Poetry

by Carla Stanley

 In your jewelry box I found 12 old watches, 
 Watches that marked the years of your life. 
 Each similar- 
             Twisty metal band, small face, no numbers. 
  
 Marking your time as a mother and wife. 
 Always early for an event, 
 Always ready for what would happen next. 
 Events blending together, year after year. 
 Each watch showing the passage of the seasons 
             Rough edges smoothed. 
              
 You adapted as we grew  
 To a world that changed around you, 
 Until children grown, husband gone 
 You found yourself. 
  
 At 89 you had new friends, 
 New hobbies, new interests, in a new home. 
  
 Even as your sight failed and 
 Your arthritis hindered your movements, 
 You adapted and enjoyed your new life.  
 Large print books, brighter lights, a walker,  
 A watch with a big face, big numbers, and a strap to buckle on every day. 
  
 On that watch you marked the hours of your 97th year 
 As your body wore down and gave up. 
 You held on to every minute as I held on to your hand 
 To help you through those last days 
             as you helped me through my first days. 
  
 Your watches sit in a jar 
 Tangled with my watches. 
 They are woven together, the memories of watches 
  and time spent with you.  

---

Carla Stanley is a retired Theater & English teacher. She is a Bakersfield native and spent 20 years as a military wife living in Oklahoma, Washington and Germany. She spends her time traveling with her husband (pre-COVID), writing, gardening, and walking her dog Sky.

by Annis Cassells

 Overnight
 I became elderly
 Vulnerable
 Susceptible to the virus
 Killing young and old
 Mostly old
  
 At the supermarket
 Disinfectant
 Masks and gloves
 Out of stock
 Shelves marked toilet paper
 A bare-faced lie
 I scrawled my name in the dust 
 on those forlorn surfaces
  
 Overnight
 I became expendable
 Because the economy
 Because the right to haircuts
 and beach bonfires
 Because beers at the pub
  
 Because seniors should just stay inside
 Because they’re gonna die anyway 
  
 I don’t feel elderly
 I don’t feel expendable
 What I do feel
 Is ready to kick 
 the unmasked who think
 their freedoms matter 
 more than mine 

---

Annis Cassells is a longtime member of Writers of Kern. Her poems have appeared in print and online journals. In 2019 Annis published her first poetry collection, You Can’t Have It All. She’s a contributor in the 2020 social justice anthology, ENOUGH “Say Their Names…”

by Anke Hodenpijl

 Poor man
 flashbacks of his youth
 stretch from his nightmares,
 collapse into his hands,
 for all to see.
  
 Poor man
 the dander of his suffering sheds 
 into the clamor of his decline.
 Befuddled words elope,
 like a murmuration of starlings
 darkening the sky.
  
 Poor man,
 my father,
 memories he struggles to smother,
 ooze into his final days. 

---

Anke Hodenpijl believes the practice of writing brings her closer to life. Her work reflects on the intersections between immigration and assimilation, spirituality, family, racism, and sexuality. Her work is published in several anthologies and literary journals. She connects with other poets as a facilitator at the Art and Spirituality Center in Bakersfield and as a Critique Group leader with the Writers of Kern.

by Judy Kukuruza

The words that then HAD to be put on paper
 Now float inside her head and heart
 Elusive to others, not written down,
 Still, a comfort to her - inside.

 Then the hill, the forest, HAD to be hiked,
 the cool water HAD to be dived into,
 Now she treads gingerly, floats atop the water
 Cherishing the comforts nature affords her.

 Then she conquered the body aches,
 read books all night in dim light - 
 found jobs to feed and clother her children, 
 studied, learned, championed others without judgement.

 Now the body is alien, demanding sleep.
 Eyes blur as they try to read;
 Hands cramp trying to write,
 Feet stumble and eyes tear up too easily.

 Her ears gather the loved music and cawing crows.
 The wolf spirit within rises to once again survive.
 She finds the magic she holds inside,
 Wondering and in awe of her spiritual realm.

 Glancing at a mirror, she sees an unrecognizable reflection.
 A laugh rises - she never saw herself then either. 
 The children within laugh, cry, romp in puddles
 There is no THEN for them, as she lives in the NOW. 

---

Retired college instructor from CSUB and Bakersfield College. She published her memoir One Body/Many Souls in 2018, and later Poems to Ponder, Little Stories to Play with in Your Mind, and Letters. She publishes her blog, “Our Spiritual Journey” through Word Press.