Contents of California Quarterly vo. 51 No. 3, Autumn 2025, edited by Maja Trochimczyk

   

California Quarterly, Volume 51, Number 3, Autumn 2025

Cover Art: Pacific Coast Highway by Andrzej Kołodziej (Andy Kolo), oil on canvas.  

          

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Bakersfield  — W. C. Gosnell       —   —    — 7

Alice Keck Park — Paul Willis        —  —    —   8

High Above La Cienega  — Carlo DiOrio      — 9

Blueberry Parade  — Jenny McBride         — 9

Still Life in Red Smoke Light  — David Rosenheim — 10

My Rustic Italian Loaf   — Christine Leistner  —10

 Acreage  —  Sarp Sozdinler           —   —  —    11

Knives and Noodles   — Ellice Jeon       —  — 12

Couple  — Jianqing Zheng           —  —  —   13

Unbecoming   — Daisy Bassen         — —     — 14

Photograph  —  Rustin Larson     — —     — 15

reading    — Gregory Cecil         —       —     — 15

A Special Moment      — James Piatt      —       16

The House      — Jenny McBride     —     —     16

Fossils and Footprints —  Sarp Sozdinler     —     17

Dear Apology,  —    KM Kramer          —     — 18

Fragmentationv —    Caroyn Jabs      —     — 19 

Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle  —    W. C. Gosnell  — 20

Museum of Broken Hearts  — D. A. Hosek     —  20

In That Room, Again   — Peter J. Hahn         —   21

Ave Maria —    Livingston Rossmoor   —   — 22

Carmen Philomelaicum     — Eugenius II of Toledo  —    24

Carmen Philomelaicum     — Trans. D. A. Hosek 25

Listening to the Refrigerator     — Kathryn Gessner Calkins 26

Made Historyv —    Daisy Bassen      —     — 27

Spaghetti Western Villanelle  — Deborah H. Doolittle  — 28

Jubilate Mammonæ    —   D. A. Hosek      — 29

Ти Знаєш Відповідь     —  Dmitry Blizniuk  — 30

You Know the Answerv    — Trans. Sergey Gerasimov  — 31

Survivor’s Guidev  — R Haines    —   —  32

After Diana Der Hovanessianv  — Laura Walter  — 34

Crow Dog  — William R. Ford Jr.   —  —   — 35

Manners  — Peter J. Hahn           —     —  — 35

Riding the Big Waves at   Rockaway   — David Rosenheim   —36

Early Morning Thoughts    —   Sarah Baker  — 36

Eclipse  —   KM Kramer      —    —      — 37

Free Man Minus Umbrellav  — Ace Boggess  — 38

Windv  — Duvey Deepak   `     —     —       — 39

What Is It About v  — Andrena Zawinski      —   40

 The Inconstant Moonv  — V. P. Loggins      —    41

Paper Mansion  — Ellice Jeon  `      — — 42

Dream  — Sarah Baker          —       —   — 43

Oczy Picassa   — Andrzej Kołodziej      —   — 44

Picasso’s Eyes  — Tr. Maja Trochimczyk      —    45

Unexplained Journey v  — W. C. Gosnell  — 46

The Cherry Treev  — Lenore Myers  — 46

A Tree Speaks: v  — Angelika Quirk  — 48

Amidst the Pines v  — Kieran Duffy   — 49

Stream of Consciousnessv  — Carolyn Jabs  — 50

If I Were a Dronev  —Livingston Rossmoor  — 51

With the Eyes of a Falcon  —Angelika Quirk  — 52

One Moment:  — KM Kramer       —  — 53

Funambulist v  — Carlo DiOrio       —  — 54

A Turquoise Story  — Maja Trochimczyk     — 55

Origami: Folded Light  — Shahrzad Taavoni  — 56

When the Prophet Comes Home  — Livingston Rossmoor  — 57

The Splendor of the Ever Gate  — William R. Ford Jr.  — 58

Born Wrong Century   — Michael J. Galko  — 58

Tycho’s Star    — Christine Candland     —   — 59

Contributors in Alphabetical Order      —   — 60

CSPS Contest Opportunities         —   —         60

CSPS Newsbriefs 2025, No. 3 by Maja Trochimczyk     — 63

Publishing Opportunities with CSPS  — 65

2024 CSPS Donors, Patrons, and Membership 66

Membership Form   — 68  

 

Turquoise from Neyshanbur, Iran, The Turquoise Museum, ABQ, NM.

                                                     EDITOR’S NOTE

While visiting the Turquoise Museum in Albuquerque, NM, I found that my turquoise pendant I inherited from my Mom— perfectly smooth, more green than aqua—mostly likely came from a Nishapour mine in Iran. My Dad bought the jewel in Mosul, Iraq, when he, a Polish engineer, was overseeing the construction and operation of a power plant in the Kurdish city of Mosul, Iraq (yes, the same power plant that Americans reduced to rubble during their war of “Weapons of Mass Destruction”). Indeed, I watched the annihilation of his work on American TV; that plant had provided electricity and jobs to Mosul residents… I felt distressed and strangely relieved that my Dad did not live to see the ruins himself…

Turquoise from Neyshanbur, Iran, the Turquoise Museum.

Like my turquoise story, poets featured in the Autumn 2025 issue of the CQ capture a full range of emotions— joy, grief, melancholy, child-like wonder, and serenity found in nature and among people. We start our exploration of everyday delights in Bakersfield (Gosnell), then visit a park (Willis), eat freshly-baked bread (Leistner) and taste some noodles (Jeon). We watch children in real life (Bassen) and in old photographs (Larson). The passing of time attracts the poets’ attention (McBride, Sozdinler, Calkins). Some pry open their broken hearts (Hosek, Kahn), others mourn the dead (Bliziniuk, Haines, Ford, Kramer). Nature, as always, provides solace—via birdsong (Rossmoor), wind (Duvey), or the singsong of trees (Myers, Duffy, Quirk)… No sorrow is eternal: consolation may be found in dreams (Baker), flights of fancy (Rossmoor), humor (Doolittle), stars (Candland), being Irish (Walter), or “folded light” (Taavoni). 

Continuing the tradition initiated by Margaret Saine, this CQ includes three translations along with original poems in Latin (Eugenius II/Hosek), Polish (Kołodziej/Trochimczyk), and Ukrainian (Blizniuk/Gerasimov). It is perhaps the flavor of the times that five poets feel compelled to hide their gender in initials (D. A., KM, V. P., W. C., and R). This reminds me of a certain belief in reincarnation: timeless souls have both feminine and masculine aspects, but become embodied to go through their lessons in the school of the Earth, one trial after another: first a victim, then the abuser, first a woman, then a man…Thus, the circle turns and the spiral ascends, propelled by wisdom and love.   

Maja Trochimczyk, Editor

Los Angeles, California

NEWSBRIEFS NO. 3, AUTUMN 2025

This summer, I had an opportunity to attend the annual convention of the National Federation of State Poetry Societies in Albuquerque, New Mexico. It was the first appearance of anyone from the California State Poetry Society in the past ten years. The CSPS laboriously pays the NFSPS annual dues of $3 per member, in exchange of lower fees for members who wish to participate in the NFSPS contests. The NFSPS Convention featured two events for State Poetry Societies’ Presidents where I gleaned some new ideas, for instance to celebrate the 250th anniversary of our great country’s by organizing a special anniversary poetry contest – that would focus on “persona” poems written in the voice of any great historical figure from the past.

        It was also interesting to hear about the many ways in which the State Poetry Societies have been managing their poetry readings and in-person meetings. This was interesting that, since becoming the CSPS President in 2019, I had learned that our Society, spread out over the great distances of California, has little to no interest in live readings, neither in person, nor via Zoom. Here, each area has a number of long-standing in-person readings organized by various local groups and there is no reason for CSPS to compete with them. Instead, our focus has always remained on the written word – the excellent California Quarterly, which continues to be enjoyed by its readers and contributors, and the colorful, art-filled Poetry Letter with featured poets, monthly contest winners, and book reviews. In particular, the CSPS Board has confirmed its lack of interest in  getting involved in “slam poetry” – improvised, live events, mostly by young, politicized, and often very aggressive poets. 

        After attending the finals of the Blackberry Peach Slam during the NFSPS Convention, I realized that the CSPS Board’s focus on the “printed word” poetry and contests is contrary to the priorities of the NFSPS and may necessitate departing from this Federation. The NFSPS brings together over 30 State Poetry Societies, publishes a quarterly Newsletter with brief reports from the states, manages a website, organizes numerous poetry contests, and creates a variety of national policies. Alas, their recently promulgated policies are quite divergent from our society’s preferences, and therefore cannot be adhered to. Thus, after seeking approval for the separation of California from NFSPS by the Board of Directors this fall, we will bring this to the vote of the membership via online ballots. Please note that the NFSPS does not group all 50 states, and the membership occasionally fluctuates, for instance the state of Wisconsin (where the NFSPS was incorporated) recently left the Federation. This necessitated changing the NFSPS Bylaws that mentioned the state of incorporation (the change was approved). 

Poets participating in the haiku death contest, where poets "fought" 

with 3 haiku each, to advance to the next stage...

       In other news, we continue to commemorate the great poet and poetry activist Deborah P Kolodji (1959-2024). The CSPS received a $10,000 Anonymous donation in her memory and we are now deliberating about the best way to honor her. Debbie was a CSPS member and served as Guest Editor of one issue – which was completely sold out. We will print additional copies, then.  Since we love books and journals, we may create a memorial anthology of poetry genres she loved – haiku, haiga, haibun, and other Eastern genres, as well as poetry of science-fiction and the fantastic. Currently, due to many CSPS members not renewing their membership on time, the Society is losing about a thousand dollars per year – due to increasing costs of printing and mailing of our journal.  So, we may need to save the bulk of the gift to ensure the future viability of our beloved CQ. 

Acrobats by Andrzej Kołodziej, oil on canvas.

        The cover of this issue is a copy of a painting by Polish-Californian painter and poet Andrzej Kołodziej  (known also as Andrew Kolo; d. 2025). The intense hues imbue the geometric landscape of “Pacific Coast Highway” with unusual vitality. In 1981, Andrzej founded KrakArt Group of Polish-born Californian painters, that have held many joint exhibitions in the U.S. and in Poland.  His own artwork frequently featured stylized puppet-like figures of acrobats, musicians, or sun-bathers on the golden beach. The “Eyes of Picasso” poem reveal his affinity with artists who transform and deform what they see into their unique, original artworks. Among Andrzej’s writings, his play The Trial of Dali was the most popular, as it was performed in Australia, Poland and at the Hollywood Fringe Festival (2019). As a promoter of poetry, Andrzej organized the Krak Poetry Group that held bilingual readings in California and Poland. As one of two surviving Krak Poetry Group’s members, I’m glad to be honoring Andrzej’s memory with  hiscolorful art and words.

Maja Trochimczyk, CSPS President

Dance by Andrzej Kołodziej

   

CSPS Poetry Letter No. 2, Summer 2025 - Part II. Reviews of Judith Valente and Dan Fitzgerald

 MICHAEL ESCOUBAS REVIEWS THE ITALIAN SOUL BY JUDITH VALENTE

The Italian Soul. How to Savor the Full Joys of Life by Judith Valente. 20 Reflections ~ 20 Illustrations. 192 pages, published by Hampton Roads Publishing, ISBN: 9781642970722

True confessions time for a book reviewer. I am a committed “doer.” I make daily lists of items to get done and become “undone” if I haven’t checked the “completed” box(s) by end of day. I occasionally neglect my family by insisting on writing one more poem or adding one more paragraph to a book review. I like a tight schedule and the feeling that the world may fall apart but for my actions!

ENTER STAGE LEFT: 

The Italian Soul, by Judith Valente. It was her subtitle, How to Savor the Full Joys of Life, which hit me hard upside the head. This remarkable book of life-reflections has taken me hostage. Pulitzer Prize nominee and former NPR journalist, Judy Valente, freely admits similar shortcomings. However, over time she has become a student of contemplative living. The Italian Soul is a labor of love—love that nurtures a  life-long quest to live a full life—a life she found and continues to find in Italy, her ancestral home.

She seeks a more contemplative life,

which means an attitude of the heart that allows one

to see the sacred and poetic in the simple and

mundane elements of daily living.

Her native Italy planted the seeds of change. Italy is a nation ensconced in beauty. As if its landscapes, seascapes, skyscapes, history, architecture, food, wines, and fashions are not enough—Italy offers something more—a gentler, more balanced way of life. In Valente’s words, la dolce vita (the sweet life).

The book is set forth in twenty chapters which describe the ancestral traits that shape her life. For Valente, these “traits” amount to art forms. A few examples follow:

Chapter One: The Art of Conversation

Chiacchiera describes a “stream-of-consciousness” chitchat often meant to simply pass the time. In Italy, casual conversations happen all the time. This differs markedly from my constant “face-in-my-phone” way of life.enjoy idle conversation. Valente offers a brief list of discussion questions at the end of each chapter. Here are the questions following Chapter One:

FOR REFLECTION

Do you have a special place to meet with friends and simply chat?

What is that experience like?

What are some effective ways you have cultivated for coping with loneliness and building a community of friends and support?

What are some ways in which you can forge a better sense of community where you live?

Chapter Two: Fare Bella Figura (the Art of Making a Good Impression)

Italian men and women take care with personal grooming and attire. As Valente asserts, “They would never appear in public looking like an unmade bed.” One grants that God looks at the heart not the physical appearance. Valente’s point is about loving others enough to look one’s best. My grandmother never went shopping in downtown Peoria, Illinois without her makeup, best dress, stockings, and a hat with netting. Without a car, she dressed up to ride the Garden Street bus!

Chapter Four: A Bloody Jesus, a Madonna with Real Hair

This interesting chapter title arrested my attention. It has been noted (tongue-in-cheek) that there are more churches in Italy than grocery stores. Religion is enmeshed within Italian culture. Valente notes that reminders of the sacred are everywhere. While institutional religion has waned nationwide over the decades, Italian communities typically retain their patron saints and traditional festivals. All of this tightens and strengthens bonds of faith and family.

Chapter Six: An Ode to Slow

Italy is among the few countries in the industrialized world that has not succumbed to, as Valente puts it, the cult of fast. Italians spend a lot of time cooking... Don’t get me wrong . . . I love my country and the innumerable advantages it offers. However, Valente makes points well worth listening to and pondering over.

Chapter 13—Looking for Beauty

Valente compares the beauty of two great American cities: Chicago and Washington, D.C. with small towns in Italy. Both American cities have storied, though much different, beauty signatures. Italy offers something much different: 

In Italy, you don’t have to look far. Beauty is often at every step. It might be found in the vicoli—the narrow streets of a 12th-century village, or a stone watchtower, an ornate iron gate, a marble arch, or a fresco-covered church. When I am in Abruzzo, I never tire of looking out on the soaring, snow-capped Apennines, or the amber, yellow, and pink pastel-colored houses that line the streets. 

Valente’s point references back to slowing down and taking in deep draughts of la dolce vita (the sweet life).

This is Holy leisure. A way of life desired by many, realized by few. It is akin to The Rule of St. Benedict, which Valente describes and applies in chapter 18. Benedict divided the day to provide measures of time for prayer, study, work, and rest. Especially, creative “rest” or leisure. 

Valente believes that la dolce vita is within the reach of all, and for what it's worth—this writer is contemplating changes!

~ Michael Escoubas

MICHAEL ESCOUBAS REVIEWS GATHERINGS BY DAN FITZGERALD

Gatherings: Poems by Dan Fitzgerald. 32 Poems ~ 46 pages Publisher: Kelsay Books ISBN: 978-1-63980-697-3.

No less a luminary than John Keats had this to say about why poets write poetry:

Poetry should strike the reader as a wording of his

own highest thoughts, and appear

almost as a remembrance.

Keats observation resonated as I took a deep dive into Gatherings, Dan Fitzgerald’s latest collection. What stood out to me was Fitzgerald’s love of life, his commitment to looking for and finding beauty and spiritual sustenance on planet earth. Moreover, Gatherings is “plural,” which suggests a variety of gatherings the poet intends to explore.

Fitzgerald leads with “A Collection of Things.” This poem features common things “gathered” within his home: pictures on the wall, “Picked up over the years, / some cared for with love, / some hung to fill a spot.” Each picture has a story to tell, holds a special place in the poet’s life. They hang by the same things I have in my own home: screws, nails, wires, strings . . . a kind of life-definition . . . we’re “a collection of things.” Considering Keats’ axiom that though

I can’t believe how much time

I waste in a day:

distracted by birds at a fountain,

waylaid by a book found

idle on a table,

ambushed by clouds proud

to be in the sky.

There was that time

when half a day was lost

just talking to an old friend.

And all that time down by the river,

just listening, watching, pondering

how many ways water flows over stones.

It is no wonder I never

get anything done.

This poem refreshes me; it takes me back to my youth, when I held my head under a deep-well pump on 95-degree days in July. Wasting time? Let’s waste more time with such poetry. “Campfire Smoke Rises,” highlights Fitzgerald’s facility with sound and outdoorsy ambiance: “Campfire smoke rises like incense / as the crackling prayers of flames / burn the stacked wood to ash.” The poem continues with brushstrokes that paint

“Stars that blink in the night through milky clouds,” and “fire flares in the dark.” The campfire becomes a kind of “sacrament” as voices “mix with the rising smoke.” The whole poem becomes a mystical experience within the space of a mere seventeen lines.

“Helping Out,” is a gathering of light sources; a varying of senses, shadows, a buffer against that which might otherwise take us down. Here is an excerpt:

I light a candle

from time to time.

There are all kinds scattered

small votives, three inch pillars,

tapers long and short.

The poet's subtlety marries his penchant for candles to practical experiences that define his life:

The one burning now, I lit

this morning when I got out of bed.

This day felt like it needed

a little help to move on its way.

His very surroundings become “gatherings” around which life coalesces. Fitzgerald captures another example of this in “Childhood Picture Gifts.” The poet discovers a long-lost envelope of pictures drawn during his childhood. They had been “resting” in a drawer as if waiting to be rediscovered . . . a blessing deferred. I return to Keats’ axiom as the poet reflects on what “The Years,” have meant:

Poetry should strike the reader as a wording of his

own highest thoughts, and appear

almost as a remembrance.They sittogether,

the years,

talking among themselves,

telling old stories,

the occasional old lie.

New things come to them

as the days add up,

making one more year

to join the group.

They seem happy enough,

Even though some have seen

rough times.

Content in a way,

Though a little weary

that there are so many of them now.

I don’t know what to say

to them anymore.

They have heard so much

from me already.

So mostly, I just listen

letting them talk.

They seem pretty good

at telling me what I need

to know.

 

I am confident that John Keats would agree. Gatherings is underpriced at $17.00

~ Michael Escoubas

Cloud Shadows by Maja T.

CSPS Poetry Letter No. 2 of 2025 (Summer) Part I, Winners of 2024 Monthly Contests and Featured Poets

Garden of Life by Maja Trochimczyk

In 2024, the CSPS Monthly Contest winners were as follows, selected by Alice Pero, Contest Judge

January (Nature, Landscapes): 

♦ 1st Prize: 1st Prize Colorado Smith, “SkyFire” 

♦ ♦ 2nd Prize: Kathryn Schmeiser, “Last One Standing” 

♦ ♦ ♦ 3rd Prize: Paula Appling, “Cognitive Dissonance"

February (love): 

♦ 1st Prize: Richard T. Ringley, "The Parts of You I Cannot Name"

♦ ♦ 2nd Prize: Jeff Graham, "Nocturne 31"

March (Open, Free Subject): 

♦ 1st Prize: Sean McGrath, "hunger for eternity"

April (Dreams, Mythology, Other Universes): 

♦ 1st Prize: Lillian Liu, "Sphinx Riddle"

♦ ♦ 2nd Prize: David Anderson, "The Next Eucatastrophe" 

♦ ♦ ♦ 3rd Prize: Thomas Feeny, "Icarus"

May (Personification, Characters, Portraits): 

♦ 1st Prize: Thomas Feeny, "The Bolder Brother" 

♦ ♦ 2nd Prize: Paula Appling, "Still Life"

June (The Supernatural): 

♦ 1st Prize: Jane Stuart, “Into the Light”

July (Childhood, Memoirs): 

♦ 1st Prize: Carla Schick, "On the Way to the Library" 

♦ ♦ 2nd Prize: Susan Florence, "Where Bach Takes Me"

 August (Place, Poems of Location):

♦ 1st Prize: Philip Newton, “Memphis”

♦ ♦ 2nd Prize: Michael Schoemaker, “Utah Scenic Haiku”

September (Colors, Music, Dance): No Awards

October (Humor, Satire):

♦ 1st Prize: Richard Ringley. "Sixty Is the New Six"

♦ ♦ 2nd Prize: Jane Stuart, "A Merry Mix-Up"

November (Family, Friendship, Relationships):

♦ 1st Prize: Ellice Jeon “A Welcome Guest”

December (Back to the Earth – Time, Seasons)

♦ 1st Prize: Kathryn Schmeiser, “The Magic Hour”

 

Red, White, and Blue - Photo by Maja Trochimczyk

Poems from January through July were published in Poetry letter No. 3 o of 2024 and reproduced on this bog, with surreal paintings by Maria Wollenberg-Kluza. 

https://www.californiastatepoetrysociety.com/2024/10/poetry-letter-no-3-of-2024-fall-issue.html

Poems from August through December are reproduced below. Due to Blogspot formatting issues sometimes poems are double-spaced and sometimes single-spaced, we were not able to figure out the reason nor to defeat this bug on Blogspot.  

AUGUST 2024

MEMPHIS

The Southern cities rest on mud

and beneath the mud, sand

extinct embayments full of

salty sycamore and silent stone fish

Memphis is cold in February

Something always follows in

the half-light of alleys

and ahead of you, just beyond actual seeing

walks someone you might once have loved

headed towards the river

The Mississippi mutters with a nation of silt

While we have coffee in morning cafes

and sit quiet in tobacco rooms above shops

where the morning comes diminished

the brown water carries its constant burden seaward

displacing and replacing everything we know

In the red brick afternoon the sun leans

against walls, crosses streets black with travel

You are here somewhere, going somewhere else

No matter where that is, I won’t be far behind

Philip Newton, First Prize, August 2024

                                       

                                      UTAH SCENIC HAIKU

pine needle trail                                                                    walks by a fountain

draws me back                                                                      dips in a toe

to hidden childhood hollows                                                — ripples to eternity

                                        red-tailed hawks glide 

                                       snowflakes rise

                                       to vaulted plateaus                     

robin watches                                                                    hoarfrost-covered trees

me unearth                                                                        soldiers’ silhouettes

last year's beets                                                                 against frosted frozen falls

                                      sunflowers turn sunward 

                                      casting shadows

                                      on the garden fence

campfire smoke                                                              squirrels sprint

rises and curls above                                                      up blue spruce

meadowlark’s morning song                                          in a blur of speed

                                    winter creek congealing

                                    wild ducks waddling

                                                                                                      

                                                                                                       Michael Schoemaker,

                                                                                                      Second Prize in August 2024

Feeria by Maja Trochimczyk

 OCTOBER 2024

SIXTY IS THE NEW SIX

My saintly spouse scolds me when I leave

in stained white shirts that do not fit;

with frayed initials on my sleeves;

and pants that fall beyond my hips;

and hair, poor hair, that’s been displaced

with fuzz - top, bottom, and my face.

At sixty, I feel more like six.

Ceaseless recess for endless years;

ceramics classes; old card tricks;

hearing aids large as rabbit ears;

and carnal thoughts that won’t survive

the domestication of our lives.

Richard T. Ringley

First Prize, October 2024

A MERRY MIX-UP

The red hen barked—it was by mistake,

the donkey ran upside down.

A little pony ran through squares

of light that fell to the ground

from a second star that chased the first

across a heavenly sky

while a team of mice oared the boat

that held their queen

around the moon

and distantly a second tent

blew in the rainy wind

that turned to snow

while the circus folk

sidled and jumped upside down

while waiting for cinnamon

in their milk

and a joy ride back to town.

Jane Stuart, Second Prize, October 2024

Blooming Fern Forest – Photo by Maja Trochimczyk, 2025

NOVEMBER 2024

A WELCOME GUEST

Contrary to the restless heart

The blue sofa pressing down the gray, the light beige cushion,

And the single painting of the sea hanging above----

It’s the horizon, understand?

A long chunk of concept, the sea seems ready to pour onto the surrounding walls.

I move toward the horizon, straightening a crooked corner of the sea,

Only then does it let out the sound of waves it had lost.

Lake a farewell sent after long inner turmoil,

I watch the foam surge toward my bare feet, believing in what will not be kept.

Like footsteps heading out to see off a guest

Ellice Jeon, First Prize, November 2024

Hidden Trinity - by Maja Trochimczyk

DECEMBER 2024

THE MAGIC HOUR

If a year was tucked inside of a clock,

then autumn would be the magic hour…

—Victoria Erickson

Tick…tock…Tick…

Hours taper like candle wicks

                      minutes diminish

                                  seconds shrink

                                               magic swirls

Crayons spill between tree roots

colors scribble on veined foliage

Torn leaves blow, tinted scraps

                   of paper crumple

          words tumble

                   stem over tip

Waving wands, limbs cast spells

Magic incantations dwell inside

 clocks

Colors erupt

                     the hour chimes

                                                tock…

Kathryn Schmeiser,

First Prize, December 2024

RICHARD M. DEETS CELEBRATES 

THE 250TH ANNIVERSARY OF THE U.S. ARMY

During the CSPS Board Meeting, our Vice President for Membership, Richard M. Deets read for us his poem, commissioned for the celebration of the 250th anniversary of the U.S. Army at the local military base in Dublin, CA on 14 June 2025. Writing laudatory poems of this kind has been an ancient tradition, and I’m happy to reproduce Richard’s poem in the Poetry Letter.

A QUARTER MILLENNIUM OF SERVICE

(AKA ODE TO THE UNITED STATES ARMY)

Two hundred fifty years of steadfast might,

"This We'll Defend," our motto clear and true.

No army is better than its soldiers' honor and might.

From Lexington through dawn's emerging light,

Through battles fought and victories pursued.

Two hundred fifty years of steadfast might.

Citizen soldiers stand tall, embodying the might

reflecting legacies of those who paved avenues.

No army is better than its soldiers' honor and might.

Celebrating what makes the Army right -

Our people, our mission, our legacy.

Two hundred fifty years of steadfast might.

From endless day to star-illumined night,

One force, one family, one bond of loyalty,

No army is better than its soldiers' honor and might.

America's finest warriors, a culture of service,

Our legacy in every soldier’s face we view.

Two hundred fifty years of steadfast might,

No army is better than its soldiers' honor and might.

© 2025 by Richard M. Deets

RICHARD M. DEETS. After a career as a mathematics teacher, Richard Deets became the Vice President, Membership of the CSPS in the fall of 2012. He also served on the Board of Directors of the Livermore Valley Opera and the City of Dublin’s Heritage and Cultural Arts Commission. His poems have appeared online in a variety of milieus. Richard’s published articles on poetry include The Elements of Poetry online at FamilyFriendPoems.com. One of his poems published on the same site became a wedding favorite, as he stated, “I wrote the poem, ‘Our Dreams,’ as a Valentine gift for my wife. Since that time, over a hundred brides have requested permission to include the poem in their wedding ceremonies. My wife has given me permission to say yes to every bride.”

Lady with an Ermine by Leonardo da Vinci

A TRIBUTE TO THE U.S. ARMY’S MONUMENTS MEN 

– BY MAJA TROCHIMCZYK

THE LADY WITH AN ERMINE

~ after Leonardo da Vinci's portrait of Cecilia Gallerani,

   in the Czartoryski Museum in Kraków

 

Her eyes follow me around the room

with that secretive smile she shares

with her famous cousin.

Filled with the knowledge of what was, what will be

she slowly caresses the smooth warm ermine fur.

                Tesoro, amore mio, sii tranquillo, ti amo

Leonardo’s brush made a space for her to inhabit,

a grey-blue sky painted black much later –

she was pregnant, her son – a Sforza bastard,

the white ermine - the emblem of her Duke.

Sheltered by Polish royalty, she revealed

her charms only to their closest confidantes.

In 1830, exiled in a precious wood box, to Paris,

In 1919, returned to taste the Polish freedom.

             Amore mio, sii tranquillo, ti amo

In 1939, hidden again, found by the Nazis

for Hitler’s last dream, the Linz Führermuseum,

Art among red flags and swastikas, flourishing

in the dark cavern of his mind. Never built.

Berlin, occupied Kraków, Governor Frank's

hunting lodge, Bavaria. The Red Army's closing in.

Train tracks. Crisp winter air. American soldiers,

The cameras of Monument Men.

            Sii tranquillo, ti amo

Back home in Krakow, she is safe

in the recess of a museum wall. Under a muted spotlight,

children play a game: Walk briskly from right to left,

don’t let your eyes leave her eyes, see how she is watching you.

Her eyes follow me around the room

Filled with the knowledge of what was, what will be

she slowly caresses the smooth warm ermine fur.

She knows that I know that she knows.

          Amore mio, ti amo

(C) 2015 By Maja Trochimczyk

_____________________________________________

* Tesoro, amore mio, sii tranquillo, ti amo - fragment of a fictional love letter in Italian, "Sweetheart, my love, be quiet, I love you." 

Published on the site Mary Evans Picture Library – Pictures and Poems, & reprinted in 2021 in The Rainy Bread More Poems from Exile, https://www.maryevans.com/poetry.php?post_id=7032&view=poem&prv=poem 

"Monuments Men" were art historians, curators, & photographers - members of Monuments, Fine Arts, and Archives (MFAA) Section of the U.S. Army created in June 1943 to find and return art stolen during WWII. The Lady with an Ermine was returned to Poland in April 1946. After posting the poem on Facebook, I heard from a descendant of the aristocratic Czartoryski & Zamoyski families that originally purchased the masterpiece and first brought it to Poland. Such rich history!

Dominoes by Nicholas Skaldetvind

FEATURED POET – NICHOLAS SKALDETVIND

AUGURY

I awoke August sixth, 12 ½ years since my grandmother Rose died

and my horoscope said, Encourage radical honesty with yourself,

you are more brave than you give yourself credit for

        In the dream

a fox slinks towards me with a feather in its mouth

      

       I think my grandmother’s hand gesticulated inside of me

as something the pond coughed up

         We both crossed our hands, right over left the same

as if bound to

something unremembered that

still stings and burns

In the kitchen she covers the table

(once a door) with individual bamboo place mats

she is inspecting their weave, the scales falling

from her eyes, the farthing in us she sees

                        curved knives on the counter below jars of green in the window

and me out the door to the pond

lithe-stepping across fields of corn and squared bales of hay,

rows of apples and peaches to protect the driveway and loosening

the hems of the branches throwing parachutes of shade

Censorious, my cousin tells me grief is not

linear, to go up the hill above the pond where she’s buried

whenever I’m feeling sad

(brownish photo of a marble church) futurities neglected

the smell of wet grass in the rakes smelly boots on the steps at dusk

a fistful of clay on the wheel rosary beads a threadbare apron

Washing our mouths out with a thimbleful of vinegar

comparing green and purple colors casting their shadows dark and growing

borage out of work boots we’d eat from in the garden

My uncle takes a yellow apple wet with cold rain music

from the driveway

and tries to plant

                                 me my own orchard by the pond

a lone goose egg cracked some

                     easing my tempo I follow drops of blood

up the concrete staircase

around the front porch’s leaf-work in wrought iron reverie: snowshoes, tufts

of fox fur and veneers of the old guard: a muted black and white playing

behind a threshold of beads

              a homespun geometric rug angling a stool’s legs still morphing

              like the roof of my mouth

I can trace variegated wrinkles without seeing them

              the minor tar road

bisecting Palladino

PALLA meaning arms bearer / palace / a large square of cloth

DINO in vulgar: different / small people / little sword

                             displacing each as winds do wings

I grew up in a small palace

              of the outdoors

from where I have planned and failed

Men slamming their fists on the table, 

                puddles of snowmelt by the radiator

plates of different foods.

Nicholas Skaldetvind, first published in Berkeley Poetry Review

Imitating Tom Balbo Pulp Painting on Denim by Nicholas Skaldetvind

THE LIGHT THAT BREAKS IS AN INWARD LIGHT

For Mike Toivonen

 

The day’s last gloaming hour

in slow descent

emptying

stained glasses

of amber moonshine and red wine

a long quiet

hard cherries

each of us waiting

for a reason to walk

out into the warm blossoming wind

of midsommar

we must disenthrall our spirits and then we can solve this

says no one

the sauna sits empty

empty all night

the wood worn by

the most ordinary closeness

of ritual

nu ska jag hämta en flaska till

he says and he gets up and he walks

out among the fireflies.

Nicholas Skaldetvind, first published in the Eunoia Review.

NICHOLAS SKALDETVIND is an Italian-American poet and paper-maker. He holds a M.A. (2019) from Stockholm University, Department of English and Transnational Creative Writing (thesis "The Spontaneous Poetics of Jack Kerouac’s Letters from 1947-1956: Repetition, Language, and Narration.”) In 2015 he received B.A degree from Saint Louis University, Madrid, Department of Spanish Language and Literature, Department of International Studies, and Department of Ibero-American Studies. He is a recipient of numerous scholarships and grants, including Graduate ERASMUS Merit Scholarship (September 2018 – January 2019) at Bath Spa University. Department of English and Creative Writing in Bath, England; as well as scholarships at creative writing workshops at Berkeley, CA; Naropa University, Colorado and book arts and papermaking workshop at Wells College in Aurora, New York. He also was an undergraduate Exchange Student at the University of Copenhagen, Department of Political Sciences, English Literature, Spanish Literature, and Historical Linguistics (August 2012 – May 2016) and took a writing course in Danish in 2015. He has served as CQ editor since 2023.

Cotton Flax Abaa - Geometry Painting on Denim by Nicholas Skaldetvind

FEATURED POET – JOSEPH NOBLE

Joseph Noble’s poetry and essays have appeared in Hambone, New American Writing, Talisman, Lana Turner, and other journals, as well as in the anthology, Resist Much, Obey Little. Six poems also appeared in the San Francisco Exploratorium’s exhibit, “Social Behavior Lab.” He has published three books of poetry: Within Hearing (lyric& Press, 2018), Antiphonal Airs (Skylight Press, 2013), and An Ives Set (lyric& Press, 2006), and a chapbook, Homage to the Gods (Berkeley Neo-Baroque, 2012). His forthcoming book, Listening Voices, will be published by Wet Cement Press. For more information, please go to his website: www.josephnoble.info. The book, Listening Voices, is a book of poetry about music, sound, and silence. It is composed of four sections: Carroway Seeds, which deals with the music of Conlon Nancarrow, Songs and Definitions, In the Air, and the section, Listening Voices. The latter deals with the death of my friend, Raymond Ernst, who was a musician, as well as with the figure of Orpheus.

DIORAMA

the bus had its own levitation device

each tone initiating a harbinger feather

a weathered voice discoursed upon

tiny bodies filled with perpetual sand

the museum’s diorama hopped on one leg

an explorer whistling for home

the tibia was the aulos in the body

the fingers the five string lyre

what domain were we invoking

in our lexical wheelhouse?

we found the mirror on the store rack

an image of breath for the ears

Joseph Noble

DESCENT

you are breathing where you no longer stand

light coexistent with the sound it makes

a quivering where you had seen the music

the song has walked down into the shadows

that listen to its mute lips

its hands on the corners of sound, waiting

you follow her with your ears

that guide you through the dark

through the silence breathing your listening

when you open your lips, there’s silence

and closing them, you hear the song

singing mutely in its plenitude

Joseph Noble

TOCCATA

ray rung riddle’s pitch print

switches sung light note to note—

sounding mote sings sight,

writ tongue wrangling water hum—

strings flex steel wrung tones,

reel sprung—wick wheel kindle to cloud

blinks aloud—bone light limbs

flint the sound spindle—

on mica glint streets, prism hymn

walks beat, concrete heat squints

pica flight through the mirror,

wing image sleight of echo

Joseph Noble

Some Colors of Water, watercolor by Nicholas Skaldetvind

ITSELF FUGUE

you as you neither came to be

           nor as you would come to be

                      but as you are continually coming to be—

when your song ended

           it was not the end of your song

                      but an echo remained

a reminder remanded

          to nowhere but elsewhere

                      a sounding in itself—

the cricket strides its stridulation

          out into plain hearing

                      to woo or to warn

but the song of its song

          doesn’t care for its intent

                      intending to be nothing

other than it is

          a song for the hearing

                     a song without an echo

that is an echo itself

           that the cricket plays

                     upon its wings

and listens to

            as it plays:

                     both song and singer

sound and echo

           here and nowhere

                     now and when

Joseph Noble

TONE’S BONES

tone angling

t

hrough bone

shadow hearing

itself

tendon string

ringing wood

and air

body a mystery

with blood

forgetting its

own pitch

and place

humming

the memory

becoming

the note

on the lips

weightless in

its trilling

spilling within

its echo

a disappearance

manifesting itself

before the ears

Joseph Noble

Acqui Division Faces - Stencil on Flax by Nicholas Skaldetvind