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Only as far as a flicker of light
on the dragonfly’s sun-kissed wing

Only as far as the miracle
of flowers that bloom in the spring

Only as far as the ocean waves
as they play upon the shore

Only as far as the sunset
that closes each day’s door

Only as far as your laughter
that echoes in my ear

If only as far as your memory
Far away, is really right here

—Sandy Moffett

Sandy Moffett has been a writer and lyricist for more than 40 years. She has been published in, Mortuary Management and International Mortuary and Cemetery Management, Cup of Comfort: Devotional for Mothers and Daughters, and Chicken Soup for the Soul: Angels Among Us. Sandy is a long-time member of Writers of Kern.

Inhaling the gravity
of abandoned aspirations
she ponders the flesh of her disappointments
noticing too late
that the noise of her inheritance
denies
the texture of her imaginings
and the emptiness
of a counterfeit story

What she was given
did not suit her
like the hand-me-down prom dress
it smelled alien and too familiar
it felt inbred

today
she turned away from
the secondhand  pretense

lusting towards her own desires
she decorates her life
with unburdened joy

today
she,
she,
she
decided

Anke Hodenpijl

When Anke Hodenpijl is not a poet, she is a singer of songs, mother, grandmother, partner, gardener, traveler, and foodie. She thinks life is delicious, poetry is the essence of joy, and relationships are the reason for it all.

The Cassells home-place cellar,
A real cellar—earthen-floored,
must-scented, raven-aired.

Grandma Annie Casssells
and ten-year-old me,
heave worn wooden doors,

throw daylight underground,
pick our way down brick slab steps,
stand still, let our eyes adjust.

She leads
Bound for thick, unpainted plank shelves
Jammed against the far wall.

She reaches
For a dusty jug
amongst canned pickles, peaches, beans.

She pours
a half-pint jelly jar one-quarter full,
announces,  “grape juice.”

She savors
A long dark liquid sip
“Ahhhhh.”

She passes
the almost-empty jar
to me.

She cautions
“Just a little now.
It makes you feel all warm inside.”

She stretches
her eager knobby fingers for the rest
as the jar leaves my lips.

We ascend
Hugging peaches and pickles,
like nothing else ever happened down there.

—Annis Cassells

Annis Cassells is a teacher, poet, and writer who added “life coach” and “speaker” to her resume after retiring from teaching middle school. She is a long-time member of Writers of Kern whose poems have been published in several online ‘zines and print anthologies. “First Taste” was published in Scarlet Leaf Review, March 2016.

Sierra dawn,
crystals whirl, wispy– white gentle on pine branches.

Awakened children run to this surprise,
form a footpath from the cabin,
flapping arms and legs, becoming angels –

Children and parents – together—push and roll snowballs into
white belly,chest and head:
Brown branches for arms,
black briquettes for eyes,
yellow banana peel for a smile,
sliced carrots for buttons;

This snowman stands on a lawn overlooking a lake.

By end of the day, it melts bowing to the departing sun.

—Portia Choi

Portia Choi devotes her time to promoting poetry by hosting the monthly First Friday Open Mic and publicizing events during National Poetry Month in April. She administers www.kernpoetry.com with stories and pictures of poets and poetry events. She published a chapbook of her poems Sungsook, Korean War Poems. She is published in a number of journals, including The Asian Pacific American Journal, A Sharp Piece of Awesome, and Levan Humanities Review. She is a long-time member of Writers of Kern.

Fireworks explode
Showering the night in beautiful
Twinkling wishes
Reflected in the eyes of children
Smiles full of joyous adventure
Happiness
Abounds

The cheering crowds
Stand tall
The screams of delight
Filling the air with life
I can feel the warmth
Of the celebration
Wash over me

And for a second
I forgot who I was
What I had become
And where I was heading

For a second
I was alive
With a lifetime of hope
Spreading ideas and dreams
Stretching my lips into a grin
For a second
Just one second
I was one of you

—Terry MeGhee

Terry McGhee was born and raised in Bakersfield, CA. He began pecking at an old typewriter in 1992 at the age of thirteen and quickly found that words had a way of releasing emotions that otherwise would never have seen the light of day. Currently working with Bakersfield’s own indie film company Hectic Films Productions, he now splits his time between movies, madness, prose, and poetry.