BAY AREA POETS SEASONAL REVIEW 

AT BERKELEY
by Yvonne Postelle (San Rafael)

At Berkeley, Henry Huaco used to say
it was sinful not to use the talent He--
for God was male back then--had given me.
I listened, flattered, then turned and went my way.
What Henry didn’t know but I soon learned
was life may levy debts. I had to pay
before I could wrest free to shape each day
into the writing life he thought I spurned.

I like to think that Henry’s still at large
seated at a desk much like my own--
Like me he’s shrunk in stature, skin and bone--
faithfully fulfilling his own charge.
And if he, too, has reached a “writing age”

ode to a certain coleus
in West Berkeley

by Randy Fingland (Berkeley)

stationed to guard that window
diced into eights by wood slats
the glass refracts purple & green
swirls at dancing sun ray speed

thanks to Einstein a gloriously
relative view of an age-old
energy still at play since creation’s
own ballet took breath

so too the theory cultivated in
the beginning through each
generation that innocence needs

protection no matter the cost

Two by Dian Gillmar (Berkeley)

God’s Touch

We stand in long lines for hours,
the sun hot on our heads,
waiting to see the Sistine Chapel.
Inside we walk through long galleries,
one after another,
filled with the Pope’s treasures.

I look up into darkness
and see God’s story.
All creation swims before my eyes.

Four hours later we close the shutters
on the noisy street below our hotel,
undress, make love in late afternoon light.

I think, drifting into sleep,
surely this is what God intended
when he reached out his hand
to make Adam.
      

***
Cyclamen

The red flowers
shine on their slender stems.
Their petals seem to fling
themselves into the air,
buds spring from
   dark leaves.

So would I be,
a flower in full bloom,
flinging myself into
a poem or your arms.

And where, like the
cyclamen’s dark leaves,
my fears lurk,
I would uncover gladness.

Pariah Dogs

by Robert Coats (Berkeley)
“From Asia Minor to Oceania, they share common attributes: shorthaired coats that may be multicolored but are often ginger, curled tails, erect ears and fox-like faces.“        

--S. Weidesnaul, Smithsonian 20 (12): 44

We are dogs of the margin, skulking
in shadows, scavenging scraps and
carrion on the smoking middens
of civilization. We come snuffling
at the sound of a drunk vomiting.
If a child stoops for a stone, we vanish.

We cleaned up after Alexander at Persepolis--
What a feast that was!
And Guadalcanal and Galipoli--when
the guns fell silent, your loss was our gain.
In bomb-hollowed Iraqi buildings
our bitches whelp and suckle.

The good people of the AKC
hate and fear us, and we
wouldn’t give a dead rat for all their       papers.
To you we are curs and mongrels
but what do you know? You
never really see us.

AKC is the American Kennel Club, which registers and tracks the geneologies of pure-bred dogs.

Confession to My Dog

by Mary Milton (El Cerrito)

I know you have smelled them on me

and I admit it--yes--I have been with other dogs

I go down to the shelter and pick them up

And this has not been a one-time thing

no--I have been with lots of other dogs

We go out--hang around the west side

Have a good time--nothing unleashed of course

Or we might go in a playroom--fool around

There's kissing sometimes--and petting

always petting--heavy heavy petting

But not to worry--honey-bunny Lizzie-wizzie

I always come home to you

I swear you are the only dog I sleep with

frail love
suddenly awake
able to run
and stand on
tiny legs

unable to resist
the need to wail

a wind laboring to be
born in a winter storm

a mythical siren singing
songs to giants

crashing head-on over
love’s jagged rocks

sinking ship after ship
into laughter

insisting on delicately
reasoned foreign words
to explain frailty
to account for pain

to explain with tears
and joyous shouting
exactly why the sirens
sometimes wake up
becalmed

why the blessed seas are
sometimes angry, and
exactly how love is able
to toddle about
on tiny legs

He walks the streets of North Beach
Looking like an old man
With eyes empty as broken parking meter
Unemployable weighed down by the years
His mind heavy as an anchor dragging the
Bottom of the ocean floor
Forgotten rebel playing old ballads
In the shipwreck of his heart
His mind destroyed by shock treatments
And one too many police batons
At night he dreams
He’s riding with Geronimo
Has imaginary conversations with Charlie Parker
Rides the ferry with Miles Davis
Getting off at Bourbon Street
To down a drink with Kerouac

He shares a cigarette with Charlie Chaplin
At the old Bijou theater
Walks the battlefields with Walt Whitman
Rides the plains with Red Cloud
In search of the last buffalo
Walking the streets of North Beach
In search of the elusive ginger fish smell
Death a sightless chauffeur
Waiting like a concubine facing another
Apocalyptic day    

Delicatessen

by Stephen Kopel

(San Francisco)

A meter purloined,

feed it, read it

Chaucer's choice portions

chiseled from

shoulders marbled

quarters drawn

with sleek panache

elegant strokes, those . . .

the aneurysm knows

egos pitter patter and

hogs grow fatter --

pork bellies under each arm,

though, my aversion to

saturated fats dangle from

a number of loose ends

prime rhyme depends

on hairy butchers who

badger well-fed poets

leave their leanest cuts

next to the chops--

scraps, on the sawdusted floor