Poetry

Winds roaring with poisonous gas
Angry thunderbolts hit with a flash

Earthquakes cluster to damage the berths
Fire raining down upon the earth

Smoke and ash that leads to disease
Don’t open the door, it’s not our Marie

Darkness, cold, roaring winds
The sun has been blackened, the famine begins

Mountains sunken, islands doomed
Stars fallen, powers removed

God’s wrath, who will escape,
The day like no other,
The Lord’s judgment day.

—Victoria Regina

Vickey Ivey lives in Bakersfield. Her dream is to be a horror writer. Some of her favorite writers are Steven King, Edgar Allan Poe, Christopher Fowler, and Anne Rice. She writes because, “My late father read horror stories to me as a child; and, writing enables me to unveil the underlining horrible truth that’s hidden within us all . . . fear.”

Awakened from spring drowsiness,
toasty warm within quilts warmed by the ondool floor,
a floor heated by the ashes of coal and wood
pushed in from the kitchen hearth.

Mother chided us to dress,
and go into the hill to bring home
the tender herbs to make namool,
a salad mixed with sesame oil and vinegar.

Grimacing into cold dresses,
we gulped the warm, steaming rice
with pieces of salted black beans
and bites of radish kim-chee.

Slipping on our rubber shoes,
we ran through the front dirt yard,
scattered cackling chickens
and dodged bell-clanging goats.

Pushing open the massive wooden door, into the field,
we ran looking at two girls swinging higher and higher,
standing together on a wooden slat, heads thrust back,
upward into the sky of apple blossoms.

We rushed through gardens reeking with night soil,
filled with green onion and lettuce.
We balanced with outstretched arms,
on mounds dividing the rice paddies.

Up the hill, scampering zig-zag to outwit snakes,
we picked the stooped poppies, calling them grandmothers.
Finding the green sprigs, we pinched the tops,
or pulled the entire plant of leaves, roots and clinging dirt.

We rushed back to mother,
our hands full with bouquets of spring promises.

—Portia Choi

Portia Choi hosts the monthly First Friday Open Mic and publicizes events during National Poetry Month in April. She administers www.kernpoetry.com. She published a chapbook of her poems Sungsook, Korean War Poems. Her poems are published in multiple journals. She can be contacted at [email protected]

I spend many late afternoons at a local bookstore cafe, watching the customers study, relax, and relate.  I am often reminded of other writers—Hemingway and Fitzgerald—who frequented the cafes of Paris and gained inspiration from their clientele.  In my own humble way, I hope my poems capture the American flavor of this phenomenon.  All walks of life are depicted here.

He stands erect
with a white wizard beard
and long snowy hair
neatly pulled back in a band.
He is wearing a crisp linen shirt
and creased khaki pants
and burnished cowboy boots.
He looks like a leather-bound
collector’s edition
of Rip Van Winkle
I can imagine him sitting
With a granddaughter on his knee
Regaling her with stories
Of elves and fairies

Is he an elegant hippie?
What’s with the ironed shirt?
And the shiny boots?
So much care given to the accoutrements
Yet the long hair
Links him to Woodstock

Has he been sleeping
For one hundred years
And rudely awakened
To find himself in the age
Of trimmed goatees
And neon athletic shoes?

What would such a mind
Wonder at this environment?
Snow-capped pine trees
Denuded into sculpted shrubberies
Wild into tame
Is that why his hair
Is so neatly combed
And restrained by the band
And his shirt so pressed
Wrinkle-free
Concessions made to conform
To this day and age?

But secretly at night
His young, limber-limbed lover
Combs his locks
And covers her breasts
With the snow-white hair
Of his vibrant, virile beard

—Carla Joy Martin

I 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.

 

It seems like just the other day
That your dad placed you in my arms
All pink and smooth and warm
And I cooed, “Just think, someday he’ll have whiskers on that sweet little chin.”
But I didn’t really believe it.

And I remember just the other day
When the nurse showed me your footprint
Side-by-side with “a normal baby’s prints,”
And I gasped, “He’ll wear huge shoes someday.”

And wasn’t it just the other day
That you stood proudly up against the wall
Where we measured and marked and figured
And I laughed, “He’ll be taller than his dad someday!”

I know it was just the other day
That you toddled off alone down the trails of Big Sur
And came laughing home to my frantic cries…
And you ran off down the Fremont Peak trails,
Herded home by our faithful Misty…
And you strolled casually around Lake Calabasas,
Riding proudly home in the police car,
Accompanied by the sound of the searching helicopters…
And I sighed, “He’ll strike out on his own someday.”
But I didn’t really believe it.

Then just yesterday, we drove to the University,
Unpacked your razor and your size 13 shoes,
And I drove away
Waving hard in the rear view mirror
Leaving you to strike out on your own…
And me with a six-foot three-inch hole in my heart.

—Joan Lindsay Kerr

A former teacher and curriculum specialist, Joan Kerr is loving retired life spending time with her children and grandchildren and exploring the world with her husband, Rob. She usually writes travel stories, but finds that poetry is a better genre for moments of strong emotion.

I’m sure I’ll never understand
Why one would end his or her life,
Leaving this world by personal choice,
Deserting family, a husband, a wife;
Deciding it just isn’t worth
Hanging tight
One more night
Negating one’s own birth.

Every life is worth the choice
To elevate joy, raise a voice!
Make a positive difference,
Don’t stay inactive on the fence.
Be the change you wish to see;
Do it now!
You know how!
Let’s make life better for you and me.

—Shelley J. Evans

 

Shelley Evans has been writing poetry most of her life. It was destiny, as she was named after the poet, Percy Bysshe Shelley. Many of her poems are inspired by the beach and are often written with her feet in the sand at Pismo. One of Shelley’s favorite activities is rhyming her way through life!