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 Stewing
                                                                                                             
 Onions sliced
 potatoes diced
 into the caldron of my mind.
  
 Bitter resentment knowing
 my time is your time:
 Cooking time.
 cleaning time.
  
 Who are the great artists, writers?
  
 Michelangelo, Da Vinci, Picasso, Shakespeare, Lao Zu.
 Then there were the Eliots:  T.S. and George,
 and the Emilys:  Dickinson and Bronte.
  
 Did they cook, clean for others?
  
 Slowly simmering woman’s anger, boiled madness released 
  into the air.
 Onions bring tears to the eyes, a reaction to the acid 
  of reality,
 softened to sweetness with the warmth of a child’s hug.
  
 Potatoes with covered eyes peeled, raw and crunchy, become 
  hearty
 morsels with heat of writing;
  
 slowly cooking, mixing the flavors into a palatable stew.
  
 ~ Portia Choi 

Portia Choi hosts the monthly First Friday Open Mic at Dagny’s 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 portia@kernpoetry.com

 Final Honor

  It is time to lay this soldier to rest.
 In somber silence
 the path is traveled.
 Comrades offer a crisp salute
 as they line the way.
 The repeated crack of rifles,
 spent shells flying;
 a bugle’s mournful song.
 The folded flag, presented,
 and another hero is gone from our sight,
 laid to rest with honor and respect.
 It is done. 
 
~ Sandy Moffett
  
  
  

Sandy Moffett has been a writer and lyricist for more than 45 years.  She has been published in, Mortuary Management and International Mortuary and Cemetery Management; Cup of Comfort: Devotional for Mothers and Daughters and Chicken Soup for the Soul: Angels Among Us.

The Poet is the Poem
  
 Last year, I found a lively poem.
 Her name is Victoria Erickson.
 She dances across the pages,
 And beckons souls to join her.
  
 I discovered another insightful poem today.
 His name is Rudy Francisco.
 He explained how the jagged edges of
 My heart accidentally cut others.
  
 I used to hate poetry, when I didn’t understand.
 So I wrote a poem titled, I Hate Poetry.
 Immediately after, I heard a poem
 That spoke of things I thought only I knew.
  
 She’s still my favorite poem.
 Her name is Mary Oliver.
 Who isn’t stirred by how grasshoppers chew?
 Who doesn’t want to know how to kiss the world?
 
 Most recently, Rupi Kaur lyricized beauty
 Is not defined by sound and counseled,
 “Don’t shrink!”Then Nakita Gill announced
 She is a shipwreck too!
  
 Did I mention Jennifer Dessert is made of a
 Billion Quiet Little Mercies? 
 Or that John Keats is a religion that
 Saves? It is called Love.
  
 It’s hard to distinguish between the poets and
 Their poems. There's no difference between
 Creator and creation. It’s all beautiful and wonderous
 And salvation. 

~ Pam Reeves

Pam Reeves, an active member of Writers of Kern (WoK), writes memoir, non-fiction and dabbles at poetry. She has been published in The Edge Holistic magazine and WoK’s 2018 Anthology titled “Reaching for the Sky.” You can reach her at pamreeves@live.com.

The Giants March
  

 Mountains and hills float above the morning mist, like 
   islands in
 a prehistoric sea, and I have come again to the giants march,
 where their arms, whiter than the clouds, flail round and round
 in the Djinn-laced air.
 I have come to the giants march when sun is rising to make them 
   glow,
 and when sun has set them into deep dark shadows,
 I have known them as a welcome landmark in my travels to 
   and from
 the land of brown skies and heat.
 I see their numbers increase with each passing, and I am 
   heartened
 that there is some hope for the creatures and humans
 in this world of corruption on many levels, the giants
 stand above it all, the giants march in place.
  
 ~ Natalia Corres 

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

Motivation
  
 The whole day stretched before me
 To work on all this mess
 Dust bunnies danced along the shelf,
 Much laundry, I confess.
  
 I scrunched down in my favorite chair.
 My pans were mucked in swill.
 I wondered what to tackle first –
 The socks piled in a hill?
  
 While I yawned and stretched my arms 
 A towel fell off its rack.
 My virgin sweeper stood at ease
 With cobwebs on its back.
  
 My family will arrive here soon
 To meet their humbled home.
 They’ll ask me what I did today.
 I’ll say, “I wrote a poem.”
  
 ~ Connie Williams 

Connie Williams is a wife, mom, grandma, and retired teacher.  She has published articles, curriculum, and children’s chapter books.  Oh, and surprisingly enough–one poem, this one.  Check out her first attempt at a website: https://connie-a-williams.wixsite.com/mysite