Poetry

 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.

 Shadows
  
 “What did you say?”
 The words are distant, garbled in the shadows.
 Looking for the words hanging in the air
 But the shadows of beings from the past
 smother the words sought to be known.
 “Just pull the weeds, focus on the ground,”
 the voices inside say.
 More shadows even as the sun falls hot on bent shoulders,
 hands searching out the weeds and grass.
 Focus, work quickly, hard—
 push the shadows away.
 The shadows persist, insidiously creeping, covering,
 bringing past to present in the vulnerable mind and body.
  
 Task completed, sunshine wanes and dusk descends.
 The eyes look up and the moon taunts, 
 promising darkness coming from the shadows.
 A voice speaks as the eyes are riveted on the moon,
 “Not this time.  No.  No more.  You cannot control this time.”
 Shadows become heavy with a darkness they carry, 
 Laughing at the eyes that watch the moon—
 vowing to linger into the next day
 and the next.
  
 With a shudder, a vow to push back,
 The eyes look away.
 When will it stop?
 How much light will it take?
 Shadows…
 covering mind, soul,
 insidiously creeping closer and closer,
 blending time past and present.
 Push back.
 Focus. 
 HOPE. 

~ Judy Kukuruza

Judy Kukuruza ~ Retired college instructor from CSUB and Bakersfield College.  She published her memoir One Body/Many Souls in 2018 and publishes her blog, “StorywritersThoughts,” through WordPress.  She is a participant in the WOK blog challenge and is published in the WOK Anthology 2018, Reaching for the Sky, and the CSUB poetry anthology, Writing Sound.  Still writing.

 CROON
       —Lynchburg, Va (2019) 

If I say I miss Bakersfield too much, it loses its edge.
I’ll say, instead, I miss heat when it snows in Lynchburg.
 
I’ll radiate, like steel vibrating, under this home
pretend every noise is my mother hushing me to sleep.
 
Seventh Street rumbles with a flood, a harm of water
rushing down a hill, down to drown out sorrow and doubt
cupped in the hand, a grief swallowed, holy, so goddamn holy
if I prayed harder, God would turn this clarity 
into blood-soaked truth.
 
If I say I miss my Papa, it loses its edge and makes the wound deeper.
If I say being so far away from home hurts, 
I lose my edge and we can’t have that.
 
Wind, so much fucking wind, lifts the shingles, jingles the chimes
reminds me this chill in my bone is from terror and not the cold
or brown boy survives another day in a marble city, named
after its own form of punishment, come reside in the trench of history
bite down and forget everything else.
 
If I say this hollow body needs, does that make any sense.
If I purr like my cats for affection, does any broken thing mend?


~ Mateo Lara 

Mateo Perez Lara is queer latinx, originally from Bakersfield, California. He received his B.A. in English at CSU Bakersfield. He is currently working on his M.F.A. in Poetry at Randolph College in Lynchburg, VA. His poems have been featured in Emerson Review, EOAGH. He is an editor for RabidOak online literary journal & Zoetic Press.

 Weather To Do So
  
 Forgiveness breathes on unruffled waters
 quietly dormant and softly anticipating
 the drizzle of a fresh morning rain,
 eager to borrow the vigor of an unused day
  
 Forgiveness aches to be glimpsed
 like a rainbow poured from the clouds above,
 pursuing a flamboyant storm
 and the pulse of droplets tinkling into a delicate echo
  
 Forgiveness straddles and invites
 angry clouds and murky puddles
 shallow sounds and soulful hurt
 the crack of thunder and the quickening tempest 
  
 Forgiveness can be ignored,
 like the panhandler on the curb,
 left to beg at the altar of, 
 “Hey buddy, I’ve got my own troubles.”
  
 Forgiveness is a choice. 
 It remains like an unspoiled day
 bounded by doubt and certitude
 always ready to be the uninvited guest 
  
 in the midst of
 whether to do so 

~ Anke Hodenpijl

Anke Hodenpijl is a bedside singer, poet, gardener and safe spot for animals. She is inspired by nature, family, history, friendships and unfinished stories. Mostly, she is a grateful person.

 DRIVING THE PENNSYLVANIA TURNPIKE
  
  
 I’m driving the Pennsylvania Turnpike
           Headed west at about 65.
 The sunshine from blue above lights my path
           As my dreams just come alive.
  
 I love those distant mountains
           As they reach to touch the sky;
 And the trees, those luscious treetops ~
           The sight of them soothes my eye.
  
 The trees are brightened by the sun
           In hues of green and yellow
 Which reflect into my heart and soul;
           I feel so peacefully mellow.
  
 So much open space, pastures, and lakes
           In the valleys and hills before me.
 I dream of owning some land like this
           By a river where we could be free.
  
 We’ll build our log cabin on a mountainside
           And start a little farm.
 Maybe raise a horse, a cow, and some sheep,
           And chickens around the barn.
  
 We’ll plant a garden with corn and potatoes,
           Pumpkins, beans, and, of course, flowers;
 I’ll make a rock garden with cacti and sand
           And a birdbath for cardinals’ showers.
  
 I dream of the river flowing gently past
           Our home, and it makes a cove
 Where lush willows weep over the moss;
           We can hang our hammock there, love.
  
 In the shade we’ll swing by the water
           And listen to bullfrogs jump in;
 Dangle our feet over the edge to cool,
           Or even take a swim.
  
 We’ll picnic under the willows
           And fish for trout in the stream.
 What a lovely spot to read a book,
           Write a poem, or just daydream.
  
 The mountains alongside the turnpike
           Are such inspiration for me.
 Their simple beauty captures my eyes
           And sets my dream-spirit free.

~ Shelley Evans
   

Named after poet Percy Shelley, nature inspires Shelley Evans; several poems are published, and she’ll publish a book soon. Shelley’s a wife, mother, secretary, WOK member, participates in open mic nights at Dagnys, CSUB’s poetry readings, and has entered poetry in the Kern County Fair. Rhyming is breathing to Shelley.