Evan Myquest and Lelania Fowler
Saturday July 24 at 7:30 PM
1169 Perkins Way
Sacramento, CA
Open Mic
Please bring a mask if you have not been vaccinated
Bio:
The Wish
She rubbed the
lamp
wished her only
wish
with the
gentleness
her mother used
so long ago
the genie
brushed her hair
Born and reared on the Eastside of Santa Barbara, California, Lelania Fowler experienced a Chicano/Hippie hybrid childhood. Later as a homeless teen, she bounced between Long Beach, Hollywood, and her hometown of Santa Barbara before relocating to Sacramento. In the late 1980’s she became part of a thriving music and arts scene and she began songwriting for local musicians. She writes about PTSD, Sexual Violence, California nature themes and is a mental health activist. Her poetry has most recently been published in Quiet Rooms, and VOICES, global anthologies published by Cold River Press. Under a Milk Glass Moon, is her first collection of Poetry.
BOLINAS
On the warm turtle
back of the Mesa, there
are stars- no milk as
clear as moonshine.
Non- denominational
quail sleep under a
moon as close as a
sibling, it pulls their
feathers into a crest and
freckles them with Stardust.
A fault runs the length
of a lagoon, black with
seals who know when
to breathe and when to close
their liquid eyes. Grey fox kits
play above freshwater pools
of red-legged frogs and
tell tales of the Coho to skunks
who don’t believe in anything
but fat moles and the time keeping
of crickets. Yellowthroats with
salt marsh voices croon of mayflies,
alighting on grasses where jumping
mice tremble warmly. A man sits under
the imploring arms of a Marin manzanita
who is in love with the wind. He plays
a fiddle safe from spiders and the devil,
guarded by a rattlesnake tail. A mountain beaver
chews in time, whilst a great blue heron
places his mighty toes stirring soft silt
into echoes of dream clouds. A mighty finger
invites you to leave, as peregrine depart
on eucalyptus scented currents,
relieving the tigers of owls from their
jackrabbit travels. Light skips in luck over
a brackish pond and it smells like snake
as the bow jumps over the strings.
You might wake belly up, lint ball in
your pocket to find yourself in dry weather.
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