Guest

The road was dirt and gravel, mostly gravel,
and it pierced her bare feet.
But the birds singing in harmony
and the swish of the wind through the wheat
made the pain go away
and she walked on satin pillows.

—Caroline Reid

Writing is my kind of art
Ink and paper form my clay
Emotions from my heart
Join reminiscings of my day

At first my words are jumbled
As I lay them out
Readers would be challenged
To know what they’re about

But as I keep on writing
Words gently fall in place
I’ve learned I’m at my best
Writing at a fevered pace

Like Willma Willis Gore
Who’s been writing since a teen
Now at nearly ninety-three
She daily writes of life she’s seen

I will do as Willma tells me
At my desk I’ll “sit” and “stay”
I’ll form and mold my words
Until my thoughts I can convey

Keep it short and interesting
Is often what I hear
But how to cut my words
Beloved friends who are so dear?

I’ve so many things to say
With much to do and learn
That’s why I value membership
In the group called Writers of Kern

With great speakers who bring insight
And critiques to correct my wrongs
Exercises to prompt my brainpower
And tips to keep my writing strong

My prose will keep on coming
Telling stories through written word
As long as my Muse is faithful
And creative thoughts are spurred

Yes, painting, sculpture, music
Loved like art upon the stage
But I’ll keep on writing words
That they might dance upon the page

—Karen Sallee

I am a cracked vase
Fragile
Almost worthless.

You were my unsustainable flower
My nectar.

Now I am empty
As your love did seep slowly away.

No resistance was possible
No glue to bond the
unbondable.

No words to console
The inconsolable.

But hope remains
I feel your essence
In me and all around me.

The fragrance of your soul
is my ether.

Somewhere, somehow
You are me and I am you
Heaven knows it.

—Kathleen Ellis Faulkner

It is so evident at evening
our time is dwindling.

So put aside the trivial chatter
of incessant interruption of reasoning
twittering all the day long
with an absence of audience.

Think about the laughing times
and the loving times
long before electronics.

A man is an island now;
connections are not real.

Breath, warmth, touch are absent
in the waves of light
mocking reality.

—Kathleen Ellis Faulkner

It stands there oblivious to its mystic powers.

Brilliant stars crown this stately majesty;
The clouds provide its velvet cloak;
a towering rock its scepter;
the winds its towering voice.

Many are driven to conquer the mountain.
Ancient spirits embodied within the rock
lament the victims who dared
to challenge its luring magnificence.

What does the mountain represent?
Challenge or obstacle, beauty or fear,
Grandeur or danger?

To us poor souls, the mountain defies our mortality.

—Kathleen Ellis Faulkner