Our California
Poems from San Luis Obispo County
California Spring #1
By Patti Sullivan
After a water color by Arne Nybak
we wait out the dusty brown of our hills
steel gray skies only put us to sleep
wait because we know, always trust
around that very next bend in the road
is hope for rain
water that sometimes fails to show up
but after it does, rewards abound
with this lit-from-within glow
color so plugged into earth
it screams green, electrifies us
brings us back to what we live for
Coastal Bluff
By B. Misty Wycoff
From this spot on the cliff
I see, or think I can see
the slight breathing arc
that lies out there
upon the water.
The soft horizon,
the earth’s edge
seen from deep space,
the curve that sweeps us
inside the dream
of flying around
in an atmosphere
too big to fathom.
On the beach,
a man finds a bit of string
pulls and trails it to a kite,
wedged in sand,
tissued into the shape
of a shark.
Walking with it,
it flies once again.
and time gathers him in
as he watches it tumble and soar.
Eventually, he buries the roll of twine,
leaving the fragile paper fish
now only an imagined predator,
following the wind.
Here we are
on a ball, spinning,
dizzying consciousness,
following something we cannot see.
The ruffled waters
appear to slip off the side,
dipping under the falling sun
while the sounds of the kite flapping,
ride into the night.
My Old House
By Kevin Patrick Sullivan
After the Don Klopfer painting
So vibrant with color
the house itself a
dark yellow
the fence cast in shadow
the ground in a purple light
there are oranges on the tree
green shrubs
the evening’s light has
the Willow tree
red – the flax and cut wood
as if on fire
the Aloe ready to soothe
the worker’s back
My old house
a Californian dream
come on in
I tell you
There is no place
Like home!
haiku reflections
By Esmé Jensen
missing child search ends
Salinas River regrets
one hundred year flood
masked men hang banner
Vineyard overpass free speech
rally against hate
barb wire detention
Obata at Tanforan
art's liberation
orange bellied newt
slow tacky toes grip moist path
human feet stumble
Getting By Just Fine
By Gregory Nelson
Honda hatchback, hauling three bails of hay,
An hour through canyons on 58,
Pass the 3 room school on the Carrisa Plains,
Beck’s on the flats, harvesting grains.
These are some of the things we call home.
General store, Cotta girls on the hood with sweet Ola Mae,
District building to get my mail, Derrick rolling tobacco - free, no pay.
Schwann man here, library day, librarian n’ friends laughing til’ the day draws nigh.
Soda Lake Road, friends n’ strangers waiving as they drive by.
These are some of the things we call home.
Down to Belmont Trail, Elvin crowning the road,
Sunset glow on Temblor Range, mares grazing at my trailer abode,
Parked, hatchback opened, horses perk their ears at me with a neigh,
Trotting over eagerly, tossing them flakes of hay.
These are some of the things we call home.