Poetry

 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.

 The Invisible Hand
  
 Father, into thy hands, I commend my spirit
        hand-mirror to face, broken glass altar
        fountain pen in the hand of stranger
 another face looking back at me
 you: struggling to draw your own complications
 draw skin into decipherable complexion
 look at yourself
        giving into submission
        a dream of assimilation
 a scheme of their land
 became a refurbished product
        lobotomized, became their marked-up
        price, commodity for the gods.
 are you ready to be shipped out?
 dumped out after graduation
 instead of fighting back
 you caved into their promised security
 traded self-respect for safety, imagine that pull
        a rough hand at your back
 remember when rebellion was repression
 or was it both or neither, how does the fire
 feel, an obedient twig for the kindling?
        they welcome you into their abattoir
        hugging you and holding a match
 striking it all the way down your spine.

~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.

Morning Walk
  
 Restlessness worked out
 In return, a calmer mind 
  
 A need to be nurtured and loved 
 A relationship born and flourished 
  
 Undertones of trust
 Security felt a must 
  
 A mundane activity 
 Turned meaningful 
  
 Making me a runner 
 Marking the corner
  
 Sniffing the morning frost
 Striding away to boast      
  
 Making friends on the way 
 Wagging the tiny tail away 
  
 Sharing the warmth 
 unconditional like Earth 
  
 Balance of work and rest 
 A companion with loyalty at its best 
  
 My morning walks with Louie 
 A complete package for wellbeing. 
  
 He gives me much more 
 than what he needs from me.     
  
 ~ Sudha Reddy 

Sudha Reddy is board certified in obstetrics and gynecology. She is a life-long seeker and learner whose parents taught her true happiness is in helping and sharing. Her life purpose is to decrease suffering in the world, in every possible way. Writing is one of her many activities for staying healthy.

                                                                     Reparation 

It was not my moon that watched malignly as you suffered.

My moon, when gloriously full, showed me the crystal stillness of the night.

My moon illuminated beings that moved and lived and played in the darkness.

My moon showed me the best holds as I climbed out of my attic bedroom window on warm

summer nights and down three stories to the waiting pear tree, as my parents snored peacefully

believing me locked away safely above them.

My moon cast dark shadows, dark enough for me to stand invisible to the late night

weavings of drunken adults, and the angst ridden chaos of errant teens.

My moon and the night skies were my friends, they kept my secrets and helped me find my way

back to my attic room with time to spare before the dawn tried to tattle.

But your moon…heralded terror.

Your moon signaled to an evil that it was time to grab you up.

Your moon watched with malevolent indifference as your tears rolled silently in the dust on your

face and smeared on your hands,

Your moon smiled as the fiends who should have protected you,

abused your body and your soul.

Your moon demanded this of you again and again, in what seemed a

never ending chain of torture.

And now I know.

And though I still love my moon and the night…I no longer lament the clouds that obscure them.

I give them up when this happens, in reparation for the pains you endured, are still enduring.

I give them up in compassion, not forced upon me, but driven by a need to help you heal.

And even though it was not I, it was not my moon that did you harm – I give up it up willingly,

 and in my heart I know that it will never really be enough, this reparation, but it’s a start.

~ Natalia Corres

Natalia Corres, retired tech whisperer, has written weekly web news for examiner.com for 3 years, as well as publishing a Pet Services Directory for her local area.  She enjoys writing poetry, non-fiction, and urban fiction; as well as providing creative assistance to others in film and animation projects.