BAY AREA POETS REVIEW 

   IRONY

Full moon
black limbs and trunks
highlight the silver leaves
where are we going?
when have we been?
the light fills niches unseen by day
irony that it derives from the sun
up to our neck in hot water
moon glimpsed brilliant among trees
we remain in Plato’s cave
watching a back-lit screen
weighing and measuring
naming and renaming
buoyed by our monkey chatter
one more bit in an infinity of chaos

every when/where this full moon shines
we equate ourselves to gods
even as the sun rises, laughing
       --Tom Odegard (Oakland)

    Mr. Gray

Some called him Cauliflower Cat
for the job an enemy did on his ear
when he was still a tom
and terrorized the wild tangle
between racetrack and freeway,
the fiercest feral you'd want to see.
They say he fought like a raccoon
when they captured him first.
I called him Mr. Gray because
even as a eunuch he had aplomb--
not someone you'd take liberties with,
calling him by his first name.
I see him yet in his velvet coat:
With grave gold orbs in a massive face,
he stalks through shrubs as I approach
toting his lunch, an upstart
dressed down for tardiness.
As I dish it out, he grabs at my hand
to declare his due in sign language.
He could have been poster boy for 'attitude.'
I admit I was a bit intimidated
but glad when he found a feline friend.
They rubbed flanks and shared meals,
the black pal a female, I figure.

I was surprised to learn that
Mr. Gray was ailing, lost weight.
I hadn't noticed; he seemed sound to me.
Anyway, they trapped him; it was my lot
to deliver him to the vet.
He stayed silent in his cage on my back seat,
did not fuss or yammer as lesser beings might.
I dropped him off with a character profile
and the assistant took him away.

Later they called to say he was
incurably ill.  So he would not
"just go off to suffer,"
they had him snuffed.
I could only think he should have
died among wild fennel in the jungle
where he ruled, his black sidekick
the last being he would see
instead of the hominids he hated--
I an unappreciated hospice worker
providing food and pain pills.
It's hard to conceive he will never
strut again through grass and weeds
to demand that I pay homage to his needs.
                                     -- Diane DePisa (Albany)

REFUGEE

I am a refugee
of the playgrounds of Illinois
of the nuns at St. James
of the belly of the beast
of football coaches in 2 states and eight years
and military assholes for seven more
some might consider
the bars and brothels
as other places I survived,
I am here to say
no
               --M. R. Merris (Benicia)

ALAMEDA SILENCE

No longer in the rush of the city

no longer making that strange living

now in this new form, this island life

near water, near an inlet to the ocean.

Here, I wait for the sound of sirens, but only

note silence; I wait for the ambulance scream

the fire truck clanging, the police car shriek;

flashes of noise passing: shouting, blaring

annoying; dogs set to howling.

But, today, only the sense of silence flowing

that quiet, and can say I am not displeased.

And this morning, with crows and goose-honking dawn

comes sunlight gold drawn through my nearest window.

And, in the distance, horns blowing

railroad trains whistling, a jet sound--

then, a quiet, and I am not displeased

by the course of that silence.

                           -- Vince Storti (Alameda)

A Series of Naps on H2O

A series of naps are better than
slaps in the face, a place to call your own,
the eastside marina where you
park in the shade of day
and face the opposite shore,
the tule grass, water, and Strait and wait
to let exhaustion slip away like
a soft breeze pushing surface electrons
and the deeper core further eastward
like miniscule white caps on H20
that only a seagull can see and believe . . .
            -- Peter Bray (Benicia)
Peter Bray publishes the online literary zine The Adventures of Taproot & Aniseweed.


TOLL TAKER

Cars glimmer
In soft sunshine,
Metallic snails oozing forward
On the Bay Bridge.
At the toll booth
Naomi hands the money
To the toll taker,
A middle-aged black man
Wearing a round brown hat.
“Thank you, sister.”
His voice is gravelly,
An unpaved country road,
His smile a fireplace,
Cozy chairs,
Hot toddies,
Miles Davis on the stereo.
“May I have a receipt please?”
“Certainly, sister.”
Handing it to her,
He sees me and winks.
We’re members of a secret fraternity,
The human race.
“Your husband is a good man,”
He says to Naomi.
As we drive away,
I remark,
“Wow! A toll taker who loves his job.”
                        --Ralph Dranow (Oakland)


PAYING FOR A LONG RIDE

Sitting on a Fremont train,

Did I leave something

unsaid to her?

Windows act like smoke-and-

mirrors reflection

of a black man across the

aisle from me.

Calling saying how he's

not jealous 'bout a girl

with another guy on

this Valentine's Day.

Profiles of Asian father

and son they smile, stare,

gesticulate at the

BART map like

a carnival prize.

My one hour ride,

Could it be shorter?

Convinced her

Asked her

to re-

shuffle her life?

PA system announces

"Lake Merritt." They're off

smell of jasmine perfume

rushes in, curls into

their empty seats.

Buzzing tracks

blend with teen laughter

one of them holds a

skinny blossom

against her mouth.

Across the aisle, I

hear "You're doing

this to yourself,

girl."

Outside, nightscape lights--

orange, clear, pale green--

dot Oakland.

What's unheard is

still there

buried shadows

night riding

a merry-go-round

long after the holidays.

 -- Andrew Kuo (Hercules)

FALLEN COMRADE

Leave the lights off, open the door.

Let the bitter gall of wind spill in.

And close down that endless chatter

and cheer. E-mail can wait.

Today a comrade has fallen, another one

chewed up by the machine, driven to it

by those too big to fail.

She had a ragin’ Cajun song now silenced,

but I hear its echo, Jockamo fee na nay

down the gray corridor,

we sang to raise money

for the victims of Katrina.

Red clouds gather and here we are,

stuck at sundown, marooned on the shoals

of moral hazard. Lift a glass of wine in her honor.

We need an alignment of the bones

with good Mother Earth and a

good old dirty joke from Rampart Street.

Out on the patio the planet of love

rises in a green pond of fading sunlight.

Our real estate’s underwater again.

For you folks, a second time,

and humor begins to fail us.

If we can’t make a joke, maybe a song . . .

    We’ll I’m walking to New Orleans,

    Walking under water . . .

Walking to put behind us the ghetto ghosts

of poverty and old age. Ahead,

we listen for the bird of wisdom in a tall tree.

But there’s a sound you can’t miss,

the clanking of the gears and wheels

as the working  classes drag out the guillotine

onto the grassy common once again.

                        -Dave Holt (Concord)



The Ferlinghetti School of Poetics

“All that we see, or seem, is but a dream within a dream.” -- Edgar Allen Poe

I: The dream within the dream within the dream
What is it, Ferlinghetti,
Taking star turns in my dreams?
Strolling in front of cars
Haunting alleyways, stairways,
Bars? Beating moth like flitting through
San Francisco’s sex fraught avenues? In North Beach
Where XXX marks art and
Nasty commerce collide, intersect Columbus,
Telegraph Hill, Jack Kerouac Way.
You are fog whispering in from the sea
On another sunny day.

“There’s a breathless hush on the freeway tonight,
Beyond the ledges of concrete/Restaurants fall into dreams
With candlelight couples/Lost Alexandria still burns.” *

Ferlinghetti’s words sink, weighted
On the business end of an invisible fishing line,
Dredging last nights’ dream to surface, gasping for air
Shivering like some catfish
Eyes bulging, wet lake water dripping off its scales.
The knife of memory slices open
That dream, finds me on haunted streets,
Instructing small boy:
“You gotta go to the Ferlinghetti school. It’s totally rad
and completely cool.”
 
II:  Ferlinghetti Makes an Appearance
Phantom audience shouts:  “Higher! Higher!”
Egg the poets on – after all, they’re not on the wire.
Higher? We spin the memory wheel until there’s my father
Strolling through his own Coney Island
And there he is again winning a goldfish
The clerk hands it over fish circling in plastic bag
Big Daddy pretends
It’s all for the kids.
He needed to win like that fish needed water.

III: The Poet Reconsiders
Is the skill of life just keeping on
All the gears oiled, the doors open?
Even if the past keeps drowning and the knifed open
Dream fish still swims around?

In dream theater Ferlinghetti arrives.
Was it the Regal, the Royal or the Metreon?
I rise to make room for he who started everything
Got the wheel of poetry turning, broke

*From “Wild Dreams of A New Beginning” by L. Ferlinghetti
                                                                            -- Joan Gelfand (San Francisco)

Two Poems by Karen Tolin (Benicia)

Life’s Lament

Sitting on the end of a bench
Looking the wrong way up the street
Waiting for the bus
It pulls up behind me and people get on and off
I have my headphones on
By the time I realize it
The bus is already gone

Been waiting my whole life
For something to fall into my lap
A diagnosis of cancer
Has put a stop to that
Now I need to start living
The way I should have done
It’s the legacy of life
That I have to leave my children

I have lived in the darkness
Afraid of what would come next
If I could have grasped it sooner
Been able to feel my own desires
Opened my eyes to see
The wonderful world
That has been waiting for me
Now I see a red winged black bird
Bathing in a water filled pot hole
While a sparrow awaits its turn nearby
I smile.
I laugh.
Then I begin to cry.                                  

***

One in Five

One in five
I hear the doctor’s words echo in my ears
I have become a statistic
Your diagnosis stuns me to silence
My heart wells up with fear

Afraid to go outside
My beautiful garden wilts in suns light
Your pamphlet warns me to wear a floppy hat, long sleeved shirt, pants, and gloves
Will I ever again be able to feel the warmth of the sun on my bare skin
Have I been shuffled off to the shade
Or the darkness of night

Should I throw caution to the wind
Sit naked by the pool
Will my life be over before its time
Shall I put up an umbrella
Wear sun block 85
Wrap my self in towels
Like a caterpillar in a cocoon

If this were a diet
I would eat the chocolate cake
But I can’t
One in five
I have become a statistic
                                                  --Karen Tolin (Benicia)

Linked Baskets

I linger in a dim Berkeley shop piled with heaps
of woven baskets. Visions of skilled feminine
hands around the world tremble in the air.

Nimble fingers wove these patterns with grass,
leaf fronds, softened canes. Soft colors stain
these reeds, vegetable dyes; muted hes of deserts.

A Hopi tightly wove this grain basket to hold
life-giving seed, these geometric designs transmitted
through grandmothers for generations.

I stroke a lacquered red-stained wedding basket
from China once filled with bridal sweets.
Each incomparable shape weaves a magic story,

racial memories. Scents of rich soil, fragrant woods,
dried rushes are the primal essence of each form.
Touching a basket, I am linked with women sitting

on the earth in Arica, Asia, the Americas,
       selecting slim reeds,
    weaving us into one people.
                                              —Constance Hester (formerly of Oakland, Hester now lives in New Mexico)

In Praise of Rain

Sing down the rain from clotted gray sky
in sizzling drops that roar on the roof,
or a whispering mist that beads the bare trees.
Let it flood worm burrows 'til water
spurts from every hillside,
every meadow springs a lake, roiling
with sex-crazed frogs.

Murmur high tide into the marshes.
Let it surge the sloughs,
sneak into saltgrass,
sweep away wrack and debris,
mocking the sodden wave-gnawed levees
until the bay reclaims its own.

Cry the wind through clattering branches.
Let it keen with the grief of a thousand
mothers of drowned children,
fling huge drops like a torrent
of tears from shuddering firs,
topple old giants rooted in soggy soil.

Howl the clouds from the northern sea.
Cirrus, stratocumulus, nimbus
streaming in great arcs from the Aleutians.
Let them scud across the sky,
blot sun, shroud mountains.
Bring on the rain.
                  --Robert Coats (Berkeley)

Turtle on log at Jewell Lake, Tilden Park, Berkeley. Photo by Jannie M. Dresser