Our California
Poems from Sonoma County
the original home
By Chelsea Wills
our tongues thick and thirsty, itching for a fight
and smelling like yesterday.
the sweet smell of butter melting
first home, original home. the home of milk.
looking for the right granite bowl
a home where the acoustics are perfect
and lightning spreads across the rock,
following the cracks
the home of pine trees. reflective, sharp,
cold stars.
Untitled
By Hannah Eaves
The hills are brown already.
Every year,
earlier.
Do we love them most
In the first bright painting of spring
When the green carpet glows
reminding us that rain is possible?
Or more when we become used to them
And only marvel at moments of pause
at the top of the hill.
So green—
We vibrate with living then.
Or do we love them most in the last green moments.
When the brown
seeps in underneath.
We travel through the hills,
second guessing ourselves.
No, surely there will be another rain.
Doesn’t every year deserve a
second winter?
Nowadays they turn
early though, so early.
We are not ready
for the last bright year.
And yet we do love the brown.
Not just for the coming green.
In our way
it is who we are.
We are Californians.
Women of the hills.
Memories: Shell Beach, Sonoma County
By Sandy King
That day was pure perfection, three of us, ages five to ten years old.
Climbing down a steep trail from parking lot to beach,
delighted to see no fog waiting on the distant blue horizon.
Welcomed by the smell of clean ocean air, beach was framed
with massive boulders dripping spray from tumbling, cold waves.
Coarse sand tickled our bare feet as we ran to water’s edge.
We stopped to watch local sea lions swimming and diving nearby.
Tide was far out beyond tall black rock pillars.
Closer tide pools were awaiting our eager exploration.
So many inhabitants in clear, shallow rock-rimmed water:
sea stars, aquatic snails, small crabs, sea cucumbers and anemones,
all within our reach.
We dared one another to touch the soft centers of open anemones,
giggling when those creatures closed tiny tentacles around our fingers.
WAPITI
By Nicole Dobson
Emerging from my tent to light a campfire
against Point Reyes' misty morning chill,
I surprise a male wapiti,
who surprises me.
We had not expected each other.
He saunters parallel and seven feet from me
through the campsite,
his gentle breathing and mine leaving vapor in the icy air.
Both keep our heads down,
as if shy of the other,
yet watch curiously from the corners of our eyes.
I, still in touch with sleep more than wakefulness,
turn in awe toward this huge, stately creature.
I know the danger of cornering one so wild,
yet cannot resist a small step or two closer...
then a step or two more.
We lock eyes.
Lowering his head,
he gives me a warning.
He snorts, paws the ground with one hoof,
his large antlers jagged with points.
A chill of fear runs up my spine like broken glass.
I have made an unwise move, have come too close.
I respectfully back away,
praying he will understand I mean no harm.
He walks ten feet beyond to graze beside a boulder,
but turns toward me,
keeping cautious eyes
on the intruder in his realm.
I humbly respect his boundaries.
At Henny Penny Diner
By Dave Seter
The regulars, some grizzled, some fresh-shaven,
hold down the counter with forearms, with elbows.
In between jokes, forks lift omelets and waffles.
The eggs are fresh, the jokes retold.
Even knowing the punchline the regulars laugh.
How do the waitstaff refrain from rolling their eyes?
Not just hungry for tips, they’re kind,
knowing we all travel the same road,
the crossroads cracked asphalt and erratic gravel,
the intersection occasionally flooding,
no joke, with backwash of the Petaluma River.
So much flow and nowhere for it to go.
The shrugged banks of the river don’t know what to say.
But we’ll be fine, the rooster statue out front seems to say,
standing guard day and night, shedding rain, shedding jokes
about this chicken town, while inside, the raincoats
are shrugged off shoulders—stay awhile—they seem to say.
The plates are full to the brim with omelets and waffles and—
take my advice—I’m becoming a regular—choose
the country potatoes, not the hash browns—I say—
elbows confidently planted on the counter.
Maestro
By Kay Renz
For Don Emblen,
First Poet Laureate of Sonoma County
Crimson berried bushes bring memory to you
that first winter I moved to California.
Remember walking across campus?
Fifty red breasted birds waddled on the lawn.
Wings flapping rapidly, some hovered
above a branch, snipped off pyracantha berries,
then flopped down to ground, bumped into each other,
squawking, tumbling around.
“They’re drunk,” you laughed.
Such joy to watch them party.
That January after class, you gave me
a new poem you were working on—
asked, “How does it work?”
You trusted me to read between lines.
Within its stanzas, starlings, crows
perched on telephone wires at dusk.
The sky, a graying blanket
with red-purpling stripes was pierced
with tall, thick poles, stretched out
along the highway.
Black birds, notes on staff,
played a tune over vineyards.
You sang to me.
Riding the Arrow
By Gwynn O'Gara
Not too afraid of bears to make the trek,
each night we hang our food from a branch.
Rocky ground cradles bones and dreams.
Glacial winds blur pain, fear, and delight.
Otter chatters by, pulling our unhappiness
to the center of the lake where it sinks.
Doe eases into a spear of light.
Fawn bounces 90° through brush.
Scarlet feathered tanager pecks the dirt.
When a tree falls, the crash goes on and on and on and on.
Volcanoes doze under snow. Firs sprout in granite.
Quiet sifts memories and messages.
When my grandparents wooed by the Bay,
these obsidian shards flowed lava.