Our California
Poems from Santa Barbara County
Untitled
By Cie Gumucio
Here, in my neighborhood...
two deflated red balloons dangle from a mailbox, candy wrappers remnants from a tattered pinata and a pink cake box stained with vanilla frosting in the driveway,.
Here, a home was once a horse stable, next to 50’s style apartment buildings, quaint California Craftsman and Victorian beauties.
In my neighborhood, expensive scooters and Teslas wiz by broken bottles, and abandoned mattresses and the clickity-clack and wail from the train that winds along one side and a still mountain range on the other.
The street I live on was named for Chumash Native American healing baths… broken by cross streets named for soldiers and politicians… Ortega, De La Guerra and Cota Streets all the way to the sea and to Cabrillo Blvd.
Here, in my neighborhood a brown bulldog, all jowls and muscle waits in the same spot on the front porch, eyeballs every dog walked by his fence with fanged disapproval. Above him, the lily white hands of the magnolia tree are about to open.
A 10 minute walk away, the straw and clay of the historic Presidio barracks and stone oven, the grating buzz of bulldozers building concrete apartment towers.
Weeds celebrate, dancing after the rain as though born from a fairytale illustration…one, a sorceress’s wand, another, a distant planet alive in its own chroma.
Gods of summer will tempt the jacaranda to trail and drop her lilac skirt across the sidewalk, a crow will always be waiting on the rooflines.
Here, in my neighborhood, a small corner market with just two rows of goods…Double-mint gum, six packs of beer, lotto tickets and Mexican spices, the Middle Eastern man behind the register has kind eyes and a soft voice.
Here, in our California, gardeners tilt back their faces to the warmth of the sun next to the rakes and shovels leaning against their truck.
A neighbor, is just home from the hospital...bright colored envelopes and casseroles in foil wait by her doorstep.
OFF THE MONTEREY PENINSULA
By Carol Ann Wilburn
This seascape reveals an ancient grey,
no separation sky to water. The horizon
muted, vague. Air heavy with mist
enfolds each creature and surface.
Winds sway trees, deepen the rhythmic swelling
of a tide rolling forward
against the waiting cliffs, every crag and curve
a tribute to nature’s violence.
Cypress trees stand in arrogance,
trunks flirtatious with curves. On shore a surprise
of color. Blossoms of pink and yellow lie
amid the palest mosses clinging
to the shore’s cliffs. Spreads of purple
invite us to lie down, make angel wings
as if in snow, then look out
and embrace this timeless portrait
of the California sea.
The Fire
By Susan Shields
I wonder
does he remember
the coffee shop on Main Street
the Indian restaurant
with the grand buffet
the movie theater
the art museum
the bus stop where
we used to meet
his weedy garden
where the raphiolepis bloomed
despite the lack of water
the oranges on his trees
that were barely alive
the long walks on the hillside
the glorious views to the sea
the tree full of bees
that hummed like a motor
the mocking bird that sang to us
the voices of the children
who swam next door
the movies we rented
the dinners he cooked
the muffins he baked
the wine I drank from his stash
that he didn't touch
his wild paintings
his king-sized bed?
And does he sometimes recall the fire
that consumed everything
after we parted?
Hiking Rattlesnake Trail Early Spring
By Perie Longo
We start and stop up the worn trail like lizards
dazzled by each wildflower,
checking the book for their names,
to place them in memory
as if this could assure their reappearance
or make us part of something permanent.
When I ask the name of the lavender one
with six petals, your fingers skirt the rim
to prod memory as I might brush the face
in a photograph of someone I loved, vanished.
Dichelostemma pulchellum, you say, from
the amaryllis family, the Latin more satisfying,
precise for the story it implies. Then we begin
naming our sons and sisters, mothers and fathers—
those who have left us orphans.
Oh to be a wildflower
with simple burst of heart,
one clear view.
As often as I think of anything beautiful,
their names will bloom from my mouth:
orange Chinese houses, vibrant canyon rose,
lavender globe mallow, white sage—
power to heal overtaking the rise.
SB by the Sea
By Tino Agustin De Guevara
From the Mission in Santa Barbara
One can see the
Island of the Blue Dolphins,
San Nicolas,
Where whales roll their bellies to the sun
Where Juana Maria spent her days marooned
Gathering abalone shells
Gazing towards the mainland
Waiting on a sail to appear
In the evening, chimes from
The old Spanish courthouse
Sifts through the fog
Singing in your ears
Swirling along you collar
Running down your sleeves
My California Haiku
By Mary Frink
I love your beauty
Your innovation and your
Inclusivity
Lines for the California Geographic Alliance
By George Yatchisin
I’ve learned there’s an office with boxes
of atlases down the hall, and all that
certainty, that pinning of the world to paper,
practically pains me, so close, what with
its final pages devoted to public colleges
and universities, an apocalypse of knowledge.
Prior to that, history hammers its nail into
a two-dimensional California, still saving
centerfold space for the Spanish missions,
even if allowing for red arrows to signal
Native American trade routes elsewhere.
As if settlers knew where they were going,
what they hoped to erase as easy as turning
a page, a chance to map everything as if
the came upon a world originally clean.