Poetry Summer 2021 fiction all issues
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Cover
Diana Akhmetianova
Monique Jonath
Viscosity
& other poems
Alix Christofides Lowenthal
Before and After
& other poems
Rebbekah Vega-Romero
La Persona Que Quiero Ser
& other poems
Oak Morse
Incandescent Light That Peeks Through Secrets
& other poems
George Kramer
The Last Aspen Stand
& other poems
Elizabeth Sutterlin
Meditations on Mars
& other poems
Holly Marie Roland
Clearfelling
& other poems
Devon Bohm
A Bouquet of Cherry Blossoms
& other poems
Ana Reisens
In praise of an everyday object
& other poems
Maxi Wardcantori
The Understory
& other poems
William A. Greenfield
Sometimes
& other poems
Karen L Kilcup
The Sky Is Just About to Fall
& other poems
Pamela Wax
He dreams of birds
& other poems
Mary Jane Panke
Apophasis
& other poems
a mykl herdklotz
Mouettes et Mastodontes
& other poems
Claudia Maurino
Good Pilgrim
& other poems
Mary Pacifico Curtis
One Mystical Day
& other poems
Tess Cooper
Airport Poem
& other poems
Peter Kent
Congress of Ravens
& other poems
Kimberly Sailor
White Women Running
& other poems
Bill Cushing
Creating a Corpse
& other poems
Everett Roberts
Hagar
& other poems
Susan Marie Powers
Canada Geese
& other poems
a mykl herdklotz
Quandaries on the West Coast
“San Francisco Bay: Midnight”
i’m sitting on the frontage road
Front Row
I. Overture.The Grand Drape is being drawn open.
its gentle sashay sway
breathes across my face, my neck
like the breath of one loved
Sounds!
hear the horns on the westbound freeway 80
behind me
the waves of applause coming off
The Bay
fluid—polished—prepared
starlight—spotlight—moonlit stage
in this violet-blue auditorium
the ground row curtain Dark,
getting darker as the lights dim
the refineries produce charcoal gray capes while the
waterfront fashions satin evening dresses
and sequined gowns
each performer takes their place
II. Entrée. The tugboat conductors, Corps de ballet
pirouette,
contretemps
chassé
the passing lights and shadows are jesters
jumping about,
doing ronds de jambe
stage left, stage right
up the Bay Bridge,
the lights are dancers
on a trampoline
the foghorns ‘oooh’ and ‘ahhh’ their delight
III. Coda. The quietude allays
solitudes chill
i sit in the audience of
night creatures’ whose blinking eyes
observe the City’s skyline lights
the gala’s nimbus
my senses satiated
i exit this theater,
slowly travel the frontage road home
in heightened wonder
of this performance.
“Mouettes et Mastodontes”
(On Seagulls and Elephants)
the ocean seems, a lifetime of poems
a university library’s overflowing
stacks and shelves, stacks and shelves
kelp tubes the sea’s daily flotsams
and shells and shells of creatures
within the waves and tides reassurances
my friend tells me the ocean is not
a lover or mentor; surreal illustration;
merely ionizing specialties of the ocean’s air
still, i hear the seagulls interjections
i hear, hear, hear them call above, adjudicating
the sea’s crashing protestations
my friend sees a world of physics, of
explanations, ‘empyrics’, definitions
calendars and planner’s days and months
this ionized air brings back to my mind
metaphorical mastodons of swelling sentiments
creating visceral in-body re-creations
his native language, his first tongue,
misses the foreign expressions in these underworld
speak-easies, their currents and currencies
and i come to a north star recognition of
a language spoken by gray mammoths in vers libre
to an alien resident on a familiar planet
and the colony of white and gray Herring gulls
keow, keow, and ha-ha-ha-ha-ha their banquet days
and voice their condescension to the third heaven,
and by some surreal illustration,
J’ai été aimé et encadré .
(i am loved and mentored)
“This Park, that Spring”
This park, this spring
hidden in the Berkeley hills
speaks to me
as we view, from this vista,
the San Francisco Bay
the confetti of sailboats sprinkled
on the late afternoon table cloth bay
on this goose bump baby blue day
metallic sprinkles between the cornbread hills
catch the Maxfield Parrish colors of the dusk
this park, this spring where
hidden we were from this day
two plum trees in blossom remind me
of the blushing, the bleached white sails
filling your open-air smiles
embracing you from behind
my arms around your waist
looking out into the now
a day floating away like clouds
a day with a silk thread horizon
the sun setting into our blood
leaving warm the slow setting evening
our souls begging this embrace
to never end
in this park, that spring.
“Alcuni Contano le Stelle,
Alcuni Grani della Sabbia”
(Some Count the Stars,
Some the Grains of Sand.)
Talk to me,
while i finish counting the grains
of salt on the brim
of a margarita glass,
or after counting the grains
of sand on the rim
of the pacific,
speak to me please,
about the credible explanation
of the vast, expansive, accelerated
beginning of this Universe—
a commentary on the stars.
Somewhere in the Pacific Northwest
on an ocean shore
where i have often walked,
i would like to vision,
a triumphant ‘ahah!’ vision,
above a languishing earth,
beyond the counted stars,
those markers defining time,
recording time indefinite,
help me, as i walk the dunes of Mendocino,
(Voce sussurrato)
“Alcuni Contano le Stelle,
Alcuni Grani della Sabbia”
(some contemplate the stars,
some the grains of sand)
to simply perceive their perfect possibilities,
as gifts.
“In a little breeze”
You are somewhere in California
i’m under the rumble of jet engines
as planes and jets roll in, fly out
of Colorado
it is the holidays
not my holidays
you are a thousand miles away
distant from me
separated, hidden from you
and i wish you would find me
in a little breeze on the coast
outside of Bodega Bay
i would fill your nostrils
were you to find me there
make your face moist.
It shines, i love the shine
you are unblemished, backlit
as the sun sets behind you
if you found me in the breeze.
If you could find me
in the drawer
you might find me in the
scraps
of paper
in your desk
in the drawer with your cards
and stamps and notes
a scrap
with the words
or a phrase
that would make you smile
or would flush red
your face embarrassed
if you found me there
my blood being ink
my soul a phrase
a memory
in which you would find me.
Or you might find me on the floor
in the morning
in the clothes being picked up
and added to sheets from
the bed, and towels, socks
T-shirts
there finding me as
day old cologne
patterns of silk
a single sock
(behind the headboard)
that in a fragrance
or texture
or fabric
you might find me there.
You might find me there
in a measure
a tempo or stanza
in the shuffle of life
and dissonant tones,
erratic staccato
of our lives rhythms
and a song
in the shower
over the radio
would find me there
finding no borders
between
Colorado and California
from a time past
where there were no
borders
long ago
in days we pioneered
you would find me.
i wish you would find me
at breakfast, early Saturday
espresso grounds soaked
saturated broth
over ice
chocolate and croissants
the breakfast your mother
never told you about,
next to an oak framed
window open
ivy hanging down
in your cotton
sleepy eyes
soft, stirring sounds
of neighbors lives
reviving
and there
you would find me
in your quiet prelude
to a lazy day.
i would have you find me
inside
coursing through your veins
pulsing in your ears
electric swelling emotion
feeling the
tympani
vvvvvibrrrrattting
booommmming within
a muffled resonance
a bells striker
padded with flesh
i wish you would
find me there,
find me there.
a mykl herdklotz
is retired from UC Davis and living on the West Coast. i tutor and teach English (TESOL) and other subjects to foreign language students. See my profile
at LinkedIn.com www.linkedin.com/in/mykl-麦可-herdklotz-和-
bab4a877 Along with my passion for teaching, writing has always been part of my life. i always hope a poem of mine will slow someone down and make them feel like the poem has given them something.