NPM

by Portia Choi

  My head nestled on Mama's arm, and she told me about the war.
  
 Mama whispered,
 “Your face, 
 just to see your face again, kept me walking. 
           I was being pushed up a hill with other Christians.
           My wrists were tied in a rope.
           All I could do was pray. 
           I remembered the verse in Romans:
           In all things look to God.
 And I witnessed to the soldier,
           that Jesus died for us, all of us, him too.  
           Jesus had forgiven us,
           just believe in Him and His goodness.
           The soldier told me to be quiet.
           I just kept praying then humming, 
           humming sweet hymns:
           Lord lead me onto higher grounds.
           The soldier became angry.
           We were at the tail-end of the group.
           At the top of the hill, 
           the soldier told me to go down the hill quietly,
           and to run away fast.
           I heard later that some of the others were
           beaten and killed--
           that soldier let me go”.
  
 I remember that time.
 Mama showed up after a long while.
 I remember her smile, tears,
 how she moved so slowly.
   

---

Portia Choi published a chapbook of her poems Sungsook, Korean War Poems. At Writers of Kern (WOK) meetings, Portia met other writers who became friends and mentors. She hosts First Friday Open Mic and publicizes National Poetry Month in April.  She administers www.kernpoetry.com.  Contact Portia at ssportia@aol.com.

by Anna Marco

Aunt Eleanor had a lemon tree 
In her backyard
Standing…for a million years
A genus Ponderosa Citrus
Birthing fruit the size of Texas

We compare our heads
To those fat orbs
Rub our noses on the rind 
Get heady with the scent

Grab those pseudo soccer balls 
And pack ‘em into bags 
Race home, race home
To squeeze the Sun
For lemonade without sugar

Those lemons 
Her personality
Were the perfect match
Both bigger than life
Exceptional, Sheltering
Nourishing, Rooted
Fun, Tangy
Made you smile

I loved her
Eleanor is that tree
Tart yet sweet 
She was lemonade that didn’t need sugar
 
© 2014 Anna Marco 
 Winner LAVC Poetry Award 2014

---

Anna Marco was born into theatrical heritage, gifted in creative writing and majored in Media. Her professional writing career spans 30 years. She is an internationally published author to 6 books and 800 magazine articles. She won the Los Angeles Valley College Poetry Contest for “The Lemon Tree.”

by Anke Hodenpijl

 The desert sky 
 paints itself indigo,
 as inklings of stars, one by one, 
 freckle the firmament.
 When dark can be no darker,
 distant suns begin to glow.
 A sun baked heat lifts from the earth.
  
 I still hear the sounds of the march,
 “Black Lives Matter”
 “No justice, no peace.”
 I taste the names of the broken dead
 like sand between my teeth.
 Yes, too long have we dismissed these bones,
 bleached in the blistering sun.
 Too long have we collected them
 like souvenirs from bygone days.
 The summer of 2020
 the ancestors and the flesh
 rose up together,
 again, again, again.
  
 It is a prayer to behold these apostles of equality,
 one by one claiming a just life,
 gushing through the city,
 a cascade of renewed strength.
  
 There is no river more beautiful than this.
 No water clearer than the words they carry.
  
 I pray this deluge flows 
 into our blood 
 flushes out the poison of racism -
  
 Only then can my Dead sing Songs of Praise. 

---

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 Gary Evans

 
 Until a few years ago, I was a healthy man.
 I’d ride my bicycle 50 miles after work (100 on Saturdays)
 and volunteer at Friday night football games as a doctor 
 on the sidelines for East High for 12 years.
  
 At the last game, my youngest daughter was drum major.
 It was Homecoming, and my middle daughter came back to town
 from college in Santa Cruz so she could play trombone with the band.
  
 After the game, as I drove her back to college,
 I realized I was coming down with a fever and felt very tired and ill.
 The four-hour drive did me in, but I dropped off my daughter 
 and turned around for the four-hour return trip to Bakersfield.
 I continued to feel extremely tired and finally made it home. 
  
 The next day, my doctor prescribed antibiotics;
 but I was sure that I had Valley Fever and insisted on getting tested.
 The blood titer test confirmed it.
  
 My condition worsened, and the doctors didn’t know
 what was causing the various symptoms I was experiencing:
 excruciating pain in my legs 24/7, muscle cramping and twitching, etc.
 I spent much time researching online, trying to determine
 what could possibly be making me so sick.
  
 The GAD65 test that I insisted on getting proved that I have
 Stiff Person Syndrome (along with numerous other diagnoses)
 which is “one in a million” – there are about 200 known cases worldwide.
 It is a debilitating disease with no known cure; it can be fatal.
  
 Aside from a miracle…
 (in which I completely believe and for which I hope)
 …in His timing, God will heal me. Amen. 

---

Gary Evans, DC, is a self-employed chiropractor, currently retired and disabled. He is the father of 3 daughters and has been married for 43 years.  His first published piece is in Pathway to the Heart, WOK’s 2021 anthology.  Gary is a member of Parkside Church and Writers of Kern.

by Carla Joy Martin

 We all have this urge to connect with another.
 Yet when this urge is thwarted,
 And our longings brought to grief,
 We may find solace
 In Nature. 
  
 And when we observe her,
 Whether the subtle folds and flourishes of a flower,
 Or the tentative tentacles of an octopus,
 Or the deepening colors of a sunset,
 Peace pervades our souls.
  
 How vast yet intricate is our world, dear Lord!
 And she will divulge her secrets to those who care to seek,
 To watch, listen and learn.
 When we dig our hands in the soil,
 Or dive down deep into ocean depths,
 Or climb hand-over-hand up the steepest crevasse,
 We witness the wonder and the glory,
 The everlasting yet fragile majesty.
  
 May we always seek the Earth’s mystery
 And protect her vulnerability,
 So man can save himself from himself
 For generations to come. 

---

Carla Joy Martin is a poet, pastel artist and piano instructor.  After living in New York, Scotland and Pasadena, she has now resided in Bakersfield for thirty-five years.  Carla enjoys promoting the arts in Bakersfield.  She hosts the Dukes Memorial Concerts as well as co-hosts the First Friday Open Mic Nights with Portia Choi.