National Poetry Month

Eclipse
  
 This eclipse was a slow concealing
 Of the light of the moon.
 Gradual but deliberate, 
 It darkened the night sky.
  
 I suppose the eclipse of the human happens
 With the same gradual intentionality.
 I wonder if the sky thought it had ended too,
 When the light went out, leaving only blackness.
  
 I wonder if it kept checking, 
 Looking for the moon in the place
 Where she once shined; not finding her,
 Pondering what happened.
  
 Even the clouds rushed the skies for their
 Nightly game of peek-a-boo with the moon’s light. 
 Unable to find her hidden glow, the clouds
 Were reduced to indistinguishable obscurity.
  
 As slowly as she disappeared, though,
 The moon peered ever so slightly
 From behind the shroud. As deliberately
 As Earth’s shadow hid her Luna,
  
 She gently shifted, graciously exposing
 A sliver of moonlight. The slice of brilliance
 Gradually widening revealed a radiance brighter
 Than the nighttime remembered.
  
 Just as there are darker darks than the night sky ever 
 Knew before the eclipse, there are also brighter lights
 Before unseen, eager to be revealed, silently beckoning us
 To hold on through our darkest moments. 


~ Pam Reeves

Pam Reeves, an active member of Writers of Kern (WoK), writes memoir and non-fiction and dabbles at poetry. She has been published in The Edge Holistic magazine and WoK’s 2018 Anthology, Reaching for the Sky. You can reach her at [email protected].

Nostalgia
  
  
 I shimmied into threadbare denim 
 worn soft as a lady’s hanky
 And a red shirt embroidered with fish
 that once belonged to Kay
 the one her daughters gave me, after she died
 I wrapped myself in the pashmina
 Lynne brought me years ago, before she moved
 I scrambled two eggs in butter
 like my mama always did
 ate from her delicate porcelain plate,
 a gift  from me one Mother’s Day
 When nostalgia calls, I surrender. 

~ Annis Cassells

Annis Cassells is a poet, blogger, teacher, life coach, and a member of Writers of Kern. Her work has been published in professional journals, hobbyist magazines, and local publications. She’s had stories and poems published in online and print journals and magazines. “Nostalgia” was published her first book of poems, You Can’t Have It All, 2019.

 The Sound of Creation
  
  
 The crinkle of paper skins of garlic
 Being crushed by the weighty knife.
 The chop, chop, chop of the cleaver
 Dividing up the chicken,
 Separating flesh from bone.
 The sizzle of the olive oil
 Spreading in the cast-iron skillet,
 Smoking, exploding
 When the diced onions are thrown in.
 The swirling, swirling
 As the wooden spoon stirs in the chicken.
 The scrape, scrape, scrape
 Of the spatula releasing the carmelized morsels.
 The succulent suction
 As the knife pops the seeds out of the lemon.
 The splash and eruption
 When the lemon juice is squeezed into the pan.
 The cavernous  hollow rumbling
 Deep within one's belly
 As the smells envelope.
 The rush of salivation
 Anticipating the feast.
 The sensory overload
 As the first bite fills the mouth.
 Nostils flare,
 Tongue tickles,
 Throat gulps.
 The pleasure courses through the veins,
 Spreading from stomach to toes
 Like lava
 Replenishing the earth. 

~ Carla Joy Martin 

Carla Joy Martin 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.

 Shadows
  
 “What did you say?”
 The words are distant, garbled in the shadows.
 Looking for the words hanging in the air
 But the shadows of beings from the past
 smother the words sought to be known.
 “Just pull the weeds, focus on the ground,”
 the voices inside say.
 More shadows even as the sun falls hot on bent shoulders,
 hands searching out the weeds and grass.
 Focus, work quickly, hard—
 push the shadows away.
 The shadows persist, insidiously creeping, covering,
 bringing past to present in the vulnerable mind and body.
  
 Task completed, sunshine wanes and dusk descends.
 The eyes look up and the moon taunts, 
 promising darkness coming from the shadows.
 A voice speaks as the eyes are riveted on the moon,
 “Not this time.  No.  No more.  You cannot control this time.”
 Shadows become heavy with a darkness they carry, 
 Laughing at the eyes that watch the moon—
 vowing to linger into the next day
 and the next.
  
 With a shudder, a vow to push back,
 The eyes look away.
 When will it stop?
 How much light will it take?
 Shadows…
 covering mind, soul,
 insidiously creeping closer and closer,
 blending time past and present.
 Push back.
 Focus. 
 HOPE. 

~ Judy Kukuruza

Judy Kukuruza ~ Retired college instructor from CSUB and Bakersfield College.  She published her memoir One Body/Many Souls in 2018 and publishes her blog, “StorywritersThoughts,” through WordPress.  She is a participant in the WOK blog challenge and is published in the WOK Anthology 2018, Reaching for the Sky, and the CSUB poetry anthology, Writing Sound.  Still writing.

 CROON
       —Lynchburg, Va (2019) 

If I say I miss Bakersfield too much, it loses its edge.
I’ll say, instead, I miss heat when it snows in Lynchburg.
 
I’ll radiate, like steel vibrating, under this home
pretend every noise is my mother hushing me to sleep.
 
Seventh Street rumbles with a flood, a harm of water
rushing down a hill, down to drown out sorrow and doubt
cupped in the hand, a grief swallowed, holy, so goddamn holy
if I prayed harder, God would turn this clarity 
into blood-soaked truth.
 
If I say I miss my Papa, it loses its edge and makes the wound deeper.
If I say being so far away from home hurts, 
I lose my edge and we can’t have that.
 
Wind, so much fucking wind, lifts the shingles, jingles the chimes
reminds me this chill in my bone is from terror and not the cold
or brown boy survives another day in a marble city, named
after its own form of punishment, come reside in the trench of history
bite down and forget everything else.
 
If I say this hollow body needs, does that make any sense.
If I purr like my cats for affection, does any broken thing mend?


~ Mateo Lara 

Mateo Perez Lara is queer latinx, originally from Bakersfield, California. He received his B.A. in English at CSU Bakersfield. He is currently working on his M.F.A. in Poetry at Randolph College in Lynchburg, VA. His poems have been featured in Emerson Review, EOAGH. He is an editor for RabidOak online literary journal & Zoetic Press.