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By Amir Huda

It's said that for millenia there were people who moved through this land

Who believed they were part of the ocean, the earth, and the skies as a divine plan

But from distant lands came some people obsessed with possession

They believed they should conquer nature and civilize its wild expression

They exterminated most of the indigenous people and settled for good on this territory

They said they owned this land and called the skies, the ocean, and the earth, their property

The air, the wind, the rain, the plants and animals continued doing their thing

They didn't need a name, a witness, or protection by these new human beings

And although the settlers now referred to themselves as from Ventura, California, US of A

What they meant was that Ventura, California belonged to them, so to say

But with time, the tightly guarded constructs began to physically slip away

A huge throng of humanity gathered at the borders asking for what was taken away

The settlers closed their eyes, sealed their borders and tried mass extermination yet again

But how do you stop hungry children who don't believe in your ideas and your reign?

The settlers forgot one simple principle: movement is the essence of existence

No thought or force has fixed anything no matter the strength of insistence.

Pierpont Beach, Ventura, CA

By Gale Naylor

In 2020, in those uncertain days of fear and masking, more than three years

before the sea would vault over a cinder block wall to caress the asphalt

and cement at the end of Seaward—we arrived.

Two cars. A dog. A cat. And everything we could carry, everything

that wasn’t stacked and piled and wedged into a moving van,

somewhere—we hoped—on its way to storage.

It's safe to say, we unmoored during the pandemic. Drifted

330 miles south, found ourselves beached

near the end of South Seaward Avenue, where we imprinted

on the sand, the inconstant waves, the rough stone jetties.

Our window looked towards the pier and the Crowne Plaza—

at night, the neon billboard was a promise we were not alone.

Every morning, I walked the shore's edge, skirted the disappearing foam,

considered the collage of footprints—huge to small, shallow

or dug deep into the sand—I regularly turned behind

to be certain of my own marks. Every day, the end-of-summer sun

soaked us through the tall windows. Every night, we joined a procession

of neighbors we never knew, to witness the flaming orange, pink,

and steely blue sunset—a silent service to affirm our existence.

September became October. Gray skies

cratered the sand, and when winter's breath

scrubbed it clean, I walked on the beach's pristine face:

the first human on an alien landscape, leaving behind only

the imprint of my shoes next to the twiggy, drunken footprints of a Western Gull.

When visitors come—to smell the waves and dig their toes into the sand—

we take them down South Seaward Avenue, to this place: Pierpont Beach.

But when we're alone, we call it our beach. We say:

Let's go to our beach. Let's hold hands. Watch the sun

set. Remember what it feels like to call this home.

On Tomorrow's Shores

By Elya Braden

In our new home by the sea, fog ghosts

down drowsing channels, crooning

in cottoned tones a song of saltwater

and tides, of kelp and dolphins vaulting

their synchronous salute to the sun, a trill

of treble notes twirling across the measures.

Days and months, then seasons scatter,

yellowed newsprint ripped and winging,

like minyans of davening seagulls skying

Heaven-ward after their final Amen.

See how Summer salsas into Fall

in the hypnotic hip swings of our sinuous

days, barely tethered by our calendars.

We have untwined the squabbling

obligations that stitched us to the path

of schedules and dip curious toes into a lagoon

of possibility, ready for the quick swish

of fiery Garibaldi or the sting of lucent jellyfish.

We can’t glimpse beneath the ocean’s dark 

armor any more than we can intuit tomorrow’s 

disaster or sudden joy. Nor should we. Mystery 

keeps us from treading the still waters of ordinary, 

keeps us gasping for the next breath as a wave shudders 

up from chalky depths, deluges us with seafoam,

keeps us spluttering, splashing, eyes blinking, 

feet kicking, ready to net the next glorious surprise, 

pin it to the page.

I Will Make My Nest Here

By Ron Fullerton

(After Mary McGill’s sculpture “Wisdom”)

I will make my nest here

Where the manzanita grows

On the highest branch of a Torrey pine

I will call this place my home

Where the forest meets the ocean

Where I can feel the sea wind blow

I will make my nest here

Where the manzanita grows

I will raise my young here

And here they’ll learn to fly

From the highest branch of a Torrey pine

Where the forest meets the sky

The sea wind led me to this place

And the ocean makes me stay

I will raise my young here

Until the wind sends them away

Where the wind will carry them

I know I cannot know

So, I will make my nest here

Where the manzanita grows

I will make my nest here

And I will call this place my home

The Tide Running Red

By Ronald Kirchhoff

North of Ventura

The surf is glowing—each wave

With sparks from within,

The Coast Road smelling

Of kelp and plankton, asphalt

And sage on the hills

Behind us, our prints

Fading, slowly—and then, lost

In the ebb and flow

But filling with light

Before vanishing—all this

When I was a boy

Living at Seacliff

When all of the trains—north to

Seattle, had names:

The Lark, the Starlight

And the Surfliner—two lanes

Running beneath them

South of the Fairgrounds

When “Beans, Beets and Babies” was

“Oxnard’s legacy”,

Steinbeck visiting—

When the whales headed south, then

North, after calving,

Monarachs above them—

A world of light and water

At “Hobo Jungle”.

Down from the Mission.

Change is inevitable

And yet, these places

Have lived—within me;

That season of the “red tide”

Back in the 50s

Never forgotten…

On the Road to Ojai

By Elaine Alarcon

Hart Crane hated our California sun.

But this golden day

has no pareil

as hummingbirds thrum

in the purple sage

tibbling from their velvet goblets

and paperwhites sigh,

"Go, go,"

for I,

tethered to obdurate hours,

long for prodigality.

The flight on to the 101,

past plain and ocean,

past the Pierpont

and California Street,

my small car a joy,

I turn north toward a cloud

pluming over the hills,

the continent undulating seaward

like a herd of elephants

thirsty for baptism.

Past Canarda Larga

and horses in the hot hollows,

down the road through the eucalyptus gate

and hawks sailing on the vinegary air,

hyssop of spirit.

Gentled by leaf and shadow,

I molt time's skin.

Santa Rosa Road: Magic Unexpected

By Tamara Nowlin

I started down the road a girl

Wide-eyed and unknowing

Your beautiful fields and glowing sunsets

Expected.

My world was intact

I didn’t know betrayal yet

Trust was a friend

Santa Rosa Road

Your beauty was my given

Until

My world shifted and I was a girl no more

Even then

You listened as I drove in the darkness

Screaming my pain from the top of my lungs

You heard my cry and took me in.

Middle of the night, pitch black

Driving your road

The girl afraid of the dark

Became the woman embracing

All she could not see

And found a faith

She never knew before

Your path sheltered me

And looking past the fields

I felt free.

I felt safe.

I felt seen.

I found me.

Your simple beauty

Eased my pain

And with each trip down your stretch

I slowly gained a new life

A new love

And a new home.

Santa Rosa Road

Magic

unexpected.

Tough Days and Nights in Conejo Valley, November 2018

By Paul A. Smith

"A man who isolates himself seeks his own desire; he rages against all wise judgment.” —Proverbs, New King James Bible

Hiking through Ventura County streets in the foggy mornings,

we’d lead our limping German Shepherd by his undistinguished home,

see him, always alone, drinking coffee in the yard, smoking in his car.

We knew vaguely he’d gone to our kids’ high school,

and assumed he, too, prized our mountain peaks in their soft light,

the Santa Monicas sheltering us as neighborhood owls’ posed difficult questions.

One warm fall evening, as suburban college kids pretended they were country,

line-dancing as if born to it, he entered the club door, armed and blasphemous.

He numbered himself among the 13 dead, including a cop and a 20-year old busboy.

The town famous for open spaces, close community and safety—borderlines of sanity—

was now buried in bloodshed, soaked in sorrow by that guy who never quite fit:

in classrooms, the Marine Corps, college, even in that joyous club.

He’d planned wickedly well, his Glock 21 force-fed with 7 high-capacity magazines,

a long black ranger’s coat, ominous tats on display—he looked like danger.

Next day brought robust new business to the local gun shop and the shooting range,

all now fearing the worst was at their doors—again—ready to destroy.

Gunshots echoed in the foothill dawn, startling even the mountain lions, if there are any.

Next night the summer-burnt chaparral itself exploded, wildfire driving all to shelter

at the same Senior Center the families had visited only last night to find their kids’ fate

until the red flames, wavering like a witches’ dance in the midnight dark,

tripped over the hill behind and sent us sprinting further down the 101 freeway

the fire had already leapt to our son’s then-safe house, though later evacuated too.

Dozens of celebrities’s homes, numerous sober houses on the “Rehab Riviera,"

100,000 acres of our green-gold trails rose in the autumn smoke:

the terrible tally of one shattering night hard upon another.

Mule deer, bobcats, shrews, hawks and hummingbirds, coyotes, salamanders,

and, according to the National Park Service, thirteen collared mountain lions,

recalled in fear the shots they’d heard, now recoiled from the wind-whipped blaze.

Going forward in the mornings to come, we stroll along the same

once-secure streets and our ancient miles of singed mountain trails,

memories of our faith-shaking nights and bone-deep losses

chastening us with distraught dreams yet chasing us toward better days.

We tentatively proclaim our advertised security’s return

despite the pervasive loneliness that cannot be seen or understood,

and all the deadly perils inside and out, the dark powers seen and unseen.

Conejo Valley

By Bonnie Goldenberg

When we’re on the 101 driving back from L.A.,

and we reach this Valley,

surrounded by the Santa Monica Mountains,

it feels like I’m being embraced, protected,

and welcomed home.

How differently I felt when we moved here

over 30 years ago, forced to relocate

because my husband was laid off

from his job back East.

I was angry and resentful,

having lived most of my life

in the New York area---

Manhattan was the center of my world.

I sardonically called this place “Happy Valley”

and wondered how I’d survive.

But it grew on me over the years,

as I drove around town,

taking my son back and forth

to school and doing life’s mundane errands.

I began to appreciate its unique beauty

and moderate climate,

its combination of suburban convenience and wildness---

the chaparral growing on the hillsides

that turns a lush green during winter rains,

the prickly pear cacti

that seem to favor only certain areas,

the yip-howls of the coyotes,

who live in dens on the hills right near my house.

And in late May or early June, I love

the bursting of cream colored flowers

from the tall yucca, whose stalks

are only a dry brown most of the year.

And I’m still in awe of these western sunsets---

when the sky glows orange, pink and peach

against the silhouette of the mountains.

I Never Tire of Travel Along Highway One

By Emily Bernhardt

My house watches.

Lace lashes still

asleep at sill's edge.

Drive into the marine

into the chill highway.

Headlamps stare.

Sea sky same cloud.

Road gray. Yellow truck rests.

Beige edge.

Hugging the coast, awake

(coffee mug warm).

Fog dissipates.

She waves at me. Not angry.

No. Ignored.

Go.

Stop. Step onto rocks.

Watch.

No dolphins today,

only a man,

his son, some bait, a pail.

Wait. The sea takes her time.

What I Should Have Said When You Stared at Me

By Samuel Harley

We paddled each our own kayaks

In water dances round the harbor

as a festival of sculptured fantasies tried to prove they could move through water

And afterwards

you looked at me with such expectancy

even though we’d never shared a word,

and here is what I only thought to say

after you were gone

In this season

The sage in the hills has drunk just enough

To leaf and bloom before water

Wandered away and didn’t come back

Stalks now are desiccated, brown

Broken by a single touch

And the striking of one match

Is enough to start a conflagration

That sends the innocents fleeing from their homes

The walls suddenly too hot to touch

The air too harsh to breathe

And I know

You’re only looking for a warm glow

To huddle close to

But in this season

One spark

The accidental brushing of stone on steel

Can start a blaze

That forever alters

The landscapes of our lives

No, it is not the season

For lighting matches

And so,

It has been good meeting you

But my children are waiting for me

Called to the Valley of the Moon

By Colleen O'Mara-Diamond

Called to the valley of the moon,

the house fell from the sky

after a three-year search.

Summer 2017

baked the earth so hot,

it brought fire at Christmas time.

Burned a circle around downtown,

but left the white arches of the Arcade untouched.

Fire is a purifier,

a sign of renewal.

It seared our past

in the city to the south by the sea.

Brought us to oak trees with pointy leaves that poke fingertips.

Moon so bright, like daylight,

it throws shadows on the gravel.

Stars spread out, a celestial blanket above.

Turkey vultures circle, wing spans vast and beaks curious.

“Pink Moments” when the sun sets, and

the Topa Topa Mountains’ face glows.

A Hawk perches on a lonely tree branch

above the bungalow, a Craftsman.

She mistakes the dog for a rabbit or ground squirrel.

Lands on the weathered fence and

turns her head from side to side.

She whispers to me — a good omen.

The Ventura River sits at the end of our road,

curves and swirls,

expands for the storms’ rains,

widens to make room for the new water.

It overflows now,

like my heart.

Deep Home

By Marsha de la O

Ventura, when I first crossed into you as a girl

in the backseat of a station wagon full of kids

we always knew when we hit the county line

you were not Los Angeles, you were the two-lane

highway to another choice. You were the possibility

of change when I had no other possibility. Ventura,

I have taken off my shoes and hopped from stone to

stone across your Matilija Creek and, Ventura, you have

barked my shins sharply. The first time I drove through

the Santa Clara Valley and saw the golden shoulders

of the TopaTopas give way to the geometry of orange

groves, the quilts of citrus, forgive me, I hoped no one

else knew about our valley, I wanted so much beauty

to be private. I know the Santa Clara River is named

wild and free, and all I want for the river is what I want

for myself – more freedom, more wildness – let it roll,

and let it roll with volume. Ventura, I too have let it

roll here. This is the place I came into poetry. Maybe

I wanted to be one of LA’s angel-headed hipsters but

it turned out you were my wise other, Ventura. This is

the place I drove up the side of your mountains on bald

tires and found ambiguous spirits in Piedras Blancas.

They didn’t give me the words. They gave me the silence

around the words. Why am I part of their family? I don’t

know. I married in. You formed and reformed me, I set

it down. Ventura, I married a long time ago. I married you.

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By Tony Thacher

In my California everyone wears 42 on their sleeve,
Eats churros and high fives strangers at the ball park.

Flying above my California you can see the thrust and tear of rucked-up landscape,
And praise the ceaseless forces that will outlive mankind.

In my California every first whiff of wood smoke startles,
Brings a shot of adrenaline, a panicked memory burning from our Paleo past.

We look up and pray as the first drops hit the dusty ground
Reminding us of the scent of the evening’s last Syrah,
Here, in my California.

In my California the whinny and chortle of an old horse reminds us
That you don’t have to speak to embrace an old dusty friend.

In my California, it’s ok to habla Spanglish,
Order corn chips and hummus,
Ask, No sal en mi margarita por favor,
And call the grandkids my cafés con leche.

Here in my California every rocky trail is a smooth highway of natural admiration,
A balm of contentment leading to a lemonade spring and the big rock candy mountain.

In my California we stop to help by the side of the road,
Saying you won’t need no badges, no green, no rainbow ID card.
We will always play it for old times sake because, hell, you know, nobody’s perfect.

Here, every yoga mat is a prayer rug,
Every unspoken position a symbol of peace,
Every encounter is a blessing, here in my California.

And teary-eyed, squinting, in my California we fall silent,
Watching the sun’s slow dive into the greedy ocean.
Gripping, sipping, a second gin and grapefruit juice,
Knowing we just missed the green flash, again,
Knowing a darkening sonorous sea will soothe our souls to sleep,
Tonight, here, in my California.

Untitled

By Audrey C

My hometown is in California,
No I am not from Los Angeles, it’s 2 hours away
No I am not from San Francisco it’s 6 hours away
And no I am not friends with any famous people
But what I do have is more important than a big city and flashy people
My town has gorgeous fields of grass, and meadows with small creates,
It has beautiful valleys with green and brown mountains, and Chiefs peak mountain, that look like an Indian chiefs face
We have jazz festivals, lavender festivals, a whole day or closed off streets purely redirected to our town, Ojai Day
And the sunset are the best sunsets you’ll ever see and we can see the stars at night like a movie scene
My town is filled with hippies and cowboys, meditating and ranching
We are known for our sweet and bright orange Ojai pixies
The town is beautiful and filled with love and happiness,
Ojai is my home

My Ojai, a girlhood

By Leslie Davis

Before helmet laws
and stoplights at Loma Drive
there was the intersection
of my tender freedom and
small town trappings

Scars on the body
At the place where my
heart met trails
running like veins
through my daydreams

If geography were identity
written on the body
at my core there are orange trees and oaks
my entrails are lined with sage and eucalyptus
river rocks rock me to sleep

If geography were identity
my extremities reach into
Oxnard and Camarillo
Silver Strand sand between my toes
the salty waters of Rincon, oil piers, bates
wind around my thighs

East end smudge pots lit the drive home
after Arbolada ghost stories and char man
Creek road - make out in the turn-out
on creek beds, orchard floors

Villanova’s gym and its corners
(now a ghost of a space)
occupies a place in my mind’s eye
along with long gone fields of horses
secret forts and hiding places
on Krishnamurti’s land in the rain
under oaks while a creek roared by

Just the other day I saw a for sale sign
on my childhood home
I Googled it: 978 El Centro
and found it empty
I want to squat there
And get drunk on adolescent memories
sleep with my ghosts
and drown in my own history

Words on Fire

By Tressa Berman

In Ventura, summer swells through smoke
While bobcats, bear cubs and mountain lions
Prowl around the edges of town
My God! The Animals!
Caught in the updraft
leave footprints in the shape of tears
I am too choked to cry

“Write like you talk”
said the Poet before he broke
into a soliloquy of nonsense
Dive down below the transformation lines of speech
Come up all bubbles
under the push-pull of gravitas
remembering the street poets of the Avenue

Long time ago, in a fairytale voice
The storyteller told the tale of the River Fire
Once upon a mountain
Once upon a lake
Lightning only strikes once
as match sticks of cedar pine snap
into crackling sparks of deliverance
The poet is awash in speechless glow
words wobble on a shifting axis
of not knowing
and never
and good-bye

The repair is in the rupture
The obstacle is the way
The bear claw divines through the ash prints
scratched into windows of witnessing

“Be good to all beings,”
said the Dalai Lama, alive in exile
Join in syllabic chanting
Close your eyes, write badly
Sing your heart song, keep dreaming