Poetry

A worn, wooden fence
Stands firm. A boundary between
Myself and life unnoticed
Before today. I wonder –

What lies beyond, concealed,
Behind the steadfast obstruction?
Perhaps an acquaintance or friendly face –
Maybe a kindred soul.

I search the peeled planks for
Ways to peer past my
Gnarled barrier, and to my surprise I spy
A tiny, insignificant knothole.

Has it been there all along?
Secreted from sight – a reality –
A continuation of activity
Hidden long ago from view.

My pulse quickens as I peer through
Discovering a tinge of color –
Not from a face but a garden,
Paused and prepared to rest.

There stand faded flowers held fast
To spent stalks and stems. They wait –
For summer’s end, and
Fall’s signal to slumber.

I turn from the emotionless barricade,
My curiosity satisfied. My heart
In harmony from a new
Perspective of life within my view.

—Joan Raymond

Joan Raymond, a member of WOK since January 2012, completed her BA in English/Creative Writing in Fall 2014 and MA in English/Creative Writing in early 2017. She writes women’s fiction, creative non-fiction, and children’s picture books and dabbles in poetry.

I realize it’s quite late – most people are in bed.
The quiet time is best for me to write what’s in my head
(what’s truly in my heart).

So during the night I start.
I want to put it all down
on paper, black on white.
It’s crucial that I find the right
adjective for each noun,
the accurate definition,
the proper words that rhyme.
If I could quit my full-time job,
I’d write poetry all the time.

I began to write as a youngster – it was cosmic destiny!
My Mom named me after the British poet Percy Bysshe Shelley.
All to God I owe it
because I am a poet.
Mom asked me if I know it;
she said that my feet show it –
they’re long fellows!

(The crowd bellows.)
But I don’t really care,
I will write anyway.
For my own aspiration
I write ‘most every day.

(So there!)
I don’t need congratulations
to affirm my imaginations.
Life’s full of inspirations
for poetic revelations –
they’re everywhere!

—Shelley Evans

Shelley Evans started writing poetry when she was a young girl, and several of her poems have been published. She is working on her dream to publish a book of poetry. Shelley is also a legal secretary, wife, and mother of three daughters. She is an active member of WOK.

 

A thin wisp of disturbed dust follows
a pickup climbing slowly up a mountain.
The driver heads north along a sandy side road,
bordering Barstow, California.

There is no clear destination, no place we see
that he can call home that we can visualize

We have just come from family and friends
in Las Vegas.  Visitors’ remorse haunts
We still hear familiar voices, laughter,
feel the tight hugs imploring us to stay.

If only the truck could reverse itself
and not disturb the pure brown earth,
could come back down the hill
and put back all of the tiny origins of life

which floated away, changed, left their
sanctity and took up new space.
If only we could go back to the place
home once was and begin again.

—Nancy Edwards

Nancy Edwards, long-time Writers of Kern member, passed away January 5, 2017. She co-sponsored Bakersfield’s National Poetry Month celebrations, coordinated poetry events, and co-hosted readings and performances. She presented writing programs and workshops for Writers of Kern, 60-Plus Club of CSUB, and many others. Nancy was a gifted and prolific writer of fiction and non-fiction as well as poetry.

First we met
And the fire was ignited
Then we had a flaming affair
Which turned into love
But over time the fire burned lower
And we lost the hot spark of our love
The fire was dying, but you didn’t notice
And so — time without the flame of love
Can not last
So as the fire dies
So too does our love
Only embers remain
But if you add wood and blow on the embers
Maybe you can rekindle the fire
That burned so hot and brightly for us
Maybe you can rekindle our love lost

—Kelsie Gates

shaking stacks of mountains
exhume sleeping
secrets

I am small.
I am afraid.
I want to live another day.

my backstreet to bliss
now crippled
agitated
chunked

Why do I run to that dangerous place?

Secrets smolder like last night’s campfire.

—Anke Hodenpijl