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.
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.