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En Passant
             For papa
  
 In passing, I shift my own weight
 Adjust my eyes to shadow.
 Defiant against rule.
 How long before we get caught in our minds                  
 My dad would say each part of life
 Is equating to profit and loss
 Hands spinning & weaving web through a city
 Overtaken by terror of commitment or the self.
  
 I refuse dictators & false commitments
 I keep the structure of myself, gazing
 & grazing weapons of my identity
 trying to adhere to certain standards, but those don’t make me
 I am immune in the transgression, immune to whoever
 Forsakes this city we’ve built.
  
 I see new light flooding memories, blind 
 I want to appreciate pieces of life, savor it
 Attune every thought to darkness.
  
 ~ Shawn Anto 

Shawn Anto is from Delano, California. He’s originally from Kerala, India. He currently studies at Cal State Bakersfield looking to receive his B.A. in English & Theatre. He was last seen on stage in Dreamers: Aqui y Alla. Past theatre credits include The Profane, “Gasoline”, and SubUrbia. His writing has been featured or are forthcoming in Reed Magazine, O:JA&L, Genre: Urban Arts, Mojave Heart Review, and elsewhere. He currently lives in Bakersfield with his mini-rex rabbit, Elio.

The Broken Girl
  
 The broken girl
 Has the perfect smile
 She warms your heart
 So you stay awhile
  
 The laughs and the grins
 Hide the searing pain
 The jokes and the jests
 Mask the falling rain
  
 The broken girl
 Seems brave and strong
 But self-hate and shame
 Haunt her shattered song
  
 Sorrow swims beneath
 The gloomy night sky
 The waves of darkness
 You can see, but deny
  
 The broken girl
 Has nothing left inside
 But superficial joy
 That shines on the outside
  
 When suffering wins
 The affliction overcomes
 Her life she finally ends
 And death she becomes
  
 The broken girl
 Conveys a dejected tale
 She may chuckle and beam
 But her soul is in hell
  
 Though she smiled and grinned
 Inside she’s broken
 Though she laughed out loud
 Her pain wasn’t spoken.
  
 ~ Donnée Harris 

Donnée Harris is a reporter turned novelist. She owns First Draft Publishing, a self-publishing consultation company. She writes Erotic Romance and has published six books. She writes while she takes care of her three daughters. She has a BA in Journalism and is currently Vice President of Writers of Kern.

Eclipse
  
 This eclipse was a slow concealing
 Of the light of the moon.
 Gradual but deliberate, 
 It darkened the night sky.
  
 I suppose the eclipse of the human happens
 With the same gradual intentionality.
 I wonder if the sky thought it had ended too,
 When the light went out, leaving only blackness.
  
 I wonder if it kept checking, 
 Looking for the moon in the place
 Where she once shined; not finding her,
 Pondering what happened.
  
 Even the clouds rushed the skies for their
 Nightly game of peek-a-boo with the moon’s light. 
 Unable to find her hidden glow, the clouds
 Were reduced to indistinguishable obscurity.
  
 As slowly as she disappeared, though,
 The moon peered ever so slightly
 From behind the shroud. As deliberately
 As Earth’s shadow hid her Luna,
  
 She gently shifted, graciously exposing
 A sliver of moonlight. The slice of brilliance
 Gradually widening revealed a radiance brighter
 Than the nighttime remembered.
  
 Just as there are darker darks than the night sky ever 
 Knew before the eclipse, there are also brighter lights
 Before unseen, eager to be revealed, silently beckoning us
 To hold on through our darkest moments. 


~ Pam Reeves

Pam Reeves, an active member of Writers of Kern (WoK), writes memoir and non-fiction and dabbles at poetry. She has been published in The Edge Holistic magazine and WoK’s 2018 Anthology, Reaching for the Sky. You can reach her at pamreeves@live.com.

Nostalgia
  
  
 I shimmied into threadbare denim 
 worn soft as a lady’s hanky
 And a red shirt embroidered with fish
 that once belonged to Kay
 the one her daughters gave me, after she died
 I wrapped myself in the pashmina
 Lynne brought me years ago, before she moved
 I scrambled two eggs in butter
 like my mama always did
 ate from her delicate porcelain plate,
 a gift  from me one Mother’s Day
 When nostalgia calls, I surrender. 

~ Annis Cassells

Annis Cassells is a poet, blogger, teacher, life coach, and a member of Writers of Kern. Her work has been published in professional journals, hobbyist magazines, and local publications. She’s had stories and poems published in online and print journals and magazines. “Nostalgia” was published her first book of poems, You Can’t Have It All, 2019.

 The Sound of Creation
  
  
 The crinkle of paper skins of garlic
 Being crushed by the weighty knife.
 The chop, chop, chop of the cleaver
 Dividing up the chicken,
 Separating flesh from bone.
 The sizzle of the olive oil
 Spreading in the cast-iron skillet,
 Smoking, exploding
 When the diced onions are thrown in.
 The swirling, swirling
 As the wooden spoon stirs in the chicken.
 The scrape, scrape, scrape
 Of the spatula releasing the carmelized morsels.
 The succulent suction
 As the knife pops the seeds out of the lemon.
 The splash and eruption
 When the lemon juice is squeezed into the pan.
 The cavernous  hollow rumbling
 Deep within one's belly
 As the smells envelope.
 The rush of salivation
 Anticipating the feast.
 The sensory overload
 As the first bite fills the mouth.
 Nostils flare,
 Tongue tickles,
 Throat gulps.
 The pleasure courses through the veins,
 Spreading from stomach to toes
 Like lava
 Replenishing the earth. 

~ 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.