Our California

Poems from San Mateo County

MY MAGIC

By Cassandra Bousquet (College)

 

My magic was born upon a mountain path,

in red braids winding and twisting like English ivy,

my face alive and glowing like golden poppies,

an Indian paintbrush exploding with color on the mountainside.

 

My magic was born and cupped gently

by the nodding yellow heads of the sticky monkey flowers,

those beacons of light that laugh at life,

that give you a glimpse of their soft insides;

 

My magic was born and tended to delicately,

like the wings of the Mission blue butterfly,

like the yellowed pages of the books I carried close to my heart,

in the blackberry bushes that gave me scratches and held my secrets,

in the tight-knit community of which I am a part.

 

My magic was born out of singing in the rain

and singing in the drought,

and later, singing in the storm.

Sucking on sour grass and those little purple flowers

we used to call honeysuckle

because we thought it would make them taste sweeter;

my magic made me into a leader.

 

I consumed my magic at City Council meetings eating free cake,

in hide-and-seek at summer Concerts in the Park,

crouched on hay bales early Saturday mornings, bagel and cocoa in hand, as brave boys and girls hurtled themselves down

The Big Hill

in derby cars they made themselves.

 

My magic was lit in the wooden stars that illuminate the town,

in coming around the lagoon, beholding a mountain shining with stars, aflame with heart,

the camel-ride of a drive over washing machines and refrigerators buried underneath the road;

my magic thrived in a climate that was hardly ever cold.

 

My magic took root in the Community Park Christmas tree;

It danced on the Mission Blue stage, finely molded into ballet slippers;

I chased my magic on Christmas Day to catch Santa on the Firetruck;

Held my magic to keep from breaking as quarantine isolated our community;

 

We blew “safe kisses” and gave “safe hugs,”

We howled at the moon every night at 8:00;

My magic grew to reach real celestial stars–

I wrote my magic into my work.

 

My magic lies enmeshed within the mountain;

It reflects off of the blue water of the bay;

It flies between the eyes of all the people that I pass

and it’s my magic that I’m breathing every day.

Dear California 

A Community Poem by The Nueva School (Grade 10 English & Creative Writing classes)


I hope I can still sing tomorrow
to see a brighter future reflected across my broken sink
To not lose the past’s fading warmth
as I continue forward.
To never forget my dad’s home cooked dinners
just as I never forget my dreams
and always hold on to what makes life worth living.

I smell wildfires
the power they oxidize
the fire of the future
the ground falling out from beneath my
feet as I fall—fly—past the present

I’m hopeful for unity
I’m hopeful—we have the passion to make a difference.

I hear the unoccupied quiet
reserved for new life.
The sound invades my eardrums, my brain,
The invasive species of silence

I hear you exhale.
I hear waves crashing on the shore,
people laughing, a tapestry of seagulls-seashells-sand dunes.
Howls echoing, deep in a red forest,
Distant sirens not quite penetrating smoke-shrouded vision.

I taste our immigrant grandmas’
home-cooked heritages.
No longer shame, but instead—pride
in hot oil and warm hands

I taste the tang of freshly cut grass, feel the way propane
winks at my senses and the fullness of tasting nothing.

I smell the cold California sea
and the salt that hitchhikes
on the shoulders of a breeze

I should tell my mom and dad what I’ve been doing
That I’ve been thinking of home every time—

That I can feel my eyes bloat like dough in the oven
hearts breaking to a song we find deep in the dirt
Wind and sun once a month,
bugs every day in the shared shower
I can feel those around me,
how words spill so easily between one another.

treasure these children—there will never be anyone like them
but that’s no reason to cry
watch the dust bunnies sleep against my discount mattress
watch Friday night football with the guy next door
and let me fade into my life, but she’s still there, I’m still here
let me dream

there is beauty in a start so violent,
in reaching for our roots:
those hidden places where our histories intersect;

can you hear my drunken heart, how the beats bounce
off my paper, the one due at 8 a.m.?
maybe some students weave dreams with words;
my dreams became ashes at LAX.

riptides from whispers—
from the handspun air we breathe,
from the fractaling cracks in walls,
from the galaxies in our bloodlines;

Dear California,
Raise your eyes to the distance
of candle-lit stars
of void
of wonder.

(A thing of beauty, a perpetual “could-be”
A thing that won’t always be lovely, a thing
Maimed.
But what moves the earth moves the heart,
beating, breaking, breathing.

I hope for the hum in human,
the ears in the earth,
to sing, to listen,
To pulsate on and on.)

Dear California,
Are you excited about the path ahead?
There's more life in the world than what we’ve seen.
(I just hope there will be people left to love it.)

Our sweat pools on dry ground,
cracking in rainless lines.
We are spinning now, but I wonder
why we’re dancing, why we ignore the cuts
on our heels

I never want to forget our bloodstained palms,
the scarlet stench of our rotting world,
the feeble, futile way our silence made us stand still

Dear California,
Welcome to our shaky reality.
Welcome to the in-between.