Jennifer O’Neill Pickering, Bethanie Humphreys, Tim McHargue, Wendy Williams, Cynthia Linville, Connie Gutowsky, William Laws, and Caitlin Pegar
Join them at the Sable & Quill for an evening of spoken word and visual art. The Second Saturday Sable and Quill art exhibit showcases visual art created by writers and a reading of their written work. Keyboardist, Gabe Merriman and singer/songwriter Mike Pickering provide original music. The event is free, but donations are appreciated and support the Sacramento Poetry Center.
Artist Reception January 10, 2015, 5-7:30p.m.
Reading 7:30-9:00 p.m.
Location: Poets’ Gallery, the Sacramento Poetry Center, 1719 25th Street
(25th between Q & R). Contact: 916-240-1897 http://www.sacramentopoetrycenter.com/
or Jennifer O’Neill Pickering jenniferartist@att.net
Exhibit through January 30, 2015 view art every Monday night 7-9pm.
Sable & Quill Artists and Readers with music by
Gabe Merriman, and Mike Pickering
Cynthia Linville teaches writing at California State University, Sacramento and frequently hosts and reads at poetry events, both on her own and with Poetica Erotica. Her book of collected poems, The Lost Thing (2011) is available from Cold River Press. A music aficionado with a theater background, Linville supports the arts in Sacramento and the San Francisco Bay Area. She is managing editor and designer of Convergence: An Online Journal of Poetry and Art.
Reunion at a Sidewalk Café.
All stories are the same, he says.
He sips his white mocha
reaches for my hand
tells me his second wife doesn’t understand.
We both know we were bad for each other
like too much wine
like too much chocolate
like a motorcycle going too fast in the rain.
All stories are the same.
Wendy Williams is a member of the Red Fox Poets Underground Collective of the Sierra Foothills though now she lives in the Sacramento burbs. She has two chapbooks, Bayley House Bard and Some New Forgetting. Her poem “Winged Victory” will appear online in Canary: A Literary Journal of the Environmental Crisis, spring 2014 issue. Her blog, www.restoryyourlife.com, features inspiring and informative words and original artwork that help people cope with early trauma and post-traumatic stress. She recently was a featured online reader in Under the Gum Tree.
That they came back to us
That each year they arrive
That they stand taller, legs stronger
That they cling to the rafter, looking
down and all around for their old nest
as if puzzled
That they do not build here again after the jay
chased them
That they are beautiful, especially the male
with his peach-red chest, throat and head
That they have remained together for years
That out of all the places in the Universe,
they come here
That they love us. No.
That they are themselves. They are what they are—
That pair of finches.
Jennifer O’Neill Pickering- “A professor of mine at the State University of New York once posed the question, “Do you want to be a writer or an artist?”“Can’t I be both?” I asked. After all, many creative luminaries have found success employing both muses in their work, such as Sylvia Plath, William Blake, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, and the Thomas Hardy. I was not alone in my creative dichotomy. She is an award winning artist, a writer, and teacher living in Sacramento, CA. editor of the Sable & Quill: The Visual Art and Writing of Writers who are Artists. Her poem, I Am the Creek, is included in the Sacramento site-specific sculpture, Open Circle. Her novel excerpt appears in Reflections. Other publishing credits include: Sacramento Voices, Earth In Here, Cosumnes River Journal, Sacramento Anthology: 100 Poems, Earth’s Daughters, Yellow Silk, Heresies, WTF, and Munyori Journal. She studied art and writing at the State University of New York at Buffalo and has an MA in Studio Art from California State University, Sacramento. She’s exhibited widely. Her art was recently featured in the Sacramento Bee for the art exhibit PTSD Nation.
First Harvest
Before the skies pepper with fowl
the first hard freeze she climbs the knoll
booted feet the muddy road
complaint of knees
basket slung on flannelled arm
the farmwoman’s charm bracelet
Fog cobwebs the orchard
noon sun brooms away
surveys a family’s labor
a daughter’s inheritance
She chooses Mirabelles, Bartlett, Anjous, Bosc
for their fragrance: honey and spice
imperfect skins conceal pale sweet flesh
chooses for color: lutescent coppery, sumac red,
those blushed by summer’s constant gaze
for their song of curves
for how they fill an empty hand.
Connie Gutowsky has a new book of poetry entitled, Play. In the word “play” lies the Middle Dutch root pleien for “leap for joy, dance. She also was a practicing attorney. She said in an interview with Alexa Mergen that “The role of the local community in shaping a poet: support, inspiration, introduction to the vast world of poetry and guidance therein, camaraderie, mentoring, play. We in Sacramento are lucky to have a rich poetry community.”
FRIDAY NIGHT’S DREAM ON SATURDAY TOLD
I find myself again
in a dream—
I know
no one,
I’ve been gone too long
from work. A supervisor comes
with an armload of files
& calendar.
“Here,” he says,
“Go. Find yourself a desk.”
I smile at him, he’s younger,
his hair is brown,
like mine
once was.
I turn & dash to the elevator.
The door opens, but it’s jammed.
I take the stairs
bouncing down
until
I step into a walled garden—
The scent of hyacinth.
Red tulips open & close
like those nights
of writing
where nothing is forbidden.
Bethanie Humphreys is an artist, poet, and editor of the critically acclaimed “American River Review.” Her work was selected for the Sable & Quill: The Visual Art and Writing of Writers who are Artists v.1.
Cephalopod
I taste what I touch
but I swim headfirst
no bones to hinder
I slip in and out of tight spaces
do not come too close
my defenses are many
this sweet flesh
is venomous when threatened
deimatic displays of puffed skin
many dark-ringed eyes
concealment is my safehouse
if luck holds you won’t see
much more than this ink
as I make my escape
Bill Laws has one book of poetry Heart Yarn published by City Bird Press; He’s a graduate of Sacramento State College and once considered the clergy and was a candidate for the Presbyterian Ministry at Hanover College. He is the editor of the online magazine entitled, Sacramento Nibble Magazine and a regular contributor to contributor to East Sacramento News. His art has been exhibited at Blueline Gallery, in the libraries and other venues.
Rounding Up
First base reached on an error.
The ball hit me in the back and
My first hit in the majors augured
Only good things although a fan
swallowed the souvenir pill.
I stole second. Didn’t trust
my hurtful good luck. I went on a wild pitch
that was my only chance to
beat it out.
Third base was made on a technicality
I didn’t understand. By then life
on the bags had become complicated.
Balks, infield fly rules, over my head.
Coach signaled for a squeeze play
to get me home but the referee
red-carded me on my way to the plate.
I don’t know what I did or said,
but I am told the game is still in
extra innings after my ejection.
Everything is now on appeal,
but the commissioner said that
he is allowing the red card to
stand.
A sport becomes life when it never ends
but doesn’t add up either.
Like rounding up from infinity.
Or rounding the basis a second
time, or skipping during the home run
trot, or smiling walking off the mound.
Things go on that way.
Tim McHargue has published three books of prose poetry, Typography of the Flesh: Thirty Prose Poems; Bali Rain Psalm: The Bali Prose Poems; and Wig Bubbles. He has also published freelance articles on art, entertainment, and social issues in The Sacramento Bee and News & Review. He is an award winning video artist. His art is represented by the Trunk Gallery in Venice Beach, CA. He plays guitar and composes songs, and produces soundtracks for his video art projects. In addition, he is a counselor, school psychologist and director of disability services at Folsom Lake College. His poetry is published in the Sable & Quill v.1:The Visual Art and Writing of Writers who are also artists
The Floating Man
He floats on a bed of phosphorescent daydreams and sifts through the sands of childhood—each grain of sand a particle in the hour glass of his life.
He floats on the water of the Spring of Avila, and is baptized by the murmur of the waves which bring the gift of the sacrament of time.
He floats on the raft of rubber time—“jam kulit” the Javanese call it—though he is nowhere near the Sea of Java, and he stretches time to cover the raft’s human shape.
He floats under the indigo sky watching time pass as clouds—each wisp of puffy cloud minutes, hours and years of ephemeral time, moving backwards & forwards, appearing and disappearing.
He floats on the reflection of the sky and his eyes mirror the closest planets, Mars and Venus, and it is the end of history as the sky betrays no evidence of past or future, just the kairos—the eternal moment.
He floats on a mattress of illuminated motes, buoyed by the particles of light that travel as waves from somewhere out in the universe and soon he sleeps, falling through time at the speed of light.
He floats on top of a bed of translucent jellyfish, and he himself develops the qualities of the jellyfish—fluid, flexible, invisible except upon close examination, and his lungs, like the jellyfish, open and close in harmony with the ocean’s undulations.
He floats on top of a bed of small waves, and imagines he’s underwater and turning slowly, in somersaults and pirouettes, as if in an aquatic ballet, and he dances through the portals of time and time itself becomes fluid and years become one constant wave and he leaps through time and into the void.
Caitlin Pegar-is on the editorial staff for the award winning anthology entitled, American River Journal and a veterinarian student at American River College and also plays the accordion.
The Last We Met
The last we met you married a stranger because our parents had arranged it. I was just a stranger until we grew passionate and comfortable.
The last we met you were just a woman passing me on the street, smile on your face. I was scruffy, homeless, and indistinguishable from the daily grime, but you gave me a dollar and seventy-eight cents anyway.
The last we met you were a dog. I was a 38-year old engineer with a small but nice apartment and no one in my life.
The last we met you were just a young punk playing hooker with no idea what you were getting yourself into. I was overweight and slowly falling out of love with my wife.
The last we met you were an overworked cashier on edge because it was two a.m. in your little gas station just off a Nevada highway. I bought a Red Bull and a bag of chips.
The last we met you played the trombone in our high school band, even though you wanted to play the sousaphone. I played the flute, but not very well
The last we met you were a mouse who had already lost the tip of your tail and piece of an ear in a fight. I was a snake who had never lost a fight.
The last we met you were a soldier just after Pearl Harbor. I was born in America, but I looked Japanese.
The last we met you never saw me. I was a doctor who couldn’t bring you out of your coma.
The last we met you were the snake. I was the mouse.
The last we met you had three sons and a wife. I was your neighbor with an ex-wife and one daughter, who grew up to marry your eldest.
The last we met you recognized me too. I could see it in your eyes as we passed each other on the street, but both of us were busy, so we didn’t stop or talk or smile or see each other again. But we should have
because the last we met you didn’t recognize me as we sat on opposite sides of a hospital waiting room for a couple of hours and I wasn’t quite sure what to do. But I wish I had
because the last we met I wasn’t quite sure it was you.
