spirit in a room
with faded curtains. hotshot crews
raise microbrews to shake off fiery ghosts.
boys dribble balls down venice beach
muscles browned by low sun.

we orbit different suns
but on new year’s
fly like moths to lighted sky
pressed together in town parks
on shores
atop hills
on the banks of our rivers.

V.
we are high sierra
products of disruption
green and defiant
as our desert valleys.
like hummingbirds
vibrating from flower to flower,
seeking sweetness,
seeking abundance,
unmoored, unencumbered,
one nation-state
under gods,
divisible in every way
imaginable and yet
towering,
daring,
dancing.

Swift Current

By Jeanine Stevens

From the abundant snowmelt, let
the American River soak up all it can hold,
then carry its icy blueness
from the summit past Twin Bridges
down through gold country’s autumn brilliance.

Let the rafters on the South Fork safely maneuver
around swirling Old Man Trouble Rapids,
then relax on the quiet of Lake Folsom.

From the deck at the Cliff House,
let diner’s enjoy the soft ripples
that tenderly bounce red and yellow canoes.

Past the spillway at Nimbus Dam, let fish ladders
be gentle as spawning salmon return home,
catapult bodies up cement walls.

At a narrow bend, keep this a safe place
for the green heron and white egret,
so they may thrive and reproduce.
Let the current be swift so poachers cannot cross
to the small island and steal precious eggs.

Here by a lush creek, let the river rest for a moment
in honor of the first people who tanned hides
along the bank. Smell the aroma of acorn mush
bubbling over boiling stones?
Deer meat and manzanita berry tea shared.

Standing on the old iron bridge, we look upstream
as the setting sun creates diamond facets
in wild riffles, jewels in the sun,
the only gems we need, so blinding
we must wear dark glasses.
We finger our plain gold wedding bands
that have served for 35 years.