- Who Owns The Earth? – Kitty’s Bratton
- She – Mary Getlein
- Sponto – – Liv Zutphen
- I Like – Jasper Schubert
- Sunbeams – George Porter
- Airdrop the sequeL. – Jimmy Valentine
- In Brief – Jim Smith
- Untitled – Lynette
- Walks with Brutus – Aaron Reynauld
- America – Murray Barnett
Who Owns The Earth?
I am already buried at sea
No place else to be
Drifting and smiling under the
Cold green waves
My ancient Venice days
And ways – so long gone
Yet I linger on –
Between Ocean Park and
Venice Pier, where my
Happiest days were spent
And now I can’t afford
The rent! As far as my
Eyes can see, the ocean
Is still free, and offers
The final home, from which
I’ll never roam.
– Kitty’s (Bratton) Sunset View
She was standing on the outside
looking in at all the brightly colored windows
yellow in the night
Beautiful houses filled with beautiful people
Never known hunger or cold or loneliness
she didn’t know how she got there
to that point in her life –
How it all seemed for nothing
She had nothing to show for her life
She trod very lightly upon the earth
They called her: homeless
but the earth was her home
the sky was her ceiling
and it went on forever
She knew she would always be on the outside
She knew she would never be invited in
to the warm and brightly lighted caves they had made
but she still liked to look.
– Mary Getlein
It’s not the safest of places
It’s not being famous
A collector of women and art
A teapot clock on a chain link lock
Next door to the waitress at Piccolo
Free pot, a sink, a stove
An alien on a throne
– Liv Zutphen
I like Pacific sunsets and twilight
the painted skyline as the sun fall West
silver moonlight among autumn breeze hours before dawn
aroma of The Getty rose garden
as you walk through neo-classic style
admiring colours and textures of their petals
to close my eyes and hear the rolling of waves onto Abalone Cove.
I especially like the receding of it,
like tires slowly moving over loose gravel
the touch of lovers naked
eraser thin nipples brushing against my back
parted lips seesawing the curve from shoulders to neck
anticipating what comes next
integrity and honor
but not the innocence of youth
great and mighty
— Jasper Schubert
If sunbeans were weapons of war, we would have had solar energy centuries ago.
–George Porter, Nobel laureate in Chemistry
(Beachhead, May 1976)
Airdrop the sequeL.
PaddLing Hard. Farwest is my heading. I’m shredding my bestular.
so blessed with this life yes yes yesi
Always seem to find a sweet peace o mind when my board n i cross the shoreline.
itsa fine frame o time, like tasting the sweetuLar sunshine
tapping the current, the reef, tapping the flow.
yesi! like droppin on a sik! phat bowl!
cranking the ranking bottom turn. eyes a burning. sun is glaring,
offshore is blaring.
yearning the vertical snap, i n i attack without looking back.
engaged ontha face o tha wave.
i create my space in this place of time riding on my saline rhymes.
spraying rythm n style all the way down the line.
blessed so blessed.. got these rhymes in my chest. yesi
– Jimmy Valentine
By Jim Smith
A thousand years and one summer.
Today . . .
The small wooden village church of my grandfather’s childhood,
Engraved and embellished with a vibrant history of a people,
Hidden behind rusting locks and angry steel beams,
Closed by government decree,
Condemned to the sound of silent bells.
Summer Sunday morning . . .
Pedestrians break the sanctioned stillness of Kiev,
Filing past the empty, cold market square
to the old woman’s house,
The criminals hide in her basement,
To pray before the makeshift altar,
Their tears calling on the spirit of Volodymyr the Great
to baptize a captive nation with passionate faith.
Celebrating the secret millennium.
They pray . . .
As churches stand garish museums of the spoiler’s culture,
The silent bells peal resonantly in their hearts.
Walks with Brutus
By Aaron Reynauld
It smells like home
and we walk.
We walk, we walk.
It smells like childhood
it smells like fall.
One of my greatest loves lost.
It smells like a home,
one in a world of homes.
One of many places
I call home
And music plays
and we listen.
We listen, we listen.
All of the songs,
and drift from windows.
They pour out of restaurants.
They are never separate,
but never whole.
These songs they drive us,
the guide us,
they walk with us.
Through the streets of Venice
We walk, we walk.
By Murray Barnett
Look America, I’ve done as you asked.
I had my attic insulated to cut energy waste,
Sealed the windows to stop the drafts,
I even eat by candlelight.
I thought the electric company would be fair
And reduce the cost for the poor and desolate of the land.
I didn’t expect conservation to be a deceitful practice.
Look America, I take the bus to go to work,
Bought a bicycle to do the shopping,
Traded my V* for an economy model
And joined a car-pool for my vacation.
I thought the oil company wouldn’t rejoice
And make a wind-fall out of my sacrifices.
I didn’t expect conservation to be a fraudulent practice.
Look America, I’ve planted vegetables in the front lawn
And tend my little garden every day.
I didn’t expect dairies to pour their milk down the sewer
To keep the prices high.
I thought conservation could be a noble purpose.
Look America, I see Death riding a pale-colored horse
Across battle-lines drawn for your depleted resourses.
And you, unmoved, as in the past, are busy
Selling what’s left to the highest bidder.
Look America, there was a time I trusted in you
And tried to believe that conservation
Was not a fast-buck practice.
Why does the passion for wealth
(Beachhead, March 1976)