Blog

by Anke Hodenpijl

 Poor man
 flashbacks of his youth
 stretch from his nightmares,
 collapse into his hands,
 for all to see.
  
 Poor man
 the dander of his suffering sheds 
 into the clamor of his decline.
 Befuddled words elope,
 like a murmuration of starlings
 darkening the sky.
  
 Poor man,
 my father,
 memories he struggles to smother,
 ooze into his final days. 

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Anke Hodenpijl believes the practice of writing brings her closer to life. Her work reflects on the intersections between immigration and assimilation, spirituality, family, racism, and sexuality. Her work is published in several anthologies and literary journals. She connects with other poets as a facilitator at the Art and Spirituality Center in Bakersfield and as a Critique Group leader with the Writers of Kern.

by Judy Kukuruza

The words that then HAD to be put on paper
 Now float inside her head and heart
 Elusive to others, not written down,
 Still, a comfort to her - inside.

 Then the hill, the forest, HAD to be hiked,
 the cool water HAD to be dived into,
 Now she treads gingerly, floats atop the water
 Cherishing the comforts nature affords her.

 Then she conquered the body aches,
 read books all night in dim light - 
 found jobs to feed and clother her children, 
 studied, learned, championed others without judgement.

 Now the body is alien, demanding sleep.
 Eyes blur as they try to read;
 Hands cramp trying to write,
 Feet stumble and eyes tear up too easily.

 Her ears gather the loved music and cawing crows.
 The wolf spirit within rises to once again survive.
 She finds the magic she holds inside,
 Wondering and in awe of her spiritual realm.

 Glancing at a mirror, she sees an unrecognizable reflection.
 A laugh rises - she never saw herself then either. 
 The children within laugh, cry, romp in puddles
 There is no THEN for them, as she lives in the NOW. 

---

Retired college instructor from CSUB and Bakersfield College. She published her memoir One Body/Many Souls in 2018, and later Poems to Ponder, Little Stories to Play with in Your Mind, and Letters. She publishes her blog, “Our Spiritual Journey” through Word Press.

by Jennette Green

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Jennette Green writes sweet romance with a touch of spice. She fell in love with writing when she was seven. As a teen, while traveling on a sailboat with her family in Central America, she filled notebooks with stories. Her books have received “Reader’s Favorite Hero,” “Reviewer’s Choice Award” and more. ‘Snowstorm’ was an international bestseller.

by Carla Joy Martin

 Driving around Haggin Oaks,
 Wide boulevards with clearly painted lanes
 Control smoothly flowing traffic
 Of SUVs and BMWs with custom vanity plates,
 Past palatial homes with white columned porticos,
 Manicured lawns, sculpted trees,
 Flower beds and five car garages,
 Quiet parks.
 Living seems good
 For those who have risen above the deplorables.
 Traffic obeys the stop signs.
 Cars signal before turning.
 Seldom are sirens heard
 Of police cars chasing criminals.
 Yet sometimes there is the wail of ambulances
 For pain and death still make social calls
 Behind the lovely facades.
 The roads are smooth and commodious
 As substantial bank accounts,
 Voluminous investments.
 Monumental mortgages.
 Life seems ordered and privileged--
 Like these streets.
  
 Driving around downtown,
 Asphalt is pitted and pot-holed.
 Traffic moves in jerks and bursts
 Like angry rats trapped in a maze
 Of poverty they can't escape.
 Pick ups and gardening trucks
 With peeling paint jobs and
 Expired tags on license plates
 Cough and roar through stop signs.
 Why obey authority
 When the system is rigged?
 Black clothed riders on bicycles
 Careen in and out of traffic
 Like crazed grim reapers
 Illuminated by headlights at the last moment.
 Police car and ambulance sirens
 Add their unholy howl to the enraged river of noise.
 Billboards advertising bail bonds and malt liquor
 Loom above tired, worn-out homes
 With old appliances lurking in the yards.
 Homeless push their shopping carts
 Holding all their worldly possessions
 Bound up in bulging black plastic bags.
 They collapse on corners,
 Hoping for charity.
 Skeletal dogs whine and feral cats screech.
 The streets are explosive and needy--
 Can't make it to pay day,
 Minimum wage,
 Evicted.
 Life is cruel, hard and unjust--
 Like these streets. 

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Carla Joy Martin is a poet, pastel artist and piano instructor.  After living in New York, Scotland and Pasadena, she has now resided in Bakersfield for thirty-five years.  Carla enjoys promoting the arts in Bakersfield.  She hosts the Dukes Memorial Concerts as well as co-hosts the First Friday Open Mic Nights with Portia Choi.