Guest

Some say it’s the seat of the soul
Holder of knowledge and Spirit
Strength and love can be drawn from it

A vessel that connects a life
Pulse upon pulse renewal springs
Until a pain an alarm rings

To the now a moment in time
Radiating waves crashing down
In pooling tears of loss we drown

Residence of knowledge and love
Swelling emotions a riptide
Pulling and holding then subside

Or a harbor of hate and pain
A well-built muscle beating time
Metering man versus sublime

Does a spark of God dwell within
Why is life a throw of dice
Hit or miss chasing the device

A flame to lead us safely home
A light to guide the lonely soul
Back towards a more perfect knoll

—Diane Lobre

Diane retired from the Hawaii Public Health Institute (HIPHI), where she assisted with its mission of providing education and advocacy leadership on key public health issues. Prior to moving to Hawaii, Diane held a brief position with Bakersfield Life where she wrote profile pieces on local architects. She has two poems in Writing Flora, Writing Fauna: A Collection of Poems from the Southern San Joaquin Valley.

So what if they reject you.
So what if they exclude you.

You are set apart.
You are called for
Something higher.

So go forth
And Shine.
Let the darkness
See the light it made.

—Lily Hobbs

Recently retired, Lily is a late-blooming independent writer, just getting her feet wet. As a member of the Writers of Kern in Bakersfield, California, she’s getting the support, encouragement and guidance needed. In addition to her love of non-fiction and all things Spiritual—both reading and writing—she discovered a love for poetry through an interview with Mary Oliver by On Being Studios. For the first time in her life, Lily began hearing life in poetic lyrics and occasionally tries her hand at it. Find out more about Lily at www.justonething.site.

Winds roaring with poisonous gas
Angry thunderbolts hit with a flash

Earthquakes cluster to damage the berths
Fire raining down upon the earth

Smoke and ash that leads to disease
Don’t open the door, it’s not our Marie

Darkness, cold, roaring winds
The sun has been blackened, the famine begins

Mountains sunken, islands doomed
Stars fallen, powers removed

God’s wrath, who will escape,
The day like no other,
The Lord’s judgment day.

—Victoria Regina

Vickey Ivey lives in Bakersfield. Her dream is to be a horror writer. Some of her favorite writers are Steven King, Edgar Allan Poe, Christopher Fowler, and Anne Rice. She writes because, “My late father read horror stories to me as a child; and, writing enables me to unveil the underlining horrible truth that’s hidden within us all . . . fear.”

I spend many late afternoons at a local bookstore cafe, watching the customers study, relax, and relate.  I am often reminded of other writers—Hemingway and Fitzgerald—who frequented the cafes of Paris and gained inspiration from their clientele.  In my own humble way, I hope my poems capture the American flavor of this phenomenon.  All walks of life are depicted here.

He stands erect
with a white wizard beard
and long snowy hair
neatly pulled back in a band.
He is wearing a crisp linen shirt
and creased khaki pants
and burnished cowboy boots.
He looks like a leather-bound
collector’s edition
of Rip Van Winkle
I can imagine him sitting
With a granddaughter on his knee
Regaling her with stories
Of elves and fairies

Is he an elegant hippie?
What’s with the ironed shirt?
And the shiny boots?
So much care given to the accoutrements
Yet the long hair
Links him to Woodstock

Has he been sleeping
For one hundred years
And rudely awakened
To find himself in the age
Of trimmed goatees
And neon athletic shoes?

What would such a mind
Wonder at this environment?
Snow-capped pine trees
Denuded into sculpted shrubberies
Wild into tame
Is that why his hair
Is so neatly combed
And restrained by the band
And his shirt so pressed
Wrinkle-free
Concessions made to conform
To this day and age?

But secretly at night
His young, limber-limbed lover
Combs his locks
And covers her breasts
With the snow-white hair
Of his vibrant, virile beard

—Carla Joy Martin

I 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.

 

It seems like just the other day
That your dad placed you in my arms
All pink and smooth and warm
And I cooed, “Just think, someday he’ll have whiskers on that sweet little chin.”
But I didn’t really believe it.

And I remember just the other day
When the nurse showed me your footprint
Side-by-side with “a normal baby’s prints,”
And I gasped, “He’ll wear huge shoes someday.”

And wasn’t it just the other day
That you stood proudly up against the wall
Where we measured and marked and figured
And I laughed, “He’ll be taller than his dad someday!”

I know it was just the other day
That you toddled off alone down the trails of Big Sur
And came laughing home to my frantic cries…
And you ran off down the Fremont Peak trails,
Herded home by our faithful Misty…
And you strolled casually around Lake Calabasas,
Riding proudly home in the police car,
Accompanied by the sound of the searching helicopters…
And I sighed, “He’ll strike out on his own someday.”
But I didn’t really believe it.

Then just yesterday, we drove to the University,
Unpacked your razor and your size 13 shoes,
And I drove away
Waving hard in the rear view mirror
Leaving you to strike out on your own…
And me with a six-foot three-inch hole in my heart.

—Joan Lindsay Kerr

A former teacher and curriculum specialist, Joan Kerr is loving retired life spending time with her children and grandchildren and exploring the world with her husband, Rob. She usually writes travel stories, but finds that poetry is a better genre for moments of strong emotion.