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December Poet's Place

December 04, 2022

POETS PLACE
December Edition 2022

 

The end is near!! Well the end of the year is near. And, for some us the end could be near. I’m a realist. A person who believes in reality, someone who hopes for or accepts only what seems possible or likely, and does not hope for or expect more: so, reality for me is dealing with what I see in front of me. A personal perceptual reality. I do often escape from reality. I watch a lot of TV. I have a least 4-5 TV series going on in my loop of shows that I watch. Sometimes daily. For example, The Crown, Welcome to Chippendales, What we Do in The Shadows, The Great British Baking Show, Reservation Dogs,  Atlanta, and an endless list of movies. There’s actually a lot more shows that I watch, but after while they form a blur in my mind and I can’t remember what I have watched. I wonder if I kept a list of all the shows that I have seen in my life, or even in the last week, how many pages it would fill!  Yikes! Actually, I also spent a great of my childhood watching television. It kept me company since my parents were usually not around and I had nothing else to do as a 10 year old. I would watch all the cartoons, the Twilight Zone, Outer limits, Car 54, The Munsters, The Addams Family and exercise with Jack LaLane. My afternoon diet consisted on munching nacho cheese Doritos and peanut butter cups. I remember that the Hughes market, a short bike ride away would sell peanut butter cups by the pound. And if you stood on your toes to reach it you could scoop out a bunch from inside large plastic bins and shovel them into paper bags that the checker would weigh. Was I happy in those days? Hard to tell. When my adult mind looks back on those times, I see a kid who is plunked down on the couch in the dark den watching TV and eating a lot of junk food. She was not really comprehending the road ahead. It looked as if she was existing in her reality. Her here and now. Kid survival if you will. You could conceive that it was parental neglect. Allowing a 10 year old child to spend their days basking in the glow of the TV screen. Lost in the make believe reality of Dark Shadows. But aren’t there many kids currently living in front of screens today? What’s so different? You could argue that there exists a world outside of the screen and it is waiting to be discovered by a fresh young mind. Unadulterated by the bullshit of distorted make believe ads that attempt to sell everything from soup to nuts. Yeah yeah. But who’s to say what’s the right way to live or what is the right educational pathway. We all came from the same stork, dropped down into this earth to find our own paths. Unless you were unlucky.

 

And on that note let us celebrate the end of this year with a host of writers that will charm your socks off!!!

Love, Linda :0)

 

Why didn’t they invite me!!
By Linda Kaye

 

The clock registered 8pm but the phone didn’t ring and no text asked for attention

The events page on Facebook showed who was interested and who might be going somewhere

FOMO cursing through my veins

Facebook deliberately pushed the pictures of all the attendees, sans mine, gloating with the recent enjoyments at the fairs, parties and clubs. FB friends posting multiple videos of rock stars they saw with flashing studded rhinestone teeth, guitars screaming, and the people crashing the stage

mayhem reaching its peak

Instagram’s daily posting of a magnitude of poetry events with all the well known super poets listed on the roster, sans mine, asking for your support and attendance

still no ask

No ask No invite!

1000 events a year and maybe, just maybe 2 invites from the crowd of friends

Well, maybe there was 3

 


THE GIFT
11-28-2022
9:28 a.m.
By Mary Cheung 

 

Words aren't necessary. 

You travel miles and miles to be here, 

To share...

Your time with me.

 

You arrive, and it feels ....like a Gift.

Time is so precious and the only commodity that can't be bought.

Or at least experienced in the exact same way as when it happens.

 

So we live in the moment, savoring each second, willing it to last.

 

Because as the credit card commercial once said..."Priceless" are the memories we create.. in that moment.. in that time.

 

So we make croissants from scratch, 

We play video games and dance to some of our favs.

We build fires and warm ourselves in the cold nights. 

We make streaming bowls of hot Ramen.

We make small talk and binge on t.v. shows till our eyelids droop low.

We shot arrows, pretending to be Katniss Everdeen...

 

A couple of strong independent women, enjoying their moments together. 

Knowing that everyday we gift each other with these gems.

 

How do you wrap up love and tie it with a bow?

Not with trinkets and toys, or more stuff that you don't need. 

 

But with commitment and steadfast actions that show...

That love doesn't come with price tags;

But the time spent with me and the love that you continue to nurture and grow.  

 

Mary Cheung- she is an innovative Artist and Costume Designer. Her works contain a strong sense of story as well as a highly sensuous style. She mostly works in paint or photography and sometimes making art that is wearable and innovative. She states  “I am usually more of a Visual style Artists and have only recently been open to sharing literally art/poems, often paired with visual art of my creation, birthing a new form of spoken word art as another form of expression”.

 

 

 

The environment
by daniel schack     

 

Some say this existence is hell. Maybe it is the case that hell would be an improvement to this life on earth. Maybe it is time we all try to make it heaven....

...for a change?

 

The poet ,daniel schack can be seen on poetrysoup.com and his art on tumblr adanthemanworld.daniel schack is 57 and is a high school grad. With 3.5 years of college. peace.

 

 

The Magician
July 13, 2022 
By Jeffrey Chayette

 

 

fancy sketch, did you have to make my nose so big

what is this an advertisement for B’nai Brith,


I told you I’m not jewish, I never had a bar mitzvah, I am a man child

I don’t take communion, I don’t eat matzo,

I live breath and eat magic,

did you ever see a magician cut a woman in half,

how’d you like to meet your half sister

 

you call that a portrait you’re not allowed to hate jews,
I can hate jews, no one can hate a jew more than a jew,
you do what you do and keep the jew out of it
give me more hair a smaller nose and bigger eyes
make me look like Robert Alda he’s handsome,
we need to advertise the razzle, the dazzle, the great linguini


my god that picture is going to make me shave
who said magicians have to have a goatee
you made me look like a child molester
mister pencil sketcher
you better get a license for that it’s got a point
speaking of points my magic wand


the great linguini waved his wand
are you a man or mouse, you’re a mouse,

I love that line trapped like mice... rats

Emmanuel Kessler aka the great linguini,
stared down at the little white mouse,
a pile of clothes laid on top of the artist sketching stool,
my finest trick, you’re a mouse,
whose house mouse house
Manny giggled pleased with himself,
we’re going to miss the cover of the Saturday Evening Post

a souvenir my dear a stencil or a pencil,
a pencil will do,
back to the barber for a clean shave and a haircut,

the barber was his mentor, his magic teacher,
the great linguini was a joke a magic hoax,

winner winner chicken dinner,
make them laugh make them dance show business,


this was no funny business,

the man was now a mouse,
time to see the barber,

time to give a little blood and trace the lines,

the Kabbalah was the road map to magic,

 

when Emmanuel was 13 his father died,
he cried, spit at the Rabbi, there is no God,
God would not let my father die,

magic is my God Ein Sof,

and ran out of synagogue,
Ein Sof, Ein Sof, no beginning and no end.

The barber drew blood, and Manny relaxed,
all fear and tension dissolved as he watched the tube fill with blood,

good blood bad blood good blood bad blood

what a to do to die today exhaled and cried for his poppa.


Zeke, he cried, the man is a mouse, the man is mouse,

It worked, the Kabbalah worked, you always knew,

you knew my father, you knew his father,
tell me the secrets Zeke.
I can crack a joke, pin a pun, make it look like fun,

my life’s a blast, take me back to the past

Zeke, you have the key, from a to z.

Aaron Ezekiel, the barber Zeke,

knew the Kessler line from Chicago to Odessa.
It’s time that Manny knew, he was not an ordinary Jew.
His great great grandfather Reb Chaim Kessler Cohen,

was honored feared, revered,

he could change his form

Chaim Wolf, Chain Fox, Chain Hawk,
Chaim Kessler changed form, travelled and seduced,
laid his seed into flowers

across hundreds of miles of the Russian steppes,
the y chromosome does not change,


it’s the fixed unchanging image of the vain,

stubborn, punishing old testament God,

the x is constantly changing adapting Ein Sof,
the mitochondria, the engine of life,
this rigid Y is everywhere,

in Asia they say one of 8 men has the Y of Genghis Khan.

Emmanuel Kessler, you are the chosen Cohen

 

Dedicated to the memory of Carl Ballantine 1917-2009

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carl_Ballantine

 

Jeff Chayette has lived and loved for 4 decades in Los Angeles. 

A multi-faceted artist who attended Art Center College of Design In Pasadena, Jeff has worked on stage, television and films. 

His design work has been peer recognized with National and local Emmys, CBS Eye on Excellence and Promax BDA awards. 

His current poems are reflections on past and present life in Los Angeles through the eyes of the pandemic. Recent Emmy winner for Best Short promo!!

 


 

FUZZY TREE
By Jefferson Carter

 

After bathing in heavy cream,

I turn down the covers

of my Procrustean bed,

“itching” (as the song goes)

“like a man on a fuzzy tree”

who’s “gonna need an ocean

of calamine lotion.”  Today,

a climate justice blog posted,

“you won’t get a clean reading

from a tree used as an ashtray.” 

Cryptic?  Yes & my computer

crashed for good just as I asked

if climate change  could cause

what feels like terminal skin-itch,

resistant so far to every possible

lotion & remedy.  At five a.m.,

as I’m finally falling asleep, I wonder

which of my two recurrent bad dreams

I’ll experience: stranded in Whole Foods,

traumatized by the fifty different brands

of organic bone broth or boarding

a city bus whose suicidal driver

has decided today’s the day.

 

Jefferson Carter’s work has appeared in journals like Barrow Street and Rattle.  Chax Press (Tucson) published his ninth collection, Get Serious: New and Selected Poems, which was chosen as a Southwest Best Book of 2013 by the Tucson/Pima County Public Library.  Diphtheria Festival (Main Street Rag Publishing) is still available through his website: jeffersoncarterverse.com   Carter has lived in Tucson, AZ, since 1953 and taught composition and poetry writing full-time for 30 years at Pima Community College.  Currently, he’s a passionate supporter of Sky Island Alliance, a local environmental organization.

 

 

Poem
By Richard Q. Russeth

 

Words actually do fucking hurt, 

contrary to a popular nursery rhyme 

about Sticks and Stones.

 

In 8th grade, I was hit by a fusillade

of taunts for being deaf and,

by extension, dumb.

I called in sick thirty days that year.

 

Most afternoons I came home

to a drunk mother who nonetheless

had salve for my bruises, dinner,

ice cream and a bed unlike

those martyred at Club Q

whose bruises can’t heal, 

because the dead cannot ever.

 

Those who survived will never again

sit with their back to the front door,

will ponder how it is that

the bullets that missed them

still carved ragged wounds

in the struggle of their heart,

 

will wonder how love itself

became so feared that,

time and again,

it’s gunned down.

 

Yet will be astonished at

how that love grew so strong

that it survives mass murder, over and over again.

 

Richard Q. Russeth, Baker, Poet, Conjuror, Photographer and Attorney.

 

Tassajara
By Michael D. Meloan

 

After driving for hours on a gravel road with endless switchback turns, I finally arrived at the Tassajara Zen Mountain Center. Many times during the journey, I considered turning back, but something coaxed me to continue. It was sundown. I opened a can of beans for dinner, then began to explore.

My arrival was unnoticed, the grounds were deserted. I moved along the side of a stone building and crouched down so I couldn’t be seen. The windows were open, with no screens. Slowly I rose up, so my eyes were just above the lower edge of the windowsill. In small brass urns, candles and incense burned at each corner of the room. Thick ribbons of smoke wafted through the air. The floor was covered by bamboo mats. About forty monks sat cross-legged on small black pillows arranged in perfect rows. The flickering light cast constantly dancing shadows on the walls. The monks were absolutely motionless—eyes closed with rod-straight backs. Each one had a look of pleasant determination. Some had faint blissful smiles. The room was humming with silent energy. The feeling was indescribable.

A small bell sounded. Then a low guttural tone began to emanate from every direction simultaneously. The monks did not stir or open their eyes as they chanted in perfect unison. The air filled with a rasping vibration that was unlike anything I ever heard. It seemed to permeate everything. As I took a deep breath, my vocal cords began to resonate with the same droning sound. It was startling, as if a mysterious force had taken over my body and animated my voice. With every breath, I was chanting with them.

I felt more stillness in those moments than I had ever experienced. Another breath, and the chant began again. I took a third breath, because I wanted it to continue. The chanting completely filled my awareness. Then it stopped. The monks fell silent. They were again in motionless meditation.

I stealthily made my way back to the car and removed my sleeping bag from the trunk. Then I unrolled it in a clearing among the pines. When I awoke in the morning, a monk’s round face was hovering above. He looked purposeful, but friendly.

“It is time...for you to go,” he said.

“OK,” I replied.

I rolled up my sleeping bag and lit a Marlboro. Then headed out once again toward the gravel switchbacks.

 

Michael Meloan's fiction has appeared in Wired, Huffington Post, Buzz, LA Weekly and in many anthologies. He was an interview subject in the documentaries Bukowski: Born Into This and Joe Frank: Somewhere Out There. With Joe Frank, he co-wrote a number of radio shows that aired across the NPR syndicate. His Wired short story "The Cutting Edge" was optioned for film. And he co-authored the novel The Shroud with his brother Steven. This fall, RUP press in Germany will release his memoir/novella PINBALL WIZARD.

 

 

Blue and Tendaberry
By Ronald G. Carrillo

 

Joni and Laura are my bookends

East and west coasts sirens of my youth

Lyrical poets with mystique and perceptive charm

Their feminine epistles guided my steps of innocence

These female muses continue to inspire

Conspiring with me poetically

Rewiring my consciousness implicitly toward sacred truths

Leading me through clouds and tempting captain men

This life anniversary opens me even more

To their incredible origin of creation through song

I imprinted their example in every poetic pore

A canyon lady with seagull vision

A New York Tendaberry songstress confessing from her piano

Emoting my own feelings of discovery

Allowing me a voice to understand my humanity

Kings that left me no keys

These thieves held me captive

Not understanding me then would not set me free

Unable to release my spirit fully

I sought refuge in clouds of understanding

Dismantling the jigsaw of God in divine time

Then suffering the psycho spark of love

That only depressed my heart leading me to blue

These polar bookends of life deciphering their hues

Captains that had no set course

Drifting in and out of my life

But leaving their mark as I sailed on in blue and purple skies

Lavender sensations subduing romantic incriminations

The past was a diving board of learning

Drowning me mostly in bad decisions, drink and disease

My loneliness was a deep cry from the womb of abandonment

I was trying to recover and overcome birth pains

That haunt me still in my present life

But I have discovered my strengths

Stepping stones of maturity have brought me here to you

Twin souls at twilight holds hands

Walking on the sands of the Pacific

Love is specific and at times so terrific

Pairing hands and feet to completeness

Growing in each other’s uniqueness

I am fully here now ever so near to you

 

Ronald G. Carrillo is a native Lincoln Hts Angelino, living in Eagle Rock and a retired LAUSD educator and influencer. He writes of his passion and rebirth into the golden age of living. He has been writing since high school and was initially influenced from the songwriters, Keith Reid, Joni Mitchell, Laura Nyro, Neil Young.

 

 

A Christmas Story from a Jewish Family           
by Aleka Corwin

 

I am the child of first-generation children of Jewish immigrants who fled the Russian Pale and the Cossacks to come to America. My parents, both born in New York, tried to assimilate and shunned Jewish tradition. My father changed his name from Cohen to Corwin (after another famous name-changer, the writer Norman Corwin). He did this so he could work in Washington D.C. and avoid Red-baiting and Anti-Semitism. (Unsuccessfully, since he was black listed for his teenage socialist connections). He also did it for my sister and me, so we could assimilate more easily. My parents were bohemian Intellectuals, but early-on embraced Christmas as our family holiday, and we always had a tree.

 

My parents, Jack and Sophie, grew up during the Great Depression. My father was particularly affected. He really knew how to “squeeze a dollar till the Eagle Grins”. Each Christmas, in Washington, he would pick up a Christmas tree the night before Christmas, when they were going cheap, bring it home and we would decorate. After fleeing Washington and the blacklist, they moved back home to NYC. My mom, a talented painter, had been cramped by the stultifying provincial art scene in D.C. and thrilled to be back in the heart of the thriving New York Abstract art world of the early fifties. We found a comfortable apartment in Washington Heights, then an immigrant neighborhood filled with Jews with numbers on their arms and Hungarian refugees fleeing Soviet tanks.

 

On Christmas Eve, my dad set out to find us a tree in the wilds of Washington Heights while we dug out the boxes of decorations and lights that had survived the move. Jack was gone a very long time, like two hours! And we began to worry…anything could have happened to him on a dark winter night in New York City.

 

At last, we heard the key in the front door, and Jack walked in, empty handed and sadly shaking his head. He had walked miles combing the area for Christmas Tree lots and had found only a few. All the guys had sold every last tree and were packing up to go home to celebrate with their own families.

 

At the news of no tree, my sister and I dissolved into tears, which made Jack feel even worse. After a sodden moment my mom Sophie, the artist and inventor, came up with a solution. We would decorate the wrought-iron room dividers which separated our Danish-modern living room from the long, dark hallway down to the front door.  So, we put down colorful fabrics, strung up our bubble lights and hung the fragile glass decorations on both panels of room-dividers. It was beautiful entering the room, even prettier than a tree.  Then we carefully laid the presents on the colorful fabric, admired our handiwork, ate dinner, and went to bed. In the morning, opening our presents, it was still a glowing, cheery masterpiece. Christmas was saved! I remember we left the lights up all through the cold NY winter, and into the spring…

 

Several morals came out of this memorable Christmas story: 1) You don’t actually need a tree to celebrate Christmas, because it’s the Spirit and good cheer that matters. 2) This means Christmas can be portable. And 3: if you are going to get a Christmas Tree, for God's-Sake don’t wait till the last minute!

 

Aleka Corwin is an Artist and Art teacher living high on a hill in Silverlake, Los Angeles. She has worked as a puppet-maker, prop-maker, Mask-maker, cake-maker, pie-baker, collage artist, painter, mother of two adult Creatives, Wife to poet Bill Ratner, Set Decorator, Poet, Singer of songs, Storyteller, Animal-Mom, and now Grandmother and Eco-Artist using recycled materials to save Mother Earth. She currently teaches Parent-Child Art Classes at Brand Art Center through the City of Glendale Parks and Recreation program.  AlekaCorwin.com,  www.instagram.com/alekacorwin

 


Thanks for joining us!  We will continue to host writers and poets of all genres.

 

Please submit your written work to: lindakayepoetry@icloud.com and include a short bio.

 

Linda Kaye writes poetry, curates poetry, produces films, produces spoken word and art events and produces a poetry column POETS PLACE for the online publication LAARTNEWS throughout the Los Angeles area.

Linda’s poetry events have included several summer poetry salons, and shows at the Align Gallery, 50/50 Gallery, Gold Haus Gallery, Ave 50 Gallery and Rock Rose Gallery in Highland Park .The Manifesto Café in Hermon, Pilates and Arts studio in Echo Park, and Native Boutique, Zweet Café in Eagle Rock, The Makery in Little Tokyo. And at the Neutra Institute Gallery and Museum in Silverlake. Her first short documentary film “BORDER POETS” was a socially and politically inspired event with poets and musicians filmed at the border wall near Tecate, Mexico on the Jacumba, Ca. side of the US. The film co-produced by MUD productions is available for viewing on her website and on youtube. https://youtu.be/5Te4-dlhxco

 

Her rap music video project in collaboration with Mary Cheung, “ERACE-ISM” can also be seen on youtube. https://youtu.be/NfrbveNUBgg

 

Most recently, February 19, 2022, she debuted her staged poetry production of “20 Years Left” at the historic Ebell Club in Highland Park! Two sold out shows with 2 standing ovations!! Check out the links to reviews and the video!

 

https://thehollywoodtimes.today/20-years-left-new-show-performance-poetry-music/

 

20 Years Left youtube live stream 2/19/22

https://youtu.be/GT1D5k2EeKU

Linda Kaye is a native Angeleno who grew up in the San Fernando Valley. She claims to be both a first-generation Valley Girl, and The Original Hipster. Educated at Antioch University and Cal State Long Beach in psychology and social work. Linda, now retired from medical social work, was working for the last seven years as a psychotherapist and licensed clinical supervisor for an out patient mental health clinic. She was a licensed medical social worker for 30+ years working on the front line of healthcare, a private consultant for Physicians Aid Association and for skilled nursing facilities throughout California and Arizona. She was also an adjunct assistant professor at the USC Suzanne Dworak-Peck School of Social Work. Oh yeah.

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

https://shoutoutla.com/meet-linda-kaye-poet-theatrical-poetry-producer-retired-social-worker-and-professor/

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