Best Joaquin Poems
The Empty Academy Schoolhouse
It stands on a vast green lot,
No trees to shelter it from heavy, gray clouds
on the rolling foothill horizon.
Its thin coat of white paint peels,
revealing bare, dry-rotted wood.
The rickety porch boards,
once sturdy under children’s energetic steps,
look about to collapse at the slightest wind gust.
What’s it like inside?
Puddles of water from the last rain?
Rat’s nest in the woodstove?
Any desks or yellowed books, pencils,
love notes left behind?
A soiled ribbon slid off some girl’s braid?
A chalkboard with spelling words
or arithmetic problems still on it?
What songs, prayers, or memorized poems
still echo off faded, white-washed walls?
When was the first day of school?
When was the last?
What became of all the children,
who once ran around laughing
all over this green meadow?
What happened to ball players,
clover-chain weavers,
kids who picked lupines and fiddlenecks
for their teacher?
Did they leave Academy,
or do they lie in the cemetery on a nearby hill?
Published in Song of the San Joaquin, Spring 2021 Issue
This old school house is in the tiny pioneer town of Academy, just outside of Fresno, California, near the Sierra Nevada foothills. Some of the descendants of the pioneer families still remain in the area.
Every Sunday after church
Old great-aunt Dora
Full bloodied Cherokee,
In her finest dress and fedora,
Drove her pink Cadillac
To the San Joaquin River.
She would stop in the same place
And sat on an old stump,
Under a camphor tree,
By the riverbank,
And would cast her fishing pool,
Drinking her moonshine liquor.
Old widow lady of ninety-two;
My dear mother-in-law
Lives by herself
With nothing else to do.
She sits in her chair
Next to the window
And stare out for hours
With dreams of her past.
She carries a small chrome plated,
Stud nose 22, pistol
With white pearl grips
In her purse.
Don't get in her way,
At the grocery store,
She will ram her cart
Into yours and say,
"Sorry I didn't see you."
Then there’s my sister.
“She’s crazy as a Loon;
Howls at the moon,”
My husband would say.
Her long-distance relationships
All in her mind.
Her husband
Doesn’t seem to mind,
But watches over her shoulder
When she cooks,
To make sure
Everything she uses
Is clean before he eats.
Their two daughters
Walked the same path.
Live in a world
Of hallucinations
And delusions,
In denial
Of their illness
Of schizophrenia.
11/19/2020
Six Relatives Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Caren Krutsinger
SONATA FOR CHRISTMAS EVE RAIN
I. I sit in my friend’s armchair,
waiting for her to get ready for church.
Pianissimo, the raindrops fall in quick, staccato rhythm
on the windows, the roof, and the pool.
I imagine the circles they make on the water.
expanding in echoes only angels can hear.
II. We drive through the valley’s empty green pastures,
to the old country church in Academy.
The raindrops run down the windshield
like notes connecting in smooth legato phrases
made by a piano’s pedal.
III. A fire crackles in the church’s ancient woodstove,
joining the outside rain in an animated duet.
Lead by the antique pump organ,
we stand to sing, becoming part
of their Christmas carol.
Published in Song of the San Joaquin, Winter 2018
( El Faro means the lighthouse)
El Faro #1
salt is in my tears
for the grace of god go I
Fiddlers Green awaits
El Faro #2
brothers and sisters
Joaquin cries tears of sadness
forever leeward
El Faro #3
El Faro now rest
sleep deep on your mothers floor
she has called for you
El Faro #4
no wave for granted
my heart is heavy today
listen to bells ring
El Faro #5
list fifteen to port
Edmund look for your cousin
hold fast the mid-watch
El Faro #6
no lighthouse to watch
irony not lost at sea
I long to hear you
El Faro #7
you believe in god
it pounds you like a hammer
green water swallows
El Faro #8
with culpability
I think of the storms survived
when resolve is breached
Joaquin: paint-besotted at sixteen.
The color silver was your favorite --
it had the craved-for, biting glint
of a dagger dizzying your brain,
twisting as it mixed and chopped
your few surviving thoughts,
which floated, glittering,
in an icy silver mist.
Your classic, sculpted nose,
bearing a single dot of silver
smaller than a dime, expelled
the smell you struggled to breathe in.
And your eyes drowned in a sea of silver.
The Afternoon Moon
Grandmother reclines in the passenger seat,
while sunlight glows through her white wavy hair.
Her cheeks rosy, she smiles at me
as I drive east toward the Blossom Trail.
I beam back, then remember
my mask hides my mouth.
We pass some almond orchards,
the flowers like drops of warm vanilla cream
under the clear blue sky.
Grandmother remarks how some trees
already dropped their petals,
though it’s not even March.
A white half moon climbs the sky,
like it wants to get a jump start on night,
even if it’s only two o’clock.
It tries to rush away my Sunday,
my present moment, my time with Grandmother
into a whole week without her.
Will it hasten the day
she’ll move into assisted living,
where I won’t be allowed to see her?
Published in Song of the San Joaquin, Spring 2021 Issue
When Grandma Tutu said she owned a gun,
my mother freaked! She gasped! How she was stunned!
She wanted Tutu to throw it away,
but then forgot. The gun was there to stay.
We never knew where Tutu had it hid,
not even when she moved and she got rid
of lots of stuff. But in the nursing home
where Tutu died, my mom went through each tome,
and trinket, and shirt. She thought she was done,
but opened a drawer. There was the gun!
My mom’s dropped jaw I wish I could have seen.
The gun was thrown in River San Joaquin!
5-9-21
Contest: Guns
Sponsor: Anthony Biaanco
we're here again
you in denim skirt
shrinking against long legs
I in (imaging) nothing
sheen & glisten in moonlight
interior car lamp light
tan
crimped high hair & bangs
blue eyeliner
mascara
easy to manuever
baggy sweater
boots both pleasant
left
on or off
coco chanel palpable
down the smooth of the neck
wet full
shut eyed wine cooler passion
tongue on tongue
w/ hint of marlboro kiss
synchrotizing deep breaths
hands searching instictively
sharing talents without even looking
yes ma'am
not too many fails for a blind man
to hop that curb
when he got his reed straight
what a telecommute you give to
adolescent lust with reaquianting
idioms of San Joaquin Valley dreams
your laugh reaches out
to pat me on the head
how to knit the nights into one
without the rising of the sun
I would never go home again
(out all night)
you see, I've thought of the impossible before
me and you
before Mexico
before mentioning retiring at 50
and living off interest
off the coast
with maids & gardeners
your smile fulfilling as you dig
your grace teaching as you fold
your hand moving from the top of my head
to slap my face
All you asked for was a diamond ring
All you asked for was that I be impractical
All you asked for was that I live the SLO life
Frankie
Human, Virago, Poet, Dreamer
Mothers Raisha Therese and Joaquin Andres
Lover of butterflies, opals and tulips
Who feels loneliness, strength and hope
Who fears failure, heights and drowning
Who would like to see Europe, heaven and recognition
Resident of Manila, Philippines
Torrelavega
This is a portrayal of one of my favorite paintings by
Joaquin Sorolla y Bastida: Spanish painter 1863 - 1923.
The title of his portait I am writing about is called
"Paseo a orilla del mar" or "Walk on the Beach"
Joaquin’s Girls (Caught on Canvas)
Beside Valencia’s blue sea,
two graceful women walk along.
Their beauty and serenity
could be the lyrics to wind’s song.
Two graceful women walk along.
An artist’s fair and precious pearls
could be the lyrics to wind’s song:
his wife and daughter, Joaquin’s girls.
An artist’s fair and precious pearls,
one with parasol and one with hat in hand,
his wife and daughter, Joaquin’s girls,
in long white dresses, walk the sand.
One with parasol and one with hat in hand,
both, caught on canvas with an artist’s ease,
in long white dresses, walk the sand.
Lace trailing them is billowed by the breeze.
Both caught on canvas with an artist’s ease:
their beauty and serenity!
Lace trailing them is billowed by the breeze
beside Valencia’s blue sea.
Andrea Dietrich/ Nov. 21, 2010
For Paula Swanson's Pantoum Contest
Sweet organic scents waft softly
through the vast and endless valley
where myriads of trees grow in tight rows
marked by long lines of rich, robust soils
that brighten with the rising sun.
I am happily lost in the incessant sounds
of bees buzzing, working in chaotic order
within delicate white orchard blossoms.
Their hum is mesmerizing and hypnotic
my fingers caress the ripe, orange talismans.
Dust and sweat mingle with hard work in this land
as farmhands goad the earth to produce its lot.
Strong arms dig the dirt in endless cycles
tractors leave their distinctive marks
sprinklers water the thirsty ground for miles.
I can see the valley’s shimmering lifeline
the wide aqueduct of the San Joaquin river
it flows like a liquid heart with precious water
thoroughly quenching the longing roots
that grow underground in quiet tranquility.
Those who work the land know it’s hidden secrets
I am just an admiring stranger, passing through
though I feel I have a small sense of it...a glimpse
…a place of laboring hands upon the earth
and a yielding of the elements within its midst.
There is a synergy of land and sky
a curve of the earth that intersects the horizon
a mystical union, a hint of heaven
a clarion moment in time.
5/15/2021
“Women can change better’n a man,” Ma said soothingly. “Woman got all her life in her arms. Man got it all in his head.”
“Man, he lives in jerks-baby born an’ a man dies, an’ that’s a jerk-gets a farm and looses his farm, an’ that’s a jerk. Woman, its all one flow, like a stream, little eddies, little waterfalls, but the river, it goes right on.
John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath
She is a River
She flows from the hearts of the people
In the hope of preserving justice for all
On the battle-scarred Potomac
Where we became a nation
With her brave and unselfish history of law and order
Her tributaries lead through the deltas
Of the San Joaquin and Sacramento
Bending and stretching with assurance
Curving through the fruitful valleys
Of the golden state of promise
As she rose to the heights of public service
She rolls along the mighty Mississippi
Tendering southern resistance along the Missouri
In the heartland of the American farmer
Who has forgotten the words of equity
She channels rushing into a new economy
Diving into the waters of the Hudson
Unafraid of the rich and wealthy corporations
And its leaders that have exploited the common man
She runs with strength and fortitude
Surging with the untamed rapids of conviction
Where the headwaters of the great Columbia
Blends with the Snake River
Where the wilderness and our historical presence
Will be cherished and unabused
She forges through the frozen tributaries with
Her communion to the uninviting wilderness of the Yukon
And the tropical warmth of Hanalei rivers
Becoming the spirit of great explorers who have made America
The heartland of discovery
And in reaching the oceans of disparity
She breaches our common boundaries
Flowing beyond the seas with diplomacy and civility
To find the rest of the world as a worthy friend
So that the rivers of democracy find a resting place
She is a river of life and the world as we know it
Her tides and eddies nurture all that is truthful, kind and just
Harnessing the power of democracy for us all
She is the watershed for the world
That unifies us together as one
Redding Poem 4
“Flying Down Interstate 5”
We departed Redding at 3:45,
In the dead of an October night.
Those tumultuous streets were morgues then,
As we raced to the deserted Interstate 5,
Zooming across the snoozing Sacramento River,
Going at a constant speed of 85,
Passing the snoring cities of Red Bluff, Chico and Yuba City,
Slicing through the darkness of early morning,
With the tule fog scratching over the countryside,
Shrouding the distant lights like blinders on a roan.
One city after another, my speeding treads arriving
In dark sleepy Sacramento in two hours.
With the sun not waking yet, but stirring,
The internal beast passed Stockton as a blur in time,
With other speeding drivers merging onboard,
As insistent captains of their own landlocked ships.
Then looming before us, the San Joaquin canvass;
A devouring flatness five hundred miles long,
Of faraway farmlands sleeping overtime,
The majestic surreal banality of Central California,
Magnetizing us, hypnotizing us to the hastening flow,
Of southern currents and windy traipsings;
This caravan of one, this golden fueled protrusion,
Of the nomadic heartbeat; the inertly-moving soul search;
This final journey to the rapids of my youth,
Where undead ghost boys still climb the rebar rungs,
Atop the old tower on the water’s edge,
Still spit into the blue, slow-paced river below.
There are kingdoms with no throne
There are children with no love
There are mums who remain alone
There is no love with no one to love
A child alone in the dust and muds
Bitterly covered with rugs and sorrow
His cries vanishing, covered by spells and guns
No shoulder to cuddle him or love to borrow
The heat is high, no respite for forgotten babies
No water to quench their thirst for a mother
Left in a street to collect rubbish and rabies
To return bare foot to their shacks of bother
Far away a lone mother longing for a baby
Her was taken away by malaise and fever
Now her love longs for one to hold the little teddy
Left alone on a pillow which will remain forever
Now she will follow her heart and the sun
To search for a son she could love again and hold
Flying to a place under the siege of a gun
Searching for a baby she was by her heart told
There is no love with no one to love
In the land and slums of mourn and howls
But here he is, along the slum’s main road
There she comes on a jeep on the same road
One glance, one thought, one to adore
“She is here for me, I know”
“He is here for me, I hope”
One glance, one design, one to hold
Love, you know, is this way
For the little Joaquin life is back again
Playing with a toy and eating he could not say
For a young mother a love she could not refrain
It’s not just Jesus who rose into grace with scars from nails and the cross
Trees grow new branches from knots like wounded soul’s blemish’s scars
A rainforest’s undergrowth thrives in the mist of weeping from heaven
Ebony needs ivory for harmony preferably with tusks attached to the rhino
An elephant under cover of the hat inside a boa constrictor pleases the Prince
Joaquin would write poetry had he not been swallowed by a black raven
On his shoulders and dogs that growl can bite fiercely with razor sharp fangs
Puncture marks empathize when they emphasize conjunction and junctures
A semicolon tattoo depicts the survivor from darkness shadows and light
No smoke without fire and his pen could not heal without fountains of sorrow
Juanita views wrinkles and stretch marks as cinnamon bark’s fine poise
Hides no longer self-harm lacerations with bracelets or covering bangles
Heals from a maze of disgraced projections owns grazes slashes and cuts
Paints a new canvas frames it with witch-hazel twigs leaves howling behind
Sounds all three pedals on forte’s piano has dampened onslaughts of fear
Joseph is a seer who had once lost his vision had dangled his ropes both sides
Of the sea saw but recovered the fulcrum of balance reads palm trees and palms
Life lines strife lines blisters blistering hardship hardened calluses’ resilience
Scars do not scare him as he places his faith into prayer gracing graces and hope
Tosses tussles meaning and harmony moulds silent retreat into flickering candles
‘Can’t put all your eggs into one basket no ominous pancakes without breakage’
What does not bend splinters and rages oozes and festers in foul purulent rage
Confusion needs contradictory feelings or one crosses Styx and Acheron too early
And the boatman needs both oars and currents to negotiate drift wood and pain
Any two master needs departure and destination roaring storms and calm respite
True ivory cannot be burnt and grace is a virtue but not without turning the table
21st April 2019