Category: Poetry

Town Monument

by Danielle Alexich | Posted December 11, 2025
Photo courtesy of Chico Fire.

On the first anniversary of the fire that destroyed the iconic Bidwell Mansion, we’re posting a poem written and contributed by local poet Danielle Alexich.

Sleep-drunk, we hear sirens from bed
and at dawn check our phones.
I stride the neighborhood avenue
to find Bidwell Mansion,
Victorian landmark,
yesterday pink,
now charred and smoldering,
grieving itself,
collapsed into a Dalian dream.
Light seeps through majestic trees.

Locals line the sidewalk.
Girl Scout alumni who toured
ornate, eerie rooms
with a blind and brilliant docent.
Old-timers holding hands.
Unwitting parents whose kids
cut class to smoke weed on the veranda.
Amid the rubble, steps survive,
once slick from generations
of events, spontaneous picnics,
first kisses, erased footprints
of those who were conquered. read more

For Which it Stands

by Danielle Alexich | Posted November 6, 2024

photo by Tania Flores
Graffiti in Oakland, Calif.

I would give myself an A plus.
Nobody has done what I’ve been able to do.
–Donald Trump

Grade school mornings
we faced the flag,
hands over hearts,
pride of a nation pulsing inside us.
We compared report cards,
took cuts in line at recess,
played dodgeball in the thin Oakland fog.
Across town and on TV,
dark people got dragged away in handcuffs.
If we saw a drunk collapsed on the street,
we were told not to stare.
People dreamed of getting rich.

Years later, we heard about other countries.
Epidemics, famine, hospitals bombed.
Our kids pleaded for Happy Meals
while foreign children covered with flies
slumped in the dirt.
Thank God we lived in America.

Now, upset by massacres
where we learn, dance, shop and pray,
we face our flat screens,
flip through channels,
and recall a man with jutted chin
shouting to the cheering crowd.
I could stand in the middle of 5th Avenue
and shoot somebody
and I wouldn’t lose voters.

Flags wave in the hot wind.
Our doors are locked.
Junkies crouch on streets
like a row of dark question marks.
One nation,
indivisible.

Danielle Alexich is a retired educator who loves family, dogs, culture and the outdoors. She hopes the experiences she shares in her writing speak to others.

Water Dome

Poetry of Place
by ChicoSol staff | Posted December 4, 2011

For Jazzi

snazzy peaches,
I am so far and with you

from those shards of sunlight on icy fields
on cycling mornings that must be getting colder,
from here it is hard to believe that they exist:
landscapes away, I can try to imagine
the smokiness in the air and the stars after six,
the persimmons in the market and the dry mouths they leave behind,
the seasoned almonds on the kitchen tables: orange cinnamon, coffee, honey and lemon,

or highway and
barbed wire and
flattened yellow grasses under slices of metal

but I lost your body here:
slow walk straight back deep breaths and I thought I had healed
on a misty evening, around cobblestones sinking in dirty water
we were hand-in-hand, coming from the Turkish bath
an old woman in an apron leaned against her doorway and told me I was beautiful —

what things we believe in and don’t believe in.
six thousand miles cannot be the same world,
I was so far, I did not believe the newspaper’s photograph,
but I believed after
the palm of my hand on cool tile,
a sign that read, “the most beautiful Arabic poetry,”
crying while I ate an apple,
a day somewhere between inshallah and inshallah,
smell of greasy meat at the end of my street and men still catcalling as she
put her arms around me,
the cat leaping to the edge of the clay pot to drink rainwater in the Andalusian garden,
the monkey in a red sweater at the end of a chain

every moment like the suspension
of a droplet of water
on the surface of a penny

snazzy peaches, I am re-reading Auden, the illusion of safety,
singing a lullaby in the room in Meknes,
domed ceiling, a tiled floor, a worn wooden bench
that I did not sit on because
a pretty rectangle had been carved out of the middle,
sensing the notes would burst, too full, overflowing,
finding your laughter in the faded indigo of that museum,
in all those things you made, could not have been without you

you were smiling in the aftertaste of smoke
in the glass of water I had this afternoon,
Yusef told me, a Moroccan specialty,
apparently it keeps scorpions away,
well, anyway,
lately I am believing
in all kinds of crumpled magic.

© 2011 Tania Flores

Tania Flores is the former arts editor of ChicoSol. Contact her at taniaarabelleflores@gmail.com.

Boat Under the Orange Tree

Poetry of Place
by ChicoSol staff | Posted October 23, 2011

Under the orange trees,
he turned to me and said,
scratch that, all things are beautiful

could he feel
the kitchen table under my elbows,
the taut muscles of my father’s face
tendons like fists, then ropes
the wince, the rocking motion,
what an ugly thing
war is

fingering the dullness.
leaves of an olive tree,
a skirt that swallows dust,
a lime in a girl’s mouth,
skin stinging under fingernails
in the dives of birds over the orchard,
do I not love the world enough?

she is taking a little break from herself now.
her shadow has left the house now,
she cannot
hurt bodies
without it.
standing on a rooftop in Rabat,
she knows her shadow is the fog
fossilizing the city by evening

she has gone to retrieve it in the waves
that touch her like cotton
and recognize her skin, even the hem of her skirt
and she is trying to remember if God forgave the princesita
who stole the star in Darío’s poem. She thinks God did.
she wants to know if it is okay to take one from the tile
by the unfinished mosque

perhaps this is the limit of language.
beautiful does not witness
the nightmares of veterans who sleep with guns,
the pinky of a lynched man in a jar
on the shelf with the family heirlooms,

the way her voice rose and I was afraid it would shatter
when she was too still, and she said, so guess what?
guess what I saw washed up on shore yesterday?

beautiful had not been walking with her
when she had seen
the odd thing on the beach,
the panicked woman who pointed, who pointed and said,
I know what that is, I know what that is,
I study biology —
it is a human fetus,
that is a human fetus

her voice rose and I was afraid it would shatter
and under this orange tree,
there is the shape of the boat,
and the texture of the wood,
and I am wondering who was there if beautiful wasn’t

© 2011 Tania Flores

Read the previous poem in this series, “Sacred.”
Tania Flores authors the blog, “pitaya and parachute sketches.”

Sacred

Poetry of Place
by ChicoSol staff | Posted October 15, 2011

I. Indigo

Paint your city indigo
and place it at the heel of the mountains,
at the edge of the rainforest

Name it
for the twin peaks like horns,
or for a saint,
and pave it with cobblestone

Make a quiet
rainfall
and a silky
fog lift
and a sun that will
breakthrough

to reflect
whitewashed indigo
like the freshwater of the lakes in Chiapas

Build a place for prayer
on a hill overlooking the city
a mosque, or a raft
and climb or glide, but do not swim
when you hear the call to prayer —

sometimes a marriage procession,
or the voice of the muezzin,
or a dancing boy and his tambourine

II. Rosary

Crammed between tables of Moroccan men,
in the outdoor seating of a café,
over a glass of mint tea,
I would like to tell you:

Civilizations do not clash in me
anymore —
perhaps they never did

I know I am not made of oil and water
because I am blurring continents, smearing oceans
with the edge of my left hand

I know I am café nusnus
because I am momentarily unsure
whether the woman in the mural
is a Muslim or a Zapatista,
because I am speaking Spanish to my African mother,
watching Mexican telenovelas in darija,
searching for Córdoba in Marrakech

My spine is a rosary
And I carry places like prayer beads.
Run your fingertips
down the middle of my back
and you will see that I am whole,
not split,
soft-skinned and another shade of coffee

you will be surprised,
as I still am,
at the length of my spinal column,
at the distance between vertebrae —
thirty-three places of origin,
and I have not returned to all of them yet

my birthplaces are cuauhnahuac,
close to trees,
sometimes named
for the horns of a cow or a goat,
but when you touch the curve of my spine,
you will see that I have emerged
from the city where it is always spring,
from the inside of an oak,
from a tree with purple bark in the mountains of Oaxaca

you can trace my roots
in the syllables of my last name,
listen to my father’s love of the earth
when I tell you who I am,
hear the sweat and soil whisper
that I am his daughter

and when you reach my sacrum,
and feel the fused bones,
you will understand why I cannot distinguish
between some of these places.

© 2011 Tania Flores
Read the previous poem in this series, “Mélange.”
Tania Flores authors the blog, “pitaya and parachute sketches.”