POETS PLACE
JULY 2026 EDITION
Hey peeps, it’s 250 years since we signed the Declaration of Independence! It was actually finished and signed on July 9th. But really, are we really free at this moment??? I am so fraught with anxiety about our freedoms I am ready to implode. I think I say that every month and I’m still here. In body that is. My mind is elsewhere in the spaced out zone of disbelief. I am trying to conjure thoughts of interest, ha, to share with you all but the jumbleness of it continues to drag on my psyche unable to filter out the dreck of our country’s disembowelments. I won’t drone on here and instead present the writings of our submissions.
Happy(?) 4th. all
Love Linda :0)
R.P. Overmyer and the Spaghetti O's
by Susan Kromka
Since my friend R. P. Overmyer died, I started writing down stories about him. They are all true, or at least as true as I can remember. This is one of them:
My roommate Kim and I invited Overmyer to come over for dinner and a visit. Ron was a cartoonist, illustrator and graphic designer and a larger than life character who hailed from Lubbock, Texas and came to Los Angeles to chase his dreams of fame and fortune. He had some brushes with fame and is mostly known for creating a cartoon called Hollywood Dog, but often he just scraped by with a little help from friends. Spending an evening with Ron was full of laughs and usually involved plenty of weed. He and I had a professional relationship in addition to being friends, as I liked to hire him to illustrate ads or do spot art for projects that needed an injection of humor. This day, he showed up in his usual outfit of overalls, t-shirt, cowboy boots and mirrored aviator sunglasses, but instead of being upbeat, he was subdued.
He came in, gave Kim and I a bear hug, then we sat down at the dining room table. “What's happenin', Ron? You seem a bit down.” Kim asked.
“Man, I'm beat. I have been cleaning my apartment for three fucking days, and I'm not done yet. Cleaning is HARD!”
Everyone who knew R. P. Overmyer knew he was NOT likely to clean his apartment. Ever. Where would you begin when every surface was covered with art in progress, his collection of toys and oddities, and the ashes of many bowls of marijuana scattered about the place. He lived in clutter and chaos with a full-sized Atari Asteroids arcade game and his weight bench taking up positions of honor in his tiny one bedroom apartment in Glendale.
“What prompted this burst of cleanliness...Are you expecting to impress some babe?” I teased.
“ Noooo. And the state the apartment is in right now --- guests currently are not an option.”
“Then what's the deal? Do you have a pest problem?” Kim asked
“No!” Then he let out a long sigh, then chuckled...“Well, there are these ants in the bathroom that seem to be eating the bathtub ring... I like to think of them as living scrubbing bubbles. But that's not the issue. I HAD to clean because there were spaghetti Os EVERYWHERE.”
Kim and I looked at each other, looked at Overmyer, looked back at each other...“How did THAT happen?”, Kim asked.
He paused, and seemed to wrestle with how much he should tell us. He looked down at the table, and finally said, “Well, I had this can of spaghetti Os...You know, the big one. And I was going to heat it up for dinner a few nights ago, and got out a pot. Then I thought, why? I'll just have to wash it.”
“You ARE known to be a bit lazy. So you decided to nuke it?” I asked, wondering where this was going.
“Nope. I don't have a microwave. But I thought, well, the can is metal, so I'll just put it on the stove.
Kim and I looked at each other and made a face... and then Kim gave him a hard look and asked “Ron, did you really try to cook them in the can?”
“Well. Yeah.”
“Wait! - is the stove electric or gas?” I asked
“Electric.”
Kim said, “What difference does it make...he's putting a fucking can right on the stove and
turning it on!”
“How did you think you would handle it when it was hot?” I asked.
“Well, I don't know... potholders? Tongs? Spoon them into a bowl? Actually, I didn't think about that.”
(At this point Kim and I are in tears, laughing. And, Ron, ever the entertainer is just getting wound up.)
“I thought it was going to take a while. So I went to take a shower, and you know I have a lot of surface area to deal with so taking a shower...it takes a little time.”
I go to fetch a kleenex box while Ron paused. It seemed he was trying to determine whether to continue or to change the subject, but as long as we were entertained, he decided to continue...
“I was just about done showering when I heard this really loud BANG!”
“A bang?” We looked at him puzzled.
“Yeah,” he affirmed. “It was LOUD! I thought someone had fired a gun and it sounded like it was right outside my apartment! So I got out of the shower, grabbed a towel and went dripping across the apartment to look out the window to see what was what – thinking that someone was shooting right outside. And then!
Oh.
My.
God.
I absolutely could not believe my eyes. There were spaghetti O's EVERYWHERE.”
“Wait a minute...” Kim asked. “How did Spaghetti O's get everywhere?”
He let out a huge, Overmyer-sized sigh. “Well, apparently the can exploded.”
“How did it explode? Wouldn't it just bubble over or burn?” I asked.
“Oh no! It exploded,” he affirmed. “and it was LOUD! And EVERYTHING was covered in Spaghetti Os. The walls, the ceiling, the floor, the kitchen ceiling light, the window... not just the kitchen. They were all over my drafting table! Sticking on my artwork, they're on my chair, on the windows, they're all over the carpet...You wouldn't believe how many spaghetti Os are in that one fucking can! It was like a bomb went off in my kitchen! A spaghetti Os bomb!”
“How did an open can explode? Did you have the burner cranked up to high?” Kim asked.
“Well... in retrospect opening the can probably would have been the thing to do...”
“NO!!!” we screamed
“What the hell, Ron?! In retrospect you should have used your brain – and a pot.” I remarked
“Well, retrospect is everything, ain't it? SOOOoooo, I've been cleaning up spaghetti Os for the past three days. Man those suckers STICK to things. I had to get out a putty knife, and SCRAPE them off things. The ceiling was the WORST! I can't even imagine how they got INTO the light fixture. I think I'm just going to rip out the carpeting in the place. Some of them got kind of embedded in the rug...
So what's for dinner? Please say it's not Spaghetti O's.”
“You're safe. It's roasted chicken.”
Susan Kromka is a writer and designer in Los Angeles. Originally from Pittsburgh, she came to Los Angeles after graduating from Carnegie-Mellon University, driving across the county in a VW Beetle with her classmate, future husband and business partner, Mark Verrillo. She met R. P. Overmyer in the early 1980's and became one of his friends and patrons, hiring him to illustrate ads, posters, training manuals, and other projects. She is currently working on a book about Overmyer and his brush with fame, and his remarkable ability to always make the wrong choices in life.
UNCLE THOM
By Keith Kurlander
A vibrant pop-art political collage featuring Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas and his bitchin wife Ginni, rendered in halftone screen-print texture against a chaotic psychedelic background of red, cyan, black, and neon green abstract shapes. Bold magenta labels across the composition reference major U.S. legal and political issues including Citizens United, Roe v. Wade, the Voting Rights Act, and Presidential Immunity. The right side of the artwork displays the word “DISOBAY” vertically in distressed decorative lettering. The overall aesthetic combines retro propaganda poster influences, contemporary political satire, and experimental graphic design with high contrast colors and layered mixed-media textures.
Keith Kurlander “I've always been a creative soul, I make art, music, music videos, TV shows, films and mayhem. If you want to learn all about my fascinating life, here's a good place to start.”
KEITH KURLANDER, THE E. TRUE HOLLYWOOD STORY
https://youtu.be/p3er5ptzZTA
LINK TO MUSIC https://www.idiot-savant.net/
More Art at: https://www.artpal.com/disobay & Music at https://www.idiot-savant.net/
American Fox by Snow Mack
2026
"Flagstaff" 2014, Witch Dorothy Series by Snow Mack
American Fox
Look at that stupid woman
Crazy, for sure
She must be 100 years old
Her shirt is buttoned all wrong
Wait,
That crazy, stupid woman is me!
But,
I don't feel old
They say the American Fox is in trouble
No place to run
No place to hide
How many wealthy Fortune Tellers do you know?
When I saw the future
I saw our fears in the form of disdain
Judging the weak as a path to fame
Leave me alone, said the fox
I can do it myself
Snow Mack (she, her) is a contemporary visual artist known for her vibrant, dream-inspired paintings and whimsical assemblage frames. Her work blends pop culture, mythology, and surreal imagery to explore the subconscious, resulting in visually rich narratives that are both personal and archetypal. Snow Mack lives and works in Los Angeles, where she continues to develop a body of work that merges vivid imagination, cultural commentary, and a deep symbolic vision. SnowMack.com - IG @snowmackart
Gratitude for my sister
By Mary Cheung
4:12 a.m.
6-12-26
You get up with every sound, no matter the time.
Just to make sure that I'm OK.
I see you drag your tired body and self into my room
in the early a.m. to see if I'm hungry or if I need an ice pack or something.
You've always taken on the responsibility of caring for your family.
Of taking care of Mom and Dad in their old age and in their time of need.
When their flesh failed,
you became their cure,
their solution for carrying on...
And so they did.
Their life was improved by what you brought to it,
through your blood, sweat, and tears.
And so you sacrificed... your own dreams and your life.
To bring them a 5-star quality of life even if it might have imposed on yours.
And you didn't complain. You soldiered on...
The burden you had to carry on your shoulders...
I can't even imagine what costs it bargained, of your soul.
And now I'm doing the same to you.
Made you interrupt your life,
so that you could be my support and improve my life.
My heart is so happy and yet a little sad,
That I had to ask of you to sacrifice again.
I could never repay that which you did and do.
So I try to be patient, I try to listen and to be kind.
When your ideas don't always match with mine.
And when your daily lessons
and minute-to-minute reminders felt like lectures
and dramatic exclamations that became an, " see, I told you so! "
It felt like salt rubbing into a freshly cut wound
that you flayed open with your words.
Instead of just a quiet acknowledgement of pleasure and joy.
So, to manage what I can handle, what I can take...
I have to shut you out sometimes...
Until I can accept you again and I can relate.
That your voice is important.
Your life has value, and it is great.
Mom and Dad's lives were made better with you in it.
You made mine better by being in it too.
I just wish you didn't make it so hard for me,
to sift through the debris of shit you throw at me.
Somewhere there, I know I will find,
the precious gem of time, you give to me.
Sometimes it felt so selfish of me, to be asking you for water,
To have you wait on me hand and foot.
So, the bell beside my bed remains unrung
to avoid feeling like you're a servant to me.
And I'll try to be more patient, I try to be more grateful.
And to have a better perspective of your point of view.
And to take your comments & sometimes harsh observations & appeals...
To reflect words of wisdom dripping from your tongue.
So that they flourish into hope before it's too late.
To share with you in my life, the happy memories that we both make.
And opportunities to finally get to know the real you,
not the servant and taskmaster you had to become, for family.
Life is a 2-sided coin. Reflecting both the good and bad.
So, I'll learn to make lemonade instead of being mad.
And drink down your wisdom and to be glad.
That I have a sister... such as you.
Thank you. What ... can I give back to you?
Mary Cheung is a multi-disciplinary artist. She has been creating art since she was little. Youngest in a family of eight. She came to America at the age of 2 and grew up in San Francisco. Attended American school during the day and Chinese school at night.
Mary has an AA degree in Fashion Design and a Best Costume Design Award from the NAACP. She often creates costumes for her art narratives and creations. She was the recipient of 3 grants in 2024 and the Denis Diderot and Emerging Artist award. She has art exhibited and published locally and Internationally.
Her real passion and drive come from being able to engage the community while bringing hope, healing, joy, and human connection. It is her goal to be able to continue to do this while making an impact on society’s values and thinking.
“I hope that I can be a role model for others to find their own true voice in life through my art."
Convergence
Poem by Marieta Maglas
In the breathtaking beauty of Norway, I found myself
amidst friends, all of us captivated by the mesmerizing
northern lights. The vibrant green shimmered in the icy sky,
a sight I shall cherish forever. All around us, the green swayed
in a delicate dance. Imagine a lifeless expanse that somehow
appears alive, breathing with life. What truly is light? It is through
colors that we grasp its essence. The sun rises, penetrates, and dissolves,
yet its presence is elusive in the northern lights, much like the divine.
God embodies a different kind of illumination, one of love
and wisdom. A painter friend of mine once told me that
contrasting hues, when blended, can yield pure white- love
and hate, war and peace. Indeed, the universe thrives on duality,
with contrasts igniting attraction. Between fire and ice,
we are the living water. I am endeavoring to understand
the phenomenon of color convergence- this magnificent blend
of hues that gives birth to new shades, the balance of constraints
and similarities. All desert-dwelling and Arctic birds are
a blend of black and white, birds like the Greater Roadrunner and
the Rock Ptarmigan. What is the true nature of life?
Nothing ignites in ice, but solely in fire, turning to grey ash,
a mixture of black and white. We are here to love and we seek
to endure; that love resonates as a divine vibration
amidst the cold, swirling stones. The sea within a shell echoes with
a salty, sonorous memory; shells scattered on the parched bed of
the Aral Sea, a haunting memory as silence slowly envelops
the fading green. Life journeys through the cosmos from
one vibrant planet to another in search of its own equilibrium-
bioplasmic electromagnetism. I reclined comfortably in a chair
at a holiday home in Lofoten, gazing at the sky as it erupted
in a corona of rolling banks. My friend was painting the fir trees
visible through the window, appearing almost surreal in
that verdant northern glow, while we savored the soothing notes
of "Moon River" by Frank Sinatra, sipping jade dew tea.
The Japanese call it Gyokuro. The wood crackled in the hearth,
and the fire's warmth slowly seeped into me.
I think I drifted off and dreamed of a radiant rainbow.
Bob Fossil’s Oily Dance
By Darren Hembd (c) 2026
Fans of Dinowood know and love their dinosaur musicals. They memorize the words and sing along, usually at karaoke clubs. I would also wager that their bedroom walls have one or two promo posters.
“Usually, I get two,” beamed Terry Dackle. “One for hanging, and one for hiding in my dinosaur attic.” In that attic was also Halloween costumes and Christmas ornaments. “I can’t forget what I love.”
The sad news that one day, all the dinosaurs would be extinct, was kept a secret from the dinosaur children. This way, they could enjoy their Dinowood musicals and also, finish all their homework.
“Unless I’m mistaken, you have more dino chores, young lady,” scrunched the brows of Steggy’s father. “No Dinowood videos until I see cupboards full of clean dishes.” He didn’t really like musicals.
Right about the time that dinosaur scientists noticed some weird messages coming from Mars, Dinowood writers began speculating upon what would happen when they died. It was a bit of a downer. I know.
“Except, where do we go?” wondered dinosaur philosopher Talon. He wasn’t convinced that dinosaurs just reappeared at their spawning point, which seems silly if you think about it. “Where do we go?”
Presenting ... Bob Fossil: Dinowood’s divine dancer. This was one dinosaur with the moves that moved the masses, if you will. He seemed to defy gravity with just the swish of a tail. What a guy!
“Everyone loves Bob Fossil,” beamed Terry Dackle. “Of course, I have two posters, don’t you know.” When Bob Fossil appeared in any Dinowood movies, ticket sales rocketed to the very stars above.
The only people that hated all of this were the Martians. They never liked dinosaurs, and now with all these dinosaur musicals, it was getting to be a thorn in their warmers. They hated Bob Fossil.
“Really? Another Bob Fossil movie?” collectively rolled the Martian eyes. “When will those dinosaurs go extinct already?” Did I mention how they didn’t like them? Yep. Martians hated dinosaurs.
Only a dinosaur grownup trying to raise dino-kids would also not like Dinowood, but not to the extent of the Martians. I mean, the parentals all thought it was annoying, but they didn’t go bananas!
“Lower the volume, Steggy,” demanded Steggy’s mom. She knew that as long as Steggy’s dad couldn’t hear it over his televised sports, he wouldn’t care but for any figs. “Just a teensy more, dear.”
Eventually, Bob Fossil got so popular that flocks of pterodactyls would follow him around with cameras. They insisted that he sign things with his face on it, so that they could sell it later on.
“Usually, a Bob Fossil t-shirt is 20 bucks,” explained Dacky, a Bob Fossil fan. “But when he signs it, it’s worth 40 bucks. Think of the profit!” Not that he’d ever sell it, loving Bob Fossil and all.
Musicals like “Here Come the Meteors” may very well have been warnings from the Martians disguised as Dinowood writers. We’ll never know for sure, since the Martians haven’t returned any of our calls.
The End.
Darren Hembd, survivor of abuse that processes trauma through fiction.
more stories at: https://substack.com/@darrenhembd"
Thank you so much for the opportunity.
Not a War in Los Angeles
By Don Kingfisher Campbell
It looked the end of the world
The entire sky was black
And it was three in the afternoon
I searched to the south and all
Was pitch like an apocalypse
People were standing outside
Pointing from their lawns
At the demonic darkness
Which portended disaster
I kept on driving to the west
And I could see brightness
Whatever it was, was confined
I raced home to get the news
I got an alert on my cellphone
Building fire in Boyle Heights
Sensitive populations should stay
Indoors and monitor air quality
I opened my doors and windows
To let in the miraculous afternoon
Breeze blowing through Alhambra
And the fear of not being here
Subsided to my usual surfing
The internet for updates on the
Famous and Facebook friends
Don Kingfisher Campbell- I am moving to where my godfather lived over fifty years ago, Sun City, now Menifee, California. There I will continue to publish poetry, as I recently have been in the tome Unsinkable, a hefty compilation of poetry and prose related to the disaster, published in Ireland where the vessel originally launched. My most recent book, Kingfisher Analogy, is available on Amazon.com and Cyberwit.net along with three older books. I host Saturday Afternoon Poetry live on Zoom at 3pm PST every... Saturday (Details on http://saturdayafternoonpoetry.blogspot.com).
Another Viaje around the Sun
By G. Billie Quijano
From babe to ruca
Born a rebel mujer
Patriarchy got in the way
Gana persisted
Raised in the hood
Guided by the ancestors
This puzzle of words
Mi vida explained
Testosterone doesn't define me
Love is infinite
No wasted kisses
On gaslighting ideology
Vaginal uprising
Independence sustained,
Sanctuary of soul, non-disruption
Guerrera
Arte tambien es revolucion
Gangster of mind
Bien cabrona
Consequence
I am my own muse
The reina of my destiny
Protagonist in my own novela
Serenity of mind
Harmony in my body
Cosmic elevation
Palette of palabras
Fuels manifestation of dreams
Enchanted journey
Age only numbers on a page
The beauty of me
A mystique
Not aged out
Not aged out of passion
Not aged out of lust
Not aged out of imagination
Yesterdays, sacred
Futures, ceremonial
Present, fiestas
Viejona is the new punk
Divine always the glamour
Love on me
I bring the cool.
Yeah homies
I'm poetry
My poetic contribution this month is for my birthday. Getting older, wiser. Anger is subsiding, joy is on the rise. Grateful for all of the participating poets here. And my endless love for Linda Kaye, La Reina Suprema.
This photo montage is from my current body of work. It is a piece from my Rebel Ruca series. The title of this image is All of my Selves, because it represents my ancestors and all of the eras of my life. I like telling stories through this art form, because the symbolism is endless. It is a juxtaposition of placing elements side by side to reveal new blended meanings.
To all who read these brilliant poems. Remember in the midst of revolution, resistance and protest, artists bring light color, passion, community and voice. We create movement in all of it's forms. We fall down, we lift each other up. As we journey forward, we are familia. No matter where we call home, from Mexico to Los Angeles, Chicago, Manhattan, Oakland, San Antonio, we are a force. East Los Por Vida.
G. Billie Quijano-Hija de East Los. Poeta, Natural Creative, Bruja, Instigator of beauty, Provocateur, Renaissance Mujer, Gitana Cosmica.
The Superior
By Jackie Chou
With just one look
you mar my purity
that of a fresh gardenia
Imagine
the words exchanged
a pat on the shoulder
a brush of hips
when walking
down the hallway
Imagine the filth
of speech
of touch
of skin upon skin
of khaki fabric
possibly drenched
in sweat
So I stay mute
my lips sealed
like the lid of a jar
and keep a distance
without curiosity
like the backyard cat
when faced with a coyote
Jackie Chou is a writer of poetry and flash fiction who has recent work in Chainmail Poetry, Gnashing Teeth Publishing, Poetry Online, Alien Buddha Zine, and Collaborature. Her poems have been translated into Chinese in the journal Poetry Hall. Her story "Kiss From a Rose on the Grey" is forthcoming in Spillwords. She believes that writers must write in order to call themselves writers, and hopes to live up to that demand herself.
Banging Thunder, Suddenly Falling Rain
By Jeff Chayette
The boys sat perched upon the rock outcropping, drinking beers, smoking joints, and soaking in the heat lightning. The summer night gave them a spectacular show across the Avra Valley, in the Tucson Mountains. Summer, heat, a light show- they felt like Ken Kesey’s merry pranksters. Big Jim Mucklow was going to get them some peyote buttons, and this night was a warm-up for things to come.
Dodge the draft and move into an abandoned movie set in Mexico was the plan. Big Jim was prepping an old school bus to take them there. Hell yes, it was their Merry Prankster bus. Big Jim was a Vietnam vet, and he did not want these young men to see what he saw in that war. He would still wake up nights screaming.
“I’m going to hell”, he’d tell them. “I’ve killed men with my bare hands, and that’s not the worst of it. Your futures will not be swallowed the war machine. Michoacán, here we come.”
On this night, they were not so ambitious; just a silly bunch of drunk teenagers enjoying the view, the smoke, and the suds.
The thunder got louder, closer, and suddenly the boys were soaked through, and laughing.
“Let’s go down to Pantano Wash and chase frogs!”
They whooped over that idea. Jumped into their VW bus and headed over to the big wash on the other end of Speedway.
When they got out to Pantano, the moonlit road was covered in frogs. They started driving over them and laughing hysterically at the thump of the frogs’ bodies hitting the floorboards of the bus. They were stoned-stupid and giggling like toddlers. One of them said, “Let’s drive into the Wash and see how many more we can squash.” A roar of agreement filled the van.
Driving through the wash, there was another round of lightning, and the boys failed to notice the cluster of storm clouds upstream as they were roaring downstream through the dry river bed. Banging thunder, suddenly falling rain. Behind them, a wall of water rushed through the dry river bed. The water tossed the VW bus with the four boys, like a rubber ducky falling through the gutter. The bus rolled and tumbled, and bent like a tin can.
It was a good night for the frogs.
Jeff Chayette wants frogs to take over the world
They’ll do a better job than the mess we are making.
Jeff is a sketch artist, sourdough baker, and loves to bicycle.
He would like readers to refrain from looking him up on IMDB.
Prepositional Phase
By Sonny Reed
At the front of the driveway
Beside where the driver’s door comes to
Inside a nursery pot, a rosemary bush waits
Until I open up, she curbs her nature
In my rush, into her the door buries
Against the black coat, flattened armor, soon surrounded
Amongst all the things I carry
As substitute for my baggage, Rosemary greets me with pining bouquets
Within her bowed arms, incense released, I pour out
Behind me my struggles
Towards home
Sonny Reed does the things. He spent decades artist adjacent, works daily using words, and is patiently waiting for powdered wigs to come back in fashion. Reed doesn’t write too many poems but he wrote this one. And is grateful you took time to consider it.
Peace is The Dream
By KungFuDebby
Somewhere
In between
Finding
A dream
And
Following
A dream
Visions
only a mind sees
Visions so true
Came out the blue
I BELIEVE
I INSPIRE
TILL I
RETIRE
I GROW
STOIC
IF I BELIEVE
I CONCEIVE
I RECEIVE
What is
Meant for me
Will always be
The Love
You see
I see
We both
See
How this
Could be
With More
Love
Less
Poor
Mess
Of
The mind
Be kind
To the blind
We once were
We once are
TORN APART
If we could
Only see
We have
More
in common
Than
in different
You see
WITH LOVE
This
COULD BE
Harm none
Harmoniously fun
WE ALL
COULD BE
IN LOVE
AND
IN PEACE
I BELIEVE
PEACE IS THE DREAM
KungFuDebby is an LA based artist whose work boldly spreads love, joy, resilience, and peace.
She Became Birds
By Heather Romero-Kornblum
A woman stands between gratitude and grief
Was this ever really mine?
she wonders
about the son
husband
full faculty of her mind,
body, soul
The son
gratitude
still alive
it is the woman who has transmutated
stopped existing in the same plane
portals are needed
The husband
where was he
when she was drifting off the ground
when she became fire and wind
instead of familiar earth
her earthiness was held against her
because mortals
sometimes go adrift in the wind
I wanted to be beautiful again
the woman said
any fairyland that would have me
I will fly across space and time to get there
Between the grief and the gratitude
the mind wandered
shook
Don’t reveal it, she thought
as the sneers rained down
Once, almost a year ago
she was out of her body
her body of the earth
her spirit of the stars, the night sky
Is this the last breeze I will feel?
she thought, as she and her body
were wheeled in a bed
through the hospital corridor
Where do I go from here? she thought
sitting up, gripping
the body tucked beside her
attached to its 15- or 17-hour epinephrine drip.
She refused to close her eyes
to rest
as it was suggested in the ICU
No, she thought
better keep watch on the body
Almost a year later
in her delirium
of organs, in turn,
uncertain of their roles
she pants
heaves
as earthiness returns
and is abandoned
as the grief and gratitude
shift into circles of scatterings
the husband
the son
the others who watched her lose herself
It is hard for the soul of a woman
to exist without a body, the woman thought
I did not lose myself –
I don’t have an appropriate vessel
Living ghost
hunger
for touch
food
essence
I will cast myself out into the desert
she thought
an appropriate punishment
or her disappointments
her abandonments
Between the gratitude and the grief
she became birds
small desert animals
an occasional cactus
my human form failed me too many times
this way
I can wear feathers,
scales,
thorns,
fur
I am not abandoned if I am something else
I could not be a wife to a human man
a mother to a human child
if I am a bird
I will crawl through the desert
using scales and fur
it will be okay
if I cannot control my temperature
Between the gratitude and the grief
the grief lingered
took human-heart-sized bites
as a bird
or desert animal
there will be less to feed the grief
only small
animal-heart-sized bites
if I am a bird, she thought
the husband and son will not recognize me
in my shapeshift
I can be forgiven
because how do you judge a woman
who has turned into a bird?
As she became birds
she sang
danced
met other birds
and small desert animals
I’m alive, she said, I’m alive
A former academic researcher, Heather Romero-Kornblum returned to poetry after several near-death experiences due to Long Covid. She captures the crumbling of her marriage in the wake of her near-death experiences in I’M NOT OVER YOU – the 2025 Four Feathers Press Chapbook Contest winner. She is published in multiple journals and anthologies, most recently on Poetry Super Highway as featured Poet of the Week, in the Altadena Poetry Review Anthology 2026, Tender Hearts Club by Feather Press, with Women Who Submit in ‘This Makes up the Sky’, LA Art News Poet's Place, Four Feathers Press monthly anthologies with her poem 'Alienation' winning a 2025 Print Poetry Award, The Zest of the Lemon, on the ZZyZx WriterZ podcast, Cobalt Poets, and in Silver Birch Press’ Words of Advice Poetry & Prose Series. She also leads the weekly community Poetic Problems workshop with the Saturday Afternoon Poetry group. https://www.heatherkornbooks.com/
Poem
By Michelle Smith
Floundering from the "fix"
He lay supine on
the MacArthur Park grass
Glossy eyed staring into space
God's sky and oxygen
reeled in a human school of fish
Fed him a second chance meal
called Narcan
Bald head body lean from head to toe
Coughed in oxygen mouthed imaginary
bubble gulps of fresh air
Inhale, exhale
A saving grace sprayed into
one nostril,
insert nozzle,
touch the nose,
press the plunger
Back to life
Fishes fins akin to human hands
rubbed gentle strokes
onto the chest
to the torso
to the belly up
the school of fish saved him
Please don't flounder flop anymore
Michelle Y. Smith is a Los Angeleno native and is like Stretch Armstrong, an action figure with many life, love, and laughter roles:
My heart is mother to an autistic son who is my more than my pride and joy. Sister, aunt, grand aunt, cousin, & friend. My patience is my employment am a CNA and advocate for the developmentally and elderly disabled community. My drive is published poetry in Love Letters, Acid Verse II, and Just for the People by Los Angeles Poet Society Press; anthologies and zines by DSTLArts; and Four Feathers Press zines and http://saturdayafternoonpoetry.blogspot.com. My poem, "There is a Sunflower" published in June was nominated by the Four Feathers Press PDF/Print Publication Awards.
Our Lady of Vulva, 2026
By A. Laura Brody
This beaded costume made from clothing donations left over after the LA wildfires was created for the upcoming Vulva Gala. It will be hosted by The School of Sexuality August 15th at the Long Beach Congregational Church.
"The Vulva Gala is an annual, community-centered celebration of art and education, featuring live music, interactive panels, and a signature vulva costume fashion show. At its core, the event uses creativity, community learning and performance to challenge stigma and celebrate bodies.
Designed as a healing and learning experience, the festival brings together artists, educators, performers, and community members to engage in embodied conversations about bodies, identity, and lived experience through interactive art, storytelling-based fashion, performances, panels, and community resources.
Hosting the festival in a church is intentional but not religious.
The space serves as a welcoming community setting that invites reflection on how institutions have shaped our relationships to our bodies, while holding space for healing. The Vulva Gala is consent-forward, accessible, and community-driven, honoring personal, non-linear healing processes and modeling the possibilities that emerge when art, education, and spirituality intersect in service of collective care."
Want to model this vulva or other artist-created vulvar designs? Sign up here.
Laura Brody is a sculptor, speaker, curator, activist, and the founder of Opulent Mobility, a series of exhibits that ask artists and audiences to re-imagine disability as opulent and powerful.
we build something better
by linda m. crate
is there any way we can
escape this fate?
day after day,
endless bad news;
i just want to cut
a way out of this system,
build us a new one
where everyone is welcome
and everyone is treated
with equality and equity is
given to those who are
past due reparations;
i am so exhausted of hearing:
"this is how it's always been"—
and?
that is why we build
something new, something
better and more beautiful;
something which saves
the earth and ourselves.
Linda M. Crate (she/her) is a Pennsylvanian writer whose poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She has seventeen published chapbooks the latest being: only the future knows (Alien Buddha Press, November 2025).
THANKS FOR JOINING US!!!! Please submit your written work to: lindakayepoetry@icloud.com
and include a short bio.
Linda Kaye writes poetry, curates poetry, produces films, spoken word and art events and produces a poetry column POETS PLACE for the online publication LAARTNEWS throughout the Los Angeles area. She recently exhibited her first piece of artwork! A photograph taken in Waikiki, was represented at the Los Angeles Makery gallery’s REFLECTION:RESILIENCE show curated by the Arroyo Arts Collective. She has also been fortunate to show artwork again at the Los Angeles Makery. Her photograph, Ladispoli, Roma was included in The Quiet show April 2026.
She has published poetry in the publications, Art Block Zines 2024, 2025 & 2026, Curious Nothing vol 1&2, and the Altadena Poetry Review Anthology 2026.
Linda’s poetry events have included several summer poetry salons, and shows at the Los Angeles Makery, 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 Los Angeles 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 This video was accepted into the Ontario Museum of History & Art show “We the People” Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow. February 2- April 16, 2023. So honored!!
And… 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!! Her documentary short of the making of “20 Years Left” screened at the Highland Park Independent Film festival in 2023 and was awarded an Honorable Mention. 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 her last seven years of employment 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.
Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry
http://voyagela.com/interview/daily-inspiration-meet-linda-kaye/https://
shoutoutla.com/meet-linda-kaye-poet-poetry-and-theatrical-producer-filmmaker/