“Morro Bay” and other poems

William Pan/Staff

Selected poems from students of English 143B, an application-based poetry-writing workshop.

“Morro Bay”
Hogan Fulton

“this and this and that” of 10 million pint baskets
out of Oxnard—crossing Greyhound, Union Pacific and one truck:
lima beans, sugar beats, stock (and always cabbage), from Super Thrift hands
saw Mugu inside the rear view mirror before Ventura was “what I forgot”

the highway were slabs all the time, but didn’t lie,
when cows packed the gates on the sickled sidelines after Harris Ranch
dusted up-shine rolled out short waves on shorter waves
and the Mission looked a scab, in the bruise-y way
other than gasoline and “goddammit” once and twice

in slow, the coastal-sage-scrub came thick as Montana de Oro looked broken by the sea
Morro Bay: Coastal Breeze, La Serena, Pacific Shores, Sea Air, Bay View
all spackled under purple light and muted for a memory
graduated ’82, where shops of “broken” and “not anymore”
surrounded the truck as it slowed down Embarcadero:
the apothecary (lavender, tea tree, eucalyptus, and sage), halibut, rockfish, albacore
all high on the down beat of truck tires

Lillian Berger
*Writer would like for no title but not to put ‘untitled’*

because Dad pronounces our name
like something you can eat not
French shepherd herds sheep
hard “g” he says burger
not berjer soft
hands he has even though
he works so
hard my heart isn’t: but for
him sometimes I wish it were just
when I feel so much
it hurts like heavy —
stones I used to carry from one
patch to the other: grass
so much of it outside our gate I
liked to make house stones moving them I
made a kitchen area square
and two bedrooms one for me and one for him —
it was our home like the one we had before
lost it circles red, and money he
gave she swallowed
it them him in
her hands hard holding
us all we wanted was you
want red where
are they she
yelled in circles
stones, in squares —
a kitchen, living room, two bedrooms
stones heavy like my heart
hurts hard “g” he
says not soft

“If I Tell You, It Would Be Heaven and I Am Not a Saint”
Chocquida R. Robins

It is wooden still, curved like ivy on a cedar hill.
These things are poisonous, where is it?
It belongs to me, Longitude the tip of a snail’s apex.
Latitude, a bristled-hare tucked behind tell-me-not ears.
Who is it? It is a place. Whispering, I shall tell you gently…
Wait for it, the water-babies run still,
If I tell you, It would be heaven … and I … I wish I were a Saint.