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Randy Beckelheimer - HPS-15
oil on canvas
64 x96 inches
Paired with poetry by Todd Turnidge
THUMBS
She says she loves me
for my thumbs-
how they press on a steering wheel
when I park a car.
She cares not a lick
for the things I've done.
My cleverness counts for a breath
or less:
a Lucite work trophy
in an attic chest.
She has no use
for buried things.
She wants me, she says,
for my minerals
& not my measures
in the minds of men.
But do not other men
have thumbs?
She savs:
Park the car, again.
64 x96 inches
Paired with poetry by Todd Turnidge
THUMBS
She says she loves me
for my thumbs-
how they press on a steering wheel
when I park a car.
She cares not a lick
for the things I've done.
My cleverness counts for a breath
or less:
a Lucite work trophy
in an attic chest.
She has no use
for buried things.
She wants me, she says,
for my minerals
& not my measures
in the minds of men.
But do not other men
have thumbs?
She savs:
Park the car, again.
Glenn Carter - Lead Kimono
mixed media
75×42×3 inches
Paired with poetry by Magdalena Montagne
WHEN I ENTER HIS COAT
So big I don't put it on,
but rather walk into it.
It's as if a sanctuary
of him,
this black leather sheath.
The smokey scents not unlike incense
in church,
the tar where the county workers
have patched the old roads where I live.
The tobacco my father chewed
and spat out methodically.
This Mediterranean climate yields no cause
to wear a cloak, leather or otherwise.
Yet on those melancholy days
on the brink of madness and rage
I'll put it on.
And something else comes over me.
As if surrounded by the vast ocean
watching tide uncoil itself towards shore.
Or the overflowing rush of spring mustard, dandelion
flowers,
the cerulean wave of lavender.
The bouquet sickly sweet
The essence of the death room
where my mother lay
three days
and I couldn't speak to her then.
Ensconced as I was
in my vengeful dream.
Awakening in the dark nights of November
no spirit will reveal itself to me.
Putting on the coat so carefully
as if to go out.
Wishing I could offer its comfort
to anyone on earth.
75×42×3 inches
Paired with poetry by Magdalena Montagne
WHEN I ENTER HIS COAT
So big I don't put it on,
but rather walk into it.
It's as if a sanctuary
of him,
this black leather sheath.
The smokey scents not unlike incense
in church,
the tar where the county workers
have patched the old roads where I live.
The tobacco my father chewed
and spat out methodically.
This Mediterranean climate yields no cause
to wear a cloak, leather or otherwise.
Yet on those melancholy days
on the brink of madness and rage
I'll put it on.
And something else comes over me.
As if surrounded by the vast ocean
watching tide uncoil itself towards shore.
Or the overflowing rush of spring mustard, dandelion
flowers,
the cerulean wave of lavender.
The bouquet sickly sweet
The essence of the death room
where my mother lay
three days
and I couldn't speak to her then.
Ensconced as I was
in my vengeful dream.
Awakening in the dark nights of November
no spirit will reveal itself to me.
Putting on the coat so carefully
as if to go out.
Wishing I could offer its comfort
to anyone on earth.
Linda Christensen - Ocean I & II (diptych)
oil on canvas
60x96 inches
Paired with poetry by Stephen Kessler
PELICAN THANKSGIVING
When I was young and indestructible
I’d spend all day at the beach broiling in the sun
and diving into waves and riding them back to the sand
untouched by undertow and able to not breathe
as long as it took to come up from being dumped
by a big breaker before drowning.
Now I walk near the cliffs and watch pelican squadrons
converging, floating, cruising, circling
and diving to feast on fishes in a cove,
hear girls gossiping on the path behind me and breathe
on a day when families are shoveling starchy foods
and watching televised football games in a stupor.
Being old and solo means you can feast your eyes
on the beauty of these birds or a babe in a tank top
with a good tan turning the corner on a skateboard
without desire, for the pure pleasure
of the ephemeral, for flashes of grace,
glimpses of random joy.
60x96 inches
Paired with poetry by Stephen Kessler
PELICAN THANKSGIVING
When I was young and indestructible
I’d spend all day at the beach broiling in the sun
and diving into waves and riding them back to the sand
untouched by undertow and able to not breathe
as long as it took to come up from being dumped
by a big breaker before drowning.
Now I walk near the cliffs and watch pelican squadrons
converging, floating, cruising, circling
and diving to feast on fishes in a cove,
hear girls gossiping on the path behind me and breathe
on a day when families are shoveling starchy foods
and watching televised football games in a stupor.
Being old and solo means you can feast your eyes
on the beauty of these birds or a babe in a tank top
with a good tan turning the corner on a skateboard
without desire, for the pure pleasure
of the ephemeral, for flashes of grace,
glimpses of random joy.
David Fleming - The Left Hook
oil on canvas
36x36 inches
Paired with poetry by Tom Meschery
A LITERARY MEMOIR
for Morton Marcus
Is this where poetry starts, Mort,
with a jab and a right cross, uncle
in vour corner, trainer and cut-man.
Jewish Mafia gunned down,
and all the intervening year
you tell me about fighting with words?
Some wins, some draws, few losses
but enough to cost you friends and family.
I have no problem seeing you in the ring,
a welter weight with quick hands,
jabs that keep your opponents off balance,
no dancing, moving straight forward,
accepting two punches for one,
what you believe it takes to write.
You got to get bloody, you say.
We are sitting together a month
before your death. We have done this before
talking late about sports and poetry,
sometimes forgetting there's a difference,
your punches, my hook shots,
a game I played that you admired,
a poem you wrote that knocked me out.
36x36 inches
Paired with poetry by Tom Meschery
A LITERARY MEMOIR
for Morton Marcus
Is this where poetry starts, Mort,
with a jab and a right cross, uncle
in vour corner, trainer and cut-man.
Jewish Mafia gunned down,
and all the intervening year
you tell me about fighting with words?
Some wins, some draws, few losses
but enough to cost you friends and family.
I have no problem seeing you in the ring,
a welter weight with quick hands,
jabs that keep your opponents off balance,
no dancing, moving straight forward,
accepting two punches for one,
what you believe it takes to write.
You got to get bloody, you say.
We are sitting together a month
before your death. We have done this before
talking late about sports and poetry,
sometimes forgetting there's a difference,
your punches, my hook shots,
a game I played that you admired,
a poem you wrote that knocked me out.
(SOLD) Melissa Kreisa - The Deep Blue Air
acrylic on canvas,
60 x48 inches
Paired with poetry by Robin Magowan
NISHAPURI BOWL
Out of lapis blue the Friend's face
rises
round-checked, smiling like a bell.
Black curves
swell outward until they fill
the bowl
entirely, like the peach tree
once glimpsed
in the arch of Mahan's flower-
lit pool.
Humble, blossoms perfectly still,
it stands,
friend who comes and, with his smile.
completes.
60 x48 inches
Paired with poetry by Robin Magowan
NISHAPURI BOWL
Out of lapis blue the Friend's face
rises
round-checked, smiling like a bell.
Black curves
swell outward until they fill
the bowl
entirely, like the peach tree
once glimpsed
in the arch of Mahan's flower-
lit pool.
Humble, blossoms perfectly still,
it stands,
friend who comes and, with his smile.
completes.
Quinn René Peck - Twirl
archival pigment ink on fabric
36x28 inches
Paired with poetry by Ayaz Pirani
INDIGENOUS INEXPLICITUS
When I say my name
people act like I've handed them fire
or a baby they've got to say something about
now that its in their arms
They didn't know my planet was there
the whole time,
behind the curtain like stabbed Polonius.
I fell off a cliff
when I decided to be born
among strangers.
Now I lie on the ageless beach
like a hearthrob.
It took centuries to stop
thinking about things I
never got to lose.
They were already gone
before I'd noticed
they weren't there to be lost.
I'm trying so hard to discover
or rediscover
an undiscovered country
Who can blame me
for fascinating the birds
as I walk through the forest?
36x28 inches
Paired with poetry by Ayaz Pirani
INDIGENOUS INEXPLICITUS
When I say my name
people act like I've handed them fire
or a baby they've got to say something about
now that its in their arms
They didn't know my planet was there
the whole time,
behind the curtain like stabbed Polonius.
I fell off a cliff
when I decided to be born
among strangers.
Now I lie on the ageless beach
like a hearthrob.
It took centuries to stop
thinking about things I
never got to lose.
They were already gone
before I'd noticed
they weren't there to be lost.
I'm trying so hard to discover
or rediscover
an undiscovered country
Who can blame me
for fascinating the birds
as I walk through the forest?
Margaret Rinkovsky - Coastal Series No. 2
oil on canvas
60x48 inches
Paired with poetry by Killarney Clary
BACKLIT
Backlit by the glitter-chopped horizon, each of these 17 Marbled Godwits poking at the tideline must have a heartbeat; every living, perfect Whimbrel, its eyes. The surf is stacked, tilted, as if it were higher than the beach. There is an urgency to turn home, get this assignment of pleasure done, strike it off the list where vanish will be the last task, and then there is the thought of those 17 hearts. Less rain means more salt, anchovies, more whales-
a ferment to savor against a distant mass of Shearwaters above the incessant upwelling.
60x48 inches
Paired with poetry by Killarney Clary
BACKLIT
Backlit by the glitter-chopped horizon, each of these 17 Marbled Godwits poking at the tideline must have a heartbeat; every living, perfect Whimbrel, its eyes. The surf is stacked, tilted, as if it were higher than the beach. There is an urgency to turn home, get this assignment of pleasure done, strike it off the list where vanish will be the last task, and then there is the thought of those 17 hearts. Less rain means more salt, anchovies, more whales-
a ferment to savor against a distant mass of Shearwaters above the incessant upwelling.
Rose Sellery - Children of the Black Haired People
mixed media 45.5x10x2.5 inches
Pairied with poetry by Nancy Miller Gomez
WHY I TIE MY HAIR TO TREES
Thick, black handfuls gathered
from the comb. I carry the nest of it
outside to drape on a low-hanging branch
of the oak. Later when I look, it's gone,
carried off by wind or birds.
I like to imagine it as home
for song sparrows, the strands
woven into the twigs and leaves.
Or collected by wood rats
along with cobwebs and cloth
and buried in the woodpile,
a piece of me nestled into the lives
of these creatures. Or maybe,
blown into the trees, tangled
in the lacy crown of the hemlock.
At night, when the outlines
of familiar objects run into the dark.
I like to think there is a part of me
that isn't afraid, one slender curl
shining in the moonlight.
Pairied with poetry by Nancy Miller Gomez
WHY I TIE MY HAIR TO TREES
Thick, black handfuls gathered
from the comb. I carry the nest of it
outside to drape on a low-hanging branch
of the oak. Later when I look, it's gone,
carried off by wind or birds.
I like to imagine it as home
for song sparrows, the strands
woven into the twigs and leaves.
Or collected by wood rats
along with cobwebs and cloth
and buried in the woodpile,
a piece of me nestled into the lives
of these creatures. Or maybe,
blown into the trees, tangled
in the lacy crown of the hemlock.
At night, when the outlines
of familiar objects run into the dark.
I like to think there is a part of me
that isn't afraid, one slender curl
shining in the moonlight.
Bobby Williams - Mira Monte
oil on canvas, framed
20x30 inches
Paired with poetry by Lee Herrick
STRAWBERRIES
I pulled into the dirt lot for delicious strawberry
because I stop for entrepreneurs and grammar like that.
What is more American? I too came from another country, like someone once did in your family, who had what it took to farm in a new language, learn the laws, learn the people.
When I was a boy before I became a citizen,
I pledged allegiance to the flag before I knew
what allegiance was, what an ally was, what a republic was, or what it meant to stand. I entered the dream of the farmer
when I walked up to his business, each basket
of berries another dollar for his son who has not been
to Southeast Asia but knows California well, knows
the supermarkets and the malls, the ocean swells
and the angle of sunlight in his mother's fatigue.
The farmer speaks like a poet, dreaming about the river
back home. I bet his favorite American poet would be Rich
or Whitman, Espada or Vang. I buy six baskets and no sky opens,
no doves break into fight but the first perfect strawberry
glistens in the valley light before I take it into my mouth
and become a citizen of these open American fields.
20x30 inches
Paired with poetry by Lee Herrick
STRAWBERRIES
I pulled into the dirt lot for delicious strawberry
because I stop for entrepreneurs and grammar like that.
What is more American? I too came from another country, like someone once did in your family, who had what it took to farm in a new language, learn the laws, learn the people.
When I was a boy before I became a citizen,
I pledged allegiance to the flag before I knew
what allegiance was, what an ally was, what a republic was, or what it meant to stand. I entered the dream of the farmer
when I walked up to his business, each basket
of berries another dollar for his son who has not been
to Southeast Asia but knows California well, knows
the supermarkets and the malls, the ocean swells
and the angle of sunlight in his mother's fatigue.
The farmer speaks like a poet, dreaming about the river
back home. I bet his favorite American poet would be Rich
or Whitman, Espada or Vang. I buy six baskets and no sky opens,
no doves break into fight but the first perfect strawberry
glistens in the valley light before I take it into my mouth
and become a citizen of these open American fields.
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