Return to Pepper Grove

By Yvonne Sherman

Eucalyptus, pungent lemony and tall
Crest Live Oaks, fog loving, slender and resilient,
Mexican Palms hidden in a lush canyon of windy paths
fill acres of playground,

Anchored by the Moreton Bay Fig Tree,
the center of The Prado
ages old, yet young when seen for the first time.

Across the Cabrillo Bridge stands
The California Tower stately and elegant
The ancient chimes tugging my heart
like the surf along the ocean.

Balboa Park the cultural oasis
in this ever-changing city
San Diego – my home
Remains persistent, steadfast, and strong
In its mission of
bringing beauty, life and knowledge
in Museums of Art, History, Science, Industry.

I remember my life by landmarks;
Pepper Grove from childhood
filled with Peruvian Pepper Trees
With weepy foliage and cheerful rosy-red fruit,
ready for picnics and play.
Starlight Bowl with lights, music
dance and summer love.

Taking off the blinders of work and ambition
Life comes full circle enjoying all the charm of early days,
Keeping the hope that the future will hold such stalwart ideals.

The Dream of San Diego

By Jeff Armstrong

my San Diego is full
of lovers and dreamers
Calafia spirit of the Californias
blessed the land with
fair weather sunny days

the natives and the rest of us
are proud to call San Diego home
mountains deserts beaches
the best Mexican food
good neighbors good friends

dreamers push the boundaries
of research medicine technology
here in Barrio Logan
Día De Los Muertos reunites
the living and the dead

in Mission Beach it’s fish tacos
craft beer bikinis and boardwalk
in Paradise Hills a birthday party
serves Cabeza De Res simmering

the dream of San Diego
lies within her people

many struggle to make ends meet
it’s hard to pay bills without money
some live in ivory towers
they worry how to pay less tax
in Point Loma a homeless woman
suffers alongside the stately homes

people wait at the border
and dream of a better life
will they survive the journey
while in Clairemont Mesa
old tract homes now cost a million

here in my San Diego
dreams live if they aren’t forgotten
in Bay Park at a turquoise house
young people dare to dream
they talk about the future

a future that includes their dreams
whatever they might be —
dreams that make us feel
awake and alive
dreams that bring us to San Diego

Reflections from a Kid’s Finest City

By Steve Gwynne

Around dark corners memories careen,

leaving tracks in tales of olden.

t’would be déjà vu if so by name.

Though no order bears this calling to mind:

about this city they used to claim.

Weather! Navy! Zoo! Aerospace! Our fame

A border belies two lands apart,

once fluid, just friends with fences now.

Like half-siblings, related, till not.

Before, the 101 took us north and south,

And the 80 on to mountain snow,

sulfur springs, arid Anza, Salton Sea.

Later, the Freeway 5 newly built

through communities it divides, and

where ferries once were, a blue bridge spans.

Our valley, fertile with farms and dairies.

In flood, our playground, on rafts afloat.

One deer, ghostlike, stalks the hillside.

A genuine juncture; things gone wrong,

when our jilted convention came not,

so “Finest City,” became our brand.

Swordlike Santa Anas sweep swiftly.

Strange light paints: palms blue, sky sienna,

as ash rains from smoky sunrises.

A warm storm blows in, El Niño its name.

squalls, runoff, wind, waves, tide, all conflate.

Streets become canals, no Venice this.

Loving, long ago memories of

before fast food, a narrow beach court hides,

Hamburger Alley serves famished kids.

Sleeping on beach, surfing, sailing,

love-ins and Hell’s Angels, together.

A long open range for free kids then.

Late night KPRI, not knowing,

what next, they might spin, awakening to

jazzy Pharaoh Sanders blew our minds.

Finding you then, thinking we’re alone.

Sharing secrets and souls, first kisses,

ditching thoughts of ever something else.

Some things no finest city forgets.

A stolen child thus appearing,

in the shadow play of billboard lights

Isn’t it irony, the Kumeyaay?

Coming back to an ancestral home,

just as due, to own the Grant Hotel.

On roads once we thought we knew so well,

wondering what if tomorrow brings,

sun and surf, were ever we so blessed.

Where Retirement Calls Me

By Jon Von Erb

(Inspired by Ocean Beach, San Diego, CA)

Curious waves lap-dance sandy beaches under my balcony.

I look out upon a never ending shoreline

longing to be foot-fondled, teasing to be touched.

My swaying ocean in her sea-green dressing gown

drifts east to west, back again.

Cat-like in nature is her stretch until she reaches

an infinite horizon.

A well-spent sun sinks below with a surf’s hiss,

her late evening’s kiss good night.

A bloody sky fades into the moon’s curtain of constellations.

Along the surf, the cry of gulls in constant conversation

slices moist air in a very distant melody of swimmer’s chat.

Tourists, like curiosity filled Dolphins, stroll along the boardwalk.

The snap of flags, twists as if in pain, whipped from the wind’s slap.

It’s impossible to say who rules OB’s turf

I invite retirement’s endless lackadaisical summers.

I long to continue scratching the cat’s back

balancing a Manhattan on a knee; two cherries, thank you!

My sun-tinted body so happy from days devoid of work,

finally to relax.

What I know about San Diego

By Margaret Wafer

Hitch a ride on the USS Lincoln

if you can. A helicopter paves the way

for the Aircraft Carrier’s smooth ride

to Pearl Harbor, Japan, Hong Kong.

The Midway, the WWII aircraft carrier museum,

where Scouts answer to “Freedom is?”

with a salute, and “Not free Sir.”

They get to sleep in sailor’s racks.

Down the coastline, the fence shutting

migrants out, extends into the ocean.

Border Patrol on constant lookout

for desperate souls.

Diehard fans line up at Petco Park

to score an autograph from El Nino #23.

They’ll wear his jersey to the World Series,

maybe this year.

From the sails of the Convention Center

across Harbor Drive, a colossal Shell,

home of the San Diego Symphony Orchestra.

Beethoven sonatas echo across the centuries.

Santa Ana winds come dry and hot,

give way to rain and more rain.

The city is awash with green grass and yellow

mustard flowers. Is it a painting?

Savor the dependable crumble

of ocean waves licking your feet as you walk.

Surf, swim, boogie board. The Pacific calls,

are you ready?

Free Reader classifieds every Thursday, such as:

“Dearest Fun Size, Great news! The world

as we know it is accepting your new

nickname. Thumbs up… Frank”

The sun flaunts its glory today.

A diamond-studded sea.

Traffic, crime, homelessness.

It’s still a beautiful city.

So Cal Pastoral

By Katie Kemple

Walking back from morning school drop-
off, no phone in my pocket, the outline
of my kid gone, the foothills misty in marine
cloud coverage. I'm in this watercolor
painting of San Diego, as if falling through
a chalk drawing in a Disney flick. Cautious
as if the other side of this sidewalk could
tug me back under without notice, back
to my school days in rural New York,
pines crowding in on me, ready to eat me up,
back when I dreamed of California,
its blonde beach days like the Brady Bunch.
Cheery Alice sandwiches and such.
I'm in the painting now, the box. Ocean
air brushing me and the day like a hot piece
of paper in the midday sun. I am walking
on a technicolor sidewalk. I snap
at the birds: Shut up now! Just shut up!
Our little joke. I know they won't. Can't.

At the Chula Vista Mall

By Claire Hsu Accomando

Walls painted mud.
Stores boarded up.
Escalators out-of-order.
Yellow police ribbons
across elevator doors.

Near the tunneled bathroom,
between two concrete columns,
a cluster of young teenagers.
Boys and girls, brown and blond
are bent over a mobile phone.

Music seeps from the device
balanced on an orange cone.
The group breaks into couples,
link hands, stretch one leg,
faces and arms pointing forward.

On the phantom platform,
the austere rise of a syncopated
rhythm from Argentina.
The audience? Four bridal gowns.
Behind the darkened glass they glow

lavender, white, pink, blue.
Their bouffant skirts wide enough
to hide a playground set of monkey
bars. The strapless bodices sequined
and bejeweled a la Disney Plus.

On a Sunday morning,
In a ghost shopping mall,
once filled with food smells
and echoing footsteps, brown
and blond kids dance the tango.

My California City

By Rodney L. Lowman

I fell in love with my city
like I did with my partner.
Walking out of the U.S. Grant Hotel
at the end of a conference, I decided
this was the city where I wanted to be,
where I had to be,
where I was meant to be.

Partner and friends found
the idea of moving there foolhardy.
You’ll feel poor, they opined.
We won’t be able to afford a house,
she proclaimed.
And what about the fires,
the quakes, the floods?

It’s not like we hadn’t thought of California
before but it always seemed
off limits—salaries too low
costs too high. Back then they still talked
about sunshine dollars—not now. Yet somehow it was
going to happen, that much I knew—
love, the great motivator.

Psychologists say we reach conclusions first
and justify them later. OK. But why San Diego?
It wasn’t for the sunshine—Phoenix is sunnier,
cheaper too. It wasn’t for easy living—
housing and fraught freeways saw to that.
It wasn’t even for the briny ocean, frigid even in the summer.
So, why?

It was old and it was new. There were smart, fit, curiously
humble people everywhere. And an excess of politeness.
But mostly it was because it looked West.
I never had patience for the South, hated the pugnacity
of the East, couldn’t stand the Midwest’s flatness.
San Diego looks West—for the present, to the future—
to the possible.

As with my partner
the love has lasted—
has grown.
When a city’s right for you,
you know it.

The Birch Trees

By Allie Schleifer

the birch trees

of my childhood

are holy

white bark, golden leaves

autumn winds

of my memories are

empty and yet there is

something in the breeze

that gives a child without a home

something to hold onto

black uniform skirts

white blouse

big ponytail bows

school is not for scared girls

a name given

at birth

to signify one’s worth

remember to cherish

the gift

till the day you meet

your crypt

the summer soil of the earth

our neighborhood’s cherry tree yard

daisies plucked naked

by little girls

the friends we once were

scattered around the world

And I

hazily long

for the birch trees

of my childhood

The Community I live & I love

By Chi-Ping Hu (College)

this tiny community stands tall above the Valley

an agile Hummingbird hovering in my dream

ruby-throated feathers, as vibrant as the flags of the US

Ukraine & Israel billow in the wind on one short block

backyard laundry under the bright sunshine

Grandmother’s masterpiece of familial love

as bells ring afar from St. Columba Catholic

Church, the tone signals life is well

citron characters on a purple board in the median

Sandrock & Aero “Welcome to Serra Mesa”

people thrive and meld in American culture but

always remember their roots. It casts a message

to our loved ones here, or all over the world

transplants form the heart of San Diego

flies in our brilliant yard. Often so

close to our face, what we need

are friends here. kids master the bike,

monkey bars, and see-saw, unexpectedly,

we espy a single-engine plane script a white vapor

trails-fleeting vague soon, but forever in our mind

one loop trail leads to a community garden

offers golden papayas, purple figs, veggies

good exercise, and a pair of dirty hands. Any extra help

the needy, weekly, in the adjacent Korean Church kitchen

Hebrew, French, Japanese, and Chinese Schools give

kids the chance to learn heritage, language, and culture

Birdland birds chirp on all like-named streets:

Blue Jay, Finch, Cardinal, Starling, and Seagull

escape the urban noise in the tranquility

of suburban, commiserate hospital patients

Stonecrest Village presents a beautiful tail, Vons,

Wal-Mart, Starbucks, hair and nail salons to follow

how many sleepless nights in the long line

outside of Fry’s Electronics for Black Friday deals?

The newest addition Civita resembles the head, a

ride-sharing project: including townhouses, dog park

and recreation center all part of a development pilot

win the 2009 California Governor’s Leadership Award

plans for a pedestrian-only walkway over the canyon

directly to Mission Valley, shields the environment

clean air for all, and natural ecosystem preserved

eager to see these ambitious plans through our votes

here is the fairyland for kids to chase their dreams

here is the battlefield for youth to fight and settle

here is the paradise for seniors to enjoy their family

here is a collective community, as helicopters trim

trees in the canyon during fire season, look to the cranes

building new infrastructure - a prosperous future

Oh! Serra Mesa, though you are as small as a hummingbird

your energy promotes vibrancy, inclusiveness, and creativity

Dear Colorado River, dear anonymous tap water

By Carly Marie DeMento

Sometimes, in the shower. That's when I think of you. Your rain

sheathes me in mineral curtains. I think: red rocks. Cut gorge. Green lips.

Your million white teeth as you storm the earth. I wonder you outside the pipes.

Somewhere, in a fluorescent room, we make math of you.

7 million acre feet to the upper basin, 8 to the lower.

10 million acre feet the whole of you.

I read an acre foot is the amount of water

it takes to flood an acre with one foot of water.

How many feet of you flood me every day?

Oh, thirsty lips of the lower basin. Oh, drain that is Southern California. I am a mouth.

A moocher. A forget-you-as-soon-as-I'm-done-with-you type of lover.

Dear Colorado, dear lifeline, dear glitter bomb at midday,

dear deadpool, dear slow-motion disaster, dear curves I would die for,

dear trickle, dear stream, dear cloud reflector, dear god of golf-course green,

dear grower of food, dear breach the walls, dear brown floodwaters, dear mineral sparkles,

dear nipple we suck from, dear kneel to the ocean, dear start small go so so big,

dear morning tea water, dear rowdy in a grid of pipes,

dear Colorado, Our Lady of Life.

Untitled

By Mia Kernaghan

Our California sits on the corner of Crest Cafe
where young, Mexican men pour hot cups of coffee
and catch serving trays acrobatically in the palm of one hand.
Where black city men sit on bicycles and look into shop windows,
wiping a shiny forehead with the backs of their hands
before pedaling fast away, and there I am —
on a slow-motion summer morning when the air
is sweet as dried figs and plums from the Kobey Flea next door
and even the woman asleep on the sidewalk floor
can feel the sun momentarily shine from all sides.

Our California is a bird of paradise, but in the winter it suddenly dies.

It dies with the man fishing pennies from the Piazza Fountain downtown,
and with the person resting on an outside door who gets crushed,
then ignored, by a girl on the other side.
It dies waiting in line at the grocery outlet store
and with the man looking down holding his handmade highway sign.
Our California dies in passing glimpses and fractions
as breakfast is served, plates cleared after, and the heat outside rises.