My father drank until he could no more,
drank in the Bowery, slept on the cobblestone
streets after work, he drank in bars, he drank in his car,
anywhere, he drank anytime, he told me life was sweet,
he drank until our house was gone, all the song in it gone,
until the bank owned it and not us, you know
how that works, the big addiction, the big kahuna of it all,
until the family almost died in a car crash in Paramus,
a head-on collision on the way home from a birthday party.
I was seven years old and crushed in the front,
seat, who knew we could go so far and still
live, survive the cascade of words, accusations,
recoveries, living in motels and apartment complexes,
talk of AA meetings, of enablers, of disablers,
stories from Prague and the farm in New Jersey,
stories about a past that was okay or so it seemed,
isn’t it always the way, myth taking center stage
before everything else, as if it really can, he said
he picked strawberries for 5 cents an hour in the
meadowland marshes, I remember they tasted like heaven
is what he told me.
Charlene Langfur, Citron Review. Antioch College, CA,
Edward Steineger, ed., 2013.
ANALYSIS OF THE BEST POSSIBLE DAY
No material theory involved. Only light. Everything’s all right.
Amino acids, lipo-proteins start off the day like any other.
Early on, a few pied warblers warble. The dog croons.
I’m dressed in a cotton shirt, cleaned, ironed,
a shirt the color of the sea at noon.
I give a class in school on advancing a single thought.
How to hold an essay together
in any weather or difficulty.
The mind likes maps.
In the newspaper, articles about gene pools, buried artifacts,
war in Asia.
Four soldiers died today in Afghanistan.
I think they are lost in the mountains, and I picture the steel grey
rocks where they were found.
The war is like air.
It is always there in America now.
We do not talk of it as if it has a beginning or an end anymore.
I think of the soldiers
when I pass the giant sunflowers in front of my house.
All in all, today is like other days and what’s new sticks to it
early on. The clock on the wall keeps its steady little beat.
Its eternal numbers. The rhythm of the stars and heavens.
At eleven I’m ready for a hot meal,
organic pasta, organic olive oil from Spain.
I have game.
I have what counts. Even at the end with no one to smile at me
on my way back but a black dog, tail wagging,
I am not lagging.
In the east light turns crepuscular, catches at the shadows.
The long float of loss, recession, unemployment,
the color
of your leaving.
Ideas for a solution on a pad of paper to hold a small
world together as it passes. Flower doodling. A draft of a poem
on a good day, the poem holding the day together,
a place in it for the soldiers, the dog’s path, the lack of love,
in the west—the lilac-colored sky.
Charlene Langfur, Stone Canoe—Journal of the Arts.
Robert Crowley, ed. Syracuse, New York. 2011

Blue Sky Palm Tree by Maja Trochimczyk
WITH MY FATHER IN THE HOSPITAL
I am sitting with my old father as he sleeps.
He’s in a coma and won’t wake up but still, he breathes,
slow shallow breaths, hardly traceable.
Today he is innocent, childlike, young again.
At first, while I sit with him, I doze off, wake, stare out the window
at the busy parking lot.
Cars are parked and people are walking and the wind’s blowing
strong pushing the trees to the right.
And I am thinking about the history of the world.
Nothing specific but the whole big deal of it, the history
like the history of a family or a relationship, full of details,
but also heavy, the bulk of it, the time, it has weight.
I think my father is too light for this now. I try to be as light as that too
and sit in the chair buoyantly, light and blue as the sky out the window is.
I think about how he taught me to throw a baseball, grabbed
the stitches with his thick knuckles, perfectly as
any of us would hold an egg between two fingers.
And I remember the look on his face when he told me the first thing
I knew to be untrue. His eyes twinkled a little and the salesman in him
paused him to pinch the edge of his hat as he smiled.
This is how later I knew he had a good hand at cards,
why I always wanted to be his partner because I knew
if he was bluffing and when he was true as he could be.
I could see in his eyes what was up. The shine. The glint.
An ancient man now with an old round head. He’s true blue.
I’ve spent so much time trying to save him
and now I let go, lighter than I imagined I could
all the heaviness of the past floated away on its own.
I lean over, touch his hand. I’m glad to say goodbye on such a good day as this.
Charlene Langfur, The Adirondack Review, Volume 2: 4, 2005.
THE SEASON OF THE UNEXPECTED
Luscious, delicious, this time around
the scent of the blossoms in early light
is all over the place,
the flowers opening every which way,
wild as it gets, you know what I
mean, all the flowers
from the tip of the branches to the trunk,
an embarrassment of petals,
as if optimism has to have a place
and this is it, in the sky and the air,
everywhere the scent,
the first of the flowers
before the rose blushed peaches
come full blown, the first of the season
of unexpected plenty,
so many white flowers small as pennies,
and what comes next, the first taste of the summer,
of the peaches.
I remember my father waited for them,
smiling in anticipation as if he was still a boy,
the heavenly smile, the one we all have,
the smile that happens when we
are open enough to be fully alive,
so he waited on them,
the peaches
all of them ripening in the sun and growing in the night
and later, cutting them up into
the dish and later, I am holding a single peach
in the palm of my hand up into the light to see
the crazy miracle close up,
an earth jewel,
irresistible, nothing short of
delight.
Charlene Langfur
Cold Mountain Review, Vol. 42, No. 2 (2014): 53.
ORGANIC GARDEN
The garden’s full of cans now, used slot machine buckets,
old tools with tapes around the handles,
whatever works, seeds drying in the sun on slate blue rocks
from up north, big desert high mountain rocks,
the seeds of dried-up marigolds, 1,000s of them
with their thin seeds ready to plant, reedy things,
miniatures, formidable little ones, birthing pods
ready to break through for new life.
All familiar. Other things that have been here for years.
All I need to do is to wait for the right time to plant.
What’s difficult is the rest.
How I’m looking for love to mend here,
this year as I press my smooth white shoulders
close to the dirt
and the rich black soil sticks to my body in the heat.
Here I chase the familiar, the steady,
what seems dead but is ready to come back again.
I look for the familiar
in a knowable place, a constant place where I am constant.
The smell of the soil late in the day,
the scent of flowers on a hot night. Ancient dirt.
Without litany or broadcast.
The blue jay chased off a rattlesnake again this morning.
I am not surprised any longer how they keep the place safe.
Social beings, scouts, the smart birds warn of danger.
Plastic bowls filled with calendula petals are everywhere,
thousands of petals, silk to the touch, for ointments in jars,
the petals are the start for each jar of salve, and pieces of fruit,
apricots, peaches, apples, all of them drying in the sun.
The garden has me tied to it so I can’t forget any parts
of it that work, so going back to a job is easy, decipherable,
my own part in it is easy, loading up the trees with lady bugs
from paper buckets, sprinkling dried sea-weed around the tree
trunks and over the empty beds before winter.
So I know how to do everything even when I am not sure why.
All this I know will work. In the winter sweet peas bloom like crazy
under the winter covers but sunflowers grow there now,
giants ten feet tall, suddenly the first thought of winter
in the middle of the deepest heat, the winter when I’ll prune
with abandon, wait with it in my mind, night after night in the full moonlight,
days of sunflowers bending low, red-yellow peaches sweet as heaven.
Charlene Langfur, Blueline. Vol. XXIX
Potsdam College of the State of New York (2008): 79.
Lone Palm Sunset by Maja Trochimczyk
SOME SAY ALL THERE IS FOR SOME OF US IS MAKING DO
But there is more than this to it,
the incredible lightness of less
the delight of stars and the moon at night,
making up for what’s right
the glowing and the deep,
the heart adrift returning,
and the still small voice, how it never leaves
even in the snow with no place to go,
finding home,
the happiness of losing and starting over anyway,
all about what trembles and flies
the tintinnabulation of the soul, bliss over a single kiss
but more than this,
wanting a life back
even when it does not want us,
flying out wide over a fat dark,
landing where it seemed impossible before,
finding a smaller simpler home,
vegetables in a tiny garden, giant sunflowers,
a bower of little white ones, sweet berries
in the morning,
the old problems gone off like little birds, wrens come spring
off and away, the moon’s shine
glow in the night
all the way until day breaks, how the sweet-big wild blue sky
comes on like never before
a big sky come again, giant with so much life under it, completely luminous.
Charlene Langfur, Weber-The Contemporary West.
Alexandria Thompson, ed. (Fall 2015).
THE LONG OF IT AND THE STEADY
We all have our way of getting through our lives.
These days I slowly count each hour on an app assessing
sentences in English digitally. Forty hours every week.
Patience is at the heart of what I do now as I keep
trying to find a way to do what I must do for work
in a world of climate change in which I am getting older,
on a planet increasingly oriented to the young.
My stamina remains the same year after year and
each day I eat oatmeal for a good breakfast, and
take a hardy walk with my golden rescued dog Grace,
and always plan to read some of what I think matters
so I am always learning and discovering what is new
and always, I sit in my small garden with a book.
Each day I come up with a plan for the order of things,
how an hour in each one of my days feels right.
Today I will work for a flat eight hours of the day,
and I will assess 160 sentences spoken out loud.
On my walk later in the day my dog will be leaping
in the tall wild desert grass and she is all in.
I learn to live in the moment from the way she lives
as if there never can be a half-way point in a full life.
Later, I will plant more seeds, parsley and nasturtium
and sit in the garden where the lavender blooms like crazy.
My garden is a small world coming back again and again
and in need of tending as I and my dog are also,
like all of us women living alone in a difficult world
writing poems about flowers blooming in the night,
talking about keeping faith no matter what happens,
about making things right, loving long and being kind.
This is what I’ve learned to do then, know who I am,
know what I can do, tack boundaries, all the width and the depth,
the long of it and the steady, all of the day
Charlene Langfur, Rejoinder. Rutgers,
The State University of New Jersey, 2026.
BLUER THAN THE SKY
Letting go of love. Well yes, I mean something other
than to say let go. I mean to fill a glass with water.
Or work. Or hang up my clothes for the day.
Blue pants and a blue Italian silk shirt. The blouse, well,
I say it is blue, but I mean it is like the sky really
or it is the sky. I put it on for luck, fill up my black bag
with books and papers and head to work on the freeway.
What is inside the bag is a life, a history, years of lessons and hopes and
lost love. I remember how my father talked to me about the briefcase
before he passed on. “Such a heavy case for a woman,” he said.
“Such weight. Your hair is so long and shiny and the bag?”
Order. Order. The universe takes to an order, and I am ready to go again
with the measure of the day—to make it new, blue—today
I will buy a new one then, let’s say, a new dress, a new glass,
a blue one that stays forever or longer than I can imagine and maybe,
yes, I see it was all about loving all along, or loss too large to carry
in a bag or under the sky, blue or otherwise, or for a woman beautiful
or measured, or what is or what isn’t left of the poem, or what I imagine
is lost as opposed to what is actually lost itself. But today--this is
what I am about. On my way to work. Dressed like the sky. Dreaming of the moon.
Charlene Langfur, Room Magazine.
Vancouver, Canada. Issue 32, 2009/2010.
.jpg)
FEATURED POET JOE DECENZO
Joe DeCenzo is an L.A. native and graduate of the Los Angeles City College Theater Academy. His education in music built the foundation for his appreciation of the poetry of lyrics. He was elected Poet Laureate of Sunland-Tujunga and served from 2004-06. While Laureate, he produced the “Shouting Coyote” Performing Arts Festival and was a Department of Cultural Affairs grant recipient. It was renowned for drawing local writers, musicians, dancers and artists together in prominent festivals that celebrated the creativity of the foothills. His published works include The Ballad of Alley and Hawk and the Study Guide and Poetry Primer. Since 2004, both are being taught and performed annually at Vineyard Junior High in Rancho Cucamonga by his collaborator, Jenna Vandegrift.
He has been published in several anthologies: Meditations on Devine Names (Moonrise Press 2012), We Are Here: Village Poets Anthology (Moonrise Press 2018), and Crystal Fire (Moonrise Press 2022). The latter earned him a Pushcart nomination. He was inspired to pursue creative writing as a child after hearing a recitation of Rudyard Kipling’s “If.” His greatest influences were the playwrights he studied and performed e.g. Tennessee Williams, Arthur Miller and Harold Pinter. For 10 years he served as the chair of the Sunland-Tujunga Arts Recreation and Culture Committee helping artists and organizations connect with funding, venues and volunteers. He regularly emcees the Village Poets monthly reading at Bolton Hall Museum. His proudest achievements are the connections he’s made with the foothills communities and the programs he’s worked to build and maintain.
BETWEEN THE LINES
Somewhere between darkness and light
Lies a band of color so vivid its intensity dazzles the mind
Somewhere between silence and chaos
A symphony of unequaled splendor plays
Somewhere between inaudible whispers and deafening screams
A rational voice sustains the air
Derailing unbending dogma and passive objectivity
Finding compromise for all
The space between the porous and the impenetrable
Is filled with degrees of resistance and acceptance
The realm between transparent and opaque
Is rife with fear and intuition
Between obscurity and celebrity
Are feelings of family and oneness
Within the fields of victory and surrender
Are rolling meadows of peace and contemplation
Beyond invincible walls and vulnerable flesh
Nature’s passion poem reaches for the surface
To interlace the blackish ink and whitish page
Revealing the expanse between “yes” and “no”
To breach the rigid lines that comprise our daily walks.
Joe DeCenzo, in anthology Crystal Fire, Moonrise Press 2022
OF THINGS I CAN’T REMEMBER
Like what I had for breakfast or what I wore the night before
Who won last year’s World Series or what I needed from the store
The names of all my nephews, where I left my writing pen,
My freakin’ cell phone number…what the hell was that again?
Did I forget to hit the lights or lock the door on my way out
The title of my favorite song or what that movie was about
I can’t count the misplaced items, errands I’m supposed to run
Or times I walked into the party with my trouser fly undone
I forget, I can’t recall, some days I haven’t got a clue
Yet that never interrupts the steady thoughts I have of you
The vivid recollection of the savor of your hair
The taste of praline kisses on my lips is always there
Holding hands and holding on to you was daily medicine
Like stoking embers in a fireplace that calm the storms within
Such comforting encouragement through all the pounding stress
The sound of your sweet voice is at the front of my success
With dates and places fading and the details falling through
I don’t remember much, but I remember all of you
I remember you were with me at the time I came to be
I remember life’s true value now for you’re my memory
Joe DeCenzo