Maja Trochimczyk: California Poets Part 10, Six Poems

Maja Trochimczyk

April 2nd, 2026

California Poets: Part X

Maja Trochimczyk

Six Poems

The Scottish Whisky Cake

Is not for everyone, not even for the brave of heart

tenacious like the English bulldog, Churchill

in a great war against the mighty Hun.

You have to relish bitterness, savor the dark

moments near despair, so close to heartbreak.

You have to be careful with the dense weight of

memories that, mishandled, might accidentally kill.

You have to love the piercing flavor of single-malt whisky,

the focused arrow of attention aiming straight at your goal.

No wonder you were called a bulldozer in grad school,

Your fellow students intimidated by your singleness of purpose

a steely disregard for authority and conventions.

Yes, you savor the warm slice of heavy whisky cake

with raisins and peeled whole almonds,

washed down with a sip of hot, fragrant tea –

Darjeeling of India – that tastes of burn soil and

resurrects the army of ghosts from the past

giving you strengh for a new battle, a new day.

Yes, Scottish whisky cake is not for everyone.

It is just right for you.

A Rabbit in my Garden

or rather, a wild hare, sandy gray with a rusty spot on the nape of his neck, darker tips of pinkish ears and a white furball of a tail, just like in the cartoons. He is a gift from Gaia for these trying times of the plague of hatred and distress. He looks at me askew with his curious black round eye and slowly hops away to nibble on green blades of grass on the overgrown lawn or just sit​ in the middle of the driveway – really, he thinks he owns this garden. He is not afraid. Not a​t all, just wandering, puzzled by my presence in this paradise of greenery and shade that ​he found for himself when he left the chaparral to explore​ suburbia. Not afraid, for he has a bodyguard here, At​tila, a half​-deaf Australian shepherd with a bad hip that stately guard​s the neighborhood​ with a serious air of a victo​r in countless skirmishes with ​our local pack of coyotes. My ​fearless hare is safe under the watchful ​gaze of ​the fierce Attila. My ​hare must have heard of the safety of my ​garden from passing birds, hundreds of sparrows and finches​ that flock here daily. They keep insects in check​ -assisted by lizards and toads.​ No ​need for ​toxins​ - why bother when nature balances itself so well? ​ 

I love my rabbit and he loves me. We trust in each other's presence. He visits me on the patio, twitching its nose and smelling the jade plants. He leaves my roses alone. How nice. But then, ​I blink​... Is there a second one? Is this a girl? Two rabbits living in my garden. Two wild hares​. They look happy,​ I should be happy, too. But I'm a bit anxious. What if they are getting ready for more? 

My lucky wild hare –

free, far from endless fences 

in Australia's brush 

Miłość - from Yesterday’s Dream

We are two foxes flying across the sky

with tails intertwined in gold and silver

of waning moon and pale sunlight.

We are two dolphins swirling, splashing through

the waves in aquamarine joy, seafoam – one more

one more again – let these waves never end –

until the salty sweat of the ocean carries us inland,

to the shore, we forgot exists, blessed beyond time.

We are the auspicious sign of double happiness –

two identical shapes outlined on scarlet silk satin.

We are two last pomegranates – red-ripe,

swaying in the breeze among golden leaves

that have started to fall. Winter’s coming.

Brilliant, so full of promise, that tart sweetness

of nostalgia, dreams of unspoken loss – ready

to burst open, we wait for the destined hour

to turn into trees, to breathe in our carbon

to breathe out our “tlen”  to breathe in sunglow,

to breathe out rays of subtle energy – permeating,

connecting us all in a bright cosmic lattice

that grows from the crystal seed of tomorrow.

NOTE: “Miłość” is love and “tlen” is oxygen in Polish.

Go to the Forest

                  ~ For my brother, cousins and Bielewicze

First thing in the morning, leave before 6 a,m.,

when shadows tell you where the mushrooms are.

Not just chantarelle and king boletus.

Ten other varieties you’ve learned to distinguish

from their poisonous cousins.

Red osak and brown kozak under birch trees.

Gąski hidden in sandhills beneath the pines.

In the grass, clumps of maslak, soft as butter

and so tasty that most are eaten by worms.

Rusty red rydz and olszówka in dead leaves under ash,

poplars and oaks. In sunny meadows,

white parasols of kania, a foot-wide and a foot-tall,

perfect to fry like pancakes for brunch.

By ten o’clock the sun is too high, you cannot see

and the baskets are full. You count and compare

the haul of true mushrooms, boletus.

Your brother always wins.

What other childhood summers do you want?

Video games and Tik – Tok all night?

Gossip, angst, and drugs? Sleeping until noon?

Mushroom-hunting is better. Sort, wash, clean, boil.

Make the brine of vinegar with salt, peppercorn

juniper, and bay leaves. Pickle, dry them, store

for winter. Home-cooked food to relish, remember.

So, next August get up early and go to the forest.

Walk up the path overgrown with nettle. Careful.

Look at the trees. Look under their branches.

Look up at the sky. Take a deep breath. This is your life.

Strawberry Fields Forever

We never bought jams or jellies.

Unthinkable. Even shameful. Never, ever.

After years of helping Mom, at 12

I became the confiture maker for the family.

A teen, I had long vacations, I had time.

With clothes for two weeks in the backpack,

I took a bus, a tram and two trains, riding

for hours by myself, then walking down

a sandy road while the train disappeared

into crystalline silence, punctuated by distant 

barking of a single dog, and skylark’s melody above.

I passed an abandoned hamlet, marched 

across fields and pastures to reach Grandma’s house.

To pick mountains of strawberries she cared for,

without toxins, pulling weeds by hand.

Strawberry fields of Grandma.

To pick berries for her, for us, for cousins, aunts

and uncles in the city. To wash, remove stems 

and cook them for three days, 20 minutes each,

slowly simmering the fruit in the syrup,

skimming the foam, making sure the thickening

juice remains wine-red, the fruit whole.

The dancing flames in the wood stove,

the chilly water from the well. Broken

conversations with Grandma, half Polish,

half Belarusian. Huge pots – guarded to not burn

before being emptied into rows of glass jars,

sealed with flaming vodka. My parents

drove to pick me up and divide the spoils.

Strawberry meadows in forests.

Sometimes, I made one small jar for Christmas –

wild strawberry confiture, from tiny berries

found on sun-kissed meadows in the forest.

Miniature, yet richly fragrant, the fruit took weeks

to collect, simmered in installments in a small pot.  

What joy, wait magic fragrance to be spread on

white farmer’s cheese and dark rye bread

in the tenth-floor kitchen, a drab Warsaw winter?

Do I grow strawberries now? No. do I pick wild ones

in forests? No. Do I make my own confiture and

supply the family with fragrant sweetness?

Of course, not. What family? People died, I moved away,

Why bother? Everyone’s on a diet. And yet,

the song reminds me in my car on the freeway.

Strawberry fields forever.

A Lesson on Fear

Fear is the color of steel.

The steel of barbed wire

on top of triple prison fences.

The steel of knife, rifle, pistol,

machete and drone.

Fear is the taste of metal.

Cold, smooth, indifferent

Like death itself – piercing,

mutilating, exploding bodies, souls

with relentless attacks of panic

of metal, of steel.

Listen to the heartbeat.

Feel the undulating motion

of your breath. Watch water

droplets slowly meandering

down the window pane.

Touch the velvet fur of your pet

curling up in your lap.

What is real? Why are you here?

What is the purpose of this

Ever-present fear?

Is there a cure?

Is there an antidote

for this universal toxin?

Perhaps, but you have to find it

on your own, deep within your

fragile, loving heart.

Author Bio:

Dr. Maja Trochimczyk is a Polish American poet, music historian, and photographer. She  published nine books on music & culture (most recently Paderewski Essays & Poems, 2025) and six volumes of poetry, to mention only Bright  Skies (2022) and The Rainy Bread (2021), about WWII experiences of Polish civilians. She edited five poetry anthologies: Chopin with Cherries (2010), Meditations on Divine Names (2012), Grateful Conversations (2018), We Are Here. Village Poets Anthology (2020) and Crystal Fire. Poems of Joy and Wisdom (2022). Her research and poems have appeared in numerous volumes of collected works, scholarly journals, and poetry periodicals in eleven countries. The sixth Poet-laureate of Sunland-Tujunga (2010-2012) and Program Director of Village Poets (2010-2022), she has served as president of the California State Poetry Society and Managing Editor of California Quarterly & Poetry Letter since 2019.  Her writings appeared in English, Polish, and translations into French, German, Serbian and Mandarin. Twice nominated for Pushcart Prize, her poems were honored by Creative Arts Prize of PAHA and other awards. She is the founder of Moonrise Press; her blogs on music and culture have had over 1.5 million readers worldwide. Moonrisepress.com