April Poet's Place

April 04, 2024

POETS PLACE
APRIL EDITION
PARIS, FRANCE 2024

Bonjour Mon Amis! Paris is definitely a city for romance. The old crumbling cobblestone streets vying for attention. Lovers sitting in cafes dreamy eyes locked in each others gaze whilst sipping wine poured by handsome waiters. The french language is soft and fluid, enticing the passersby to eaves drop and attempt to join in on the conversation. I listen in, but only a few words are understandable with my limited French. I have been roaming the city looking around and down the narrow streets for places to explore. Before traveling, I had been studying the guide books, youtube travel shows, Rick Steves maps and getting tips from all my informed friends to get a lay of the land, and hopefully with daily practice of Babble, to learn the basic language of French. But when I venture out I’m still lost, as well as the French words and phrases I’ve learned! There are too many twists and turns in Paris, and when GPS fails, I have to resort to a map. Which way is North? Ah a sign that says The Bastille this way! Then I know I’m headed back towards my hotel! Paris is also a city full of street art and graffiti. I love street art! But they have nothing compared to Picasso. The Picasso museum blew my mind! His legacy incudes over 200 thousand paintings, sculptures, ceramics, and even poetry!!! I hope to check out the Grand Palais Urban art exhibit. And the many galleries all over the city. There is definitely too much to see and do in Paris and unless you are a savvy traveller, or have a lot of time, it’s impossible to cover all the ground!

Thoughts of You
By Linda Kaye

it's cold outside but the thought of you makes me warm

tickles my skin

thickens my heart

softens the weary lines

loosens braided charms

that have hung out to dry

now moistened with love

the drippings of lust laid raw

That’s What I Do
Terrance M. Whitten

I make things. That’s what I do. From my earliest years, I took apart, reconstructed, piled, stacked, drew on and experimented with whatever was at hand. My proclivity for making things was a fair clue as to any future vocation I might choose, if not actually steered towards. As the second son of a Roman Catholic family attending St. Christopher’s Elementary in mid-century Detroit, the Irish tradition of my mother’s family would have me be groomed for the priesthood, a family ambition likely dashed when I dropped out of altar boy training in the fifth grade without telling my mother because there was no way in Hell that I was going to memorize the big Apostle’s Creed that opened Act II of the Catholic Mass.

In Latin, yet!

In 1964, the liberalizations of Pope John XXIII that brought the English language into Catholic liturgy were a couple of years ahead. Still, the nuns in seventh and eighth grades were quite vocal about my perceived future as a priest, I was such a good and conscientious student. Not to mention that my mother was secretary to the Pastor in his rectory next door.

But I kept my skeptical misgivings about the whole Jesus business to myself.

By my 1967 graduation into an all-boys Catholic high school, that aura of future clergy bait still hung over my head, for I am certain that the Brothers at Detroit Catholic Central had their eyes on me. The age of 15 was when I finally acknowledged to myself a full turn to agnosticism, at least until the age of 28 when I experienced hallucinogens for the first time. That acknowledgement of my lapsed faith remained personal, for ambivalence marked my responses in any religious discussion, whether in class or out.

Growing up in the Motor City in the 1960s, the roadways were crowded with the expressive stylings of the city’s biggest export – our cars. Since the late 1950s, Detroit’s automotive designers all competed, producing flash and grace in equal measure.

My mother’s father was a line manager in one of General Motors’ production plants. As family, I was entitled to free enrollment in GM’s local Engineering and Design school once I finished high school. The age of 15 also saw me determined that automotive design was where I was headed. My schoolbooks and papers throughout later grade school had their margins filled with my little sketches of mid-60s Jetson-era car and architectural fantasies. The long Michigan winters kept students indoors during recess, my time post-lunch spent doodling up more fantasies, with fellow students anticipating what I would concoct next. And every September brought with it the beginning of a school year, the new TV season and the introduction of a freshly-designed batch of the Motor City’s most prized products by Ford, GM and Chrysler.

At age 17, my professional future still looked to be in the hands of a corporate giant.

But then in my Senior year, I started working on the school newspaper. I would go on to enter Michigan State University as a Journalism Major in 1971, though 1970 and my Junior year found me more ambivalent about where my professional future lay. My options became more evident once my grasp of the world began expanding, as it does to all teens heading into adulthood. Though to my fellow students and my teachers, I still appeared to be prime for the clergy.

Then one day the entire Junior class was required during Father Heath’s Sociology class to take a multiple-choice vocational test. Several weeks later we all were handed the results of the test in a sealed envelope. This rather conservative student anticipated a rather conservative result. In 1970, I was antipathetic towards the swelling pot-smoking, long-haired counter-culture and found humor, along with the rest of the class when an exemplar of our class’s counter-culture fringe was determined to be a future mortician!

Then I opened my own envelope.

Musician.

What? I was surprised and a bit confused that the test saw that kind of energy in me, for good or for bad. Just three years post-1967’s Summer of Love and, to this inexperienced 17-year-old, the word “musician” carried with it a myriad of life choices that I did not foresee for myself. Sure, I was an AM radio pop-music junkie, with a childhood saturated with a vibrant soundtrack, and had taken music classes in just my Freshman year learning a clarinet so to join the school band - no passion for playing the instrument, though I do enjoy its woody voice - but I shared my vocational test result with only one classmate, a friend who sang in the school chorus and was teaching himself guitar. He was as surprised by the result as me.

I didn’t even tell my parents.

Well, come entry into college and the pursuit of a journalism degree, I would be sabotaged by my dyslexia when I continually failed the typing tests to qualify for senior-level courses. So I turned to my drawing skills and acquired a Fine Arts degree after a fifth year at Michigan State. As for the life choices that followed my commencement in 1976 and my stepping foot into the real world – that vocational test got it right, mostly.

The word “artist” does not fall far from “musician” as to the sort of life choices embraced. I have proven not to be made for the world that had been anticipated for me, for the counter-culture I once misunderstood in 1970 now defines me. My 1981 encounter with a hallucinogen and the subsequent dramatic redefinition of the universe, as well as the spark that really lit fire to a productive artistic life being a case in point.

All that was detected by a simple high school vocational test.

I have flourished as a visual artist over the decades and found my way back to the written word in the 1990s courtesy of the computer keyboard and the ability to correct and edit as one writes. Three screenplays, a novel and three other books bear my name as a result, besides the innumerable drawings from my hand.

As for the potential as an automotive designer, the mid-1970s oil crisis put an end to imaginative car design. I would have been discouraged had I taken that route and would have been eager for an alternative. That is one “what if” best not taken.

But there is another.

In 1966, this thirteen-year-old already had made his creative talents evident, so my mother tried to spark some creative energy out of a sister by renting an acoustic guitar and having my sister take weekly guitar lessons at a music shop in a nearby Dearborn shopping center. My sister displayed no enthusiasm for the whole business. Never practiced. I now can imagine the frustration of the guitar teacher.

At the time, I wished my mother would let me take over the guitar and the lessons, for The Monkees had just premiered on TV and this Beatles-fed fan with a good ear likely would have turned a capable hand to the instrument. And likely I would have written music as well, whether songs or more complex music, I would have made something.

That’s what I do.

But I didn’t say anything, and the neglected guitar went back to the shop in Dearborn.

A big “what-if,” a big “what if” that the vocational test detected in 1970.

In retrospect, I could have embarked on an adventurous musical life in 1966, one which musician Dan Fogelberg described in a lyric – audiences are heaven, the traveling is hell. That and all the other well-documented hazards of the musician’s life.

Is there regret in the recounting of these memories?

No. Music remains a substantial and colorful presence in my daily life. And a sturdy harmonica has been a friend for nearly 35 years. Though I really don’t know how to play the thing, I can make music with the instrument just the same.

As for my art and my writing over the decades – would I sacrifice them for a life of music?

No. They’re my children. Of course not.

Just as long as I am making something.

That’s what I do.

Terrance M. Whitten is a Detroit-born artist and writer, now a 25-year resident of Los Angeles. Keeping busy!

POISE
By:IE Carlo
21 February 2023

To speak, to admire, to lauder

To be poet

Poise is necessary

Look, see, view that young woman on the steps of the White House

Standing at the podium poised with the most powerful man the President of the United States of America

Who is she you ask, Amanda Gorman, by name, a poet laureate

And no games she plays,

Her posture, her eyes, the courage in her stance

Listen to Maya Angelou recite her words

See her manner of being her ‘not’ angular back Standing erect with the conviction of her words

You hear the vowels than consonants the nuance the narrative is clear and poetic

To be a poet takes ‘will’ not only writing it but delivering it The audience is waiting for they’re there to be impacted with the depth of your words they’re here for they have a self interest they want to know

From poise comes character to which the audience can identify with the poet they live the poets journey and ‘roll’ with It. It may have taken the poet perhaps hours, days, months, and even years to perfect those words being said and poise is calmness, and although the poet may be a word-smith, words don’t always come with the [what] of the poem needs to say...it can be grueling...but that’s what makes a poet! A poet must always be prepared, to enlight, making the audience feel uncomfortable at times may be what the poet’s intentions are, but be weary because if they're given a reason, any reason, they’ll turn you the poet off. A poet must be a humble-courage-artist-person. A butterfly of love...Paz

Ismael (East) Carlo, where to begin...on the streets of East Harlem, el barrio (no, it’s not how I came about my monica of “East”). That happened due to others not being able to pronounce the name, Is-Ma-El…

...mom, was an avid theater person, live stage was her favorite, movies every Thursday night at any of the Spanish theaters venues available. I mean they use to give away whole dish sets, one piece at the time, so she would take us all, in this way all would get one piece each of dish ware.

At the age of 33 East took to acting…”It was an easy transition for me. I mean you couldn’t get more material or characters than you could from observing people and their ways on one city block in NYC”.

Moving to Miami in 1973 was the start, things were changing and Hollywood was on the cusp of that change. Latino’s were in, and “East” was right there in that place where all things Latino was beginning to happen. Cuba was a hot topic, drugs, sex, and rock n roll was the thing.

One day out of nowhere East said to himself, “I’m going to Hollywood and play with the big boys and girls…” and that’s exactly what he did. But that grew into a bigger and more advantages career. It would also take him to what has always been his passion, music. He met Robert ‘Bobby’ Matos, and that’s where the creation of Cafe con Bagels and music recordings had its genesis.

From there to now; Bobby encouraged him to write seeing East had an awareness of what life and its meaning meant to him and others. Through writing East has been able to make inroads and contribute to awareness of that thing called life by way of a recording he and Bobby shared, titled: “Provocateur”.

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. He would’ve written more but Linda just gave him but one day to come up with this...LOL

Paz en Vida

The House Does Not Exist
By Gwen Freeman

The house does not exist

Anymore

Except

In dreams where laughing silhouettes fill the kitchen,

And pace the hall

And sleep in narrow beds.

Until

I open my eyes, and mourn the dead, and know again,

The house does not exist.

Gwen Freeman was born and raised in Virginia, a double graduate of the University. She is a lawyer and artist, living bicoastally with her husband in Mt Washington and in the rural Shenandoah Valley.

THE GUEST
By jerry the priest

Shiva’s on his way over with laughter and affirmations.

He’s offered the use of his car for the weekend. There’s a
festival in our honor in one of the little towns ’round here
and everyone’s invited to celebrate our love.

This is delightful and happening none too soon. Soon
it will be Autumn, but now it is high Summer. A thrill is
in the air. A very whisper of fulfillment.

These recent rains have cooled the mountain and it’s
just as well there’s little to hope for.

I picture you dressing for the party. You’ve casually put
on the merest hint of makeup and your flimsiest gown, the
better to remove them when the time comes.

There’s a lilting raga playing in your womb. You’re moving
to its lush melody and infectious rhythm, mildly astonished
at how far you’ve come, and how quickly the transformation
has taken place.

Before long you won’t even be missing your crutches.

A lightning bug swoops in the open window, attracted
by your undeniable radiance. He is flashy and unafraid.
The two of you are dancing by candlelight as the rains
resume.

Its midnight in your bedroom. In mine it is high noon.
A letter arrived today. A contest it seems I’ve won, in
which my sorrows have all been loaded onto trucks
and removed.

I’m tempted to cartwheel. Aw, fuck it: Here goes!

…I form the shards into an offering and text
affirmations to Shiva.

I put on my finest shoes and a little cologne. I hide
presents in my beard, and thoughtfully put
the kettle on.

When Shiva arrives, he’ll be wanting tea.

jerry the priest, legal name Jerome Dunn, has been creating material for exhibition, publication and live presentation since 1979, when he studied experimental music at the University of Redlands. A vocal performer since early childhood, his formal study of music began with his first trombone lesson in 1967.

Essays, poems, stories and illustrations have appeared in Coagula Art Journal, La Quadra, the Nervous Breakdown, Bombay Gin and others, and his guitar/vocal/ trombone work and lyrics are featured on Cheap Disaster (’92), Stark Aloe Vera (’95), and Lovely Children (2011).

He’s lived and taught in Katmandu Nepal, Istanbul Turkey, Boston Massachusetts, Boulder Colorado, Portland Oregon, San Francisco/San Leandro/Los Angeles California, and written in Banaras, Bodhgaya, Konya, Damascus, Petra, Jerusalem, Mexico City, San Cristobal de las Casas, Antigua, Buenos Aires, Seattle, New Orleans, Chicago, Denver, Santa Fe, Bar Harbor, Vancouver, Halifax, Atlanta, Asheville and Manhattan, among other locales.

He holds a BA in Performance Studies from Naropa University, and an MFA in Theater Directing/Production from California Institute of the Arts.

jeromedunn·happythanksgrieving@gmail.com·707.227.6539

G. Billie Quijano-artwork

This photo is from my Cinematic Chicas series. It is my homage to Mother Earth and the Aztec Goddess Xochiquetzal. Honoring this season of La Primavera and the Equinox.

Xochiquetzal, Goddess of beauty, love, fertility, artists and La Luna. I am her daughter. www.artexola.com

G. Billie Quijano-Artista, Bruja, Poeta, instigator of beauty. Hija de East Los.

I am honored to know Linda Kaye. Her love and support of artists is beyond amazing. Now she is off to France to blow everybody’s minds. This is an exciting time.

The Swan King
By Ronald Carillo

He delighted in swans
And tell tale Manhattan gossip Of the highest order
An insidious mosquito author Past his prime
Put out to pasture
A parasite filling his inkwell On disaster
Unable to recapture his youth He decays
In decadent filth
An ugly duckling
Waiting for
Unanswered prayers
Those that were answered Took his last breath

The queen ate swan
He was a cannibal mimic Seeking salvation
Mercy from
Manhattan matrons Attempting suicide
When he was rejected Nonetheless he survived On the edge
Battling demons
From his past
He wrote his way to fame And settled for infamy
All in vain
Up in smoke
He choked on his muses They provided fine fodder But not nutrition
His words
Were a beautiful contrition That crossed swords
With evil doers

A shiny swampy orbit Where he listened Then lost his shine

A bevy of swans White elitists Trumpeter pens At their center

A single cob

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.

Grand Central Market
August 22, 2022; July 24, 2023
By Elizabeth Silk

We’re all here

Moms and teens and grands

Chairs pulled round a table

Waxy papers bloom from takeout boxes

In the shade of Grand Central Market

Kids toddlers carbed out on

pizza tacos soda

blankly stare

Bass and drums rumble the air

Chests thrum against metal chairs

Chatter ripples over heat waves

We are in it together

Breathing bad air

With satisfaction

In shallow breaths

Under aqua umbrellas brisk and perky

Like kites about to fly off over the hot wind

Pigeons stalk crumbs

Not about to fly off

A sunbright wall faces us

Its mural faded to Egyptian pastels

Blue block H E L O spaced between

Boarded windows

Since I, Elizabeth Silk, moved to Los Angeles in 2021, I have enjoyed writing poems about Downtown LA where I live. “Grand Central Market” is one of the first of those poems as well as one of the first landmark settings that I enjoyed.

bowl of cherries
By Charla DelaCuadra

dark and sweet
as your kiss
the one I want and cannot have

but right now
I have this taste of summer
on my tongue
feet bare
in front of this kitchen sink
spitting seeds as the sun slants
liquid-slick and ephemeral
as the bitter finish on my tongue
so pink and so lonely
for the company of yours

cherries in summer
(just like you)
always leave me wanting more
slightly dissatisfied
but also grateful
for the sweetness they bring

a skirt and a bra, honey
and I've got a mouth full of summer
so melancholy for the memory
of this moment
before it is even gone

Charla is a musician, writer, archivist, blogger, creative, thinker, planner, reader, feminist, lover, and student of life. She lives in Southern California with her patient husband, rescue pups, and a cat who thinks she rules the roost.

www.pinkandgreenmusings.com

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

Please submit your written work to: lindakayepoetry@icloud.com

and include a short bio

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

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

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

20 Years Left is now a short documentary!!!! Screening at a living room near you!!!!

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.

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

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

http://voyagela.com/interview/daily-inspiration-meet-linda-kaye/https://

shoutoutla.com/meet-linda-kaye-poet-poetry-and-theatrical-producer-filmmaker/

March Poet's Place

March 05, 2024

POETS PLACE
MARCH EDITION
2024

YO! What’s happening all you beautiful people! It’s March! The ides are upon us. Let’s not worry about impending doom and keep our trajectories in focus. I, through my blurry lens that have been clouded lately with home disasters and misfortunes, keep plodding along, with a little help from my friends, MJ and alcohol. We all need some distractions from reality. LOL. Whatever it takes to get you through the next hour or day, do it. Do it to the max. Let go of the resistance. Unlock your fears and travel forth. Yes! And speaking of traveling, I will be traveling to France April 1! I am a bit scared of going abroad alone, but I must go, tackle my fears and jump in to the unknown. It’s the unknown that scares us/me, which often creates the anxious tremors you feel in your gut. Packing for a journey has always been a bane in my life. For my upcoming trip to France, I have decided to pack light, which for me is highly stressful since I am a fashion hound and look forward to my daily dress up ritual. I have a lot of clothes, shoes, jewelry, hats, shoes. Did I say shoes twice?! My biggest fear is losing my luggage (eek), which I have read that the Paris airport does often. I am going to travel with only carry on luggage. I have been practicing packing, if that’s such a thing, to ease my stress. I must say that it has worked and I am feeling a lot less stressed about packing. What will I be doing in France? I have been accepted to an artist residency in SW France, in the town of Nerac. I will be there for 2 weeks working on my memoir (below is a picture of the town). Looks absolutely gorgeous! I don’t believe there is anything not gorgeous in France! I will be filming a lot of live Instagram posts, so follow along with me to France @lindakayepoetry on Instagram!!! I will continue to publish POETS PLACE monthly, so keep sending me your beautiful poems and stories!

Avec Gratitude
Linda :0)

Spring Renewal
By Linda Kaye

Amidst torture and grief we choose life

our strength surfaces as the last light fades behind a cloud of smoke

we resurrect out of the bastion of suffering to teach what can be done

we pray for peace and hope for an endless future

which our guardians have fought for and won

we peel away the layers that have protected the sins of our past

it reveals a light

a shimmer of solidarity

that at last we can unite

The Book Review
By Theodore A Hoppe

From the beloved bestselling author

A tale full of intrigue and murder

An excursion into the world of suspense

and misadventure

Weaving together the high-tech fixing

Of a string of unexpected events

The quintessential tale of music,

The truths, and lies we tell ourselves

About life and love

Such an implausible mixture.

It's only slightly less amazing than the facts

A loving moving laugh-out loud celebration

Of special friends and family

Suspenseful and morally complex

Whose meaning resonates

Probing the seamy underside of

A dark romantic and captivating secret

Unforgettable, instructive and moving

Told in a down to earth amusing and agenda-free tone

A captivating examination of culture,

Race, class, death, and rebirth.

Beautiful,

and as painfully alluring as it is dangerous

Written with more warmth and grace than

we are likely to see again.

Theodore A Hoppe currently lives in the sleepy village of South Hero, Vermont (where ice fishing is still practiced, but only in the wintertime), and spends time in Los Angeles atop Baxter St, enjoying the warm sunsets and an occasional cocktail. His interests include neuroscience, complexity and chaos theory, and AI.

Black-Dog
By Naomi E. Cornejo, November 2018

It’s been more than two months now and I watch you slowly, fall apart, every day. I love you. You don’t understand why I love you. I just do.

I want to know how you are feeling and your response usually is, “I don’t know.” I have to understand that depression just is. You seem to have settled into nothingness and the world has become “blurry and hazy,” I’ve heard you say. Medications have made it worse, keeping you from eating, from sleeping or kept you sleeping too much. Sleeping is the only time where your brain stops for a few hours and the anxiety settles for a bit. I can see that you are frightened and some days, I look at you and you bow your head in shame. I love you, I want to scream!!! I’m afraid you won’t hear me.

Nothing I say reassures you that you are ever enough. You say everything hurts and I want to kiss all of your pain away but depression is like a permanent bruise. Depression has left you irritable, paranoid, lifeless, and critical. It has left you exhausted. I know that you feel like you are fading away but I see you. You are not invisible to me. You are grand in my eyes. I love you. I love you! I love you!!!

“because wherever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.”
― Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

Naomi E. Cornejo is a native Angelina and a high school Reading and Life Skills teacher. She enjoys learning about her students’ everyday and teaching them the joy of reading and learning. She graduated from Mount St. Mary’s College (now a university) in Los Angeles in 2007 with a Bachelor of Arts Degree in Spanish and a minor in Religious Studies. She enjoys dabbling in writing Haikus, mostly narrative poems and attending poetry readings. She also, has a deep love for playing softball since childhood and has played in an adult league for the past eight years. Naomi has visited 14 countries and hopes to continue traveling the world someday and visit Portugal and Japan.

Poetry
By Ana-Alicia Salazar–awkwardsilverlinings

A deviation from the disheartening, dispirited and

Befuddlement,

as my horizon lay in disarray, disappointments & angst–

Otherworldly & magical He is

a Human personification of my inner

affections

An eternal light to the abysmal darkness, to rainbow spears through my splintered core

He is poetry in motion & my biggest risk

You changed me to my depths

I'm not letting go

Give yourself a chance

She said

Then, all at once, he found her–

A lifetime between them

He was not just anybody

Someone special

Comically offbeat and hypnotically deadpan

Truly poignant moments were those that followed & remain unsaid

Written in the stars

Exquisite magical delights as

they reveled in shared commonalities &

scorned hearts

Capricious no longer

Rather, he cloaked her in heartening tenderness

There was never anyone else

Ana is a contributing writer for UP Magazine, street art enthusiast, Arizona State hopeful, and a Multiple Sclerosis warrior.
She is a Los Angeles native.
Ana writes her poetry in cursive on any medium, even discarded furniture or a dumpster– utilizing aerosol, oil markers, and/or paint. Though, she likes to stick to classic pen and paper. Ana loves love. She writes about love gone right, wrong, and awry.
Writing tames intense feelings of recalling a flirty smile or a back ache.
Tirelessly, Ana continues to create, write and promote Multiple Sclerosis awareness.

Poetry
By ChampionElCid
Empathy

To feel a love so deeply,

That it shakes your very soul

Can make you feel amazing

Can make your heart feel whole

To care for those who suffer

It take a love so deep

To put yourself in their shoes

And know just why they weep

There are those who suffer silently

Who hide grief with a mask

They don't want to show their feelings

Not even when they are asked

They carry sorrow with them

All throughout their life

They soldier on with struggles

Not complaining of their strife

The soul that understands this

Can offer some solace

Can say they struggle also

Can relate to their mess

Not all can understand this

For some care not to know

The pain that other feel inside

The true depth of their woe

Empathy is important, to know how others feel

You must comprehend this, to help them finally heal

We all suffer in some way, and thus all walk this path

We must learn to love each other, or else it ends in wrath.

Friendship

To feel a love so deeply,

That it shakes your very soul

Can make you feel amazing

Can make your heart feel whole

To find a friend who loves you

For who you truly are

Can make a bad day feel good

Make you feel bright like a star

A friend like that is precious

A treasure truly rare

Such friendships are worth keeping

Through both joy and despair

Keeping friends can be a struggle

To make it truly last

It often takes a lot of work

To keep your friends steadfast

The longer that you keep your friends

The closer you will grow

You'll know each other better

You both will have gusto

Friends can last a lifetime

If you maintain them well

Together you'll face anything

Maybe even conquer hell

Friendship is important, for it helps you face the day

Friends help us when we really feel, that we've lost our way

Without friends life can be so rough, much harder and more cold

I pray my friends will still be there, when I am worn and old

Love

To feel a love so deeply,

That it shakes your very soul

Can make you feel amazing

Can make your heart feel whole

That unconditional love

Is something else for sure

It's different from other loves

It wonderfully pure

It has a unique aura

It has a tender grace

This love is full of patience

This love you cannot chase

It has to come from within

You have to understand

This love is complicated

Yet also truly grand

To know a love like this one

That is willing to forgive

To bear whatever hardships

To always want to live

Is something truly wonderful

Yet harder to maintain

It asks for so much from you

It can feel like a drain

Love knows many forms and has many ways of showing

It takes an open mind, to know how to keep love flowing

We must try and learn to love, to help all humankind

We must not act in anger, lest we make all people blind

Romance

To feel a love so deeply,

That it shakes your very soul

Can make you feel amazing

Can make your heart feel whole

To find a loving partner

That loves who you truly are

Can be a harrowing journey

That takes you very far

Romantic love is difficult

Its course is unforgiving

This love is great and terrible

And makes life worth living

At times love can be fickle

At times love likes to tease

Sometimes it makes you happy

Or brings you to your knees

When you find that special someone

Who makes your heartbeat soar

You should take care to keep them

Make them the object you adore

Romantic love takes time to find

For some it can take years

This love needs time to blossom

To overcome our fears

Romance is very tricky, especially for me

It's something I've experienced, but not recently

It's something that I long for, like most of us do

At times I feel it's something, that I cannot construe

ChampionElCid lives in Los Angeles, he currently works four different jobs so doesn't often have the time he'd like to write. When he was young he read Don Quixote for the first time and that book left an impression on him. He was later learned of a real life Spanish Knight named "El Cid" who embodied many of the ideals that Don Quixote strived for.Thus he decided to take that name when creating a profile on the internet and that name has stuck. You can see more of his poems and thoughts on things on his Deviantart profile.

Altered States
6:09 a.m.
12-6-23
By Mary Cheung

I don't need drugs to set me free.

Just the frame of mind,

to just let it be.

The state of my head,

is where it should be.

not in the right time, nor the right frame

Where is my mind,

I know it should rhyme,

No , wait there is still time.

To ride the loops,

Send in the troops!

To drag me away,

Will I see another day?

Oh my mind is afraid

And I'm afraid to say...

what I'm seeing today

Doesn't match with what I'm seeing in my head.

Because it's all jumbled

My sanity has taken a tumble.

Down the well of madness

The Hatter has nothing on me.

Because I've set my mind free.

Turning my thoughts out.

Oh please don't pout

Its really quite fine,

The state of my mind,

Is minding the states.

It's all very new, I hope you can relate.

The strangeness of it all.

Where I go

When I'm in,

these altered states.

Mary Cheung is a multi-disciplinary artist. She has been creating art since she was young. Grew up the 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. Sometimes building the sets as needed.

Mary was the Producer for the Santa Rosa Spring Festivals 2011 and 2012 which incorporated live performances and festival games.

She produced the EVOLUTION Music and Arts event in 2013.

LUSCIOUS, Music Art, Live Body paint Art Event IN 2014 followed by

OPEN FLOOR IMPROV EXPERIMENT whose purpose was to engage the community, encourage local business growth and artists involvement. 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."

The Shy Ones
By Emily Kupinsky

Feet that don’t dance

should be given a second chance

to tap

and shuffle

and stomp

To pivot and slide

moving side to side

for it’s

the shy ones

that revel

when they romp

When Emily Kupinsky isn’t making Art for the Hive Gallery, she daydreams about how a shopping cart with one bad wheel is really just an awkward but willing dance partner

sadness
by daniel schack

In a way, perhaps, there is no such thing as superior or inferior. only moral or immoral. just maybe.

daniel schack, a new york city based poet/artist. more verse can be seen on poetrysoup.com

last night i was thinkin
by anna broome

it ain't easy
not the sittin
waitin uneasy
rockin of bein all
alone
no where to go
alone
losin myself in red
uncertain
flirtin & barkin
with the boys next door
& their black dogs
that ain't
stirrin me around
like collards
in the pot after i
add Tabasco
it's the love
of sweatin & rollin
around & in between
leavin me thirsty
for lemonade & a salty
kiss
exhaustin my easy
my big easy
way of sinkin
me into you

Anna Broome is a Los Angeles published poet

and producer of the monthly free-to-the public performance art show, The Anna Broome Room for the passed ten years and the Solo Concert Series, The Broome Closet. She earned two bachelor’s degrees: Creative Writing, Poetry and English Literature and Language with an emphasis on British and American Romantic Poetry from the University of North Carolina at Wilmington where studied under Pulitzer Prize for Poetry nominee, Michael White. Her first book of poetry, Orthodox Bats was published in 2019. Her second book, Sex Ed: A Prerequisite at Columbine was published this year by Four Feathers Press. Her first novel, A Full Sun is due out in 2025. And first collection of novellas the following year.

Roots Remind Me
By Victoria Orantes

Another broken branch of her being.

And from this adverse abyss, she’s seeing.

Within- the told and known, disagreeing.

And so her peace is constantly fleeing.

Consequence of her distressful thinking,

Split away for the sake of well-being.

In mental dissonance, roots remind me

That a tree does not discard blindly.

Victoria was born and raised in Los Angeles, California. She is the owner and operator of the first 1966 Volkswagen Beetle boutique, V.E.O. Visions, where she sells her original art, original jewelry, hand-painted clothing, and curated $5 thrifts. Victoria’s art has been featured in local NELA establishments, art-walks, and recently Shoutout LA magazine.

Almost-Equinox Takes
By Marilyn Fuss 2017

The wild and waxing moon as it was last night, shaggy at the edges,

is still there for me this morning in the same high spot.

But it's too bright and warm out for the vision to be real.

Not winter's still, hard daylight version in a Wedgewood sky,

but pushing the Equinox on the deadly morning the clock sprang ahead.

At sixes and sevens; ankylosé, say the French. And stiff.

Something's off. Jet lag standing still.

The crows, having chased away the mockingbirds years ago, are actual,

with that castinet in their throats.

I can hear the smaller, fallen birds' voices: "Cheater, cheater, cheater!"

"Birdie, birdie, birdie," was the reply of their kind, once.

Another figment, like the daylight moon.

Real enough is the din of the magenta wash in swishing vat of pink water,

tearing the sheets in tiny places.

(I'll see you in court, Mr. Kenmore!)

Beset by later light and later exit,

Toby leans around the cabinet corner to claim

his commission of the scrambled eggs.

Strike his strident meow from the scene as he inhales them.

And cancel the bickering of crowded hens somewhere.

We trust these pasture eggs enough to triple down.

Across the street, a young couple tentatively knocks

to console a mother on the death of a neighborhood hermit.

First guests in five years. The mother is sprung too.

No longer audible are his shouts.

Back home here, a ring, a robocall:

A canned "Christine" announces herself just before ten,

when the body clock strikes nine.

A former teacher and go-fer, Marilyn Fuss has spent most of her life in Los Angeles, appreciating as many of its details as she can, and working to have a safe country to live in in 2021.

Poema
By G. Billie Quijano

Revolution in a Mujere’s soul

Cause of the Universe, whole

Our Indigenous blood

Raped through history of time

Crime after crime, crime after crime

Cosmic sounds

Renaissance spectrum of brown

Mujeres murdered

Children caged

Warrior resurrection

Illuminating elements of intersection

Ancestors spoke

Their words entwined in copal smoke

Echoes of struggle and trauma

Indeed justice will be served, this is your karma

Our hearts, not for you to vandalize

Yet you continue to colonize

We know no borders

All of these lands are free

Humble offerings to the Bruja of the sea

We are glitter and dust from the bones before

We are the divine design

Colores, memories, energies live in our shrines

La Curandera, La Bruja

Medicina, mysticism, magical real

Refusal to be disappeared

We move the earth, sun and the moon

La Monarcha, swaying and swoon

We rise, we rise

You will hear our cries

As we raise our fists to the skies

Committed to our truth, our liberation

Our voice

Our choice

The rhythm of the Ancients

Wisdom and changes in their passage

Pyramids and codices forever in movement

A new vida has begun

Our faces will feel the warmth of that familiar sun

El Colibri flys high in vibration

Abrazos, besos, intentions, creation

March 8th-International Women’s Day

The trafficking of women transpires daily

Femicide transpires daily

Moving from trauma, to survivor, to justice

Victory will prevail

G. Billie Quijano- Hija de East Los, Hermana de San Pancho. Self taught creative, photographer, watercolorist, assemblage arte. Bruja, poeta, instigator of beauty.

The landscape of my childhood, my classrooms were elements of urban life, cool concrete, vibrant colors and sounds from a place I love, prepared me for my life as an artist.

My heroes are the hard working, courageous street artists and activists all over the world. My work is a humble practice of keeping tradition and history alive.

My wish is to share my art, a desire to make a connection and contribution. To maintain beauty and balance in the universe. I continue to evolve and participate in the cultural rhythms of the streets and beyond.

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

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

Linda’s poetry events have included several summer poetry salons, and shows at the Align Gallery, 50/50 Gallery, Gold Haus Gallery, Ave 50 Gallery and Rock Rose Gallery in Highland Park. The Manifesto Café in Hermon, Pilates and Arts studio in Echo Park, and Native Boutique and 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

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

20 Years Left youtube live stream 2/19/22

https://youtu.be/GT1D5k2EeKU

20 Years Left is now a short documentary!!!! Screening at a living room near you!!!!

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

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

http://voyagela.com/interview/daily-inspiration-meet-linda-kaye/https://

shoutoutla.com/meet-linda-kaye-poet-poetry-and-theatrical-producer-filmmaker/

February Poet's Place

February 06, 2024

POETS PLACE
February Edition 2024

As the skies turn black, and the sun tries to break through, we are haunted by the threats of the loss of democracy, as we once knew it. Our country is in a quagmire of political brouhaha. The regression of this country’s female right of choice is in the ring of fire. Will our chances of fending off criminals in our government ever come to pass since one is about to be re-elected? Has our country lost it’s way towards respecting our neighbors right to freedom and justice? People (not all of course) are so cruel and disgusting. They are lost in the hatred that was fed to them in their family of origin. Generally speaking, I am not very optimistic about our secured freedom in this country. Will I run or fight if I am attacked? Physically or mentally? I currently feel under siege and helpless to defend myself. I am actually ready to flee this country for a spell. I am so pissed off at the way we are behaving towards each other. Thank goodness we have a private space here on POETS PLACE to share our thoughts and feelings. Let’s hope that our right to free speech is not taken away. Let there be peace. Please.

Love, Linda

America, land of the free?
by Linda Kaye

America, land of the free? Home of the unjust?

Curtains pulled and borders closed

Do we still belong?

Is our status revoked?

Are we still citizens of the United States?

Have we changed the declaration of independence?

Do we wipe out generations of immigrant existence?

If forms of government become destructive do we have the right of the people to alter or abolish it?

Don’t we have a right to freedom?

A right to equality? Freedom from slavery? Freedom from torture or degrading treatment? A right to recognition as a person before the law?

Or are we just dreaming.

Who is watching the country’s store?

We the people of the human race in order to form a more perfect humanitarian world demand justice and tranquility promoting general welfare securing the blessings of liberty and freedom to everyone

regardless.

E pluribus Unum

One nation under God indivisible with liberty and justice

For all

Only a dream
By Emily Kupinsky

I dreamed of us, Love

when our bodies were still new

when hands guided hands

and feet tickled feet

and whispers were made

and lips were so sweet

Let me always remember us

This way

Emily Kupinsky is a resident artist at The Hive Gallery in Los Angeles, if she were a Superhero, her name would be Dyslexia

DON’T LET IT
By Mary Cheung
12-31-23
3:30 a.m.

Like a character in a Hayao Miyazaki film,

it can transform you,

Slowly turning you into an unrecognizable lump...

As a preview I see the transformation in my brother.

The hate, the discontentment is turning him into an ogre.

A mountain of bloated misery that is pushing his body outward, expanding in size.

I can barely recognize him, I am saddened by what I see.

He doesn't recognize what has happened to him.

And I feel it eating away at me.

He wears his misery like a coat.

Sticking to his skin, burrowing deep inside.

Lives and breathes as what use to be him.

Makes me want to cry...

The person I used to recognize is gone.

And it saddens me so.

Fighting it seems futile.

Maybe I just have to let it go??

And maybe if I were Gandhi and I had the time, the temperance,

To wait it out; then I could try.

To save his soul, that doesn't think it needs saving.

This is why he doesn't even try.

And if I had the patience to hear him out, to help him out,

to finding his path again and heal....

Then I could get my brother back again and make it all real.

But I am not him and neither are you. How lost a soul is he?

And I haven't the right tools to gauge.

The fight that is needed, the war I would need to wage.

To save his soul.

His light that died out,

the love that went cold....

I saw the malignant flash upon your face.

As it tried to latch itself onto you,

Those few moments was all it took,

You were no longer the sister that l knew.

This version pulsated with anger and hate.

Threatening to turn you into that blob.

Thank you for listening and that made the difference,

of why your humanity would never be robbed.

Don't let it.

If I were a mirror,

Then I could reflect back, and you'd see.

What tried to take over you,

as it delighted and clasped his hands in glee.

As it was able to sow the seed,

the tiniest of hope that it could stir up.

The misery it could create.

Clapped in delight and vibrated with dark energy and hate.

Another soul, lost...

Don't let it.

Being the eldest,

You felt it your duty to try.

To bring all of us together,

Hope and love the reason why.

And to those of us who have reciprocated, in kindness and with love.

Gave you protect against the creature.

Who desired to latch onto you,

And wear you like a glove.

Don't let it.

And you won't,

That I can now see.

Because you chose us, as your armor.

And your mom's hope and tenacity.

And you refused to give up on one of your siblings.

You continue to try,

despite the challenge set before you.

That version of him was a lie.

You try to heal and bring the family back together,.

Why not? Hope to you is boundless and free.

Before we were shaped by Hate,

discontentment and misery.

To before, this thing before you.

To that happy healthy childhood,

that was forgiving, loving, kind and great.

It's hard, I know, to walk away.

But… it's not too late.

Because they are a part of you.

You showered with love and gave and gave and gave.

It's impossible to not to want to try...

Yet sometimes,

That’s all that you can do.

Walk away.

And let that part of you die...

And hope that someone, someday.. something else be their cure.

So that whatever poisoned him, can meet its demise.

Only then can they break the shell.

That snuffed out who they were inside.

Maybe there is no happy ending here.

And well maybe...

that'll just have to be fine.

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. Sometimes building the sets as needed.

Mary was the Producer for the Santa Rosa Spring Festivals 2011 and 2012 which incorporated live performances and festival games.

She produced the EVOLUTION Music and Arts event in 2013.

LUSCIOUS, Music Art, Live Body paint Art Event IN 2014 followed by

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."

these nightmares
by linda m. crate

despite the amount of people

in the world,

often i feel alone;

always an outsider

even in my own bones—

no one knows how to

hold me or love me right,

no one appreciates my magic

in a way that is pleasing

to me;

always they wish me tamer

instead of loving my wilds

as they were meant to be loved—

i reach out, sometimes,

only to hear my own echo;

i wonder if i will ever find

this tribe people say is mine—

are some of us destined to

be alone forever?

i don't want to be, i enjoy silence

sometimes but not indefinitely;

wish some sun soul would burn

through all this darkness in my mind

so i could see my dreams instead

of these nightmares.

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 twelve published chapbooks the latest being: Searching Stained Glass Windows For An Answer (Alien Buddha Publishing, December 2022). You can find more of Linda's works here: https://www.facebook.com/Linda-M-Crate-129813357119547

"Secession from the Sea”
By Victoria Ester Orantes

He was an ocean, she was a cliff,

And at her person, away he chipped.

Consistent barrages on sacred land,

What choice left but to strike an avalanche?

Her sedimentary thinking and her sentimental disposition,

Virle yet effeminate tides deem it feminine invalidism.

The miscue of a woman’s meekness, ongoingly denounced for weakness,

Consequently, her barrier of boulders is his warranted sequence

Now tides know, the limestone body is absorbent as well as it is durable,

But acidic seas she will not endure, and so, live the landslide of her plateau

The self-respecting limestone facade, as proven with time, is a master of goodbyes,

It matters little to her if it was a love as near as shoreline and the sea tide.

Ode to Drowning Tree
By Theodore Hoppe

In somber shades of sorrow's grasp,

I witnessed nature's tearful gasp,

A tale untold, a mournful sight,

A tree adrift, consumed by plight.

Once vibrant leaves, a vibrant green,

Now drooping low, no life between,

Its branches, once stretched towards the sky,

Now bowed in pain as time flew by.

The roots, once anchored firm and strong,

Now tangled, lost, where they belong,

Embraced by waters, cold and deep,

The tree did weep, its soul to keep.

As gentle whispers filled the air,

I heard its plea, a heartfelt prayer,

"Release me from this watery tomb,

Restore my life, let hope resume."

The river's current, swift and cruel,

Carried the tree, a silent duel,

Struggling against the raging tides,

A valiant fight as hope subsides.

And as I stood on distant shore,

My heart grew heavy, feeling more,

The anguish of that drowning tree,

Reflected all that's lost to me.

For in its plight, I saw my fears,

The weight of life, the flow of tears,

Each droplet fell, a mournful plea,

For all the dreams that couldn't be.

Oh, tree of sorrow, drowned in woe,

Your story lingers, haunting, slow,

A reminder of life's fragile hold,

And dreams adrift, forever bold.

May we find solace in your plight,

Learn from your struggle, seek the light,

And though you drown, your spirit free,

Shall dance again in nature's glee.

My Lover
Anna C Broome

Sleeps

While I

Watch

Lightning

Light

Leave

The darkness

Of his

face(s)

Our shadows

The wall

Look

Doves

But he

Is far

From here

Anna Broome is a Los Angeles published poet

BE KIND TO STRANGERS
By Peter Yates

Be kind to strangers,

who never let you down,

and think they do not know you.

But of your friends beware.

The ones who say they know you,

who stab in the back not to look in the eye.

To whom you show the space

between the ribs,

the secret place

where hurt can dig a pathway to the heart.

Fear not the faceless felon,

boogie man, nor roving band.

Every time, the story tells us,

clenched around the blade which fells us

will be found a friendly hand.

Be kind to strangers,

Who do not fail when you succeed,

and will not find you wanting

when you fail to fill a need,

who envy not your luck

and will not flee from your misfortune,

who always ask for nothing

yet are grateful to receive.

So be kind to strangers,

who never let you down,

and think they do not know you.

But of your friends, beware.

Peter Yates In venues ranging from Lincoln Center and Italian State Radio to the art clubs of Salzburg and the wilds of Los Angeles, Peter Yates has produced over a thousand events as a composer, guitarist, writer and multimedia artist. His interest in things not done has led to a puppet opera about the Watts Towers, a DVD ghost-town opera, and several books of satire and philosophy. His activated teaching includes years on the music faculties of UCLA and Cal Poly Pomona.

RAIN
By Summer Reese

I’ve always hated rain

I know you’re not supposed to, but I do

I have my reasons, it’s personal

I know it’s good for us, I know we need it

I thank God for it, I remember to be grateful

I know it grows our food

I know we’re in drought without it

I know we’ll all blow away in the wind eventually, if we don’t get it

I’m grateful, I’m always grateful

But I have to remind myself

And I’m so glad when it stops

So grateful when the sun comes back out again

Relieved not to be cold, and wet, and miserable

I grew up cold, and wet, and miserable

Also hot, and sweaty and thirsty, and sunburned

But it was still better to be warm than cold

But the money season was when it was cold

And we were broke in the summer, when it was too hot anyways

The Fall signaled the beginning of money again, of the holidays

Of hard work outdoors, but a living

I hated working outdoors, but that’s where I grew up

On a street corner, in the cold, at night

On a street corner, in the heat, in the day

In front of glass, with customers staring through

In front of glass, at night ,when it was cold and the paint wouldn’t dry, but no one was there

On a street corner, three days straight, sleep in the car a little, eat on the corner

Hands, cold, wet, sore, skin red and hurting, working as fast as you can

Remember to smile, “She could sell ice cubes to Eskimos”, that was what was said about me

I was so pretty, so nice, so helpful, I made great tips

My mother had flown through the windshield of a car a few months earlier with her head

She couldn’t carry the buckets of water a few dozen yards from the faucet to the corner

So I did, I was seven, they were heavy and it was hard, but I reminded myself that she couldn’t do it

She had been paralyzed before, when I was three years old, I was there when it happened

She was making a chicken salad and choked on a piece of celery

She bent over coughing, her back snapped and she couldn’t straighten up

It was six months before she could walk again

It was an old injury that had been reactivated

Her x-rays showed her back had been broken when she was about twelve and had not healed properly

She was twelve when her mother stood on her back and told her to “get up”, while beating her

My mother dragged herself up the stairs of P.S. whatever it was in New York City for the next few months in agony, never saying a word, as she recovered from what turned out to be a broken back

But back to my childhood, and the rain and the cold, and my mother, working to stay alive somehow

Summer Reese is a writer, artist, performer and producer. She is an award-winning journalist, and former Board Chair and Executive Director of Pacifica Radio. She began writing and performing her own work at age thirteen, was a member of Gray Pony, and has performed at City Stage, Beyond Baroque, Los Angeles Contemporary Exhibitions (LACE), Los Angeles Theatre Center, and Crossroads School, among others. Her artwork has been exhibited at LACE. Her writing has been published in Mo’Cheese, an anthology; and Behind the Lens. She served as an officer on the board of Ebony Showcase Theatre. She has worked as a paralegal; run a state-wide ballot initiative; been a life-long political activist; and worked in art, theater, publishing, film, television, radio, music videos, and video game voice acting. She is a fifth-generation Californian, born in San Francisco to an artist and activist mother from New York City. She has lived in and around Los Angeles since she was a child in the 1980’s, and splits her time between her homes in South Los Angeles and the High Desert. She is the single mother of a college student son, and has two cats, two dogs and a tank of fish.

Rivers and Stars
By Cindy Rinne

Did you hear my voice when I was birthed of inner earth fire? Instinct to seek you on the glass sea before the moon sang the tides? Stepping stones formed the shore. One day our son will dwell here. I danced as the heartbeat of creation. Remember before we were a princess and a pirate, a nomad and a wanderer, even a phoenix and a dragon? We were celestial beings separated from each other by a dewy cosmic river which sparkled like forsythia. 7th night. 7th moon. Once a year we kissed in other worlds. You didn’t always make it across the bridge to reach me. I should be used to you being gone as you now retreat into illusions. A melancholy grief. Then I glimpse your bright gaze, feel your touch, and know you hold my tears. You whisper like forest breezes in pine tree voices of desire. Rain washes away longing. I will always grasp your hand even in the shadows of Sheol. My fire lights the outlines of your face, your body – a combustible embrace that births a galaxy.

Cindy Rinne is a poet and fiber artist living in San Bernardino, CA. Pushcart Award nominee. Her poems appeared in literary journals, anthologies, art exhibits, and dance performances. Author of Dancing Through the Fire Door (Nauset Press), The Feather Ladder (Picture Show Press), Words Become Ashes: An Offering (Bamboo Dart Press), and others. Her poetry appeared in: The Closed Eye Open, Verse-Virtual, Mythos Magazine, Unleash Lit, swifts & slows, Lothlorien, and others. www.fiberverse.com.

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

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

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

20 Years Left youtube live stream 2/19/22

https://youtu.be/GT1D5k2EeKU

20 Years Left is now a short documentary!!!! Screening at a living room near you!!!!

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

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

http://voyagela.com/interview/daily-inspiration-meet-linda-kaye/https://

shoutoutla.com/meet-linda-kaye-poet-poetry-and-theatrical-producer-filmmaker/

January Poet's Place

January 05, 2024

POETS PLACE
JANUARY 2024!

YES!!!!!! It’s the NEW YEAR!!! 2024!!!! AND it’s all NEW! A new opportunity awaits you just around the corner. A new chance to make good on all the promises you have made to yourself this last year. A new realistic choice. The new plan that you can actually accomplish without feeling guilty or ashamed. A gift horse so to speak waiting to be ridden to all those places that you’ve been afraid to tackle. If you can imagine it, then you can manifest it! The world awaits your brilliance!!! It really is as easy as that. Simple. The task is to make a realistic plan that fits within your wheelhouse of skills and experience. Create a doable timeline. Set your sights, realistically. If it’s not realistic, then you have set yourself up for failure. Writing a poem is realistic, becoming President is not.

So let’s get this NEW YEAR started!!!

Love, peace and true unique happiness, Linda :0)

It's just a technicality
By Linda Kaye

When life shoots you a raw deal and we failed to win the prize

alas it's just a technicality

When physical loss hits, has tempered your life, wreaking havoc with your soul

alas it's just a technicality

When you can no longer keep it up, limp no luster, and sadness and depression grows

alas it's just a technicality

When dreams are squashed no money in the bank your last dime spent on dope

alas it’s just a technicality

As love was squandered ignored and refused your heart broken wickedly defused

alas it’s just a technicality

As parents grow old and die painful deaths, their spirits pass beyond without regret

alas it's just a technicality

Full Moon Meditation
By Cindy Rinne

She holds up the slice of shell

like pearl windows.

She desires to be porous

like the rushing tide,

fluid and changing.

Sometimes solid and carved.

Once a life lived here

home in tectonic plates,

the shifting tides.

Now, it rests in her palm

where heart energy expands her power.

Light sways in endless ribbons.

She views the rabbit in the moon,

a snow-mountain-moon.

She had forgotten that story.

The rabbit offers her

the elixir of immortality.

The kind rabbit whispers,

Move and flow in cycles

as seasons shift.

The tenant on the moon

reaches with his paws

and welcomes her home.

super succinct sayings
by daniel j. schack

1. perhaps goodness could not even exist in reality unless, perhaps, reality is mostly evil. 2. i would rather be completely crazy than completely phony. ha. ha. 3.more often than not, think tanks are usually just stink tanks. 4.it may be that, largely, our entire society has become quite mentally incompetent.

5. what kind of world is this? where too many talk phony baloney of love and togetherness, yet live in their hearts and ways with hate and divisiveness. 6. Some may say I have a dirty mind. To them I say, at least I have a mind. ha. ha.

daniel schack is an online poet and art. see poetrysoup, tumblr.com-adanthemanworld, facebook, and a cool tiktok video under danielschack7. peace.

KICKED TO THE CURB
By Mary Cheung

12-30-23
7:23 a.m.

Kicked to the curb

That's what I'm gonna do.

2023, I have no more use for you

You came in with an last minute effort.,

To rattle me, to cause mayhem, to turn my world upside down.

Got me feeling bummed out, sending tears out,

enough to make me drown.

You're panicking cuz your days are numbered, you're frantic and feeling frayed.

Causing turmoil, squeezing my heart tight... my happiness is delayed.

Nothing worse then the stress you create, paralyzing my body and much more.

So I gotta do it man, drag you kicking and screaming.

And kick you out the door.

In a few short hours, and in the dawning of the new day.

I'll welcome 2024 and the abundance of good tidings, ready to come my way

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. Sometimes building the sets as needed.

Mary was the Producer for the Santa Rosa Spring Festivals 2011 and 2012 which incorporated live performances and festival games.

She produced the EVOLUTION Music and Arts event in 2013.

LUSCIOUS, Music Art, Live Body paint Art Event IN 2014 followed by

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."

Hut two three four..
By lee boek

He got up,

That is no longer easy

To just stand up from sitting

Since when did he suddenly find himself struggling?

Trying to get out of an overstuffed chair or even a couch

Concerted effort must now be exerted.

A young man reaches down and helps to pull him up,

“What? Wait, Never mind I’m up.”

“O.K., good…Now move my legs

Wobbly?,..since when?”

“Me a Wobbly,” he thought giggling a bit.

Trying to stand straight

Trying to remember

Trying to muster, the physical power

That once held him standing straight

Walking forcefully

“Once I get going I’ll be alright.”

Fascinating how things can break down

Physically debilitating

Not just an older person

He had his bouts with health

When younger

There were those wonderful days

Running and leaping

The athlete

Catcher on a hot local baseball team

Quarterback, throwing long perfect passes to the left end

Connection cosmic…”touchdown”

Basketball with twenty year olds

At sixty eight

Holding his own with the “ole hook shot”

Perfected at a young age

Brothers on the side court

Only hook shots count

Aye, but now, standing is nearly impossible.

Walking well again seems out of sight.

Will this ever change?

Will he ever walk without a cane..again?

Yes, the dynamic can change

Older people carried away

On rolling stretchers

To waiting ambulances

Returning a month later

Actively, smiling and feeling pretty good.

Medical attention can go a long ways

When specifically directed to an older person’s well being.

I guess almost any kind of attention could go a long ways.

Lee Boek: actor, playwright, producer, storyteller and poet, recently awarded The Joe Hill Award by the Labor Unions of Southern CA, remains a staple part of the DTLA/Silverlake arts community as the Artistic Director of Public Works Improvisational Theatre since 2001 and has produced and performed in nearly every production of the company since then, including Confessions of a Pulpiteer, his play about his days as a fundamentalist evangelist, during the emergence of the Civil Rights Movement, and The Pilot Who Crashed the Party a play written and directed by Paul Sand, and performed at the Broadwater Theater in LA. His most recent films credits are the award winning Skitoz, written and directed by The Twins Perrotte of Paris, France and Twenty Years Left produced and directed by Linda Kaye.

The inspiration for this little fiction came from my urban birthplace called The Bluff in Pittsburgh, PA

AFTER THE STRAWBERRY MAN
By Giulio Magrini

The strawberry man was eighty-four. Every morning his Chesterfield chant was heard above the clatter of his cart on the cobblestones. His donkey ambled down Pride Street to McGee and Gibbon. His strawberry travels were part of the daily rhythms of the neighborhood. His jingle was the music of the day, and his wailing serenade through the dew was a sign to the neighborhood that they belonged in this place.

This was the morning of his death, when his broken strawberry chant shattered the April dawn. His fractured wail was his last morning interlude, and closed his life. The sound of his body hitting the cobblestones was the call that suspended commerce and tranquility that day. His motionless silhouette against the cold gray Belgian block made sense in the neighborhood that morning, and a perfect and final conversation was initiated between the stilled strawberry body and the lifeless stone, that attracted snooping voyeurs. The locals buzzed around the scene, like foreigners in a strange land trying to understand a culture they did not want to appreciate, and whose language they did not recognize. Their eyebrow wonder and spectator perspective were exactly where they wanted to be. Everyone who was brought up in this rocky neighborhood knew that you do not touch what you do not know. Death provided them with the comfort of ignorance. When you eat your strawberries here you remain grateful, and do not question the uncomfortable queries of the eternal.

Two men roam the old man’s kitchen. They are the strawberry sons. In the spirit and time of death they are appropriate and predictable. The units of measurement that day were furrowed brows, mumbling half sentences, and uncomfortable pacing in the kitchen. The smell of masculinity and grief is stifling. One had come from his job at NYU.., a teacher. You know how they are... Honorable, yet ambitious with their lesson plans. Not unlike Caesar, crossing the Rubicon without respect, and home for death again. He was not like the strawberry man. The family reviled his attempts to adjust. It was true that no one could understand the cobblestones, but they were the footprints of the neighborhood, and it was easy to see that he was uncomfortable walking on them. He had abandoned the family for a corduroy sports coat with those stupid fake suede patches. The bystanders understood his motives, and were offended with the strangeness of his manner. They resented him and his intrusive ways. There was no allowance in the cobblestones that measured the pain of a professional home for death.

The other son was a pudgy little dog in a cheap brown suit that might have fit one day. He was unevenly shaved, and his part looked like a back road in a map. He also had one of those clip-on bow ties that little kids wear. Women in the neighborhood would say that they trusted one man to teach the kids, and the other to play with them, but not to do both.

There was an old man sitting at the table, sipping anisette. He looked peaceful, almost happy. He had the knowledge of strawberries and cobblestones in his eyes. It was the moment after the funeral, the pain, the tribulation, and the amenities. It was the moment when people asked themselves what they are going to do with their feelings, with his house. It was the moment when life is evaluated and divided, like strawberries in little green baskets. Each son’s eyes burn silently into the other. “Why is this man dead?” And they immediately blister back, “Where were you when I needed you?” The indictment of life is in the air. The blazing sorrow smolders strawberry hearts in an instinctive catharsis. They radiate to the realization that the strawberry man is dead, but the strawberries kept growing. The strawberry man had died, but the strawberries did not stop. The teacher thought it advisable they stop. The one who played with the neighborhood children thought it would be a nice, considerate thing. They did not know that the strawberries will stop. They will stop when they are ready.

Giulio Magrini is a writer from Pittsburgh PA and is the author of The Color of Dirt, which is an anthology of his poetry and flash fiction over the past fifty (50) years. He enjoys performing his written work and states, “We have put our hands in the dirt, and sanctified each other” His book is available through the usual online channels, but the better choice is to email giulio27@verizon.net for a personalized copy.

Turn the page
By Carrie Gordon

Thus ends another chapter, happily never after

Getting ready for my next obsession, always ask the wrong directions

Looking back on all I’ve ruined, looking back at all my ghosts

I look ahead to find redemption and to see what matters most.

Then a voice I forgot reminded me today

If you think you’re lost, well you’re really on your way

Yeah a voice I forgot reminded me today

If you think you’re lost, well you really found your way

Now it’s time to turn the page, only then will you mend

Another chapter to the story before it finds it’s final end.

A voice I forgot reminded me today,

If you think you’re lost, well you’re really on your way

Yeah a voice I forgot reminded me today

If you think you’re lost, well you finally found your way

Turn the page, turn the page, turn the page …

Carrie Gordon is a Los Angeles artist and her work has been shown in and around California at various locations in both solo and group shows including LA live arts, Avenue 50 Gallery, Artapalooza, Coffee Gallery,Colony theater, Cypress Art tunnel walk Altaarts Festival, Encino Terrace Gallery, Portfolio,Ten feet:Art meets the Riverwalk, Blue line Arts museum in Sacramento, Middle Ridge Winery in Idyllwild, Eden Cafe and Islip Arts museum in New York.

Poema
By G. Billie Quijano

Arte gave voice

Harvest mindfulness

Brush strokes, poetry

Perpetually moist

Look to the cosmos

Enchantment in your stance

A new year unfolds

Narrative explodes

Time for new faces

Time for new places

G. Billie Quijano-Artista, Poeta, Mestiza. 2024 is going to be an exciting year. Peace, love, prosperity and boundless creativity.

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

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

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

20 Years Left youtube live stream 2/19/22

https://youtu.be/GT1D5k2EeKU

20 Years Left is now a short documentary!!!! Screening at a living room near you!!!!

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

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

http://voyagela.com/interview/daily-inspiration-meet-linda-kaye/https://

shoutoutla.com/meet-linda-kaye-poet-poetry-and-theatrical-producer-filmmaker/

December Poet's Place

December 05, 2023

POETS PLACE
DECEMBER EDITION 2023

The end is near!! December has reached our borders. Hopefully it won’t reek too much havoc. The state of the world continues to reflect the unhealthy climate of violence, war, destruction and increased hate. And now for the bad news. Covid continues to infect and new strains of flu and virus’ have penetrated my invisibility cloak. I have noticed an increase in illness raging through my friends’ lives and bodies and triggering death for some. Death, my arch enemy. Death is a topic that most people avoid discussing, naturally. It makes perfect sense to deny the inevitable. It’s actually healthy to avoid the thoughts about death. Nothing good comes from that. Super buzz kill, pun intended. I think about death, daily, sometimes hourly. Checking my pulse for any signs of slowing and thinking about whether I have safely hidden those secrets that may be found by my unwanted demise. I am definitely slowing down, physically. And I do see and feel differences in my intellectual capacity. Those normal aging symptoms relative of the slow decline and deterioration. I have been an active poet and writer for the last 10 years or so. Establishing myself as a producer and filmmaker in that arena. People in the art community have begun to recognize my talents and I am starting to gain some recognition. Just as I am slowing down. Ugh. After several bouts of illness these last few months, I have come to see the affects of not wanting to jump back in to the race. I’d rather watch another episode of Fargo, or read another Jonathan Franzen novel. I truly enjoy publishing this column and reading everyone’s poetry and short stories. I look forward every month to hearing from you all. And will continue to do so until my death. Lol. I do hope you are also enjoying the column, although I rarely get feedback from my readers and writers. Oh how we all love some validation!

Death Quips
By Linda Kaye

Rejection Letter from the Death Council: It is our understanding that a request for an early retirement from life has been rejected. The death council found no evidence in your apparent wonderful life to support an early retirement.

She/her waiting at death’s door. Be careful, it’s a trap!

Death’s tattoo starts to fade. That’s a good sign

Death say’s “It’s all about what’s on the inside!”

Death has no soul

Death knocks at the door. Don’t answer it!

Death is incongruent with life

Ranting
By Laurie Gonzalez

Can’t sleep tonight
The tarot’s say to let you go
My dreams say they lie
The spirits smile
Fear takes my breath away
Beaches haunt me
Only way to get you back
Is to say goodbye
Where are you now
I know thinking of me
Be miserable wt me in mind
Please as I walk away
Confusing as this might be
But then again me and you where always that way That’s what made us
Late in this moment
Tonight I will not sleep again
Only for a while
Then walk away forever
In this life we weren't mean to be
Or maybe I’ll find you in your wrinkled skin
That aged so fast to only
Wait for me on the beach
waiting to be held by me again

Laurie Gonzalez, 39 year old aspiring poet from Los Angeles, CA. She has only had her work published once during her teenage years for a kids poetry book and hasn’t submitted or been published since. She is looking for a chance to get her bold and sometimes straightforward style of writing out there to a culture that is changing constantly, and maybe finally they will understand her poems and that they come from the heart.

VII +
By Anna C. Broome

Lust

Bacon at 90

dollars a pound on zebra

tomato slices

Anti-lust

a celibate mind

according to barry long

Psychoanalytic lust

Can something be similar to itself?

Buddhist Lust

Suffering is caused by lust

Unbound Lust

sepulchre for a liver

between a sky and mountain

Sinful Lust

matrimonial

Anna Broome is a Los Angeles published poet and producer of the monthly free-to-the public performance art show, The Anna Broome Room for the passed ten years and the Solo Concert Series, The Broome Closet. She earned two bachelor’s degrees: Creative Writing, Poetry and English Literature and Language with an emphasis on British and American Romantic Poetry from the University of North Carolina at Wilmington where studied under Pulitzer Prize for Poetry nominee, Michael White. Her first book of poetry, Orthodox Bats was published in 2019. Her second book, Sex Ed: A Prerequisite at Columbine was published this year by Four Feathers Press. Her first novel, A Full Sun is due out in 2025. And first collection of novellas the following year.

Sometimes
By Richard McDowell

Sometimes, I wonder if all the media coverage helps sensationalize

making us desensitized

wondering who lied

as we go live

to the killing of the killer

and all this killing - will it ever stop - let's discuss

and who will be the next to be killed by – us?

As we make a list of who's died

and so we can say some s***' gotta burn - fry

until we, the human race, learn - try

to love thy neighbor but find it hard

sometimes - realize

to appreciate what graffiti and grime can cover, yet symbolize.

And all these ladders we got to climb

makes me ask,

to what, for what, so what?

Babies born just to stand in line no need to announce, but gots-to-gets mine.

Can you get behind me?

Can you backup your jump drive?

and as the oceans rise,

we haul our rubbish to the next floor

while waiting for the next door,

to open, to get through

to count your s***- click the next link with your thumb groupon, Amazon says I better - feel better –if you get some - dumb s***

so you can fit in.

So sometimes,

you can say - I win.

While you look through windows too dirty to see through

You, me, we, she, he, her, him, they, us, them - Yet who is the cause of all our sorrow? Who will you love to hate - to tomorrow? Who will become the next totalitarian? Advancements in civilization - but don't let hatred be the bank you borrow from

Richard McDowell riding high on my first award in the sixth grade, I don’t believe I have submitted to a poetry contest since that time. It has been a journey to get to a place where I can hear my own voice and impart it through and onto a page.

COMING EQUALS LOVE
7:11a.m.
6-30-23
By Mary Cheung

All the foods you use to make,

Looking at all of the photos,

It's now easy to see.

What you are creating want you just did, just for me.

In black and white pictures, I see you making egg rolls here.

In color photos, you cooking our first Thanksgiving dinner over there.

So many memories they all coming rushing back.

You gathered up your family feeding our minds and souls, so we would never lack.

Through cooking you taught us skills, passing down all that you've learned.

Teaching us how to survive, how to create, how to nurture, taking back nothing in return.

And the time we spent gathered around that table.

Became a symbol of family, love and unity as one.

I get it now, how you fed our minds and our souls.

Using cooking as your form of love and how you spoke it so.

And now this is what I have left of you.

These memories and your cooking style.

The best care you gave to me in my life, in my childhood and when I came home.

Was the cooking you gave to me,

Always in hopes that I would return soon.

To reciprocate that love and to share with you a dish that you shown.

And I have those favorites. Those dishes that like a warm hug to me and more.

That made me happy to be returning home, stepping through that welcoming door.

So now I'm my adult years, I see why it's important, this ritual of cooking together and making meals .

And I try pass down what I've learned and pass on the love to my children.

Hoping they learn all of the joy and love that I feel.

And learn how to stand on their own as well as well as the other important skills.

But mostly that cooking equals love, a bonding in time, a memory in a moment, lessons to be learned still.

To see you cook in your life, well that just gives me the biggest thrill.

To know that the seed I planted has grown to be this magnificent tree, standing tall and thriving, it gives me chills.

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. Sometimes building the sets as needed.

Mary was the Producer for the Santa Rosa Spring Festivals 2011 and 2012 which incorporated live performances and festival games.

She produced the EVOLUTION Music and Arts event in 2013.

LUSCIOUS, Music Art, Live Body paint Art Event IN 2014 followed by

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."

Sebastian: A New Myth
By Caleb Delos Santos

Speaker:

Sebastian saved this place

by poisoning a tree

that siphoned people’s glee.

His actions lit each face.

Sebastian saved this place.

Sebastian drank for free,

owned any lover’s key,

and starred on every vase.

Sebastian saved this place.

Eventually,

Sebastian stabbed Marie,

his pregnant wife,

amidst his drunken rage

and idiocy,

but no one cared.

Why would they?

Sebastian saved this place,

and we give “saviors” grace.

Caleb Delos-Santos (he/him) is an English graduate student at Southern Illinois University Edwardsville. Throughout his four years of writing, Caleb has published poetry with over twenty literary magazines, including North Dakota Quarterly and the Madison Journal of Literary Criticism, and most recently released his first two poetry collections, A Poet’s Perspective (2022) and Once One Discovers Love (2023). Caleb also won the 2022 Esselstrom Writing Prize and the West Wind Literary Magazine’s 2023 Best in Genre Award for his nonfiction. Today, Caleb teaches English 101 as a teaching assistant and dreams of a successful writing and teaching career.

Disillusioned With Love Poems
By: IECarlo
18 September 2023

I am disillusioned with that of flowery love poems and their similes and metaphors
Something of so much value
Is spent on so many undeserving of love

Heart break, cruelty sponsored under the guise of love
I am disillusioned with love poems, flowery love poems They are too serious for me
To pour oneself of love to that of undeserving love what a waste

Yet, it’s what drives us, steers our
Emotions to that of this dissolution
For love does hurt at times, and spins all things
Related to it,/ the thoughts,/ the time invested is never given a reason/ because love has consequences beyond that of reason
Choices of that of love are many yet never materialize for today love is a forgone thought of reason/ the give and take of love is one sided
The fun of love is lost in these flowery poems of love
I write while dancing/ ideas flow easily ‘than’ when I sit and think of loves depth and place words on paper just to make me feel smart
Laughter is the thing to me, and love is laughs

Most love poems miss the point of love
Love is not suppose to be serious
Love is fun, pleasure, understanding
I listen to love poems/ read love poems/ it seems they are spoken/ but not lived/ in recitals they are written but not lived/ they are mouthed but not lived/

I am disillusioned with love poems/ particularly flowery love poems
but know I too will live love and continue with love for it’s a part of me/ perhaps it’s a love-hate plight of thoughts that materializes when love is undeserving yet love lives on in me...I am love!/ and I do love flowers
I am disillusioned with flowery love poems

Hola...Ismael (East) Carlo, where to begin...on the streets of East Harlem, el barrio (no, it’s not how I came about my monica of “East”). That 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. He would’ve written more but Linda just gave him but one day to come up with this...LOL

Paz en Vida

dissevered
by jerry the priest

all my songs are speaking in code to me

they allude to your absence

not one day gone and much to ponder

I write in purple ink from a pen you left behind

baffled that you are to me no longer what you were

my music alludes to profound ineptitude on my part

at preventing your unravelling

my morning steeped in regret

in purple ink I mark this sad milestone

I'd give anything to have carried you home

especially when, but for a single detail, I would have

you were the one variable I had no contingency for

undone serially and habitually

while I fumbled in your shadow

our connection dissevered.

He holds a BA in Performance Studies from Naropa University, and an MFA in Theater Directing/Production from California Institute of the Arts.

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

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

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

20 Years Left youtube live stream 2/19/22

https://youtu.be/GT1D5k2EeKU

20 Years Left is now a short documentary!!!! Screening at a living room near you!!!!

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

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

http://voyagela.com/interview/daily-inspiration-meet-linda-kaye/https://

shoutoutla.com/meet-linda-kaye-poet-poetry-and-theatrical-producer-filmmaker/

November Poet's Place

November 06, 2023

POETS PLACE
NOVEMBER EDITION 2023

Ah the smells of fall, so calm and cool. Wait. Wasn’t the temps in the 80’s this last week? Oh well. Climate cluster fuck. Let’s just pretend all is well and good with the world. The leaves will change colors and represent the mystical magic of the holiday season approaching. The happiness and joy that befalls everyone during this time of year that jacks everyones attention to the buying craze of Christmas and Hanukah, is needed to distract us from the truths. Hanging ornamentations that represent one’s beliefs, showing off their taste in garlands and lights, definitely pretty, and sometimes ostentatious, demonstrates to the onlooker their wealth and style, religious or not. I’m all for decorations. I’m someone who often dresses up for the occasion, deliberately flashy, sexy, and sometimes over the top. It’s important to look good to myself in the mirror. Since it’s usually me looking at me. I’m a bit self involved. I like my basic needs to be handy, that way I can have everything that I need close by. I don’t see the point in not being comfortable. Not being comfortable, it’s not in my wheelhouse. I make a point of being comfortable everywhere I go. Otherwise I just bail. Every moment of our life is a gift, so take hold and enjoy the ride, it may be your last!!! No one ever said it be easy. In fact, life is hard, but hard work begets treasures far beyond what you can imagine. Just use your imagination and trust your heart. It will never lie.

So let’s get this holiday season started with delightful poets and stories tellers galore!!!! Everyone is always welcome to submit, anytime!!

Love, Linda :0)

Poetry as a commodity
By Linda Kaye

poetry, as a commodity

poetry, as a tool, a commodity given the right circumstances

poetry helps the fool conceal their oddity

poetry rises from the ashes, and prepares the dead for burial

poetry sends a message written on the blood soaked backs of the survivors

poetry can write the wrongs committed by the rapists

poetry can heal the wounds, stitch the scars and mask the pain long forgotten

poetry looks deep into the soul of the devastated, the traumatized, the battered and the doomed

poetry can release the chains that have bound and paralyzed your heart

and

poetry is a life support system that cracks the chest cavity with every thrust of resuscitation

This Is Lacuna
By Ashley Abigail Gruezo Resurreccion

Energy comes and goes

As I learn how to make it so

The material feels consistent and

I feel confident with how things stand

And I spend countless hours practicing

But the stresses are exhausting

Extending beyond the physical form

To people and places that surround me

Molding my thoughts deeply

My actions crumble

Like clay when it gets dry

With too many impressions

And not enough water

I’m trying my best

To do something good but

I need to take a break

Because I'm failing

I don't want to do this any more

Create art in anger to hide my shame

So I recite to myself gently

I don't blame you for

Finding solace in self-sabotage

Ashley Abigail Gruezo Resurreccion (siya/they) is a second-generation Filipina Asian-American, certified 200-Hour Yoga Teacher, and Returned United States Peace Corps Volunteer (Thailand 130) who graduated from Seton Hill University as a MA Art Therapy with a Specialization in Counseling. Twitter @twiischibis x Wordpress.com/Twiichii

Their previous work promoted mental health wellness and educational sustainability with Project DATE, The International Child Advocacy Network, Self-Discovery Through Art, Art Expression Inc., Project Art Pittsburgh, and Upward Together Los Angeles.

Sonnet #2
By, Anna C Broome
2023

If I would stay too long this way again

I could and should just slip into a sleep.

But I alive, awake, a child again,

Can make a lie about the truth too deep.

Too much is said; remarked upon; then dead

before it lives as a phrase so dear:

A word or two or more destroyed by lead

Of mouth between the teeth we tend to fear.

If I would go away around the bend,

I could and should just stand and live all day,

And shield myself from harm to seek and mend

The heart I held too close and made of clay.

Alone with hand in hand and eyes above

I left and leave each time I think of love.

Anna Broome is a Los Angeles published poet

We Were Twenty-two
By Carolyn Weathers
for Sharon Roberson

We were twenty-two.

Our dark hair,

Our bones.

You lay on your back

on the pavement,

like a doll in the trash,

your blood flooding the cement,

your loafers and socks

sticking out from under

the coroner’s blanket.

I, in my loafers and socks,

standing over you,

staring down

at the coroner’s blanket.

We were twenty-two,

Our loafers and socks,

Our dark hair.

Our bones.

You had said, “Gotta go, see you later.”

I had said, “Later, gator.”

Our eyes smiled,

our dark blue eyes matching.

You left for your car.

I stayed in the Wonder Bowl Bar.

Suddenly police lights were flashing,

people in the parking lot

shrieking and shouting.

We were twenty-two.

Our loafers and socks.

Our dark hair.

Our bones.

Our dark blue eyes matching.

His shotgun blasting

your stomach to shreds

from two feet away,

lifting you and your loafers

into the air,

blasting you into death

In the time it took you

to fall to the pavement.

We were twenty-two.

Our loafers and socks,

Our dark hair,

Our bones.

Our blue eyes matching,

our dark blue eyes

locking and smiling.

Your loafers and socks,

Your limp, still feet.

My halting steps away

from the coroner’s blanket.

The unspeakable hole.

Carolyn Weathers is a memoirist, poet, ex-publisher, and retired librarian with the Los Angeles Public Library. She has published three books—two memoirs and one book of short stories. Her writings and poems have appeared in numerous anthologies and online publications. She lives in Long Beach CA.

Dynamic Dawn
By Don Kingfisher Campbell

Up in pastel blue

sky clouds swarm and

turn around each other,

cause frayed rolling edges.

Unseen sun below is

a dragon breathing orange

into warring nimbus strands.

On the surface, palm

trees and power poles

reach high but don't

communicate with cool air.

It's the opposite, wind

invisibly swirls through wires

and fronds. At street

level, silent road cracks

and ages under daily

heating and movement down

into darkness. Eyes close,

wait for next morning's

display. What shall we

sight tomorrow? Traipse on

to gaze horizon where

creatures conjure models that

shadow imitate massive nature.

Don Kingfisher Campbell, MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University Los Angeles, taught Writers Seminar at Occidental College Upward Bound for 36 years, been a coach and judge for Poetry Out Loud, a performing poet/teacher for Red Hen Press Youth Writing Workshops, L.A. Coordinator and Board Member of California Poets In The Schools, poetry editor of the Angel City Review, publisher of Four Feathers Press, and host of the Saturday Afternoon Poetry reading series in Pasadena, California. For awards, features, and publication credits, please go to: http://dkc1031.blogspot.com

November Trees
By Caleb Delos-Santos

Who doesn’t love November trees

enriched with golden flakes

that break into the western breeze

and rest on frozen lakes?

Who doesn’t love November trees

adorned with pouring snow

that trickles into little seas

of acorns stowed below?

Who doesn’t see November trees

and roam and breathe with ease?

TEARS LIKE RAIN
10-12-23
4:12 p.m.
By Mary Cheung
H.A.M.A.S.
Hate -All? Military- Attacks (no one is ) Safe

It's not enough that war

is in Russia and Ukraine already.

5000 missiles

1600 deaths, the number is rising, it’s not done yet.

Hostages, beheadings, barbarian moves…. To motivate what?

To end deaths with more death?

Bombings, relentless air attacks.

So many homeless, so many dead, lives lost, too much to forget.

10-7-2023

Horror

Terror

Brutality

Demoralize

Executions

Breaking spirits

Death tolls mounting

No water

No power

No food

No home

No lives

Kill, Kill, Kill

Blocks of buildings flattened to dust. Debris and cinders, nothing left.

A huge Crater in the earth, an opening into hell, on earth..

No sign of life, everything razed….

Struggling to understand the madness.

decades-long battle over land and sovereignty.

How can such evil exist?

How can the perpetrators live with themselves?

How can they justify their reasons?

The sadness overwhelms me, can democracy survive?

Enough tears to end all drought.

Tears of red rain.

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. Sometimes building the sets as needed.

Mary was the Producer for the Santa Rosa Spring Festivals 2011 and 2012 which incorporated live performances and festival games.

She produced the EVOLUTION Music and Arts event in 2013.

LUSCIOUS, Music Art, Live Body paint Art Event IN 2014 followed by

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."

4am
By Joshua Dresser

“you’re a survivor

always have been”

said with good intention

I’m sure, some form

of supportive vibes on the air

I don’t want to be

a fucking survivor

I wanna be a thriver

I’m tired of being

a weathered tree

it’s time I’m the fucking weather

the shit drops

from bad decisions, or

cold incisions

I can only smile

sadness my religion

I was a survivor

but I’ve had enough

Joshua Dresser howled into this world in the year of Halloween. He went to university, wrote plays and short stories, and eventually allowed life to alter his plans indefinitely. He lives on the Autism spectrum, works as a technical writer, and enjoys logomachy.

He resides in Los Angeles.

OFFERTA TO GEORGE 1940-1985
By Marilyn Fuss
2016, Dia de los Muertos 2023

A young, singing Gene Autry Google image,

downright winsome,

informs me (Damn!) of why my brother

loved him with passion at age four.

I'd never understood.

He appears before I can type in "Museum" while checking an exhibition.

This star's status not explained 'til sibling's premature last decade,

yet it was in his first that he determined that preference,

with Gene a catalyst. What would that bovine-directing horseman

and pillar of industry have made of this?

As years tossed themselves away,

paper calendar months retreating black and white

in the movies that nurtured the boy,

later objects of affection

were not so unattainable.

His decoys for 1950's mores, and for himself

(second decade conformity begetting some denial),

girls drew in, natural thralls to vulnerable mosaic eyes, Greek in fact,

perfect teeth within a trigger smile, shy, sweetly sardonic.

He did adore them in his way, same sex as mom, conflicted all his life.

Just short of fifteen, black-and-white again, there's him between deckled edges

with loose ROTC gear,

hand flat on the arm of a barely older tawny tulle blossom, thin-stemmed.

Mother ventured dryly, "She's not fifteen!"

There was an audition for "normalcy" in high school, with little German mom ringer winning for a long spell.

What had her papa done in the war a dozen years before? Just this month I note their gainly home

in a town once known for being to the right of right.

Was her first child my kin?

Wondering, from that glimpse so long ago, his kindergarten head.

Surf, sea-scent, and the compelling maintenance of an olive skin tone

pulled him like their tides from campus to shorelines funky and sublime--

Earth's longest and most worthy cause to party.

Love of his life a large lifeguard,

cut from cloth of golden TV traveler Tod, who surveyed Route 66 with pal.

That series outlasted their run.

And travel is what they did:

merchant vessels in high seas, their own old sloop in low,

finding close corners in a roundish world,

contracting the grog habit, the usual contagious ills,

jaundiced to the color of spicy mustard before returning as Prodigals.

All good things must, and theirs did end.

Four years were over, and our boy chose warm insulation

of Isola Oahu to recover. Evenings on Hotel Street--never mind its nickname--

seeking a sailor for another recruitment.

Perfunctory instructor by day for survival, he passed

muster through a cult of personality and connections,

then as later.

But Monday mornings were the weightiest challenge,

at least until a new virus changed the game for that century before this one.

By that time, home was San Francisco Bay, as in 1906, an epicenter for disaster.

No cure in sight, he fought off two pneumonias,

pilgrimaged to the Big Apple and Cape Cod with a sisterly companion,

swam strong and cold near home in Clear Lake,

before he threw in the towel which had soaked up seas of ecstasy, lake, ocean, heart's grief.

A former teacher and go-fer, Marilyn Fuss has spent most of her life in Los Angeles, appreciating as many of its details as she can, and working to have a safe country to live in.

Afraid of America
By Ed Burgess

I’m afraid of you America.

You should be scared of me.

Because I’m American

A real American

A mongrel.

A bastard from a back street affair.

An unholy union of a traumatized 28 year old

And a Canadian on the lamb.

Not born so much as fell out

Lucky to be white

But I was deaf And different

Before they passed out Ridlin

I saw you America

From the back of a truck

Riding a tractor in the sun.

Hearing the dark whispers

From the good men of the earth

Their sons.

Oath keepers all

Killing small animals

Lighting fires

I couldn’t believe my eyes.

I saw you America

I’ve seen your ripped back sides

Be afraid of me America.

I know where you keep your booze.

I was there when you took the brown acid and your hypocrisy kills me.

I know who you are America

And I am scared of you.

Be afraid of me.

Ed Burgess is a very creative person who has lived in Los Angeles now for over 20 years. He is an artist, an occasional poet, a troublemaker and a good person.

Poema
By G. Billie Quijano

Let me be clear

The audacity of war

Genocide inevitable

The responsibility of 3rd witness

exhausting and relentless grief

They don't see that peace is attainable

The heart is the weapon

Not the bomb of your choice

Innocence in the rubble

Crimson and flowing in the streets

Cease fire

Falls on deaf ears

Aerial bombardment

A symphony no one wants to hear

Carnage of conflict

What is the solution?

Hatred, toxic pollution

Hope never to cease

Justice in the underneath

Revolution of mind

Unity of tears

History repeats

Refusals to live in fear

G. Billie Quijano-Poeta, Assemblage Artista. Hija de East Los

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

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

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!! 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

20 Years Left is now a short documentary!!!! Screening November 8th. 7PM Historic Highland park Ebell Club 131 S. Avenue 57 LA CA

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

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

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

http://voyagela.com/interview/daily-inspiration-meet-linda-kaye/https://

shoutoutla.com/meet-linda-kaye-poet-poetry-and-theatrical-producer-filmmaker/

October Poet's Place

October 04, 2023

POETS PLACE
OCTOBER 2023

Hello everyone! October is the start of the fall season bringing cooler temperatures and new energy to compose artistic endeavors. The world is a magical place. Full of love and potential peace. Once you let go of Pandora’s box, everything will be hunky-dory. Says me! Although I say this with love, I know the world is often a treacherous place. I consider myself woke, at least enough to navigate my inner sanctum and a few miles around me. LOL. We cannot live in fear. Fear creates a devastating anxiety that produces waves of cortisol, which can stymie any creative juices that might otherwise flow freely. So… then why entertain fear? Do we know how much time we have on this earth? Does that thought create fear of the unknown? That mysterious realm out of our reach of control. Oh my, that feeling of a lack of control!!! Ek!! Once that feeling is activated, do you have the tools to quell its destination? Alter it’s journey? Re-direct your fate? Press the save yourself button? We all have the tools to relax, we just need to practice using them. First you must recognize the symptoms you experience when they, normally stress, are activated. Simply allow the negative thoughts to pass through your brain and out the other side without entertaining them. Sound easy? It is, once you’ve practiced and mastered the skill. Writing is one of those skills that helps us to find peace within ourselves. An outlet to vent our innermost thoughts and anxieties without shame or judgement of retaliation. A place to create stories and poems of love and lust. I feel blessed to be able to share your writing and art here on POETS PLACE!!! Thank you all so much for your continued contributions!!!

Let’s get on with the show!

Pressing Berries
BY Carolyn Weathers

Outside, the breeze

and flowered berries

lifted by the breeze.

Inside, you and me

on the ambrosia bed.

I lift your gown

as breezes lift

the plush buds.

We press. Our soft skin,

rich lips,

adhere like wild honey.

We, the fleshy berries

pressed till sweet juice

seeps from the grain.

We, the sweet, meshing

flesh and essence

press.

Our stunned eyes and senses,

dazzled by clarity,

watch our grooved souls lock,

as one who, peeling, pressing,

manifests the pithy berry

to its deepest seed.

Carolyn Weathers is a memoirist, poet, ex-publisher, and retired librarian with the Los Angeles Public Library. She has published three books—two memoirs and one book of short stories. Her writings and poems have appeared in numerous anthologies and online publications. She lives in Long Beach CA.

Terrestrial
By Don Kingfisher Campbell

Thanks for the sun setting

How the red aura settles

On the dark mountain range

And far below the silhouettes

Of buildings lit with signs

And traffic lights multiplicity

Closer still homes rest on

Their concrete foundations

Supported by packed earth

And cars in the driveways

Also parked by the curbs

And sidewalks between them

A woman walks her dog

A man steps into his vehicle

Each their separate ways

Then the cracks in the street

The cooling air flowing

Over all, over all, over all

Don Kingfisher Campbell, MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University Los Angeles, taught Writers Seminar at Occidental College Upward Bound for 36 years, been a coach and judge for Poetry Out Loud, a performing poet/teacher for Red Hen Press Youth Writing Workshops, L.A. Coordinator and Board Member of California Poets In The Schools, poetry editor of the Angel City Review, publisher of Four Feathers Press, and host of the Saturday Afternoon Poetry reading series in Pasadena, California. For awards, features, and publication credits, please go to: http://dkc1031.blogspot.com

THE SPIRIT OF BIZARRENESS
By Olga Volozova

-What would you prefer, miss?

This hat carries the Spirit of Graveness,that one the Spirit of Grievance...

- I'd choose the Spirit of Bizarreness, please.

The one with jazzy, busy zigzags bruising through the blizzard,

the blizzard of sneering faces and little evil tongues.

yes, spotted with a few drops of the maniacs' brew

boiled in a brazen bronze jug full with foolish gossip

sprinkled with some glitter fallen from the

dancing old hissing dames' legs and lips

I'll wear this hat to summon you,

with its Spirit of Bizareness, to summon you,

from the place where you've gone,

you, who made your way through the same route,

through the mirky glances of the same shallow folks I am dealing with,

you just smiled your smile,then you were gone.

I'll ask you, how did you manage

to relieve their angst and be safe,

and bring the blessing into their narrowed eyes

You'll tell me, it's easy.

It's just wearing your outfit and wondering at every step you're making.

It's a party where you have to play your pretty part, and you're fine.

And you're so right to have chosen this lovely hat, honey dear.

Olga Volozova I wrote only three poems in English language after my husband David passed in 2008...

Also, after he passed, I switched in my activities to doing more painting, especially oil painting.

And I started exhibiting around, in L.A. and on other continents, and joined LAAA. Before painting, I used to be involved in animation (after getting my M.F.A. in animation from UCLA) and in making graphic novels and picture books, and though I am not doing much animation now, I still try to go on with making books. My stories are on the fantasy/fairy-talish side of the brain.

THE REVELATION OF HER EMBRACE
By Giulio Magrini

When I was a small boy

I played in the Sharpsburg mud

I decided it would be a good idea

To kiss my mother

She was doing the wash

By hand

In the back yard

I pulled at her dress

She picked me up

And kissed me

She didn’t mind

My muddy hands

Over her clean white dress

Today my heart beats

In remembrance of those days

And the memory and wonder

Lifts me still

To a never-ending resurrection

Her love conquers the mud of eternity

In these years she has never let me go

All I need to do is remember

And I am safe in her arms

Giulio Magrini is a writer from Pittsburgh PA and is the author of The Color of Dirt, which is an anthology of his poetry and flash fiction over fifty (50) years. He enjoys performing his written work and states, “We have put our hands in the dirt, and sanctified each other”

HOME MOVIE
By Peter Yates

I watch my dreams

projected on to you

covering your nakedness

I seek your skin

but only touch myself

Bouncing back your hopes

my surface trembles

Returning what you gave

Unchanged

still warm

Lovingly we live

to serve each other

Embracing

Sharing deep reflection

Two mirrors lying face to face

encompassing infinity

Peter Yates In venues ranging from Lincoln Center and Italian State Radio to the art clubs of Salzburg and the wilds of Los Angeles, Peter Yates has produced over a thousand events as a composer, guitarist, writer and multimedia artist. His interest in things not done has led to a puppet opera about the Watts Towers, a DVD ghost-town opera, and several books of satire and philosophy. His activated teaching includes years on the music faculties of UCLA and Cal Poly Pomona.

Double Vision

by Daniel Schack

Perhaps, we all fight back, at some point, against possibly anything. Are a lot of people out there stupid or just plain assholes? Let's face it. Probably both. Oh well.

daniel schack poetry can be seen on poetrysoup.com and has good verse and drawings on his facebook page. peace.

The Ten-Year Plan
By Michael D. Meloan

My parents wanted to meet my new girlfriend, Chrissie, so they invited us for dinner. During the meal, Chrissie related that her mother had a serious case of wanderlust. They drove all over the US together when she was a little girl. Starting out in Rhode Island, they roamed the country, moving to Florida, Texas, Oklahoma, and then Arizona. Her mother worked as a file clerk, typist, motel maid, almost anything.

“She always said that she was ‘made for something bigger than this.’ So she’d quit her job, and we’d just move on. Sometimes when money ran low, we had to sleep in the car at truck stops. Finally, my mother ended up in a mental institution, and I had to go live with my aunt in Lawrence, Kansas.”

Silence

“I’ll get dessert,” my mother said.

After dinner we drank glasses of port on the balcony while watching the moon behind high wispy clouds.

“Lately I’ve been asking all my USC business students to write about their most influential educational experience. What was that for you?” my father asked me.

“That’s easy—The International School of Torino in Italy. That was the most transformational time.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Because we were in an exotic environment and it was so intense. The schoolmasters pushed us to the limit. Experiences like that burn themselves into your psyche, for better or worse. You do feel like you’re really living.”

“And what about you,” he asked Chrissie.

“Seeing the Grateful Dead at Red Rocks in Colorado. I’ve never felt more connected to humanity and God than I felt during that concert.”

My father exuded a puff of air. “The Grateful Dead is a rock group, right?”

“They’re the greatest rock band of all time. They’re more than a band, they’re a community. They’re a way of life! I quit my job once because my boss wouldn’t give me time off to see a Dead show in Phoenix.”

“I can’t imagine losing a job over a rock concert, but I guess it takes all kinds,” he said.

“Do you have a 10-year plan?” he asked Chrissie.

“Uh, no. Well…I plan to be a famous recording artist in 10 years. Is that a 10-year plan?”

“No, absolutely not. A 10-year plan is about process. You have to map out a strategy, with milestones and sets of incremental goals, and ways of accomplishing those goals. You have to visualize your success every day. Feel it in your bones. It has to become part of your blood, part of your DNA.“

“Wow, that makes some sense,” said Chrissie thoughtfully. “I’d never really considered all that.”

“I’ve been asking for Mike’s 10-year plan for quite some time. But he still hasn’t given me one. When am I going to get that?” he asked, glancing over.

“I’m still mulling it over,” I said, while looking at my watch. “It’s getting late, we need to head out.”

On the way home, Chrissie talked about my father.

“At first, I thought your father was sort of a dork—a generic Mr. Businessman type. But he has some wisdom. I think you should do your 10-year plan. He might be right. If you don’t know where you’re going, you might end up in Bumfuck, Idaho.”

“Ok, here’s my 10-year plan: I will meditate, find ways to create, be kind to people and animals, and occasionally pirouette through the stars.”

“Ok, you win. Fuck your dad,” she said. “Let’s smoke a joint.”

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

Poema
By G. Billie Quijano

La Playa proved to be a vortex of love

It is written in the codices, herein above

La Bruja Magica entwined with the Sirenas of the sea

Flores, salvia cartas, all medicina for the we

The sun sings and we are all free

The waves spoke, ebb and flow

Peace and healing made our hearts aglow

The rays signal growth and intention

Radiance and divine flowing in ascension

The universe released it's golden ribbons

Dreams attached and guidance given

Third eye opens, intuition a gift

It is written in the antepasado's glyphs

What we release

In the end there will be a feast

Please accept our humble offerings

We are coming to the finale of suffering

We are adorned with golden wings

There will be many new beginnings

La Mariposa flys in high vibration

Abrazos, besos, intentions, illuminating

G. Billie Quijano-Poeta, Assemblage Artist, Photographer, Instigator of Beauty. Mestiza born in the corazon of East Los. Recently I spent some time with Linda. I have been going through some changes. Changes affecting my mind, spirit, body and soul. We both shared so much over Thai food. I felt safe and comfortable revealing life experiences. I respect and admire her many talents. She listened to me with an open heart. Very soon I will be traveling to Mexico to feel the embrace of her waves. The beginning of the next transformation.

Learning What I’ve Known
By Winfred Taylor

Turned around and there I find

The steps that led me out of mind.

Looking forward to looking back

As I'm circling around my very tracks

Not knowing enough to recognize

That all my paths have realized

The many goals and dreams I've found.

Mistaken shady trees for solid grounds

Been followed closely by others leading

up to where I was in the past succeeding.

I thought I had wandered helplessly

I just didn't know and refused to see.

From what I thought I understood

My life had no purpose and I was no good.

Yet thinking for just a minute maybe a year or few

Those words weren't mine the feelings weren't true

So I turn back around to see the path is now clear

Of all the many steps it took just to get me here

And all the happy times put aside

For the turmoil and lack of resource inside

I quietly ,softly pray for manifests

For absolutely nothing more

but for simply nothing less

Winfred Taylor, says, “I have and still equate creativity to healing and expressive language”. Born in Dayton Ohio, raised in the suburbs. Both parents had southern roots with a Christian foundation. “I believe some of what I do is both interpret and reconcile feelings and situations both old and new. I have done creative writing and poetry from an early age. I found that I could not immerse myself enough in life and the arts. Studying piano, joining choirs, doing athletics, crocheting, making jewelry, sewing, theater, ceramics, cooking, photography, weaving, gardening, and more. Schooling was with an Ohio business school then art school at the University of Washington, Seattle. Only recently making the move to California, I continue to follow inspiration and gain many new insights to life”.

We’re Not In Kansas Anymore
By Richard D. Tucci

It was a quiet peaceful field outside the town of Hunter, Kansas. The amber stalks of grain waxed and wained with the blowing wind.

Desolate and deserted, the sun lay low in the sky casting an odd glow on an unremarkable evening, except for one unexpected visitor.

No one noticed the massive, emerald green hot air balloon as it rapidly descended from the sky. Though no one was there to see it, the balloon’s sole occupant bellowed a hearty scream as it sped toward the ground, crashing into the dirt, and splintering its wicker basket into two.

The balloon’s passenger was thrown through the air, luckily landing in soft soil. He breathed heavily, trying to slowly get his bearings.

Unfortunately, his leg was caught in the hemp rope that secured the silk balloon, and as the breeze picked up, the balloon began to drag our passenger across the empty field, shouting and cursing all the way.

When the breeze finally stopped, our wayfarer was able to untie his leg and stumble to an upright position. His moustache and beard now dribbling mud onto his green suit.

He looked around, not knowing where he was.

Out of the distance, he could hear a fierce rumbling, almost like a pack of horses, or an angry god.

Out of the distance he could see a dust cloud furiously approaching.

“Oh dearest me,” he said to himself with a thick drawl in his voice, “Out of the vexing frying pan and into the fire.”

The roaring became more thunderous as it approached, when finally, over the hill, he saw a bright red box of a vehicle with HUMMER spelled out on the front. The car came to a sudden skidding halt just feet away from him.

The door opened, and out stepped an extremely tall and thin man with high snake-skin boots. His forehead domed out in a white curve, and his two eyes were deeply sunken in his head. He was clean-shaven, pale, with a look of sternness and asceticism, appearing almost as a professor; his shoulders were hunched and rounded from much studying. As he walked, he slowly swung from side to side in a curiously reptilian fashion. “It appears that my calculations, simple as they were for myself, were of course, correct.” He said with a soft, precise fashion of speech as he peered out with great curiosity in his puckered eyes.

Our green-suited traveler, looked at him curiously, and said, “I don’t know what kind of horseless carriage that is, but I can tell your origins are far from here.”

“No,” replied snake skin boots with a posh British accent, “but based on my arithmetic, neither are you.”

“Well, to tell you the truth, I’m not really sure where here is. Now, would you be so kind as to direct me to the nearest outpost where I may hawk my wares? Perhaps I can provide my services to you, for I am a wise and powerful man.”

“You happen to be in Hunter, KS. And what services might your wise and powerfulness provide?”

“Why Behold! I am Oscar Zoroaster Phadrig Isaac Norman Henkle Emmannuel Ambroise Diggs, the Great and Terrible!” said the little man, in a trembling voice, with a proud and broad posture.

“Yes, I’m sure you are, and I am Professor James Moriarty,” said the man sternly and coldly, “but based on your clothes and means of transportation, you should also be aware that you are in the year 2021. June 21st to be precise.”

“Oh… dearest me. It was a great mistake my ever leaving my Throne Room. So many years have passed for my little humbug self.”

“I’m intrigued to hear what those years may entail, Mr. Diggs.”

“Well, Mr. Diggs, if you would like to accompany me, I have a proposition I would like to make to you, concerning your unique abilities.”

“What abilities would that be?” he asked sceptically, “I am nothing more than a humbug who has spent most of his life making belief.”

“Oh, I think you’ll find that after returning to this realm, you have quite a bit to offer.”

Richard Tucci is a writer and Creative Director with GreaterAndGrander.com As a graduate of USC, he studied under Oscar winning writer Seth Winston, and has a passion for education and communication, including serving as a teacher at Washington High School in south central Los Angeles. He’s written and published articles which has garnered tens of thousands of reads from people all over the world, including publishing in DSTL’s Art Block Magazine, Tongal, and sold a concept to TNT and Warner Media. In his spare time, he creates art and YouTube videos focusing on puppets, science, exploration, politics, filmmaking, and Los Angeles local updates.

Decades of Absence
By Ashley Resurreccion

It took me 20 years to figure out

These decades of your absence

Filled me with dread

Drained me of intimacy

And burst volatile emotions

When I least expected them to

To learn neglect aversion and silence

are all forms of communication

Not moments to wait

For love and care

To be reciprocated

I learned to adjust my life

To your absence

To fear those who promised safety

Instead of embracing those

Who freely, truly choose

To accept me as I am

So when you came into my life

Without warning

Expecting me to be

Someone looking up to you or

Dropping unshared expectations or

Unwilling to create friction in the shadows

I may have cried or

Stuttered from the shock or

Felt shaken

The same way I did when you first left,

But I knew better and collected myself

Since it's over now

I can decide to let go

And declare

I never needed you at all

Deforestation of Indifference
By Victoria Ester Orantes

She’s been changing, and it feels like dying

The softest parts of her, calcifying.

O’ how the bitter burly bark,

Nearly coats a virtuous heart.

If it were not for self-awareness,

All her goodness would have long vanished.

Consciousness is the only savior,

To the apathetic disorder.

And so comes the essential occasion,

To cure what’s ill, her deforestation.

Laceration- to reestablish truths,

Peeling away to find herself anew.

Blues
By R. G Carrillo

My Los Angeles eyes searching the blue skies

My youth a pristine green
Innocence lost now azul
A beguiling moon dispensing her perfume
His eyes were brown my thoughts were blue Suffering pronouns in a blue vocabulary
Blue ballads and cigarette smoke from Birdland A white wedding gown on a storefront mannequin Something old and something blue
The red and white mixed with the blue
Lady Day singing of “Strange Fruit”
Paying dues and jazz
Blue memories attached to black bodies
I got the blues
Just reading the news
Those deep Coltrane blues
In all their hues
Uninvited blues
No money blues
Drinking alone blues
Those dirty dishes blues
Drawn shade blues
Afraid of the devil blues
Apocalyptic save my soul blues
Get me out of jail blues
The running out of time blues
Pale blues ascending from the ashes
I collect the clues and begin to recover
Miles of blues and a trumpet refrain
Piano notes that call my name
Jigsaw blues from a Tendaberry girl
Direct my spirit toward heaven

Sonnet # 1
(For William Carlos Williams)
By, Anna C Broome
2023

I slipped into love with a dead poet doctor

During a bedridden Spring

His words numbed my lips,

Tickled my tongue

And trickled down my throat

Like the juice of a cold sweet plum.

His lines embraced like long lost lovers

Once separated by sour traditions

And gray concrete tombs.

Goodbye to dancing daffodils

And a Romantic who sang to himself until Dawn.

My heart belongs to a red wheelbarrow

Where so much depends

Winter Spring transcends.

Anna Broome is a Los Angeles published poet

TIMES ARE A CHANGING
6-5-2023
2:55a.m.
By Mary Cheung

2 mths ago, I could barely keep you out of my thoughts.

And now, I can't even remember your name.

I'm still hoping to find love,

But I'm just seeing how it's all just a game.

The one where I don't know all of the rules.

And players make up guidelines as they go.

They're telling me one thing.

But they're actions are telling me, no no.

So is it all pointless, if it's a game that can't be won.

The odds are stacked, but not for me.

Scary unknown situations, it's no longer fun.

But I keep hoping, that maybe today things will change.

Hey, in my gut I know it's time to ditch it.

And reclaim my life and to not do the same.

Of counting on a magical online website fairy .

To grant my one and only wish.

To find my needle in a haystack.

That rare and exotic dish.

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”.

WHY I CAN’T WRITE A POEM ABOUT MY GRANDDAUGHTER
By Jefferson Carter

because all those

besotted poet-grandparents

have said everything there is to say
about a child’s child.

But what’s that

staggering down the hall

like “a drunk sailor,”

like climate change

(in the best sense of the word)?

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

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

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

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

20 Years Left youtube live stream 2/19/22

https://youtu.be/GT1D5k2EeKU

20 Years Left is now a short documentary!!!! Screening October 7th. with the www.hpifilmfest.com

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

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

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

http://voyagela.com/interview/daily-inspiration-meet-linda-kaye/https://

shoutoutla.com/meet-linda-kaye-poet-poetry-and-theatrical-producer-filmmaker/

September Poet's Place

September 06, 2023

POETS PLACE
SEPTEMBER 2023

Hello fellow readers! Our journey here on earth is constantly blessed with our surroundings of love and excitement. If we pay attention and smell the air around us, we can experience its splendor. On a scientific note, I have always been in awe of Oliver Sacks and his contributions to the science of the mind. Here is a timely quip that I can resoundingly resonate with… “I have been increasingly conscious, for the last 10 years or so, of deaths among my contemporaries. My generation is on the way out, and each death I have felt as an abruption, a tearing away of part of myself. There will be no one like us when we are gone, but then there is no one like anyone else, ever. When people die, they cannot be replaced. They leave holes that cannot be filled, for it is the fate — the genetic and neural fate — of every human being to be a unique individual, to find his own path, to live his own life, to die his own death. I cannot pretend I am without fear. But my predominant feeling is one of gratitude. I have loved and been loved; I have been given much and I have given something in return; I have read and traveled and thought and written. I have had an intercourse with the world, the special intercourse of writers and readers. Above all, I have been a sentient being, a thinking animal, on this beautiful planet, and that in itself has been an enormous privilege and adventure.”—Oliver Sacks.

Thank you all from the bottom of my heart and sentient being, for all the supports and delicious contributions to this column. I am forever grateful.

Love, Linda :0)

Is This Poem An Allegory? You Bet Your Sweet Ass It Is
By, Anna C Broome
2023

I was thinking of your baby

and the private dances and beatings and how the carpet suffocated her and the violin lessons and the refusals to hear her sing.

wondering to myself about the trajectory of frisbee and how a tap dancer could get on your nerves and the wonderful strokes of luck flying with ducks just inches off the ground.

a day is a place, a time is past, your hand

is clay, this self is mind this tongue encased.

I am deliberate and this mother is a shadow, says Plato.

And she can’t stop your drums from being stolen when they are in walking distance -- and the ducks are flying again.

My hands are cold. Maybe I should postpone this:

The soil and climate, and language and laws, movement and action values in Aristotle's Ruler of Gold, not to be confused with Neil Young’s Heart of Gold, and why explains all this? What doesn’t exist can never be known. Mother. I see what you mean about the prisoners in the cave: How can one thing in general never be many things in particular?

Where are my wings? are they just plastered down somewhere in ideology?

Like the understanding of culture and home and greed and abundance? And the emptiness inside peace. This is epistemology.

reconsider in a flash that you are the philosopher and see all this in a different way. teach me to fly before you crash, and we burn.

Anna Broome is a Los Angeles poet and producer of performance art. She earned her bachelor’s degree in Creative Writing, Poetry and English Literature and Language from the University of North Carolina at Wilmington. Her first book, Orthodox Bats, was published in 2019.

CRUISING THE AISLES OF THE WHOLE FOODS DREAM
By Giulio Magrini

We elude the pirouettes of dead patricians

Waltz through shopping aisles

Of corporate supermarket aristocracy

To meet the dewy eyes of the

Scheming incarcerated crew

Replenishing their supply of truffles and wagyu

They grin and beckon somberly

To my inquiring phalanges

“Do not squeeze the startling militaristic

Symmetry of our linear fruit”

The realization of no loftier desire

Beyond organized frisée

Seductive and discreet sausages

Arranged with care and last imagined

In the adult toy area

In another section of town

Where these patrons would not be found

Without the benefit of shadow

Our whimsy fades from this opulent grindhouse

And pans to the softness of privilege

No recrimination breathes in these aisles

The assurance of organic freedom

And the thankfulness of being rational abides

We are baptized from the womb

Through the cervix of checkout

We are the elite newborns

Sucking on the upmarket teat of the Amazon provider

We aspire not for the best potato or pristine hamburger

But the assurance that our patronage is wholesome and morally sanctioned

Not unlike the Lebensborn from the good old days

And without the original sin we recollect

From the pipedreams of coddled religion

And in our restless saffron somnambulation

We are the ravenous and greedy

Pigsty reality

Unmindful of grunts squeals and profit margins

Deafening our present and turning continuously in hallucination

As the manipulators continue our enthusiastic aspiration

For the best pork chop made from the loins of our ancestors

Giulio Magrini is a writer from Pittsburgh PA and is the author of The Color of Dirt, which is an anthology of his poetry and flash fiction over fifty (50) years. He enjoys performing his written work and states, “We have put our hands in the dirt, and sanctified each other”

MY FORCE FIELD
By Mary Cheung
8-23-23

I noticed recently that when I am healthy and well,

like a second nature I have a force field up around me 24/7.

And now I realize the necessity of it. It’s so that I don’t feel as intensely.

All of it, life…. in its all of its richness, in all of its drama and tragedy.

Feelings that would be too much to handle.

And just the clarity of it all…It’s all too sharp, too focused.

It's all too much, too overwhelming and too much for my senses to handle.

Enough to stop me in my tracks. Too much to let me focus on the day-to-day things of living.

I only noticed this fact because I was sick and down with a covid.

And as I languished in a limbo. Day and night blended into one.

My energy was low, and my force field was down…

My time was distorted, my sense was distorted.

Life as I knew it was distorted and I felt it all.

Every single little moment in my world and beyond.

And I felt so insignificant, so small, so unimportant.

Life felt really strange, and I felt lost and meaningless.

It seemed too pointless, the hours we occupy and what we do.

What do we do? Did it have any impact or bearing in life or the world?

And why do we bother then?

When our lives are such a tiny blimp in the universe?

These thoughts and feelings bombarded me when I wasn’t feeling well.

When my body was under attack by tiny little viruses. And they attack my mind as well.

I need a force field just to protect my sanity.

I don't like this feeling and it's so unlike me to question the meaning of life and to not just revel in it and enjoy the ride.

When I’m healthy and this force field of mine is engaged.

I can compartmentalize and function without being dragged down by doubts and questions.

Now, I wonder, does this force field of mine protect and defend myself against physical and nonphysical bombardment? Or does it just regulate the amount of truth and perception so that I can handle it in smaller doses so that it's manageable?

Hmmm, I’ll have to tinker with adjusting the strength of this force field so I can access this further.

getty #1
By Joshua Dresser

south pavilion

what do they see, what

do they feel when they walk

through these rooms?

I don’t ask, I just quietly judge

it’s a nepenthe, this place

something pulling me

by the strings, off the suffocating stage

to breathe away from the exhaust,

the sirens, the dog shit bank balance

no, they want to capture

the moment, not be in it

walk briskly by

proud to have seen such

a rare collection

rather than be

moved by history’s life

Deal With It
by Cathi Milligan

They’re not the boobs she wanted.

Deal with it.

It’s not the hair she wanted.

Deal with it.

Aren’t her boobies cute? No, They’re not.

Deal with it.

Will we take control?

Yes. Then, they’ll deal with it.

Cathi Milligan- Helping you find your creative space is what motivates Cathi in all of her pursuits, which include glass art, real estate, publishing, jewelry making, and assisting people to learn more about all of these things. She started with graphic design, but because of a life long love of jewelry making, and a discovery of glass bead making, she shifted over to the artist life.

Bead making lead to fusing glass, and then blowing glass. Along the way, the bead making opened up opportunities to appear on craft TV, and write how-articles, and even a book on macrame. A brick and mortar location soon followed in Highland Park. Within her Highland Park community Cathi got involved in the neighborhood council, and then the local monthly art walk. This participation in the community lead to public art opportunities, including mosaic work for the first parklet in Los Angeles. After leaving the council, Cathi started publishing a print publication, first NELAart News, then changed to LA Art News. It was a nice 6 1/2 year print run, and now LAartnews.com is how you get your art news.

Cathi has her studio in Little Tokyo, at The Los Angeles Makery, and splits her time between helping to run The Makery, making, real estate, teaching, publishing her various websites, and creating how-to videos for her YouTube channel, @thecreativespacezone. Follow her @cathicreatesspaces on the Gram.

LUCIDIOCY
By Olga Volozova

When I stop complaining and stop hoping,

and see things clearly in their outlines,

those in front of me and those in memory,

then, the cloud comes from a point in the sky,

and wraps around me, with tenderness

that tinkles my body cells;

this is called lucidiocy.

The reward of the timid and soft-minded,

the gift of the demi-gods living in the grass and in old socks,

the sense of the supreme debunking.

I watch myself moving in the silver screen film

which soaks into my brain, with the taste of poignant arsenic,

the special nostalgic tint which tastes so splendid,

when I feel a quiet delight in being a fool, a good-for-nothing,

a gal watching a movie, an empty bell clinking on a hat...

then, a subtle, fine lucidiocy comes upon me, enveloping me

with its mighty cloak, between my true and my false.

I look at the pattern of dust over the car window

and see in it my CATscan;

there's not much left of my brain;

I recognize the grains of my thoughts, vanishing.

I love them all, I say bye to them,

until a broad Cheshire Cat smile which I'm wearing as a perfume,

for people and animals to like me,

tears off my face and hangs in the air;

this is called lucidiocy.

The state of a nail in the heel;

the area of low bliss and high amnesia;

the precious air inside of the soap bubble;

the touch of a petal under the bleeding teeth;

the ashes of the burnt home on my palm;

the fingers coiling around the rattle snake in the sand.

Olga Volozova I wrote only three poems in English language after my husband David passed in 2008...

Also, after he passed, I switched in my activities to doing more painting, especially oil painting.

And I started exhibiting around, in L.A. and on other continents, and joined LAAA. Before painting, I used to be involved in animation( after getting my M.F.A. in animation from UCLA)

and in making graphic novels and picture books, and though I am not doing much animation

now, I still try to go on with making books. My stories are on the fantasy/fairy-talish side of the brain

Tea with a Goddess
By Lisa Chow

Understanding, I thought,

Can build a bridge

To connect us across the chasm of different beliefs.

I struggled to accept her way of life,

As she struggled to live in a world that could not accept her,

For the ways of the Goddess are threatening to mere mortals.

And so, we sat over tea,

And traded our truths.

Mine – absolute, indelible, respectable.

She offered the wisdom of perspective in exchange.

She admitted readily she could embrace the legitimacy

Of a life lived in traditional faith,

When actions mirror the doctrine.

I was prepared to defend and deflect and offer platitudes

To challenges I had heard before…

But unprepared for a gentle question,

Had I ever wondered, why, she mused,

So many genuine and good people,

Certain in the veracity of their truth,

Have beliefs so different from mine?

She told me of a goddess who once held an orb of truth,

And as the other divine beings struggled to wrest it from her,

In the chaos, the orb was dropped, and shattered into tiny slivers,

And each deity scrambled to collect a piece, that they called Their Truth.

Even if it was a legend, she mused,

Is it possible that there can be more than one right way?

When I opened the exchange,

I did not know that understanding is a bridge

With an unknown destination.

But as I took my last sip of tea,

I knew that I was transformed,

I held fast to my faith,

But realized it was not a zero-sum game-

Like that orb of truth,

My prejudice had shattered.

Lisa Chow, from the moment she learned to connect letters into words, and words into ideas, Lisa Broadway-Chow has been compelled to commit her thoughts to paper. Her craft includes both technical writing professionally and creative writing for self-expression. She loves the challenge of finding the precise word to convey a complex idea or emotion, and has written short plays, short stories, art critiques and has assisted many fellow artists with their artist statements and bios. Most often, however, she finds her voice in narrative poetry. Her poems are introspective and deeply personal, exploring topics of faith, acceptance, personal aspirations, and worldview. Her poetry has been immortalized in concrete as one of 10 winning submissions for the City of Santa Clarita 2022 Sidewalk Poetry Project. When she is not at her computer, she can be found in nature, making the Los Angeles art scene, or on some new adventure with her husband and son.

Rehab
By Ronald G. Carrillo

All government leaders
Those evil seats of power
All you terrible decision makers
False advocates of the people
Fakers not shakers of justice and humanity
Are you deaf to the apocalyptic winds of change
The planet is sending you signs of an intervention
Do you not see forests, river systems, our oceans, endangered species All fragile and in harm’s way, in man’s way
Open politically infected eyes encrusted with dollar signs
Mother Earth sending out red flags
Her people not reading the room
Heeding her calls for help
Your priorities speak volumes
We as a global village are headed in the wrong direction
There is time to change course
We must take hold of the wheel to avoid a crash
A smash and grab of our planet
There aren’t enough prison cells for all the Earth’s criminals
Nature’s engineers
Bees, whales, birds, trees
Keeping Mother Earth in balance
But her people are killing nature’s engineers
Dolphins, elephants, salmon, butterflies, coral reefs
Grief and pain will be suffered for the generations coming of age
Such a plague of hedonistic stupidity
Short gains with lasting impacts
These are the facts climate change
Warring tribes, the inequality gap ever widening
The inhumane treatment of fringe humanity especially women
We are working from an old play book
The results unchanged a group at the top
Holding hostage the backbone workers of their greed
One group wealthy and privileged but they bleed their humanity
Lose their souls for more that can not feed their spirit life
World religions a populous placebo no longer potent
National governments rule with selfish ambition
Reap the good harvest of righteousness and purity
Peace makers of this world unite to prosper the good seed

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

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

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

20 Years Left youtube live stream 2/19/22

https://youtu.be/GT1D5k2EeKU

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

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

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

http://voyagela.com/interview/daily-inspiration-meet-linda-kaye/https://

shoutoutla.com/meet-linda-kaye-poet-poetry-and-theatrical-producer-filmmaker/

August Poet's Place

August 04, 2023

POETS PLACE
AUGUST EDITION 2023

Hello POETS PLACE fans! Thank you all for joining us! To our readers and contributors, we really appreciate that you are reading the column and submitting your words and art as well as sharing the column with your friends and to social media. The column has been gaining momentum on various platforms, and we continue to host everyone who submits. Thank you for your continued supports and interest!

On the silly side of things, here is a piece I wrote awhile back….

Enjoy!!!

Love, Linda :0)

Favorite Person
Story Joe Frank might like
By Linda Kaye 2021

It’s Passover and you want to invite your favorite person to the Seder but it’s unfortunate that this person is disliked by all the people in your life due to their disgusting habit of gargling their wine at the table. But.. because you like this person for all the intelligent conversations you’ve had in the past discussing the origins of addiction and the lust for the latest fashion trends, you decide that the relationship is worth the family dissension. When the dissenting family members do come for the Seder they are asked to wear earplugs to block out the sounds from the favorite person’s gargling of the wine- they balk refusing to wear the earplugs, stating it’s against their better judgement, and begin to terrorize the Seder table smashing the Seder plate and throwing the bitter herbs all over the walls in bad taste. And, despite the fact that people are starving in countries all over the world, people that they are not familiar with or care about is of no concern to them. When the host arrives with the brisket that was cooked for hours at the house of the favorite person’s grandma from Russia everyone stops their destructive acts and bows to the meat- they become silent knowing that it is this offering that has been a long-standing tradition since the birth of the first Jew (not really) and that brisket is worshiped by the American Jews as a gift from God. As everyone stands and bows to the meat, Elijah enters, Elijah Goldberg that is, and begins to recite from the Haggadah. Elijah, who has a little resemblance to Jesus Christ, with long wavy brownish hair, then begins to take off all his clothes because he too loves the favorite person and wants her to be his wife, so he believes if she witnesses his lean muscled body clean shaven and slick with the oils from the olive trees in Israel, she will accept his plea of lasting love. The crowd of onlookers also begin to remove their clothing not wanting to offend the host assuming this is the new and acceptable practiced ritual of the Passover Seder. As everyone is now naked before God the music rises to a full pitch so loud that the neighbors begin to pound on the doors screaming at the top of their lungs to shut up! This interference doesn’t bother the naked Seder guests and they charge out the door knocking over the neighbors screaming with the delight still naked as a jaybird raising cain down the street. The neighbors who are appalled at the spectacle join together and form a gang of hellions deciding that they must put a stop to the disgusting behaviors of this house. They decide to burn it down. When they get their torches and enter the house screaming of hate they come upon Elijah and the favorite person naked and having hysterical raucous sex in the middle of the trashed Seder table. The neighbor’s see the sex scene as a sign from the heavens that Jesus has returned and they too want a part of the sex act. As they begin to undress and approach the couple they inadvertently start a fire with the torches they are still holding which has caught the table cloth by accident. As flames begin to encircle Elijah and the favorite person the neighbors begin to chant “fuck her fuck her fuck her!”

And because they believe Elijah is Jesus they quickly pull them out from the flames. When the couple emerges from the flames, their sex trance is broken and they reach for the knives on the table and begin to bludgeon the neighbors to death. As the fire continues to rage the host returns with the brisket holding it over the heads of Elijah and the favorite person reciting “with this brisket you will live happily ever after in the eyes of God” but the couple no longer in their sex trance are not believing that the brisket has magical powers of seduction begins to bludgeon the host and departs. As the flame engulfs the house along with the chard host and neighbors, the fire department arrives. What they see are visions of briskets past and the denizens of Jewish grandmas floating around the sky over the house chanting “fuck them fuck them fuck them!” The firemen fall to their knees praying to the brisket grandmas hoping that they will not be sacrificed since they have not been circumcised. To their surprise and astonishment the fire magically goes out smelling like chard brisket over done and not to their liking they get off their knees and leave disappointed.

poof!
By jerry the priest

Could have hovered over social media, I suppose
and some conversations there, but
I felt more like writing

Something in the air, a kind of moist expectancy
a ‘just-about-to-pop’ness in the framework

Could have cooked something, I suppose
instead of buying that burrito
but I felt more like writing

At the gallery tonight I saw lawn darts
the size of firetrucks
Poems are floating out of me
like sugar in evaporation ponds

Could have phoned home to tell them
even though I just came from there
but I felt more like writing

That burrito was no good anyway
who puts coleslaw in a ma-frickin’…

Could have thought a bit too much about
that genius Colombian shaman girl

But I felt like putting words down

We’ll be rehearsing soon enough for
some kind of bluesy showdown
she has a boyfriend anyway but

he’s no match for her, I

Could have unpacked my suitcase
and organized the closet, I suppose
but I felt, just, I dunno

It’s not like I have a choice about these poems
they’re jumpin’ out deep archaic wells, putting
hesitation in a deep freeze

It’s not a chemical imbalance, or
if it is more compounds please.
Pheromones, yeah it’s a blessing
to secrete these.

Could have been a giant sequoia emitting
mad battalions of ozone, but

I felt more like writing

It’s the lazy man’s version
of spoon bending

Why PURSUE anything when you can
just kick back and paint fleurs de lis
on grammar school lunch pails
with or without eyelids?

There’s no portal writing can’t summon
so write through walls. Careful though

Lest you find yourself with no choice
but to write your way out of a door jam

Which is a bit disingenuous, in any case:
words are illusions also.

jerry the priest, legal name Jerome Dunn, has been creating material for exhibition, publication and live presentation since 1979, when he studied experimental music at the University of Redlands. A vocal performer since early childhood, his formal study of music began with his first trombone lesson in 1967.

He holds a BA in Performance Studies from Naropa University, and an MFA in Theater Directing/Production from California Institute of the Arts.

Sonnet 1.
By ChampionElCid

O have you heard of the Goddess of song?

Who blesses us with melodies so sweet.

She sings each note perfect, she's never wrong

And blessed with beauty from head to feet

Her raven locks flows freely in the air

Her topaz eyes shine brighter than the sun

Her heart is full of compassion and care

Her smile brings joy, where before there was none

Ah! but all these beauties are but for show

When she doth sing true beauty is unleashed

That it might banish misery and woe

And allow for laughing to be increased

Then be aware for when her song you hear

Give into love, and let your heart not fear

"ChampionElCid lives in Los Angeles, he currently works four different jobs so doesn't often have the time he'd like to write. When he was young he read Don Quixote for the first time and that book left an impression on him. He was later learned of a real life Spanish Knight named "El Cid" who embodied many of the ideals that Don Quixote strived for.Thus he decided to take that name when creating a profile on the internet and that name has stuck. You can see more of his poems and thoughts on things on his Deviantart profile. Thank you for this opportunity, I hope I continue to impress you..."

Threads
By Jenni Otero

The spine of the book

Has been broken

It’s joints are tired

The hard frame cover

Just a single piece

Frayed pages

Smudged and soiled

Where dreams were an archetype

Text a bridge to the universe

The toner had shed tears

And the chapters

Have no numbers

But the threads

Keep it tied

Bound tightly

Do not throw me away

In your hands

New chapters with

No numbers

With new threads

New pages frayed

Are torn

Same book

The spine is broken

But the threads are tight

Do not throw me away

Jenni Otero, a punk NELA native, is a versatile videographer, photographer, and editor who creates high-quality videos using her iPhone, defying conventional camera norms. Notably, she won multiple film festivals for Best Poster and Best Music Video at LA Punk Film Festival for Tijuana punk band DFMK. With Culinary Arts and Psychology degrees, she incorporates psychology into her art and videography by studying body movements and sound. Over 100 musicians use her videos and photography for concerts and social media. Despite lifelong illnesses and being Autistic, Jenni's love for music and dancing remains unwavering.

WHY?
7-10-23
9:47 a.m.
By Mary Cheung

Why?

Force, Tear.

Rend asunder.

Bomb, explode,

Shredded bodies,

Blood splatter.

Chaos, Death.

Snuff out.

Piled up bodies.

Crushed and flattened.

Metal end,

Organic matter.

Why?

The fight for land

That you've razed.

No longer good.

Contaminated, like your mind.

When will it end?

How much destruction?

Before it stops?

A crazed kid playing war,

To take what he hasn't got.

Nancy Molloy
By Michael D. Meloan

George Papoulis had just graduated from UCSB with a degree in history. He moved back in with his parents to figure out what was next. To welcome him home, a small dinner party was organized. George’s father was an education professor at USC.

The party was cover for a plan to introduce George to Nancy Molloy. She was one of his father’s star students—a vivacious and charismatic young woman who seemed to know where she was going. His parents thought she might be a good influence.

George first put on a tight white tee to show off his muscles. He flexed in the mirror, then frowned. Next came a light blue Oxford cloth long sleeve with button-down collar, brown polyester slacks, and worn Jack Purcell sneakers. He quickly ran a comb through his scraggly long brown hair and headed downstairs.

Nancy sat in the living room sipping white wine with his parents. It was not a dinner party—it was only Nancy. She stood when he appeared. Her black hair was in a pixie cut, with alabaster skin, grey eyes, sculpted features, and a beaming smile. George was momentarily speechless.

Thrusting out his hand, “Hello, Nancy.”

“Great to meet you, George,” she said, shaking his hand.

They sat down and George’s mother poured him a glass of cabernet.

“Your father tells me that you’ve graduated, George. What are you planning to do next?” Nancy asked.

George paused. “I’ve been thinking about the Peace Corps, in the Central African Republic. That’s one of the poorest countries on earth. I think I could really make a difference there.”

“That’s wonderful, George. A beautiful plan,” said Nancy.

“I had no idea,” George’s mother blurted out.

“Nancy is working on a master’s in special education. She wants to work in South LA after graduation,” said his father.

“Impressive,” said George, taking another big drink of red wine.

“Let’s have dinner,” George’s father interjected.

George’s mother served a Greek feast, with chicken gyros, traditional salad, and a variety of plump olives.

George had always tried to keep is Greek roots at arm’s length, but Nancy seemed to embrace it with enthusiasm.

“I was on Mykonos for three weeks last summer with a girlfriend. It was fantastic! We read books on a nude beach, the water was crystal clear, the food was amazing. It was a bit of heaven!”

The whole family beamed.

After dinner, they sat in the living room drinking coffee.

“This has been delightful,” said George’s mother.

“I agree,” said Nancy. “It’s been great getting to know you all. My day is pretty open tomorrow. If George would like to follow me up to my place in Silverlake, I could show him my extensive record collection.”

She winked at George’s father. His mother’s eyes widened.

George’s throat tightened; his mouth became dry. She was perhaps his ideal woman. But this was too fast. He wasn’t ready.

His parents were silent.

“Umm, that sounds good,” George finally said, forcing a weak smile.

“Ok, we’d better head out. I’m at 1867 Webster, in case you lose me on the way up.”

“Let me just jot that down,” said George, fumbling for a piece of paper.

Soon, his decrepit VW Bug was following her Fiat 124 convertible up into the Silverlake hills. While driving, he thought about the Peace Corps. He had no intention of ever doing that. But the truth was, he had no idea what he was going to do. He had been a mediocre student. There weren’t many options.

He managed to stay on her tail the whole way. Finally, they arrived at her tiny hillside bungalow. The streetlights were out. It was pitch black.
As soon as they got inside, she pulled out a baggie of grass and a pack of Zig-Zag Wheat Straws. Then she rolled three tight and perfect joints. After taking a big hit, she passed it to him. They smoked it down to a roach, with little conversation.

George had only smoked a few times. It usually made him feel disoriented and unwell. This was one of those times. As he zoned out, Nancy began to slowly disrobe. First, she crossed her arms and grabbed the bottom of her black nylon blouse. Then it was over her head and tossed onto the coffee table. Her white champagne glass breasts were visible, with pert erect nipples. It took his breath away. With an impish smile and twinkling eyes, she unbuttoned her maroon and black striped bell bottoms, then slid them over her hips. It was down to a sheer white pair of almost translucent panties. Hooking her thumbs over the waist elastic on either hip, she slowly slid them down.

George was dumbstruck by what he saw. A massive black bush. The biggest he had ever seen.

“Wow…” he finally uttered. “That’s quite a bush. I can’t see the forest for the trees.”

Nancy’s eyes flashed with anger. In a split second, she seemed like a different being.

“I won’t tolerate body shaming! I thought you were more enlightened than that. Get out! I mean it! Get out!”

George felt like crying. “No Nancy, No! I think I love you! I want to marry you!”

“Marry me! You barely even know me! Are you crazy?!”

“Just give me another chance,” he said, with puppy dog eyes. “Please.”

She sighed. Exasperated.

Then she took him by the hand and led him into the bedroom.

George was unable to perform. She finally dozed off as he lay staring up at the ceiling for hours. Then he silently dressed and snuck out at 4:00 am.

One year and one month later, he was diagnosed as schizophrenic and hospitalized for the first time. Later he became a history and civics teacher in South LA. Nancy Molloy joined the Peace Corps in Africa and became a mistress of Idi Amin Dada.

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

spilt blood on half moon bay
By Jeff Chayette 2022

a little dab ‘ll do ya

brylcreem swagger aviators

a muscle beach dream boat

daddy o ready to go

white cross speed trips

ready to rip

check out that wax job

feel that shine ladies

Get close up and take the ride up highway one

the waves are crashing

bill haley’s comets are rockin’ round the clock

close up shop lets drive into the night

I’m feeling so tight so right

let’s get outa sight and watch the sun set on half moon bay

before the end of this mid summers day

the longest day the shortest night

come on gals grab your bags

we’ll be in big sur by morning

winding roads howling winds twisting turns

the gals were popping dexies drinking whiskey getting frisky

mr sal brylcreem poster boy di crespo

skating on the razor blade

failing to appear

debt welching

shop lifting

cheap thrills

easy chill

lead foot

freshly waxed

shiny boat

running stop lights

fear was a dear in the headlights

fraught night fright

the bloom of jasmine filled the air

tires squealing

gals giggling

hair pin turns

axles creak squeak shrieks

as glass breaks earth shakes

beer barrel polka as she rolls down the cliff

their lives adrift in outer space race to the moon

who was this goon goomba mama’s boy

such a pretty face

disgraced disfigured women

crumpled metal salty air gulls scream

the moon reflects in a puma’s eye

she growls sniffs fresh blood human carrion

sal di crespo crawled out took a step

I can walk I can breath I’m gonna leave

never gonna stop keep moving till I drop

drop it like a rock

numb from shock di crespo staggered toward the sea

Jeff is a multi award winning artist / designer / animator. He has won a national Emmy for his work on CBS / Time 100 People of the Century, rendering several portraits that were used for giant magazine covers on the award winning set design. He has also won Promax / BDA awards for his design and animation work on promos for CBS2 and KCAL, as well as two CBS Eye on Excellence awards and two LA Regional Emmy awards.

Showing talent for art in his youth, Jeff was seduced by the theater, and spent his twenties pursuing a career as an actor musician. In his next decade he went back to art classes, while working at a commercial production company, and started doing shooting boards for the company’s directors. He has had paintings exhibited in a National juried show at the Brand Library Glendale and a solo exhibition of monotypes at a downtown gallery. He has designed movie posters for top design firms, designed, animated and produced television graphics for cable networks, Hallmark and FX as well as CBS. In addition, Jeff has designed websites and created movie opens for independent films and documentaries.

He is married to illustrator / graphic designer Miho Harada. They have two beautiful children

By Winfred Taylor

This prayer for you I sent

as you breezed throughout the usual day

Not knowing for your sake I set aside

These prayers on which your day would ride

A selfless passion of pain throughout

as you have not one faint idea what I've set out

To wishing on unbuilt bridges and trust

Far reaching mistakes that turn to dust

In the mirror, worn, such blessings reflect

The profound appeal and sincere respect..

For friends, no more, shall I take for granted

The entities that heartfelt wishes granted

So be it my love myself be true,

as I wish ten thousand times more for you

Your path in its brightness you may achieve

the greatest of heights past stars and trees

My face and form perhaps not determined

in The poetic

Moment of time

Yet surely as rivers flow sideways and life remains a highway

know this. As the truth is mine

To share my love is to share myself

as happiness rushes to follow

In all the shadows come clean

when rays of truth are seen

To have shredded

the best of sadness to growth.

This day has risen to retreat

yet quite as surely As every soul pleads

You shall know the blessing set forth and be drawn to every dream that which can only come true

This and so very much more is all I'd love for you

Judgment Day
By Elizabeth Estrada

can I be late to judgment day?
or will that be added to my list of sins?

my words spill out like the gust of wind you barely felt because you were distracted Understood.
Age of Disenchanted People digesting excess stimuli
I check my phone quickly at the table

picking it up every minute need to quit it

Psychologically addicting
Reward system in brain wants me to keep clicking and clicking
Like a kid licking ice cream don’t want it to end yet it’s melting feeling numb I succumb to the wobbly peace and imbalanced chaos

My reality is a seance Sometimes with the person in the mirror Real reflections lacking purposeful change
But at least I exchanged likes and comments

It’s Monday I’m swiping Tuesday texting Wednesday checking Thursday notifying Friday frolicking through fictitious realms

It’s judgment day and I’m late because I wanted a coffee filled with 15 grams of escape topped off with cream that masks the bitter taste of my current state.

I got a text with no sound
do not disturb is on yet somehow I feel disturbed, that's odd.
Like lights flickering in my body
I need to center myself but the patience to meditate is slipping from my fingertips So I add glue just to peel not to use
I thought I was doing better Like more secure without society's supposed cure
But it seems like I use all these things around me to cover up the void I’m drowning in.
It’s judgment day and God is reading my sins
One of them is being late
And another is

Not wisely filling my plate

The commodity of time is something I don’t wanna waste
especially on quick dopamine fixes that will leave me feeling
Vacant and Absent of the sacred
Need to sit In the empty basement of my mind But the stimuli latches And now I’m craving quick dopamine patches

Want to ground And sit And ground And sit And ground.
Get lost in the nothingness
Be present in the Universes presence
choosing to inhale Gaia’s incense I exhale my manufactured mental agitation

It’s judgment day And God is giving me another chance to feel alive in her creation.

Elizabeth is a multi-disciplinary artist from the San Fernando Valley. She specializes in painting and spoken word poetry. Her poems are inspired by the beauty and mystery of life. Her work includes themes of sexuality, vices, self empowerment, spiritualism, and more. You can find her on Instagram @wrapperliz.

A Retrograde Heart
By Ronald G. Carrillo

A damaged heart splintered

But mended with scars from her past

She no longer bleeds but is haunted

Her pulse quickens as his memory appears

Purple vapors of regret and disillusion

Love’s waters can be like a flood

Overflowing the heart’s banks

Then seasonal droughts that distress her valves

Affecting all areas of her activities

At last cherubic rains fall to her parched heart

Holy blood pumping waters to revitalize her soul

Like the Red Nile enriching the Egyptian earth

New birth pangs of love increase her heart beat

The retrograde heart in repose

Her Los Angeles hibernation will compose

Poetic protection and rest

Reset and cultivate a new zest

Greedy moon of solitude

No longer to cast her light

Upon my retrograde heart

I weep in dreamscape

I dream with widow tears

I sleep with loneliness

Senior fears fill my pillow

Back to the garden

Green healing

God particle feeling

My seeds being released

Survivor of Paradise lost

The prodigal son coming home

The pristine of green carpets my feet

Eden bound from Sheol

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

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

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

20 Years Left youtube live stream 2/19/22

https://youtu.be/GT1D5k2EeKU

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

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

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

http://voyagela.com/interview/daily-inspiration-meet-linda-kaye/https://

shoutoutla.com/meet-linda-kaye-poet-poetry-and-theatrical-producer-filmmaker/

July Poet's Place

July 05, 2023

POETS PLACE

July 2023 Edition

Hello everyone!! It’s July people, and its hot as heck!!! I would imagine that it’s gonna get even hotter here in Cali, what with climate change and the rapidity with which negligent people in our world are fucking up the planet. Oh well, can’t beat my head up. Maybe I can join Robert Downey Jr’s quest in decreasing car emissions by changing my Toyota Avalon gas eater to electric. Got a million bucks to spare anyone?? He has several mil. Suxx not being rich - but I am rich with friendships - especially those who write stories and poetry and share them here!!!

POETS PLACE has grown in richness since its beginnings in January 2020. Remember how 2020 was so laden in deaths and misery? Such a fearful time in our lives, and I still see remnants of those days: dirty masks lying discarded and lost in the streets, the homeless crisis increasing 10 fold because the city didn’t follow through with creating much needed housing, and people like Mnuchin giving away billions of the Covid relief money to their buddies. Well that’s what I heard anyway. I think I should write letters (see Peter Yates’ piece) to the organizations that I disapprove of about my qualms about this stuff. That will make an impact!!! HA!!! Where’s all the tax money going for the homeless housing Yo??? “A California city was making a difference on homelessness. Then the money ran out” “Los Angeles agencies returned $150 million in federal funds to house homeless people”. What a racket. I’m glad I’m finally out of the rat race. Although I never really ran in it. I like being able to say, “I’m retired, I’m no longer paying attention”. I know it’s not PC to admit that you don’t care what happens to society in general. But…

As I’ve mentioned before in my writings, it’s a helpless/hopeless situation this homeless thing. There was a guy who moved into the hillside across from our house recently. Brought an already assembled shack and planted it right on the side of the hill. I decided along with my neighbor, to go have a chat with him/Lane. He said that he is an artist working downtown, with another well known artist (name forgotten, but sounded familiar). He (Lane), said that he was going to get paid some $4,000.00 the end of the month, and then get a moving truck and move from this location. Sounded good and well intentioned. I’ve heard many such stories while working as a social worker with the ne’er-do-well populations.

Any who… I compiled a list of local homeless resources for him and told him that he couldn’t cook there since the hillside is a high fire risk. He agreed, but looked at me like I was interfering in his life plans, with a smirk underneath his could-care-less facial mask, and responded “yeah sure, ok”. My neighbor and I left meeting other neighbors who were concerned down the hill to discuss our options and plans to get the city involved.

We discovered through Zillow, that the hillside is private property, and that we needed to find and contact the actual property owner to make the move to dislodge this unhoused interloper. We did locate the manager of the property who was useless, asking us to take the reins and get the person off HIS land. What a joke! We also emailed our council person at Eunisses office on several occasions, without response.

Unfortunately we then discovered that just 20 minutes after “our talk”, “Lane” had started a fire which brought out the fire department (thankfully called in by our neighbor). The fire department said that homeless folks have “a right to cook”, and that they really had no authority to cite or remove them. Lovely… Using my binoculars, on one occasion I did see several outreach workers attempt to contact Lane, but he wasn’t home that day. No doubt working with his famous artist friend downtown.

However when the end of the month arrived, he had surprisingly rented a truck, packed up all his belongings, and left no trace. I watched him move everything by himself. It really was quite remarkable how he tied the shack to the end of his truck to haul it up and off the hillside. Our neighbor had taken pictures of his shack, and on the door he had written “if you want to destroy me please call 213-718-1193”. We didn’t call him.

Life in the slow lane
By Linda Kaye

Life in the slow lane, illuminates the body, with new bruises and pulled muscles. Waiting for that extra boost of stamina to puncture my brain and send me spiraling on an upward climb.

Life in the slow lane provides time to check out new detours.

Metaphors that chime

resonating slurred speech

forgotten lines and words that rhyme.

Life in the slow lane brings more comfort, but less time to relax, to watch the maturation of the garden.

Life in the slow lane allows permission to sit and watch birds look for crumbs on the ground

to contemplate and fantasize, about nothing, then drift off into oblivion.

Life in the slow lane has a constant stopwatch affect.

Life in the slow lane sure enough to lose your mind.

Destination: Nowhere
By Lin Rhys

I hadn’t seen a soul for days…

Well, except the fish. And the birds. My animal companions. But, the beach was empty. Only my footprints marked the pristine stretch of sand, glowing in the dusky light. The waves were loud, louder than I expected. Somehow, I was already used to the noise. I’d only been there for two days. I already felt completely relaxed, which was unsettling, as I was not used to the feeling. It made me restless, and I wandered the beach, picking up shells, or the odd unidentifiable bits of things. I took my collection back to the cottage, and laid them out on the table. I sketched each one, in detail. Then, added some color.

The day stretched on infinitely, until, suddenly, the darkness had taken over. The colors of the objects were difficult to see by lamplight, so I abandoned my sketchbook for the night, and stared outside, at the softly moving waves. The moon was rising, and I wanted to watch forever, but I moved to the kitchen, and began preparing to cook.

Soon, the smell of fish, in butter and lemon, filled the air, masking the salty, ocean smell. I opened the wine, and enjoyed my delicious meal with a quiet heart. So quiet, so calm. So unlike me. I felt like a ghost of myself. Where were all those anxieties? I almost felt the loss of them. I felt like one of those empty shells I’d found on the beach earlier, the occupant — missing. It was frightening.

I put on a shawl and walked outside. The moon had risen further, and now shone brightly on the reflective surface of the water — a long, white finger, pointing accusingly at me, as though it knew my secrets. I turned away from the finger, not ready to confront it or defend my feelings, and instead, walked along the water’s edge.

I spotted the soft glow of jellyfish, and tangled piles of washed-up seaweed. I collected a bit, to serve as tomorrow’s sketch subject. The cry of the gulls had quieted down, as had the waves. The beach had settled in for the night. I walked, and thought, and walked, and thought some more. Finally, I retuned to the cottage to sleep.

The sun rose, and eventually, I woke.

I was excited — a day of action lay ahead! Today was boating day. I would go out on my first real boating experience. Danger, excitement, adventure… or maybe just hard work and tedious activity. I didn’t know. There was a long checklist of things to do before I went out onto the open water, and, finally, that first feeling of freedom from the land. Returning to the sea, whence we all came. After a long while of dials, gauges, and charts, I could finally relax for a bit and just enjoy being nowhere. The perfect destination.

'Lin Rhys runs a small conservation nonprofit. She's also a nature therapy guide and artist.'

The kindness of strangers: A Generation X story, part 2.
By Emily Kupinsky

We have recently moved to a house in Studio City. When I get home from school as usual, the house is empty. I discover a note from my mother informing me that she has made arrangements for us to eat dinner at our new neighbors house down the street. I am to go there at a certain time and she will join us after work. I have never met these people and am angry as this is often how she manipulates.This is, in short, a free meal. These kind, unsuspecting people have been conned into acting as make shift sitters. I’m growing increasingly tired of these games, the lies I must tell, all the acting like I am normal, like my Mother is normal. Nothing is normal about a 9 year old walking 3 blocks in the dark alone to a strangers home for a dinner my Mother will probably not attend. Her anger once ignited is explosive and volatile, so I do as I’m told. I decide to change into presentable clothes that are more feminine than I would normally choose for myself as I understand the power of first impressions. When I arrive, the Mom welcomes me with a hug as though we are already acquainted. My body tenses, arms frozen at my sides, as I am unaccustomed to being hugged. She assures me that she has just spoken with my Mother who will be here shortly. I smile as she leads me to the dining room and take my place at a very long, elegantly set, formal dinner table. I am unfamiliar with the etiquette required to dine here and don’t know which fork to use for the salad as it is served. I buy myself some time to observe others, three children, the Mom who greeted me at the door, and her husband, by paying compliments and asking questions about the various dishes being served. The preppy kids all start with the outermost fork and now so do I. We make small talk about my school, where I lived before moving here and then a string of interesting questions begin from the Mom about my parents being divorced. I turn bright red blushing with the knowledge that it’s inappropriate and impolite conversation. People often mistake those that blush as being embarrassed by something that was said but in my case It’s what I’m not saying. I find it amusing that she is fishing for such personal information. I silently remind myself of my appearance and the fact that we don’t know each other. She sees me as a 9 year old product of divorce and this line of questioning is meant to reveal my woes and misfortune so that her children will realize all they have to be grateful for. I can’t help smiling because these kids who are all older than me, are even more uncomfortable than I am. They are wealthy, go to private schools and probably everyone they know lives similarly. I am one of “those people” to them. I represent the lower class, privileged to dine with them this evening. The Dad keeps trying to stop his wife from her interrogation but she shushes and dismisses his objections. She wants to know what my Father does for a living and where he lives, how often and when do I see him. What is my bed time, what are my grades in school. The eye rolling from her embarrassed children is all the food I need. I decide to dazzle them all with what a typical day for me is like. Instead of lying, I reveal exactly how I get to and from school walking Ventura Boulevard alone everyday to catch a bus and how I exist on cans of Chunky Beef Stew I cook myself because I’m so self sufficient. She’s horrified but riveted as I explain my Father is a traveling Salesman who sells industrial tools, electronics, and even fake designer watches out of an old bread truck he bought and repainted with his company name, “Universal Distributors” on the side. I then confirmed what she suspected all along, my last name is in fact a Jewish one even though we celebrate Christmas and no one in my family speaks a lick of Hebrew. I know very well the humiliation this will cause my Mother, I just can’t help it. It’s all too much, to be made her ambassador, to lie, to grift meals off of strangers, the looks the kids are giving me. Fuck everyone and everything I think as I take bite after bite of delicious food knowing I will never eat here again. I have only dessert to wait for before thinking of an excuse to leave. The Mom has tried twice to call my Mother at work getting the answering machine. She is now two hours late. I suggest she may have gone home to change first. I really want dessert. I know very well my Mother isn’t coming. When we’re done, I offer to help clear the table just to see her mad dog her kids into action. I apologize for my Mother’s absence explaining how hard she works as a single Mom. I’m a charming little waif again as I thank her and because she feels sorry for me, she makes me a doggy bag to bring home to my Mother. She waves and sends me off into the dark street in the residential suburbia off Ventura Boulevard in Studio City, California. I walk quickly away from her beautiful house and her beautiful life. Once home, I let myself in and close the front door to find the trail of my mothers shoes, purse, Thomas guide, and real estate listings leading to an almost empty bottle of wine and her passed out on her bed. I shut her light off and quietly close the door to her room, it’s a small victory not to have to face her tonight. Happy Wednesday to me!

Emily Kupinsky is a Breast Cancer survivor making every day count, feeding her soul making art using recycled doll parts. If you would like to see Emily’s Cute & Creepy creations, you can find her on Tiktok @Emily Kupinsky, Instagram @emmysez, DollFrankenstein on Etsy, or at The Hive Gallery & Studios in Los Angeles where she is currently a resident Artist.

Sexy Stuff
By Lee Boek

(First done for Linda Kaye gig at bookstore in Highland Park)

What is “sexy?”

You know it when you see it.

May not all be seeing the same thing

“The eye of the beholder….”

Sexy Stuff is a Tit-elation

A Butt-elation might do it.

Can be a wink of an eye or even the gleam in one

A flick of a hip or a wrist

An alluring look….A beautiful body….

A strong physique……

A body part…………. Reavealed!!

An ankle, a toe, fingers, hands, hips, lips and finger tips

Nose, Hair, (No not nose hair!!)

Hair…Black, Brown, Red, Blonde…..Auburn…….Silky…long

Short and bouncy

A long or a short beard, clean shaven, soft cheek

Chest hair

The pubs, the pits, hair, no hair…(No not nose hair!!!)

Aw…but a chin!!, A jaw!!

One stands in Awe!!

BREASTS!!!!

A Dominant or Submissive Personality Trait

A bald head.

“Sexy is as sexy does.”

Sexy is healthy, but slightly purient

Something promisingly dirty, if done right

My aunts chattering in the living room when I was a boy playing nearby; they’re talking about having babies. Who is “preggers” who isn’t or couldn’t or why and when and who would like to be…..laughing as if they were talking dirty.

I was listening, learning, I guess, yes, but my Aunt Ruby gone and forgiven for all her sins, began to warn them of “ears eager to hear about something they shouldn’t.”

I heard that and soon realized I was wearing them, “…..the “ears eager to hear about something” I shouldn’t.

Aw, don’t worry about it, grown up stuff.

But that “SHOULDN’T” Hmmmm!

Yes, that’s what causes so many extremely religious Americans to spend a lot of time and Money on Porno sites.

Credit cards, clandestine sites, Rendezvous

Secret places, out of sight

Park bathrooms, in the woods of Griffith Park

Under the pier, lonely roads, seedy motels

Our first Burlesque Show….two church boys…one of us jumped up on the stage, thinking it was funny…..

Dad.

“Brother Charles says he saw you boys coming out of the burlesque theater in skid row as he drove by Thursday night.”

Any Thing Goes by Cole Porter

Times have changed

And we’ve often rewound the clock

Since the Puritans got a shock

If today, any shock they should try to stem

‘Stead of landing on Plymouth Rock

Plymouth Rock would land on them.

In olden days, a glimpse of stocking

Was looked upon as something shocking

But now, God knows, anything goes.

Good authors too, once knew better words

Now only use four letter words

Writing prose

Anything Goes.

If driving fast cars you like

If low bars you like

If old hymns you like

If bare limbs you like

Or me undressed you like

Why nobody will oppose

When every night the set that’s smart is in

-Truding in nudist parties in studios

Anything goes

The world’s gone mad today

And good’s bad today

And black’s white today

And day’s night today

And that gent today

You gave a cent today

Once had several Chateaux

When folks who still can ride in jitneys

Find out the Vanderbilts and Whitneys

Lack baby clothes

Anything goes.

And I’m gone.

Lee Boek: Artistic Director/poet

An integral part of Public Works Improvisational Theater Company since the 1970s, Lee took over as Artistic Director of the company in 2001 after founding member Marlene Rasnick’s passing. The California native, born in 1941, has had successful careers as a Fundamentalist Evangelist preacher, radio host, actor, writer, producer, union organizer, husband, father, grandfather to many & champion for the under-served & wronged. A staple of the Silverlake arts community, Lee continues to be on the forefront of accessible, socially-relevant performing arts productions

Treasure Hunt
By Mona Jean Cedar

Everybody’s Searching – for their Visions in the sky.

Hoping, Wishing, Craving, Wanting .

so Afraid to Die.

Not Trusting their Emotions,

or Following – their - dreams,

just Mindless Repetition, Unaware of the Full Scheme.

It’s just:

WorkWorkWorkWorkWorkWorkWorkWorkWorkWorkWorkWork &

RushRushRushRushRushRushRushRushRushRushRushRush &

Every-Year’s the Same thing, Every-Year’s the Same thing, &

I can’t Stop, no Stopping, I don’t Know how to

Stop!

So just Relax & Give – In,

& Allow Life to Happen.

No Controlling or Forcing,

just Accepting Gifts Given.

for Gifts, they Flow Freely; Gifts are Given-from-heaven

For the Heart and the Healing

To Strengthen the Soul; You Know

Heaven wants to Help you; Uphold you Forever.

Like it Has – Been for Millennium,

Moving Heaven and Earth,

Orchestrating the Universe

in the Creating of You.

Waiting for You to Assume

Your Rightful Role

and this Role…? is Simply You

You Know You Don’t Need

All the Crap that they Feed - you

the Cars or the Bars, the Cash,,, it’s All Trash.

That Bullshit Become Your Burden.

You’re so much Better Than that.

Cherish Yourself; You Are As a Pearl.

Precious in Your - Self – ness

Shining; Needing Naught.

Know! Pearls Need Not Seek for They themselves are Sought.

Your Longings will Lead – you

Your Passions will Pull- you

in Pursuit of your Muse,

you can Never Lose

the Treasure is with-In you,

the Hunt with-In Your Heart.

Mona Jean Cedar has been composing poetry and choreographing dances with American Sign Language for over twenty years. She is RID certified American Sign Language (ASL) interpreter, has an AA in Dance, a BA in Deaf Studies from CSUN, attended The National Theater of the Deaf, and the Juilliard School in NYC for Theatrical Interpreting on Broadway. With her musician/circuit bending husband they have performed at Burning Man, in Europe and all around the USA. Presently she is the resident interpreter for the National Poetry Slams and a co-founded of ASL Cabaret – a celebration of ASL performing artists!

Rico
By Michael D. Meloan

“I’m sick of all the bullshit. And my own bullshit too—hating, bitching, using, scheming, weaseling. Sick, I guess, of needing. It’s strange—borrowing from one world to try to get into the next. So that I can be transformed and never be in this predicament again.

When I would walk around The Haight, I managed to despise everybody I saw. (sings) People are strange, when you’re a stranger, faces look ugly… Jeannine says I’m becoming a ghost, that I’m disintegrating. It’s true. I can see it when I look in the mirror. I’ve got the eyes.

As the ninth beer goes down, I can feel the shades being drawn. My journal is all that’s left. That, and wrecked potential. Wrecked by death and dreams and drugs.

What about re-birth and cocooning of the brain/soul? Mysticism vs. global slut materialism and the yo-yo effect of my double genetic whammy. I’ve got it from both sides—father dead at 43 from drink, drugs, and gambling; working stiff mother pouring brandy in her morning coffee, then off to the track with any man she could find.

I don’t know about potential. Everybody has always said I have it—all my life. Now all that’s left is the desert. An electric eye follows me everywhere I go. The aperture opens and closes mechanically—glimpses of another world. I’ll see you on the other side.”

***

This is the last voicemail message. Following a week of silence, I go out to the desert. After locating the Belle campground at Joshua Tree, I find the yellow Volkswagen Beetle parked in one of the campsites. But there is no sign of him. I set up camp and start hiking with a pack. After a half-day of wandering, I find a campsite in the shadow of a large steep rock formation. There’s a sleeping bag, dirty aluminum cookware, a propane stove, and five Old Milwaukee beer cans. The sun is high, it’s over 100 degrees. Flies buzz incessantly. I call out his name, in many different directions. I climb to the top of the rock formation to look around—360 degrees. Then I sit in his campsite and begin to read the journal he has left behind.

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

Cooking equals love
7:11a.m.
6-30-23
By Mary Cheung

All the foods you use to make,

Looking at all of the photos,

It's now easy to see.

What you are creating, what you just did, just for me.

I have such fond, fond memories.

A smile plastered on my face.

Just seeing these photos,

Joy that can’t be replaced.

I remember that wood chunk of cutting board.

Round, weathered from use and love.

Our old oven with the broken door,

That had to be wired to hold in place, so that it wouldn’t fall onto the floor!

Cooking sauces lined up on the counter,

Cookie sheets, wooden molds from China,

The same rice cooker that now lives in my home.

Metal griddles for making egg rolls and more!

These images,

Yellowed and old brings back my childhood.

Filled with love, and a carefree time of being cared for by my parents.

Hits me in the guts and the tears start to pour.

In black and white pictures,

I see you making egg rolls here.

In color photos,

You, cooking our first Thanksgiving dinner over there.

So many memories they all come rushing back.

You gathered up your family,

Feed our minds and souls,

so, we would never lack.

Through cooking you taught us skills,

Passing down all that you've learned.

Teaching us how to survive, how to create, how to nurture,

taking back nothing in return.

And the time we spent gathered around that table.

Became a symbol of family, love and unity as one.

I get it now, how you fed our minds and our souls.

Cooking as your form of love. Memories of sharing, legacy and fun.

And now this is what I have left of you.

These golden moments and your cooking style.

That are a part of me and my character.

Emerging when I turn up the stove top dial.

The best care you gave to me,

To my childhood and when I came home.

Was the cooking you gave, always in hopes that I’d return.

And share a dish that you’ve perfected and honed.

And I have those favorites.

Those dishes that’s like a warm hug to me and more.

That made me happy to be returning home,

Stepping through your welcoming door.

There was so much love.

But I just couldn’t see.

It took until now, to step back..

And realize what you did for me.

So now I'm my adult years,

I see why it's important, this ritual of cooking together and making meals.

And I try to pass down what I've learned and pass on the love.

Hoping they’ll learn all the joy and love that I feel.

And learn how to stand on their own,

As well as the other important skills.

But mostly that cooking equals love.

A bonding in time, a memory in a moment, lessons to be learned still.

To see you cook in your life, well that just gives me the biggest thrill.

To know that the seed I planted has grown.

Magnificent and standing tall,

It gives me chills.

Cooking equals love,

What dish will it be?

The one that gives you a hug,

and brings you back to me.

Yo soy una Mujer de edad…
By G. Billie Quijano

Another journey around the sun

The moon, my mother

Brilliant rays paint my aura

Sway of my hips

Sass on my ruby red lips

I embrace the loteria of love

Divine feminine

Conscious body in higher vibration

Grief and trauma in complex dimensions

My diva sublime

See the magical being

Jazz tones

Wrapping it's genius around my toes

I am a work in progress

Birth of transformation

La vida loca

Behind me, in front of me

And yet still chula after all these years...

G. Billie Quijano-Hija de East Los. Poeta, assemblage artist, photographer. This month marks another celebratory journey around the sun for me. I am evolving in a direction of wholeness, healing love. I am releasing rage and anger. The birth of a new transformation and looking forward to my best work yet. Much gratitude to Linda for providing this gift of space where I can share my words.

Fireless Smoke
By Anna C. Broome

The two

as if bound together

roomless without any room—

slowly begin an onerous living

womanless, manless

wingless, without dome

only a feeling of being hurried out from where drawn in

whether the hope

materializes or not—

within the hole

they live high in holes

like orthodox bats

hanging in the rafters—

or close to the bereaved

clothed in the

blackest of wing sorrow

both had vanished

inside their imposing selves:

the woman couldn’t stand the

reform to Earth— the very definite

change that comes with lost powers and thoughts

of next-day battles—

as the man, manless as a woman

eaten like sugar shivers out of

his whole body— for reasons

he can’t resist.

have you ever known a low

ceiling identity? gone from

the very soul as it shown

itself as you?

And extended that loss as whole— as dismember worship— as

frantic copulation— as

fireless smoke!

Oh Absolutely
By Winfred Taylor

I want to ask a question

I need to know what I've already gathered

I see the start of a brand new old lesson

The writing is layered and the maps are all tattered

I need to know when free

is free and clear

I wonder now as I've questioned what I've always held dear.

Not quite the baptismal favorite I must admit

And rather staunchly taught

never be willing to quit

But have the thirst and drive of a legendary star

A demon up close A dream from a far.

Not to mention how to put blame on a society

Learning to justify dismissal of what I don't want to see

And fortunately for those who are blessed with fortune by fate

And others dreading an approach to a most opulent gate

Ways are set, bent and meant to be changed

without fear, questioning life seems strange.

For all not to enjoy this forever of mixed blessings

In a world that was built to be wondrous and perplexing

the mystery ,still, at least to me

Remains What we tread upon

yet do not see.

REJECTED LETTERS

Peter Yates

BIRDSTRIKES

Dear Editor:

Re: Miracle on the Hudson

It was alarming to read of the increasing frequency of birds striking aircraft. Why are these birds attacking our planes? Worse, in most cases, you say no damage occurs. The animals are becoming more aggressive, but also stronger – surviving to strike again!

Yours, etc.

CLASS WARFARE

Dear Editor:

No one prefers to think of class warfare, but the thought is suggested by your report that the 85 richest people own more than the poorest half of the population. If the poor half – all 4 billion of them – were to meet the 85 and, leaning forward in curiosity, carelessly trample them, almost without thinking, how much responsibility would each of them assume? 85 divided by 4 billion would be 0.000000021, or for each perpetrator a responsibility of

21 billionths of a death. Is this unreasonable? Has each of us not already unwittingly caused 21-billionths of a death in another around us? Have we not occasionally hastened a demise by nanoseconds? Merely by living? Rubbing elbows? We need to focus that resource. Class warfare could be redirected, so that its randomness no longer cancelled out to zero.

Yours, etc.

HEROIN POLICY

Dear Editor:

There has been much debate about drug policy. Nothing seems to work. Tragically, the average heroin user dies in fifteen years. However, the average American lives to 76.

A more effective and humane policy would be to legalize heroin usage starting at 61. It would offer something to look forward to in later life, with no downside of increased mortality.

Yours, etc.

Shark Attack

Dear Editor,

Re: Apparent shark attack kills boogie boarder

To honor those attacked by sharks, let us contemplate our relationship with that fellow predator. Among the prey we hunt, sharks are rare in also being hunters. When they attack humans, they recognize their error and spit us out. Even so, last year, worldwide, they killed four. Still, we can be thankful. The toll would have been much worse had we not, in the same period, harvested twenty-five million of them.

Yours, etc.

SPORT MOTORCYCLES

Dear Editor:

I read with concern about sport motorcycles killing young men who lost control while driving fast on public highways. Perhaps we as a society could encourage manufacturers to develop new machines with greater torque and horsepower. By reducing tariffs, these could be made more available to those who know how to enjoy them.

Yours, etc.

Ode to Tom Clark
By Richard McDowell

The memory washed in and by moonlight Only footprints were left behind by the receding tide. Icarus was still alive. He tried to apply himself to the field of science, But it was hopeless. He could not survive the regret, The memory of the sun and how bright it felt, How near to it he had been Yet few people knew him before his horrible flight. At night he would sit by the lagoon and read books About faraway places, of journeys, of travel And delight in imagining himself there And when I last saw him near the tide pools, He was swimming back out to sea, singing “Neither the sky nor the ocean can hold me.”

America: July 2023
By Ronald G. Carrillo

Oh America, why have you betrayed your constitution

Seeped in blood since its inception

Your democratic ideals only remained words

In some English man's mind and pen

Escaping from royals and inherited entitlements

Our founding fathers chose a selected vote

White revolutionary intellectuals departing from monarchy

Once again the rule of law rotted on the vine

Before the grapes of democracy produced their wine

We are back to special interests groups

Yet Stalin and Mao killed millions of their own people

Is it no wonder thousands flooded to the American shore - those wretched and poor

The new Jerusalem a revived Atlantis

Now 2023 these new Atlanteans await disaster

The harbingers of Israel and Abraham now released

In floods, oil spills and terrorism in the heartland

The great chastisement will settle scores of empire

Only to have another philistine king fill America's space

Oh America focus your guardianship light on thy people

Rein in thy greed, dispel these evil men

Of familial insanity generation after generation

Of sin, blood-letting and hierarchy

Clean the house of democracy

Repel rigid religious right zealots

Reset our morale compass

Let us not be beset by liberty’s lethargy

But recharge her battery of justice

The stripes and stars of our history

Must still manifest her righteous destiny

Replenish the garden of our republic with good seed

Remove the weeds of liberty’s enemies

Let the pomp and parade of independence

Once again light up American skies

From west coast to east coast

From the golden shore of California

To the eastern shores of the thirteen colonies

Let her land be rich in diversity

Reaching optimal potential for all her people

Lady Liberty shine your light to guide us forward

Dreamers, workers, seniors, children, the homeless

Parents, teachers, civil servants, the marginalized

We can still do better

Our constitution is a living document

We must water her words

Sometimes with the blood of patriots

To manifest our true democratic destiny

Looking inward with conscious reflection

Is a healing balm for the people

Reviewing our standards setting a new direction

Moving forward with spiritual intention

America risen from the ashes of adversity

Rise again and lead us to the promised land

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

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

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

20 Years Left youtube live stream 2/19/22

https://youtu.be/GT1D5k2EeKU

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

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

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

http://voyagela.com/interview/daily-inspiration-meet-linda-kaye/https://

shoutoutla.com/meet-linda-kaye-poet-poetry-and-theatrical-producer-filmmaker/

June Poet's Place

June 04, 2023

POETS PLACE

JUNE 2023

Thank goodness the sun shines again!!! I was getting worried that we were doomed to be in the gloom. We’ve been taking this journey together now for quite some time. I’m just thinking about what we all have endured since the election of 2016, and it has been a pretty herculean journey. Politics has never been my jam. Just the thought of what goes on in their kingdoms frightens the bejesus out of me. I don’t have the stamina, nor the psyche to wade through the muck that politics brings to the surface. Plus, you have to be ultra positive (there’s no guarantee, lol) that what you/they concoct is something that can actually be manifested in the realm of reality. But isn’t that just magical thinking at it’s best??!! For me poetry has all that I need to continue on this path towards enlightenment. Poetry is a state of mind that reveals your personal truth. They’re not all gems to share with the world, but they are our notes to self. I have always had a desire to share myself with anyone who will listen and I believe, hopefully, that I have something thoughtful to say.

POETS PLACE is here for you! Join in and share your words to the world!! Or best to whomever reads this column!!! LOL XXXX

Enjoy!!!!

Love, Linda :0)

The Smile of the Deeply Moved
By Linda Kaye

The smile of the deeply moved

Is contagious exhilarates and tickles the spine.

Your face responds with a curious glimmer that shines through the deep creases baked by years of defeat.

It cracks with enjoyment a recognition of heartfelt joy.

Overlaps with the forgiveness of self.

Then Again
By Winfred Taylor

Difficulty would be easy now.

Downhill a slide to stumble up

then down again to crumble.

All pieces of a whole.

To what avail, this story

Circling life never entering.

Once bound to determine

what is sure to fail.

Sidestep the truth

to battle enraged blessings

Then curse the fate.

Now would be fine not to start again.

This moment just as before survives.

Daniel Schack

Right way or Wrong way. Wrong is wrong! Absolutely! No Matter who is doing the wrong! Period! Absolutely!

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

MY AIR PUMP PELLET GUN
4-30-23
12:55 a.m.

I shot a rat in the head,

With my "Tempest", made in England air pellet gun dead.

So why don't I feel so bad?

To take a life, I should be sad.

Just to put him out of his misery

As he kick and jerked whilst in the jaws of the "Guardians " rat trap.

Yeah I heard the "snap"

And I jumped up to see.

Your brown little body

Kicking to try and get free.

So rather than see you suffer and linger for more.

I loaded that suckered with a steel tipped pellet and leveled it at your core.

But I had to look away cuz.

I couldn't handle it anymore.

You still had a life that was worthy.

I just couldn't take all of the rat droppings,

all over my floor.

And the last time my late night craving had me walking down the long hall.

You streaked by my feet and scared the shit out of me and more.

So little buddy, sorry to have done it.

But I couldn't take it any more.

And now my handy air pump pellet gun slumbers by my bed side....

Ready to take on your family,

I'm ready to wage war.

Nu-Pike
By Michael Meloan

I was nine when my family arrived in Los Angeles. We moved into a sprawling stucco apartment building in Gardena so my father could begin a teaching job at USC.

He was a compulsive doer. Every weekend was blocked-out with activities. On the first available Saturday, he informed my mother, brother, and me that we were going to an amusement park in Long Beach called Nu-Pike.

“Why can’t we go to Disneyland?” I asked.

“That’s for wimps. This is the real thing. Like Coney Island in New York,” he said with a grin.

We all piled into the Mercury and headed for Long Beach.

Nu-Pike was adjacent to the beach, partially built on piers. A gigantic dilapidated wooden roller coaster encircled the property. Above the entrance, an animatronic man with a pudgy cartoon face rocked back-and-forth laughing ghoulishly through tinny speakers. There were buzzers and bells, shooting galleries, fortune tellers, bumper cars, a double Ferris wheel slathered in neon. Wet wood, salt wind, and creosote.

But most of all, I remember a new kind of human. Tattooed drunken sailors carried bottles of whiskey with their arms around women wearing short skirts, black fishnet stockings, plunging necklines and overflowing breasts. Blazing red lips with cigarettes dangling.

And there was lust--in the eyes of the women and the men. I had never seen it before, but I understood it immediately. These people lived with abandon, without a thought for tomorrow.

I found it both repulsive and somehow irresistible. Faint screams wafted in-and-out of the wind from the ancient roller coaster amid the constant clanging and cackling.

California Dreamin'
© 2020 Terrance M. Whitten

Would I be placing a pretty safe bet if I guessed that you, dear reader, have taken a leap of faith at some point in your life? Truth be told, sometimes getting out of bed in the morning can feel like a leap of faith. But can any of you say that you have taken not just a leap, but a blind leap of faith?

I can. I have taken that blind leap of faith, and I've done so more than once. But the leap I now want to recall took place in the spring of 1996. I had been living in Seattle for nearly five years and had been unable to pull a stable life together. The city was gorgeous, but gorgeous does not mean secure.

In February of 1996, I answered a newspaper ad seeking an English instructor for a position at a private academy in South Korea. I was a man of little property, save for my thick artist's portfolio, and I had no significant emotional attachments that bound me to the city, or to the United States for that matter.

What did I know about South Korea? I knew where it was, but little more. With my meager possessions put into storage, I settled into an 18-hour flight that took me to the other side of the world. Save for this native-Detroit boy's occasional visits to our Canadian neighbor and a week spent in Mexico's Yucatan Peninsula, I was not an international traveler. Now I was really going international, but not as a tourist.

Signing that year-long contract with Han Saem Academy in Seoul's southwestern suburb of Pu'chon was definitely a blind leap of faith, because I had no idea what was waiting for me once the plane landed at Kimpo Airport. I could not even speak a word of the language, though my new Lonely Planet dictionary was poised to become one of my best friends over the coming year.

I was met at the airport by an official of the academy, the hogwan. Mr. Sun knew sufficient English for basic communication. He and Mr. Chung, the more adept head English teacher, and two other less-proficient teachers at the hogwan would be the only people I could communicate with for quite some time.

Once my serious jet lag had passed, to say that the ensuing two week's severe culture shock was surreal would be polite. I truly felt like I had stepped off a cliff into an alien Asian world that, even though I recognized most of my urban environment, still made so little sense at the same time. My complete lack of control over my own life only added to the painful disorientation. I could give you stories, but best said that I always seemed to feel angry and there was not a moment when I did not think that I had made a huge mistake.

Yet once I got over expecting from my host environment and started accepting, I was able to allow myself to experience willingly the interesting, though often challenging world around me. After a few weeks, the poorly-performing hogwan subcontracted my services out to three different public middle-schools in Pu'chon. At first I objected, as the American concept of a solid, unbreakable contract bumped heads with the

Koreans' more flexible concept, a chronic problem in Korean-American business affairs.

But, by my second day in those public school classrooms, my objections had melted away. Over the following year, I taught Conversational English to four classes of preteens in three different middle-schools. I

can say today, these many years later, that all the hours shared with those South Korean boys and girls were among the very brightest of highlights in my life, a gift that I would not have had, had I not made that big, blind leap of faith in the spring of 1996.

Now, when I speak of things being surreal, I must not always put my story into a negative light, because it serves me to recall a pleasant Sunday that May, on my first solo weekend excursion by train into Seoul. I was walking through the crowded new Myong Dong shopping district and I heard the 1965 song, California Dreamin' by The Mamas & The Papas playing loudly from shops out into the crowded lanes. I heard the song at least three times. Why that one American song, and from so many different shops? Hearing the song did have its nostalgia for me, as John Phillips and his group were a big deal during my adolescence. But, on that Sunday afternoon, the song's unexpected presence only added to Korea's big bag of surprises.

I came to learn that the recording had been used in a film that was a hit in South Korea that past winter - a dark 1994 film from Hong Kong, Wong Kar-wai's Chungking Express. Its Chinese title translates into “Chungking Jungle” and it is a Godard-like tale of loneliness amid the sterile concrete and steel of an impersonal urban jungle. The character of a dreamy snack bar waitress, played by the famed Chinese diva, Faye Wong, uses the song's plaintive lyrics to express the longing felt by everyone in the film, and as a song of hope amid that bleak world.

The odd film had been such a hit in South Korea that The Mamas & The Papas' vintage California Dreamin' began being played on the radio and had been all that season. The song had been embraced as a symbol of the longing of many South Koreans, if not of Asians from all over the continent, a longing to join their numerous fellow countrymen in America, preferably in sunny Los Angeles.

California dreamin'.

Just ask any of the people in the long, long line of South Koreans seeking various visas every weekday at the U.S. Embassy in downtown Seoul, so many of them eager to find a new life in a new land, each one of them ready to make that big leap of faith. At the end of my year's contract in South Korea, I returned to the Pacific Northwest and its familiar frustrations. Amid the instability, in 1998 I managed to write my first screenplay, which led to another big, blind leap of faith - my move to Los Angeles in the spring of 1999 with my script in hand. A rather earthy acquaintance in Seattle had been blunt enough to say that “you can't go fishin' at the fishin' hole if you're stuck out in the desert.” That was enough to motivate me to move once again to a place I'd never been to before, another place where I knew not a soul.

I can say with delight that my first neighborhood in Los Angeles was Venice Beach. Any talk about John Phillips' California Dreamin' always leads me to Brian Wilson, with all my '60s boyhood Beach Boy fantasies taking on their own kind of surreal life in that colorful community. And Jim Morrison's provocative voice was calling out to me just as strong.

Come 2007 and my Korean teaching experience helped land me a position as an ESL instructor at a Koreatown academy. That is, English as a Second Language, and to Asian students primarily, the majority of them South Korean, with many from Japan, Thailand and Mongolia. Nearly all of them had taken that same leap of faith in their lives, most having left the security of everything they knew and traveling to a far-off city, to a place that most of them knew only as a fantasy from movies or a song. And most sat before me experiencing the same kind of disorientation and culture shock that I experienced back in 1996.

One day in 2010, my academy director informed me that I had a new student in the Level Two class. She was from North Korea. That was a first for me. You surely are aware that a continued state of war exists between the South and the North that is being kept at bay by a U.N.-monitored truce. When I was in Korea, the situation was never spoken of. In 1996, I never felt the evil specter of the North's Kim Jeong-Il looming from just across the mountains. The English-language Korea Times would cite incidents on occasion, but life seemed to go on as if a dramatically different, and possibly dangerous world did not exist only miles to the north, with families continuing to be separated on both sides all these years later.

So, when I was told that we were having a North Korean woman joining our classes, I pictured a malnourished creature with a bad haircut and even worse clothes. But talk about a Korean bag of surprises, in walks a woman who could have taught Marilyn Monroe how to walk in heels. Gorgeous from head to foot - perfect hair and skin, manicured nails, a body straight off a fashion photo shoot, great clothes, and, man, could she walk in those heels. And she could speak decent English for someone without the middle school and high school English education that her South Korean cousins received.

Kim Yoon-Hui was her name. She must have been the daughter of some North Korean bigwig, because this woman had either been born into relative affluence in a country that had so little, or she had been chosen and groomed by the elite. Yoon-Hui turned out to be very reticent about sharing details of her life. I do know that she got out of North Korea through China, found her way to Seoul and connected with a Christian group that helped her find her way to Los Angeles.

Here was a woman who turned her back on what likely was a privileged life and made a blind leap of faith into the unknown. Once, privately, I asked her why she had left behind her life in North Korea. It seemed at first as if she was not going to answer me. Her brow creased as she looked off, out the window to the bright purple bougainvillea lining the walls of the parking lot.

A smile then came to her lips and she turned back to me with a warm,

“California Dreamin'.”

I knew instantly what she meant by those words and why she said them. I guess that among the privileges Kim Yoon-Hui had enjoyed in North Korea was access to DVDs and, most certainly, Chungking Express. It turns out that Yoon-Hui also was a big fan of that Chinese diva, Faye Wong. We even hummed a bit of John Phillips' song together.

Yoon-Hui has gone on to make an American life for herself. Then, almost three years later, my academy welcomed another liberated North Korean as a new Level One student. Kim Ji Seong made his way out of North Korea to China in 2003. Ji Seong also found a home in South Korea, in my old neighborhood of Pu'chon, where he came to marry and had an eight- and a four-year-old daughter. They were all new residents of Los Angeles, at least for the duration of daddy's visa.

In class one day, in front of the other dozen students, most of them South Korean, I asked Ji Seong why he had come to Los Angeles. This man also had not benefited from the English education that his southern cousins had received, and it definitely was not likely that he enjoyed the kind of privileges that Yoon-Hui had seen. But, just like his beautiful North Korean comrade, sitting there in my classroom, Ji Seong looked away, out the window towards the colorful bougainvillea, his lips moving as he tried to put some barely-understood words together to describe the dramatic, blind leap of faith he made in 2003, especially as he had just made a big leap once again, this time to the other side of the world and with his family at his side.

Just like Yoon-Hui, I thought that Ji Seong was not going to be able to give me an answer. But then his eyes lit up with a memory and a smile came to his lips. Ji Seong then said with pride,

“California Dreamin'.”

I could only smile, there were no words to say, save that Ji Seong also must have had access to a particular DVD. I should have been surprised at the coincidence, but no, his words only went to reinforce the notion that art can transcend any man-made border. Several of the South Korean students nodded in recognition of the song's title. They would have been only adolescents at the time of its popularity in their homeland, but the song's seed message still remains in all their memories. We were sitting there together, the teacher with his students, all of us intimate with not only the joys and the rewards, but also the fears and the hazards of taking daring leaps of faith in our lives. And there we were, only an hour away from the sunny beaches of our fantasies.

All of us, California dreamin'.

Kamsa Hamnida.

(Thank you.)

Terrance M. Whitten is a visual artist and writer, a Detroit native who found his way to Los Angeles in 1999 via New York City, Seattle and a stint in South Korea.

He currently resides in the Glassell Park neighborhood of Los Angeles.

The Grand Old Party
By S.A. Griffin

the Star Spangled Banner is playing so loudly

that nobody at the party can hear Lady Liberty's muffled screams

coming from inside the Lincoln Bedroom

flat on her back Liberty is doing all that she can to fend off

an unsteady Trump Daddy drunk with power

he has an executive hand over her mouth

while his other fat fingers climb up her garments

desperately attempting to find their way past her port of entry

into her sunset gates, "C'mon, Liberty baby –

lemme smack that sweet huddled ass of yours

yearning to breathe free. You know you want it!"

the Donald's aerodynamic pomp quacks and achieves liftoff

cutting manic shadows into the bedroom walls as he

smashes his tiny Trump thing into Liberty's weakening flesh

Uncle Sam is catching all the action standing sentry

behind home plate in front of the locked door

the old wizened white beard waving his hot dog wildly about

shouting, "Uncle Sam wants you to play ball!"

outside in the Rose Garden

Congress is making hay with the gerrymandered vote

holding hands kumbaya like for the cameras

singing Citizens United and it feels so good

Emma Lazarus rises from the grave on the shoulders of

uncountable millions upon millions of wounded women roaring

ME TOO across the crowded centuries

President Great Again deaf to their declaration

continues ripping away at Lady Liberty's tattered gown

the ghost of Emma Lazarus

breaks down the door of the Lincoln Bedroom

shattering the supreme darkness

as the colossus of angry women comes rushing in behind her

they will not be denied

it's the Donald's Waterloo

not even Putin can save him

S.A. Griffin lives, loves and works in Los Angeles. He drives too fast, sleeps too little and thinks too much. A universe in sleep's clothing, his heart is a spinning wheel that breaks for cubist impulse. Most recently the author of Pandemic Soul Music (Punk Hostage Press) and Good Madness is Hard to Come By with Michael Lane Bruner (Rose of Sharon Press), he is also the co-editor of Beat Not Beat (Moon Tide Press) and The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry (Basic Books).

Operation Trust and Believe
By Dietmar Kohl

I Love to Live and I Live to Love

Love and Live

Live and Love

Trust and Believe!

Be Excited and very Delighted!

Dietmar Kohl, Born and raised in Vienna, Austria, enjoyed an eclectic

life full of art steeped in a deep-rooted culture. “My father gave me my first

camera when I was a teenager and we often enjoyed photography

together. As a young man, I began my lifelong work as a commercial

fashion photographer”.

On the Fringe
By Ronald G. Carrillo

On the fringe never a win

Watching from the sidelines

Don’t want to infringe

Stay in the shadows

Maintain the status quo

Even though you know you don’t belong

Fighting on two fronts

Not white but brown

Not quite American enough

But I try to bluff my way

My eyes open but in disguise

Hoping for a bigger slice of the American pie

No more lies hear our cries

We endure never sure

Held back sometimes sabotage

Self-loathing but still we endure

Judged bullied maimed

A challenge to be my essential self

Injustice barriers blocking my potential

Survival mode keeping a secret code

On the fringe

A negative binge that ruins my balance

Seeking passions that maligned my youth

Unable to speak my truth

Love denied for being on the wrong side

My fringe is blue tinged with blood

I see the stars from the gutter

My heart is homeless

But my soul is strong

My feet tread the coals of indifference

But my mind can fly and reach the sky

The weak are targeted

The fringe must appease

The seats of power that speak for the majority

An extreme right becomes unjust

Defending an us versus them

Status quo inquisitors maintain the line

Do not cross at your peril

At what cost America the great

Stunting the potential of so many men and women

Who dare to be their authentic selves

But unable to contribute their full capacity

Haters become unhinged around people who are different

They pollute the mainstream like bad apples

Turn the other cheek

Go underground

Develop kindness

Understand your enemy

Grow a thick skin

Survival instincts sink in

Fanatics are the psychotic fringe

Extremists are terrorists

Creating a predator prey mentality

Those hunted go underground

Pretend, defend, try to mend

Often must bend

In group out group infighting feeds disease

Stop the insanity

No more fringe

No more going backwards

Heartlessness injures our soul life

We must turn toward a new Paradise

BEAUTIFUL PARTS

by
Peter Yates
©2023

Her most beautiful parts
are the ones
she’d most like to change.

Her legs?
She’d love to have be longer.
Nothing much – an inch or two.

Touchingly, her liftup heels
just give that game away,
drawing my attention up
to where it loves to go.
I linger there on muscled thighs
whose rubbings charm
far more than any gap.

Her breasts?
Should sag a little less,
she feels.
And I?
I take her fondly,
as she comes.

‘Too thick, these brows!’
So tisk the tweezers in her hand.
Glad am I
that Nature does so readily return
to vacant land.

Down there?
Amid the jungle of her mons,
she experiments with buzzing apparatus.

Intrigued, I spy,
but sadly find her occupied
with something other than
her pleasure.
To her blade, a silken forest falls!
leaving me, for my caresses,
only stubble.

father/time
By Charla M. DelaCuadra

so passes

the golden autumn

of this world

into a dark/light place

made of lengthening shadows

and warm tender moments alike.

poignant relief marks the passing

of each second and season,

pearls on a string slipping away

through fingers

roughened by time,

all the more cherished

for that which has gnarled them.

fear not,

though a shadow passes over your eyes

at the thought

of things unknown.

in the end,

you are loved.

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

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

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

20 Years Left youtube live stream 2/19/22

https://youtu.be/GT1D5k2EeKU

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

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

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

http://voyagela.com/interview/daily-inspiration-meet-linda-kaye/https://

shoutoutla.com/meet-linda-kaye-poet-poetry-and-theatrical-producer-filmmaker/

May Poet's Place

May 04, 2023

POETS PLACE
MAY 2023

May is bringing the blooms. The rain is feeding the flowers, and we are definitely in a growth spurt of countless things. Smog is back big time. Homelessness is bursting at the seams. Baby boomers are booming out. It’s out a sight, man. The sights and sounds of May resonate with the constant drones of weed hackers and leaf blowers piercing the skin and stirring up the human psyche unleashing dangerous rage. There is no quiet anymore in LA. To manage the incessant noise, the manufacturers of headsets, ear plugs and medication for headaches are blooming, so to speak. And speaking of head trauma, My head still aches from the whiplash I suffered recently from a rear end car accident. The guy who rammed into me was of course too close to my tail. I had to slam on my breaks to avoid hitting a drunken pedestrian who was almost hit by another ‘not paying attention’ driver. People are NOT PAYING ATTENTION! Have I mentioned that before? I think so. I’m even guilty of it. Mind just wandering around the perimeters of my personal bubble which reaches about 3 feet in diameter from my face. Oh and even sometimes when I’m driving somewhere I have to stop and talk (yell) to myself to pay attention. Where am I going again?? Life in LA.

We have amassed a stellar line up of writers this month. Check us out, and tell your friends to take a read! It’s free and easy babe. And always open for submissions. No theme, any genre, all are invited to be published!!

Love, Linda :0)

Trash Talk
By Linda Kaye

Trash Talk. Hyperbole. I know what you guys are fucking thinking. That We're making all this up. This life shit that’s going on. Do you think it’s happening just to FUCK with your head?

And it will FUCK with your head because most of you are clueless- that’s right. Most of you are not paying attention to what’s going on around you.

How many strikes or bullshit comments can you make before you're canceled? Who decides who is canceled? What does it mean to be canceled? Can I be canceled if I call out stupid people? Are there cancel cops out there? “Officer. It wasn’t me”. I’m lying, I did say some shit.

Hello? Are you Paying attention? Ok tell me what you understand about what I just inferred. Because of our negligence, head in the sand behaviors, probably by the year 2047 people wont be able to step outside their doors without a gas mask.

Look, I’m not being judgmental I get it people are just fucking stupid because they’re not paying attention. Yeah, It’s the other guy’s problem. The greeds 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.

Survival depends on the preparations you have invested in your whole life

Are you ready?

First Rain
By Aaron Schulte

The first rains hit my windows

Fat drops scraped clean paths

In my accumulated dirt

That wasn’t noticeable before

So I stepped into nature’s shower

To rinse away all of my grime

I relaxed and a weight fell away

Leaving the bones to start again

Aaron Schulte born in 1975 and raised in the small town of Victoria, Texas, Aaron Schulte found himself frequently escaping to the stories of movies and television shows. This daydreamer couldn’t find his footing in the paths that everyone he knew pursued, so he moved to Los Angeles to see what filmmaking was about. He attended Columbia College-Hollywood from 1995-‘99 and found his love of creating escapes for other people.

He majored in Cinematography and minored in Screenwriting. His too shy nature kept his writing on a more private side, but he flourished as a “lighting guy” in Hollywood. He has been an IATSE local 728 member since 2005 and has racked up lots of credits. However, writing poetry, essays, and short stories has remained a solid basis for his approach to his work and art making.

Life Poem
By Daniel Schack

I do not believe in a God, necessarily. But I believe in godliness. I do not wish to be a saint, but I think I am saintly enough. I do not consider myself so sinful but must have fun and enjoy temptations. I do not consider myself so evil but there might be a reason why backwards evil spells live. Maybe with both directions is what it takes to give. If life is evil and evil is life, let me do both in peace, without malicious judgement and spite. If you not mind. But where or what is your mind?

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

I SEE NOW
11-11-2021
7:59 a.m
By Mary Cheung

I look in the mirror and suddenly I see.

That I've become my mom.

I have the same look about me that she did.

I look like her, except with colored hair.

That kind of makes me happy.

Because I see now what an awesome person she was.

How strong and capable she was.

Fiercely independent and counted on no one and could do it all.

She was the super mom.

She took care of 6 kids.

Raised us and gave us all of her love.

Took care of the family and worked hard to make money to support us.

She went out shopping almost daily.

For fresh foods so that she could cook us good homemade meals.

I have so many good memories of my early childhood.

All of the love and care .

Carefree days of joy and laughter.

She taught us many valuable skills.

And instilled in us strong work ethics.

She always found the time to spend with us.

She made the time to teach us and help us with homework.

Multitasking feeding our minds and feeding our stomachs.

I have such fond memories of her cooking in the kitchen while singing a Chinese song about a beautiful rose.

Of her climbing onto the top bunk bed with me to sleep and hold me because I was scared.

Of her coming to my Halloween parade in kindergarten while I marched around with a brown paper bag on my head.

Of her bringing me a clean pair of underwear and pants because I had an accident at school.

Of her endless Chinese fables that always had a good moral to them.

Of her knitting at the speed of light and not having to look down at her hands while she did it.

Of watching the care she took to put on makeup and do her hair.

Of me tagging along with her to night school to learn English so she could do more for us in this "America".

Of her taking us by the playground so that we could play on the swings and spin us on the carousels.

Of her crying when I went to the airport to head out to Los Angeles to attend school and start my new life.

So yeah she put on pounds in her older age .

But she still had the same fierce spirit and tenacity.

Still kind, loving and supportive.

I have that same strong determination.

I'm starting to look like her physically as well.

And I've put on a bit of weight.

I have that same drive that she did.

The same enthusiasm and love for her family.

So yeah I'm becoming my mom.

But hopefully the new improved version of her.

Mom 2.0 And hopefully my kids will appreciate me sooner than later.

Because God knows I didn't until it was late in her life.

By then I was scrambling to spend as much of my time with her as I could b4 the end.

I hope mom knows that I finally finally realized what a gem she was.

And how much I loved and cherished all that she gave me.

Happy Mother's Day Mom.

Thank you for giving me the world and making me who I am.

65,000,000 BC
By Michael D. Meloan

I was beginning to think that Rolf was a loser. He was gone most of the day, while I foraged for roots and berries, swept out our cave, and mended our loincloths and skins. Then he’d come home empty-handed. No sabretooth tiger, not even a rabbit. After some of my delicious wild weed stew, he wanted a backrub, and sex. It was over in about two minutes.

But one day, my life was radically transformed. I was bent-over, gathering fallen fruit, when I saw a fast-moving shadow looming from above. Suddenly I was flying. My bobcat skin was in the claws of a pterodactyl. His wingspan was enormous. Staggering. We soared effortlessly on the wind. Then he headed at speed for a large cave on a towering cliffside. We skidded inside on the smooth rock interior. I was terrified, wondering if he was planning to devour me. He let out an ear-shattering screech and stared at me with his probing primordial eye.

Then he flew back out of the cave. I went to the edge and looked down. It was a sheer drop of thousands of feet. So I decided to just sit and wait. If he wanted to kill me, he would have already done it.

Soon, he returned with a large juicy capybara in his beak. He presented it to me, and almost bowed as he released it.

I built a fire and roasted it on a spit. We both enjoyed the delicious beast in silence.

After dinner, we gazed at the rocky green hills spanning out toward the horizon. It was breathtaking. I had never been up so high.
Pter is strong--he doesn’t need to blather-on endlessly. He lives in a world of action.

After the meal, as the light began to wane, Pter reached over and gently touched me with one of his enormous leathery wings. His energy was electrifying. My nipples hardened as I imagined what it would be like to feel those powerful wings delicately brush against my naked body.

***

I am still enthralled by Pter’s quiet strength. But reptilian love making is a challenge. We make do. Sometimes I feel as if I can read his mind. He has revealed flashes of quiet vulnerability. My intuition has sharpened and so has his.

I am sometimes lonely for my own kind. But I know that this hilltop lair is a refuge from a hostile world. I must make use of this gift, to gain a kind of wisdom that only emerges from solitude.

Poema
By G.Billie Quijano

Dragg Revolucion

Maquillaje, palabras

Ruby red gritos, a solution

Free to gown

Rhinestones, sequins

Flowing and sway

Gold lame chanclas

Not far behind

Ru, Sasha, Divine

Dragg eternally, not a crime

Your colonized laws

Will spin and fade

Queens don't prance, they dance

Lipsync, sing

And everything in between

Lashes, wigs

The snap of a finger

The scent of their sashay lingers

The government, don't make a mistake

For what is at stake

Protect their Vidas

Honor thy Reinas

I got you homegirl

Dragg Revolucion

This poem is dedicated to the Queens who make our lives richer because of their beauty, talents and fierceness. The world is a better place.

G.Billie Quijano/Hija de East Los. Poeta, natural creative, instigator of beauty. My wish is to share my art, my words, a desire to make a connection and contribution. To maintain beauty and balance in the Universe. I continue to evolve and participate in the cultural rhythm of the barrio.

the mission
By Joshua Dresser

I’m hungry

I’m hungry and I just left the chow hall

story of my life

a flat cap on my balding head

coke bottle glasses

this little plastic jig to make cigarettes

$20 a week just for being on the Program

and I am envied

being envied in this place

is like shit wishing it was vomit

two-thirds of my life in prison

too long in the carnival

my last winter will be spent here

hungry

always hungry

He resides in Los Angeles.

The Price for Knowing God
By Bill Ratner

An old bed prayer made up each night, we never did this stuff at supper. God, make sure everything burbles up at safe speeds, amen. A duty like cleaning my plate learned at Y-Camp from pale college boys still at God’s behest. They were into sign-making, enamel paint lettering, squares of metal cut on the new bandsaw, aphorisms about Christ and water, weekend outings, safe canoeing.

On Ash Wednesday my Aunt Caroline draws her finger down my brow making me up with burnt ash, sin, and magic, rushing to God—the cartoon of it: cave, shadow, trickster, devil child, apologist, the lonely one, all costumed with star eyes.

Fragments of a dream where I’m not embarrassed to say, Dionysis, tall he was, grape vines in his hair, mythic chin, smooth, fatty skin, whom I never worshipped or saw much in paintings, appeared to me in the hallway at a party and said, You’re doing okay.

Bill Ratner’s poems are published in Best Small Fictions 2021–Sonder Press; chapbook: To Decorate a Casket–Finishing Line Press; full-length collection: Fear of Fish–Alien Buddha Press, and other journals. He is a 9-time winner of The Moth StorySLAM, 2-time winner of Best of The Hollywood Fringe Extension Award for Solo Performance. He earns his living as a voice actor. https://billratner.com/author • @billratner

Beyond Black Skies
By Victoria Ester Orantes

Suddenly a storm obscures skies once clear.

Angry bursts of light, she quivers in fear.

Where are the blue skies that she knew so well?

Black clouds attack where the sunflower dwells.

From warm rays to lightning, where will she turn?

She recalls with closed eyes as petals burn.

To exist is to suffer and rejoice.

To thrive, fear and pain one cannot avoid.

Petal in hand, a reminder of strength.

Tempests test spirit, but blue skies await.

Coffee Issues
By Ronald G. Carrillo

Coffee morning

Pod inserted

Laptop on

Sacred smell

Drip drip

The first sips

Black unadorned

Sacred brew

Fully awake

A splash of half and half

Coffee mate if I’m in the mood

No sugar ever

More options

If I am coffee dating with a friend

Coffee greed

Caffeine exploitation

A franchise on every corner

Coffee vampires

Feeding the hunger

Cappuccino, expresso, latte

Café au Lait, mocha, Americano

So many extras adding to our addiction

Too many flavors for java

Just give me my cup of joe

Home brew

For the ride to work

In my sippy cup thermos

Sacred brew in Styrofoam a big red flag

LAUSD in-house coffee crap

Pasadena senior center mud too weak

Diner restaurant perk hit or miss

Coffee filter or pods

French press or pour over

Percolating coffee pot or machine

Whole bean or ready ground

A connoisseur or an everyday common joe

Coffee cup of sobriety

Filled to the brim

With Trader Joe’s special blend

First sip

I am fully awake

Let the day begin

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

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

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

20 Years Left youtube live stream 2/19/22

https://youtu.be/GT1D5k2EeKU

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

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

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

http://voyagela.com/interview/daily-inspiration-meet-linda-kaye/

April Poet's Place

April 05, 2023

Linda and Ed and friends Trash Talking at Artapalooza this past Saturday, April 22. Good times!

POETS PLACE
April 2023

Spring!!! Winds are blowing. Weeds are tumbling. Ex presidents getting their due justice. What could be better!! “A light exists in Spring” writes Emily Dickinson. A light in our step, and hopefully a light at the end of the tunnel. For some it’s a time to celebrate a renewal of respect for the people who seek the betterment of our society. It’s hard to know who is on that journey. But if we open our eyes and look into each others heart, we can get a taste of their intentions. POETS PLACE, serves our community and is a gift that will host authors who want to share their prose. A platform to open their hearts and often bare their souls. Everyone is welcome to submit their work. And the beauty is your work is published. Wow! Imagine that. No scrutiny or judgement. What a concept!! I feel blessed to be in this chair. Let your peers know that this place exists!! Give a shout out!!!

Love, Linda XXOO

Twas a bittersweet last hurrah
By Linda Kaye

As she laid there pondering that last time thinking of how to escape to leave behind the last remnants of lust making

still drunk with remorse

sadness and disappointment crept over her brow

the heat disappearing as quickly as it started

filtering out the remaining annoyances that were once possibilities turned odorous needing a wash

A freshness no longer evident smelled rank, losing its lustful fragrance down the drain of disgust

Innocently started one Christmas eve night which lasted until sunset with power packed delight

the lights were ignited by dawns early light

was measured in kisses, sweet wishes, pure lust seconds from dusk

What started down below fizzled from head to toe when the fog in the windows cleared and reality reappeared a clearer perspective shined through and stifled the ongoing ride

Tinker Bells and fairytales can carry one so far

smooth talking not enough to kindle a waning flame

Takes romantic spells sweet delicious smells and baskets of abundant treats

secret trips to the hottest spots

will undoubtedly fuel the fire

And whilst stoking the flame of genuine desire creates explosions of passion,

Reality ultimately sets in and puts out the fire

I DON'T BELONG
12:26a.m.
3-26-23
By Mary Cheung

I didn't like how it made me feel.

The strangeness of not quite fitting in.

Being left out in the cold.

Stranded like an island.

I'm a jigsaw puzzle.

A strange piece that didn't fit in with the rest.

kept trying to jam myself in.

Didn't work, maybe it was for the best.

Everyone else had their own agendas.

And none of it fitted with mine.

They were all dancing to a different tune.

That left me deaf, dumb and blind.

I just didn't belong

We were a completely different tribe.

Kept banging my head against the wall.

Trying to do what was right,

Only it was all wrong.

Was just setting myself up for a fall.

So I got hurt and I felt the pain.

Because you could only live in the moment.

Not plan and schedule.

Although I had hoped in vain.

And you gave me hope with your drug and alcohol fueled promises.

That evaporated into the air.

As the words rolled off your tongue.

It did more harm than good, like you didn't even care.

So I'm left disappointed for having believed.

And for putting my efforts into cultivating

A relationship with you.

I'm disappointed for having let myself believe.

For allowing myself to be led down,

A path that dissolved beneath the both of us.

And everyone else seemed to be fine

with the rules that they made up.

Like the lights that changed and pulsated

In time with the music and stuff.

Everyone was fine with the flighty nature of their nature.

Everyone was fine with their short attention spans.

Everyone was fine with the ridiculous moronic juvenile tastes...but me

I didn't belong.

And everything that made me feel wrong.

Only showed me,

It was time to go in search of my own tribe...

Just so I can belong.

P-22
By Terrence Butcher

Like many Generation X kids, I spent Sunday evenings in the 1970s glued to the set, watching The Wonderful World of Disney, and I fondly recall TV specials like Return of The Big Cat or Run, Appaloosa, Run, in which pumas were depicted as malicious assassins, eager to pounce on any creature they stumbled across - man included - not just for sustenance, but seemingly, even just for sport. Disney redeemed themselves somewhat with the sweetly optimistic CHARLIE, THE LONESOME COUGAR, the tale of a semi-feral puma who's virtually a pet, but typically, Hollywood at large trained us to fear the second largest wild cat in the Americas, and they did this job exceedingly well.

Yet, statistically, pumas overwhelmingly avoid encounters with humankind, and for most of his life, P-22 was no exception. Some years back, in a nocturnal wildlife lecture at USC, I viewed hidden camera footage of him in his sprawling urban 'hood of Griffith Park. P-22 stood by a well-worn trail, peering into the nighttime gloom. A scant few minutes later, a hiker strode by that same spot, but P-22 was nowhere to be seen. He had vanished quietly into the darkness, ever elusive, protecting himself, and however unwittingly, also keeping us safe.

This situation changed irrevocably shortly before his death, when he approached a pedestrian in a hilly enclave north of Hollywood and snatched that man's beloved on-leash Chihuahua. Subsequently, our most renowned resident mountain lion was captured, and suffering various health issues, including injury from a possible auto collision, he was put down. I regret P-22's woeful condition, but I don't necessarily lament the decision of local authorities to terminate his life. He would only have grown more desperate, and such a scenario might not have ended well for him or us. And confinement to a zoo would likely have been a miserable experience for this wide-ranging cat. Ultimately, P-22 had the misfortune to inhabit one of the most populous metropolitan regions on the planet.

But we should champion his success at doing so for so many years. P-22 was a living remnant of the ancient, pre-development Los Angeles, a contemporary avatar of the rich landscape of megafauna we celebrate whenever we visit the George C. Page Museum and its bubbling tar pits on our city's now-congested Westside. Puma...cougar...mountain lion...panther...even catamount, his species is known by a colorful assortment of names, and P-22 was its local ambassador.

Terrence Butcher is a freelance writer, tour guide, and film programmer currently living in Pasadena. He has written previously for The Pasadena Weekly and Popmatters.com.

Triple
By daniel j. Schack

There are 3 types of people in the world. If someone is crazy but not an asshole.that is o.k. if a person is an asshole but is not crazy.that is o.k. but no one can deal with a crazy asshole.

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

tidy
By Devin Murphy

Cleaning the names of dead friends from my phone

Wondering which ones died alone

I was meaning to call you last time I was home

But easy the evenings go

I guess that’s how old stories die

Shared aspects of our past lives

Not apt to recast the last times we tried

Blasted on wine

I remember fragments of life you

helped me align

Better now, the time flies

Would we have talked about where we’ve been

since we stopped talking again?

Neither how nor why

Now that I’m dry?

I keep my reasons we stopped speaking

Mine

But

If I delete your name from my address book

How many days

til I forget how you looked?

I assess the damage we did to our memories

And lovingly

I delete your name as our last act of entropy

Maybe that’s that

It’s a wrap

I’ll have more dead friends later

trapped in data to scrap

And should this be how modern worlds collapse,

at least

You and me,

beneath the streets

15 years back,

had dreams

we spilled on concrete

had trains to catch

Devin Murphy is a poet and producer living in Puna, Hawai'i. Having recently produced work in narrative film, theater, and esports, Devin is currently advocating against the expansion of the police state in America during a time of rising fascism. Please google LASD Gangs, Stop Cop City, and check out Blackshirts and Reds by Michael Parenti from your local library.

BECAUSE I SAY I LOVE YOU
By: IECarlo
7 January 2023

Because I say I love you, doesn’t mean I love you for me It means I love you for you
Because I say I love you does not mean I want to own you It means I like you as person

The love is a byproduct an outgrowth of that like
It does not mean I want to dominate you
It means I enjoy you, your person
For you bring reason, and I love that in a person Reason and purpose is what I observe in a person To which I love freely

In this of life
Life is love
So I give and say I love you
Without prejudice
I give love because I love me
And my need is to love freely
And you happen to be present
So here take what I give as that of a person who considers You enough to give you love
Nor do I want to manipulate or gaslight you
For I bring joy, and happiness is my motto in life
You are an extension of that joy for life
And I feel and thank you for being a part of it

Of the many who have entered my life you remain
That special muse being I write in prose of that poetry of many
You of all the muse’s I’ve had stand in favor of my love

Ismael (East) Carlo, poet, actor begins on the streets of East Harlem, el barrio whose monica 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

She Said Me too
By Ronald G. Carrillo

No one heard her

But they all listened

No one believed her

But they knew it was true

She suffered alone

The masses watched her on the news

She was unknown

He was a celebrity

She spoke her truth

He paid for elitist justice

She was one of many

He was a serial abuser of power

Coda: Is the glass half full or half empty

Is the world dying or healing itself

Are we crossing a Rubicon or forging a new paradigm

Are we building walls to keep diversity out

Or giving free rein to false oath keepers and proud boys

Will we fully embrace the potential of our constitution

Or will it remain only high minded words on paper

She said me too

I can’t breath

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

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

20 Years Left youtube live stream 2/19/22

https://youtu.be/GT1D5k2EeKU

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

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

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

http://voyagela.com/interview/daily-inspiration-meet-linda-kaye/

March Poet's Place

March 05, 2023

POETS PLACE
MARCH EDITION 2023

March is here already. The skies are blue and the mountains are packed with gorgeous snow. I can see the San Gabriel Mountains from my window. It implies a magnificence that I/we in LA haven’t seen before. Is this the new climate for LA? Rain, snow, freezing temps? Can we adjust to the brilliance of cool, fresh air in LA? Some may say bah! Can’t deal “I came to LA for the sunshine and heat”. Many of us are here for those same reasons. I myself, well I just go with the flow. I’m a native. And I have witnessed many different climate experiences. Along with the rogue twister that roared down my block in the San Fernando valley eons ago!!!! I am someone who enjoys the changes in the weather. It’s exciting. If I have the right clothes, then I’m good. Clothes matter in changing climates. My wardrobe always consists of items that not only reflect my personality, but the weather changes. We can still look cute and chic in cold weather. What someone wears tells a story. How someone moves in their clothes reveals their comfort in the space we see them in. Are they stiff, nervous, pulling on their buttons and pant legs? Fluid, dancing around showing off their wears? Standing tall chest out a smile on their face? Or slouching looking down at the floor or their phone? How much of their body is revealed, or hidden amongst layers of clothes tells us a lot about a person’s personality. Are they dressed flamboyantly? Saying loudly here I am world! Shy and introverted? Wearing dark and drab clothes with arms held close around their chest? Which says don’t get too close, or I’ll… Sexy or ashamed? Of course we cannot touch someones breasts because they are wearing a low cut top revealing almost everything they have there. But our minds say different. It says…. (your thoughts here bleep bleep bleep). Damn that impulse control! In times past society would say that wearing revealing clothes is asking for trouble. For example, if someone was sexually accosted in a public place- say a young female in a short skirt by a man- the court would say based on what she was wearing that “she was asking for it”. In fact, that did happen to me. I was about 14 years old. I had cut school (what a shock!) and was walking down the street in the San Fernando valley, dressed in a short skirt and heels, and a man followed me, grabbed me from behind and carried me into an alleyway. If the cops had come, they probably would've blamed me for one, cutting school, and 2 for wearing revealing clothes. Well it’s a different time now and I am happy to say that here in LA we can look and dress how we feel without recrimination. Finally! Oh and by the way, I fought off that asshole dude! I’m a badass as you all know!

Thank you all for continuing to support POETS PLACE and the LAARTNEWS for your monthly submissions!!! Stay warm and dress warm! Pull out that bitchen coat you’ve never worn! Yes! Go ahead and reveal yourself!!! Enjoy!!

Love, Linda :0)

Words to live by
By Linda Kaye

Clean up your act

step up your game

make love a smart choice

always have a voice

create a beautiful space, wash dishes, and your face

never assume

just bloom

say yes to your partner they’ll love you forever

cherish the moment the next one and the next one

look closely at a stranger who becomes a stranger no more

have faith in intuition it tells no lies

repeat often that you love me

that I’m beautiful in your eyes

tell the world that you are happy

cuz today’s gift of life is no surprise!

Point blank babe or refer to this
By Daniel Schack

There is really no such thing as being intellectual. there is only knowing what one is talking about or not.

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

La Bohemia Cosmica
By G.Billie Quijano

This is where the story begins

This is where I stand

This is how I see

I was born in the cosmos

Soy hija de Tonantzin, Coyolxauhqui and Ixchel

Poetry was written as I swam in their swells

I am a prodigy of the revolution

Vibrant colores de Mexico a solution

Colonization and patriarchy has a beginning and an end

It was always a question of when

My Mestizaje sangre washes over and baptizes me

The Indigenous dna was always free

There was a time in my life my heart was in fragments, my body broken

That occurrence in my life, will not be reduced to token

The sway of my skirts whisper brush strokes that only know truth

And the mirror will not be shattered

My soul will not be battered

My eyebrows furrow the likeness of lust, beauty and pain

This chapter in my life was not to feign

Los ojos de claridad ignites the rhythm of 2 heartbeats, but interrupted

And you left white pulque glistening on my inner thigh uncorrupted

I breath you in every movement across my palette

I see you in every flor

Many times our words were dipped in war.

My feet on the ground, my soul in flight

I am the red that ignites the heart

I am art

This is where the story begins...

THE STRUGGLE
3-31-22
5:36 pm
By Mary Cheung

The struggle with leaving the past in the past. And moving on to an unknown future.

How to do that?

I know, I should just put one foot in front of the other....

And b4 you know it.....

I am ahead and past the memories,

that had its hooks in me...

Reminding of what I have lost.

Reminding me how good it was.

Reminding of how hard life was.

Yet it was the best there ever was.

Moments slipping through my fingers.

They just force their way out.

Especially when un called for.

In moments when my guard is low.

Something amazing will happen in my life!

And I'll just want to shout it out and share it with you...

only you won't be here...

Something will happen that will bring me to tears!

And bring me to my knees...

Only you won't be there to hold me up any more.

And so I continue, to struggle.

P-22
By Ronald G. Carrillo

P-22 celebrity cougar of Los Angeles

You deserve your own star on Hollywood’s walk of fame

You were with us only ten years but your numerical name

Has brought you fans far and near

Your wild nature had to overcome

The extremes of metropolis living

Traversing city neighborhoods and treacherous freeways

Yet you sparkled for your close-up

Near the city of angels iconic Hollywood sign

The flash seen around the world

Caught in Griffith Park behind the lights of your city

You were seen roaming on the sidewalks of Silver Lake

Like a Brad Pitt of your species the paparazzi followed you

With multiple returns to Los Feliz and those Hollywood Hills

You gave your audience thrills each time you made the papers

You changed the consciousness of those people aware of you

Making the cover of the LA Times widening your audience

Mountain lion of our high regard you have elevated our being

And your species has sensitized our greed for domination

We must share the land equitably with all animals

Nature matters hear the cries

Of caged zoo animal prisoners

Orcas part of aquarium circus shows

Held captive from their true ocean homes

We traffic animals for our vanity and egos

Cows and chickens in holding pens with no room to move

An animal holocaust of the highest order

For consumer gluttony and blood

Trophy hunters paying top dollar to kill

Who are the true predators?

P-22 you have advanced our sensitivity

For valuing life in all its magnificent forms

You are the Greta Thunberg of the animal kingdom

Coda: The sanctity of all life matters

The murdering of billions of chickens

The torture and slaughter of laboratory monkeys

The electrical stunning of pigs before they are slain

The horrendous poaching of pangolins for Chinese medicine

Big game hunting for sport and trophy

All manner of shark species endangered from finning

Dolphins and whales killed in fishing nets to catch tuna

Mountain gorillas losing their forest homes and killed for bush meat

P-22 you have planted a seed and opened our eyes

So much more work needs to be done for wildlife conservation

P-22 you have moved us and put us on notice

For action and evolving our human empathy for all species

greetings
by joshua dresser

it’s a balmy covid-19

degrees in l.a.

where masks hide

the smiles, and the smiles

never reach the eyes

the cameras roll

stop again

public readings of

halted scripts

a fashion show on the boulevard…

important shit

physically distancing

but never able to keep

people from being up your ass

no matter how socially distant

you’ve become

bring an umbrella for the tears

wear flipflops while you’re here

rent a car and sit in traffic

see the stars, become an addict

and remember our motto

fuck you, pay me

He resides in Los Angeles.

Hidden From Chaos
February 12th
By Lisa Roman

In the stillness of our hearts,

we find love.

Hidden from the chaos

and extreme world.

It pulsates with vigor and strength -

keeps us alive
and hopeful.

Everything else -
is to pass time
until we understand

this.

Lisa Roman is a native Californian, writer, artist, filmmaker and healer. Her background consists of set decorating and art direction for film during the 80's and 90's. She began doing pop up shows for various local artists during that time. Writing consists of poetry, humorist tales, scriptwriter and script doctoring. Her stories of magic and healing contain metaphysical essence. Entering 2021 as a film producer/writer with intent of continued expansion of spirit. Hope for a more sensitive future.

frito-lay
by Jeff Chayette
3 December 2020

the sign beckoned

I bet you can’t eat just one

she picked that spot

the ad was a dare

fun in the sun

bright lights at night

dare to pick one

dare to pick everyone

the adrenaline pair

blonde & brunette

sometimes red head sweat

they scrimped on pimps

worked a team

hey boys

take the dream

slinky kinky

jump and pump suits

mr right is out of sight

last stop on a dime

we’ll roll you

knife you

dice and slice you

sneaky creeps

wrapped in sheets

beneath the bridge

of sante fe and first

cemented fools

cast off tools

we lost our dream

made you cream

a nights work

a days pay

on a ship

to an early grave

she has my back

don’t loose track

if you blink

I’ll wink

as your soul sinks

into the slime

this was not another

broken bum

who took the bait

made the stop

conformist

contortionist

you said whips

rhyme with chips

lets take a dip

I tie the knots

teach you moves

to slide and groove

unravel and travel

like Houdini

shot by Fellini

hold your breath

until you sweat

bring you to the brink of death

escape behind the stage left drape

this magic tragic act

asphyxiation is exotic

can be fun

even erotic

she blinked

he winked

was this her shrink

her father figure disfigured

alarms and charms

he winked again tied the knot

said not too tight

not too loose

play goldilocks and grandma goose

rub a dub dub

lets jump in the tub

when the time is right

I’ll set you free

she held her breath

lied face down

he watched the clock

the second hand ran past twelve

twice then thrice and twice once more

more more more the aztec wheels began to spin

mosaic perfection

end over end

an Escher world

weave or leave

or cleave from life

end strife and bother

pass out breath water

colored lights spin

turn white so bright

convulsed

a gasp

a splash

a reverie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

20 Years Left youtube live stream 2/19/22

https://youtu.be/GT1D5k2EeKU

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

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

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

http://voyagela.com/interview/daily-inspiration-meet-linda-kaye/

February Poet's Place

February 04, 2023

POETS PLACE
February Edition 2023

As the world continues to turn and we attempt to come together on an even plane, we ultimately slip and start to regress to what’s familiar. Comfortable. Sane like. Blind to reality. Maybe leaving one’s comfort zone is not your jam. Well that’s okay. Because the world out there, out of your c-zone is fucking crazy and totally out of wack! Many (ignorant) people in our country follow the advice of the leaders of violence, decadence, gluttony and greed. Those leaders accept and believe that the destruction of our planet is their birth right. Or political right. Is that true? I have not fact checked that statement. Nor do I plan to. It just makes me sick to read about the political landscape at the moment. It scares me. Please help me to feel safe here. I feel as if every day there are death threats knocking on my door. It pulses in my veins constantly, like a meditation beat, a heartbeat, a throbbing time bomb signaling pressure to do something, or do nothing. There’s this pervasive and perverse anger boil that rests at the base of my neck. Squeezing and draining out the life force that is trying to live there. Can you feel me? I definitely feel you. Sometimes too much. It’s what fuels my neck boil. So let’s pop this sucker and read some poetry to ease our personal pain and shout out to the world our inner most thoughts. Hopefully of love and pleasure!!!

Love, Linda :0)

Death Threats
By Linda Kaye

I see you lurking behind that cloak of mysterious intentions

I smell your death perfume

it permeates the room like a rotting rat

I see what you’re up to

you think I don’t know what you want?

you think I’m blind to the fact you want to take away my lifestream my heart dreams

take away my sex chops

to pull out all the stops and plug the ventilation tube

wipe out the world beneath my feet?

Do you have a warrant for my arrest?

What you say? It’s gonna be a cardiac arrest?

What the fuck!!

You already have taken away my memory of the best years of my life

stashed it away in a dust ridden box

I don’t accept your subpoena

your paperworks a crock

I won’t sign anything cuz the dates are undetermined

It’s too early for jury duty and my number is too high

Wait! I still have a hall pass

I can show it to you

Have you already taken my memory card?

What did you just say?

my focus is hazy

are you already pulling my plug?

What happens next do I sit still whilst you drain my blood wash away my tears drug my fears with 1000 beers?!

Are my amends being heard over the screams of my aborted children?

Is this the revenge from my bullish teen victims?

Have I not atoned for all my sins?

Hey wait! Those are the sins that were perpetrated by my dead to early young mom

Do I have to pay for those sins?

Am I not worthy?

Wait I think I still have that credit slip for 1000 points of unused tix towards Disneyland’s ride of thrills, just wait a minute and I’ll go get it

just hang up your hat and sickle I’ll be right back

Btw you’re knock is heinous and your wearing a stupid hat!

I love my heart
By Patricia Woodlin

I love my heart

It's always there for me

day, night, morning, afternoon

every minute, second, week

month, year, summer ,winter,

fall, spring

O how I love my heart

Tic toc...tic toc...tic toc

Steady she goes..resolute, dependable

resilient, reliable

Mostly strong sometimes weary

but always willing to carry on

I love my heart

Patricia Woodlin is a retired Art Dept. professor from CSULA. She has authored books,published refereed journal articles, and given numerous presentations to local, national and international professional organizations on art education related topics. Currently she's co-curating and exhibition for the Ontario Museum of History and Art entitled "We the People. Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow".

KEEPING THE DOCTOR AWAY
By
Marilyn Fuss
February, 2017

The core of the apple I'd cut for you

still juts, oxidizing, faintly obscene,

in the halo of the paring gadget,

all unnoticed before.

The Fuji was struck with one motion,

making eight seedless wedges of maximum flesh.

One a day is the prescription

to keep prescribers away,

with their tablets of impossible scribble

for more bitter antidotes.

But what is the dosage for a fever

that renders this apple's fall from innocence?

A former teacher and go-fer, Marilyn Fuss has spent most of her life in Los Angeles, appreciating as many of its details as she can, and working to have a safe country to live in.

A LOVE LETTER OF SORTS
1-26-23
4:35 a.m.
By Mary Cheung

I’m lonely, and it's hard to fathom feeling like that. Especially for someone whose life has always been consumed with people in it in one way or another.

Especially for someone who’s had children in their life that commanded all of their moments in it. Then those moments died a creeping death of silence and loneliness. Now there’s no one that commands any importance.

I’m lonely.

I know it's hard to believe. With so much always going on in my life. So much Hustle and bustle, of things to do….that the “stuff” is just noise and not really things that matter in the scheme of life. Just something to keep me busy.

And one day I’ll be dead and gone and none of it would have mattered other than the life that grew and the creation of love and moments from another human being.

It’s pinpoint clear to me, in this early hour…that I have no real focal point of another real human. A tangible presence for me; to inspire me to get up in the mornings to and with.

To look forward to engaging with. To making new experiences with. To grow fond of. To be romantic and grow old together with. To share my thoughts with.

For someone to share my exciting news with. For someone to open my soul to and will look upon it and feel the love and reciprocate.

It can’t be my kids, because they have their own journey in life and I want them to have that ultimate experience for themselves as well.

No, I’ve got to find my own way out of this darkness. I’m fumbling around, lost.

And it blows me away, this hollow empty feeling. This missed connection with another living soul…

I’m lonely.

It’s a black hole that threatens to suck me in until I disappear.

Don’t let that be you too. Open yourself to finding someone to share your adventures with. That someone to complete your sentences with. That someone who lights you from within. I get it now, my mother had the same wishes for me in my forties and I had dismissed it with a “ yeah, yeah…plenty of time for that.” She was a fortune teller who saw into the possible paths of my future. Only I dismissed her as a charlatan.

I want to burn again with life, with love, with purpose.

3:33
By Melissa Dowler

I don’t want to go elsewhere

Not with my body

No tin can rattling tarmac

Give the clocks back some hours in the

dazzle of difference

The weather the street signs the drink on the corner

Dressed for digestion

For documentation

A pink petal riot, plants wilt at my doorstep

Choked on our poison

The clock flashes 3, remembering me

I don’t want to go elsewhere

Not with my mind

No psychedelic dream wash

Crystalline rush stuck in some old story

Reminding me when to fully soak in

Butter crunch mystery

Sugar sweet disappearing

Fed from the bottle, tried so hard to suckle

A body too big, stretched out and unwilling

Wanting to save, that urge kept returning

Never enough to find that I care

The 3 on the dashboard reminds me I’m yearning

Keep seeking, it answered, and always be there

I don’t want to go elsewhere

Yet I hurtle through space,

head on a platter and no lesson left

Delivered unto myself time and again

It calls me away and each one I follow

It calls me away and each word it’s true

There’s a time to lie back to look up to ask questions

There’s a time to lie back and be birthed anew

I don’t want to go elsewhere but a voice gently pressing

The cold damp stone, the wine cellar walls

The roots of the trees whisper white static slumber

The bell chimes 3, and I slowly slide under

The bell chimes 3 and I am elsewhere

Melissa Dowler is a filmmaker, writer, and sound healer who creates in the shimmering space between truth and imagination.

Melissa is the co-owner of award-winning production company Long Haul Films, where she directs feature and short documentaries and collaborates with visionary companies and artists on breakthrough branded content. She is also the founder of Starla Frequency Sound Healing, and offers transformational sound healing journeys to support people in feeling more relaxed, aligned, and empowered.

Melissa lives and works in northeast Los Angeles where she enjoys practicing yoga, taking long walks with her two rescue pups, tending to her growing flock of backyard chickens, and writing poetry and prose. Learn more and connect at melissadowler.com, starlafrequency.com, and longhaulfilms.com

valley of lost children
By Joshua Dresser

san fernando, bedroom community

rows of bricks and stucco

blanched by the sun, pastel green

blue, pink

cars on lawns

empty faces, blank places

fat, tired, useless

my gut bloats from the punch

the heat

the goddamn heat

concrete blasts the exhaust back

at us, this stable of shit and broken legs

dreams flushed, hopes the stuff

of front porch legend

consumption

to fill the time, to kill the want

cars lined up like shining beetles

unaware of the boots waiting to

crush us

over the hill is freedom

but we’re caught in this tar pit

sucking at our designer shoes

streets, lights, strip malls

buy buy, finally die

through car windows with no AC

misery, regret, and stained seats

this place is drowning with land in sight

He resides in Los Angeles.

A Gentle Companion
By Ronald G. Carrillo

Sweet man come unto me

I’ve been waiting for you all my life

Time to fulfill our truths without compromise

Look deep into my eyes know my secrets

There’ll be no lies between us

Solitary living and thriving on poetic passion

Giving my heart to a gentle companion

Single man lifestyle suits my solitary fashion and cares

But I still dream romance

Springtime street fairs and fireworks

With him in my mirror and shower

No longer able to cower alone

But ready to share the load of my journey

Eros speak to me and let me hear his voice

Waiting for someone in my own image

That it took me years to construct and develop

Through pain and hardship

Releasing trauma and healing myself

Learning lessons and gratitude

My path had many detours and steps backwards

Before I could move forward with authority

And find my soulmate and proper bookend

That Huckleberry everlasting friend

This gentle companion will come unto me like a cool August breeze

I will receive him like relief from loneliness

A rainbow union of two this birthday Summer

Senior man no longer in slumber

Hibernation blues now over

A full moon romance

Let me hear that spicy saxophone dance

Embrace me gentle companion

Behind that smooth jazz organ

Swoop in and I will accompany you to heaven

Senior man don’t make me wait another century

Decide and make your move

Not another decade will I be without you

I’m closing in to be your best friend

Wrap me up and take me home

Call me right now on the phone

Speak to me in the moonlight all alone

Take me to the fair and what a pair we will be

It is in our history to form this romantic alliance

Our own community in the air of love

No need to sign a pact

We are aligned in the stars

Not necessary to meet in Geneva

But a honeymoon in Spain

I won’t complain

Bring on the champagne

Nestle me and I will support you

Letting you be free

And I will continue to be fully me

Authentically gentle companion we will walk the line

Being each others Valentines

Coda: A gentle companionship is what I need

No longer able to read hard-core fantasies

I feed on love’s softer side now

But I still bleed for her deep romance

The sexual dance and love’s allure have a mature filter

Gentle companion hold me close

Warm my heart with your desire

Your senior touch is all the hearth fire that I need

Fill my Winter afternoon with charm and conversation

Holding hands and eyes that communicate sensation

Golden no more but still silver foxes

We continue to invest money into our accounts

I collect the honey of your manhood

Tea kettle on the stove

Our cats and chihuahuas in repose

This gentle companionship naps but doesn’t close

Lover brother inclusion is our freedom

Winter hibernation poetry reflection

Past the scars of youthful egos

Escaped the ravages of disease and addiction

The reality a haunting science fiction but love survives

In the wreckage of a genocidal scourge

Our tree rings widen in our earned seniority

Our companionship deepens fertilized in kindness

We ascend from our past to a new moon

The cloudy jigsaw sky of our early histories

Still a God’s eye of marvel and heavenly design

Time ages and tempers our desires like fine wine

No bitterness instead a sweet kiss of maturity

A mellow perfection with an edge of gentleness

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

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

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

20 Years Left youtube live stream 2/19/22

https://youtu.be/GT1D5k2EeKU

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

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

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

http://voyagela.com/interview/daily-inspiration-meet-linda-kaye/

January Poet's Place!

January 07, 2023

POETS PLACE

JANUARY EDITION 2023

It’s January 2023!!! The start of the new year. I am starting the new year with a fuck you world tour beat poetry show! YES!! I want to start off this year making a statement about death and how it feels to me in my senior years. Waiting at death’s door is a trap and I have fallen into it. Everyday I’m given a pass to keep on living. I’m pretending to not notice it’s approach, but death’s mojo keeps slapping me in the face letting me know it has no soul. When death’s tattoo starts to fade thats a good sign. Death is incongruent with life, there’s no shelf life. No grey area. If you hear the death rattle, get out of its way! Just turn up the stereo and dance the night away! “All but death can be adjusted” writes Emily Dickinson. And “Life is the tillage, and Death is the harvest” says Walt Whitman. So let’s get out there and plow MOTHERFUCKERS!!!

Thank you everyone for another year in prose!!!

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

Love, Linda :0)

Keep On Living
By Linda Kaye

I keep on living like a time bomb without the fuse

I keep on living because dying is just too painful

I keep on living because I love to watch the sunset crawl through the clouds that pass by my bedroom window

I keep on living not because I’m afraid of death

I just don’t wanna be there when it happens

I keep on living because I haven’t finished paying off my fees for my final resting place

I keep on living because I want to be alive when Trump gets arrested and goes to jail

I keep on living to watch my son’s progress as he grows and to see his face light up when he sees his mom after months apart

I keep on living hoping to one day travel to foreign lands and eat my way across Italy!

Start From the Beginning
By:IE Carlo
27 March 2021

What’s on my mind today. I am not responsible for my parents behavior, nor do I have much to say about their behavior. I know as much about life as they knew about theirs. Judgement not a concern of mine for what do I know? I defend myself by the awareness of what I know. I suppose nothing. Today is the day and only today exists, tomorrow I leave for tomorrow. Plans I make from second to second, minute to minute, hour to hour, and when tomorrow comes, if so, I’m sure I’ll be planning in sequence as well. My moment to moment thought is of the self, the thoughts that enter from moment to moment are sparks at times, at others, boring with little to add. I have a romance with life, it’s inspiring this thing called living, especially when I laugh and make others laugh, maybe not so much by what is said as to how it’s said. I also give myself challenges and with these challenges comes failures, but failure can be a grand reward, for then I know to change that failure into a mistake. Unhappy, sure at times! Especially when that unhappiness is brought forward by someone I love and care for deeply, a friend, a lover, and family can be hurting by way of their actions, especially that of trust. My behavior at times is crude and unsympathetic; there’s a madness to my madness of being as well, you see it's not what I say but how I say it. Forgiving, I think I forgive but I also equate whether or not to trust again? Some of us are directors at heart, we direct not others but ourselves; given the situation we change the narrative and outcome of that narrative. There’s an old saying, a quote: “The Devil knows more, not because he’s the Devil, but because he’s old”.

Jealous of others, there are times that that enters my being, but that’s part of that behavioral thing, the outgrowth of negative advertising. I view that of the haves and the have nots, a pattern of inequality as a follower of righteousness…Yes, even at this tender age of 79 plus years I want to change the world. I want to see people laughing, having deep philosophical conversations of life, family, and all that incompasses life, be it politics or death, and most important showing respect and love for all living things, be it air, earth, plant, or animal. But believe me there are times I wish I was somebody else, another person, me! That of a person full of anger and hate perhaps. Full of prejudice, not caring for others, not involved, giving no quarter. No explanations, just that of the ‘me’ syndrome. And to hell with others, and I mean all others! This feeling could not exist if it were not placed there by others. [B]ut I am not that person, and could never be that person, or blame others for my actions. I do not hate anybody, I don’t love everybody but neither do I hate anybody. My anger lasts two minutes, that’s thirty seconds too long, and then it’s over, forgotten! The question is: “Does it matter what this person is doing to me?” Or, “...why even contemplate it”! There’s no room in my space for hate. Neither do I fling accusations, nor look down on another individual. But I am a person with thick skin and vibrations justify my actions. As the saying goes, if it doesn't feel right it isn’t right! So move on and find your justification and happiness somewhere else. Regrets I’ve had a few but never enough to mention. Can’t change what’s already happened or came before. So, why give it any weight of thought! But change can be rewarding in and of itself. And that’s what I aspire too, change of mind, change of will, change of heart, changes! Always looking for the bright side of things, what makes me who I am is what I aspire to be and for...to be with honesty of heart. Clear of mind, brevity of words; as Shakespear wrote: “...brevity is the soul of wit”!

Ismael (East) Carlo, poet, actor begins on the streets of East Harlem, el barrio whose monica 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

JOY
6-3-20
1:23 a.m.
By Mary Cheung

When u dance , its infectious,

Like a smile spreading across my body.

Transparent and apparent,

Ur joy hooks me in .

Starts at my toes and races up to my heart.

Wipes away all worries and dumps away lifes shitty parts.

Ur joy hooks me in,

I cannot deny.

It just does,

Don't think or ask why.

releases my soul, timed in step to the beat.

Soaring to new heights,

On two new happy feet.

A cheshire smile wrapped up in plaid,

grooving and moving , ur such a cool cat....

Joy rolls off of you,

The scent intoxicates, seeps into my nose.

Caught up in ur rift ,

Spinning out of control

Infect me with ur joy,

Im high on living this dream

And in those few minutes

2 bodies become one team.

When the music finally ends,

And the energy fades

Lingers still the feeling,

I'm still glowing,

in a magical haze.

My Man is a Mountain
By Victoria Ester Orantes

My man is a mountain who is not made of sand,

Thus to solid stone safety, wild waters ran.

Raging femininity freed after all these years.

A solidity whose warmth evaporated fears.

A virile embankment that diserns his complement,

Therefore are the sacred equipoise of opposites.

United not from a despondent longing,

rather two autarkies found true belonging.

Here, she is nourishment and not a flood.

With her, his soil yields growth and not mud.

A frontier for what is feminine,

Is the moralistic masculine.

Poema
By G. Billie Quijano

New days have begun

The opera of La Sirena is sung

Landscape of mind

Love universal

We return to the divine

Mystery of life unfolds, illuminating

Breath of cosmic messages

Energy, forward, rejuvenating

Brilliance, dreams

Poetry swaying in the streams

Allure of color weaves emotions

Vastness of light and passion

Peace flowing

Bliss exploding

Unforgettable

19 echoes of children's laughter

Now in the beyond

Torrential tears

Flood our dreams

Club Q

Negligence of civil rights

Justice prevails

Drag not a crime

Mantra to connect soul

Tragedies and victories

We remain whole

Britney Griner, home

Synchronicity

Synergy aglow

La Mariposa, constant flight

Inner festival of light

Ocean of consciousness

Shadow of the moon

Vida, gratitude, spirit, corazon

G. Billie Quijano-Hija de East Los, Hermana de San Pancho. Palabra mujer, Natural Creative, Instigator of Beauty. My wish is to share my art and my words. A desire to make a connection, contribution and to maintain beauty and balance in the universe. Only Love, never Hate

Feliz Ano Nuevo, 2023

Big Night
By Michael Meloan

Driving up the long incline toward Bukowski’s New Year’s Eve party, we could hear music. Cars were parked on both sides of the street all the way down the block. We walked along the dark and narrow driveway toward the front door.

Chrissie rang the bell and we waited. Then she rang it again. Finally, I knocked hard. Linda came to the door smoking one of Buk’s Beedis.

"Oh my God! You have got to be kidding!"

Linda laughed uproariously, then called people over to see Chrissie's leopard print Lycra spandex body suit. A number of other women laughed. Chrissie shot me an angry look. It was my idea. We stepped inside.

A man with a heavy German accent said, "I like it!"

Chrissie’s face was flushed. I grabbed her arm and led her past Linda into the living room.

There were two scenes: one centered around the hors d’oeuvres table where director André Broussard stood; another around the long sofa and wooden table in the living room where Bukowski held court.

People were perched on big pillows arranged next to the table. Chrissie and I sat down on the sofa. Buk said nothing as we arrived. He was already drunk and in the midst of a story. There were long pauses as he sucked on a Beedi. The group hung on his every word.

"I read in the downtown public library during the day and slept in the alleys at night. Told stories in the bars to hustle drinks. Normal people bored me--I couldn't live that life, couldn’t be around that. But in the end, the bums bored me too. The only thing that lasts is wine.” He took a puff. “Just drink, and drink...and whatever else happens is just what happens."

Bukowski’s speech was slow and his eyes were like slits. He continued.

"Later, I had my own room in a skid row hotel. After a long night of drinking, I started puking up blood and foul-smelling chunks of flesh. It just came and came into the toilet. The stench was overpowering. They took me in an ambulance to the charity ward at County General. One of the doctors said he'd level with me--I had about a 50-50 chance. I stayed there for a month, and slowly got better. When it was time to go, a doctor sat down with me in a little white room. He said if I EVER drank alcohol again, I would die." Long pause. "So, I walked out and found a shitty little bar right down the street. It smelled good--cigar smoke and stale booze. I sat down and ordered a glass of beer. No hard liquor, because I was trying to go easy. I watched the bubbles rise up for about 30 seconds, then drank it down fast.” He paused and took a puff. “I didn't die."

"Amazing story!" blurted out a young guy.

“Wow,” gasped a middle-aged woman. Everyone murmured with approval as they took deep pulls of wine.

Bukowski stared out the window toward the harbor. Then he turned to me. "I was wondering if you'd show up, man. I thought you might be grist for a poem if you have enough wine. So drink up!"

He raised his glass to me. I clinked it and took a drink. Then I glanced over at Chrissie. She was scanning the room looking for rock stars and listening with one ear to André Broussard’s monologue. He was saying something about the French Revolution.

A guy sitting on the other side of Bukowski said, “You’re the most important writer of the late twentieth century.”

Bukowski slowly turned and asked, "What do you do, kid?"

"I'm an actor," the guy said. He had a finely trimmed goatee and wore a black turtleneck with tight jeans.

Bukowski paused and looked into his face, then took a drink.

"You'll never make it man...your eyes are dead. There's nothing there. Give it up now, before you waste any more time. Go into insurance or real estate."

The group went silent. Bukowski took another drag from his cigarette as the guy nervously got up and walked away.

I suddenly noticed that Chrissie was standing next to Broussard, looking at him adoringly. Sean Penn and Bono hadn’t shown up, so Broussard was the biggest fish in the house. As I got up and walked past that group on my way to the kitchen, Broussard was telling Chrissie a story about the Marquis de Sade.

“The Marquis whipped the people into a frenzy, with political rants and kinky sex monologues.”

I saw him glance at her chest. Then I heard him say, "I like your outfit. It's very chic. I think you are making your own fashion statement."

I sat back down on the sofa next to Bukowski.

"I'm glad you're here man," he said. "I need somebody with a brain sitting next to me."

He stared at me, waiting for a response. I took a drink. The crowd around the sofa had thinned out since the encounter with the actor. Nobody wanted to get too close.

Linda came over and sat on the floor next to Buk, with her legs crossed in a semi-lotus pose. Long strawberry blond hair flowed halfway down her back. She lit up a joint.

"I've got my own rock 'n’ roll groupie," he said. “She parties all night in the brand-new convertible I bought her. And I don’t even ask who she’s fucking. Do I?”

"This is not the time," she said, taking a drag from the joint. The muscles in her jaw tightened.

"You've been riding my coattails for years. If it wasn't for me, where the hell would you be?”

“I have no idea,” she said. The room was silent. Linda’s eyes blazed with anger.

"I think you're being too hard on her," I said.

"I think you'd better shut up, motherfuck. You haven't been very entertaining tonight. In fact, you're beginning to bore me," he said, moving his face close to mine. His eyes were mean and glassy, like a vicious animal.

He got up to go to the bathroom, lost his balance and reeled. I reached up, but he swatted my hand away. Then he staggered across the room.

A group of Linda's friends from the health food restaurant stood near the bathroom talking about how much they liked John Tesh’s music.

The bathroom door flew open. Bukowski emerged and walked quickly toward a balding man in a cardigan sweater.

"Where's your drink?!" Bukowski demanded.

"This is my drink," said the man, holding up a Calistoga water.

Bukowski turned to a woman nearby, "Where's your drink?"

"I don't drink," the woman cheerfully replied.

Bukowski went nose-to-nose with her and said, "Then get out! You bore me!" He turned to the man and said, "You get out, too!" Then he looked around the room and shouted, "In fact, I want everybody out. I should be upstairs typing. I might die tomorrow and I DON’T want to spend my last night on earth with this bunch!"

He walked around the room screaming in people’s faces, "GET OUT! GET OUT! GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE!"

Most looked afraid as they gathered up purses and coats and quickly headed toward the front door.

Bukowski continued to scream, "GET OUT, GET OUT!"

The arteries on his neck bulged and his face turned purple. He occasionally planted his hand on a back, male or female, and pushed them out.

Linda watched in silence, still seething with anger. Bukowski stood guard until the last stragglers had gone.

As I left, I looked over my shoulder but there was no hint of recognition.

Walking slowly down the long driveway, I scanned the crowd. Chrissie was missing. When I got to the sidewalk, three men in their early twenties were craning their necks, trying to look inside the house.

"What is happening? What is happening?" one asked, with a German accent.

"Bukowski threw everybody out because we weren't drinking enough.”

"This is very cool," he said. “Very Bukowski!"

“We’ve come all the way from Munich to meet him!” said another guy.

“It’s a bad night to ring the doorbell,” I said. “He’ll tear your head off.”

“We saw André Broussard!” he added. “Got his autograph as he was leaving in a limousine with a nice prostitute.” Then he smiled, “I’m sure he got a good blowjob as soon as they were inside.”

My throat knotted up.

I got into my old Citroën a few minutes before the stroke of midnight. Skyrockets whizzed into the darkness. Gunshots erupted from the neighborhoods at the bottom of the hill. Rounds were going off in all directions. Suddenly I heard the buzz-and-zing of a nearby bullet.

Driving aimlessly, I screeched around corners and floored the accelerator, almost hoping the engine would blow. When I got home, the message light was on. I thought it would be Chrissie giving me some bullshit story about where she was. Then I recognized my mother's voice. She was sobbing uncontrollably.

"It was...almost midnight. One more day…and we would have been gone on our cruise. Just one more day!”

She was gasping for breath. Then the message ended.

McIntyre and my mother had stepped onto the balcony of the Jonathan Beach Club for some fresh air. He lit a cigarette as they gazed out at the sweeping arc of lights spanning toward Palos Verdes Estates.

“I’m so happy tonight, being here with you,” he said, turning to look at her.

She hesitated for a moment, then turned toward him. They kissed.

He looked at his watch. “It’s nearly midnight. I’ll get some Champagne.”

My mother stared at the towering Christmas tree covered in fairy lights and hundreds of ornaments. It reminded her of New York City when she was a young woman.

She made eye contact with McIntyre as he left the bar. Smiling broadly, he walked toward her. Then his expression suddenly changed and his eyes widened. He abruptly stopped as his face became a twisted mask of pain. The glasses dropped to the floor. Clutching his chest, he staggered, then fell to his knees.

“My God! Somebody help! My God!” she screamed as she ran into the ballroom.

I called my father. He said that McIntyre was dead on arrival at the emergency room at St. John’s in Santa Monica. My mother had ridden in the ambulance. Then she called my father and he picked her up at the hospital.

“She’s here with me now.” He sounded more himself than he had in months. I could hear her crying in the background. “I have to go,” he said.

I turned on the TV. It was a replay of the ball drop in Times Square. Counting, 5-4-3-2-1…then explosive crowd noise. Happy New Year. I cracked open a beer and turned on my computer to write an email to my boss Lamont at Raytheon. The company had demanded that I break up with Chrissie because of her drug bust, or my secret clearance would be denied. But in the middle of the note, I deleted it. Instead, I started writing a story. By 3:45 am, I had knocked out seven pages rapid fire. I had the machine gun rhythms of Bukowski’s black Underwood typewriter in my head. Then the telephone rang. It was Chrissie. Her voice sounded faint. She was in the lobby of the Château Marmont hotel.

"Broussard said he was going to put me in a movie. How stupid could I be? He’s a drunk and a bore and an asshole. You’re the only one who really gets me. I love you. Will you let me come back?"

I paused, "Yeah…come back. We’re going to hit the road--Prague, Morocco, India, who knows where. Are you ready for that?"

"Cool," she said without hesitating. “I’m there.”

A Nation on the Verge
By Ronald G. Carrillo

“Look at Mother Nature on the run in the nineteen seventies”

-Neil Young 1970

“They paved Paradise and put up a parking lot”

-Joni Mitchell 1970

“Come on people! Sons and mothers! Keep the dream of the two

young brothers – Save the children – Save the country – Now!”

-Laura Nyro 1969

The heralders from a past golden age

Sounding the alarm

The house is burning

The children aren’t learning

Our government supports concerning

The wheels of justice slow in turning

The blue and red no longer conferring

Domestic racial unrest and violence returning

White supremacy spewing and gurgling

So many global issues converging

Mother Earth in crisis and surging

The common people cutting back and conserving

Whilst the elites continue diverting

Polar social economic spheres headed for a cruel purging

Our democratic system and its people diverging

Global wars and hatred whirling

Children coming of age and their futures swirling

The window of climate change very worrying

The red, white and blue of democracy unfurling

The political left and right continually quarreling

Their division reflecting on the American streets churning

In the swirling winds our nation lurching out of control

Ancient wounds from antebellum times festering

Our constitution of ideals only words curdling

Good Americans hurling to a breaking point

Uncertain future lives searching for answers

Hurdling over obstacles at high risk

The nation must change course divorce herself from this insanity

Reaching our breaking point

Survivors and liars no longer conversing

Liars scurrying toward extremes

Americans homeless and verging off course

A merging at year’s end for judgement

The blade of justice hurrying toward closure

Returning her people once more toward balance

Coda: The ghosts of Lincoln and Kennedy

Twin martyrs overlooking the precipice of the nation’s state

A manifest destiny of ill fate

A check that the current generation can create

Before a disastrous global checkmate

Think back when the glass was more than half full

Remember when the dream was truly real

Not a red, white and blue political cliche

Our country becoming a cracked abstract surreal image

Russian and Chinese hackers pillage

At our backdoor gates of bounty

Depleting our creativity and invention

For deception and ill will that will spill blood

The giant chessboard will be toppled in animosity

A species self-destructing for what gain

Turn back from enmity people of this earth

Recognize our common bonds as brothers

Or we will continue to suffer the horrors of war

That Bob Dylan wrote of back in a time of nuclear buildup

O humanity let the children suffer no more

Their careless caregivers only deliver greed

O rulers of nations put down your swords, your bombs

Go look into the children’s eyes

Realize the true value of life in our children

Suffer no more in war

But instead play with your children

Little girls can do anything even rule the world

Little boys no longer forced to carry the load

Kings and queens be gone

Dictators and tyrants no longer have a place at the table

Once again we must return to the garden of our best possibilities

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

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

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

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

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

20 Years Left youtube live stream 2/19/22

https://youtu.be/GT1D5k2EeKU

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

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

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

http://voyagela.com/interview/daily-inspiration-meet-linda-kaye/

December Poet's Place

December 04, 2022

POETS PLACE
December Edition 2022

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

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

Love, Linda :0)

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

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

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

FOMO cursing through my veins

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

mayhem reaching its peak

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

still no ask

No ask No invite!

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

Well, maybe there was 3

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

Words aren't necessary.

You travel miles and miles to be here,

To share...

Your time with me.

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

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

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

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

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

So we make croissants from scratch,

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

We build fires and warm ourselves in the cold nights.

We make streaming bowls of hot Ramen.

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

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

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

Knowing that everyday we gift each other with these gems.

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

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

But with commitment and steadfast actions that show...

That love doesn't come with price tags;

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

The environment
by daniel schack

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

...for a change?

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

The Magician
July 13, 2022
By Jeffrey Chayette

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

what is this an advertisement for B’nai Brith,

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

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

I live breath and eat magic,

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

how’d you like to meet your half sister

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

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

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

I love that line trapped like mice... rats

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

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

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

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

this was no funny business,

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

time to give a little blood and trace the lines,

the Kabbalah was the road map to magic,

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

magic is my God Ein Sof,

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

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

good blood bad blood good blood bad blood

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

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

It worked, the Kabbalah worked, you always knew,

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

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

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

Aaron Ezekiel, the barber Zeke,

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

was honored feared, revered,

he could change his form

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

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

it’s the fixed unchanging image of the vain,

stubborn, punishing old testament God,

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

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

Emmanuel Kessler, you are the chosen Cohen

Dedicated to the memory of Carl Ballantine 1917-2009

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

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

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

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

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

FUZZY TREE
By Jefferson Carter

After bathing in heavy cream,

I turn down the covers

of my Procrustean bed,

“itching” (as the song goes)

“like a man on a fuzzy tree”

who’s “gonna need an ocean

of calamine lotion.” Today,

a climate justice blog posted,

“you won’t get a clean reading

from a tree used as an ashtray.”

Cryptic? Yes & my computer

crashed for good just as I asked

if climate change could cause

what feels like terminal skin-itch,

resistant so far to every possible

lotion & remedy. At five a.m.,

as I’m finally falling asleep, I wonder

which of my two recurrent bad dreams

I’ll experience: stranded in Whole Foods,

traumatized by the fifty different brands

of organic bone broth or boarding

a city bus whose suicidal driver

has decided today’s the day.

Poem
By Richard Q. Russeth

Words actually do fucking hurt,

contrary to a popular nursery rhyme

about Sticks and Stones.

In 8th grade, I was hit by a fusillade

of taunts for being deaf and,

by extension, dumb.

I called in sick thirty days that year.

Most afternoons I came home

to a drunk mother who nonetheless

had salve for my bruises, dinner,

ice cream and a bed unlike

those martyred at Club Q

whose bruises can’t heal,

because the dead cannot ever.

Those who survived will never again

sit with their back to the front door,

will ponder how it is that

the bullets that missed them

still carved ragged wounds

in the struggle of their heart,

will wonder how love itself

became so feared that,

time and again,

it’s gunned down.

Yet will be astonished at

how that love grew so strong

that it survives mass murder, over and over again.

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

Tassajara
By Michael D. Meloan

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

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

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

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

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

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

“OK,” I replied.

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

Blue and Tendaberry
By Ronald G. Carrillo

Joni and Laura are my bookends

East and west coasts sirens of my youth

Lyrical poets with mystique and perceptive charm

Their feminine epistles guided my steps of innocence

These female muses continue to inspire

Conspiring with me poetically

Rewiring my consciousness implicitly toward sacred truths

Leading me through clouds and tempting captain men

This life anniversary opens me even more

To their incredible origin of creation through song

I imprinted their example in every poetic pore

A canyon lady with seagull vision

A New York Tendaberry songstress confessing from her piano

Emoting my own feelings of discovery

Allowing me a voice to understand my humanity

Kings that left me no keys

These thieves held me captive

Not understanding me then would not set me free

Unable to release my spirit fully

I sought refuge in clouds of understanding

Dismantling the jigsaw of God in divine time

Then suffering the psycho spark of love

That only depressed my heart leading me to blue

These polar bookends of life deciphering their hues

Captains that had no set course

Drifting in and out of my life

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

Lavender sensations subduing romantic incriminations

The past was a diving board of learning

Drowning me mostly in bad decisions, drink and disease

My loneliness was a deep cry from the womb of abandonment

I was trying to recover and overcome birth pains

That haunt me still in my present life

But I have discovered my strengths

Stepping stones of maturity have brought me here to you

Twin souls at twilight holds hands

Walking on the sands of the Pacific

Love is specific and at times so terrific

Pairing hands and feet to completeness

Growing in each other’s uniqueness

I am fully here now ever so near to you

A Christmas Story from a Jewish Family
by Aleka Corwin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

20 Years Left youtube live stream 2/19/22

https://youtu.be/GT1D5k2EeKU

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

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

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

November Poet's Place

November 07, 2022

POETS PLACE

November Edition 2022

Life is sometimes fraught with immeasurable challenges. To deal with these challenges, we as a people often seek refuge in the comforts of what’s knowable, comfortable and safe. But we are not always knowable, comfortable and safe. When we are at our most vulnerable, people can often misguide us, taking us places where maybe they feel less judged and less at risk of exposure. The heart beats with intensity because we know there is something amiss in their intentions. It doesn’t feel authentic. Why do I write about this? Well, I am empathic by nature, not nurtured. And because not everyone has the power to see through those with impure intentions. I want to impart wisdom that encourages critical thought, that is nurturing, supportive and empathic. I believe that sharing what you have learned and experienced is important. To teach, so that my experience and wisdom passes on. Maya Angelou said, “when you learn, teach, when you get, give”. From my profession as a social worker and professor, I have taught so many students, co-workers, doctors, nurses, patients, clients, friends and family, all that I know about the importance of trusting and respecting your instincts and allowing your authentic self to dictate your choices. Only then can you fully reach your potential with the knowledge and respect that it came from your own passions and heartfelt, honest choices. That, I believe, is our responsibility to human kind. Self-actualization is defined in psychology, as the achievement of one's full potential through creativity, independence, spontaneity, and a grasp of the real world. Are we all capable of achieving this? Is this only relative in the context of our own personal environment? What about the people who have lost their freedoms? How do they self-actualize? When we are personally confronted with those who do not have the same freedoms as ourselves, and are given the opportunity to help, and teach, and share our gifts of wealth and knowledge, I hope you do. Because that show of altruistic kindness can potentially alter someone’s course, possibly towards attaining self-actualization. Sharing the love that we have been blessed to experience can be life changing.

And now we share the gifts of poetry and storytelling…

Love, Linda

IN GRATITUDE OF LOVE
By:IE Carlo
11 August 2022

“…only you cared when I needed a friend

Believed in me through thick and thin…this poem

Is for you filled with gratitude and love”

For you have brought peace from within to

This other celestial soul

If only you could touch my soul the way you touch

My heart my hand

A feeling of intense awareness of the self

A feeling so much more than words can ever express

Need you look at my rostro, my eyes

That touch you’ve grown accustomed to, I’ve become accustomed to is there

And if ever we were too part

know this love will still burn from within

For it travels with us no matter where we may go

Deep in its meaning is this love, for it lingers with anticipation

Of touching you again

For every new day brings with it a new beginning…

…only you cared when I needed a friend, believed in me

Through thick and thin, this poem is for you filled with gratitude and love…”

Ismael (East) Carlo, poet, actor begins on the streets of East Harlem, el barrio whose monica 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

MY TURN
10-21-22
11:56 pm
By Mary Cheung

It's my turn,

My time to shine and grow.

No commitments and nothing to hold me back anymore.

No children to raise, lunches to pack.

No homework to help work on.

No dr appts to head out to.

No girls scout trip functions.

No school events to attend.

No playdates to arrange or host.

No dinners and meals to make but my own.

No staying up late or round the clock playing nurse to my kids.

No life that is centered around theirs.

It's my turn.

I can finally attend to my needs.

The physical and the mental.

The lazy or boring days if I so choose.

The hectic art filled days just because I can.

The late night binge fest, just because I can.

The leaving the house work and clean up to, "ehhh, maybe I'll get it tomorrow"

Yup, it's my turn.

Time to get busy living my life, my way.

Alone is an Illusion
By Victoria Ester Orantes

Alone is an illusion seems like an insult to say,

When looming reclusivity has been real everyday.

Tenebrosity is often the source of a birth.

Afterall, do not seeds flourish in darkness of earth?

You have been planted; for a time you must be alone.

Learn to live in love; the sun will summon you home.

Skyward from the depths your stem will reach.

Lead with faith; lithic soil will breach.

When the time is true, you’ll find all that you've sought.

Kindred spirits await at the mountain top.

Make America (____________) Again?
By Ronald G. Carrillo

Cancerous hearts made of nicotine and tar

Drips the blues from an absent muse

No longer able to see the stars

Cacophonous guitars refuse to play in harmony

The world falls apart in every way

DNA cousins at war instead of loving brothers

The Doomsday glacier about to fall

Two disgraced presidential hooligans still scamming

One now out of office spreading an incredible lie

Guided by his sick ego for attention

The other risking war for a by-gone degree of greatness

Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum humming the same political song

Rogue masculinity devoid of empathy

Covid strains mutating creating a global plague

Building nuclear instead of a truer consciousness

False religions still controlling the masses

Pedophile priests hiding in Vatican mansions

Hollywood mogul perverts facing years of crime

Strange times as the pendulum of time swings

To extremes cutting off monster heads that do not bleed

A hornets’ nest of white nationalistic trouble

But upheld in the White House by Republican dysfunction

Holding the party line in a sick loyalty to authoritarian rule

Congressmen and women more focused on their political lives

Disregarding their oaths of office and unable to develop a spine

Constitutional erosion blowing away democratic ideals

The winds of political collapse in the making

Baking poisonous bread for public consumption

Giving into our worst fears and the bad angels of our humanity

Insanity upholding the red, white and blue

Make America right again heal the nation

She has gone off her democratic rails

Make America just again she fails her people

The evidence for an indictment is plentiful

Make America continue developing toward a more perfect union

Greatness is empire and ego building

Make America great again was a campaign lie

Such lies and shallow beliefs brought down Alexander the Great

And so many supposed others in their brief period in the spotlight

If we do not embrace our strength in diversity we too will perish

Our republic will come apart

Its red, white and blue stitching is already undoing

Racial infighting will end our prosperity and domestic tranquility

White nationalists are focused on the wrong scapegoat

Misplaced hatred and a lack of empathy spawn violence

For a power group that feels now they are being outnumbered

And losing their place at Uncle Sam’s table

Ego and gluttony when there truly is enough room at the inn

Proud boys who feel they are losing their political toys

Oath keepers not promoting the general welfare

And unable to secure the blessings of liberty for ALL Americans

Tantrum patriots of the lowest regard for their democracy

Spewing hatred and violence that goes against everything

They are trying to save like evangelicals who love the sinner

Supposedly but hate the sin no win only judgement

Make America democratic and constitutional again

Not red states not blue states not “white only”

Not exclusive make America inclusive again

Make Americans dream again

Coda: “Being great again” are pretty but shallow words

Hollow political breadcrumbs to get votes

Leading a sheepish constituency in his/her view of greatness

Great being measured by the vision of that political seeker

I want depth in my democracy supported by strong foundational ideals

Being great is temporary but the depth of a democracy

Is built on strong beliefs in freedom and liberty for all

Being great is fool’s gold and usually a one trick pony

Democracy should be a cavalry utilizing all its citizens’ talents

A full skill set of potential not just some pompous wizard

Calling the shots with scarecrows trumpeting the hero’s voice

A return to sanity and valid true choice in our vote

God bless America
By Daniel Schack

Having received the American history award in 1981 I can honestly say one needs to know only 3 things to win it hands down. these are, it stinks, it always stunk, and will probably continue to stink. just live your life the best you can and try to love life and people as much as you can. oh well life is hell. swell.

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

Beginners
By Michael D. Meloan

Lorrie Logan lived next door. She had flaxen hair, freckles, and little gingham dresses. One day, I asked if I could carry her books home from school. I’d seen some other boys do that.

She paused, then said, “Ok.”

While walking, I had no idea what to say. My mind was a blank.
Finally, I asked, “Do you like ‘Runaround Sue’ by Dion and the Belmonts?”

“I don’t know what that is,” she replied.

As we arrived at her house, she paused, “My mom’s car is not in the driveway. But I have a key. Do you want to come in for a minute? Um, for a glass of lemonade.”

“Ok,” I said.

There was a note on the fridge. “Honey, had an emergency errand. Back as soon as possible. –Mom”

“Gone again,” said Lorrie, as she removed a carton of lemonade and poured two tall glasses. Then she clinked hers against mine and took a big drink. We sat down at the kitchen table. Again, my mind was a blank.

Suddenly Lorrie got up and left the room. She returned wearing one of her mother’s silky black dresses and a pair of red high heels. The dress was way too long, but she held it up while she walked. And the shoes were too big, but she clomped around in them anyway.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“You look great,” I replied.

Then she disappeared again and came back with lipstick, makeup, and a small mirror. While I drank my lemonade, she used a brush to smear black goop on her eyelashes. Clumps were on the ends when she blinked. Then she drew around her eyes with a big black pencil. And finally she pushed her lips out and smeared on bright red lipstick. It was messy and didn’t seem right. She looked into the mirror and frowned.

“How do you like it?” she asked.

“I like it!” I said. And I kinda did.

“Have another lemonade,” she said. “I’ll put on some music. My mom likes a song called Swing Swing Swing, she plays it over-and-over.”

As it started up, there was a lot of energy--drums going crazy and wild horns.

“Let’s dance!” she said, pulling me by the hand into the living room.

Holding up her dress, she twirled around to the music and threw her hands up in the air. I had never danced before, so I tried to follow her moves. It was fun. When the music ended, she came toward me and kissed me on the lips. I could taste the lipstick. As she was walking over to the hi-fi to put on another record, the front door flew open. Her mother was suddenly in the room. Wearing a tight white skirt, heels, blouse with a v-neck, and the same red-red lipstick.

“What the hell is going on here?! Take off that makeup for God’s sake! Who is that boy?!”

But before Lorrie could answer, her mother ran into the bathroom and came back with a wet washcloth. Then she angrily grabbed her arm and started scouring. Lorrie sobbed. Her face was a smear of red and black.

“Mike likes me this way,” she whimpered.

Her mother turned to me. “You! Go home! Now!”

With my head down, I slunk out the door, hoping she wasn’t going to call my mother.

The next day at school, I saw Lorrie. When we made eye contact from across the playground, she looked away.

A few weeks later, I heard my parents talking. My mother said the Logans were getting a divorce. Lorrie’s father always looked angry, with a flattop and a cigarette in his mouth.

The day the moving van came, I walked outside. Lorrie was standing in the front yard. This time when we made eye contact, she didn’t look away. Just as she opened her mouth, about to speak, her mother came out of the house. Lorrie turned her head. Then they got into a Plymouth Barracuda and drove away. For just a second, Lorrie looked back.

Thoughts on Heroes--Real and Otherwise--at Veteran's Day 1986
By Marilyn Fuss

Last Spring, when our family traveled in France, the fallout from Chernobyl passed us by, we read. There was also a short hiatus after the worldwide violence of March and April, and before the most recent terrorist atrocities. We felt a little charmed when we arrived in the Champagne district. So many folks we saw had a pink glow from the regional and iconic specialty--tables in even the simplest cafés had pails of ice with sunken green bottles. La Vie en Rose, Champagne, and the countryside and Reims Cathedral that time of year was all it was fabled to be.

When entering the Argonne Forest and Verdun, we were awakened out of our hedonism by reminders of World War I. There were markers, memorials, and an

unspeakably large ossuary. This was the Great War whose Armistice on November 11 we celebrated until 1954, when the holiday was expanded to recognize all veterans.

Seventy years ago, 800,000 men died in battle in the region. Evidence of war is easy to come by in Europe. Yet all around Verdun, the bunkers and deadly trenches

were covered with forest and dense fields. The earth itself showed renewal--most of the rolling landscape appeared intact. Rich verdure even smothered those war

markers which must remain, lest as the adages go, we forget and repeat our history. The land is as close to a jungle as it could be, given the cool temperature of Eastern France [!] even in late Spring. My thought then was that Chernobyl [site of a different set of ancestors as well as the nuclear power plant], whose initial fires were still being put out as we gazed by the Meuse River, will have no such second chance. The earth will not recover if a nuclear war should occur, and with arms limitation agreements just squelched in Reykjavik!

Shell-pocked buildings in the cities of Lorraine and Alsace are also not as resilient as the soil nearby mentioned above, and they spoke of the Second World War. Outside of the South, we don't have many such wartime damage reminders in the U.S. There are the people we have lost to battle in wars far away, but our most concrete examples are in the news and via Hollywood. Rambo, that veteran of a recent jungle war, was a hot topic last Spring in France, as much as he was here. People there did not appreciate Sylvester Stallone's public announcement that he would forego the Cannes Film Festival for fear of a terrorist attack. A few days after Rambo's alternate had made his sensational statement, my husband's French cousin Daniel said wryly over lunch, "Stallone, Rambo, does not come to France. He is afraid. But you are here! You are the heroes." He echoed my own satiric thought, although we were less likely to be targets of terrorism than Rambo. This incident notes the role in world consciousness of a current war hero archetype, real or not. It also introduces Daniel Handfus.

Daniel is cynical, in a good-natured way, about the vicissitudes of politics, with good reason. He is representative of another kind of wartime survivor, a Jewish man whose life was interrupted for five or six years during World War II. Having spent a year or so hidden in a home with a righteous French family not his own, and losing part of his family to the Nazis, he waited out the rest of the war as a farmer, under an assumed name in the Île de France (called île, or island, because since it surrounds Paris, it has always been a distinct agricultural and cultural hub). Daniel's type of veteran did not have the option or even any of the few rewards, of being a soldier, though he did share the risks.

It is soldiers whom we honor this week and month, both for the bravery many displayed and (like refugees) for that concession of years of time in their lives.

Those who are dead or disabled physically and emotionally were affected permanently. For other veterans the more temporary gaps in their lives, and all those lost periods meant or might have meant, are something which the rest of us need to appreciate, whether by admiration or merely reckoning. They went instead of us, no matter what their reasons for going to battle were, and no matter how we feel about those wars. This country was engaged in them, and most of us did not have to go and risk everything. We may consider the many possibilities of what they gave up, and credit them for that. And if we contemplate and visualize trauma and sacrifice of past wars, can we summon that reality to prevent the country from involvement in battle again?

A former teacher and go-fer, Marilyn Fuss has spent most of her life in Los Angeles, appreciating as many of its details as she can, and working to have a safe country to live in.

Como Vuelve El Amor…
By G. Billie Quijano

Divine departure

Ancestral blood ignites

Your translucent glow in flight

You return

You never left

Grief and joy beating beneath my breast

Reverence of intuition and memory

No need for translation

My journeys path, flowered with golden glitter

Souls connected, cosmic transmission

The whispers of marigold petals

Flirting with the winds

Ancient metamorphosis of thought

Galaxies of stars dancing in dreams

The fragrance of your smoldering copal

Your footprint in my DNA

Your traumas and victories

Bridled on my shoulders

I survive, history revived

The ritual of passage and return

My heart eternally yearns

The vibrato of Mariachis await you

Nectars to be imbibed

Pan dulce to delight

We are your audience

As we watch you dance the dance of time

G. Billie Quijano-Hija de East Los. Natural Creative, Photographer, Watercolorist, Assemblage/Textile Work. Bruja, Poeta, Instigator of Beauty, Mestiza.

The landscape of my childhood, my classrooms were elements of urban life, cool concrete, vibrant colors and sounds from a place I love, prepared me for my life as an artist.

My ancestors surrounded me with calla lilies, majestic cactus, sunflowers and bird of paradise. My neighbor Rafael’s rooster was my alarm clock. Trio Los Panchos played the soundtrack. Olvera street was my playground. Saturday’s breakfast was the delicious aromas of menudo, carnitas and freshly made tortillas de maiz from the local tortilleria on Whittier Blvd.

My heroes are the hard working, courageous street artists all over the world. My work is a humble practice of keeping tradition and history alive.

My wish is to share my art, a desire to make a connection and contribution. To maintain beauty and balance in the universe. I want to evolve and participate in the cultural rhythm of the streets and beyond.

10 Steps to a Happy Thanksgiving
By Jennie O

Step 1 includes clean shoes and sox.

Step 2 can’t be too far, but maybe shoot a bird?

Step 3 smoke a joint and snort some coke it will be a long night.

Step 4 is clearing some space to hide the bodies under the cornucopia and then check their wallets.

Step 5 and I don’t know why we cheers each year.

Step 6 she’s not your mom so don’t be shy to give her your package early.

Step 7 avoid uncle Mike because that isn’t candy in his pocket .

Step 8 is not that far, say you’re going to go say hi to the neighbors and disappear for an hour.

Step 9 look at the clock and think, this is almost over and then check the medicine cabinet for the real THANKS to thanksgiving.

Step 10 is great, take your families hand and give thanks your weren’t apart of the slaughter of native Americans, but we all kinda were.

Jennifer Guillermina Otero Aka Jenni "O" is 43 years old and a native of North-East Los Angeles, where she still resides with her mother and boyfriend. She has a degree in psychology and the culinary arts and is a certified life coach. Her hobbies include photography, videography, creative writing, dancing, and making people laugh. She is an Ex Jehovahs Witness activist and has the largest Ex Jehovahs Witness only Support Group in the world. Currently, she is making a webzine for her brand, Punk Slut as well as writing her memoirs.

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

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

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

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

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

20 Years Left youtube live stream 2/19/22

https://youtu.be/GT1D5k2EeKU

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

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

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

October Poet's Place

October 05, 2022

POET PLACE

OCTOBER EDITION 2022

Boo. October is here! And so are we. At least some of us are. We seem to be losing a lot of our our friends and family members lately. I guess that’s life hitting us in the reality face. Do you sometimes feel like you have been long dead and buried in another town? With the ashes of residual guilt? Caught in the eruption of a Vesuvius like storm? That’s how my head feels. Icing helps. Drugs can sometimes mask the pain. For a minute. Finding solace and contentment is often a reach. But with the knowledge that we are all doing what we can to survive, hopefully we find peace within our own surroundings.

Here are the October offerings from our lovely village of poets and writers from all over the universe!!

Headspace
By Linda Kaye

The road downhill is fraught with mysteries

jammie packed with new discoveries many unwanted juiced with new frailties

peppered with disabling disabilities doused and flamed from inflammations

sucker punched in the gut pockmarked and puking

gobsmacked at the mere thought of the loss of physicality lurking like a rapist in the future packed with a bag filled of horrifying cancers

arterial pressure rising inside the brain frying out the memories of the past

hold your breath count to 10

Am I still alive? Is it a good thing? I’ll ask Siri- they say “organisms have a survival instinct

they want to be here

they only want to be here if they thought it was good to be here”

Hmmmm

THE FIFTH GLASS
By Jon G. Jackson

This afternoon, my ex-wife came to visit

with her new wife. And we all

set up a table on the back porch.

We were having wine and cheese

purchased on our long trip,

a big loop locally. And we all, somehow,

thought we were one wine glass short.

When we talked about it later,

we all agreed: Yes, they had told me

to bring the glass out, and, yes, I did.

Like we were one glass short.

And, yet, there were only four of us.

In attentive silence, we examined

that fifth glass — the one that

all of us said was missing.

Then we clinked our glasses, and we

shared that wine amongst ourselves —

a good one, from a Calistoga winery.

And we all said,

“Well, she’s not here, anyway. . .

Jon G. Jackson is a retired psychiatrist and depth psychotherapist, and an award-winning poet. He facilitates an ongoing Rainer Maria Rilke reading group sponsored by the Friends of the San Francisco Jung Institute. He has taught two ten-lecture courses: “Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet” and “A Psychological Approach to the Old Testament.” He currently teaches a shorter course on Rilke for the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute at Sonoma State University. He is the author of a book of poems Practicing Silence.

Saying Goodbye
By Sherrie Lovler

It took our whole lives
to see each other.
To see beyond the stuff
that fathers and daughters hold.

For a second I saw you.

I saw you
as you always wanted to be seen.
And in that moment love flowed between us like never before.

It was more than knowing it was goodbye.
It was, in fact, hello.
And though it seemed late in our lives

it was perfect — because
I saw you.

I saw you with my soul. And though words
cannot express that feeling

I know you took it with you as much as I know anything.

Originally published in On Softer Ground: Paintings, Poems and Calligraphy by Sherrie Lovler

Sherrie Lovler is a painter and poet from Santa Rosa. She teaches classes in calligraphic abstract painting and bookmaking online and nationally. Sherrie’s paintings and poems inspire each other, and are paired in her award-winning book On Softer Ground: Paintings, Poems and Calligraphy. www.artandpoetry.com

think or stink
By Daniel Schack

think or stink. I say I do not know what to think. I also say I do not like those who do think they know what to think. they are often do do. this is true.

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

FLOW
(Dance is Life Series)
6-25-20
9:04 a.m
Artwork and Poem by Mary Cheung

Energy moving, atoms flow.

Fluid Like water, I'm like nothing you know.

Freely and wild,

Can't be contained.

Falling, moving,

touching you like the rain.

Can't hold me back.

I adapt with change,

Chameleon of my environment

Let me show you my range,

I am shapeless,

flexing and fluid,

I cannot break.

warm and soft,

hard and cold,

becoming whatever it takes.

I am shapeless

Let me seep into ur skin

Soak up my essence,

See where I'm going,

not where I have been.

never stopping, see my ideas take flight,

watch them unfold,

let them inspire,

let them delight.

I am water, watch me flow.

Jump into my river,

let me take hold.

Energy that can't be contained.

Creation that can't be restrained.

Im a force, like that,

of a

Gentle,

falling rain.

LOVE
By:IE Carlo
30 December 2021

It’s the commonality of mind and spirit

That gives it meaning

The significance of the heart

Is its shape and color, its brilliance

Brings awareness of its

Meaning

I’m I from somewhere else

Where love is never at a lost

Regardless of all things

Being out of line

Travels with intensity

Of mind heart and spirit and

Reaches its place in an others

heart and mind and spirit

It’s not a rhetorical manifestation

But an awareness

Of the self

Ismael (East) Carlo, poet, actor begins on the streets of East Harlem, el barrio whose monica 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

Solace of Self
By Victoria Ester Orantes

Oh how saddening, oh how exciting,

To be my friend, and my adversary.

Refreshment dealt, heaven’s spout.

Dilute blight of mind and mouth.

One side wilts, the other waters,

The aid to rise when one falters.

May there be strength to never tire.

This is living, stubborn survivor.

The seasons of self, healed then heartbroke.

Choice of sedulity is my yoke.

RED DIAPER BABIES
By Jeff Chayette 21 September 2022

sexy ladies fertile babies

screaming hot rocks

get your jaw breaker

belly ache full straight

winning hand

the glam band slam band

hard hitting face spitting

mini skirts under oversized shirts

hey there bernie bros

we’ll top you sock you

take you to the battle of the baby rattle

Katie Rule and Lydia Jewel

drove the spike into the heart

of the death metal Neo punk junk

they brought retro soul blistering beats

played street fairs

teen queens on a pick up truck

winning battle of the bands in

Chicago Grand Rapids Saginaw

Flint Gross Point Detroit

Wyandot Ann Arbor Toledo

Gary back home to Chicago

and a recording session

at Chess Records studios

commercial success in hot red dress

the red diaper babies

Mixed the little caesars

piece of pizza piece of pizza

into a multi genre soul punk

speed metal rhythm and blues

head spinning ear splitting viral sensation

everybody wanted a piece of that pie

honey pie you are making me crazy

Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr

invited them on tour

crazy pressure

peer pressure

under pressure

nineteen exploding dreams

hearts bursting at the seams

too much too soon

men descending like baboons

they cracked up broke up choked up

5150ed in Chelsea Alabama

that Muscle Shoals recording session never started

Lydia froze up

Katie wracked up assault charges

that pervert who grabbed her skirt

in the mosh pit had his face split with her Les Paul

doc martins to his balls she spit and raged

they wrapped her in a straight jacket

shot her up with Thorazine

locked her up in Chelsea Hall

the hell of Alabama

Crazy sick adman looking

to revive a sinking ship

tired brand was YouTubing eighties hits

and found his golden ticket

tall skinny teen chicks

mini skirts doc martins oversized shirts

piece of pizza piece of pizza

was a piece of pizza pie

what a funky chicken tail

tap dance lap dance

male gaze rat trap

this crazy act

can take us back

red diaper babies attack

Lydia was a buddhist monk

had saved her head

took a vow of silence

was the monastery gardener

Katie was a retooled dominatrix

working as a dental hygienist

it was the perfect job

every day she got to say

it’s going to hurt and it’s good for you

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

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

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

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

Friendly Racists
By Ronald G. Carrillo

That man of perdition preaching his lies and narcissistic vomit

Surrounding himself with friendly racists wearing masks

Assigned various tasks to complete presidential goals

A rebel rouser of the highest order

Spewing his low-grade divisiveness

To his mostly fearful malcontents

Wanting to keep the white social economic mainstream order

Guarding their lion’s share of the kill

Unwilling to see a more diverse and equitable future

A changing of the American guard that friendly racists cannot abide

Fear and a seeming loss of their power and status

Making these once friendly racists sharpen their tongues

Take up their guns and show their true colors

Veritable wolves baring their teeth beneath sheepskin

A peaceful protest in D.C. and that ungodly man uses it as a photo op

Holding a bible upside down in front of a church

Jews and Palestinians hurling rocks

That give way to missile attacks

Sunni and Shia Muslims kill each other in holy wars so unholy

White Americans and their fellow citizens of color

Becoming a pecking order battle for inclusion

Dominance defended to the death

By fringe fanatics and white nationalists

Suddenly struck by amnesia forgetting their immigrant origins

Closed borders and walls to keep dreamers

Of the red, white and blue out

No more “White Only” signs but their ghosts remain

Behind closed doors the skeleton bones of segregation still live

A once silent dialect of racism again returning to a Dixieland

Spreading its venomous cancer of white superiority

A false supremacy uprooting the foundations of liberty

The cracks now beginning to show more deeply

Like weeds obstructing the constitutional ideals

Of Jefferson and Adams’ seeds of our founding fathers

Friendly racists no longer wearing long white robes and hoods

Burning crosses and only coming out at night

A new yet still lethal breed of haters

And flag wavers to remake America

Thinking great again but doing the exact opposite

Destroying freedom for all so only they can benefit

A land of manifest destiny stolen in a global cycle of empire

Now spiraling out of control

The planet growing hotter

And government grabbing hands getting greedier

Friendly racists becoming bolder

Not willing to shoulder any responsibility for criminal actions

Seeking presidential pardons

From a trumpster still blowing his horn

Tweeting like an insane parrot

Not willing to tolerate justice but seeking white privilege

Friendly racists thinking they are above the law

But acting like outlaws nonetheless

The planet spinning in climate change

Antisemitic leanings once again rearing its ugly head

Conspiracies abounding confounding enlightened consciousness

Democratic platforms collapsing

The country relapsing into antebellum

Liberty held hostage by false patriots

No republican regrets only political dispensations

Common sense hard to be found in our congressional halls

D.C. a squatters’ paradise for friendly racists

The yin and yang of justice

Her scales swinging wildly out of balance

Will the fury for equality neutralize the insanity

America clean house

Fortify the peoples’ democracy

Time to exterminate friendly racists

Set the traps

Skeeter Hunting Way Down South
by Lee Boek

Layin’ in bed

A skeeter in my head

Skeeters in my mouth

Skeeter Hunting way down south,

Turn on da light

Jump on da floor

Grab that swatter

Near to the door

Catch ‘em in flight

Or up on the wall

Standin’ on the bed

Make ya real tall

Catch ‘em with yer swatter

Catch ‘em with yer mouth

Skeeter huntin’ way down south.

Long come black Dart

Fastest Skeeter alive

A welt raiser

A Buzzin’ Blazer

Try every nite

Just to see him in flight

All I got was a bite

But never a site

Puts me up tight

Jump back in bed

That buzzin’s in my head

He’s back in my mouth

Skeeter huntin’ Way Down South.

Lee Boek: Artistic Director/poet

Papoulis
By Michael Meloan

After completing his BA in history at UCSB, and a teaching credential, George Papoulis began to believe that he was the Son of God. Then he became convinced that a secret Nazi cabal was out to get him, due to his Greek roots. After a shouting match with his family, men in white coats wrestled him into a straightjacket and he was carted off to a state facility for seven weeks.

With a new lease on life, via daily doses of powerful anti-psychotics and mood elevators, he began teaching at Locke High in South LA. It was a stressful job, with high levels of classroom chaos.

After a particularly bad week, he decided to cut loose at the Red Onion disco in Redondo Beach. It was a notorious party spot.

George set an intention to find a woman. He approached the crowded bar and drank one Cadillac Margarita after another, until he lost count. With an explosive head of sugar and alcohol, he walked up to a woman with a teased-up beehive hairdo and a voluptuous figure.

“Hey, wanna dance?” he asked.

She glanced up at him, “Yeah, Ok.”

George didn’t really know how to dance. But the alcohol made that irrelevant. After gyrating wildly through one song, they went back to the bar.

“My name is Charlene,” she said.

“I’m George. Hard to hear. So loud!”

“I know!” Charlene replied.

“Do you want to go somewhere?” George asked.

She paused. “Well, we could go to my place.”

“Where is that?”

“Downey,” she replied.

“Downey! I don’t even know where that is. It sounds far.”

“It’s not that far at night. The traffic is light.”

“I’m part Greek. Is that Ok?”

“Sure. I’m part Mexican. Who cares?”

George felt relieved.

“I’m with a friend. I’ll go tell her that I’m leaving,” she said.

After what seemed an interminable drive, from freeway-to-freeway in George’s 1964 VW Beetle, they arrived at a tiny stucco house with a chain link fence around the front yard.

As soon as they were inside the front door, they began ravenously making out, then she led him to a side bedroom where they tore each other’s clothes off and made frantic love.

When it was over, they both lay in the twisted covers heaving for breath. Then George was out. He was quite drunk.

When he awoke, it was pitch black. He squinted at the tiny glowing markers on the hands of his watch. About 4:05.

He unsteadily got out of bed and started looking for his clothes. When he was almost dressed, she awoke. She jumped out of bed in the nude and turned on the light.

“Are you trying to sneak out?!”

“Umm, I need to go. I’m a long way from home.”

“We need to go see a priest! I think I love you!”

“I hardly know you. I don’t even know your last name!”

“I need some help from a man. A good man.”

“This is too much. I’m a new teacher. And I’m a schizophrenic!”

“And I have three children! This is my father’s house. We live with him. He took the kids overnight to Disneyland, so I could have a little break.”

She began to cry. Running mascara. “I just needed…a little break.”

They both stood in silence, bathed in the harsh glare of the overhead light. Then George approached her and kissed her on the lips.

“You are a beautiful woman,” he said. “Any man would be lucky to have you. But I’m treading water as fast as I can, just to keep my head above the waves.”

“So am I,” she said.

“I have to go,” he said, as he headed toward the door.

On the way home, as the sun was coming up, he cried.

Good Person
By Ed Burgess
9/25/22

I’m not a bad person.

That’s what my friends say

I am not a mensch

No more than I am a Good Fellow

I am not a Bon Vivant

Nor am I your Tio

Or your Cuz’

How could I possibly be

Your homie

Your boy

Or brother and confidant

We are not from another mother

We were not switched at birth

Or abandoned among the reeds

Down by the river

I am a good person

Ask my friends

The ones I have left

The ones who know

I am not a bad person

They know when my push comes

And then the shove

We are on the other side

Blue skies

Smooth sailing

Red sunsets

Good or bad

Is not the question

We just are

And We are the good person

And you are there with me.

Ed Burgess is a very creative person who has lived in Los Angeles now for over 20 years. He is an artist, an occasional poet, a troublemaker and a good person.

Sacrilege
By Lauren Orozco

Art Fair

Curly Hair

Green Glass

Holy Mass

White Wine

Stout Stine

Flawless Face

Saving Grace

Faith Kept

Eden Wept

Lauren Orozco is a poet who doesn’t have a hometown. She’s a proud MexiCuban Californian, and honorary Montanan. Born in Long Beach, California, lived in various cities across Northern Orange County and currently resides in Corona, CA. Lauren spent her twenties in Missoula, Montana and studied archaeology and philosophy at the University of Montana.

She devours any poetry she can lay her eyes on, queer memoirs, war novels, Wittgenstein, Baldwin, and Steinbeck. She is not a fan of labels or being defined by others. A self-proclaimed Cowboy Surfer, Lauren has narrowly escaped with her life after being bucked off horses, hospitalized due to surfing and skating accidents, stung by stingrays, and getting thrown off a raft in class 4 rapids. But she lives to tell her tale.

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

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

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

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

20 Years Left youtube live stream 2/19/22

https://youtu.be/GT1D5k2EeKU

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

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

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

September Poet's Place

September 04, 2022

POETS PLACE

September Edition 2022

Can someone please turn down the heat? By the looks of this country’s administration’s response to the people's needs I think most likely their brains have fried and become scrambled! Ya, gas prices have come down, but why were they raised to begin with?? How much mo’ money do the overly rich oil tycoons gotta make?? Is their dial always set to ‘gouge’ so that those unfortunate people who can barely make ends meet pay for their greediness? My head is constantly feeling like its going to explode with tension headaches consuming my waking hours. It is totally understandable why there is a pervasive blanket of depression covering our society, suffocating our ability to protect the frayed fabric of our world. We need a magic cloak of faith and hope that can shade the heat and pressure of dismay and disillusionment.

Wrestling with my ego

By Linda Kaye

wrestling with the massive amounts of psychic energy in my head

wrestling with the juggling of a vast array of emotions, the curtsy of despair, the constant flagrant mash up of monstrous political voices that are compounded to destroy love in our society, in this world

at this our juncture in life

is quite daunting

haunting

the unclouded, unabashed, realistic mind, ergo ego and personality are struggling to accept human ineptitude’s, selfishness, greed and stupidity

the severe lack of manners not to mention discipline or commitment to one’s word

the phenomenal lack of harmony, humanity, mindfulness, acceptance and enlightenment in our basic human race

Trips me out

Hundreds of Frogs

By Josette Siqueiros 05/30/2017

The sweet counterpoints of musical pangs

that have those nostalgic young days of yearning for the love sound.

The wonderments and images of a heart dancing with

the interior soul of a blazing fire.

Twirling sounds around the room

That move fast and are awaking the senses.

Enticing you to be part of a set compass, it follows the image of a beloved one.

Your and my hearts find joyous spins alluring in a drunken love.

If solely you and I could answer to the call,

We would know how to bring this about.

If you and I would know how to convey

This whirling pool of love

If only we could give our hearts the chance and courage

to lift it up and take a glance of it beyond our faces.

Something there in the musicality draws us on

to the promise of our bright captivating eyes,

They make waves of electrical rays!

Fired lit hands and smiling lips that go beyond

the dark curtain of your window.

The room with sky blue walls and

Many florescent stars covered ceiling

That sets the tone of love making in heaven.

You and I may think,

Never knowing

What is it that lies…

Outside of these gentle yearnings

of our old hearts?

Josette Siqueiros, has been an avid reader ever since she learned how to read! She had a library card and began writing poetry at age 13. Now, an English and World Literature Major from Pitzer College Class of ’95, and English teacher; she has acquired a strong appreciation of literature.

In honor of weirdos

by daniel schack

It must be said right now that being strange or weird is not a crime. only an actual crime is the crime, and just as race, gender, religion, orientation, or nationality should not be discriminated against, pretty much neither should there be unwarranted prejudice against one with a different personality.

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

NOSTALGIA

3:43pm.

6-20-20

Artwork & poem by Mary Cheung

Everyone has experienced it,

That moment when something triggers your brain,

Sending you back in time.

To that moment,

when all was well and your life was riding flush,

with splendor, hope, desire, and good fortune.

When nothing bad invaded your space and you were abuzz and high with life and the love of it.

I get that feeling when I look at old photos.

They take me bk in time.

And whether it was simple or hard;

On the forefront of it shined... those golden moments.

Nuggets dug up and cherished.

I put that in my pocket and let it warm me up.

Endorphins flooding me, filling me up.

You bring me those postcard moments.

When you dance and the shutters roll.

Turning the world into black and wht.

Film noir and wise guys. Prohibition, red lips and cigars,

What a time! Tommy guns and Great Gatsby cars.

You must be the femme fatale, cuz baby I just can't resist.

Feeling that twinge of nostalgia,

That makes me want to take risks.

So here's looking at you kid,

You can throw me back ...anytime.

The Sacred Life

By Sherrie Lovler

There comes a time
when you want to run.
Run as far away as you can.

Run from your life. Run from the task that is so large
it cannot be done.

The Sacred Life

But your feet don't move.

And slowly
life opens up
and help appears.
Not in the form you expect but in secrets
and winding roads
and gateways into
the world you long for
but don't know how to reach.

And the task
doesn't get easier
but life gets more beautiful
with a richness you couldn't imagine and a warmth you had never felt

as you directly face the immensity
of what you are called to do.

Originally published in On Softer Ground: Paintings, Poems and Calligraphy by Sherrie Lovler

Poema

By G. Billie Quijano

Revolution in a mujeres soul

Cause of the universe, whole

Our indigenous blood

Raped through the history of time

Crime after crime, crime after crime

Cosmic sounds

Renaissance spectrum of brown

Mujeres murdered

Warrior résurrection

Illuminating elements of intersection

Ancestors spoke

Their words entwined in copal smoke

Echoes of struggle and trauma

Indeed justice will be served, this is your karma

Our hearts, not for you to vandalize

Yet you continue to colonize

We know no borders

All of these lands are free

Humble offerings to the Brujas of the sea

We are glitter and dust from the bones before

We are the divine design

Colores, memories, energies live in our shrines

La Curandera, La Bruja

Medicina, mysticism, magical real

Refusal to be disappeared

We move the earth, sun and the moon

La Monarcha, swaying and swoon

We rise, we rise

You will hear our cries

As we raise our fists to the skies

Committed to our truth, our liberation

Our voice

Our choice

The rhythm of the Ancients

Wisdom and changes in their passage

Pyramids and codices forever in monument

A new vida has begun

Our faces will feel the warmth of that familiar sun

El Colibri flys in high vibration

Abrazos, besos, intentions, creation

G. Billie Quijano-Hija de East Los. Natural Creative, Photographer, Watercolorist, Assemblage/Textile Work. Bruja, Poeta, Instigator of Beauty, Mestiza.

The landscape of my childhood, my classrooms were elements of urban life, cool concrete, vibrant colors and sounds from a place I love, prepared me for my life as an artist.

My heroes are the hard working, courageous street artists all over the world. My work is a humble practice of keeping tradition and history alive.

Landslide of Lament

By Victoria Estes Orantes

Despite all that is healed.

The old patterns still yield.

Like Job, a grim appeal.

Is the edge always near?

Send a savior to mend the concealed.

She is a place far from sight

Lone warrior in this fight?

Intrusive thoughts, mud of mind

They say, “none will search, so hide.”

The mercy of roots halt a landslide.

A gentle soul to grasp the branch?

Virtue to seize this avalanche?

Learning how to reach out her hand,

She’s learned together mountains stand.

Prohibit pain to give the command.

the women and the promise

by jeffrey chayette / 27 june 2022

promises, wedding days hold promises

hopes dreams beginnings endings and magic

the udashkin fabricant women held a bound; a pact

a line from mothers to sisters to daughters, nieces,

cousins, granddaughters, great-granddaughters

a talisman of gold lace and pearls; a lavalier

a jewel to grace the collar bones and sternum

the wedding promise of carnal bliss

regeneration continuation of the family line

the lavalier held magic and promises from

each generation of the udashkin fabricant females

the strength of ancestors the love of generations

the magic of wedding days

the magic of a gentle kiss on delicate breasts

when will it be my turn to wear the lavalier

under the chuppah and begin a marriage journey

dale ellen changed her name to devo from deborah

her sister nikki ann from nachama

pushed her aside said too bad its mine

ripped the chain of generations

screams shattered dreams

the pieces gathered

losses spared the necklace

was sent out for repair

too late to spare the damage done

the sisters wombs were barren

the generations of udashkins the fabricant females

ended in that spat once repaired

devo held the pearled gold lace charm

envisioned the little girl she’d pass it to

dreams of dying babies woke her from her sleep

she mourned for weeks

returned to a home with broken doors

belongings tossed about

the box with the lavalier had disappeared

exactly what she feared

the gold lace and pearled gem

passed from pawn to towns far and beyond

decades passed as cities dried up in water wars

women banded bonded renounced the marriage institution

brought to fruition a prefecture without men

copulated when ovulating with passing merchants

this band of females shared a gem

engraved on the back udashkin

a necklace with a gold lace and pearl broach

gracing the landscape below the throat

this bit of magic gem was passed to the chosen fem

who mated the passing merchant

who was told at break of day

please move on

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

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

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

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

Thoughts in August 2022

By Ronald G. Carrillo

I am living in these strange times in my sixty eighth year being on this earth journey. When I was in my early teens and would ponder the future ahead of me it was not this chaos and societal dysfunction that I pictured in my young mind.

It was my nirvana dream of calm and all things settled and beautiful. I caught the very end of the hippie era and fell hook, line and sinker for the peace/love movement. The Vietnam war had been raging four solid years and I was now a Sophomore in high school. With the constant Walter Cronkite nightly news casts about this war I was in partial peril of the national reality now on my radar screen. This horror of war however was balanced by the anti-war messages “In my mind I can’t study war no more” that I was receiving from the rock and roll poets of my generation. Although I was very naïve politically and just discovering adult concerns at that tender age of fifteen I still was beginning the journey toward a more serious consciousness. By the time I was in college that level of consciousness was definitely maturing leaps and bounds. My world view was in place for the first time seeing the global village admittedly as a novice but I was viewing the poor state of affairs and America’s negative domination on the world stage.

There was a heaviness in the air of our democracy as the collective awareness of this war seemed to be for naught. Why were we there and having so many young lives placed in danger? These politicians mostly white men endorsing the war would not jeopardize their own sons for this boogey man cause. We were interfering with a sovereign nation’s decision to govern their country in the way that best suited their people. Not unlike what we did in 1776 when we broke ties with Great Britain and formed our republic built on democracy. Young voters especially were waking up to the live development of utilizing a true democracy. We should question and directly participate in our government and its decisions on behalf of the people.

Now again that democracy seems to be in peril and horribly divided. The progressive half aware, fully awake and becoming more conscious of its development into the future. The republic is not a static entity to stay rigid and unable to spread its roots and grow. The other half of our nation is carrying a heavy load of misguided beliefs that the country should remain one way only unable to breath and grow its democratic truths.

Change is inevitable if you are truly alive and moving toward a fulfilling future. Sometimes amidst that changing process is a period of uncomfortableness. If the people are flexible in their democratic beliefs the process of change can be a comfortable process. There is where the thorn lies in this change in the country. The other side that will not tolerate change is creating labor pains that are dangerous and destructive.

America’s towers falling down

Economic chaos on Wall Street

Washington D.C. under siege by a fanatical faction

These staunch Americans are stagnant in their beliefs

Their viewpoint won’t allow for full inclusion

Maintaining the status quo to their death

Proud boys that only bring shame

Breathe and let us move forward as Americans

Not republican or democratic

Not Baptist or Catholic

Not liberal or conservative

Not white or black

But fully actualized human beings

We must lay down the burden of hierarchies

There should not exist supremacies that separate us

Once we create lesser than, greater than

Then we create division, greed and envy

We are still climbing this democratic ladder

We must reach the next rung of freedom

Keep liberty alive let her breathe the air of diversity

Manifest destiny was not only geography

But American creativity toward its glorious history to be

The dream is still alive in so many hearts

American ingenuity has always been our strength

Leading by example never following the herd

Remain strong America your people are truly one of a kind

I continue to see America’s glass half full. Never been a flag waver but in my heart I am your biggest cheerleader. The detours of your development as you grew into your nationhood made you crave empire. Such a scar of power changed your manifest toward a different destiny from your founding principles. Time to put that mantle down and take care of your people. No walls, no police brutality, no discrimination toward the skin, no corporate penitentiaries for money, no proud boys, no multi-millionaire take overs of the common good, no egomaniac politicians, no conspiracies, no false flags, no more cults of personality, no celebrity addiction leading American consumers in their apathy, no blocking an equitable American bill of health, no homeless camps in big American cities, no inequality, no deception, no masks, no more, no more.

Not a flag waver

Just a believer in the red, white and blue of her

Her shining hour diminishing but her destiny

Still winning only waning in the late hour of her democracy

Send me a lifeline Lady Liberty

Uncle Sam has fallen asleep at the wheel

Let us leave this self-centered period of our history

So well defined by a former president of narcissism

A self-promoting ego that was self-destructive in the White House

And rages on still like a wildfire that eventually will burn itself out

Political tantrums and supporting violence on the highest level

Alas let America’s maturity of a true democratic spirit now come forth

Our constitution a living document seeding our democracy

To a higher level and beyond to a more fruitful history

Yes God bless America and sleep well my fellow citizens

Tomorrow always will bring us another day and new opportunities

FISH FACES

By Jon G. Jackson

Look at the fish faces clamoring.

Lips above water, wanting to kiss.

Dozens with wings, and more all the time —

Like koi in a pond, where I’m from.

Fins fluttering, reflections ripple.

One hundred wide eyes

stare wildly at the bright green sky.

A gust of fingers blows through my hair.

Held close by the mountain,

this valley, they say,

is empty now. No more visitors.

Nothing to do here.

Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss.

I can’t walk away.

They follow with every step,

and fly to my dreams.

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

Please submit your written work to: lindakayepoetry@icloud.com and include a short bio.
Linda Kaye writes poetry, curates poetry, produces films, produces spoken word and art events and producesa poetry column POETS PLACE for the online publication LAARTNEWS throughout the Los Angeles area.

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

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

20 Years Left youtube live stream 2/19/22

https://youtu.be/GT1D5k2EeKU

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

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

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