Anthology & Poetry & Cookies, A Mother's Knife

Poetry is Community: Anthology & Poetry & Cookies.

Michael Sedano

The call for poems circulates in December 2025. In early April 2026 the publisher, Golden Foothills Press, predicts hard copies in-hand at the April 25 “Poetry & Cookies” Altadena poetry celebration now in its 20^th year. Click here for more history.

That’s fast turn around, but it's even more pressured. The Editor-in-Chief sends in January his selections to the publisher. That's three months to produce hard copies in each published poet's hands and a supply to sell at the book launch, "Poetry & Cookies. Meeting a demanding schedule like this reflects professionalism and experience. the publication--and the laureate program--offer a role model any community can emulate.

The anthology comes out of the two-year terms of Altadena Library’s Co-Poets Laureate. The Laureate program itself grew from librarian Polly Dutton’s initiative. In early years, Dutton held a poetry and cookies reading celebrating the laureate’s service. 

In 2015, Laureate Thelma T. Reyna published the first Altadena Poetry Review: Anthology. Since that first book, Reyna's family-owned press, Golden Foothills Press, has published all but two issues in the series.

Of the 2026 number, publisher Reyna observes:

In the 11-year history of the Altadena Poetry Review: Anthology the 2026 Anthology is the largest ever. Our debut edition, in 2015, had 105 poems written by 60 mostly local poets. 

This edition, the 8th book (none were produced in the COVID era), has 180 poems written by 158 poets from across the state and nation, and down under. The book has 325 pages, vs. 178 pp. in 2015. 

One might say that the visibility and renown of our Altadena poetry community, and its literary gem, is growing. 

Kudos to all the poets in this book; to its Editor-in-Chief, Co-Poet Laureate Lester Graves Lennon ; and to Assistant Editor and Co-Poet Laureate in Altadena, Sehba Sarwar.

A year ago, thousands of people fled their homes as miles of Altadena neighborhoods burned to the ground in the Eaton Fire. Today, the region slowly rebuilds its structures while it strengthens and rebuilds its spirit. Altadena Poetry Review Anthology 2026 captures what fire cannot destroy and what poetry affirms and sustains: a community’s spirit and hopefulness.

Here's a link to Golden Foothills Press where pre-orders are soon in the offing. For now, browse the publisher's catalog for its lineup of contemporary views and arte. Attend Poetry & Cookies and buy copies of the Altadena Poetry Review: Anthology and listen as selected readers and open mic'ers share their work.

Altadena Library and Poets Laureate Lester Graves Lennon and Sehba Sarwar, along with publisher Golden Foothills Press, welcome you to this year’s 3:00-6:00 p.m. Poetry & Cookies on April 25, 2026 at Bob Lucas Memorial Library & Literacy Center, 2659 Lincoln Ave, Altadena, CA 91001.

https://altadenalibrary.libnet.info/event/16132810

 

He Finds Mom’s Knife

Mom used that long blade to test the doneness of the barbacoa, the star of every familia pachanga. Of course, the beef isn’t the only feature. When la familia shows up for a party they load the serving tables with side dishes like potato salad, beans, moles, arroz, handmade tortillas from a distant tortilleria, and the always hit of the fiesta, Stella’s chile.

I owned too much stuff when I left my Pasadena home and since it didn't fit in Altadena, I rented a storage locker, so when I lost everything I ever owned in the fire, fifty boxes of random stuff were what I had left.

I lost Mom’s handwritten recipe for the 3-day barbacoa marinade in the Eaton Fire, along with most of my fotos of familia pachangas. That stuff in a storage locker escaped the fires and that’s where Mom’s knife turned up. 

I imagine Mom selecting the knife back before I was born. 

Dad is riding a tank to Leipzig, winning WWII. Mom  lives in Berdoo, a  soldier’s 18-year old expectant wife. 

She can afford one knife and she buys this one. Maybe she found it at Cuatro Milpas on Mt. Vernon? Maybe she walked into town to Sears or Montgomery Ward? 

It’s the knife I remember from as far back as I remember watching my mother cook, using the cuchillo slicing calabacitas, tomatoes, round steak, papas, nopales. 

And barbacoa.

Dad gathers leña enough for a big hot fire in the pit long before first light. The coals are ready at sunrise. 

The meat sits in a tina wrapped in tinfoil, swaddled in a bedsheet, burlap sacks, and banana leaves. 

Dad lowers the tina into the hole using precarious rebar hooks then covers the pit with layers of sheet metal and sealing it all with a layer of dirt.

At four or five in the afternoon, Mom declares it’s time. 

Gente have been singing and laughing, reminiscing, snacking on preliminary food. Tacos of someone’s fabulous frijoles, kids emptying a KFC bucket, there’s a taste test of competing potato salads. This chile is really picoso! Is there more? Stella rattles off her recipe but it’s all in technique, no one makes chile like Stella.

Dad scrapes away the dirt, wisps of escaping steam carry aroma. Stand back, Dad advises, prying away the sheet metal releasing a steamy cloud of deliciousness. The tina tilts precariously, it's hot unsteadying work, leaning over that pit, hauling up a tina awash in red swirling jugo. Two men balance the tina at the ends of those rebar hooks, meat juices sloshing into sizzling ash as the tina tips. Ultimately, the tina goes up and out and onto the wheelbarrow.

Mom approaches the exposed chunk of meat. She thrusts the length of the blade into the unresisting moist tender meat--as it should. She twists the handle and extracts the blade, a sliver of beef sticking to its length. 

Mom’s fingers bring the first bite to her mouth. A sniff, a nod, a bite, a satisfied smile. Her knife carves a layer of carne into taco-size slices and chunks for the first servings. Diners will cut off their own after the top layer's eaten.

When I find the knife its stainless steel length bears scars from many an off-angled filing. It's not a sharp edge. I take Mom's knife to the sharpener guy in Altadena who restores the edge to paper-shredding precision and oils the handle. 

Of all the stuff I did not lose in the Eaton fire, mira nomás, I still have my Mom’s knife. 

“Que la poesía” por Xánath Caraza

“Que la poesía” por Xánath Caraza

 

Xanath Caraza

Que la poesía se vuelva lluvia

Que moje todos los techos

Inunde las charcas vacías

Y reviva los renacuajos secos

 

Que la poesía se convierta en viento

Que ulule entre los árboles

Choque en las ventanas rotas

Y viaje por toda la tierra

 

Que la poesía se haga relámpago 

Fulmine pensamientos cuadrados

Llenándolos de círculos

Y amarillas ondas floreadas

 

Que la poesía se ponga color verde

Que cubra la tierra

Se enrede en los patios  

Las flores blancas se hagan poemas

 

Que la poesía se haga granizo

Que golpee mi cuerpo

Me dé frío y absorba

Cada sílaba incompleta

 

Que la poesía se torne en fuego

Que devore las casas

Las llene, recorra los muebles

Queme la indiferencia

 

Que la poesía se vuelva rayo

De luna para que por las noches

Nade entre aguas oscuras

Alumbrada por ella

 

Que la poesía se haga tornado

Se lleve la apatía

Despierte del letargo

A poetas despistados

 

Que la poesía se transforme

En agua de rosas

Y apague ese fuego

Que llevo dentro

 

Xanath Caraza

Let Poetry

 

Let poetry become rain

Let it soak all rooftops

Flood empty ponds

And revive dried out tadpoles

 

Let poetry become wind

Let it undulate among trees

Crash into broken windows

And travel all across the land

 

Let poetry become lightning

Let it strike down square thoughts

Filling them with circles

And flowering yellow waves

 

Let poetry become the color green

Let it cover the earth

Wrap itself throughout courtyards

White flowers transform into poems

 

Let poetry become hail

Let it strike my body

Make me cold and absorb

Every incomplete syllable

 

Let poetry become fire

Let it devour houses

Fill them, travel across furniture

Burn indifference

 

Let poetry become moonlight

For at night I swim 

Dark waters

It illuminates

 

Let poetry become a tornado

Let it take apathy away

Awake absentminded poets

From lethargy

 

Let poetry become

Rose water

And put out the fire

I carry inside

 

Xanath Caraza

Che la poesia

 

Che la poesia diventi pioggia

Che bagni tutti i tetti

Inondi gli stagni vuoti

E riporti in vita i girini seccati

 

Che la poesia diventi vento

Che ululi tra gli alberi  

Che si schianti sulle finestre rotte

E viaggi per tutta la terra

 

Che la poesia diventi lampo 

Fulmini pensieri quadrati

Riempendoli di cerchi

E di gialle onde fiorite

 

Che la poesia diventi verde

E ricopra la terra

Si aggrovigli nei cortili  

I fiori bianchi diventino poesie

 

Che la poesia diventi grandine

Che colpisca il mio corpo

Mi rinfreschi e assorba

Ogni sillaba incompleta

 

Che la poesia diventi fuoco

Che divori le case

Le riempia, percorra i mobili  

Bruci l’indifferenza

 

Che la poesia diventi fulmine

Di luna per lasciarmi nuotare

Di notte tra le acque oscure

Illuminata da lei

 

Che la poesia diventi turbine

Porti via l’apatia

Risvegli dal letargo

I poeti distratti

 

Che la poesia diventi  

Acqua di rose

E spegna tutto il fuoco

Che ho dentro 

 

Xanath Caraza

“Que la poesía” está incluido en el poemario Sílabas de viento / Syllables of Wind (Mammoth Publications, 2014). Poema original en español de Xánath Caraza. Traducción al inglés de Sandra Kingery. Imagen de portada de Adriana Manuela. Traducción al italiano de Zingonia Zingone y Annelisa Addolorato del poemario Le Sillabe del vento (Gilgamesh Edizioni, 2017). Editado por Andrea Garbin. Imagen de portada por Enrico Ratti.

 

Xanath Caraza

Syllables of Wind / Sílabas de viento received the 2015 International Book Award for Poetry. In 2015 for the International Latino Book Awards received Honorable Mention for Best Book of Poetry in Spanish by One Author.

 

Xanath Caraza

In 2019, “Que la poesía / Let Poetry” was selected for National Poetry Month by High Plains Public Radio. Listen here.

 

Poetry Connection: National Poetry Month in Santa Barbara and Santa Paula

  

Melinda Palacio, Santa Barbara Poet Laureate 2023-2025

Poetry at Vita Arts in Ventura

April is packed with poetry. On any given day there might be more than one poetry event to celebrate National Poetry Month. Ventura County got the ball rolling early with their poetry festival at the end of March. Last weekend, I managed to attend the monthly reading at the Vita Arts Center. Two poets laureate were featured: Ventura Poet Laureate Mary McFadden and Millenial Poet Laureate David Olivera. It was a perfect balmy day for listening to poetry outdoors. Next month’s features at the Vita Art Center include Carol Davis and Caron Perkal; make sure to find the not-so-secret back entrance from the parking lot, May 3 at 3pm.

Yesterday, I joined local author Stephanie Barbé Hammer, along with Rich Ferguson and Kathleen Florence from Los Angeles. If you picked up a copy of last week’s Santa Barbara Independent, you might have seen the announcement for our reading at Chaucer’s Books Thursday, April 9 at 6pm. Coordinating the schedules of four poets and a bookstore is no easy feat. Thanks to Stephanie and Chaucer’s Michael Takeuchi for wrangling us poets and making this event possible. There’s also an interview in the Santa Barbara Indpependent, where I answer Tiana Molony’s questions about poetry month and my first full-length poetry book, How Fire Is a Story, Waiting. I am looking forward to hearing our guest poets, as well as Stephanie, who reads her own work very well. Her words will inspire your own poems and stories. Chaucer’s now has a dedicated space with chairs for events, a welcome improvement to their book events.

A new venue for me is the Blanchard Library in Santa Paula. The librarian contacted me and asked if I would offer a presentation on my poetry for their Latino Poetry Program. On Saturday, April 11 at 11 am, I will share some of my poetry and original songs on guitar and ukulele. A monthly open mic follows from noon to 2pm. 

 

What’s become one of my favorite poetry month events, Poetry in Parks, returns this year. Last month, State Archeologist and poet Scott Green received the Director’s Award from California State Parks for creating Poetry in Parks. Santa Barbara’s state park is the Presidio. By assisting with curating the event, I have been able to bring together other groups that I am involved in. Last year, we had Rosal Ortega Flamenco. I met Rosal Ortega at a birthday party on the beach and was convinced to take her adult flamenco dance class. It’s a lot of fun. This year, the Ladies Social Strumming Club will play a few songs. Our other musical act is The Gruntled, aka Mark Zolezzi. We will also have two youth poets, Takunda Chickowero and last year’s Poetry Out Loud winner, Alicia Bautista Blanco, who will perform a Pablo Neruda poem in Spanish. Additional poets include Stephanie Barbé Hammer, Lori Anaya and Santa Barbara’s Poet Laureate George Yatchisin, Poet Laureate Emerita, Emma Trelles, and West Hollywood Poet Laureate Jen Cheng. Poetry in Parks, a free community event, takes place on Friday, April 17, 5:30-7:30pm at the Presidio Chapel, 123 E. Canon Perdido Street. 

 

Poetry in Parks, Friday, April 17 at 5:30 at the Presidio Chapel

 

 

The Ladies Social Strumming Club

 

Take advantage of all the poetry month offerings.

National Poetry Month Events:

Saturday, April 11

Authentic Latina Voices. Poetry, Song, and Storytelling. How to bring your most authentic sef to the stage and page with Santa Barbara Poet Laureate Emerita, Melinda Palacio. Saturday, April 11 from 11 to Noon at the Blanchard Community Library in Santa Paula. There will also be an open mic from noon to 2pm.

Sunday, April 12

The Poetry Zone. Monthly poetry reading and open mic, hosted by Bjorn Birnir at the Karpeles Manuscript Museum, 1:30 pm.

Monday, April 13

Tim Seibles Reads. Celebrated poet, Tim Seibles, reads at the Unity Chapel, 227 E. Arrellaga Street, 5 to 7 pm, host Laure-Anne Bosselaar, will also read. $5 donation.

Tuesday, April 14

Lowstate Writing Salon. Writing Community at the Blue Owl, 7pm.

Wednesday, April 15

12^th Annual “Spirits in the Air: Potent Potable Poetry,” The Good Lion. Santa Barbara Poet Laureate George Yatchisin curates this reading. Hear local poets read poems about their favorite drinks, 4:30-6:30, no host bar, The Good Lion, 1212 State Street. Featured Poets: Clayton E. Clark, Mason Granger, Justin Graham Hoops, Rebecca Horrigan, Amy Michelson, Diana Raab, Linda Saccoccio, Jason Scrymgeour, David Starkey, and host George Yatchisin.

Thursday, April 16

The Montecito Poetry Club. The group discusses the work of poet Danusha Lameris Thursday morning, 10-11:30 am, Montecito Library, 1469 E Valley Rd, Montecito.

Friday, April 17

Poetry in Parks at the Presidio Chapel. A poetry month presentation in Santa Barbara’s only State Park, the Presidio. An evening of poetry and music, featuring the Gruntled, the Ladies Social Strumming Club, poets include Lori Anaya, Stephanie Barbé Hammer, Takunda Chickowero, Alicia Bautista Blanco, Jen Cheng, George Yatchisin, Emma Trelles and hosts: Melinda Palacio and Scott Green of California State Parks. Free community event Friday, April 17 from 5:30 -7:30pm, the Presidio Chapel, 123 E. Canon Perdido Street.

Saturday, April 18

Solvang’s Celebration of National Poetry Month. The Elverhoj Museum of History and Art presents poets Dorothy Jardin, Carey McKinnon, Jeff McKinnon, Teresa Mc Neil MacLean, and Cynthia Carbone Ward, at the Elverhoj Museum in Solvang, 4pm.

Sunday, April 19

Poetry Club. A welcoming space to share the art of poetry. Read your own poems or your favorite poems, discuss and explore the poems in a positive environment at the Goleta Community Center, 5679 Hollister Avenue, Goleta, CA 93117. Free monthly event, sponsored by the Goleta Valley Library.

Sunday, April 19

Let’s Chat About Poetry. Host Laure-Anne Bosselaar asks that you bring in a favorite poem to that you love (not written by ) bo be read for poetry month. The domecil Studio, 1223 State Street, Santa Barbara, 4-5 pm, free.

Friday, April 24

Open Mic & Art Gallery/Noche de micrófono abierto y galeria de arte. All are welcome at the library’s open mic. Secure your spot by April 10, Central Library, 40 E Anapamu, 6-7:30 pm.

Wednesday, April 29

An Evening with Martin Espada. An evening with Award-winning poet Martín Espada, UCSB Campbell Hall, 7:30 pm.

 

*an earlier version of this column was published in the Santa Barbara Independent 

Young and Stupid

                                                                                        

A car and books

   President Johnson had just announced he was sending more than 100,000 troops to Southeast Asia to join the 185,000 troops already there. It was the first major escalation of the war. When Aaron Alvarez told his parents he’d signed the papers to join the army, he saw tears begin to form in the corner of his mother’s eyes. She struggled to find the right words. “You’re not even nineteen, yet. It’s dangerous, right now, with everything going on.” He could tell she was trying to be strong, but the pain on her face was evident. She asked, “Why?” 

     His dad lowered the newspaper and sat back quietly on the couch. Deep wrinkles formed across his forehead, a look of disgust. “We didn’t sacrifice and pay for Catholic school for you to go join the army. What about college?” 

     "I can start college on the G.I. Bill, after..."

     Aaron didn’t recall much else about the conversation, other than saying something about wanting independence, making his own decisions, and needing adventure, not sitting, bored, four more years in a classroom. Neither of his parents had gone to college, so they really couldn’t argue the point. His dad, a WWII combat veteran, responded, “In the army? Make your own decisions?” He shook his head. “Stupid. You’re just a kid. You don’t know nothing about it.” 

     A month passed. He saved up money working a part-time job at a clothing store, cleaning up after closing time. His friends decided to have one last drinking party. One of the guys got his older brother-in-law to buy three six-packs of Schlitz. They ended up at a local park. It was late. Most of the lights were out. They drank and talked, mostly about girlfriends, cars, and all the partying they’d done that summer. It was all coming to an end.

     Sal Torres and Kenny Woodhouse had both joined the Marines, the same day Aaron joined the army, kind of a pact. Sal and Kenny came from broken homes, so to their mothers, their decision to join was more about one less kid in the house, one less mouth to feed, one less kid running the streets. 

     Aaron had been a good student in school, the only Catholic school kid in the bunch, so the guys figured he was going to college. He volunteered for jump school, to be a paratrooper like his dad and uncles, glamorous and exciting. None of his other friends thought any of it glamorous, not the military or the war. When Carlos "Charley" Montoya, lead singer for the group Fantastic Plastic heard, he said, "Dumb, brother, a dumb move you ask me." The rest had bunk jobs, but "Hey," one had said, "work is work." 

     In 1966, the country didn’t even know much about the Vietnam, either. Like everybody else, Aaron and his friends had seen the images of soldiers, smoke, and the sounds of war on the television news, but it was all far away, distant, nothing to do with them.

     Kenny said he wanted to join before he got drafted. Sal said he joined because there were too many kids at home. Aaron’s best friend, Tommy Figueroa said he’d wait for them to come and get him, no use pushing it. Maybe the whole thing would blow over by then.

      At the end of the night, they were pretty “toasted.” Before they jumped into the cars, Tommy said, “I hope the damn thing starts. He slipped into the driver seat of his, silver ’57 Chevy Bel-Air, held his hand up outside the window, his fingers crossed. He turned the key and pumped the accelerator. The ignition turned, too many times, until finally the engine caught, sputtered, coughed, and died. He tried again. The same thing. After that, there was nothing, just the ignition turning then a clicking sound. “Damn, battery,” Tommy said. “You guys are gonna have to push it, so I can pop the clutch.” 

     Paul Castro, the only "cholo" in the group who acted the part but didn't like fighting, had been a friend since elementary school, said, “Naw. Ay. That’s too hard. Let’s get it in the street. I’ll push it with my car.” 

     A few minutes later both cars were on the street. Paul pulled his car slowly up to Tommy’s, but the bumpers didn’t meet. Paul had lowered his ’62 Galaxie, so his front bumper was a few inches lower than Tommy’s back bumper. All of them were pretty drunk by this point and not thinking clearly. It was all a joke. 

     Tommy said, “I know. Two of you get up on my trunk and make the bumpers level. That should work.” 

     Without much enthusiasm, Aaron and Billy Marquez volunteered. They both jumped up on the trunk, and sure enough the bumper dropped just enough to meet Paul’s bumper. Paul said, “Cool. I’ll get you up to about 15 MPH and let up on the gas. That should do it, fast enough get to pop the clutch and get it going, Tommy.” 

     Tommy kept laughing. “All right, solid, got it,” he said. 

     Once Billy was up on the trunk, he said, “Dang, it's slippery up here.” Billy had started every year on the high school varsity basketball team. He was taller than the others. 

     Aaron had started thinking a little more clearly. He hopped up onto the trunk, hooked the soles of his shoes into the heavy metal bumper, and said, “Tommy, don't go messing around. When you pop the clutch, don’t peel out. Get it started and slow down, or we’ll slip off.” 

     Billy reached behind him, stretching his long arm, and with one hand, he grabbed onto the back window frame, to stabilize himself. He said, “Get hold of the back window frame, Aaron.” 

     Aaron reached back with his left arm, his weak arm. He pitched with his right hand. His fingers barely reached the back window frame. He took a hold with his fingertips, not too securely. He was still drunk enough not to worry about it. 

     The cars began to move. Aaron stretched back for a better grip but nearly lost his balance. His fingers were too short. He leaned back on the hood, moving his shoes, to get them squarely on the back bumper. Paul got both cars up to a good clip, the bumpers clanking. Aaron could feel the wind blowing his hair. Someone let out a yell, like a mariachi. When he hit 15 MPH, Paul let up on the accelerator. Aaron could feel himself slipping. He leaned back, as far as he could, waiting for the jolt, his free hand looking for something to grab. Nothing. 

     Tommy hit the clutch and accelerator simultaneously. He laughed like a maniac.  The engine caught. The headers roared, but instead of slowing down, Tommy punched it, laughing even more. Aaron didn’t want to punk-out and call out for Tommy to slow down. Desperately, he hung on. Billy, his hand secure, smiled, the wind tousling his hair. Aaron began slipping. He stiffened his legs, but it was no use. He didn’t want to hit the street head-first, so he decided to jump, angling toward the curb. 

     He landed on his feet, the asphalt moving beneath him. He fell backwards, the back of his head hitting the street. Like a flash, a quick bright light, a thought shot through his brain. Paul’s heavy Ford Galaxie was coming up from behind. Instinctively, he turned his body toward the curb and ended up on his stomach. He covered his head with his arms and waited for the tires to pounce. Paul’s right front tire pinched the edge of his left leg. He lay still, his mind spinning, not sure if he was dead or not. 

     The cars stopped. His friends, laughing, came running to him. Only Paul looked worried. “You, okay, Aaron?” 

     Aaron stood, slowly, and brushed himself off. Lucky, he was wearing a long-sleeve Pendleton. Nobody noticed the torn material or the burns on his arms. He looked into Tommy’s eyes, always the jokester, never taking anything seriously. Aaron didn’t say anything. He didn’t want them to know how close he’d come. It was all a big, stupid joke. 

     They drove Aaron home and promised to see each other in a couple of months. He could feel his jittery knees as he entered his parents' home through the back door. 

     The next morning, Aaron packed his bag, taking only what the army instructed on the printed sheet of paper they'd given him. Before leaving for work, his dad had woken him up and told him to stay safe, to do what he was told, and he’d be fine. His dad kissed him on the cheek. He’d never done that. 

     A little before 9:00 A.M., his mom kissed his forehead and dropped him off at the Induction Center in Downtown Los Angeles. She asked, “Mi’jo, you want me to park and come in?” 

     “No, Mom, thanks. They told me to come alone. I'll call when I get a chance.” 

     She smiled, her eyes sad. "Okay."

     He said, “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll be alright, really.” 

     He stepped to the sidewalk. She drove off. The back of his arms still burned. There was a slight throbbing at the side of his leg. He rubbed it and walked up the sidewalk to where a crowd of guys about his own age had formed.