Writers of Kern

Oma
by Anke Hodenpijl
 
 
Memories,
freckled with childhood secrets,
return her to the smooth, blue-sky place of her youth.
She smiles with each private thought
remembering coconut trees, rice paddies and long sunsets
a new doll for her birthday, Babu making gado-gado
and thinking these times would never end
 
she wants to live alone
says she has her thoughts to keep her company
needle point to keep her busy
and “Dancing with the Stars” to feed her fantasies
 
friends no longer visit
either dead or too far away
kids all live out of state
 
she sits in the back yard
hummingbirds and roses
coffee in a delicate porcelain cup
a morning breeze
 
a schoolgirl rides her bike home
brothers tease and protect her
tea parties with sisters
 
mother and father don’t die
 
 
No one tells me what to remember.
That’s why.
 

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.

The Woman’s Plight

A Catena Rondo Poem
by Sandy Moffett
 
 
The woman’s plight in quarantine
Your clothes are all too tight
Your salon coif is turning white
The woman’s plight in quarantine
 
Your clothes are all too tight
You can’t even zip up your jeans
It might be due to chips and ice cream
Your clothes are all too tight
 
You can’t even zip up your jeans
Come on, it’s becoming quite clear
Get off of the couch, move your rear
You can’t even zip up your jeans
 
Come on, it’s becoming quite clear
This new normal is here for a while
The muu-muu is the new fashion style
Come on, it’s becoming quite clear
 
The woman’s plight in quarantine
Your clothes are all too tight
Your salon coif is turning white
The woman’s plight in quarantine
 

Sandy was born in Bakersfield, returning to her hometown in 1985.  Sandy has been married to Greg for 39 years, and they have four children and 12 grandchildren.

Sandy is a poet, lyricist and has been published in Chicken Soup for the Soul, Cup of Comfort and numerous other works. 

Whittling
by Annis Cassells


Winter nights GrandPap sat
Snug near the coal stove
In the home-place dining room
 
arthritic fingers wrapped around
a time-worn pocket knife
 
scored a scantling of well-grained wood
with knife point markings true
 
His opening cleave,
Unlocked black walnut breath
 
Silent shavings lined his lap
Surrounded his straight-backed chair
 
‘Til bedtime, when links entwined
Created a perfect chain

Annis Cassells is a longtime member of Writers of Kern, a teacher, a traveler, a poet. Her first collection of poetry, You Can’t Have It All, came out in 2019.

Gardener’s Creed
by January Joyce
 
Whenever you toil
And wherever you roam
May these words resonate in the heart of your home
For be it weathered or wounded or heartsick or sad
Some trails are better than others
Some days good
Others bad
But it’s the voyage of each step
The intrigue of the unknown
That allows each explorer to be true unto thy own
For a journey isn’t marked by where you’re from
Or miles towed
It’s the seeds strewn along the trail as you go
With each endeavor sprouts flowers, plants, rivers, and trees
Embellishing the way with whimsical ease
And someday, perhaps not too far ahead
Towards the end of the passage as you lay down your head
While life’s inevitable end draws bitterly close
      You can look back upon the journey
      Your weary feet chose
      And view the beautiful garden you, yourself laid
      For we are all merely gardeners in this magnificent parade
      Nurturing love
      Averting strife
      Sowing memories of this
      Great
      Big
      Wonderful
      Life

January Joyce is a retired civil servant with 28+ years in state and federal systems, who’s enjoying her rocking chair years with a wine glass in her hand, crafting stories.  

Susan Of Morden
by Dianne Buxton
 
I was a year old, I wasn't a witness,
But the family legend goes
That one day the bull got out of the barn
There was some consternation about this.
 
Susan, then four, picked up a stick
And chased him back into his stall.
When my mother told me this, many years later,
I didn't really think about it much.
 
Did I believe it then? I don't remember.
But I believe it now. The bull must have thought
She was a two-legged grasshopper
Or a wingless horse fly.  But she had the stick.
 
I never heard Uncle Bill contradict my mother on this.
 
The Poplar leaves rustled, deafening, in the prairie wind
Skittering, back-rubbing by the millions
Flashing silver green sequins erupted with crows
The matte blue sky waiting
For the four o'clock shower.

Dianne M. Buxton’s poetry can be seen in Caveat Lector, The Griffin, and Sanskrit. A graduate of the National Ballet School of Canada and an alumnus of the Martha Graham School of Contemporary Dance in NYC, she retired from the dance world and now writes.