Annis Cassells

 
 
 Femme
 for love & culture

 You weep inwardly (inner cry-New York Style)
 after your friend asks you – did you ever want a relationship 
   with your father?
 after twenty years – filled with antiseptic/// hardened glow
  
 No, I say, and I want to cry.
  
 no resource will fill—I doubt the hand that feeds me
 promise, promise is not forever, can still, quiet roaring.
  
 & when I stare into the sun
 burning up my retina—destroying images of men leaving or 
   papa dying.
 Do I ever want real relationships?
  
 I burn a hand that feeds
 burn feeding-you hands
 char flesh center-stage, focus of undoing.
  
 I’m weeping, calling my mother
 it’s just us & this hostility & genesis 
 stalking us everywhere we go—with every man we meet.
 sharp glare thrust knock politely tap, tap on thin bone
 scattering dazzling pink light, scaly, glittering on wish-less 
   tongue
 bloody from memory of darkest sky, omen of past retreat.
  
 we cannot beat our demons, but we trap them and suck out 
   the meat
 only bone is left, we sprinkle colorful light and leave remains 
   like that.

~Mateo Lara
 

Mateo Perez Lara is queer latinx, originally from Bakersfield, California. He received his B.A. in English at CSU Bakersfield. He is currently working on his M.F.A. in Poetry at Randolph College in Lynchburg, VA. His poems have been featured in Emerson Review, EOAGH. He is an editor for RabidOak online literary journal & Zoetic Press.

To Bring One Home
  
 Do you hear it?
 The plaintive drone,
 A wild melody,
 Drifting on the wind.
  
 Follow me
 Down cobbled alleyways,
 Past stonewalled cottages,
 Into fields of heather
 Across a grassy moor.
  
 The call is louder now,
 Pulling you inexorably,
 Stirring the blood
 With cries of warriors
 Marching into battle,
 Fearing death,
 Yet going forward anyway.
  
 Your heart is filled with longing.
 The wind is cold,
 Making the reddened nose run
 And eyes tear.
 The sun is setting its golden blessing
 Across the hills.
 Serpentine stone walls cast shadows.
 Sheep bleat,
 Adding grace notes
 To the haunting tune.
  
 Stumble over a rise
 And there they are!
 Standing stock still
 In rows upon rows,
 Wrapped in crimson and emerald tartans
 Whipping in the wind.
  
 The highland pipers
 Calling
 At the end of day.
  
 ~ Carla Joy Martin 

Carla Joy Martin was born in New York City and grew up in St. Andrews, Scotland and Pasadena, California.  I have lived in Bakersfield for thirty years now, having raised my two sons here.  I have taught piano, art and English.  In these “Golden Years” of life, I am a substitute teacher and aspiring poet and children’s book author.

 Put your head on my shoulder, 
 let me reminisce in your autumn sky, 
 lemongrass, sweet chocolate chip hair
 Each strand like momma's fresh baked cookies
 Lay your head next to mine dear
 And let me inhale
 until i can't smell sadness no more
 Until all that lingers in my soul
 Is the scent of home
  
 -Z 

Hello, I’m Zainab, but you can call me Z. I’m just a 19-year-old girl blessed with hazelnut skin, an electric Brain, and a love for life, trying my best to write about what I know to be true.

COLONEL BAKER’S FIELD
  
 His name was Thomas Baker,
 He was a brilliant lawyer,
 A leader of the state of Ioway.
  
 But he had a restless spirit,
 A heart for bold adventure,
 That drew him here to Californ-i-ay.
  
 He settled in this valley,
 He drained the swamp around him,
 He planted fields of grain and fields of hay.
  
 He gave free food and water,
 To travelers and their horses,
 As they journeyed between Frisco and L.A.
  
 He was a man of faith,
 A man of noble purpose,
 With vision bright as sunlight at mid-day.
  
 He watched for special people,
 And whenever he would find them,
 He’d give free land to encourage them to stay.
  
 But he had one main condition,
 That when they finally prospered,
 They’d help the town succeed in every way.
  
 They all worked hard together,
 They built a friendly place,
 For families, neighbors, strangers day to day.
  
 We still greet weary travelers,
 We still raise happy families,
 We still work hard to do our best each day.
  
 It’s still a place of goodness,
 A place of honest handshakes,
 A place we do things in our own sweet way.
  
 It’s a place where God’s still reverenced,
 Where Christ is lifted up,
 Where we honor what the Bible has to say.
  
 That’s the story of our city,
 And of Colonel Baker’s field,
 Who made this town what it is today.
  
 ~ Don Clark 

Don Clark, 77, has had a life-long career in all phases of journalism, including newspapers and magazines on the East Coast and radio and television reporting and anchoring on the West Coast.  He has begun a new career in guiding people toward secure financial retirements.  He writes prolifically for Don Clark’s America.  He lives on a ranch south of Bakersfield.  He can be reached at [email protected]