Pushcart Nominees

BECAUSE

In tribute to "Breakfast" by Diane Wakoski

We were driving

unpopulated New Mexico

no people that is

going north

or some other direction

summer, blue sky

your poetry

taking us

when "Because" came on

from Abbey Road.

We were driving west

or some other direction

their voices tiled

New Mexico.

You sat beside me

as my CRX flew east

or some other direction

more perfect

than nipping basil

on the poached egg

because we weren't alone.

Craig Cotter

Pasadena, California

AVILA BEACH, 1911

The sun in May shines down

on a few buildings and pier

that are the town, white.

The ocean is brown, the waves,

white against white-brown sand.

A photographer stands on the pier;

his camera on a tripod

is facing away from the sun

toward the hills, too close

to focus on any sky or horizon.

And there, in a field, a girl

is held poised, forever,

gathering blue-eyed grass and poppies.

In time, the photograph has yellowed,

the paper has cracked brown

through the white waves; and the hills,

the closeness of the hills

has turned brittle and has flaked away.

And the differences,

what would they be,

if the girl had never sat in that field,

nor picked those wildflowers?

Russell Bunge

San Luis Obispo, California

VOICES WE MIGHT HEAR

The wind says, It’s so far.

The trees say, It’s so close.

The wind says, Time is growing short.

The trees say, Roots are good to have.

They argue like this all afternoon.

Meanwhile, across a field, sheep graze

on the last of the green, and two standing stones,

having solved all their differences, praise the silence.

Marilyn Robertson

Felton, California

THE WIND UP RUSSIAN GULCH

I have no argument with most weather—

the rain can strut all it wants, slathering

its gloss on the madrone’s bare arms;

even the fog, slipping through the door

with its shoes in its hand and grass in

its hair, has its place—but the wind wants

only bluster and undoing, nothing more.

Kites have been stolen, hats plucked from

sunburned heads, promises drained from lips

like fluid from the lungs. This is the song

of its larceny, hurled at full gale pitch—

the cries of gulls blown inland, the pipings

of wave-driven kids diminishing in blue

matryoshkas down the runneled beach.

I’ve hung helpless on its words, waited

for its mumbling in the branches to break

into a drunk’s sudden anger. See how

it batters the stove flame red and lunges

against the tent wall. Come here, but slowly—

close your book tight or it will tear every

page from its spine. Now my hand; take it.

The shells in our pockets weigh too little;

we rise and grow smaller. Over Mendocino,

past Albion and Elk, our voices woven into

the wind’s racket. Have we let others go

as down below they release us? Only the

Navarro rises in protest, before the wind

stops its mouth with whitecaps and larkspur.

Jeff Ewing

Sacramento, California

RAIN

I inhale all that is—

width of the earth,

seagulls slicing through air,

swells that slap jagged rocks,

mouths of giant waves,

the steady pulse of water

I am a drop of rain

as I fall through light air,

touch feathers of birds,

moisten kernels of life

and rocks hardened by time

Years of living

flow through my fingers

as the earth absorbs me,

assimilates me into its burrow

Grains of sand, dust infinitesimal

appear so intimate, yet so detached

in minute worlds of particles;

it is a dense view of the world

against my liquid perspective,

my need to breathe freely,

my transparency

Rosemary Ybarra-Garcia

Half Moon Bay, California

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