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POETS ON SITE on

“Painted My Way” the Exhibition of

the 14th Annual Henry Fukuhara Workshop APC Fine Arts and Graphics Gallery

1621 Cabrillo Ave Torrance, CA 90501

POETS ON SITE

Poems by

Millicent Borges Accardi, Pamela A. Babusci, George Bodmer, Beverly M. Collins, Amanda Dcosta, Nora DeMuth, Pauli Dutton, Richard Dutton, olga garcia, Victor P. Gendrano, Sharon Hawley, Paganini Jones, Christine Jordan, Deborah P Kolodji, Jean Leonard, Janis Albright Lukstein, Radomir Vojtech Luza, Mira N. Mataric, Alex Nodopaka, Christina Nyugen, Susan Rogers, Beth Shibata, Joan E. Stern, Stevie Strang,

Nancy Ellis Taylor, Maja Trochimczyk, Megan Webster, Erika Wilk, Kath Abela Wilson

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POETS ON SITE is an ongoing cooperative poetic writing and performance group created by Kath Abela and Rick Wilson in Southern California, in 2008. Poets write in inspiring environments in response to common inspiration, of nature, science, and the arts. In this Volume, local poets join with international friends in viewing and responding poetically. Accompanying the poets in the gallery performance September 18, 2011 was Rick Wilson on Japanese shakuhachi and American Indian flute.  

 

 

©Copyright 2011 as a compilation Poets on Site and ©to the individual poets Edited by Kath Abela Wilson kaw@oldflutes.com September, 2011

POETS

ON

SITE 

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Al Setton “Moo-ving” (Watercolor)

Kath Abela Wilson in the days of dream full of multicolor sunshine did I turn into a cow did you paint me out of the waking pasture did the house empty of everything but the dream I left there and did I feed on what was left the beautiful days can I bring them along in my bright body with all the good humor of pastel grass and watercolor streams

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Pamela A. Babusci summer village... is the cow mow-ing or moonviewing?

 

Megan Webster

Rainbow Eyes ride the rainbow wind out of view between peaks and deep lilac vales, behold the dazzling abode: imagine the hearth’s sanctity! Beth Shibata A sunset so radiant even the cows look up and notice.

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Nancy Doughty “Ballad for Americans” (Collage)

Beth Shibata

We thought we were Americans having been born on this fertile free soil. We really did. All through public school we sang of this land being mine and yours, how beautiful and wide the sky is and about the bountiful golden fields of grain. We were taught that we were Americans. Until the day they told us to pack up and leave because we looked like the enemy. They sent us away, but we still sang of our new homes, now on the range but with barbed wire perimeters, fenced in like cattle. But we still thought we were Americans-- and followed our government's orders. And we sang. We sang until our voices cracked, hoarse and desert dry, and were lost in the sand-blown wind. We sang with every star-spangled wish and prayer for our American sons, brothers, husbands fighting for the right to be what we already thought they were. So we sang of how grand the flag was as it flew high, on guard towers on the 4th of July, while soldiers watched over us with rifles. We thought we were Americans. After all, Independence was only ten miles north.

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Sharon Pauer “Bunny Rock and Kearsarge Peak” (Watercolor)   Christina Nyugen I stop to linger at this spot blue sky and a breeze trying our best to forget hate high peaks echo in spring's bloom no tears to wash away all the regret the sun and the mountain sky don't try to make sense of our past this spot — with one deep breath we know we are all free again from here can you see back in the past? secret tanka that cannot be written even in code

Deborah P Kolodji a bunny rock, a bunny slope… distant peaks beckon and yet I feel dwarfed by what I don't understand

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Ada M. Passaro “Home Sweet Home” (Pastel)

Maja Trochimczyk

Home Sweet Home

Look at the tall peaks of the Sierras The snow melts in rivulets like diamond lava Flowing into the valley of charcoal dreams Look at the rivers of light coming down Like early morning hope that will carry you Through the dark days of barbed wire Pretend not to notice the barren ground, muddy pathways of absence and hunger Look at the mist arising into turquoise sky Sharon Hawley Where is America’s idyll home that dream house and the good life? is it in a prison barrack where husband loves and children cling? or in a suburb overtaxed and underwater overworked and little loved without a view is sight?

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Chris Hero “Manzanar Barracks” (Inks, Watercolor & Chalk)

Erika Wilk

I live here now but it is not my home I miss my brushes, paints I miss my books and music how shall I spend my time when all I see outdoors is brown grass, dry trees I long for my garden the scent of pine koi in the pond how long must I be here before I can love life again

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Joe Cibere “Manzanar Light” (Watercolor and Ink)

Mira N. Mataric

There is not much light in Manzanar

it is a winter night and all is frozen cold in the desert with high mountains

and tall observation tower. The moon is silvery frost but strangely bleeding

reflecting narrowly focused merciless beam upon a tiny family of newcomers to the Japanese internment barracks. In this harsh attention they look lost and helpless

with no other alive creature around. What is it about?

The frozen Manzanar night and the painting are showing but not telling.

I hope all nature is soon having a change of season more light and hotter sun will melt the frost,

distrust and prejudice so love and peace will reign.

Stevie Strang

power outage fumbling around in the dark for some matches remembering the flashlight I left back home

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Hatsuko Mary Higuchi “Executive Order 9066, Series 10: I am an American”

Beth Shibata This number, the one emblazoned in yellow on my forehead, animates my life as an enemy of my country. How can this be? I was born here. I am an American. How I long for someone to wipe away these terrible marks, erase the scars seared into my brain, my soul, my heart, and sand them into a smooth, white, simple American brow.

Pamela A. Babusci i am an american still i cling to my beautiful kimono that holds all my grandmother's scents from her village from her life under a japanese sky

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Victor P. Gendrano From distant shores your forebears came to Plymouth Rock, Coney Island even in Louisiana bayous and Watsonville, California. Like them, though I smell Of udon, sushi, taco, adobo, even pho, or eat with my two hands I was born here, remember bro I am an American like you. Our skins may not be white and we are small and short speaking broken English interspersed with Nippongo or Hindi, even Pilipino, yet I am an American like you. Imprisoned in Manzanar concentration camp, apple orchard of the natives, gilded with barbed wires and guarded with watch towers. Why am I here, didn’t you know I am an American just like you.

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Pat Crowther Spring Blossoms, Manzanar (Watercolor)

Deborah P Kolodji apple blossoms in this dreary place of waiting…. fruits of lives politically on-hold Kath Abela Wilson You have taken my breath away at a right angle so strange this path my life yet the sap runs strong and I bloom anyway having taken this strange turn in life unexpected decisive shaped by obstacle a creature of humor and strange beauty grows around it

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Chizuko Judy Sugita deQueiroz “Gone Fishing-Manzanar” (Mixed Media on

Clayboard Denise Dumars Gone Fishing—Manzanar I know you want to rush with water Pour out words and feelings In the clefts of cliffs Break the ignorance of the world The way that water breaks down Even stone, and I am with you. We all know the connotation Blue evokes; we all ride purple sage In our daydreams when we are sitting In an office under artificial light, Hard edges wanting badly To succumb to uneven terrain And winding rivers. When a person is daydreaming Some say “Gone fishing.” Why would we not want The mountains, the flowers, The water? What are we doing here?

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Kath Abela Wilson The Count do birds fly in flocks innumerable like stars or are they more like the distance of hearts in the wind do siblings grow like fragile leaves on thin branches over a shallow stream so delicate some break is unspeakable beauty in the gap where a child’s arms reach father to mother and fingertips almost touch how empty the gentle arching cliff to cliff sister to brother a dance without music where silence plays is this how the stream deepens but not with forgetfulness we fish with mystery for memory we who play in deserted streams

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Erika Wilk

anchored rooted near a stream reaching to touch the other side

a welcome spot amid arid hills tranquil the river offers respite to parched and anxious souls

Mira N. Mataric

No. Not fishing. I couldn’t sit still at that playful, joyous, musical stream!

All is moving, like flock of birds, colorful clouds, mountains just a purple dream

with wavelike hills sloping into the crystal water I cannot resist entering.

I close my eyes and all colors fade

into a messy dark escapade but how do I stop the nature’s noise

the plants drop their heads and smile they too, like fish are wisely taciturn

so we all attentively listen awhile to all forms of life’s exultation

creating a mighty chorus of reverberation rocking all nature into a cacophonic crescendo

now, some flowers start yawning, a touch of innuendo:

it is all to gaudy, loud and too bright. Exhausting!

The sun, please, turn off the light and let us all prepare for a restful night.

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Leslie Knowles “Road to Manzanar” (Watercolor)

Mira N. Mataric

The road is washed by sunlight the mountains dark blue and snowy white

like the massive ocean waves blending into the azure skies with foamy clouds

the old barracks unnoticeable from the lush greenery the 4 electric poles, like crosses, tall and proud remind me of the 442nd all Japanese American

Infantry Regiment known as the most decorated in the history of the USA:

14,000 of them served, receiving 18,143 various awards from the Purple Hearts to

Medals of Honor and Presidential Citations. No missing in action, no soldiers left behind. 75% of them volunteered, some were drafted

from the camps like Manzanar. Could anyone doubt they were true Americans?

Yet, on their return, they were greeted by the signs “No Japs Wanted”

in some public places.

Kath Abela Wilson there is a chill I feel just before the turn in the road knowing where it leads the icy certainty of the peaks above

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Mira N. Mataric

Leslie Knowles: Road to Manzanar II

The road is white and sun drenched

the restless souls still confused and pained the war is going on and wounds are open

until the peace is attained.

Road to Manzanar is another Canossa Mea culpa another phantom cries

not finding solace since 1942. although she still tries.

But Nature washes off its stains

and starts anew every spring that is why landscapes breathe serenity

and hope harmony maintains.

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Nancy Bearce “Manzanar Memories” (Watercolor)

Mira N. Mataric

There is something innocently happy and playful

not oppressive memories of the Japanese intern camp the barracks like children toys

music in the colorful flock of the origami birds the mountains are ice cream cones

but there is a milky stream from an unknown source making the barracks float like the Noah’s arcs

and from somewhere the sound of the Mozart’s Turkish March completes this dream.

Memories are always more beautiful than reality.

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Gloria Lee “Manzanar 1” (Watercolor)

Millicent Borges Accardi

Forced Relocation

Long before the first "protective custody homes," The "reception centers," and "transit camps." There were pears, and apple orchards, alfalfa fields meadows, corn and peaches.

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Amanda Dcosta Snow A little speck of white begins to fall; looks high and low as seasons change their place. Earth smiles in answer to chill winter's call and bids adieu to autumn's breezy grace. This eager flake takes center stage that's set with fallen leaves, a carpet of bright hue. It scans the place and whistles loud to let a host of dancing flakes to frosty tune. Yet, though the sky lights up with crystals white and dainty steps to speckle naked trees, it's arms embrace all houses within sight thus spreading warmth despite the howling freeze. Pray, tell me, Snow, what tidings come my way; Do you bring news to brighten up my day?

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Selina Cheng “Cemetery Shrine at Manzanar” (Watercolor)

Radomir Vojtech Luza I'm Already Dead The skin has been peeled The nails pulled The noise silenced The birth of the music critic in my head has been aborted Every strand of hair has been burned My teeth have been turned into butter The beatles in my step have turned into the grateful dead the florence henderson of my nature turned into johnny cash plant me next to me Bury me near me Don't stick the big rock into The white dove in my dead palm Paganini Jones

simplicity of this monument, black on white to console bringing bright birds the souls we yet living remember of the dead (The words on this shrine read "Monument to console the souls of the dead")

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Trish Shaheen “Road Home Olancha” (Watercolor)

Maja Trochimczyk The Road Home Do you like the poplars? They line up the streets cutting across sugar beet fields on the outskirts of Warsaw The yellow heart-shaped leaves tremble in the breeze, glisten like molten metal after the rain The California poplars stand straight green, and tall, guarding the way Two fence poles gossip The fields sparkle with color – Fuchsia, rusty orange, Burnt mauve, and bronze The summer grass is dead The rocks bruised purple by the dying sun Only the sky, blessed by honey Shines with the mandarin certainty Of coming home

Sharon Hawley

A Private Road We had a tree beside our road stout and cool like this one gate closed to all but us we drove along a gentle brook where striders floated bullfrogs bloated and little things made me glad our road still bends its way old peach trees by its side dying now, those whips I planted for want of pruning, lack of care maples spread around our house shade a jungle, once our yard a mere foundation and cellar hole show the house we built and love that held it up now gone

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Bill Anderson “Manzanar” (Watercolor)

Kath Abela Wilson do the piles of rocks that mimic mountains only mimic a wall that separates us such a small barrier we wish across how imposing the mountains so high so close as if tomorrow were already here when I look out of my enclosure you impose yourself can you fill my eyes with today are yesterday and tomorrow either side of a pile of rocks have I dreamt you into existence grown you like an old garden these mountains of now

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Phyllis Doyon “Grazing” (Watercolor)

Amanda Dcosta In My Home

In my home, there was always laughter. It didn’t matter if clothes weren’t grand or rich food wasn’t on the table or expensive toys weren’t what we had. In my home, us kids were carefree We weren’t threatened by what we lacked. A welcoming meal was always ready For guests who'd pop in to share a laugh. In my home, there was hardly a thought of what we could save up for many years hence. Parents earned just enough for our upkeep and what was earned somehow ended up spent. Those were the days of happy childhood in my home; ask my siblings three. Though we weren’t well off in worldly wealth what we had was a ‘rich’ family. Parents taught us the greatness of values; Love was the spirit. Faith was the core God was the head of our family structure: In all things consulted, His advice to know I wish all families were part of my home Where laughter and sharing aren’t memories for few Where kids didn’t lose their innocent spark And blessings abounded galore.

Megan Webster Yesterday I sniff the perfume of springtime, yellowish-green summer harbinger, farm smells from distant childhood, sycamore shade—cows lazing.

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Shirley Manning “At the Ranch” (Watercolor)

Sharon Hawley

Is this the one promised my mansion over the hilltop in the sweet bye and bye where streets glisten with gold and the sun never sets? I hope it is and every word a metaphor hilltop, meaning not too far sweet, a word for love bye and bye, until I die gold, the color of autumn and mansion is a place where love does not fade like the morning dew Paginini Jones bare branches only last year's pine waiting for winter echoing footsteps and a creaking swing

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Jane Cash “Alabama Hills” (Colored Pencil)

Beth Shibata It’s hard to explain why we keep coming back. There is mystery in these rocks. The sun baking your brain and drying your paint faster than you can lay it down gives no hint, and the wind grinding dusty sand into your eyes, laughs as it leaves the paper sandpaper gritty. But none of that tells why. We return to paint these rocks again and again, shapes that so often elude us on paper, we try hard to unravel a piece of the mystery and not end up painting a field of potatoes. Nora DeMuth Transformation 2011 7 days ago, this place was empty 7 hours ago, it felt something coming 7 minutes ago, it remembered 7 decades ago

Paganini Jones

sitting quiet only ravens, his voice, their breath drawing in expectation, will there be music or food?

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Mary Ann Andrews “Alabama Hills East” (Watercolor)

Erika Wilk relocated into the hills boulders find comfort in soft earth while being watched in silence tossed by unknown force rocks litter the hill they snuggle in pairs like mates

Mira N. Mataric

All is clear on this picture nature is not confused

prejudiced and distrustful. The mountains like Lorkas’s the body of a woman dream

the white rocks are her spilled necklace on the green silky grass.

All the poles are straight with no reason for any other way no matter what is happening

now a new season will bring change and sun will also rise in the east

bringing a new day.

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David Deyell AIA, Emeritus “Through and Beyond” (Watercolor) Nancy Ellis Taylor through and beyond there are gardens in the desert some in creviced rocks some hidden in flood-worn canyons others arising in dry formations teasing out little pockets of life flowers wait for blessing rain through and beyond storm waters feed hidden springs rare and startlingly green grows up the rosy canyon walls sparking tiny blossomings

never long enough the spring yet following the trickling through and beyond new grottoes arrive suddenly and seeds from a burst of wind drop in new and fertile homes mossy dripping traceries trail down the layers of centuries a momentary and moist artfulness through and beyond potsherds and petroglyphs the language of abandonment ragged formations tear at the gray clouds flying there is never enough what little refreshment falls through and beyond will not stay long but there will be gardens gardens in the desert where the trails become arroyos twisting dry then wild wet rushed through and beyond

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Marjean Weber “Alabama Hills” (Watercolor)

Alabama Hills Beverly M. Collins If Stone could talk, if rock could call out, What secrets would its dusty voice reveal? Would it tell of the teardrops that fell on the slopes or how weary the feet walking near? Oh Alabama hills, unyielding and proud. boast emotions of gray, brown and blue. I’ve seen raindrops in joy as they dance on your peeks and birds abandoned their flight just for you. You stand, rubbing elbows with heaven, Offering the coolness found in your shade. I’ve seen a bolder drop heavily down, from the crease of a frown that you made. olga garcia i will step forward in time and smell the roses

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Denise Katzenberger “West of Lone Pine” (Watercolor)

Erika Wilk ah, there you are same spot beautiful but just because you wear deep purple velvet blinding gold lame demure dove grey you needn’t stick your nose in the air ok ok you are stunning and the lighting technician brings out your best side by the way I’m glad to see you allow the new little sprouts to hang around big of you

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Rea Nagel “High Country”

Maja Trochimczyk Through the Fire

Red dragons with wild eyes Crawl from under the surface The dragons of magma That cools off and hardens Until it cracks open Under the insistent rhythm Of fresh water droplets As the rock gives in to the life Of the roots of the tree Red dragons with wild eyes Will burn, burn again It is just for a moment That they’ve rested, waiting For the silent forests Of our words to blossom Into infinite bouquets Of affection, into the sweet Certainty of being loved

Erika Wilk

red roasted peppers charred soothed in olive oil

Joan E. Stern

scorched by sun’s strong rays engulfed in crimson cascades rocks echo shrill cries

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Craig Anderson “He Sleeps in Alabama Hills” (Watercolor)

Mira N. Mataric

The bushes are succulently green and solid nurtured by the gentle furrow

whose constant murmur sings a lullaby for his eternal sleep in the hill

looking like a giant scull dipped half in the sand eyes closed against the scorching sun and a forehead with a worry wrinkle about the wars and humankind

if not a scull than an alien space ship whose eyes are impenetrable observation holes warning: I watch you while you cannot see me!

olga garcia

oh, God, please wake up I am invisible again

Mira N. Mataric

rest in peace determined to end in the pink and icy blue mountains

with skies of perfect harmony between the past and present

and the road invitingly curving toward the open light.

This road is meant for the small children’s giggling feet to run!

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Patricia Wooley “Alabama Hills” (Watercolor) Kath Abela Wilson rainbow mountains rocks and sky I am alone here with my shadow and my pot of gold paint Nora DeMuth Alabama Hills Have you ever seen a rock saturated with color? Like that fairy tale where some kid fools a giant by squeezing water out of a hunk of cheese The stupid giant thought it was a rock Saturated With color

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Shelley Pearson “Ranch Cows and Trees” (Watercolor)

Alex Nodopaka Ataraxia Masticating her words Ruminating each letter I think of Epicurus and gas- tronomical poly- andry

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Paige Dickman “Reveries in the Tune of Owens Lake” (Oil on Canvas) Millicent Borges Accardi Quenching Thirst

It was as Early As March When Los Angeles began Wanting. There was Owens And 233 miles.

Truly, there was Never Enough. There were More rights Extended to supply The growing metropolis. There was The Owens Valley floor Blue into orange As The decade wore Down one farmer After another.

Extending northward Into Long Valley, Diverting ground water, Leaving ranches without

Including Manzanar, Uninhabited For the better Of the good of the growing City.

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Susan Rogers

Find the River It happens on occasion. The rain falls in a sun bright sky. A perfect watercolor landscape bleeds. An unexpected fountain forms where a pipe has ruptured on the ground. The unthinkable occurs. Not the impossible. Just the unplanned, unanticipated, out of the blue. It can happen here. It can happen to you. When you least expect it. You might be walking down a familiar street, some ordinary afternoon and a passerby will say to you, “Psst. Come over here. You cannot walk on this road anymore. It is not open for you.” What are you going to do? When the rain falls in a clear sky, you may feel a note of wonder, you may smile even though you suddenly get wet. When a red rock in your watercolor bleeds, you may have the chance to picture a novelty: a brilliant scarlet river. And when you come across

Donna McBride “Alabama Rock Talk” (Watercolor)

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a broken pipe, you too, may break into release. Into a rush of buoyant water. It goes both ways. You may choose to see inconvenience in the rain, ruin in a watercolor, loss of water in the geyser. You may choose to regret the unforeseen, yet why waste your limited, extraordinary breath? It happens on occasion— the death of a bird too small to fly after it plummets from your backyard tree. The place you have always known as home pretends you are a foreign country. What are you going to do? It’s bound to happen. I suggest we slip into another view. Choose a new street. Look through our difficulty and see the unwanted, differently. Start now. Find the river in the bleeding rock, the beautiful singularity.

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Denise Dumars Alabama Rock Talk I talk to rocks all the time, And sometimes they talk to me. Mostly they just say, “Help! Get me out of here!” Especially those who have witnessed Things no one should have to see, Not even a rock. Rocks do not understand color The way artists do; they mostly Like to fade away into the background, But if you look closely at any painting That includes a rock, you Will see it move. No, don’t blame Your bifocals or the red wine artists drink. I like to think that the rocks are saying “Thank you,” to the artist, and “Read me like a book,” to those who understand.  

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Sherwood L. Brown “Alabama Hills Rocks” (Watercolor)

Nora DeMuth Best Practices Truth is best shown through speckles and distortion Knowledge best told while sitting in the shade olga garcia awakening against the legs of a lover a happy knee Deborah P Kolodji so quiet the stillness of rocks and in their shadows I imagine the hisses of sleeping snakes

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Doris L. Arima “Alabama Hills-2011” (Watercolor) Kath Abela Wilson

boulder colors of dawn colors of sunset separate day and night me and you sky and stone seesaw aglow in slanting light gold and violet we slide night into day Nora DeMuth Reverie Oh, how I want to fly Crouch on top of a rock, scrunch my knees up, and spring! into the air above I would glide a little, pick up an air current or two, then look back at this place and know: It's good to move from darkness into light

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Ron Libbrecht “Dirty Socks to the Sierra” (Watercolor)

Nancy Ellis Taylor days in the sierras i am crusty with crushed insects dust and bits of trail mix will you still love me in dirty socks Beverly M. Collins

Dirty Socks to the Sierra We hear promising words form from the babble of the Sierra River as the fragile land greets the power of flow. It offers its strong delicate support as it continues to chisel the rainbow-landscape, quenching the thirst of all in its spray. Ever clearing, ever building and feeding.. The Sierra aides in the calm removal of dirt from our socks. Allowing the simple dream of clean clothes to come true. Water is refuge, friend and renewal. Kath Abela Wilson not in a mirror or reflection I look doubly long and deeply into the landscapes of both your eyes

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Beth Shibata “Through Old Eyes” (Digital Image)

Sharon Hawley

Through the years I see the old place young like a baby’s face in Pleistocene rock a puppy in sagging old-dog eyes the grass needs bushogging the roof surely leaks bodocks invade the farm and who knows what they’ve done inside but nothing’s changed for I know this place as it is

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Nya Patrinos “All the Pretty Horses” (Oil on Panel)

Sharon Hawley All the Pretty Horses A painting by Nya Patrinos and a novel by Cormack McCarthy (all italicized lines are quotes from the novel.) He walked out and stood like a man come out to the end of something no sound except the ticking of falling leaves on the roof a few last twitterings of birds sequestered in the dark and wiry brush he stood looking at his holdings as he remembered them as they had changed and the rocks became horses he reflected long upon the ways of God and the laws of primogeniture were all the leanings of his life for this? he fell to coughing took a drink of water sat smoking and shaking his head The Yoshida name was buried with that old man Paganini Jones in this place thundering hooves and the crowd like lightening await the next storm

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C.S. Champe “Rode Hard Leather” (Photograph)

Nancy Ellis Taylor

A Little East of West

I am bent on making you see my jeans are good enough. Just ignore the “Hello Kitty” on the knee and come here, Cowboy!

Bernard Vyzga “Ranch Hands” (Watercolor)

Janis Albright Lukstein

rough-handed ranch hands wake early to rise by the sun to take care of the animals 'n plants that need tendin' . . . no cowboy yahooing for fun Kath Abela Wilson

we work together clearing a path from earth to sky who will notice when it happens our subtle turning like mountains into clouds Pauli Dutton

the blue infinite sky dust at my feet mountains that go on forever washed by faint color meld into one

Paganini Jones

today’s discussion about who will drive the car always the mountain

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In Memory Tribute Wall

Bob Doughty “Spainhower Ranch-Lone Pine” (Watercolor)

Kath Abela Wilson

Lone Pine it’s as if there is just one last post in this world one pine standing from earth to sky it’s you like a rocket on its platform of dry grass a reach toward the heavens almost making it held in place barbed wire wrapped set apart we’re the cattle on the other side intent on grazing it’s what we do we’re made of life add more to ourselves to make more of it we’re cattle like the clouds puzzle pieces of sky and after that we become a tender slant toward evening we hold onto you wrapped no more in separation but in the sunset’s rose Paganini Jones sky broken uncertain yet the cows stand. a good day to hike the cloud-drifted ridge

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Dan Dickman “Keeler Mill” (Watercolor)

Beth Shibata “Keeler Mill” Here it is: the building at the end of the line. That railroad come from the north and stopped right here. Didn't go no further. Now them ties, the wind is slowly getting them, whittling them down while the shrubs are coming up in the spaces between. But the mill still goes on a bit, even if the big dream up and died. There's always hope even out here as long as we get left to ourselves. Paganini Jones red sky reminiscent of laborors' faces the clattering railroad and miners iron will. nowhere the evening ghosts

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Gladys Checa “Spring in Manzanar” (Watercolor)

Amanda Dcosta Anger As far as possible keep rage at bay; It is not healthy for the mind and soul. It eats into our peace and tends to stay; creates hostility beyond control within the recesses of human mind to gnaw away at bits of sanity ‘til nothing else is left within its tide except the taste of animosity. However, if we choose to find a way, forgiving what the other might have done, we’ll notice that no matter what they say the healing of sore wounds will have begun. It’s wise to manage anger from the start before its talons tear us all apart.

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Lynn Marit Peterson “Fenced In” (Watercolor) Victor P. Gendrano barbed wires and watchtowers - stark symbols and reminders of Manzanar's concentration camp we should never forget the xenophobic hysteria and racial profiling of a nation at war seventy years ago Radomir Vojtech Luza Wood I am fenced in I cannot think I canot move I cannot be real I don't even know what real is I don't even want to know The Wood is like my soul Rotten as three day old lettuce Moldy as old wheat bread Ripped apart like dilapidated foot bridge The metal tower Makes me a foreigner in my own country A rat among cats Never enough Always a refugee In the air While I on the ground Crawl like a snake Wrapped in fur of blood

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Alex Nodopaka No Trespassing In transit from Kyiv to somewhere we didn’t know yet except that a barbed wire circled our refugee camp. I recall crawling underneath with other kids to collect from the bottom of creeks live bullets by the hundreds. Here in the midst of dense woods Wehrmacht soldiers stripped their chevrons and medals off their uniforms. They disposed of them in rivers and ponds and creeks by shedding their guilty belongings so as not to be identified with the madmen they served. We kids didn't know that. All we wanted was the charcoal flakes in the brass shells. To get it, one held the cartridge by its tail between index and thumb and wedge the point of the bullet against a flat rock and with a smaller disc-shaped rock strike the midriff of the bullet where its head met the cartridge with a sharp precision blow so that its cylindrical belly spilled its powdered black entrails. As we did it we madly hoped to crawl back alive under the barbed wire. Joan E. Stern trapped in a dark wind by barbed wire and watch towers sentinels of doom Stevie Strang sliver of moon vacant dreams manifest high above the tower

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Tom Fujiwara “Pleasure Park-Manzanar” (Watercolor)

Beth Shibata We found pleasure here despite the barbed wire. We simply ignored it and turned inward to find respite in a koi pond, a rock garden, a wildflower. We found pleasure here and tranquility in a place of our own making.

51 

 

JoAnn Formia “Take Only One” (Watercolor)

Beth Shibata

They gave us two days Forty-eight hours to distill each life into a single cardboard suitcase— only one each— some clothing, a necklace, a photograph, a baseball, a doll, So much of who we had become we left behind. The life we built was left to poachers, hyenas and vultures anxiously awaiting our departure. And we, we were left stripped bare of everything we believed.

52 

 

Lynn Mikami “EVOCATION” (Mixed Media)

Maja Trochimczyk A Dark Promise Meet me at seven by the barbed wire in the shadow of the west guard tower Stay close to the corner of the fence They will not see us Make yourself small, immobile Wear that patched, gray sweater Look down, do not let the whites Of your eyes betray you Let me tell you of persimmon, Sushi, and green tea – remember? You don’t even know the taste, do you? Be still, be careful, keep your voice low Please, don't cry – they will not see us This is how we'll live

53 

 

Christine Jordan Evocation you are called, every one of you, a summons from within the torn fabric of a nation, why, it may be possible, you say, to have too much security, whole flocks of people penned in, wringing the barbed wire with their soul's fingers, asking, "why, why?” Victor P. Gendrano Evocation no barbed wires nor watch towers can long imprison the free spirits of Manzanar's concentration camp's victims

54 

 

Ron Pidot “Only a Dream: Gaman” (Archival Digital Photograph) olga garcia

under a full moon waiting for fields of melted barbed wire Beverly M. Collins Only a Dream Fear makes a faulty eye lens launching brother on brother attacks. Stand strong sweet stubborn soul. Though your dignity is wounded, the great light within you is still yours to have and to hold . I see your flame there within your solemn stare at the road leading to broken promise. Where justice-for-all became just-this-for-all looking like you (if they would be honest). Know the spilled milk and honey, harsh words, the spiked vines, all the locks on the doors did not capture your power to choose how you choose to react. One day your grim face will leak laughter.. 

55 

 

Alex Nodopaka Breech Birth or Birth of an Ass Cheeks emerge from betwixt two adjoining flags. One an all-white square with a red disc in its center mimics a supermarket Target sign. The adjacent flag is the old red white and blue with stars and stripes in the top left corner. The butt handle of a bayonet originates from the Nippon Constitution. Its samurai razor tip circumcises the top corner of the United States of America Declaration of Independence. Uncannily, the apparent shadow under the nose of the birthing life-mask ominously reminds of the ultimate Kommandant of the SS and Gestapo. The mug rests on a paper tag appearing not unlike the blade of a guillotine and like a metronome it ticks off the remainder of life’s seconds of his unholy birth and suicide. Art in a box is not simple boxed art Watch out Joseph Cornell, this is more than box art. It is a boxing match boxing opposing cultures, one all out for Maximumism, the other for Minimalism. Capitalism versus.Zenism and like some other poem spells it out it has nothing to do with Maximism or Maxism or Marxism or Momism or Memism and though I named it after Meme it also could be Memeism. As for me I’d rather have lunch anytime at Maxim’s.

56 

 

Tom Fong “Owens Lake” (Watercolor)

Maja Trochimczyk When the sky turns orange And the lake counts its grey hair close your eyes, breathe silence Pamela A. Babusci autumn sky... blue stillness reflected in the lake

Susan Rogers The Guardian I see her hover high in an orange sky watching evening dissolve the known world into blue bitter blue, a lake unfurled Deborah P Kolodji sun-fire in the sky over what’s left of Owen’s Lake… and we drink toasts by our pools in L.A.

57 

 

Jan Wright “Color Me American” (Watercolor/ink/markers)

Jean Leonard Proud to be an American When I hear your name America, I hear it and rejoice, and take the chance to serve you with a loyal poet's voice. For I came to you an alien, you are my chosen land, and when you need defending I'll so gladly make a stand; To tell about your human rights, explain your written laws, and prove to you that poets are your best ambassadors. I pray each time i praise your name my words ring true and wise, and spread a message of goodwill that won't antagonize. Yet, comes with a conviction that is far more clear than loud, and that I'm free to do so is the reason I am proud. And I'm proud that i could serve you in so many far off places, and prove you open up your arms to many different races, and I'm proud you made those open arms stretch wide enough for me; But, most of all America, I'm glad you made me free.

58 

 

Elaine Baldwin “Stormy Day” (Watercolor)

Maja Trochimczyk

The Waiting Nothing but rocks grows here On this plain of sharp yucca leaves And sand – Lavender hills draw sorrow From the air, waiting for the clouds To burst open – Heavy with rain, they bring A promise to each seed, hope for the roots Of new life –

Pamela A. Babusci

storm approaching the scent of rain on my palms

59 

 

Carla Staight “Dark Wind” (Watercolor) Radomir Vojtech Luza

Midnight

There is no light at 12AM None at all Life is as dark as Napoleon's soul Time is as dark as a shut suitcase A closed trunk It is never darker than when I cannot see doubt envelopes me like forlorn fog hate bounces on me like a caterwalling trampoline fear runs through my veins like oil 12:01

George Bodmer

Drop

What grows up from the apple trees? The fruit of wonder, the fruit of mistrust. I shall climb to the top to watch, To keep a lookout. Branch by branch, I support my limbs And brace against the current. Below me are the fallen-- Windfall yields a strange crop.

60 

 

Helen Hall Igoe “Swept from the Coast” (Watercolor)

Christine Jordan

"Swept From The Coast" Helen Hall Igoe (watercolor) simply, Hokusai is an older Japanese painter known for his waves, referenced visually in Helen's wonderful work the dark country, our own coast, our own parched ground, made darker still from unreasoning fear, blazing red points are so many hearts, broken, lonely, lone pines, now our heritage too, of Hokusai, hiding his head beneath the brave, blue and white and weeping waves.

61 

 

Janis Albright Lukstein

Swept from the Coast A wave of life came within the curves of a dragon swept from the coast by a tsunami without pause for justice Tsunamis are never fair- just swift and final Tatsu rode on the rainfall of tears of his country men imprisoned just because they were Japanese just because Japan had attacked A Japanese garden with rivers and sacred rocks would have suited Tatsu more than the peaks of the mountains and the canyons of the valleys in the Mojave Desert Manzanar was the river of sorrow the river of pain waves of confusion

62 

 

Michi Ikeda “The Spirits of Manzanar” (Watercolor)

Mira N. Mataric

Oh, they are well and alive in the most beautiful landscape this country can offer. In Spanish manzanar means apple orchard

an the tree is filled with fruit a gentle breeze like the mother’s touch

combined with the warm sunshine is announcing a rich yield

the flattened tall grass and some broken trees speak of harsh conditions

but the proud mountains and pink smiley skies offer a positive message

sleep in peace, nothing is lost and in vain you are not forgotten

as long as you bring awareness and inspire art sleep in peace. You have done your part.

63 

 

Kath Abela Wilson song oh spirits of tree and air oh spirits of the grass spirit of this white white stone so like the snow that settles on the peaks in my fingers fruit becomes light becomes bird becomes breath the motion of the air astir with wonder at our fragile stems the grass speaks syllables of what we were even when we are imagines us to be when we are not and what we were even when we are imagines us to be when we are not the tremble tree so lit with colored lights that never settle on the branch so brief our stay so brief our stay oh sing the air of longing for what was and is to be only the stone settles long yet changes still unseen it’s longing long and deep the ages turn the melting the water falls the urge to be and to be not anything but this shimmer of dawn and dusk and yet again to never end this song

64 

 

Peggy Johnson “Fly Away” (Watercolor) Millicent Borges Accardi

Fly Away

Fly away this blue Adolescence of the sky The airplane of abuse, Of thoughts I am trapped Inside my family’s lock, The garden sold to the state, Us here going to special Schools, hidden behind Metal gates we can only

Stare out at no visitors At least none I can remember Fly away to a place where This is not prison, and I see That and I am here, and I am alive, And wanting to break And now this but not that The never of ending of life Inside.

65 

 

Radomir Vojtech Luza

Wings I fly like a 747 in an open sky A rottweiler on his birthday I fly for not to fly would be like Taking a subway and not moving I fly for I have not flown for too long Not used my wings I have stood as still as a bartender at 6AM A cat before it pounces An actor forgetting his lines I have to fly like a falcon For I am more than human I am a God looking for somewhere to land

66 

 

Lily Yamada “Manzanar Marker” (Watercolor) Nancy Ellis Taylor

Becoming Dust

Soothsayers and fortune tellers scurry away down the back alleys they have seen it the portent etched at the bottom of every tea cup Whirlwind of change Cyclone of chains But who would believe it a line of origami cranes falls from a window sill a momentary spill a sudden loss of will but who would believe it All the doors close at once and what was written becomes dust

Richard Dutton

Oh, say can you see The star spangled banner Still wave In the land of the free? From that blackout tower At Manzanar?

67 

 

INDEX OF POETS

Millicent Borges Accardi 19, 35, 64 Pamela A. Babusci 4, 10, 56, 58 George Bodmer 59 Beverly M. Collins 29, 41, 54 Amanda Dcosta 20, 24, 47 Nora DeMuth 26, 33, 39, 40 Pauli Dutton 44 Richard Dutton 66 olga garcia 29, 32, 39, 54 Victor P. Gendrano 11, 48, 53 Sharon Hawley 7, 22, 25, 42, 43 Paganini Jones 21, 25, 26, 43, 44, 44, 45, 46 Christine Jordan 53, 60 Deborah P Kolodji 6, 12, 39, 56 Jean Leonard 57 Janis Albright Lukstein 44, 61 Radomir Vojtech Luza, 21, 48, 59, 65 Mira N. Mataric 9, 15, 16, 17, 18, 27, 32, 62 Alex Nodopaka 34, 49, 55 Christina Nyugen 6 Susan Rogers 36–37, 56 Beth Shibata 4, 5, 10, 26, 42, 46, 50, 51 Joan E. Stern 31, 49 Stevie Strang 9, 49 Nancy Ellis Taylor 28, 41, 44, 66 Maja Trochimczyk 7, 22, 31, 52, 56 Megan Webster 4, 24 Erika Wilk 8, 15, 27, 30, 31, Kath Abela Wilson 3, 12, 14, 16, 23, 33, 40, 41, 44, 45, 63

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INDEX OF ARTISTS Bill Anderson 23 Craig Anderson 32 Mary Ann Andrews 27 Doris Arima 40 Elaine Baldwin 58 Nancy Bearce 18 Sherwood Brown 39 Jane Cash 26 Sue Champe 44 Gladys Checa 47 Selina Cheng 21 Joe Cibere 9 Patricia Crowther 12 Chiz deQueiroz 13 David Deyell 28 Dan Dickman 46 Paige Dickman 35 Bob Doughty 45 Nancy Doughty 5 Phyllis Doyon 24 Tom Fong 56 JoAnn Formia 51 Tom Fujiwara 50 Chris Hero 8 Mary Higuchi 10 Helen Igoe 60 Michiko Ikeda 62 Peggy Johnson 64 Denise Katzenberger 30 Leslie Knowles 16 Gloria Lee 19 Ron Libbrecht 41 Shirley Manning 25 Donna McBride 36 Lynn Mikami 52 Rea Nagel 31 Ada M. Passaro 7 Nya Patrinos 43 Sharon Pauer 6 Shelley Pearson 34 Lynn Marit Peterson 48 Ronald Pidot 54 Al Setton 3 Trish Shaheen 22 Beth Shibata 42 Carla Staight 59 Bernard Vyzga 44 Marjean Weber 29 Patricia Wooley 33 Janet Wright 57 Lily Yamada 66