JUDITH PACHT
Judith Pacht's book Summer Hunger won the PEN Southwest Book Award for Poetry. Her third book, Precarious, New & Selected Poems (Giant Claw Press), was published in the fall of 2025. A three-time Pushcart nominee, Pacht was first place winner in the Georgia Poetry Society's Edgar Bowers competition. Her poetry appears in journals that include Ploughshares, Runes, Nimrod and Phoebe, and has been translated into Russian where it was published in Foreign Literature (Moscow, Russia). Her work is in numerous anthologies. Pacht reads at the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books, at Charleston's Piccolo Spoleto Festival and has read and taught Political Poetry at Denver's annual LitFest at the Lighthouse.
Alloy
My wrist
never wore this
band he gave me, buried
in Emma's scarf with mementos
of times
before
and after him.
Jewelry like this is made
to look old. Two Hellenic figures
posed,
etched
on an alloy
pretending silver. The stone,
bezzeled lapis, rust-veined like
his eyes:
deep set
blue, flashing with
a cheap beauty. Pretenders to
the genuine and a trick
of the eye.
Published Persimmon Tree Journal (summer 2026)
The Poet at Four
The chalk, the sidewalk, her unsteady hand
scratched a line, looped a loop with hair,
drew wobbly Js & later vowels (unplanned)
turned into names with consonants to spare.
No one really noticed, did they,
when fresh images & words surprised, see-
sawed
inside her head: landscapes, a tree, a curse,
a verse
in Hochdeutsch, Grandfather’s language.
She wet her finger to the wind
leaned into disconnect
fancied insight, depth,
& played with shock, her newest toy,
cut the slightest slant, forbade the tonal fugue,
declined to rhyme.
Published in Precarious, (Giant Claw Press)
Untied
scraps collected
saved & shaped to stanzas
or laid out with care on paper
like starched & ironed organza
crushed
oh those crumpled hours
torn & tossed away
(something might be there)
& then once when I was three
I tried to tie my shoe hurled it flying
fury against the flowered wall paper
making bruises of purple-petaled flowers
not so much later
I came to know
the shoe’s lace better
its loop-the-loop
its up-round-down
& then the lace & I
became a bow
Published in Precarious (Giant Claw Press)
© 2026 Judith Pacht
JOE DECENZO
Joe DeCenzo is an L.A. native and graduate of the Los Angeles City College Theater Academy. His education in music built the foundation for his appreciation of the poetry of lyrics. He was elected Poet Laureate of Sunland-Tujunga and served from 2004-06. While Laureate, he produced the “Shouting Coyote” Performing Arts Festival and was a Department of Cultural Affairs grant recipient. It was renowned for drawing local writers, musicians, dancers and artists together in prominent festivals that celebrated the creativity of the foothills. His published works include The Ballad of Alley and Hawk and the Study Guide and Poetry Primer for the same. Since 2004, both are being taught and performed annually at Vineyard Junior High in Rancho Cucamonga by his collaborator, Jenna Vandegrift. He has been published in several anthologies: Meditation on Devine Names (Moonrise Press 2012), We Are Here, the Village Poets Anthology (Moonrise Press 2018), and Crystal Fire (Moonrise Press 2022). The latter earned him a Pushcart nomination. He was inspired to pursue creative writing as a child after hearing a recitation of Rudyard Kipling’s “If.” His greatest influences were the playwrights he studied and performed e.g. Tennessee Williams, Arthur Miller and Harold Pinter. For 10 years he served as the chair of the Sunland-Tujunga Arts Recreation and Culture Committee helping artists and organizations connect with funding, venues and volunteers. He regularly emcees the Village Poets monthly reading at Bolton Hall Museum. His proudest achievements are the connections he’s made with the foothills communities and the programs he’s worked to build and maintain.
Just an Old Guitar
It nestled at my feet when I lived out of a duffle
Surfing from one couch to another.
It followed me on buses, trains and subways
When seeds were being sown and passions kindled.
It cried when the city burned and students struggled to be heard
Giving purchase to their voices telling all “We stand as one.”
Her chords resounded loudly when the razor wire snapped;
Mangled heaps of chain link fence trampled under flurried feet.
Churning rotor blades of “frequent wind” repeating through the night.
Brothers carried home to safety on the last flight from Saigon.
Through the turnstiles of the subway to the platform’s oily breeze,
Down to smoke-filled basement clubs and beer-stained microphones
Busking to make rent on the sun-bleached ocean strand
Its reliable pick guard stopping me from sawing it in half
With every blue-collar-blustered freedom anthem rally cry
That poured from its sound hole.
It’s just an old guitar with the outline of a woman,
And a fading lacquer finish from its miles on the road.
A blatant indentation where belt buckles rubbed against it.
It’s just a voice to cling to when the body’s left alone.
It rested near the bed until a cradle took its place.
It was protected in the closet until linens forced it out.
It’s just an old guitar that rode along as I transposed,
Keeping my world in balance ‘til the family tree took root.
It’s seen a lot of life, that Martin ’54.
Holding it again, I
feel temptation in her strings
Beauty at the Barre
Small cloud of rosin dust
Around a battered wooden box
Rises beauty from hellish pain
A half-used roll of KT tape
Contains the inflamed hamstring
Cracking calluses, the only shield
For a bloody sock
Blisters ripped of skin
Plié - tendu
Plié - tendu
From 5:00 am until the school bell rings
Torment to the limbs
Aching, soreness, spasms, cramps
Tedium at the barre building
Strength, alignment, balance, beauty
Relevé - en pointe
Relevé - en pointe
Body dysmorphia, eating disorders
Stay thin, stay thin
Keep your fingers from your throat
Need it be this ugly
To reach the height of grace?
The x-rays say you’re ready
Determination leads the charge
Bind reptilian feet
In satin covered toe shoes
Sauté - en pointe
6 inches of elegance
The added line from hip to toe
16 years of training
For the Black Swan pas de deux
Sonnet For The Fallen
When innocence retreats, insanity’s
The first to blame. The conversation starts
To find a reason when atrocities
Deprive the fallen of their beating hearts.
“My rights above all else,” a selfish myth.
No room for a solution to be found.
There isn’t any point to argue with
Opponents who lie buried underground.
All those we loved would want us to erase
The ego at the bottom of our cup.
The problem is the challenge we all face,
The challenge to give in and not give up.
Who stands to honor and assist the weak
When for themselves the fallen cannot speak?
© 2026 Joe DeCenzo
Photos taken in Descanso Gardens by Lois P. Jones 2026
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