WOK National Poetry Month WebSlam

 
Fair Air
  
 Summer morning ritual 
 unseal the house 
 gather chilled dawning air
 As if I could store it, harbor it 
 to fight a Bakersfield afternoon.
 As if it would stay, soothe
 us when the sun’s rays bullet
 through double-paned windows.
 As if dust motes and particulates
 dominant in this toxic air 
 could be quelled
 by a bite or two of coolness.
 As if fair air could survive ‘til noon.
  
 Alarm disarmed, 
 its eye once red 
 like the last barbeque coal,
 turns green, 
 signals accessible doorways, 
 promises of small cool breezes.
 I push back wide vertical blinds, 
 pull open the leaden slider, 
 invite the false freshness in.
  
 I glance at the thermometer
 mounted on the patio post
 past wooden art-filled fences
 beyond neighboring rooftops. 
 Above the trees
 a fresh sun greets me.
  
 In this land of lung-searing summers,
 allergens, penetrating dust,
 and deadly defoliants,
 chilled morning air 
 dulls memories of discomfort. 
 I am at home. 

~ Annis Cassells 

Annis Cassells has been a member of Writers of Kern for many years. This spring she published her first poetry collection, You Can’t Have It All, available on Amazon.com and locally at Russo’s Books.

 We Here

An Indo’s story is camouflaged 
 between the dutch grandfathers’
                     “Hou je mond.”
 and the Indonesian grandmothers’
                    “Tahan mulutmu.”
  
 Do not speak of the horrors
 your grandmothers and mother endured,
 whitewashing their dark skin
 through the wringer of Dutch priviledge,
 claiming a small piece of equality
 hoping to erase their subservient status
 by way of marriage to a light-skinned-christian man
  
 War came,
 the men left,
 called to fight for Her Highness, Queen of Holland.
  
 Under the Japanese occupation,
 the women were incarcerated,
 relegated to the kampong,
 their efforts to exchange shreds of frowzy fabric
 for just one pisang, one egg or 
 one bite of lumpia
 were rewarded by wrist-hanging
 and whipped until blood dripping,
 trickled into the moist tropical soil
  
 these sister internees endured
 births of fatherless half-babies,
 these daughters were swallowed by starvation,
 some had their hands cut off,
 caught stealing a handful of rotting rice.
  
 When the allies’ planes
 thundered into the spiritless dank sky,
 hope renewed
  
 women held each other
 and cheered the pilots on,
 even as their Japanese captors
 struck them down 
 with the barrels of their weapons
  
 When liberation came
 so many learned what they did not want to hear
 “Yes, he died, two, three, maybe four years ago.”
  
 disimprisonment came,
 but it did not come for the dutch,
 our Indo soul was renewed,
 but our Dutch selves were despised
  
  
 in the same breathing,
 we were oppresor and oppressed
  
 Both my parents survived many horrors,
 only to endure 
 an uncertain future at the hands
 of the new national revolution. 
 Fear called in the middle of the night
 with loud raps at the door.
 Young locals,
 armed with knives, pistols and rifles
 ransacked the house regularly.
 My mother kept the last of the cash
 under my sleeping baby sister’s head.
 My mother gambled well.
 The looters would stop at the crib,
 “Viese kind” they’d mock
 (dirty because she was mixed race)
 and left her undisturbed.
  
 During the day,
 my mother rode her bicycle
 to make doctor’s visits for
 her two sick sons.
 Bullets whizzed by her head.
 Each trip, every other day,
 and finally the note,
 found on the front door,
 “Leave now. Next time we will not miss.”
  
 Tickets were immediately purchased.
 My mother, six months pregnant with me,
 my father, my two brothers and one sister,
 boarded a ship to return to a homeland 
 none had ever seen before.
 A homeland determined by the patriarchal bloodlines,
 of my two grandfathers.
 My family “repatriated” to the Netherlands.
 Yes, four and five generations ago
 my family colonized the Dutch East Indies,
 treated the indigenous as less than,
 exploited all of its riches, and the fruits of their labor.
  
 I am Indo Dutch
 with roots in two countries,
 two heritages,
 two stories.
 I feel the pain of both,
 so do my parents,
 missing Java, the land of their birth.
 But we do not speak of this,
 hou je mond
 tahan mulutmu
  
 Now we say,
 “hold your tongue!”
  
 Forgetting our legacy,
 we continue to bleed,
 disfigured by unspoken memories,
 wounded by the unconscious pain.
 Even in this promised land called America,
  
 we hear,
  
 “hou je mond”
 “tahan mulutmu”
  
 and
  
 “Go back to where you came from!”
  
 I ask you, 
 where is that place?
 where do We belong? 

~ Anke Hodenpijl

Anke Hodenpijl is a bedside singer, poet, gardener and safe spot for animals. She is inspired by nature, family, history, friendships and unfinished stories. Mostly, she is a grateful person.

 Complement
  
  
  
 The moon is filling,
 Rounding himself with power and light.
 Mother Ocean reaches up,
 White caps and strong waves.
  
 He throws his light everywhere;
 She pulls it into her depths.
 He laughs.
  Her waves roil.
  
 He lights her way
 as her waters move to gently lap the sand;
 His light spreading, reaching,
 Her calming presence covering.
  
 They are one. 
 The Universe smiles. 

~ Judy Kukuruza

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