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 Woman roar
  
  
 I am woman and you will hear me roar
 My thunder won’t be overlooked no more 
 I have given you chance enough
 I have given you opportunity enough
 I have given you time enough
 But you refuse to open your eyes
 Refuse to identify a Queen for what she is
 A force to be reckoned with
 A lightning bolt on the mountain of injustice
 Cracking open the peak and revealing the truth of your nature
 I am woman and you will hear me roar
 The news can’t prepare you for my storm
 Your institutions and man-caves 
 can’t protect you from my storm
 My tornado has shaken even the most prejudiced of souls
 My tornado has shattered
 fragile masculinity time and time again
 My tornado has shredded
 unlawful laws to pieces
 My tornado has broken
 the knees of those bowing to false beliefs
 My tornado has led chained brothers through the tunnels of hell 
 All the way to freedom
 My tornado has awakened the vocal cords of fellow sisters 
 and from them came hymns of pure beautiful power
 I am woman and you will hear me roar
 You will have no choice but to look into the eye of my storm
 This tsunami that has been building inside me
 Is far more justified than your wall
 And will crash through each and every last brick
 The brick of inequality
 The brick of misogyny 
 The brick of racism
 The brick of sexism
 The brick of prejudice
 The brick of sexual assault and abuse
 The brick of discrimination
 The brick of homophobia
 The brick of bigotry
 The brick of hatred
 And even that seemingly unmovable brick of silence
 My waves will tear down all this injustice 
 And with them 
 Will come a sea of change
 I am woman
 I am my roar
  
 ~ Z 

Hello, I’m Zainab, but you can call me Z. I’m just a 19-year-old girl blessed with hazelnut skin, an electric Brain, and a love for life, trying my best to write about what I know to be true.

 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.