Goodnight B.J. Riley, Wherever You Are

Musings on Rhythm and Rhyme in Santa Maria

May 3, 2012
by: Maggie Garey, aka SuperRed

     It was late afternoon yesterday when my friend Albert and I entered our Toyota TARDIS^* and traveled through time and space from eclectic, surf-drenched Ventura to the rolling, wine-covered fields of Santa Maria. We stopped at the Rest Area—the one right before the tunnel that would turn us away from ocean—to take pictures of the magenta clouds lounging above the unusually verdant and lush green foothills and found ourselves parked next to a 1972 Chrysler Imperial. The car was black and she showed her years, like an old Prom Queen whose past beauty can still be seen behind the dents and bruises of time. The faux leather roofing was peeling off as though she had bad sunburn. I took some cool pictures of Albert and the car, but we had to do it quickly and duck for cover before her owner came back from the Men’s. As we continued our journey, I reflected on the fact that Santa Maria is 97 miles from Ventura. I have new respect for B.J. Riley who travels down from Santa Maria to the Artists Union Gallery in Ventura every week for the Tuesday Night Poets group. That’s commitment!

     Poets, and those who love them, spend a lot of time in coffee shops and art galleries. Café Noir on Broadway Street in Santa Maria is an excellent venue; lots of open space, large windows and a very friendly staff. There is a creative vibe in the air, and the poets who read last night really “brought it” and I was impressed by the caliber of their readings. One of the baristas who worked there even came up and read one of her poems. Very cool! Our host, Terry, is a tall, angular man with eyes that crinkle; a sign that he laughs a lot. He read some of his poetry and performed with power and mature skill. His son, Champion, (what a great name!) was also there and read some of his poetry and performed on his acoustic guitar and sang. He is pretty young, and I'm sure he will be a force to recon with as he matures. I was so inspired by the work of the poets and the welcoming atmosphere, I raised my hand and stepped to the mike to read “Trepidacious Kamikazes”, a poem Albert and I wrote together a few years back. As though angels sat on my shoulders and guided heart, mind and speech, I read with more feeling and freedom than I have ever done before. It was a very exhilarating feeling. I floated.

    On the return trip, we didn't so much as drive, as teleport. The miles melted and time became all wibbly-wobbly and not at all linear. Before I knew it, we were home, safe and sound to sleep, to dream, to travel.

* Time and Relative Dimensions in Space, Doctor Who, BBC