Butcher Hill
Vacaville

By Don Solomon

I do not belong here this early. The sun just a hint in the eastern sky.
I cross the wooden bridge across the creek, surprise two black-tailed does towing fawns.
Startled by my trespass, they glare indignantly, flick their tails and melt into the brush.
I do not belong here, but neither do they, less than 60 yards from an eight-lane freeway.
Tired truckers and early commuters snake through the early morning light.
Now even the oaks and buckeyes must budge, wild plums squeeze between their trunks,
toyons shoved aside by the olive trees intruding on the hillside.

As I climb Butcher Hill, a tattle-tale scrub jay warns of my approach, crying wolf,
rustling its blue feathers in the Grey Pine. Even here, close to the end of my climb,
I am aware of my balance, how each step has become a matter of will.
I crest the hill and look to the west. A fine mist of fog clings lightly
to the hills of the coastal mountains. Soft breeze threatening the heat to come.
My hands also cling to this land, try to hold onto these few acres
of rolling hills, oaks, and buckeyes. I pray to the cruel gods of nature
to save this small patch of my sanity as the bulldozers and road graders
plant houses in the valley below.

Can I learn from this patch of oaks and rolling hills?
The immense strength of the valley oaks. Stoic before the wind, the fires, the drought.
Their silence screams in my ears. But I am not strong and silent like an oak.

Can I learn from the ravens? Perched together, ink in the branches of a young oak.
They do not press like the scrub jay, shrieking, loudly and incessantly, jree, jree, jree,
or shout with pride like the red shouldered hawk from her perch, kee-ah, kee-ah.
They ignore me as I walk by, choose when to croak their harsh song.
But I am not as clever as the ravens.

Can I learn from the buckeye? This small, tangled tree bends to the wind, touches the ground,
holds its strength in its surrender. Launches its budding leaves with winter’s rain,
drops its July leaves in summer’s heat, clinging only to the buckeye husks dangling like Christmas bulbs.
The buckeye does not have the oak’s strength, but it survives, huddling behind the oaks,
in the hills and slopes where the wind is at its weakest. Old men need to learn new tricks.
Can I learn to bow before the wind like the buckeye? Survive my drought of hope? The fires of lost time?

Even in this little patch of woods, my courage sometimes fails me.
My heart flutters, races with fear. Tittering like the dark eyed juncos.
The grey fox and I first met in the dry grass of this meadow.
Amusement in his cat eyes. He thought I wouldn’t spot him in the grass.
I stepped forward, he startled, eyes laughing at my joke.
We met again several times of his choosing as I climbed Butcher Hill to the radio tower.
He would stop and turn in the brush, challenging me to find him.
When the coyote pack came, he disappeared. Coyotes have no sense of humor.
Remembering him, I laugh out loud, startling a scrub jay in the branches of a buckeye tree.

This City We Call Home
by D.L. Lang


Built in the land of the Miwok,
Suisune and Patwin peoples,
nestled between the river, the bay, and the strait,
beneath the great heavenly flyway of migrating birds,
she arose from acreages Mexico
once granted to its namesake—

no, not the great Peruvian poet Cesar Vallejo,
but the Californio Commandante General
Mariano Guadalupe Vallejo.
Upon statehood twice she briefly
served as capital of California—
her island becoming home to ships, submarines,
and sailors by the thousands.

Embracing a multicultural citizenry
whose ancestors span the globe,
who walk her streets in colorful parades,
joining together in celebration,
among fiery art cars, marching bands,
and costume clad dancers,
where globally renowned rappers and singers
first honed their craft,
and poets’ weave words upon the airwaves
and murals reach for the sky.

Vallejo, where we fight, march,
and eternally hope for a city free of violence,
wrestling with her reality,
holding tight to the dream of what this city could be,
so that one day that promise
of liberty, equality, and justice for all may ring true.

No matter from whence we’ve all come,
whether embedded deeply in this land for centuries,
or still yet to leave our brief mark upon history,
you, Vallejo, dear city, are really called...home.

The Street Musician

By Gail Wasserman

Come and meet me the street musician

In Benicia the city with a big heart for poetry art and music

Usually I stand right near Safeway or Raley’s

Often with my family not for sympathy but for company

I am not a beggar I am a player of music

Note I do not do heavy metal rock or pop or even country

I play those classic tunes the ones even your grandparents knew

The old traditional songs so everyone can sing along

Come and meet me the street musician

Right here in the city of Benicia

My instrument is not the guitar violin or flute

It’s an accordion a keyboard not used much in America

Sometimes my friend pulls very hard on my back

But I don’t mind that because it gives me a feeling of security

We’ve entertained together over many mountains and seas

Please if you are the owner of a restaurant club or café hear me

And give me the opportunity to play music in your venue

I promise to fill your house with beautiful sounds of joy

Your customers will leave the place with smiles on their faces

Come and meet me the musician, the accordion player

In Benicia the city with a big heart for poetry art and music

I usually stand right near Safeway or Raley’s

Offer me that gig take me off the street

Make it easier for me to earn money to buy food to eat

Please!

My Street

By Johanna Ely

This is where my house is.

I have lived here

for thirty-seven years.

This is where you can drive

across town, east to the Arsenal,

west to the Benicia State Park.

I call it the cross-town freeway.

This is where the neighborhood

is mixed like a good drink, tasting

both residential and commercial.

I live between a two-story house

and a workout place.

This is where I decided

to paint my house the same color

as the yellow traffic lines.

This is where one morning

I woke up and smelled smoke.

A block away,

the tire shop was on fire.

Unfortunately, they built another one.

This is where one night

a neighbor’s bushes caught on fire.

I thought the street

was cursed.

This is where I hear

fire trucks and ambulances

speed by, lights flashing on the wall.

I wonder if it’s anyone I know.

This is where every Thursday night

a truck sweeps the street clean.

It’s a familiar sound, almost soothing—

its flashing yellow light a beacon

of continuity.

This is where a man slept

in a neighbor’s rosemary hedge,

until the neighbor left him a note.

It said, You must leave, but you can

store your things for awhile in the back.

This is where at 2 am,

the street is finally quiet—

windows dark,

no cars driving by.

I listen to the silence.

This is where it is noisy—

cars speed,

sirens scream.

Houses sell for less.

This is where I live—

along the grey asphalt river

that flows across town,

straight as the egret flies.

Come find me here—

I’ll show you where I dream.

V-Town Vibe

By Kathleen Hermann

Front door opens, leash pulls taut, Old Dog leads to the park

Oncoming jackrabbit spots us too late, hard stop, frozen stare, Old Dog unaware

Western foothills stand against pale morning sky, bridge towers flash, straight stretches wide

Whaleboat slides neath silver span, rowers pull at coxswain’s command

Shorebirds cross Carquinez skies, snowy egret skims, gull flies high

Leash pulls taut, Old Dog turns round, down the hill, homeward bound

Up Curtola Parkway, down Capital Stairs, across Sonoma Boulevard, locals flock to market, check out the wares

Sunflowers blaze, clothing flutters, artwork intrigues

Shopping bags fill with berries, mushrooms, squash and beans

Scents of roasted corn, cinnamon sugar, mingle savory sweet, live music plays, neighbors greet

Tiered skirts swirl red, yellow, blue, green, handkerchiefs wave, proud families beam,

Dogwalkers, phone talkers, coffee sippers, teeny boppers, backpackers, kiddy snackers, weekenders, produce shoppers, scooter hoppers shine with true color, express original style, improvise the backbeat, that’s the V-Town vibe (in the key of diversity)

That’s the V-Town vibe

Blocks away, sidewalk café, bites of crepe sucre a la francais, (gypsy jazz on the side)

I’m high, high on the V-Town vibe

Motown tunes on car radio

OZCAT DJ works that mojo

Down the hill, homeward bound

High on the V-Town vibe

“O California, why haven’t you tumbled into the Pacific yet!”

By Jonathan Watson

They spat from cardboard lecterns,

staring down at my child self—

the boy destined for the bent brood.

I then knew how little blood mattered.

For, if California was to be lost,

why were there no pleas to return?

I played tag with the Daly City fog.

At Los Cerritos Elementary, I climbed

the monkey bars until my palms blistered.

I sprouted in the Lodi vineyards before

capping my adolescence in Seal Beach’s mists.

Standing knee deep in water, my toes twitched.

During my higher-learning years, I perfected

jaywalking in Berkeley, memorized the bus stops

in Sacramento, honed my Mexican tastes in San Jose,

and now watch the scales of justice

amid Fairfield’s rolling hills.

Caught in Vacaville’s pollen showers,

I wondered if the reckoning was near.

When their towns submerged before ours,

I did not gloat at the flotsam of debris and

bodies snaking from the Gulf to the Atlantic.

I was perplexed at the calamity of it all.

Did they not also spend their formative years

awaiting the din of tectonic plates?

When it is California’s time, I have a

spot chosen at the Peña Adobe Hill.

I plan to count seagulls while eating peanut

butter and jelly sandwiches.

Stargaze with the waves in my periphery.

Marvel at how little Nature cares about us.

Twenty Mile Gusts

By Karen Horn

Twenty mile gusts, salt air
To live here, privilege plus
Perfect windblown hair
City thriving
No parking anywhere
First we bitch, then we deal
That’s us, who cares

Our secret little gem that’s becoming well known
Where the kids come back to raise their own
Where folks say hey to everyone
Dogs welcome
Home

Where we honor the chalked section of sidewalk saved
Where we don’t dare mess with the chairs been lined up for days
Where we circle the park, hungry sharks do or die
Blankets down, safe and sound
No joke, folks, it’s the third of July

Most everything we need is here
Someone to listen, to wipe a tear
Artists, great music, Panther Pride, no fear
Wine walks, Peddler's Faire
And please, crawl that beer
Ghost walks, hair all up on our necks
Cocktails on the Lido Deck

But what this community’s done for us
In our darkest hours, you circled up
To watch guard, to kick up dust, to protect
And you held on hard

It’s been twenty years and it feels the same
The grief, the promise to remember her name
But this sweet little town totally meant what they said
She’s not been forgotten, she’s an intricate thread
Of our community’s quilt, our citizens
A woven history of family and friends
A patchwork to heal and mend
A sacred tapestry of beginnings and ends

Twenty mile gusts, salt air spraying
Lucky, I guess, or maybe just saying
Universal trust, to live here, privilege plus
We do stick together, we do
That’s us

Greetings from California!

By Becky Bishop White

Hello, California poppies!
Brilliant in sunrise colors,
you make a fine show every Spring;
your delicate petals
breeze-bobbing
in the center divide dust
along Vallejo's Georgia street,
nourished by exhaust
from every passing car and bus.

Tell me why I cannot grow
a single one of you
in my garden,
so lovingly tended,
bee-abundant,
with sunshine aplenty
and fresh air right off
the Carquinez Strait?

You thrive everywhere
in our massively beautiful state,
heaping your golden-orange riches
on misty, stony hillsides in the north,
and sandy, stark flats to the south,
and ensuring that every bit of California's
tarred, gasoline-soaked highways
are graced with your cheery presence.

How is it that every year
you overlook the land surrounding
the home of this occasionally
ill-tempered California poet?

Whaddaya want - an engraved invitation?

My California

By Katrina Monroe

Here in my adopted hometown of Benicia
the cars stop every two blocks at a sign,
but also for people and dogs,
perhaps the signs are superfluous.

Here the Pacific winds are robust and cool
twenty five miles from Golden Gate Bridge,
following the sparkling flight path through Carquinez Strait
making air conditioning redundant.

Here neighborly boats gather at a marina
and exchange tales of adventures between Delta and Bay,
choosing to return where gentle waves lap
in clear view of seals, heron and Mt. Diablo.

Here in my adopted Solano County
the tourists race through route 80
but the wiser traipse through golden serpentine hills,
inhaling the sweetness of vineyard grapes and mown grasses
tasting the freshness of roadside stands and small town life,
and consider rushing to be futile.

Here in my adopted California
my former East Coast eyes gawk in wonder and disbelief
at the creations of tectonic movement,
towering Sierras, lava coated volcanoes, coastal canyons,
so much to absorb in my sunset years,
so essential for resuscitating my soul.

Here in my adopted state the word Ca-li-for-nia
is a musical mouthful dripping from my lips like
the juices of its summer peaches and persimmons,
a name I find necessary to say, shout, sing
to prove to myself
I really live here now.