POETS PLACE
JULY 2020
July!!! Yes. Let the fireworks begin!! Wait… They’ve already started. Nightly, since the pandemic began. Sigh. I’ve read in the local papers that it has become quite the problem in our neighborhoods. Let’s pray there are no fires due to the epidemic of pyromaniacs! Most of us are staying safe and following the precautions of wearing masks in public and actively, sometimes hourly hand sanitizing. I know I am. With over 30 years of hospital work as a social worker, I am fully versed and trained in infection control procedures. Not trying to out anyone, but before the pandemic, I had seen many a health care worker not washing their hands in between caring for patients, and coming to work sick and not wearing a mask. As have many of us! DOH! And you wonder why we’re in the bad shape that we’re in!! Stay safe everyone.
This month we are hosting some new writers and poets from afar. Even some celebs!!! I hope you are enjoying the column! I know I am!!!
KEEP UP THE GOOD AND SAFE WORK!! AND HAVE FAITH WE WILL GET THROUGH THIS!!!!
No Fanfare
by Linda Kaye
6/2020
It was over. Done. She had spent the last difficult and challenging days of her working career, saying her last goodbyes and farewells to her long-term therapy clients, support staff and to one of the best bosses of her career. This time was especially sad, choking back salty tears, sometimes expressing them, allowing them to lightly trickle down her face, alone, reflecting on the many hours spent in her office, counseling clients as well as offering her educated and supportive advice to countless suffering individuals who were dealing with an array of mental illnesses, that, because they couldn’t problem solve effectively, their lives were often in shambles. Knowing she did her best to help, she felt hopeful they’d be okay and would use the tools she had provided them. These people and countless others, were her bittersweet thoughts on the last day before leaving her office.
She was leaving with all her cherished posters of Bowie, the old Fellini movie posters, once belonging to her husband, whom she had ransacked from his office when he retired and put them in hers. She took the vintage childhood game puzzle with her that many of the clients, including her, labored over for months. This one particular puzzle represented the countless hours she spent bonding and developing trusting relationships with her clients which often helped to soften the upcoming discussions of the hardships they had experienced throughout their lives and gave them a comfortable psychological and supportive place which to begin the healing process. No way was she leaving that puzzle behind! She wanted, needed to take some remembrances from her office to begin the newly imposed social distancing. She hoped that having these items near her would add some comfort for her now that she was to work from home.
Now what? What she really had to face was-what now? Since the production of her new poetry musical was on hold till the quarantine was lifted, and that social distancing was the new rule due to the pandemic crisis from the virus-Covid19-she laughed loudly, unhappily, almost a scream. Her clients basically had been insisting all along that she would be bored once retired “what are you going to do when you retire? They mused. “Well I have a whole other life!” She chuckled. What was that line from the Bible she thought? “You make plans and God laughs?” Face that now. What was she going to do now that everything that was planned had come to a screeching halt! Bam! She felt as though she was bouncing off a cliff hanging by a long bungee cord just swinging up and down and up and down. Bouncing endlessly without the stability of her plan. Many of her friends it seemed we’re also bouncing around trying to figure out how to cope with this new world order. Why were her coping skills fraying at the edges? Failing her to make sense of this catastrophe?
Apparently, as she finally realized, was that Her catastrophe was fraught with an adjustment to life without work. The same advice that she has passed on to many a client, friend or family member, that any new change in your life needs time for adjustment. Breath.
She was retiring from a lengthy career of more than 30 years in the helping profession as a social worker. Yes. Helping hundreds of people work through devastating illnesses, crisis, traumas of all sorts, mental illness, significant deaths and dying. Where was her safety net? Who, she thought, could help her through this compounded loss? Everywhere she turned people were going nuts. Panicking about the current virus crisis and were super paranoid about getting sick. Who is ill? Who had symptoms? What were the symptoms? How are we supposed to behave? Where did this virus come from? Who was to blame? Thankfully years of social work education and experience had taught her to accept what she could control, such as her own response to these new rules and changes to societal norms- no touching no hugging no handshakes and social distancing 6 feet apart from everyone until? No one really knew. It wasn’t apparent yet. The evolution of this new world order would pan out eventually. The administration’s initial lack of concern, “this will blow over attitude“ hadn’t been fully realized at the beginning. She only felt her own painful confusion that was hitting her where it counts- in the gut. Throughout her life she had experienced an array of stomach problems due to life‘s challenges and stressors provided by an unwanted dysfunctional and lackadaisical parental upbringing in childhood. Although she, thank goodness, learned to survive her childhood experiences escaping from youthful omnipotent impulsive situational decisions that could’ve been fatal, those near misses had helped to strengthen her courage to survive- mostly unconscious and not recognized until she landed super depressed in therapy but that’s another story.
OK so now what? Retired, home 24/7, no poetry production to produce.
No goodbye party from work, everyone’s paranoid, freaking out thinking the worst-case scenarios. The daily headaches started up again, sore muscles from the gardening work and the newly found walk in the hood. Getting diarrhea from eating all the wrong foods not IBS friendly, experiencing phantom chest pains- checking her temperature, sometimes hourly for the slightest possible increase in temperature. Desperately wanting to go somewhere anywhere! Was anxiety entering into her purview of unwanted symptoms?
As the hours turned into days, then weeks, the hillsides began to call. The rustling of the leaves on the patio whispered their secrets of peaceful surrender sharing their happiness from the new attention given to them. They showed their appreciation by singing and harmonizing their praises of new growth and luster. Not only did she recognize and begin to adapt to this next chapter in her life did her body begin to heal from a lifelong internal suffering of gastric pain. Her 30 years plus career of service to others had come to a close and although there was no public fanfare- her garden spoke volumes of praise, which quieted and calmed her heart.
The Earth on a ventilator
by Inessa Love
Symptoms:
raising temperature
difficulty breathing
plunging oxygen levels Diagnosis:
the Earth got COVID 19
No wonder this wicked disease targets our lungs
To keep breathing we need
The feverish Earth is pleading for help, sending us a message to
We gotta stop
large sporting events
clean air s t o p
huge entertainment industry
massive cruise liners with pools and casinos
do not gather in crowds
We gotta stop
filling up the landfills with things we buy and throw away stampede traveling like the Earth is our backyard constantly running away from the discontent
We gotta stop
nursing homes
prisons
factory farming
stay home
maintain social distance
The virus is showing us our disgrace that we can’t run away from by simply
washing our hands
As the smog clears we can see more clearly what we are doing to the Mother Earth
We gotta stop
being the viruses inside its body
multiplying incessantly
using up our host’s resources cutting down its oxygen supplies
We gotta stop consuming
entertaining distracting
our young are spared from the karmic debt the rest of us have to pay
for our overindulgence
the poor, sick and frail are more likely to die but not without infecting the rest
we cannot build borders tall enough to protect us from the global misery we have created
the wildfire is ravaging the human race
like we have ravaged the Earth
We gotta stop
slow down
the Earth needs to breathe too.
Inessa Love
Professor
Department of Economics
University of Hawaii at Manoa
DRINKING PISCO SOURS WITH NERUDA
by Richard Q Russeth
A poet is an erratic bus
that must wait on
its good-for-nothing driver,
which requires such patience
that, sooner or later,
even the most patient
will try to drive the bus themselves.
Not because they can,
but in hopes that
the driver will hurry back to save them.
but often as not, he does not,
and there is a spectacular crash,
leaving words scattered
and dying everywhere
on a vast, white plain.
Simpler to simply wait
until the driver returns,
red-faced and drunk,
from drinking round after round
of pisco sours with Neruda
under the hot Chilean sun,
and then follow his lucid directions
to a poem that is but merely
three days drive, allowing ample time
for strong coffee with bell hooks
and Maya Angelou
along the crooked way.
Richard Q Russeth
Baker, Poet, Conjuror, Photographer, Attorney
www.richardqrusseth.com
The Weekend I Thought I Had COVID
by Dan Frischman
I went to sleep just after 11 pm last Thursday. At 2 a.m., I was jerked awake by a frightening reality: I was gasping for air, and the effort wasn’t going at all well. I leapt out of bed, panic-stricken, struggling to draw in breath. I made the loud, hellish sounds you’d expect in this situation, and though I was alone, any witness would have been fairly certain I was on my way to becoming a statistic.
When the attack ebbed a minute later, I was propped against my dresser, sweaty, shaking, and wheezing intensely. My first thought: It’s real. This is real. I have Covid. How...did...I get it?!
Was it the checkout clerk at my local supermarket a few days before who wore neither a mask nor gloves? When I questioned him about it, he said, “Yeah, I use a hand sanitizer whenever I can,” which I read to mean not since Tuesday. That was it?!
Well, I’m also a bit slow to wash my hands in general, and I never washed the food containers or boxes I brought into the house. (The regular mail, I was very careful with. Go figure.) So the clerk? The packages? Other than that, I’ve been very careful, but I’d apparently made that sole mistake the virus is lying in wait for.
My chest hurt for hours after the attack, perhaps due to the gasping or maybe on account of the well-advertised Covid symptoms. The deep, dry coughing fits that immediately followed, for instance, were so forceful that I shut my windows in case neighbors heard me, leading them to call an ambulance. I considered 911 myself, but even though hospitals have been our heroes, Covid ward images on TV had me likening them to the Hotel California.
I decided to wait it out, though even when my breathing situation returned to relative normalcy, I couldn’t sleep — I was too anxious to even shut my eyes, fearful of a second, worse strike. I lay there instead, monitoring my every twitch.
In the darkness, the bleak thoughts crept into my mind until they were dancing about unencumbered:
Is my Will what I want it to be? Yes.
Have I filled out my health directive? Yes, it’s sitting in a pile of papers...in a box...somewhere.
My Trust and Power of Attorney in place? Yeah, no, been meaning to get to those for a few decades.
And then my mind inexorably dropped to the sunken place:
Are there any final words I want to say to anybody, other than the standard “I love you’s?” Yes, and those things will be said. One apology is involved, and one simple “Thank you” to someone I’m no longer in touch with.
Next: In that moment, I realized I want to be buried rather than cremated. Why? I don’t know, it suddenly felt suitable to me, and have you ever watched a marshmallow roast? Okay, right? Death itself, I decided, I could accept if this was indeed it for me. There were many centuries before this that I wasn’t around, and that didn’t seem to bother me much, so why worry about the next few?
And finally, what do I want to be buried with, and where should I write it down? I realized, oddly, that the short list included a magic trick, the lot of which are my personal “Rosebud.” Well, perhaps just a magic wand, tucked in my hands. Why damn a good magic trick to eternal darkness, and where in the casket would it not look stupid?
These were my real thoughts in the dead quiet of 3 a.m.
On the plus side of this morbid revelry, I was good with being single and alone at that moment. If there’s something I’ve learned in this isolation period, it’s that I’ve been more comfortable in my own skin, having dropped the FOMO that comes with thinking that I have to be doing more to entertain myself. Even Saturday, the perennial date-night standard, has joined the What-Day-is-This-Again? Club, and hanging with my cat, reading, or watching a show has felt just fine. This mindset could change once this sh-- storm has lifted, I realized, and I’d definitely want a new love relationship when one presented itself.
This, however, hinged greatly on my ability to remain a sentient being, and in the moment, I was feeling closer to becoming sediment. By dawn on Friday, I was shaky and trudging about like a White Walker, the center of my chest feeling torched. At six-thirty a.m., I made an online appointment with a doctor. Then I called family to fill them in, and my brother Bill reminded me of something major:
He and I both suffer from GERD, which is the prettier name for chronic acid reflux. He’s had episodes where it hit him so hard, he had to gasp for air. This happened to me once, too, eighteen years ago at a cousin’s wedding in Chicago. After a huge dinner, and many drinks and desserts, I woke up in the wee hours, fighting for breath. I was later diagnosed and treated for acid reflux.
The comparison between then and now? Late Thursday night, I decided to snack on a few M&M’s I bought for a magic trick, since I’ve been posting short performances on YouTube. A few M&M’s became half the family-size bag, along with an equal portion of roasted peanuts. I then went right to bed. If one was looking to test oneself for vestiges of GERD, this was as good a plan as any.
That was, in the end, the complete cause of the incident. A Covid test confirmed what I already knew by Sunday — that I was fine — and I felt lucky and grateful, with extra empathy and sadness for those who are presently suffering or have passed.
I am now assigning my own incident to the past as quickly as possible. Today, Monday, feeling spry once again, I returned to figuring out what trick I will next film and post for my modest social media following.
I also wiped down the f---ing food containers.
— end —
Dan Frischman is an Actor/writer/magician best known for his 80s/90s roles as "Arvid" on ABC’s Head of the Class, and as "Chris" on Nickelodeon’s Kenan & Kel. TV/theater director. Short magic performances at http://www.houdanny.com
Under My Skin
by Mary Cheung
1-7-15
3:42 a.m.
You invade my thoughts,
I cannot sleep.
Giving birth to velvet dreams.
Rubbing low, a tender touch.
Softly brushes and flames my soul.
A hole that grows in your absence still,
Waiting, aching for you to fill.
A hunger, a thirst, there is no control.
You stroke the fire,
2 halves made whole.
You invade my thoughts,
I cannot sleep.
I resign myself to the lust and the heat...
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”.
RAFT OF THE MEDUSA: 9/21/17
by Ed Burgess
Lashed to this raft
Lost at sea
No walls in sight
Can't build a wall on water
If you Can't swim
Then start drowning
Ripples of time
Push us
into a kind of sleep
We dream about walls
We dream about homes
our mothers baking
Apple Pies
Just for us
Not for you
Or you
Or you either
We fall deeper into sleep
We drift farther out to sea
Get off our lawn
Stay away from our dreams
We can have it all
We can fit
More shit
Into one bag
We can make you be
Like us
We will build a wall
God himself
Has shown us how
We will show YOU.
Waves of time
Crash over our heads
We are awoken
Huddled together on this raft
Not in a dream
We are in the desert
We have built the wall
It is right over there
And right here
Between us
Tear down this wall
Break through the fear
Drift out to sea
Know that you are free
The dream is real
But only when we are awake
Ed Burgess is an artist, poet and all around bon vivant. He has lived in LA for 20 years and is an active member of the art community. He has exhibited his artwork in many galleries around Los Angeles.
The Full Moon, Souls, and Things
by Jen Bouchard
Energies shift
All sediment putrid below the coals of hell
Bubbling outside my door
What awaits me is chaos
The biggest threat is the danger to my mind that has to stand still But can’t
Do I go this way or that way
Do I step left to race towards or do I dodge right to avoid
Carry on my back the broken/lonely/sick/forlorn
Worn from work
Torn ex lovers I hear your cries
Your tugs on my nightgown
My tight cap I firmly wrap around my eyes
Cover my ears
Drown your wails
Hollow whimpers
If I loosen
I am not certain I will make it to the other side
Where my dreams goals and aspirations
Sickening to my stomach
Lie
Plastic poisonous
Toxic
You do not wish for my arrogance
When you fold your hands to pray for my soul
I should be so humbled to imagine in my mind’s eye You
Pressing your hands
Kneeling in the river of salvation
For my safety
For my happiness
For me to be saved from my broken status
Once this is all over
For us to both be alive so you can hold out your arms To embrace me
Me.
Foolishly putting things on a ridiculous pedestal I cling onto things
When it’s your spirit alongside me
That I truly wish to attain
Your spirit
That I would never have to ask for permission
To cling onto
You recognize me as a someone
That is a blessing beyond comparison when I have wasted precious years on things
That regarded me as someone they would have to fit in between their lunch break and next appointment.
Open arms
Warm hearts
Helping hands
Laughter sprinkling comfort to your words How to repay the spirit you offer
A warm spring
I soak in your calm waters
On the eve of this full moon
I embrace souls and release things.
~ Jen Bouchard
Bio:
Jennifer Bouchard is a poet/actress residing in Los Angeles. Being a sexual assault survivor, the majority of her writing revolves around her healing process. Jennifer recently performed a piece at Healthy Housing Foundation’s slam event, The La Dream. She also recently self published her first collection, White Helmet.
Contact Info:
Jenn3382@gmail.com
Thanks for joining us! Let me know how we’re doing here and PLEASE, more than ever, continue to support the arts!!
With great hope for our future
Love,
Linda Kaye
Please submit your written work to:lindakayepoetry@icloud.com and include a short bio.
June Poet's Place
POETS PLACE
JUNE 2020
June!!! How many days now have we been locked out of our normalcy? Lunacy more like it! I have been feeling as though I’ve been dropped off a cliff, tethered to a long bungee cord banging my head against the hard rock, swinging back and forth and back and forth trying to knock the reality into me that- Yeah. Now what?? Plans? I had plans. Yes, and Bam! I was omnipotently believing and shockingly thinking, as we all have, and forcefully been hog tied and brought to the realization, that all is different now!! And not to say that I’m religious, but what was that saying in the bible? “You make plans and God laughs”. Haha. Guess what! This one’s on you! Me! All of us! Sheltered and ordered to stay in place! Keep your distance and cover your face! Okay. Of course I will comply. New rules.
Enjoy this month’s offerings from local poets. Keep em coming folks!!!
Lunacy
By Linda Kaye
5/20/20
Lunacy is thinking that you willed the squirrel in your garden with your mind to kill that annoying mockingbird.
Lunacy-lunaticus- madness. Driven mad by the confines of the country’s stay at home order. She bathed in her vomit thinking it would heal her nerves.
Irrational thinking by whose standards? Could she instead have drunk Clorox bleach to kill any virus still lingering in her body? Is someone a lunatic who believes that Moses actually could part the waves for the Israelites to escape the Egyptian‘s?
I think therefore I am.
I believe therefore it’s true. First signs of lunacy- confused thinking.
Pandemics create pandemonium the capital of hell, Paradise Lost. Don’t eat the apple it’s contaminated! Equals extreme fear, worry and anxiety-signs of lunacy.
Social isolation equals social withdrawal drought from human contact equals depression, accelerated cognitive decline-lunacy.
The lunatics once released from captivity will create a new world order of chaos and mayhem isn’t that happening now in Wisconsin?
WHEN THE NIGHT GAINED ITS STARS
By Richard Q Russeth
There is the sadness of flowers of course,
when they throw their seeds to the wind and
there is nothing to hold them.
no angel or sun or rain.
There is the suddenness of loss -
as when a friend dies that you’ve been
meaning to call but then you get the news and
everything is broken glass.
There is that place where love and hate intersect,
that sniper’s dream, that place where
you can never run fast enough,
and everything is far.
There is the dream that ends with an alarm.
Another that ends with eternity.
And another that just ends and you realize
the sunrise ever does not wait.
There is hopelessness of course. Always that.
The wonderment of god
and why does life hurt so much
when all you did was open your eyes
after a journey of blood and stars and months.
There are times when
only bare trees make sense,
only clocks keep time,
only babies give hope,
the impossible cost of truth
is revealed,
forgiveness is given,
and the trees bloom
with a passion born of forgetting
that they’ve done it a hundred times before.
We are given this life for remembrance,
for that moment when truth had a beating heart,
for when all that was thought lost was found,
and the night gained its stars.
Richard Q Russeth
Baker, Poet, Conjuror, Photographer, Attorney
www.richardqrusseth.com
Pain in America
By Ronald Carrilo
I want to release the pain in your national heart
Before our allegiance falls apart let me hold you
My prayers are mixed with sin
I live in the duality of America
Her gaps ever widening
Her politics false
Only win win even in the face of loss
But you are my constitution
Your love for me is my Bill of Rights
Your flag of stars and stripes are my refuge and republic
Your kindness is my democracy
Release envy of the mind
The paradigm shift has started
We now live in another time
Our gold is not worth a dime
The old financial guard fears a coup
A people’s flu for recharged freedom
A viral awakening in a cesspool of greed
When there was no need
The money changers from ancient times have followed us
The crusades perfected this thievery and spread its evil seed
Our federal reserve is neither federal or the people’s monies
High crime in desperate times wash to our shores
The masses are easy to control when asleep or masked
But the giant must awaken and tend to the task
Our migratory routines no longer work in the scheme of things
We are chained in serfdom
Our democracy has become polite slavery with benefits
Profit is everything but it requires a stealth sleight of hand
A high demand for wealth
Engineered adroit deception of the people
Even a manufactured virus to deceive
Fake news the people receive daily like manna
Survival mode rules in the cruelty of this world
Coda: That dream time has passed in sorrow
Alas we reap what we sow
Although we can still find salvation in our penance
The years of our toil in a city of tears are slow
Our angels have dispersed into the shadows of our shame
Many fingers point to those they think to blame
Pick up a mirror and find your truth
Many lessons still to be learned
But we begin again dusting off past errors
Looking toward heaven we take new steps
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, and Neil Young.
We’re Fixin to Kill Us
By Eva Mauer- with a little help from my friend Pat
Based on the protest song by Country Joe and the Fish
Our right to party’s in jeopardy
No big groups says the CDC
They’re sayin too close we must not stand
No open beaches in Covidland
So put down the facts and pick up a gun
We’re gonna have a whole lotta fun
And it’s one, two, three what are we waiting for
Who cares we don’t give a damn
We’ll party in Covidland
And it’s five, six, seven
Open up the pearly gates
Well there ain’t no need to wonder why
Whoopee! We’re all gonna die
Come doctors and governors let’s move fast
Your big chance has come at last
Now you can go take away our right for fun
To protect those old folks whose time has come
You’ll know our fun has just begun
When we’ve blown us all to kingdom come
And it’s one, two, three what are we waiting for
Who cares we don’t give a damn
We’ll party in Covidland
And it’s five, six, seven
Open up the pearly gates
Well there ain’t no need to wonder why
Whoopee! We’re all gonna die
Pat & Eva are retired physicians, who were both dismayed at the results of the 2016 Presidential election. This is their first foray into songwriting. Their co-writer was a nice Jewish boy who wrote the most popular Christmas song ever written. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.
DIGITAL LIFE
By Mary Cheung
5-15-20
1:06 a.m.
Life in pixels and I'm captured on a screen,
I interact on a 6"window,
Glimpses of life onto a hand held screen.
is that enough?
I interact on a 15" laptop,
is it enough?
Go bigger, go bigger.
Digitize, I fantasize...
big enough to seem real.
Like life from b4.
Only now its all digital.
We live stream,
unless you're really, really poor.
Now I zoom zoom.
Singing, dancing, working,
All fits inside of a room, room!
Streaming on the internet, caught up in the flow.
Birthday parties and celebrations.
How do we handle,
our personal relations?
Touching each other on computer screens,
Our eyes meeting on web cams as we stream.
Class rooms and higher education.
Those who are out of work and on extended temporary vacations.
I can't remember what its like, to feel a hug anymore!
Or the soft pressure of lips of ones that I adore.
Of heated desires,
electrons dancing on my skin.
The friction of our bodies,
as we commit,
the ultimate sin.
Now I'm just an observer, forced to touch the hard cold screen.
Desperate to replace human interaction.
Living life, in little,
digital... fractions.
So this is the new norm,
We're all tricked into believing it's all ok.
Losing our voices.
The government tells us,
what to do. What to say.
Inside this digital world,
Life within a little black box.
Strained and contained.
Waiting to break free.
I can't wait to go analog,
Digital just isn’t for me.
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”.
“Virus of the Soul”
(May 2020) by Lisa Montagne
Sometimes I lay
Awake
At night
Worried
That you Worry
That the Government will
Inject your soul with a virus.
During the day,
The Media
Swallows you whole,
Head to foot,
In its wide maw, chewing you,
Feeding,
Until it spits you out,
A poison after all.
The Aliens, flying through chem trails,
Will be next to sicken you with sadness.
The man on YouTube said so.
From his basement studio,
The man said they are in league
With the Illuminati—which is real, btw,
Because the Internet said so.
Things just don’t add up, you say.
Look at this, you say:
I mean, these alien footprints
Are in my backyard this very minute.
They are here!
You screamed through my phone:
They are here!
You look to the Emperor to save you.
But he wears no clothes.
Lisa Montagne, Ed.D.
A native of Southern California, Lisa Montagne, Ed.D., is a poet, writer, artist, and college English professor who specializes in online learning. She has read her poetry to audiences in Los Angeles, Portland and Tampa, including at the Beyond Baroque poetry center and for Writ Large Press and PenWriter America. She has been published by The Ear literary and art magazine, the Variant Literature Journal, Boomer Reviews, and Running Wild Press.
Thanks for joining us! Let me know how we’re doing here and PLEASE, more than ever, continue to support the arts!!
With great hope for our future
Love,
Linda Kaye
Please submit your written work to:lindakayepoetry@icloud.com and include a short bio.
May Poet's Place
POETS PLACE
MAY 2020
Still life in Quarantine
As May rolls around and the city remains under tight restrictions to stay at home, all I can think of is what will the city look like when the gates re-open, and the humanoid masses are let out of their cages. Will we swarm, dance, scream hysterically towards the once forbidden mostly deserted streets and hug everyone we see? Pig out in the once neglected, locked up and barren restaurants to eat and sit all day in chairs once verboten? Rush through the yellow barricade tape at the local beaches yelling, “Here I come, last one in is a rotten egg!” Rush the counters of Starbucks for that desperately needed latte beating down the crowds that have been creating traffic jams bleeding out into the streets from the only open drive thru in you’re neighborhood? Will we have learned that our arrogant negligence of other’s health has been a precursor to this pandemic!! Have we learned that due to the rampant denial of contagious behaviors - many people are horribly sick and many have died? We have forever been going into public places whilst we have colds n flu’s, sneezing on others’ shopping carts, vegetables and bathroom sinks. Will this obnoxious contaminating behavior continue as before this storm hit?
Kids- I don’t personally plan to rush out into the city, carousing as before - drinking carefree in local bars, dancing and raging (yes, me) in rock, jazz n punk clubs, or wrestling in gyms too soon after the quarantine is lifted. I want to wait a bit and see how everyone else responds before I feel safe enough to venture out.
What do you think?
This month we are hosting poets and writers from all over the country, including Puerto Rico! Sharing, wholeheartedly, maybe even exclusively, their sometimes hidden harbored intimate raw feelings and delightful sensibilities. Their stories may be revealing their truths, but definitely their heart and soul, unburdened, released just for you and me.
ENJOY!
The Wolves of Washington” - Unitsi Ai
All right are wrong
And wrong are right
Lashing their tongues
with all their might.
Snarl and shun brothers
Drawing Battle lines
Night falls
Brings rise
Two packs
One prize
Howling
Mother Moon
Desperate claws of rage
Grasp and engage
While praying
For day to come.
A reminder
Both sides are made
Of Sun
And sons
Of the same
Father.
Austin Musick (AKA Unitsi Ai ) is a writer, poet, lyricist and actor. Originally from East Tennessee, she grew up with The Great Smoky Mountains National Park as her backyard where she and her five brothers and one sister spent the days in the woods and on the river. Austin graduated from the University of Tennessee with her BA in Theatre with a minor in business. When not creating, she serves as the President of TAO Enterprises, a Commercial Real Estate corporation on the East Coast. She has lived in California for the past ten years with her two daughters. As a strong and independent single mother, Austin, strives every day to teach her children the value of pursuing one's dream, never giving up hope, and valuing the gift of life. She feels the most valuable lesson she can teach them is the importance of giving back in gratitude for the blessings we have been given; to pay it forward by giving more than we take in this lifetime.
Karmic Synchronicities: 2020
By R. G. Carrillo
April 2020
The dark forces are only getting darker
But are finite and unable to expand
Karmic synchronicities of inner fulfillment
And service to our fellow man are changing the social consciousness
Ride the wave of this change
Find your crest of social metaphysical design
Reset and enter this new dimension
Who do you trust?
Decades of meditation and spiritual development
Are coming to the forefront of man’s being
Millennials riding on the shoulders of their Baby Boomer cousins
Will lead this new paradigm shift
The materialism of the past is a tar pit of futile fossils
Edgar Cayce beings are no longer the exception
Our DNA is ever evolving to meet future humanitarian needs
Marvelous human nature maturing and manifesting our destiny
The birth pangs of a new social order for the people
Will abort a new world order from the puppet masters of Wall St.
Corporate devils will feed no more
Will no longer deplete the lion’s share
Some seed fell among the rocks
Some seed blew away in the wind
Some seed was choked in the weeds
Some seed fell on fertile ground
Spring will bring a new harvest
Coda: The wrath of God
When man turns his back on the creator
Like a virus released in pure clean water
Sin spreads from seed to harvest
Look inward reset your heart
Protect your soul
Persevere this pilgrim’s progress of gratitude
Develop an appropriate attitude of love
Let kindness be your spirit guide
Be of service and support to your community
Return to the garden of your exile
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, and Neil Young.
Lilly White Country
Lyrics by Pat & Eva Mauer, December 9, 2016
To the tune of ‘White Christmas’, by Irving Berlin
Copyright TXu 2-081-539 Reg. Dec. 15, 2016.
I’m dreaming of a white country, just like the one I used to know
Where money glistens, and women listen, and the Klan can still put on a show.
I’m dreaming of a white country, just like the one I used to know
With monster tariffs, and racist sheriffs, and no more jobs in Mexico.
I’m dreaming of a white country with every Christmas card I write
May your days be merry and bright, and may all you neighborhoods be white.
Pat & Eva are retired physicians, who were both dismayed at the results of the 2016 Presidential election. This is their first foray into songwriting. Their co-writer was a nice Jewish boy who wrote the most popular Christmas song ever written. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.
The Bicycle Brand T-shirts you wore
Bicycle Brand,
made in Hong Kong,
just like you.
I take a deep breath,
I am surrounded by you
I take a deep breath,
and inhale your scent,
I am transported back in time.
I take a deep breath,
and my childhood bleeds into view.
I, am home again.
Home smells of you,
the scent of cooking and care.
Of love, sweat and tears.
My nose is in your shirt.
I take a deep breath.
Bicycle Brand, inspected by #40.
Original stitches still intact.
Washed and handled with care,
all of these years...
just like you did for us.
Softly I hold you to me again,
and I take a deep breath.
I carry you into me always.
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 End Game
By: IE Carlo
26 April 2018
The End Game. Governments playing serious games with our lives, our childrens lives, an apocalypse of a mishap for the world. should we sit back and allow it to happen? We should be outraged with disdain. This thing call politics for the privileged is against all of humankind.
The most ironic and iconic is the fact that The End Game is all we have in this life. We are all going to die, you know it, they know it, all of humankind know it. So what the fuck is wrong with all of us humankind?
Pray to whatever god you wish to pray too, but leave science alone! That’s where the game is.
I heard, probably here on facebook, something quite interesting; it could have been a commercial that also proves The End Game.
It starts with the caveman; he lives off wild berries, fresh meat for protein, roots right from the ground, nuts, breaths the cleanest purified air. Drinks the cleanest purest water, has plenty of exercise, and dies at thirty eight…!
People we must get off this idea of living forever and recognize how truly vulnerable and precious we are. We are part of that universe and there is no room for hate and ill will. Using our resources for the betterment of the humankind is our mission, if, but we strive for that kind of world. I believe it could happen in this lifetime.
Leaving our lives to others to use as pawns in their quest for control via force, threats, intimidations, and war, is not conducive to the humankind.
This thought is a universal thought I am sure, for the ones that are in control are but a small band of incompetent fools, who think small for the humankind. Using God or whatever narrative fits their agenda.
Be aware people, life is to be lived via a set of rules that has been in place since the beginning of humankind and takes all of humankind to keep it in place, and that is to live in peace by way of helping humankind in its quest through science and the fact that no one leaves here alive. Life is for Living!
“The End Game”!
Ismael (East) Carlo, poet, actor began his career on the streets of East Harlem, el barrio whose moniker of “East” happened due to others not being able to pronounce the name, Is-Ma-El…
East, considers himself more a storyteller than a poet, although at times he gets lucky and poetry emerges from his stories...
For more about East, visit IMDB.
Paz en Vida
DANCING IN THE TIME OF PANDEMIC
by Richard Russeth
I.
My parents were not good dancers.
They did not love it, and so only for
certain well-worn songs would they venture
into the sea of swirling cocktail dresses,
my father holding both his cigarette
and my mother’s hand.
I never thought my father would die,
but two packs a day, and sometimes three,
was not good.
I never thought my mother would die,
but admittedly her whiskey habit was a bit much
even for an Irish gal.
So, it was not so very surprising,
in either case, when the doorbell rang,
and death bade them leave everything behind,
an overnight bag being superfluous.
Though I think my mother might have,
had she had the chance, taken the makeup valise
where she hid the small pills.
As for my Dad, he just put down his cigarette and left.
As for me, I miss the smell of zippo fluid,
the promethean spark, the sharp intake of breath
and then, relieved sigh.
I attended both funerals,
and though eight years part,
It felt like I had simply stopped for gas
going from one to the other.
Eventually, all the friends of my parents
answered the doorbell. Most were surprised,
the way people are surprised when told they’ve
won the Publisher’s Clearing House sweepstakes,
nobody expects to win that silly contest.
We tell ourselves it’s inevitable, but we don’t
believe it. Other people win, not us,
or, anyways, not for a long time
II.
Now the pandemic couple
strolls onto the dance floor,
their lovely carnation boutonnieres
just so; oh, come now,
surely you knew it was a couple!
The last dance is theirs always,
and when they trade partners,
their scent, a perfume steeped with earth,
iron and regret, lingers on the skin
and stings the eyes.
When the band finishes the tune,
their parting words are the same always:
“Pity you thought you were invincible, my dear,”
and then whispered discreetly:
“This dance can be sweet,
but only with those who adored the dance,
and never cared what the song.”
The crowded ballroom watches
Johnny swing the band
to the rafters and back.
All through the night, no one notices
the handsome couple
straighten each other's boutonnieres,
and with a small curtsey,
walk into the swaying crowd,
with no particular tune in mind.
Richard Russeth is a poet, writer, photographer, magician, baker and lawyer. You can check out his photography at www.richardqrusseth.com or follow him on IG: @rqrusseth. Richard and his wife Charlotte live in Evergreen, Colorado.
Thanks for joining us! Let me know how were doing here and PLEASE, more than ever, continue to support the arts!!
With great hope for our future
Linda Kaye
Please submit your written work to:lindakayepoetry@icloud.com
April Poet's Place
POETS PLACE
APRIL MONTH 2020
April 1- this is definitely NO JOKE! Do you actually feel safe at home? Can
you definitively say you are secure enough and have the tools and the
resources to survive without the rituals of daily living that have sustained
you for most of your life? Our world, as we knew it, has been altered
drastically, and without any warning. There were no bells sounded to alert us
of impending doom. To give us time to pack up and store the necessary
goods to sustain us until the storm passed. We’ve had to stop what we were
doing, as if a stop motion camera was paused in mid-
walk/drive/laugh/loving/hugging/touching, or the cords were cut on our car
batteries, and then to immediately adjust to being quarantined like the lepers
were in 1866 on the island of Molokai! REALLY?? Is that our fate next? I
certainly hope not. I believe my most valued resource is hope. Without
hope- Well you tell me…
My current state of mind…
Stolen Pleasure
a manifesto
by Linda Kaye
This moment in our time has created a noticeable void
A dangerous precipice that has opened up multiple fissures and gaps
draining our swamps of endless pleasure troves
What used to be is no longer
What is or was lost are stolen pleasures
What personal pleasures have you lost? Are they defined by personal
existential fears of losing obsessive psychological needs?
The greed’s of societies decadence are prevalent from the overflows of
negligent squander, idiotic beliefs that the carousel runs forever
The pervasive magical thinking of security “they will fix this and take care
of us” mentality
What security? Does it really exist? Can security be proven?
By what means? What have you invested in yourself to claim that you can
be secure in the life world you have designed for yourself?
If the masses come knocking will you share your wealth? Your poverty?
If projection towards your future comes to pass what resources do you
consider most valuable? Have you invested in your family and friends who
will hopefully come to your rescue if you have neglected your own security?
If we admit today’s society is sick from a devastating illness are you
prepared mentally for the consequences? If you fall into a profound and deep
depression what, who will save you from yourself? Are you really prepared
for this?
Survival depends on the preparations you have invested in your whole life
Are you ready? Here it is.
This month I am please to host several poets. We begin with-
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”. Here is Mary’s poem for the April
edition of ‘Poets Place’
Death of Humanity
9:20 a.m. 3/17/20
By Mary Cheung
Its the death of humanity,
Its very scary, very sad
Price gouging, hoarders, scammers,
everyone out for themselves...
How did it get so bad.
I go to the pet store, to buy treats for my dog.
Only to find a parking lot full…
of people waiting to buy guns,
A 6 hr back log.
Scrounging for guns to "protect" themselves they claim...
becoming each others enemies?
Instead of each others saviors,
we only have ourselves to blame.
An apocalyptic movie, come to life.
So this is how it begins,
Paranoia, panic sets in.
everyone loses,
and nobody wins.
Its a ghost town out there,
grocery stores seemingly a mile long.
fights over the last loaf of bread,
where did it all go wrong?
Have we lost or minds?
Will it ever be fine?
A crisis is the true test of our humanity.
Right now, its dying because we are too panicky.
As I look out my window and I spy nature,
And the reminders of life..
It gives me hope… that we'll rise again
Despite the pandemic and strife.
Combat paranoia and fear,
fight it with love, kindness and compassion.
Let’s make sure humanity doesn’t disappear.
For more info on Mary Cheung please visit her at
https://notjusttheordinary.wixsite.com/marycheungartist
https://www.facebook.com/mary.cheung.1675
Leon McConnell, another poet who is sharing his thoughts with us, is the
author of the poetry books All of my Snipple Snapples and Meow Rawr
Frillzies as well as being a musician and the writer/director of the film
HomeSick. He lives in Los Angeles.
Back to One
Here I am. Back to 1. Looking at the hole and thinking of better ways to
climb it.
Passing clouds remind me of those who’ve been down here in the dark with
me, such good friends. For years, they’ve been living somewhere in my
stomach and I want to pull them through. If memories are energy and energy
is matter then these people are alive in the moments between souls, stuck in
the crannies of a braincell
Knocking on the windows of your memory
Something your cat watches out the corner of it’s eye. All ghosts are
welcome to climb this hole with me. I’ve found the haunting helps lubricate
some synchronicity. See, I’ve been stretching and growing and feeding my
aura. I flipped a switch like the kitchen light and became a beacon, attracting
all the weird ones society says are unlatchable. I laid down and left a light on
for them. I’m riding the wings of moths fresh out of dreams and licking their
dust off my fingers. I’m tallying matchstick towers towards coincidence,
trying to burn brighter, working at becoming a better daylight, trying to
become today tomorrow.
And finally,
“Armageddon or Heaven”
by Ed Burgess 4/1/20
Red, white and blue
Red blood from our hearts
White phlegm from our lungs
Blue on our lips
Dead and alive
Free but enslaved
Wrapped in our flag
While it burns
Our throats sore
Inhaling the smoke
Hot in a fever dream
The Armageddon has come
Heaven’s door opens
We see the other side
Is it better in Armageddon
Or is it better in Heaven
Only we can decide
To stay inside ourselves
Or venture out beyond
Into Armageddon or Heaven
Ed Burgess is an artist, poet and all around bon vivant. He has lived in LA
for 20 years and is an active member of the art community. He has exhibited
his artwork in many galleries around Los Angeles. He also writes poetry and
sometimes reads it publicly.
Thanks for joining us! PLEASE, more than ever, continue to support the
arts!!
With great hope for our future
Linda Kaye
Please submit your written work to:lindakayepoetry@icloud.com
Hello Hoodlum!
Tomorrow, Sunday April 5th at 4pm PDT, get ready for TEA TIME with REVEREND DAN live on Twitch.tv! Wild Rock 'n' Roll for your afternoon refreshment! Grab a cup and I'll see you tomorrow at https://www.twitch.tv/ReverendDanKXLU
March Poet's Place
Poets Place
March 2020
As we roll into March we find ourselves contemplating our presidential choices and decisions for democratic candidates. Maybe we are hopeful and maybe not. How can we not be cynical in this climate riddled with so much doubt and not enough security? Are we just waiting for “The Glew”? As the Poetess Reigns writes in her poetry offering. “Tick Tock waiting for the clock…” What can we do to hold on and find the calm and some serenity? “Just one moment let me take a good long look at him (or her or them). With a fresh pair of eyes like a newborn baby looking at the sky for the first time”. Jen Bouchard touchingly writes in her piece. We need that softness, that caring, for ourselves to nurture us through those waves of darkness that sometimes over burden us, and cloud our senses. Let’s declare squatters rights in our own domains! As Ron Carrillo so adeptly wrote in his piece “The Writers Domain”. Right on Ron! For myself, I am humbled by the poets and writers that I share the Los Angeles stage with and I want to host you all! For this month I offer this poem:
Journeys End
Her heart bled yearly, as did this season’s balled and rotted roses. With only one day left of life before the inevitable decline. In her mind she desperately and fruitlessly clung to the fading color that was once radiant. It felt as though her heart would break as the petals loosened and began their journey downward. A frequent reminder of it and life’s demise.
The beginning of the blooming cycle was a harsh and constant reminder of when her Father, a man of fierce convictions first planted those rose bushes. It was around the time, unduly, of her only son's untimely death.
The blooms would peak and laugh at her she thought, the same time of year creating for her a somber reflection, a slap in the face, of the passage of life a rebirth of a new season of unrelished change. The colors textures smells always changing. Never as lush as the year before but subtly different, coaxing- as were her perennial dower thoughts.
You’d hope that watching and participating in the constant cycle of growth and budding of the roses would help to distract away from her painful and tragic loss.
A medicinal tincture if you will, to alleviate the depression and profound sadness.
Counting religiously the falling petals as she did time. Everyday. Always.
Here are the offerings from our talented poets of March 2020!
The Poetess Reigns aka JackieRay Phillips is Creator of The Poetry of Justice Show, Where Social Consciousness Meets the Arts. The Show is designed to spark the interest and awareness of social diversity ranging from arts, entertainment and social justice at large. Catch The Poetry of Justice Show Saturday nights 6:00-8:00pm PST Live @Yikesradio.com and @AcceleratedRadio.net in addition to all other podcast streaming platforms. You may also view and subscribe to the Show’s YouTube channel @The POJ Show. Follow us on IG @The POJ Show and FB @ The Poetry of Justice Show and JackieRay Phillips.
The Glew
Tick-Tock
Waiting for the clock
To stroke the strike of 12
Twelve dancers prancing
And glancing...
Through the trees
With electric energy
Seamlessly true
Ecstatic and wildly new
Existence
The way of life
Loving beneath the skin
Getting it ALL in
Into the groove
Stop!
Don’t you move
Making it smooth
Into the right place
Hunting the great Fate
A quest for self
Like a Big Game TROPHY
Recognizing the Stealth
Ho-Hum...
Who have we become?
Is this really new?
Sudden! Like BOOM!?
Straight out the Blue?
What about you?
What do you think?
What makes your heart sink?
Into the well...
Praying to GOD it’s not Hell!
Those fiery gates of fright!
Sometimes even on a Friday night!
What the sight!
To see...
Just Me...
Being ME...
Ooh-Wee!
Jen Bouchard is a poet and actress residing in Los Angeles. Last fall, she traveled to New York to perform her work in a Burden To Bare Art exhibit, performed in The Vagina Monologues at Muckenthaler Cultural Center, a featured poet for Polar Harmony organization, and performed a spoken word piece for Healthy Housing Foundation’s first poetry event, The LA Dream. She recently self published her first collection, White Helmet.
You were the last chapter of my story.
I created you into a godlike stature with the veins of all my monsters
So I could look high and marvel at the debris and decay which is now called my past life.
My past life a whole pile of sad tales Which I now close and leave at my bedside table.
As a reminder to never live in that story again.
But sometimes you jump out the pages
Come alive
When a new lover comes to leave his clean canteen of drinking water on my bedside.
When his godlike shadow bounces on the wall
There you are.
Latching yourself like heavy iron
My tired eyes
Crumbling like fallen warriors
Battle worn and fed up
I would give anything for just one clear look.
A breath of fresh air his baby smooth skin
Words filling me with sweet forgiveness
He reminds me with his song to forgive.
Yet your story still lingers to kill the magic of his kiss.
Let me have just one moment.
Just one moment let me take a good long look at him.
With a fresh pair of eyes like a newborn baby looking at the sky for the first time.
Just one moment where you haven’t carved yourself on me like a tattoo
Burning the insides of my lips
Turning them to prickly thorns
Leaving him scathed bare and raw to the bone.
Just one moment let me look at him
Let me be reminded that I have soft lips
That I am welcoming and warm
That I swoon and giggle and god forbid moan
Let me take my new lovers canteen of clean drinking water
Let it wash over me like I’m being baptized made holy again by his perfectly imperfect pure immaculate skin.
Harmless non threatening fearless his shadow bounces until the entire rooms spins.
Let it heal me or that very least let it be temporarily relief
Let the thorns slowly fade as I feel the magic when we play.
Let the music stay the same
Let me not be reminded of that day
One year
One fight one anything
It’s moment like these.
When I’m pleading for the impossible to be.
It’s moments like these
That I have to make peace with the fact that I might not ever be free.
Otherwise you will cover me whole
Until I lie with you in a dark hole
Dreaming the impossible dream
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.
The Writer’s Domain
The dark and light of it
Left me in shadows and doubt
About a mystery never clearly explained to me
I was without him
But within my own space
I realized what I wanted
But didn’t need his embrace
It was a myth we were all chasing
Racing for a spin on love’s roulette wheel
It wore me out knowing I could never win
Let’s make a deal with jeopardy
I dipped my pen in Eros’ blood
And replenished my Soul in the poet’s love
That only words can represent me
Distilling bad dreams and fending off enemy Lotharios
Still grinding my own coffee beans
And fighting the righteous fight
Despite bad karma in the night
And astral traveling in another life
Trying to make things right in such poor light
Like a moth drawn to uncertain flames
I declare squatter’s rights in a writer’s domain
Thanks for joining us!
Please submit your work to:lindakayepoetry@icloud.com
Linda Kaye
For February - Valentine Month 2020
Poets Place
Valentine Month 2020
Here we are again fellow writers and poets extraordinaire! We are featuring 3 delicious writers to wet your whistle with their talents galore.
Ronald G. Carrillo is a native Lincoln Heights 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, and Neil Young. His piece this month was written for my upcoming poetry musical “20 years left”.
Jeff Rogers is a well known poet and writer who lives and performs in Los Angeles. He grew up in Michigan college towns. You can find his work in The Coiled Serpent: Poets Arising from the Cultural Quakes and Shifts of Los Angeles, and elsewhere. He's been active with the poetry and theater performance troupe Gray Pony since 1988. He performs his work, and MC's poetry and arts events around Los Angeles, including the Drunken Masters New Works Series.
Denise “Nisi” Summers is an Ohio-born poet based in LA’s Westside. She works at Philosopher’s Stone Poetry, where she manages digital content and hosts community events and poetry readings. She is a founding editor of and contributor to PSPOETS’ publications. Nisi is also a member of the Night Owl Players, a local multi-media performance troupe that brings together art, music, and poetry. When she is not writing or performing, Nisi creates mixed media artwork, buries herself in books, and ponders the meaning of existence. She is still learning to juggle.
20 Years Left
by Ronald G Carrillo
The new decade brings vision to my patina
Yoga keeps me practicing presence and breath
A novena in maturity – Namaste!
Moving forward in my senior gait
No longer hesitating on my goals
I am feeling whole in spirit
No longer procrastinating but creating new dreams
The hour glass is emptying fast
My gratitude is ever present
My heart is full and still beating
Sparks from 1972 light my way
This life journey I am still completing
Youth was not my crowning glory
Much more comfortable in my senior skin
I swim upstream to my origin
All my sources are joining forces in holiday
Time to begin a new communion
Quality on the loom of my journey
A weaver’s eye picking ever new colors and fibers
Quantity fulfills me no longer
Its quick sensation is for fools and beautiful youth
I am now stronger in my core reducing from things
Their shine distracts and takes up my time
I need to align my poetic rhyme with the divine
Writing in my senior phase of life serves me well
The muses are everywhere
And my pen is responsive to their call
It may be a flower that attracts my attention
It may be my penchant for harmony
I am more aware of the glory of Nature
My relationship with God inspires my words
The red, white and blue are my home base
American soil is my compost heap
Love is playing in my head still
Youth’s bloom gone too soon
Her blush of innocence once pink and fragrant now spent
She pulls aside her veil to view a lover’s full moon
But love’s cruel rule robs her resolve
Her buds dry and scatter without result
A bitter pillow to swallow with no decision
Her vision blown away in the leaf litter
Life’s meaning a personal inventory screening
Striving for the better in my firmament
Holy acts in daily living
Forgiving and pushing past 21st Century AI and 5g
Social media distractions from being the real me
Meeting the challenge to be authentic
Practice presence not texting social gluttony
My senior time is precious and my priorities straight
No longer a leaf in the wind of senseless fate
I continue my journey like a disciple spreading the word
Wield your life sword and continue to engage to your last breath
We all forfeit parts of our physical selves to maturity
Aging mentally develops and tames the ego
But youth’s good looks surrender unquestionably to time
Our senior position smooths out our rough edges
Wisdom waters dissolves our bumps of regret and shame
No longer playing the game we can drink the tea of tranquility
We can walk a golden path of gratitude with peace of mind
Blessings from the heavens
Spiritual security from left to right
All calm and serene on my green home front
Gentle days pass into nights of bliss and solitude
The bloom is off the rose
Her petals parched and picked
And have become wilted in the sun
I too am losing my youthful color in the Autumn of my being
Now becoming white washed with age and some grace
I am disappearing as I pass the baton of responsibility
Like a ghost on the sidelines I move on
This new generation recharges my soul
Like a vampire I am transplanted and transfixed
Millennial soil is rich and fertile
New buds appear all around me complex yet simple
And some are special hybrids
These astound me with their aroma and singular color
The alleluia in their flower
Bedazzles the onlooker in the early morning hour
Their petals are water colored Art
Dew drops are Nature’s accessory
Their shapes are still God’s mystery
I take in their aromatic history
Things Wondrous Made of Plain Things
by Jeff Rogers
We buy three stars
Made from rusty nails and screws
by Nan Wollman at Future Studios
Then we move on to Clare Graham’s MorYork
Where the mild-mannered front gallery gives passage
To a fantastical trove of assemblage art oddities
And found-object storage
As elaborate internal architecture,
Archaeology and geology.
Twisting aisles and alleyways
Of sculptures hanging down like stalactites
And sculptures rising up like stalagmites
And raw materials in free stacks and nestled
In the drawers of tall thin apothecary chests
Lure us ever deeper into a labyrinth.
Bundles of doll parts mummified in cellophane, dangling
Near serpentine columns of nested bottle caps
And the sharp geometry of scrabble-tile city towers.
Straight rows of long low display cases
Enforce a stubborn order along one wall.
Founds objects here have waited so long
For their turn to be harvested, molded and shaped
They have become shape itself.
Move closer then to the shining silver chairs and see
They’re made of aluminum can pull-tabs and think
How can that be comfortable? But give them a try, sit
And feel their shocking springy give, how it calls you
In soft metallic whisper to settle in and stay, rest,
Imagine, let your mind pick its way back through
Things wondrous made of plain things.
What is the Science of our Spirit?
by Nisi Summers
It is the coherent pursuit of wisdom
Of knowing the physical and natural
World; our everything is unknown
So we venture to know it intimately
It is the observe and report of mistakes
By the nature of discovering each other’s
Selves; the ever-changing structure
Until we cannot learn anymore
It is the biochemical weapon of love
To relent the haunting tribunal
Man-Made; unjust claims will remain
So we must fight this to change
It is the method we materialize
To make small sense of what is
Art; the ultimate alchemical balance
Until creation is secure and endless
What is the Science of our Spirit?
It is the paint gliding canvas in streetlight
To kiss guitar’s airy note, typewriter keys’
Tac-Tac; the ancient formula awaits completion
Until the words can reach ears poetically
It is the search for the stone and sword
By combining forces, our metals to find
Elixir of Life; what we came here to do
Until there is no more, becoming realists
It is the chrysopoeia of our spirit tonight
By the transmutation of gold
The Magnum Opus; Art and life collide
So the philosophy rides stoned high
What is the Science of our Spirit?
It is the identity of consciousness
To keep light on the moon, to pull the
Oceans; kinetic energy to keep us creating
So that we know this is science.
POETRY NEWS/EVENTS
Jeff Rogers is reading next at Stories Books in Echo Park on February 13 and co-hosting Drunken Masters: Poetry on February 26 at General Lee's in Chinatown.
Nisi is hosting several upcoming events! Get on board and check them out!
Elevate Studios Presents Play Time Neyborly 2/9 11 am-8 pm
https://www.facebook.com/events/977524059300110/
*Not hosting this, but PSPOETS will be participating
Open Mic: A Night of Love w/ PSPOETS - Gravlax 2/11 8 pm
https://www.facebook.com/events/467031063975917/
Green Dreams - Mar Vista Art & Music Walk 3/7 6/10
https://www.facebook.com/events/321636232073465/
Night Owls will be participating, details are TBA
Thanks for joining us!
Please submit your work to:lindakayepoetry@icloud.com
HAPPY VALENTINES DAY!
Linda Kaye
Poet's Place
Hello LAARTNEWS readers! Linda Kaye here. Starting today LAARTNEWS launches the ‘POETS PLACE’ which will feature local LA based poets for your daily reading pleasure. Follow us @laartnews/poetsplace and submit your poems, thoughts, suggestions and encouragements for our inspirational 2020 kick off! Let your creative juices soar and rock our socks off with your brilliant prose. We look forward to a stellar year of creativity! We start off today featuring a poem from my new chapbook “What’s Your Hubbub” of poetry styling’s.
Forbidden Fancy
sssshhh be quiet look right up the alley just behind the corner through the gates of wrath swathed in the disciples of a moralistic canvas lies a forbidden fancy
temptation pulls at your lust strings envisioning hidden treasures packed and overflowing with rich delights too delicious to eat all at once
sacrificing security of the unknown
fearful of unleashing untold risks destruction of the moral fiber loosely sewn and deliberately unfastened just so slightly to allow the hot breath to escape
knowing full well of the consequences
falling gleefully through the exposed traps that could alter one’s protected future wreaking havoc of changing the expected course
but you enter anyway for what lies beyond is pure ecstasy of the kind only fairytales espouse
a hidden gem that shines so gloriously bright intoxicating- drawing in only the strongest of hearts and minds
a reward of just desserts
WHAT are you waiting for?
POETRY NEWS/EVENTS
Friday night January 17th 8:30 pm facebook.com/therappsaloonpoetryreading, will feature Mona Jean Cedar, hosted by the beautiful and talented Elena Secota. Linda Kaye Poetry and Josie Roth, violist will also join Mona Jean for a reading of “Forbidden Fancy”.
Thanks for joining us!
Linda Kaye