November Poet's Place

November 06, 2024

POETS PLACE
NOVEMBER EDITION 2024

DODGERS WON THE WORLD SERIES!!!! I am so psyched! My whole family have been Dodger fans my entire life. That’s a long haul. My Mother especially followed the game religiously as well as basketball, Lakers and football, Rams. She was a big time gambler, and whether or not she was betting on the games, she was a super fan. She was in love with Magic Johnson, and he was a topic of so many discussions when hanging around her. Magic could do no wrong in her eyes. I love the Dodgers, plus they are fucking great! Loving the Dodgers is an LA thing and Dodger fans are considered a Nation. They are maniacal. When they won the world series on October 30th, downtown broke out into a frenzy, close to rioting in some areas. Fireworks were heard all over the city, with people screaming and banging pots and pans out their windows. I screamed as well and danced my happy dance.

On another note, when this column is published an election will have been held and decided upon who our next President will be. I, and many others, are holding our breaths and sitting on pins and needles. So much of our freedoms are held in that decision. I’ve actually thought of the possible worst case scenarios. If the criminal becomes President we will all be righteously fucked. I don’t need to tell you how. I'm sure you all are well aware of what He will do. Which is absolutely nothing, for the people of America. His cronies will take over and have a field day on America. I think that if that does happen, the American people will begin to see and feel its negative impact, then there will be a rising. An Armageddon of grand proportions. We will fight back and regain control in four years. But the American people will surely suffer until that day comes. That’s my thought. Hopefully that day of dread wont happen and we can begin to breathe a sigh of relief and all of us, including the other half will benefit from the new and joyous Presidency. Long live Democracy!

As always we have poets and writers here to share in our bounty on POETS PLACE.

Thank you all for continuing to support this column with your generous offerings.

AND… BIG THANKS TO CATHI MILLIGAN OUR PUBLISHER!!!

There was a Huckster in the White House
By Linda Kaye

A psychopathic, narcissistic diabolical and sinister demon spewing over 30,000 lies whilst in office to deceive the American people!

Who: raped women

grabbed pussies

destroyed Roe v Wade

put children in cages

unleashed racism

encouraged the January 6 riot on our nations capital! WTF!!!

claimed Covid was a hoax

“just drink bleach” he says!

dissed veterans dissed war heroes dissed Obama

dissed America!

Listen up people get your head out the clouds!

He is the enemy within

He has created the sins

the sins against America!

that cost has been the loss of our human rights, our freedoms and our respect from the world

wake up and stand up

join the fight stop his blight

millions have followed his reign of terror and all will suffer huge pain

We must fight to regain control

We must fight to feel new joy

We cannot forget what he did

He is the devil in disguise

He is not America’s guy!

wide open
by jerry the priest
wide open

like gems, the lights in this sanctuary glimmer, illuminating
fastidious corners—they serve to lend magic to the darkened room
and the proceedings that have begun

a sequence of self-expression rituals, performed
with no audience in sight, yet intended for the release of all

candlelight, as it will supplies a flickering, amber glow
rising and falling with the distinct yet obscure chanting

there would be ponds and a trickling fountain, a light breeze
playing across the robes of veiled supplicants—there might
be a Lama or supreme healer presiding

the chamber is as lavish as it’s guardians can afford, bedecked
in its array of cosmological geometry with swaths of fabric
draped here and there near hand crafted carpets on the floor

and cushions scattered amid stations for the offering of prayers

another festival of lights
another successful harvest—a chance to thank the gods
and beseech their fickle favor—and now a minor parade

of battered sculptures representing these same deities
proceeds from house to house, blessing each in turn
as traditions ancient and sacrosanct hold sway

that this is happening before our very eyes
should well reassure us of our rightful place
in the continuum where, bathed in aquatic ripples

supplied by one blue window and one yellow,
we lie buried in the relics of those who were born
in the dharma

that this is happening should signify that all is well
in our mood lit corridors

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.

Making Love with the Devil
by Alex S. Johnson
Illustration: Sandy DeLuca

Pierced on the

horns of

The eternal

attraction:

His hands so roughly tender

his lips with smoldering kisses

He'll take you from your

small world to

His domain on a

thundering

Crazy

train.

A blast of the

secret

knowledge is

Sufficient to

Light the

wick on

Candle that

Burns down through

Centuries of

Dark delights.

None are safe, no woman

no man

No cruelty in his embrace

only the chanting in

The hollow beneath the

church

The rows of Satanic monks

cowelled with

Jewels pierced through

their

Genitals

Like stars.

Known for his dense, allusive, experimental style inspired by everything from Dada and Surrealist literature and art to Beat Generation authors such as Allen Ginsberg and William S. Burroughs, with stops along the way at Philip Lamantia, Andrei Codrescu, hip hop, industrial noise and Norwegian Black Metal, Alex S. Johnson is the author of several books of poetry including THE DEATH JAZZ, SKULL VINYL, THE FLOWERS OF DOOM and THUNDERSTRUCK in collaboration with Sandy DeLuca and Alea Celeste Williams. His poetry has appeared in numerous places such as Horror Sleaze Trash, poeticdiversity, 13 Mynah Birds, HWA POETRY SHOWCASE VOLUME III, ALTERNATE LANES, HYDROPHOBIA from Stitched Smile Publications, Misfits, Crossroads Literary Review, Rye Whiskey Review, Masticadores USA etc. He is a frequent collaborator with Juliet Cook, Daniel . Snethen, Nolcha Fox and Barbara Harris Leonhard. Johnson's forthcoming books include THE JUNK MERCHANTS 2: A LITERARY TRIBUTE TO WILLIAM S. BURROUGHS and THE DOOM HIPPIES III: CHILDREN OF DOOM. After spending twenty years living and working in the Los Angeles area, which included reading from THE DEATH JAZZ alongside punk poetry icon Iris Berry and at the acclaimed Beyond Baroque poetry venue in Venice Beach, Johnson returned to Carmichael, California where he runs Nocturnicorn Books.

mind your own table
by linda m. crate

i see the judgment,

the hate, the superiority

flashing in the eyes

of those who think they're

better than me;

i don't need your condescension

and i won't endure it—

in the end we're all made

of flesh and bone,

more fragile than we care

to believe;

anything can happen in a second:

miracle or nightmare—

i want the world to be

a better place

for everyone,

want to see the world flourish

and flower like in my dreams;

try to break me of my dreams or my magic

& i will ensure you never have a spot at my table

in this life or in the next.

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). Linda has four full length poetry collections and a photography collection book. Linda is also the author of the novellas Mates (Alien Buddha Publishing, March 2022), Managing Magic (Alien Buddha Press, September 2022), and The Queen's Son (Alien Buddha Publishing, December 2023). Her first short story collection King Quinlin (Alien Buddha Publishing, March 2024) was published this spring. Her debut haiku collection in these ancient veins was published earlier this year (Alien Buddha Publishing, May 2024).

Stay in Touch
by Lee Boek

“I go nowhere I do nothing,”

He often says, with a certain finality

Although he is happy it’s not over

It’s not over for me either

Not yet

I’m still breathing.

I can form a thought

I can still go places

I can still remember my date of birth

I can still remember the little pink jacket

Mamma was wearing on the stretcher

When they brought her home from the hospital

The bassinet with the baby

Placed on the high boy

They said he was a boy

But there was no “Hi Boy”

Not for me I was three

Not for him I couldn’t see him

Nobody thought to lift me up

So I could see him

Maybe that’s why we’ve kept in touch so

closely

All our lives

That and all we went through

All we were taught to value and believe

The sheer joy of being boys, brothers

Young men

Fathers, grandfathers

Great grandfathers

Next big step

Ancestors!

When I was a young man, I spent a lot of time

with the "old folks."

I was always fascinated with the way people are...

How we are

We were taught to revere the older folks

Show them respect and even deference

When I became a young preacher

One of my jobs was to go around

Visit the old, the sick and infirm

To offer comfort

Sit with them,

Listen to them,

Make them smile,

Pray with them.

Many have a great confidence in prayer So I would try hard to craft a prayer

Bringing comfort

Support their hope

Things will get better with a little faith.

These thoughts and meditations seem to settle

and satisfy many people.

Others prefer being read to…in my preaching

days they loved to hear bible stories In later

years working with seniors they love

novels, history and poetry

My younger brother and I

Still talk daily on the phone

Both in our early eighties

We usually talk at 4-4:20 in the afternoon

Nearly every day

Yes, it is harder to hear each other

Words slur a bit

But the enjoyment of our communication is still

“High Boy”

ANNIVERSARY OF AN ARTIST
6-5-2022
6:47 a.m.
By Mary Cheung

One Year Later, I originally wrote to celebrate my mom.

Part sadness and part joy.

But today is another celebration of sorts.

One year later, it's a celebration of another momentous report.

I joined the Arroyo Arts Collective.

And it's brought me growth of my heart and soul.

Of opportunities of my self-discovery.

Amidst a country coming back from covid recovery.

I got to find my voice.

And got to find my public.

To shine, to show,

who I am from within.

My scariest parts,

My most hopeful parts

My idealistic parts

My most painful parts

My dreams and hopes....

You were there for me.

Guiding me out from the shadows.

Now I'm out in the light.

Nurtured and growing.

Because of your family, your size and your might.

How do you say, " Thank you " for someone in your life?

Sometimes, one little action that sets things into action.

Changes things forever from one little reaction.

And now, I’ll never be the same.

My life has shifted,

and I only have you to blame.

Change is good, as it should.

And I've hopped onto your train.

Barreling towards an unknown future.

It's the wild wild west out there.

You are leading me out into that open range.

One year later I am growing,

and my life has been forever changed...

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. Shecame 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."

Arc
By Richard Q Russeth

I wake, all aching hips and arcing mind.

Emerge from the deep space of REM, quilts and blankets,

where I orbited a star for seven thousand years

and traveled from Monday to Tuesday.

I make coffee, about which I am not fussy.

Though hot is good.

Maxwell House. Folgers. Really.

I drink it from a heavy mug

inscribed with the Hendrix lyric:

Excuse me while I kiss the sky.

Waiting on sunrise, horizon tinged

but soon ablaze with the heat of its forge.

There’s no going back in this world.

Richard Russeth is a poet, albeit a late bloomer at 68. He recently completed a collection of poems entitled “Ghost Heart.” He is currently working on a sci-fi novel entitled “Code Plague.” He lives in Ohio with his green-thumbed, clever spouse of twenty years. He loves a dry martini and a good mystery novel, sometimes at the same time.

high q.
by daniel schack

At best, perhaps, existence is just a strange warmth emanating from a strange cold.

Daniel Schack, a New York based poet/artist. More verse can be seen on poetry soup.com

Going Hollywood
By R.G. Carrillo

They’re going Hollywood

Putting their lives

In greedy hands

Movie moguls

Of golden West

Like plantation owners

From all over

They journey

These hopeful hordes

Ready to cash in

Their small town lives

For palm trees

Celluloid dreams

Stardom futures

Golden statuettes

To receive

In Tinseltown

With bright eyes

Seeking the prize

Big smiles

Camera ready

Surprise settling

For the reality

Of minimum wage

And rejection

Those that realize

Their passion

Are few

Paying costly dues

To devil agents

Studio heads

Cracking the whip

Grooming and bleeding

Their stars for mor

The sleazy underside

Of Hollywood exposed

City of angels

And orphans

Looking for guardians

And fake nirvana

Out there

Where they say

Let us be gay

A Black Dahlia

Was last seen leaving

The Biltmore Hotel

Our Dorothy from Kansas

Is now over the rainbow

Looking for the man

That got away

Marilyn stuck

With the fuzzy end

Of the Hollywood

Lollipop

Those shiny diamonds

Are a girl’s best friend

The studio system

Was a blueprint

Of master and slave

Conditioning the masses

Toward belief

Allegiance

Patriotism

Escapism

Conform

Shut off

All your devices

Enjoy your popcorn

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.

From G. Billie Quijano

This month's submission is to honor our ancestors. A welcome to fall, a welcome of spirit, a welcome to celebrate love.

This photo is of the Goddess XolaXia. She is a Goddess of protection, transformation, peace, beauty and love. She protects those who have been affected by violence in all it's forms. She protects the souls who are on their journeys of transformation to the cosmos and guiding them on a peaceful passage. She is a warrior. The moon is one of her mentors. She embraces and exudes beauty and love from our artistic expressions. Her philosophy is that arte is medicine and nourishment.

La Duende's essence in the winds of papel picado

Ancestral whispers

Copal smoke lingers

Trails of Cempasuchitl

The elegance of memory

The fluidity of time

Causing pause in my dreams

Sublime energy of ritual and ceremony

My love floats on moonbeams

Their brilliance shines upon the cosmos

Grief eternally present

The weight of iridescent tears

In symphony with La Sirena's waves

Endless poetry in the hemisphere

La Monarcha swaying and swooning to the rhythm of the ancients

Rebirth ignited

My soul no longer in fragments

Lunar wisdom in their passage

Sweet vibration

Corazon pulsation

Please come and drink with me

I welcome you with joyful glee

We will dance, the dance of time

I know that the beyond is where you will always be...

G. Billie Quijano-Mestiza, Hija de East Los. Poeta, natural creative, photographer, assemblage artista. Bruja, instigator of beauty, palabra mujer.

The 5th of November (U.S. Version)
By ChampionElCid

Remember, remember!

The fifth of November

The orange man's treasonous plot

I know of no reason,

His attempt at treason

Should ever be forgot

Donald Trump and his traitors

Did scheme and conspire

To steal the vote

Set our country afire

Twas only three short years ago

That they did try this overthrow

And now here we are again

With Trump even more insane

A choice, a choice we must make

To once more suffer this vile snake

Give me someone else

Any but him!

If re-elected,

Our prospects are grim

So I ask of you that you not forget

The fifth of November

And Trump's evil threat!

Remember, remember!

The fifth of November

And your civic duty that day

Remember, remember

The fifth of November

And let us send Trump away

"ChampionElCid lives in Los Angeles, he currently works four different jobs so he 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 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…"

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 Los Angeles Makery in Little Tokyo. And at the Neutra Institute Gallery and Museum in Silverlake. Her first short documentary film “BORDER POETS” was a socially and politically inspired event with poets and musicians filmed at the border wall near Tecate, Mexico on the Jacumba, Ca. side of the US. The film co-produced by MUD productions is available for viewing on her website and on youtube. https://youtu.be/5Te4-dlhxco

Her rap music video project in collaboration with Mary Cheung, “ERACE-ISM” can also be seen on youtube. https://youtu.be/NfrbveNUBgg This video was accepted into the Ontario Museum of History & Art show “We the People” Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow. February 2- April 16, 2023. So honored

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

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

20 Years Left youtube live stream 2/19/22

https://youtu.be/GT1D5k2EeKU

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

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 05, 2024

POETS PLACE
OCTOBER 2024

October is here and so are we. As we drift in and out of conscious awareness of the state of the world, the universe, our hearts and minds, do we relish peace? Can we justify our personal peace when so many of us are in pain and suffering from the enormous toils of uncertainty? We can and have to, otherwise how could we carry on? My peace of mind has been in jeopardy these last few weeks. For the last two years, I have been bombarded by the incessant sometimes violent noise of construction across from my house that I feel my brain might be damaged beyond repair. It has triggered what is called vestibular migraines. Can I protest the building of this house? Can I send the architect and owner of the project my bills for medications, ear plugs and should I inform her/them of my potential psychiatric hospitalization for the insanity it had caused? What are my rights as a neighbor to this onslaught? The quality of my life has been impaired. Dare I complain when thousands of lives have been lost to war? There’s no comparison. I cannot bare either. What I can do is write. Write my peace. Shout it out in prose.

Many of us have a lot to say and I feel honored and blessed that I can host anyone who wants to put their thoughts together and share them here on POETS PLACE! Thank you all for this continuous support of my column!!! I am truly in awe of you all!!!

A SUPER BIG Thank you to Cathi Milligan for hosting us on the LAARTNEWS!!! MAKE SOME NOISE!!!!

Grateful,
Love, Linda :0)

On Linda Kaye’s Birthday
By S.A. Griffin
September 7, 2024

age took the day off

and declared time

a national holiday

clocks ran for public office

promising more seconds

in every hour

Linda's day glo hair became a long running musical

made of oxygen singing all you need is love

on every street corner of the cosmos

on Linda's birthday

all wars went vegan

guns went on strike shooting blanks

shouting we will kill no more

forever

hate changed its stripes into electric bananas

and for the first time

heard its inner child

whispering

free at last

as hate smiled and for the first time

began streaming

tears of everlasting

joy like a river into the

ever loving arms of the open sea

on Linda's birthday

art was elected God

weeping Willows laughed

and all was left and right

with the world spinning gold out of all the leftover

mad as hell madness

because Linda's magical heart

showed us

the way

A Carma Bum, S.A. Griffin is most recently the author of Pandemic Soul Music (Punk Hostage Press) which includes art by his late sister Robin Lynne Griffin, Suckers & Losers (River Dog) and Good Madness is Hard to Come By with Michael Lane Bruner (Rose of Sharon Press). Along with Rich Ferguson, Alexis Rhone Fancher and Kim Shuck, S.A. is the co-editor of Beat Not Beat (Moon Tide Press). Queued up for publication, he is the co-editor of Sparring with Beatnik Ghosts with Richard Modiano and the editor of Earful of Sun by Scott Wannberg with art/collages by Ray Swaney. A proud dad, S.A.'s son Spencer Lane Griffin recently released his award winning Poem Pie (Rose of Sharon), a children's book of poetry with illustrations by his mother Sharon Grish Griffin. It seems the apple didn't fall too far rom the tree. In fact, it landed with a resounding thud.

At the Green Heart of Form
For Alea Celeste Williams
by Alex S. Johnson

At the green heart of form

rustling

spreading fingers of leaves

skeletal claw points true north to

arctic blast

The trees tend together

forming cathedral arches

along the long stretch of

Emerald Avenue

where money vampires

breath through the

people's lung

in cells desaturated of blood red

Undead undead undead

Where my heart seeks its echo

where wings shimmer in silver suspension

where your dark eyes caress my heart

with plumes of wonder

I cannot abide in this lesser light. Your

shuddering electro vortex

brought me to the threshold

of awakening

Now I see more clearly the

theatre of cruelty

in all its

crutched, debased glory

A hole in the heart of things

where the blood rushes out

towards a clenched toilet death

A spasm in the aorta

a rhythmic swirl swirl thud thud swirl

brings pictures imminent of

again

A forest

Beasts

a feast of friends

Ants crawl along the well trodden

bricks leading

to the raised crypts in

New Orleans

Where entire families rest in

nibbled heaps of

bone

A jazz trumpeter blacker than

death rears

back his

noble head

and fires a

few

blasts of the

akashic

shotgun.

Alex S. Johnson's singular poetry and prose has been widely published, including such venues as Drinker's Corner, Borderless Journal, Cease, Cows, Bizarro Central, Horror Sleaze Trash and Black Noise. John Shirley, Bram Stoker award winning author, co-creator of the Cyberpunk genre, lyricist for Blue Oyster Cult and co-author of the screenplay to the 1994 cult classic horror film The Crow, wrote of Johnson's dark poetry collection The Flowers of Doom, "Alex S. Johnson is the Baudelaire of our time; the poet of the underground." He has performed his poetry at the world-renowned venue Beyond Baroque in Venice Beach, California, the same place that Amanda Gorman got her start. He was an honorary member of The Dirty Girls Collective and read from his poetry with Punk Hostage Press founder Iris Berry. His poetry collection Skull Vinyl as well as his dark satire collection The Doom Hippies were acquired as culturally significant by the Widener Library at Harvard University. His upcoming books include a series of dark poetry chapbooks in collaboration with critically acclaimed author and artist Sandy DeLuca. Johnson resides in Carmichael, California with his family.

POEM
By Courtney Olanzapine

(untitled)

don't save me

let me drown

every single cut

makes me grow

let me find my soul

let me save myself!

this time

I need to get away

This is not the place

But where else?

No more Ms. Self Destruct

That was me

the lost Tinder girl

cruising through a sea of men

such a fucking mess

and desire hoards in my veins

and it dissolves into my blood

and sets me on fire

and sets me free

and now I know I need to flee

Courtney Olanzapine is a neurodivergent artist from Madrid, Spain, that devoted many years to study English Literature and she started writing in English. She’s also an outsider painter in her Instagram and her poems deal with the struggles and joys of being a madwoman in the crazy era we live in, made out of capitalism and Tinder, but also sprinkled with love, comradeship, and beauty. She loves glitter, mythology, psychology and everything punk, because punk is passionately being yourself, and that’s her highest aim.

Sounds of the night
1-25-22
2:48 a.m.
By Mary Cheung

Sound of a distant horn blowing...like a train coming through.

An owl hooting joins in the silence.

Making Its own Morse code...hoot...hoot hoot.

Just for me and you.

In inky darkness I lay in wonder.

All the sounds of the night are my friend.

Bubbling, gurgling the humidifier happily chugging along.

All these sounds and melodies...

Make for me this strange and beautiful song.

My stomach rumbles in response.

The snorting and breathing of my dog.

Lucy gets up to shake and wander.

Stomping in little padded feet.

Every now and then she stops to ponder.

Is this where I should settle down?

The search continues.

She paws, shakes, searching

Until the perfect spot is found.

Stomp stomp, ugh She paddles over my hills and dales.

I impatiently wait for her pacing to stop.

Eureka she's finally found a spot!

she finally drops!

Oh but wait.. that was just a ruse.

Lucy's up again. Stomping around..

In the darkness I hear her panting

And in the distance the train whistles a ghostly sound.

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

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."

By Ricardo Tomasz

O Love, thou fickle tyrant of the heart,
With poisoned arrows tipped in cruel art!
Thy fleeting pleasures burn but swiftly fade,
And leave behind a hollow, aching shade.

Thou doth betray with smiles and honeyed lies,
And mask thy thorns beneath thy sweet disguise.
What fool wouldst seek thy hand, so fair, so cold,
When once embraced, it turns to dust and mold?

Thy promises are whispers on the breeze,
That vanish when the heart doth bend its knees.
Thou trickster, born of folly and of fire,
That tempts the soul to leap into the pyre.

O false enchantress! Cease thy cruel game,
For all who love thee perish just the same.
I curse thee now, with every breath I take,
For love is naught but misery's mistake.

Ricardo Tomasz is an artist in audio-scapes, photography, painting, collage, video, performance art, Artificial Intelligence Art, and occasionally body hair. He is a creative genius and visionary, it says so on his middle school diploma. He was born and raised in Hungary, to a Hungarian mother, and a Spaniard father. They died when he was 16, but their passing allowed him to tour and study at some of the finest Art Universities in Europe. He came to America, thrusting himself into the art scene. He was in and out, in and out, and in and out of America over several years, until finally settling in Los Angeles as an artist, designer, and occasional human crosswalk sign. He is a valuable contributor to the Greater and Grander Artist collective. Subscribe to Greater & Grander for all your Ricardo Tomasz needs.

The Autumn Tree (August 2024)
By R. G. Carrillo

Love is like

An Autumn tree

Lush and green

In the youth

Of Spring

Then naked

And leafless

In the Fall

Of our time

Love evergreen

In the bloom

Of Maytime

Then gone

The blush

Of innocence

Fades and

Slowly withers

Away

Vocalizing words

Holding the notes

Bending

Sacred breath

Emoting

Consciousness

No longer

Pretending

Light and dark

Never able

To unite

Polar enemies

Non-magnetic

Forces

Conflicting

Deflecting

Rejecting

But ever

Expecting love

Poison

From my father

My mother

Will never

Recover

I was born

In a thunder

Storm

The leaves

From my Autumn tree

Most have blown away

Some remaining

My struggle

My suffering

Certainly

Not in vain

I am capable

Of love

Despite

My DNA

Triumph and Tragedy
By Don Kingfisher Campbell

Wheeled out the portable

Air conditioner that looks

Like an all-white R2-D2

Sat it next to me in my red

UCLA-lifted swivel chair to

Provide a 78-degree breeze

I pointed the white plastic

Caterpillar-like exhaust tube

To the parted front door space

Below the bottom of the black

Iron security screen somehow an

Orange butterfly stilled by blast

Don Kingfisher Campbell, MFA Antioch University L.A., taught at USC and Occidental College Upward Bound, board member California Poets In The Schools, publisher Four Feathers Press, host of the Saturday Afternoon Poetry reading and workshop series in Pasadena, California. For awards, features, and publication credits, please go to: http://dkc1031.blogspot.com

Excerpt from Opulent Mobility by A. Laura Brody, 2024

I had no idea when I first started thinking about wheelchairs that I would develop an international exhibit focusing on re-imagining disability. While growing up I volunteered a little with the Special Olympics and worked with folks who had serious injuries, but the concept of disability was not really part of my world. While most of my life was spent dealing with mental health issues, both mine and my family’s, it didn’t occur to me until much later on that those were disabilities.

It wasn’t until a former partner had a stroke that adaptive devices came into focus for me. I was right out of graduate school and had no idea of how to care for someone with a stroke. While taking him to physical therapy, I saw an 85 year old man and a four year old girl doing the exact same therapy, and something clicked. There was no question to me that anyone could become disabled at any time, for any reason. Since I enjoyed figuring out how things are made and designed, I was fascinated by the wheelchairs, walkers, scooters, and pinchers that helped people pull their socks up or to chop their produce with shaky hands. As an artist, though, I did not understand the cold and clinical designs of these items. They were almost insultingly ugly. Maybe the devices had to look that way for medical reasons, but something didn’t seem right. Many years later, after a tough but necessary breakup with both the partner in question and members of my immediate family, I began to focus on the fascinations I had cast aside before. I got back into storytelling and writing and learned some upholstery techniques- which eventually brought me to my first wheelchair re-creation.

I am a professional costume maker and designer by trade, and have spent a lot of time crafting costumes out of all kinds of materials. I had no medical equipment training but could create interesting designs. A friend donated his unused electric wheelchair to me and I remade it into an Edwardian throne. It was lovely, but the upholstery was so thick that he was practically pushed onto the floor the first time he used it. Fortunately, he was unhurt and good-humored! I had a lot to learn about making functional and beautiful wheelchairs.

I decided to approach this through the lens of art instead of medical device manufacturing, since that is my strength. Art is also such a graceful way to introduce people to new concepts, to start difficult conversations, and help change minds. While developing my first mobility artworks, I found out how few interesting designs for wheelchairs ever make it to market. I also realized I was unintentionally touching on taboos about disability and mortality, and got some surprising resistance to my ideas. Most of this resistance came from able bodied people.

Luckily, instead of being discouraged, I got stubborn. Being a collaborative artist by nature, I wanted to bring other people into the equation and work on this together. I figured I couldn’t possibly be the only person thinking about re-imagining disability, so I made plans to put on an exhibit. After all, I had worked in live events and theater for years. How hard could it be?

The first show took a full year to get started. I fell in love with the ease of access and smooth walkways at the Bell Arts Factory in Ventura, but they did not feel the same way about me. After calling them once a month for a year, they finally agreed to a meeting. It turned out they were still upset about the time and money it took to make their space ADA compliant. Eventually, we came to an understanding and I put up a small show for a single weekend in their community room. There were 7 artists in the exhibit, including me and another one who was wrangled into the show by collaborating with me on a piece. Artists backed out, one had their work stolen from their accessible van, there were major communication lapses and occasional fights, and my car broke down the weekend of the event. It was overwhelming and frustrating and ridiculous, in the way of all live events. In the end it came together, and I met people who would become long time collaborators and advocates for the show.

Anthony Tusler approached me about entering some photographs into the exhibit well past the submission deadline. I had already announced the artists for the show, but I enjoyed his photos and kept in touch with him. Anthony is a wealth of information about disability culture, history, and best accessibility practices. He also has a delightful sense of humor and straightforward approach to art and life that I really appreciate. I asked him to co curate the next show with me, he agreed, and we’ve been co-curating Opulent Mobility ever since.

Fly Down
By Sonny Tristan

Lots of things said about LA

All just a bunch of words

The city’s got nothing for me

Freeways shuffle lifeless herds

Go there or don’t

Angels don’t care

That’s the very pull

that calls me there

Drawing me to her

like a Sunset song

The only place to go

where no one belongs

Culture born more than babies

scammers, Dreamers, artists, scores

Stacked sexless atop each other

Things that don’t love you

make you want them more

There’s a small chance

to end up ruling the world

No other Ed offers that degree

And the drug is in the offer

The first one’s always free

This is Sonny Tristan’s first published poem. He is inspired by workshops and readings and is grateful to friends for encouraging him to put art out into the universe.

Poema
By G. Billie Quijano

Let me be clear

The audacity of war

Genocide breathes into the inevitable

The responsibility of 3rd witness

Is exhausting and relentless

Refusal to know peace is attainable

Impotence of dictators

Extortion of innocent souls

The heart is the weapon

Not the bomb of your choice

Crimson currents in the streets

Laughter, love, imagination vaporized in the rubble

Mangled bodies in white sheets

Tears screaming through the olive trees

Cease fire

Falls on deaf ears

Aerial bombardment

A symphony, no one wants to hear

Carnage of conflict

What is the solution?

We will not traffic in your hate

Humanity is not a price to pay

Revolution of mind

Right now, right here, today…

G. Billie Quijano-Hija de East Los, Mestiza, Executive Chola. Assemblage Artista, Photographer, Poeta. Instigator of beauty. Currently experiencing a Spiritual Renaissance. Much love and joy to you all. VOTE!!!

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, 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

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

20 Years Left youtube live stream 2/19/22

https://youtu.be/GT1D5k2EeKU

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 05, 2024

POETS PLACE
SEPTEMBER EDITION

It’s hot! Super hot!!! September is my birthday month and my day usually falls on or there about Labor Day. Birthdays are a celebration of self. A day just for you to do and act however you want. A gift we can give ourselves. It’s a day of permission. So why don’t we give ourselves permission to be kind, loving, happy and self nourishing everyday? I wish I had the key to that answer. It’s also a difficult time for everyone right now since we are in a state of flux and worry about the upcoming election. No one can really predict the future, so it keeps us in a constant state of fear and anxiety, which keeps the cortisol chemical in our brains on high alert mode. A state of fight or flight. I’m trying not to freak out. To use my meditative skills to calm myself, and self sooth. Creative distraction often helps. So do drugs and alcohol. Yoga is a healthier distraction. It has many benefits for the mind and the body. So let’s get out our mats, lay down, stretch and breathe. Let’s pray to the Gods that we can get through this cluster fuck of nauseating fear mongers, liars and cheats. And dig our way out with the help of Om.

Namaste, Linda :0)

On closer inspection
By Linda Kaye

No matter how much you clean the dust particles remain

the mind races unable to sort out the constant barrage of toxic influences and stupid rhetoric as if bombs are exploding behind the retina of the eye

creating images of death diseases religious fanatics beheadings weddings starving dogs and weeping children

senseless behaviors flooding the world as we speak

a wrath of dearth with loads of rhyme and incomprehensible reason

On closer inspection

look up to the sky and ponder

grab a blunt get high on life's gifts and presents of love that surrounds abounds with infinite wisdom the Dalai Lama-isms

"Silence is sometimes the best answer"

Reflections of experiences passed

on guilty pleasures

unlocked treasures

buried deep

underneath

trying to escape through the barriers of imperfections

mirrored inspections that resemble that familiar face

smells of that place

the repression that holds tight

squeezes with all its might

Upon deeper inspection colors appear brighter when the fear peels away revealing untapped resources of gold and markings of scars that have actually healed but remain buried encrusted as a trusted friend although developmentally delayed and frightfully stayed

Oh the possibilities of new skin

a fresher look of perception

unclouded visions

transcendence of soul

unconditional love and acceptance of self of humanity

respect of thy neighbor

thy friend, nature, the earth.

A Hoot and a Holler and Two Cahoots Away
By Alex S. Johnson in collaboration with Alea Celeste Williams

"Everybody should have an Alea-esque person in their life"-- A Josh Cookieman

there's this

kinda

Unusual

Chica

Monroe

Michigan.

She has dark hair

Dark eyes

peering at the world

Curiously through

big

Frames.

Her eyes look like

Smoke

Seen on a deliciously

frosty

Fall day when the leaves

crunch

on the path before you

And your nerves are all a tingle because

Magic

Mystery

and perhaps a ghoul may

Just

May cross your path but

Her breath if I could put a glass box around it put

It in

Artistic context make it into

A Bauhaus type

functional yet

beautiful

Mass produced

object

put it in artistic context and

sign it

L.H.O.O.Q.

French readers do yo stuff

(spell it out phonetically for a million in prizes!!!)

Let me tell you

People would pay a

Frightening lot of

Mi to

Collect it

Doom Hippies of all

stripes bell

Jarred bottom feeders and

Sizes of daughters n' sons would

Hitch thur buns to a

traveling chaos

Star like

Freddy

Mercury or

that guy whose

poetic philosophy inspired

Also Sprach

Zarathustra and

The hurling of a bone into

a smash cut military machine

August Poet's Place

August 06, 2024

POETS PLACE
AUGUST EDITION 2024

Hello fellow poetry and writer enthusiasts!!! It is August and the Olympics are in full swing in Paris! The opening ceremonies were spectacular and shined a light on the world. Let us enjoy these amazing athletes and bask in their glory for just a moment. Dissolve into the bliss of greatness before our eyes. We can and hopefully we will, some day be blissful. My heart races almost everyday now with the constant threats to our democracy. I cannot fathom that in our country, there are those who would wish ill to women, immigrants, people of color, and anyone who has a different faith or belief in their choice of worship. I am continually trying to stay away from the political arena to avoid listening to the lies that are spewing out of the mouths of many. They are not the majority and I hope the majority can still rule. Cross our fingers.

This month hosts poetry and prose from many of you. I feel blessed that I can host anyone who wants a voice to share to our readers. AND for those of you who read until the end, I have inserted this month in my bio my recent film 20 Years Left! A short documentary that achieved an Honorable Mention at the Highland Park Independent Film festival!!!

Thank you all so much!!! Enjoy!!

Love, Linda :0)

The greatest secret on earth
By Linda Kaye

Is the one never told

hidden beneath it’s crusty heart squelched suppressed collecting dust

driven mad by years of neglect left to dwindle and turn into lies

It’s a cover-up for diplomacy protecting the world from annihilation

Once it’s out of the bag relationships implode

Secret truth missiles are shot into the hearts and minds of others causing an instant impact of death of their denials

Forever undone by the greatest secret on earth

your open heart
by jerry the priest

is not an achievement

for which you could expect

to receive validation, because

your open heart

is not about you

neither is it

an objective

to be pursued,

as if you'd ever profit

by chasing what is

already yours

your open heart

is an option, nothing more

it is no less sacred

than your own breath,

and no less constantly

flowing

it is not for acquiring

but for igniting

for sharing

not for hiding

love is not a riddle

It cannot trip you up

or rip you up, or open

or off

love is too little seen

and too often spoken

all you need do to
coax it into the open…

IS RELAX!

What has 6 vowels, 7

consonants, and comes

with a lovely guarantee?

y o u r

o p e n

h e a r t

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.

"Dragonfly Messages”
By Lida Parent Harris

It isn't that it's life is a trickery, or being mocked by life and it's foolery.

It's playing the harp of an emerald dragonfly, to stoke your saddened tears.

She tells you to keep moving, Never fooling or wandering in place.

You have love to fulfill, and gifts to reveal, besides are the talent is near.

Don't get too comfortable when she buzzes by,

just stay on the road, the path is aligned

for all the joy your heart is ready to make, and the dragonfly you're seeing is here to take it's place.

Give you the nod to move on,

and a jingle of the bell how you're doing it so well.

Lida was born in Inglewood, Ca., and raised in Chatsworth, Ca. She spent her childhood enjoying a good book, drawing, and writing her own stories. Always a quiet student, Lida thrived in the world of Literature and Art.

At age 17, Lida began Journaling, and writing her first drafts of poetry. She graduated from El Camino Real High School, and went on to care for adults and children with disabilities. Lida continued her love of writing poetry well into her twenties. She began submitting to newspapers, and collections of work.

Her writing career began in 2001when she began attending Open-mic events in the San Fernando Valley. She met wonderful friends in a coffeehouse, and soon her life and world opened. Lida attended Community Literature Initiative instructed by Hiram Sims. It was a writing course at USC which gave her new roots.

Her first book of poetry was published in 2015, by World Stage Press. She enjoyed performing in new venues, and creating her own shows called Lyrical Flames, in 2014. Since then, Lida has performed her poetry in Las Vegas, Chicago, Santa Monica, Long Beach, North Holland, ArtShare LA, Leimert Park, Grand Park, and The Los Angeles Times Book Festival.

Lida is currently a mentor and dedicates her time to teach poetry for adults for The Los Angeles County Department of Mental Health. She is also taking Drumming and writes song lyrics for new realms of creativity.

danza mexica
by nadia cristina

i learned there was water there

because i spilled it

learned there was fire there

by getting burned

tonguing the wound

the black nothingness

until it is filled

is it possible to spin

fast enough to fly?

away from pain

away from plunder

to a blue river

where my ancestors

have always been

black crow hair in sunlight

lifting woven baskets

speaking to fish

in their own tongues

my wish for flight

is a prayer for transcendence

to know my cultures

as if they were passed to

heart to heart

rather than running

backwards across

time

an olympian

a detective to my own

life

breadcrumbs + clues

+ scraps

on my knees

everything becomes a

prayer

for what was taken to be

returned

land

back

culture

back

can i know what it’s like

to have

in the first

place?

know it as simple

inheritance

like the pit of a

stone fruit

that births

a new flower

a new fruit

again + again

the sound of ayoyotes

seeds of vibration

for new generations

conch-shelled

cosmos

unfurling

nadia cristina martinez ismail is a poet across media. Their work can be found online at angelbabe.me

Imagine
By Anna C. Broome

And when one of you falls

The lowest within each of you falls

And in your heart

That day does not meet your needs

All may see the flowers

But no one will be free

For as one is mourning

The divine is dead between the greatest of people

Wastefulness cannot be justified

As submissiveness shown

And as a grave is dug

Many hands dig a million miles down

Claim your rights

State your claims

Fight your battles

Reject vexation

For the world always has been as it is

Due to the sameness of living

Lean far, be grown,

See the points of action

Store your refugee outside your pocket

Don’t use me as your excuse.

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.

Laughing and Crying
By ChampionElCid

I'm laughing at the state of the world today,

I'm laughing at the leaders and everything they say

I'm laughing cause they're stupid, their speech is so absurd

I'm laughing when I hear them talk, I laugh at every word

I'm crying at the state of the world today

I'm crying because people seem to have lost their way

I'm crying cause they spew hate, at people they don't know

I'm crying cause they help to bring, about our state of woe

I'm laughing at the politicians, whenever they tell a lie

I'm laughing as they seem to think, it's something we will buy

I'm laughing at the idea, that what they think is true

I'm laughing because honestly, it's really nothing new

I'm crying when I hear someone say that they believe them

I'm crying cause I know that means we really are that dumb

I'm crying cause there are so many, who think just like they do

I'm crying cause not long ago, they tried to stage a coup

I'm laughing at people, who believe the word of god

I'm laughing cause they don't at all, seem to find that odd

I'm laughing when they live by rules, that really makes no sense

I'm laughing cause I can't believe, they really are that dense

I'm crying when those same people, use their beliefs to rule

I'm crying cause they think it gives them the right to be cruel

I'm crying cause there are so many, who believe this lie

I'm crying cause they want to see, so many people die

I'm laughing at the theories, that some people believe

I'm laughing at how easily, they are to deceive

I'm laughing cause it's so absurd and obviously not true

I'm laughing cause I can't believe, they have that point of view

I'm crying when politicians say that those beliefs are fact

I'm crying when they say that this is why we must react

I'm crying when they make new laws, based upon this lie

I'm crying when these new laws, mean democracy might die

If I'm being truly honest, I cry more than I laugh

And I think I do it mostly, on the world's behalf….

To Pee or Not to Pee
by
Peter Yates

Lenny Bruce divided mankind into two groups — those who piss in the sink, and those who don’t. He said this to amuse, but when Stone and a duo partner were enduring rigors of the road, sharing cheap rooms to keep costs down, and trying to keep off each other's nerves, it took on deeper implications. Nobody, not even the most likeable person, is rational about all things, least of all in matters of personal hygiene, which even in our modern age can be dictated by superstition. This much Stone knew. He had to keep idiosyncrasies in mind if difficulties were to be avoided. And his best intentions would be tested.

One night, early in the trip, with jet lag upon him, he tossed one last time in his bedsheets and realized that unless he responded to the tickling, teasing signals emanating from his bladder, he’d never sleep again. Straining his eyes in the dark, he looked over at his roommate's bed. The guy was sleeping like a baby, relishing each unconscious moment. Stone contemplated the door. Beyond, across a stone floor, through two more sets of doors, up a dark flight of uneven stairs, was the toilet. He glanced around the room. Six feet away, at the foot of the roommate's bed, was the sink.

Deliberately, responsibly, he considered the step-by-step process required for a trip to the john – the pulling on of pants, so as not to frighten other occupants of the hotel, the tiptoeing across the cold floor, the attempting to deal silently with the double doors, each warped in its own way, each requiring its own abracadabra before groaning open. To handle the doors, he might have to turn on the light. With this thought, he paused. He'd hate to risk waking anyone. He decided to ignore his need. Pulling a pillow over his head, he rolled over with renewed determination. His bladder, pressed against the mattress, ballooned with pain.

The sink at the foot of his roommate's bed was only a few feet away. The roommate breathed deeply and evenly. Seriously, Stone thought, he really shouldn't disturb him — With this jet-lag, the fellow would never approach that state of oblivion again. Tomorrow would be hell for him — and for me, having to deal with him. Stone studied the sleeping form. Does he, or doesn't he? Lenny, give some guidance here. If he caught me in the act, so what? How prudish could he be? His useless wondering was interrupted by another poke from below decks. He glanced at the sink, so near, so easy, so reasonable. The bladder egged him on.

But, he hesitated. You never know about people — you just can't tell what might set them off. Damn them — the idiots confuse the proximity of tap and drain with a similarity of function! But after more thought, he admitted that, technically, they were right — there was a relationship between what goes down and what comes out. In his mind he constructed the mechanism. Waste water, upon entering the drain, joins waters and effluvia from drains throughout the hotel, perhaps even from the toilet upstairs. These, in turn, join products from other drains. Teaming up in sewers under the street, they race underground to creeks, rivers, bays and treatment plants. In a great wave, they arrive at the ocean. There, after some time during which they are swallowed and excreted by any number of fishes, they are evaporated into clouds, blown about, and sent down again as rain over some chance country — into rivulets, streams, creeks, rivers, into pools, lakes, reservoirs, into aqueducts, tanks, pipes, and faucets, and ultimately, perhaps, even into this very same hotel-room sink.

He realized the ridiculousness of this I'm-a-Little-Raindrop story. The evaporative turnover time of the world's oceans is, after all, two million years. With all the thought of running water, now he really had to go. Jesus! — if he or any of his righteous ilk were to take a glass of water from the tap, how would they know what other functions their quenching beverage might previously have served? The local reservoir is a giant cesspool! The connection is there. Even so, idiot that the guy was, Stone didn't want to trouble him with any groaning doors or noisy flushing from upstairs. Listening enviously to steady breathing, he decided, out of considerateness, to go for the sink.

Quietly, he rose. He headed toward the beautiful porcelain fixture. Treading softly, he approached the end of his bed. His bladder squirmed in anticipation, celebrating the excitement of the moment — the intoxication of imminent taboo-violation. It gloated as he stifled a giggle. He fought his fear of stumbling in the dark and filling the room with noise. In the half-light from the window, the sink gleamed invitingly. Finally, perfectly, at the point of bursting, he reached it, without a sound.

Soon things were going well. He strained to hold back the eager stream as it jetted at the target of the drain. Failing at this, he tried to mute it by angling it against the slick vertical side of the bowl. Not a whisper from the bed behind him. Good job, he thought. But congratulations were premature. He'd hardly got going, had only begun to grin with relief, when a chortling sound, soft at first, then louder, emerged from the drain. Behind him, bedsheets rustled, followed by a loud sigh. He considered aborting in midstream, but abandoned the painful notion. From within the wall, pipes began to gurgle. The roommate stirred again. In vain Stone tried to choke the flow. The drain laughed louder, seeming to enjoy his predicament. Panicked, he reached for a cup on the sink-stand, grabbed at the faucet handle, and flooded the sink with water to mask the swelling chorus of the plumbing. My back is to the bed. I'm only slightly on tiptoe. He'll think I'm getting a drink. Making explanatory gestures with his back, he lowered the cup into the basin, taking care in the darkness to try to choose the correct stream. The cup grew heavy in his hand. It was impossible to avoid the impression that he was at the doctor's office, filling a sample. Is it my imagination, or does it feel warm? He raised it to his lips, making more I'm-only-having-a-drink motions. Fighting back a moment of doubt, he tipped the cup and poured the contents down. The roommate coughed and turned on the light. In the mirror above the sink, Stone saw himself drinking calmly. The liquid felt good as it streamed down his throat — he had been thirsty, after all. He swallowed eagerly and was struck by the absurdity of his simultaneous needs to take in and to expel. The fluid poured down his throat and seemingly straight out into the sink below, in a continuous stream. He was a human tube. In a flash, he rethought the connection between faucet and drain — right now, the connection was him, a weird bypass in the raindrop's journey. The roommate fumbled with the clock bedside his bed. The light went out. With a grunt, the roommate turned over. The last drop from the cup trickled down Stone's throat. Below, after a slight delay, his output eerily came to a halt. He replaced the cup on the sink-stand and settled back on his heels, making sounds of slaked satisfaction. He allowed the tap to run a little extra, shut it off, and began groping his way back to bed. His eyes were newly dark-adapting, unable to see a thing. He slammed his toe into something, swearing automatically at the stab of pain. The roommate grunted again. Lying back in bedsheets, Stone wondered if the poor guy would be able to get back to sleep. At least, he reflected, he hadn’t had to listen to the double doors. He meditated for a while on the thought of what a considerate traveling-partner the fellow was fortunate to have. With a last sneer at his chastened bladder, he dozed off.

Later, drifting out of a fitful sleep, he became aware of a sound like laughter in the room – first a chortle, and then, louder, a gurgle. In the half-light from the window, he made out the cause. It was only the roommate, standing at the sink, drinking a glass of water. Who would have known? he asked himself, as he reached to turn on the light.

pyates@ucla,edu

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.

The Anomaly
By Ed Burgess
7/30/24

Intelligent Artificial

A stain on a white shirt

An anomaly

Not standard

Not perigee

but anomaly

perihelion around the sun

We orbit each other

And when we are close

the angle is an anomaly

we deviate and rotate

Normal and expected

Intelligent Artificial

Not the boss of me

Here at the apogee

As far from you

And the Sun

As I can be

A black whole of creativity

The anomaly

Ed Burgess is an artist, poet and good guy. He has lived and worked in Los Angeles for over twenty years. Follow him on Instagram @pasteywhyte

Poem
By Kassi Crews

Jumping jacks you’re now a new size pack

Jack fruit is from the fig tree family

With ancient mystical secrets helping our bones, blood, proteins, iron and eyes

More for you to see my darling as you grow strong and independent ready to meet the world.

As you slip out of momma’s womb the world awaits your arrival

You are the magic this world needs for our survival

With all wisdom and ancient secrets rolled into you now… your soul is ready to shepherd in our revival for our tribal

Grateful for your arrival

Kassi Crews is an entertainment industry veteran and a consummate storyteller. Her early studio career began at Cannon Films, famous for action titles like Jean-Claude Van Damme’s “Bloodsport,” Chuck Norris’ “Delta Force”, and Sylvester Stallone’s “Cobra.” Crews became an industry leader in Hollywood post-production as the Vice President of Digital Jungle where she oversaw the day-to-day operations and served as producer on an endless list of film and television projects. Most recently, Crews lead multiple post-production teams at Fox and Walt Disney Television, overseeing the workflows of all television for FX Networks including "The Americans," “Fargo," and “Pose."

Crews has produced a variety of critically acclaimed independent features, “Broken Memories,” “God’s Ears,” and “A Better Place,” as well as directed live shows for the theater. She is a member of ATAS, NAB, NAPTE, PROMAX, NATPE, and SAG; holds a Master of Arts from CSU Fullerton and a Bachelor of Arts with Honors from UC Santa Cruz.

Architect Creator
By RG Carrillo

Architect creator

Out of the dark

Into beauty

Light of consciousness

Soul mate searching

Twin flame identity

Remade my spirit

Fractured biological origins

Sobriety recovery healing

Absorbing maturing

Developing gratitude

Restoring innocence

Pacing my journey

Release me from

Biased judgment

Breathe in freedom

The scales

Of justice

No longer blind

Elitist greed

Red in blood

Blue in depression

White no longer pure

We move unsure

In democracy

Music and poetry

Keep me sane

Politics in America

A quicksand

For the common man

Sinking the middle class

The justice scales

Swinging wildly

In the wind of division

Mid-life national crisis

Right leaning narcissism

Left leaning

Voice of reason

When will liberty

Balance her scales

Find her middle ground

A fork in the road

Heal hope highway

Unite the people

Do not divide

The American people

Bring back

Common sense

Disagree with respect

Do not turn

Republicans and Democrats

Into the Hatfields and McCoys

One nation under God

We are not clans

Fighting with clubs

Throwing rocks

On the other side

Plenty of fault

To go around

Wise words

I hang onto

So simple

Rodney King

Turning the other cheek

After being beaten

By the police

“Can’t we all get along?”

Such grace and dignity

Taking the high road

Choosing not

To lower his

Human spirit

Rising from the ashes

Take heed

We are a great people

We do not need

To be made great again

Stand firm

On our constitutional

Principles

I see light

At the end

Of the tunnel

My glass

Is still half full

Love to all

Spread kindness

Plant the good seed

Two ladies
By Christine Bullard

One arrived by train from France

The other by plane from Croatia

They met at their lodging destination

Both were filled with ecstatic enthusiasm

To explore the passionate city of Barcelona, Spain

Together, these two women came to

seek adventure in a foreign country

The weather is hot. The pool is too cold.

The sea is tempting. The wind is tempestuous.

Each day they walk for miles absorbing the essence of the city

The art, cuisine, wine, people, churches, taxis, and flamenco dance

They explore the architecture and design of Gaudi's works of art

Magnificent intricate buildings such as Casa Batilò to Basilica de la Sagrada Familia

In the end, Guadi was hit by a tram and died alone. Nobody knew who he was dressed in rags

I wonder as he was dying in his hospital bed if his Catalan pride was true to the end

The sun shined, birds chirped, and the sounds of tourists overloading the city remained exuberant

As does the friendship between these two ladies

Friends for over 20 years, children have grown, lovers have come and gone, and their friendship continues to grow luxuriant

There is safety, respect, and love in this friendship. It is cherished. It is recognized. It is not taken for granted.

Christine Bullard is a native Angeleno from Highland Park. She is an architectural photographer, as seen in Dwell and other publications. She's a Los Angeles licensed realtor, and co-founder of The Garden Co-op Nursery School. In 2023 Christine became an Italian citizen and is living a digital nomadic life traveling throughout Europe.

Cultural Appropriation
By Don Kingfisher Campbell

Oh oh, CaLoki, you suggested

making the November theme for

Four Feathers Press online edition

Dia De Los Muertos, isn't that...?

Not as bad as performing songs

from another culture like Paul

Simon did on Graceland, and,

now that I think about it, Me And

Julio Down By The Schoolyard.

Don't even mention Genesis!

Yikes, am I not allowed to order

my beloved bean and cheese

burrito anymore? And I just

bought dumplings at the 168

Market on Valley Boulevard

and nobody stopped me

except to say Shi Sheh.

You know why I got them,

my wife is from Dalian, then

adulted in Sanya. Is getting

married the ultimate C.A.?

Wait a minute, I'm writing

this poem in English. Talk

about colloquial acquisition....

Don Kingfisher Campbell, MFA Antioch University L.A., taught at USC and Occidental College Upward Bound, board member California Poets In The Schools, publisher Four Feathers Press, host of the Saturday Afternoon Poetry reading and workshop series in Pasadena, California. For awards, features, and publication credits, please go to: http://dkc1031.blogspot.com

The Litanies of Satan
By Charles Baudelaire
Translated from the French by Alex S. Johnson

Oh you who are the most wise and handsome of all angels

Divinity betrayed by fate and deprived of just praise

O Satan, take pity on my long despair!

Oh Prince of Exiles, one who has been wronged

and yet every time you're vanquished, you return much stronger

O Satan, take pity on my long despair!

You who knows all, great king of the underground

Intimate warrior, knower of human anguish

O Satan, take pity on my long despair!

Who treats the leprous and despised equally

and teaches them by love the taste for Paradise

O Satan, take pity on my long despair!

O you who with your strong and hearty Mistress,

Death, engenders that charming madness, hope

O Satan, take pity on my long despair!

O you who knows where in the envious earth

a jealous God has hidden his precious gems

O Satan, take pity on my long despair!

You whose clear eye has intimate knowledge

of the deep arsenal which contains the heavy metal tribes

O Satan, take pity on my long despair!

You whose large hand hides the precipice

from the sleepwalker walking the ledge

O Satan, take pity on my long despair!

You who magically softens the ancient bones

of drunkards trampled by horses on the cobblestones

O Satan, take pity on my long despair!

You who, to calm the fears of a fretful lot

mixes saltpeter and sulphur into a drowsy medicine

O Satan, take pity on my long despair!

You who with subtle complicity places his mark on the forehead of Croesus

O Satan, take pity on my long despair!

You who places the cult of wounds and pain

in the eyes and hearts of little girls

O Satan, take pity on my long despair!

Magical wand of exiles, lamp of inventors,

confessor of conspirators and those who hang

O Satan, take pity on my long despair!

Adoptive father of those with black bile

chased and banished by God from terrestrial paradise

O Satan, take pity on my long despair!

Glory and praise to Satan, haughty and proud on

your celestial throne

where you reign, and in the profound depths

of Hell, where, vanquished, you dream in silence

Place my heart one day beneath the tree of Science

next to the place you rest, where above your head,

like a new cathedral, your unholy branches spread.

Alex S. Johnson is a retired English instructor, editor, journalist, artist, writing coach and publisher. His poetry and prose collections include Bureau of Dreams and The Death Jazz. His work has been praised by the likes of Ellyn Maybe, Dominique Lowell and the late Lemmy Kilmister of the band Motorhead. Cyberpunk inventor and the co-author of the screenplay to the 1994 cult classic film The Crow, John Shirley, said of his dark poetry collection The Flowers of Doom, "Alex S. Johnson is the Baudelaire of our time, the poet of the underground." Johnson's upcoming books include The Junk Merchants: A Literary Tribute to William S. Burroughs, with an Introduction by iconic horror author Poppy Z. Brite, We Are Gregor: A Disability Rights Anthology and The Doom Hippies III: Cancelled and Deleted Tales. He lives in Carmichael, California with his family.

tRUMp cocoNUT
By Chuka Susan Chesney

Watching from my alabaster

plastic-covered sofa,

I hear on TV:

Trump’s been convicted

of white collar crime.

Time for a drink!

But when I imbibe,

I’d better not drive,

I call my best friend

but she can’t hurry over.

Her dog is dying,

he’s almost not alive.

I text my son,

Let’s have a drink!

He answers, Mom, I get it,

but don’t overdo it!

That’s easy to say

when he’s never been alone.

I’m looking for someone

to have a drink with,

but there’s no one.

Guess it’ll just be me

and those thirty-four felonies

3 shots of Malibu Caribbean Rum,

a splash of cocoNUT,

surfboards my tongue.

I slurp it straight—

stay up too late:

One shot for Stormy’s testimony,

one shot for Trump to go to jail

and one for Melania to divorce him.

I won’t get a hangover—

I hang glide with rum

Chuka Susan Chesney is an artist and a poet. Her poems, art, and/or flash fiction have been published in Peacock Journal, Inklette, New England Review, Compose, Picaroon, and Lummox. Chesney’s paintings and collages have been in exhibitions and galleries across the United States.

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, 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

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

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/

20 YEARS LEFT DOCUMENTARY!!!!

Photo credit: Brad Stubbs

https://youtu.be/BsI5-8xdbzk

July Poet's Place

July 07, 2024

POETS PLACE
JULY EDITION 2024

Write or wrong we are here write now. Are we living our best lives? Contemplating our best life? Where are you now? Are you in it to win it? Can you put your head down every night and claim you did your best today? One of the ‘Four Agreements’ by Don Miguel Ruiz, says, “always do your best” purports that if you do your best, regardless of how you feel, even if you are not doing well, that you still did your best, you win. Our lives are full of daily challenges as well as blessings. How we view life can either heighten or destroy our happiness quotient. Is the glass half full or half empty? I met a homeless guy with no hands when I worked at Hollywood Presbyterian hospital as an ER social worker in the early 2000’s. I realized then that I had nothing to complain about.

I am blessed to be able to write, think, compose, create art, play with my friends, eat, drink and travel. Thanks to all of you, we have this column to share anything we want to share, without judgement.

This month is jammie packed with poetry, stories and more. Please take a look!!!

Love, Linda :0)

The low end of good
By Linda Kaye

Good is a profitable commodity cherished, relished by the masses

Good is measured by how one feels at any given moment or a taste that appeals to the senses

If you are at the low end of good, you probably are just eeking by

barely standing, somewhat happy, making or not making a living, getting laid infrequently but occasionally having sex

Some sex is better than no sex

The sense or perception that something is good, is personal, experiential

As the saying goes, one man’s floor is another man’s ceiling

One man’s garbage is another man’s treasure

The low end of good, just simmers barely above the surface

It's reach turning tricks to gather enough muster to carry on in the life less traveled

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

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.

"Assist Yourself In Life”
By Lida Parent Harris

You're a moon-streamer, a love-gambler.

A pocket of fresh paint to spray onto the walls.

Take up your means, functioning dreams, and have a go

for life is its own show.

Read all the books, teach the valuable lessons, fight hard not to win, but leave a lasting impression.

Find courage to grow out old truths, and find the joy you see inside of you.

Be thankful, be intentional,

and always tip your server.

Thank you.

Lida was born in Inglewood, CA, and raised in Chatsworth, Ca. She spent her childhood enjoying a good book, drawing, and writing her own stories. Always a quiet student, Lida thrived in the world of Literature and Art.

At age 17, Lida began Journaling, and writing her first drafts of poetry. She graduated from El Camino Real High School, and went on to care for adults and children with disabilities.

Lida continued her love of writing poetry well into her twenties. She began submitting to newspapers, and collections of work.

Her writing career began in 2001 when she began attending Open-mic events in the San Fernando Valley. She met wonderful friends in a coffeehouse, and soon her life and world opened.

Lida attended Community Literature Initiative instructed by Hiram Sims. It was a writing course at USC which gave her new roots.

Her first book of poetry was published in 2015, by World Stage Press. She enjoyed performing in new venues, and creating her own shows called Lyrical Flames, in 2014.

Since then, Lida has performed her poetry in Las Vegas, Chicago, Santa Monica, Long Beach, North Holland, ArtShare LA, Leimert Park, Grand Park, and The Los Angeles Times Book Festival.

a fading song into flames
by linda m. crate

independence day is

coming up,

but i see no reason to

celebrate;

they are taking away

our freedoms one by one—

rights aren't meant

to be fought for,

they're meant to be had;

i know there will still

be fireworks and displays

of patriotism but i don't know

if i believe in this country

anymore—

when i was little they promised

me a world much better than this one,

a fading song into flames?

that wasn't what they promised me,

i want the world that i dream of

lush and green with promise;

where there's a place at the table for

everyone and poverty doesn't exist.

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). Linda has four full length poetry collections and a photography collection book. Linda is also the author of the novellas Mates (Alien Buddha Publishing, March 2022), Managing Magic (Alien Buddha Press, September 2022), and The Queen's Son (Alien Buddha Publishing, December 2023). Her first short story collection King Quinlin (Alien Buddha Publishing, March 2024) was published this spring. Her debut haiku collection in these ancient veins was published quite recently (Alien Buddha Publishing, May 2024).

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 Julliard 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!

When I die before you.
By Ed Burgess
5/13/24

When I die before you

Although I shouldn’t

You better show up

You better cry

As they stare you down

You better put up your dukes

Kick ass and take names

Defend me in the eternal sleep

Put the gold pieces on my lids

And tell them all to FUCK OFF

There is no shame in this thing of ours

This Cosa Nostra

This offer we can not refuse

That we have loved

More than we deserved

We have held on

And let them all know

When I die before you

They are standing in the presence of Love

Ed Burgess is an artist, poet and good guy. He has lived and worked in Los Angeles for over twenty years. Follow him on Instagram @pasteywhyte

AN ARTIST
6-7-24
3:35 a.m.
By Mary Cheung

We create, because we must,

It's the oxygen we breathe .

You don't need to tell your heart to pump.

It just does and so must we.

It's our meaning to life.

What better ode can we give.

To mother nature, to celebrate,

To feel alive, to be alive...

Sometimes it feels like a switch is turned on.

And the lens over my eyes....

The one that tells me how I should perceive,

How I should receive...

The bounty that is before me.

I see a door in a certain place,

in a certain light..

and I know what the story is,

that must be told.

As I walked up the stairs,

with the crumbled walls caked with time and the life it's lived...

I saw angels afloat.

And they beckoned and welcomed all who passed this way.

And we humans,

with both feet planted on the ground,

refused to be nailed down,

to live this ordinary life.

We were meant to be extraordinary.

And to gift the world with a feast for their eyes and ears.

We, were meant to make a difference,

to challenge, to bicker and debate.

We were meant to"shake" things up.

So that you might waken from your slumber and then begin to live...

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

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."

Madness (May 2024)
By R. G. Carrillo

I am madness
Flying in the upper Atmosphere
I am madness
Hidden in silos
I am madness
Under the oceans
I am madness
In North Korea
I am madness
In the nuclear
Football
I am madness
In the Kremlin
I am madness
At the Pentagon Grotesque killing Genocide
Of the highest
Order
My brain
Technologically advanced My reasoning autistic
I am madness
That pervades
Young soldiers
Betrayed to die
For their countries
Lies
I am madness
I pervert
The human soul
My trinity
Is greed and power
I am madness
Apex insanity
Mass assassin
I am madness
In the six minute

Decision of POTUS I am madness
In a possible Misunderstanding In an erroneous System malfunction That results

In millions
Then billions
Of lives killed
I am madness
In Putin’s paranoia I am madness
For China’s Ambition
To become
The number one Superpower
I am madness Because there Are no winners

TEN Reasons to HATE Jane Eyre by, Charlotte Brontë
By Anna Broome

10. The wrong people die. Realize that killing all the nice people makes the walking corpse Mr. Rochester seem all the more amiable despite his obvious cruelty to his wife resulting in his blindness and crispy body at the end of the novel.

Mr. Reed: Jane’s maternal uncle whose death is the reason all the hell happens and the novel continues.

Helen Burns: Jane’s best friend at school and the only person nice to her until her residency at Thornfield Hall.

Mrs. Reed: Yes, I know she is the best but that is my point. I would have hated Jane, too. And, hey, she is only looking out for her own charming daughters.

Bertha Antoinetta Mason: A lovely and charismatic woman deemed insane and locked in the attic like a savage beast by her husband, our heroine’s love interest.

9. The wrong people live.

Jane Eyre. Jane Eyre is so desperate to marry the one-handed ape of the novel, even retorting when Mr Rochester asks,’ "Am I hideous, Jane?", he asks. “Very, sir: you always were, you know” she replies.’ This is disgusting to me on many levels. This is the woman who marries the man who is a cad and now a repulsively deformed cad. At first glance this may appear to be romantic but as we know this is a Victorian novel and therefore a monster novel, so beware!

Mr. Rochester: Is it not enough that he locks his wife, whose real name is Antoinette Cosway by the way, up in the attic like a beast driving her mad, which presents evidence enough that she is mad. He married her for her money and then claims he never loved her and locks her away. Ohhh, he keeps her close mind you. This sounds like age old misognomy to me. Now, Edward isn’t finished quite yet. He also uses Blanche Ingram to make Jane jealous. Sure she is a socialite but does Edward know of the money Jane is to inherit? And let’s not forget Adele...a bit pedophilic? Also, I love that Wikipedia describes him as a Byronic hero. AHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa ah ah ah haaaa.

8. The Beginning. The abuse is intolerable. It is definitely designed for contrast one would hope but a contrast that doesn’t really come until the end? And so number 7.

7. The Ending. The contrast we wait for throughout an entire novel are pinned down in our brains by splinters of kindness from a friend who will die at school and various servants who are presented to be on “Jane’s level” hardly gratifies as the big prize at the end is the torched, one-handed, blind cad, who she is so lucky to have found in the end to be her true love. (It works out that the first wife is now dead.)

6. The Middle. Where is Jane Austen when you need her? In the novels of Jane Austen, yes, there are monsters as contrast as well as a seemingly direct attack on the Byronic hero pledging a love for neither Neo-classic nor Romantic extremes, BUT the Bronte woe is a degradation saga presenting horror in human nature as a constant even as the heroine through her weakness to defend herself and her devotion to just survive is both a perturbation to read and an unreliable way to present reality through fiction.

5. Character names as metaphor. Jane Eyre. Let’s start there. It is obvious isn’t it, Morrissey? I am the sun and the heir or is I am the sun and the air. Anyway, you get it. The Lowood School. The belief that hardship builds good character. Thank you say all the children, Charlotte since I think she actually agrees with this since the torture never ends and seemingly neither does Jane’s character building. Ahh, Miss Maria Temple who of course marries the Reverend Naysmith. Naysmith is a Naysayer? I think so, and oh, did he come between you and Miss Temple, Jane? Miss Temple must have high moral standards. Close to godliness I should think. In Austen, at least, the metaphors are fun.

4. The Lie. Jane Eyre: 'I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will.' Free will you say. Even though you return to a man with expectation of servitude, you buy no way are conditioned by your upbringing? Love the free will, Jane.

Another example:

“I care for myself. The more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself.”

― Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

And, yet…

“I have for the first time found what I can truly love–I have found you. You are my sympathy–my better self–my good angel–I am bound to you with a strong attachment. I think you good, gifted, lovely: a fervent, a solemn passion is conceived in my heart; it leans to you, draws you to my centre and spring of life, wrap my existence about you–and, kindling in pure, powerful flame, fuses you and me in one.”

― Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

What happened to yourself, Jane?

3. Popularity. Especially movie adaptations. No, Hollywood never gets it wrong. Not that there is a right. A rewrite perhaps. No. Never mind.

2. That it has to end. Why end this, Charlotte? The only readers this could possibly enchant in the most disturbing of ways is the masochist. The story doesn’t have to end here. Although we can imagine their horrible life together certainly not hand in hand but perhaps blindly in love with a burning desire, you still could have continued to write that future for those who intend to torture themselves delightfully reading this novel.

1. That it had to begin. Need I say more? Okay. In a nutshell. Bring on the Moderns. There are meaningful, enjoyable, relevant Victorian novels. This is not one of them. Where is the science? Where is the break from god? Yes, yes Emily Bronte wrote No Coward Soul is Mine, but is Jane Eyre a heroine? I think she is a disaster coaching tolerance of evil, shame in self-confidence, ambivalence toward misogyny and torture and the most absurd of false-happy endings. I will end with a quote from Jane Eyre as I feel I can now leave this novel where it belongs in the trash past of bad reading experiences.

“Reader, I married him.”

― Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

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.

One Summer and a Million Years Ago…
By Brad Bryan

A scaly, reptile digs its claws deep into a petrified, coral beach, worn smooth by the surge and ebb of

100 million tides.

Salt explodes from its nostrils as it expels the buildup from its blood! It turns its body broadside to the warming sun.

It’s reptilian mind conjures a thought.

What can one scry about its being?

It is thinking of eating algae. An organism so primitive it lacks sentience… or does it?

Certainly iguanas are conscious, but what about the algae that sustains it?

Is it eating trace amounts of consciousness?

Is there an emotional continuum that stretches down past mankind’s awareness, into the emotions of the all creatures throughout the systematic classification of life?

Resonating molecules express themselves as organic sensations in fragments of being, in algae, bacterium or DNA. Perhaps this sensuous journey penetrates deeper still, into all matter … rock, air, the ether.

The unified, phantasmagorical whole may be barely recognizable in its fundamental interrelated parts.

Life is not a mystery to be solved, but a Reality to be experienced.

Brad Bryan

I am not so much a poet, as one who has tried to live poetically.

I have worked in the motion picture business for 30 years, recording Sounds and dialogue.

I have traveled to the top of the great pyramid of Egypt and the ice of the Arctic Ocean.

Lucky to live in Los Angeles with so many creative people.

www.IMDb.com/name/nm0116908

THE
SPLITROCK PLATFORM
by
Peter Yates

Across the waterfall that runs below the cabin sit two granite boulders separated by six feet of red rock whose spikes the local bare feet long ago memorized. The boulders draw the eye because they are clearly halves of what had been a single egg-shaped rock, ten feet in diameter. One half sits as it always had, with a vertical circular face where the break occurred. After the split, the other half rolled onto its dome-end, and for ten thousand years has presented its cut face skyward like a circular table. This affords a nice place to sit, once you trouble to climb up to its shoulder-high level. Bending over it is a lightning-split juniper whose scrub-brush needles filter the sun’s rays into a checkered tablecloth of light and shade.

Waterfalls in this canyon occur wherever the creek encounters a dike of iron-hard rock.

Against that red background, the grey boulder-halves are clearly erratic, dragged there by the last glacier before it melted in place. Ice must have held out under the egg before slushing away, triggering the split and roll.

While tooth-brushing in the cabin bathroom, there’s not much else to do but look across at the stones. A relationship develops. Contemplation moves from the question of their origin to the tragedy of their separation — their lying so near to each other, yet so far from how things were when they were together, before their icy journey into a warming future ended in divorce.

Thoughts gather in the mind. I put down the toothbrush. That spiky gap between the table-half and the vertical-half cries out to be bridged. Rejoin the halves! — with a platform, a trim seat for waterfall-viewing, picnicking, making-out, drug abuse, and access to boulder-tops. The installation will be an inevitable completion, a renewal of granitic vows.

Also, it will look cool. I sketch various designs, some roofed and elaborate.

I settle on the simplest — a six-foot-square of 2x6 planks supported by a frame of 2x4s.

Seven yards beyond the splitrock is the far creekside road. Three hundred yards down toward the lake hums a fire station staffed by trainees. In a small mountain community, word of any boulder-gap measuring would get around. This canyon is Forest-Service land, scrutinized by agencies prohibiting alterations, extra structures, or disturbance of natural formations. Things will have to be done at night. But even night can’t plug a fireman’s ears.

At full dark, after the last sport vehicle has crept down the road to the casinos, I quietly perform the necessary measurements. The boulder-gap forms a six-by-six-foot square, as though designed by winter-god for standard-dimension lumber. Six feet, divided by five-and-a-half-inch finished widths, equals thirteen 2x6s. Those and the framing, and that’d be about it. I snap my metal tape back into its case and pick my way back across the canyon.

Next afternoon, the contraption is taking shape on the cabin deck. For ease of on-site installation, I pre-drill nail holes into thirteen loose planks. I cross-brace the frame with mahogany beams cannibalized from a decorative outrigger canoe plucked from over a sister’s chicken-ranch swimming pool.

Her nephew Bones approaches.

“What’re you making?”

“Baking a pie.”

Once installed, unless something is done in advance to protect it, the pie will be consumed by the Forest Service. I thin a batch of latex and slap it on, a skein of white lending a touch of winter.

“Bones — I need you to carve something.”

“Where?”

“Here on the front of the frame.”

During last century’s settling of the watershed, Nathan Gilmore ran a flock of angora sheep up to the high lake that bears his name. Sheep? John Muir called them four-footed locusts and got them banned up here in the wilderness.

Carving done, the frame is roped to the slippery roof of the available Prius. We wait for night.

From the cabin deck, through a walleyed pair of binoculars scavenged from the mud-skirts of the Salton Sea, Bones scans the waterfall, probing the dark.

“I see lights.”

“Where?”

“Right at the top of the falls.”

There they are, four or five of them, dancing bright.

“Whaat? Who could that be?”

We wait. Twenty minutes. Still the lights, dancing. Bones hands me the glasses.

“I’ll go check it out.”

Twenty more minutes. Bones ascends from the dark canyon to the deck.

“Entymologists.”

“What?”

“Yup. Sampling waterbug hatchlings.”

“You mean — we work for days, only to choose for our strike

the one night those buggers decide . . .”

That night and the next are ruined by science. During the day, walkers on our side of the canyon pass our dirt driveway on their way down to the lake. Their heads turn. Do I detect suspicious glances? I’m sure of it! — straight at the Prius and its rooftop apparatus. Over at the splitrock, once we get the platform in place, the connection will be clear enough.

I saw that thing across the creek. (point) Up at that cabin —

right over there . . .

Night three, and all is clear. We creep the car with its tophat cargo down our road, over the lake-bridge between the chapel and the Washoe camp, and up the far road to the firehouse with its security lights and camera apparatus. Nothing to do but encourage the car’s innocent manner as we motor through, pass again into darkness, and ascend to the erratic rocks.

Safely arrived, we unload the frame, carry it shoulder-height over the spiky minefield — the last defense of the redoubt — and flip the thing into place.

“Kachung!” . . . “kachung! . . . kachung!

We freeze. Noisy job, but a good fit. No sound from the firehouse. After chocking the frame-feet with rocks, we ferry the planks. Planks in place, nails at attention in their predrilled pilot-holes, hammers in hand, the telltale moment arrives — for a little hammer-concert, our touch of night-music in the canyon amphitheater. We look into each other’s eyes, nod, and go for it.

“BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM! ! ! ! !

Into sport-Prius, down through camera-checkpoint, over lake-bridge, up cabin-side road, into drive, out of car, down to cabin, casually onto deckchairs, feet up on cliffside bench, eyes across canyon into darkness . . . sweet darkness . . . uninterrupted.

Until dawn’s revelation of the Splitrock Platform and its granite siblings, joined at last — again — as one. Weather-grey, our historically-labeled replica of an imaginary Nathan Gilmore fall-side folly looks untouched since pioneer times.

Days pass. No one seems to notice. Tourists park and walk to the falls, but without any stopping to sit, no marveling at any rightness of being, no show of appreciation for access to any rock-circle table with its o’er-arching, shading juniper.

Did we blend it in too well? We climb down, cross the creek, and try it out. A joy! — every aspect performing its meant, unnecessary service. Odd though . . . from the platform, the roaring waterfall cannot be seen. Instead, framed by grey granite is a view of the cabin and its bathroom window. The necessary question is obvious.

I wonder who could have had the notion to put this platform here?

Over time, usages are detected — jumping boy, picnic, diaper change — wholesome activities raising the question of what might eventually occur at night, or in the off-season. Might we have installed an attractive nuisance?

Winter comes, goes. Spring again. Surely the Forest Service will have ripped it out by now. But no. There it is! Greyer.

Sun brightens the day. Equipped with a kit of sandpaper and paint stripper, I head down to check it out.

The trunk of the juniper is stitched with carved initials, the usual was-here stuff. Marker-ink spangles the platform’s front. Neon-red spray paint blights a plank. But nothing on granite, as though higher thoughts had stayed each scribbler’s hand.

I sand the plank-paint down to a ruddy stain. Across the thirteen plankboards, a few scratches and inklings of graffiti look okay in the crosshatched shade.

A fine place to sit, if you trouble to stop by.

Splitrock Update

Four years on, and the platform is seeing increased use. The thing has taken off. You can scare it up online. Parties of up to 20 are spotted posing on and around it.

After decades of watching photographs being taken of the falls, it’s some kind of achievement to be seeing cameras pointed the other way.

Unanticipated loads have led to an interesting mode of failure. Apparently only a few nails with ‘take’ had supported the platform’s front 2x6. Ten people on the thing and that would be 1600/4 = 400 pounds per corner. Add a boom-box and some jumping around, and it was a potential disaster.

Repair will be by trial and error.

Tourniquet clamps fail to do much. Failure extends to ropes, wires and cords. Hmm. What might work is to sister a vertical 2x6 under the split, hard against the 4x4. By making the new piece a couple of inches longer than the exposed portion of the 4x4, and lifting the whole corner onto it, it might be possible to sledge the platform down from above, taking advantage of the ground to produce the needed compression. Predrilled holes and more nails could do the rest. Loads would be carried directly to the ground.

Early one evening, with falls-goers still scattered about, I set my sledge to work. Bam! So far so good. Bam! Bam! Just a wee bit more and we’re there. Bam! Bam! Bam! From behind sounds a male voice.

“Sir?”

Busted? . . . I shrug it off. Bam! Bam!

“Sir?”

Female . . . I turn around to see a tourist couple in their 70s.

The woman continues.

“What can you tell us about the history of the site?”

I spin some stuff about Nathan Gilmore, sheep up the canyon, the namesake lake, my volunteer work for the Historical Society, and the geology of erratic boulders. The man takes a turn.

“How did the rock split?”

I give them the melting-from-under hypothesis, finishing with the ten millennia. They nod attentively, proffer thank yous, and tilt away across the spiky red ground.

Bam! Bam!

There. The split is healed. Imperfect, but adequate.

I return to the cabin and look back across the canyon to see a family of four assembling for a photo on the structure, innocent of its new security. Crossed shins shine like Xs across the divide. The dad snaps the shot. All climb into a black Tesla and whisper down the hill.

One week later, a new presence at the site is detected — a trail of ashes, 12-18 inches wide, along the entire circumference of the boulder-platform complex.

The reason for the ash-spreading, or who might have done it, is a puzzle. A ritual exorcism of Gilmore’s ghost? The material has a cold-barbecue texture. That’s a lot of barbecue, if that’s where it all came from — maybe ten loads of ash, to make 70 feet of trail. Did they truck it in special?

We’ll never know.

Just as, usually, we never know how, or by whom, a project is enjoyed. The ashes encircle, for me, an exception. Gazing out the bathroom window, toothbrush in hand, or sanding away the words MAMMOtH gRINdeR, I think I know.

71 Journeys around the Sun
By G. Billie Quijano

I am Love

I am Connection

Geography moved my soul

Rhythms ignited by Heart made me whole

Operas of dew rolling off my Lotus

The Cosmos took notice

Creative force infusing my DNA

Poetry, camera, paintbrush, my essay

Channels of Love

Vibration connoisseur

Dreams and yearnings

Stirrings, urgings, things and wings

Realignment of truth

La Vida Loca, flow and smooth

Major Tom to ground control

Bowie sang my soul

Maya said to me “Phenomenal Woman”

The declaration of the Siren

Iridescent metamorphosis

Wisdom and age, recipe for fearlessness

Reservoir of lust

Mystical union

A chance of trust

Right of touch

An act of attention

Intentions, dimensions

Electrical currents igniting the sea

My soul in tact, never to flee

Artistic alliance with creator

Forceful wisdom of nature

Resolving trauma and anguish

Free language, emotions tranquil

A thirst for what is around me

My third eye to see

Autobiographical element

Experiment, sentiment, development

I am Love

I am Connection

G. Billie Quijano-Mestiza, Poeta, Assemblage artist. After a few months I was moved to write and submit. I got to spend time recently with Linda Kaye and felt invigorated to create. It’s a wonderful gift to have friends who love and support us. This is a month of celebration. I celebrate me.

Poem
By Kassi Crews

My mini watermelon such a round surprise

Your momma’s belly is busting at the sides!

Ready or not here you come

Making us laugh, sing and hum

Rum me dum dum beat on a drum

You’re full of sunshine with magical green thumbs

Growing, evolving and forever changing lives with your bright brilliant light!!!

You shine towards the sun as you tune into life.

You’ll love, laugh and live an abundant adventure here on earth

A wonderful masterpiece journey with your added nice spice!!!

Kassi Crews is an entertainment industry veteran and a consummate storyteller. Her early studio career began at Cannon Films, famous for action titles like Jean-Claude Van Damme’s “Bloodsport,” Chuck Norris’ “Delta Force” and Sylvester Stallone’s “Cobra.” Crews became an industry leader in Hollywood post-production as the Vice President of Digital Jungle where she oversaw the day-to-day operations and served as producer on an endless list of film and television projects. Most recently, Crews lead multiple post-production teams at Fox and Walt Disney Television, overseeing the workflows of all television for FX Networks including “The Americans,” “Fargo” and “Pose.”

Crews has produced a variety of critically acclaimed independent features, “Broken Memories,” “God’s Ears” and “A Better Place” as well as directed live shows for the theater. She is a member of ATAS, NAB, NAPTE, PROMAX, NATPE, and SAG; holds a Master of Arts from CSU Fullerton and a Bachelor of Arts with Honors from UC Santa Cruz.

The Re-Enactment of
By Don Kingfisher Campbell

The Revolutionary War has begun

Pistol shots repeat into the air

M-80 booms nearby scare

Skyrockets sizzle then fizzle

Below the din on city streets

Safe and sane fireworks add

To the low-level smoky haze

Tonight spool out the water hose

Douse those spent charges

Go to bed and get under cover

The next morning gather

All the cardboard and plastic

Toss everything into the rolled

Waste bins because in our

Neighborhood it happens

Coincidentally this 248th year

To be trash day, is that a blessing

Upon this stretch of a United

State of America with a Spanish

Name for a region and a Turtle

Island on which we now reside

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

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, 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/

June Poet's Place

June 05, 2024

POETS PLACE
JUNE EDITION 2024

Back in Los Angeles, and folks it’s still a madhouse of art, culture, poetry, construction and serious potholes. If you can navigate it’s chaos, you are a winner, and probably have succumbed to sheer craziness!

I’m blogging here my trip to Europe, mostly for me to remember and savor my experience again and again. As we grow older, our recent memories often fade into the next experience and the next. Unless we document our experiences, daily, they can be lost into the well of the forgotten.

As you all know, I spent April in France all brought about by my acceptance to an artist residency in Nerac, France. I spent my last week in Europe in May with my friend Christine in Barcelona, Spain. For an LA native, Paris, was still intense. Loads of people everywhere, and no one paying attention to anyone around them. Even displaying and wearing my LA Dodgers T-shirt proudly, no one even made a comment. Even sporting my blue hair, I was invisible. Me. I had hopes of meeting some Parisian's, chatting them up about LA, its art and poetry scene, but to no avail. I did meet a fellow Californian, or course, in a cafe, he was from Long Beach! I invited him to join me to go to the Grand Palais Immersif graffiti exhibit. It was in a huge space next door to the Opera located in the Bastille district where I stayed in Paris. The show blew our minds!! Someone to share my art experience with!!! Yay!

This amazing graffiti exhibit was set “In the 20th century, the cities walls were marked by the widespread of urban art; public space became a privileged ground of expression, a place of creation, exhibition and appropriation for an art that defined itself on the bangs of official institutions. With the rise of the Internet and then social networks, street art has undergone a revolution, leading to a new relationship between artists and the city.

The exhibition unfolds across the monumental spaces of the Grand Palais Immersif, echoing and serving as a screen for these urban artistic creations, presented at 360°. From New York subways to paintings created or filmed using drones, from the large scale murals that appeared from the 2000s onwards to the most recent developments in graffiti vandalism, spectacular actions and reappropriations, visitors will discover urban art in all its facets, through digital experiences magnificently set to music by Roque Rivas”.

I toured the streets of Paris on my own mostly, discovering hidden gems of street art and loads of galleries. The art was stunning everywhere, located down and around the small cobbled stone streets. It was cold, often rainy and dreary weather. Cloudiness darkens my mood, so it was hard to smile at times, especially when the people were not openly friendly.

The Picasso museum was massive! I spent hours roaming the halls gazing at his brilliance! He did everything from poetry to sculptures. He is so well regarded in Europe and the world! You see his work everywhere, as graffiti on the street walls, and located in his museums scattered throughout Europe. We have been blessed with so much art in our lives, and we artists have been blessed to be in their spheres. I especially loved my hotel in the Marais district. LePetitBeaumarchais. I had a top floor room with a window that overlooked the Eiffel Tower in the distance! I loved writing at the little table by that window, listening to french radio stations. That hotel experience sealed my heart for Paris. Plus they provided me with slippers that I used throughout my trip in France and Spain!! It’s the little homey comforts in life that helps us get through the day. Right??!!

After Paris I decided to venture to the Loire Valley, specifically to Amboise, Da Vinci’s last home. Using Rick Steve’s travel guides I found this gorgeous B&B there. LaDilecta, Chambers d’hotes. Hosts Barbara and Andrea were artists themselves, and they provided me with the warmth and care I needed to experience France in their town. They guided me on how to travel to the chateaux’s Chenoceaux and Chaumont.

Barbara made a homemade breakfast everyday with chantilly cream for my coffee and a host of pastries and bread. Andrea provided and described the local cheeses and meats course served. Plus fresh fruits to sweeten my palate. I ended up lengthened my stay there.

I spent a day at Chateaux Du Clos Luce, Da Vinci’s last home. “Formerly called Manoir du Cloux, is a large château located in the center of Amboise, in the department of Indre-et-Loire, in the Centre-Val de Loire region of France. It is located in the natural Val de Loire (formerly called Touraine) region. Built by Hugues d'Amboise in 1471, the palace has known several famous owners such as the French king Charles VIII and Leonardo da Vinci. Clos Lucé is 500 metres from the royal Château d'Amboise, to which it is connected by an underground passageway. King Charles VIII bought the home from Étienne Le Loup in 1490 and during this time it became known as the ‘summer house’, housing French royalty. After a few decades Francis I gave it to Leonardo da Vinci when he invited him to live in France in 1516. The aging polymath lived his last years in this house, until his death on 2 May 1519” (Wikipedia). The grounds held working models of his inventions. He made a total of forty machines, five centuries ahead of its time! They were recreated at the chateaux using his original drawings. Astounding!

Walking the streets of France held a special charm for me. It takes a few days to orient myself to the area I’m staying in, focusing on the city maps to guide me to the places I wanted to go. Those hand drawn tourist maps were not very legitimate. They were needed though because I didn’t get a European sim card (dumb), so GPS on my phone was limited. But I managed to get where I wanted to go. Sometimes I would would walk half a mile in the wrong direction eventually stopping to ask a stranger, in my limited french which is the way to Chaumont chateaux? Getting lost was usually not a problem. It was an opportunity to see the countryside, sitting on a stump to relish and breathe in the local charm and beauty. Everywhere in France was gorgeous. It was April, it was green and flourishing in blooms (pic- yellow flowers near Chaumont). Once I turned around and walked the proper mile to the chateaux, I turned a corner and witnessed the splendor of Domaine-Chaumont.

Wow! I was stunned at the magnificence. Stupefied really. I knew then that this was the reason I traveled to the Loire Valley! The Chateau of Chaumont-sur-loire, overlooks the Loire Valley and is a UNESCO World Heritage site. And what a site to see!!! It’s a defensive architecture of the Gothic and Renaissance period. Catherine de Medici, who owned the Chateau from 1550-1560, then sold it to Diane de Poitiers, who also inherited Chateau De Chenonceau. Chaumont is currently a center of art and nature. The grounds are covered with art and hosts yearly international artists and garden festivals.

Chateau of Chenonceau, is called the ladies Chateau, because it was owned by ladies from 1494-1972. The original castle was demolished, only keeping the Marques tower and was rebuilt in the Renaissance style built on the piers of the old fortified mill. Walking through the impressive rooms of tapestries, restored renaissance furniture and stained glass windows was astounding. It gave the viewer an inside look into how the rich royals lived. Every corner, galleries, libraries, bedrooms, were touched by artisans of the day. Looking out through the tower window at the Loire River I felt I was in that time, the era of rich decadence and wealth.

I did feel wealthy traveling in France. I could go anywhere I wanted. I just had to pick where I wanted to go next! In my beautiful room in Amboise I opened the map of France on my iPad and pondered where to go next. I had at least 10 days to plan before my residency in Nerac. I pondered going to Marseilles, Toulouse, Arles, Bordeaux, Carcassone… Nice. All were accessible by train. I decided on Bordeaux, but I now forgot why! I booked my train, then found a delightful hotel, Hotel Renaissance, modernist style, situated right across from the Cite du Vin museum of wine. It was essential to visit the Cite Du Vin. I was in Bordeaux the wine capital of France!! I am so glad I did. They exhibited all the types of grapes used in France, their origins and the history of wine production. And on the top floor, with a complimentary glass of wine one could view the gorgeous city!

Bordeaux felt like where all the youth come to study and party. There was always lots of people next door at the food court drinking and smoking. The food there was delicious. I ate oysters and drank lots of wine. The streets in Bordeaux were filled with shops, with lots of people walking up and down the Garonne river walk. I walked 8 miles one day, and ended up with terrible blisters! Navigating new cities are sometimes difficult. One has to be versed in all the transit systems, where to get tix and which apps to download to get around. I was only there a few days so I decided to just walk. Of course I went to the museums. On my 8 mile walk I found the Capc, Musee d’art contemporain de Bordeaux. They had several installations inside the building. One installation caught my attention for sure, Waigireh rugs, real hair wigs. Wigs crushed under a sheet of glass. Hair styles frozen in time on a rug! Lol. Mostly I admired the building. “The museum is housed in the Entrepôt Lainé, a former warehouse for colonial goods (sugar, coffee, cocoa, cotton, spices, and oils) which were then re-exported to northern Europe by Bordeaux merchants. The warehouse was built in 1824 by the architect Claude Deschamps, known for the construction of the Pont de pierre of Bordeaux. It is built of brick, stone and wood in a style inspired by Italian architecture. There are two grand naves that are reminiscent of the Roman basilicas and that are used to present temporary exhibitions. The building was restored by the architects Denis Valode and Jean Pistre in the 1980s, the second project that this architectural team had undertaken. Their treatment was unusual for the time, emphasizing shadows and depth”. Wikipedia

On to Toulouse! I stayed in this beautiful hotel, Soclo. “On the banks of the Garonne River, it’s a few steps away from the Capitole, the leaves of a luxuriant garden and the lapping of a swimming pool give way to the Toulousan way of life that we love. The Maison Soclo hotel is located in this 18th century residence where neighbors, globetrotters, business travelers, brunch eaters, meet, discuss, eat, sleep, swim, sunbathe, read, play…Simply Live”. I wanted to visit museums, gardens, and churches, and they were so close by the hotel. I visited the Convent des Jacobins, a Dominican monastary built in 1229. I went to the Capitole, a museum where local policy is decided on.

Built in the 18th century and houses works of art that capture the Toulouse artisans of its time. My favorite was the hall dedicated to Henri-Martin. He painted portraits of his wife, sons and friends. Stunning masterpieces. The entire building is covered in murals, sculptures and frescos. Check out my videos of my experiences in France on Instagram to get a birds eye view. I loved Toulouse and my daily strolls through the town and by the river Garonne. There’s always so much to see and do. Many of my friends talk about the romance of sitting outside in cafes, drinking a coffee or sipping wine whilst the passersby mill nearby. I did at times sit for a spell, hoping some locals would want to take up a conversation, but it didn’t happen. I realized early on in my adventure to enjoy the city of art on my own. Smelling the smells of the surrounding cafes and nipping into shops, galleries and museums alone.

Next stop- Nerac via Agen to start my 2 week artist residency!

The actual train to Agen was uneventful, except that my initial train was cancelled, and since I don’t speak French, I sat on the bench waiting for my train for awhile without knowing. I eventually found some personnel to assist me in getting another train ticket. Since my phone was not getting signal, I couldn’t inform my host in Nerac about my delay. I discovered a McDonalds nearby knowing I could cap on their WiFi to text my hosts. All good. The other resident they were picking up was also delayed. I arrived in Agen, and my host was there waiting. Colin Usher picked up me and Ray, the other resident, and we drove off through the cool looking town, which Colin later in our stay took us to the Musee Des Beaux Arts D’Agen. That museum was founded in1876, hosting of a wealthy connoisseur collection of French paintings and sculptures. There was also really old objects from the Gallo-Roman periods. An absolutely exceptional museum! Once we left Agen, we were off through the countryside of Nerac. All green and lush beautiful hills.

StudioFaire is a magical place to experience in Nerac, France. Julia and Colin embrace their guests, and open their home for an artistic adventure that allows one to create freely in this lovely space. Mostly for me, it was also being around these two creatives, and witnessing their joy when talking about their resident’s accomplishments and their boundless energy to maintain the activities that abounds. I also appreciated their generosity in sharing the history of Nerac and it’s local art scene. Their home welcomes the creative to explore the glorious vegetative yard, and it is filled with their artwork and gifts from residents past. It was so inspiring to write there!

There is a shared kitchen which at times becomes a haven of laughter, and one is often coddled and comforted by the warmth of the smells of everyone’s cooking, which is often shared. The home and garden areas, gave me the urge to write my beautiful poetry in the garden whenever the sun shone. I wrote prose about the Baise River nearby, also inspired from my fabulous walks during the day:

“She strode along on the Garonne River bank. It was April in France, and only the sounds of the river cascading over a cement barge could be heard”.

If you are an artist of any medium, and want and need a quiet and charming space to create, with the most perfect hosts, come to StudioFaire! You will be welcomed into a delightful home of sheer creativity! I would venture out into the town daily to discover hidden gems of architecture all around the town. Walking around the village feels romantic. It’s picturesque and I bet the walls hold lots of stories about the people who have ventured there. “Nérac is a commune in the Lot-et-Garonne department, Southwestern France. The composer and organist Louis Raffy was born in Nérac, as was the former Arsenal and Bordeaux footballer Marouane Chamakh, as was Admiral Francois Darlan. Nérac was visited by author Joanne Harris as a child, and was influential in the setting of her best-known novel, Chocolat”. Wikipedia. I picked this residency because it was a small group of artists. The charm of this home was it’s hosts, as I mentioned above. I was utterly surprised at the calmness of the environment which was conducive to writing. I spent time in my room writing my memoir. In the garden I wrote poetry, which was inspiring, with ancient tress and loads of singing birds. On the last night of my stay, we had a shared dinner with the hosts. I screened my film, ’20 Years Left’, which coveted a round of applause. I drank too much and the next day of departure I was extremely hungover. Definitely not what I wanted to have happen since I had a five hour train ride to Spain! Luckily for me, Colin drove me later on in the afternoon to my train station, so I had the day to attempt to recover. It was a bittersweet goodbye to my hosts Julia and Colin.

BARCELONA!!! Here I come!!! I had to catch two trains there, and like I mentioned I was so hungover. Warning! Don’t travel in a foreign land hungover! It was really trying to navigate new train stations bleary eyed, and I didn’t get into Barcelona until later evening. I hailed a taxi at the station which was huge and busy! Luckily for me my friend Christine was meeting me there, and she was already at the hotel. I was still pretty wacked when I arrived, but it was so comforting that she was there to usher me in. What a grand city to wake up to next morning! I was awoken by the smell of a delicious cup of coffee brought to me by Christine. I knew then that our stay here was going to be amazing! We had a place close to the marina and not far from the beach. The weather was warm and sunny! A pleasant change from the cloudiness of France. Our trajectory? Gaudi Gaudi GAUDI!!! His architectural genius was seen everywhere!. The La Familia Segrada church, Palau Guell, and the castle manor Bellesguard, which was very quiet, not very frequented by tourists who are packing the well known sites. “Bellesguard, also known as Casa Figueres, is a modernist manor house designed by Catalan architect Antoni Gaudí, which was constructed between 1900 and 1909. It is located at the Sarrià-Sant Gervasi district of Barcelona in Catalonia, Spain. The ground on which Bellesguard stands had been the site of a country residence belonging to Martin, king of Aragon and count of Barcelona”. Wikipedia.

Guell Palace, was the first great commission Gaudi received from Eusebio Guell. It was built between 1886-1890, and was it a feast for the eyes!! As mentioned before, I have videos from the inside and outside to see on Instagram. Its concept of space and the treatment of light were astounding! From the rooftop I could see another of Gaudi’s buildings located in the distance on the hillside. I think it was the Bellesguard manor that we visited. On that same hill you could see an old ferris wheel. I really wanted to go there, but or course we can’t do it all!

Now for the creme de la creme, La Familia Segrada. “The Basílica i Temple Expiatori de la Sagrada Família, otherwise known as Sagrada Família, is a church under construction in the Eixample district of Barcelona, Catalonia, Spain. It is the largest unfinished Catholic church in the world. Designed by Catalan architect Antoni Gaudí, in 2005 his work on Sagrada Família was added to an existing UNESCO World Heritage Site, "Works of Antoni Gaudí". On 7 November 2010, Pope Benedict XVI consecrated the church and proclaimed it a minor basilica.” Wikipedia. Thank you Wikipedia! The description cannot explain what the senses feel when you enter the basilica. I had to FaceTime Les on WhatsApp to show him what I was experiencing at that very moment in time. It was absolutely BREATHTAKING!!!!! It has been under construction for 100 years and it is still not finished!

Tooling around the city was magical. There is art and culture happening around every corner. Street art, Lichenstein sculptures, Miro art in tiles on the street, graffiti, gelato and lots of cured meats hanging in the windows! I love Barcelona!! Our hotel had a rooftop pool and deck bar which people partied there nightly.We didn’t party much, by the time it was days end we were exhausted from our adventures and we collapsed in our sweet room. We could still listen to the sounds emanating from the city from our balcony. One of the last adventures, and certainly memorable was the Fundacio Miro museum. The Joan Miró Foundation is a museum of modern art that exhibits the works of Barcelona-born artist Joan Miró. The museum opened its doors in 1975 and was designed in collaboration between Miró and architect Josep Lluís Sert. The building itself is also pretty interesting, and the rooftop terraces offer excellent panoramic views of Barcelona. Yes it did!!! Stellar!!!

Europe was an adventure to remember. There was so much more that I didn’t write about here. I will leave more for my upcoming memoir. I feel so blessed that I was able to go on this trip. Do everything that I wanted to do, and truly honored to have been accepted to an artist residency. I feel that I really am an artist. And one that loves to share in the gifts that I have received.

Now, here are this month’s contributions!!!

Ciao, Linda

Poem
By Lida Parent Harris

and show her now before she knows

that love is a gift, and she is as true, and better off than she ever knew.

3/29/24. 6:38 p.m.

At age 17, Lida began Journaling, and writing her first drafts of poetry. She graduated from El Camino Real High School, and went on to care for adults and children with disabilities.

Lida continued her love of writing poetry well into her twenties. She began submitting to newspapers, and collections of work.

Her writing career began in 2001 when she began attending Open-mic events in the San Fernando Valley. She met wonderful friends in a coffeehouse, and soon her life and world opened.

Lida attended Community Literature Initiative instructed by Hiram Sims. It was a writing course at USC which gave her new roots.

Her first book of poetry was published in 2015, by World Stage Press. She enjoyed performing in new venues, and creating her own shows called Lyrical Flames, in 2014.

Since then, Lida has performed her poetry in Las Vegas, Chicago, Santa Monica, Long Beach, North Holland, ArtShare LA, Leimert Park, Grand Park, and The Los Angeles Times Book Festival.

Poker for Free
By Caleb Delos-Santos

If those petite disks,

ribbed

and faintly tinged,

equate to dialogues

about Letterboxed

and Oreos,

or nuptial monologues

aloft

in Serif Font,

or checkered pre-wed vents

about save-the-dates

and sex,

or fresh brethren

exempt

from GEs

and patriarchies,

or a potential new family

with covert dents,

spaghetti

wiring,

but also cream cheese,

bellflowers, and naked teeth,

then, I might not raise,

but I will certainly

ante up.

Caleb Delos-Santos (he/him) is an English graduate student and teaching assistant at Southern Illinois University Edwardsville. Caleb has published poetry with over twenty literary magazines, including North Dakota Quarterly and the Madison Journal of Literary Criticism, and released four poetry collections: When Will You Water Me? (2024), Leftover Poetry (2023), Once One Discovers Love (2023), and A Poet’s Perspective (2022). Caleb also won the 2022 Esselstrom Prize for Creative Writing, the West Wind Literary Magazine’s 2023 Best in Genre Award for his nonfiction, and the 2024 William Carlin Slattery Award in Poetry. When not writing, Caleb watches TV with his wife.

Turkish memory
By jerry the priest

Those oarsmen never knew what hit ‘em

Hillary was a popular classmate, as was I

Two roustabouts out for fancy larks in foreign

climes, down by the wharf

We weren’t destined for a lasting acquaintance

But when two young men in a rowboat appeared

it was too magical to miss drifting on the bosphorus

high on raki mixed with the crescent moon and stars

while dunbeks played, dervishes whirled, and the

lavish waves seemed operatically choreographed

We ended up tangled in yacht’s ropes, nearly

pitching into the drink, finally scrambling to shore

to chortle years later about the night we took a boat ride

and never met again

Damn Hills, hope your journey has been amazing.

What a carnival this life! What a godsend!

Thank you for this Turkish memory. Thank you

for the night you were my friend.

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’slived 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.

Scammers
By Ronald G. Carrillo

Scammers

On all fronts

Like the ten plagues

Of Egypt

Phone and

Email scammers

Front door

Scammers

On the street

Scammers

Internet hustlers

On the scam

Hackers

And sellers

Trespassers

And peddlers

Of every sort

Solar panel

Pushers

Fast talking

Presidential seekers

Promising

To make

America great

Again and again

Every four years

Technology's

Dark side

Collecting

Our internet

Habits

Big Brother

Calling

Conspiracy propaganda

Believers

End of days

Apocalyptic

Predictors

Missing

The mark

Every couple

Of decades

Men of the cloth

Out of touch

Pulpit pontificators

Senior citizens

Targeted

By scammer

Specialists

Foreign

Scammers

Out for American

Sweetheart

Money

No shame

All greed

Smash and grab

Scam robberies

Sucker punching

Strangers on the street

For a thrill

The social fabric

Of common decency

Falling apart

Democracy threatened

An apathetic

Fog of fear

Spreading across

The red white and blue

A terrified fringe

Only see the dream

In black and white

With psychotic eyes

No diversity

No rainbow colors

Like a gangrene

Limb that requires

Amputation

An extreme

Conservatism

Living in a prison

With no windows

Unable to see

A bigger brighter

American picture

Close all borders

Hate immigrants

Impinge women’s

Rights

Secret agents

Elitists agendas

Constitutional

White only

Interpreters

Dixieland plantations

Gone

The White House

Was built with slave

Hands and muscle

Black lives

Brown mouths

Asian babies

But the rooster

Remains white

So much

Of our history

Swept under

A democratic rug

Of shame

Clean house

Lift the veil

From closed

Political eyes

Resuscitate

Lady Liberty

Reset

Refresh

Congressional bonds

Of service

For the people

Let’s live

Our full

Constitution

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/

May Poet's Place

May 07, 2024

POETS PLACE
MAY EDITION 2024
BARCELONA

Hola! Publishing from Barcelona, Spain!!! What a magical city! The city of dreams they say when you enter the Gaudi designed building, Casa Batllo. It’s “a building in the center of Barcelona, Spain. It was designed by Antoni Gaudí, and is considered one of his masterpieces. A remodel of a previously built house, it was redesigned in 1904 by Gaudí and has been refurbished several times after that. Gaudí's assistants Domènec Sugrañes i Gras, Josep Canaleta and Joan Rubió also contributed to the renovation project.

The local name for the building is Casa dels ossos (House of Bones), as it has a visceral, skeletal organic quality. It is located on the Passeig de Gràcia in the Eixample district, and forms part of a row of houses known as the Illa de la Discòrdia (or Mansana de la Discòrdia, the "Block of Discord"), which consists of four buildings by noted Modernista architects of Barcelona”. Cited from Wikipedia. Lol.

This building, was so amazing. His design was carefully sculpted as an undersea playground or inside the belly of a dragon. Windows shaped like big eyes shaped with a spiral shell stained glass inside them. Just a sampling. It was an apartment building Yo! You must google it.

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

Entering the La Familia Sagrada Gaudi basilica was enveloping. He designed the building 100 years ago and it is still not finished! Once finished it will be the tallest church in the world! He designed it with themes of the forest. Columns that hold the ceiling look like trees with branches that finger out to touch the ceiling, or as the audio guide said, touch Jesus.

It’s a Neo-Gothic design structured to stand on its own without internal bracing or external buttressing. The result, modified beyond recognition, was a complexly symbolic forest of helicoidal piers, hyperboloid vaults and sidewalls. Exasperatingly beautiful, overwhelmingly stunning. Nothing in my life can compare with this mesmerizing structure!!!

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

There is so much to enjoy in this art and culturally infused city. So far I have just touched the surface. Traveling is a challenge at this age. I wasn’t sure my body would hold out as long as it has, even with the jet lag in Paris, and the hangover from my last night in France, still remnants of a pounding head here in Spain. I’m good. More than good! Inspired!!!

Returning soon to LA!

Enjoy this month’s contributors!!!

Avec plaisir!!!

Linda :0)

Day three, April 20, 2024
By Linda Kaye

she strode along on the Garonne river bank.

It was April in France

only the sounds of the river cascading over a cement barge could be heard

It was quiet in April in France

on the picturesque riverwalk,

the quaintness of the town was a million miles away from the urban jungle, the soundscape of over stimulation and masses of manufactured noise,

pollution

it was peaceful in April in France, sitting on a bench alongside the Garonne river no signs of pollution

a civilized society, clean and contained in the historical capsule of the way back when

although the roads may be cobbled and the people protective the bell still rings on the hour and a half

what we don’t know can be researched

what we remember is the art of adventure that was nurtured by the hosts and through explored new passageways that inspired creativity.

It was an experience to remember

that time in April in France.

Day 3
April 20, 2024

as the sun rose in the garden of the foreign land, and the birds, chirped familiar songs, the church bells rang nine bells as all the towns people slept. The visitors crept alone.

The visitors knew they could march through the village unnoticed, freshly bathed, wearing their culturally fashioned clothes neatly tucked as to not attract too much attention, also it was Sunday the day when the villagers slept in

no shops were open so the visitors wept.

Silently Fading
By Anna C Broome

By your grave I stood

Above your bones

I inhaled

The heap of decay

From my earliest memory

I feared your mortality

As if it were my own

Was it so Worthy

All your Begging for battle?

Now that you put your hunger to rest

down into the darkness

Revenge is a promise a man should keep.

Will you rise from this cursed bed,

With the same thoughts of violence in your head,

Or instead with a heavy fall

Will you prefer to sleep

Or does that admit defeat?

I stay rather silently

As you positively are fading

very silently fading.

Anna Broome is a Los Angeles published poet

IT TAKES MORE THAN POETS
By Peter Yates

[a tycoon’s rant]

It takes more than poets to make the world go.

Capital, brains, knowhow, drive! —

are just as important to being alive.

Unromantic, unglamorous, misunderstood,

Management quietly works for the good.

The pyramids, granted, were built by slaves,

but only when Pharaohs envisioned such graves.

When the workers were freed — their rulers killed —

what works of their own were they able to build?

Centuries later, we come to their land,

to visit the pyramids, and stare at the sand.

This sounds, I know, a bit unkind,

But as I’ve found, so you will find —

those with nothing will admit

their need for wisdom’s benefit,

while those who question wealth and profit,

digest the fruits of what they scoff at.

Seedlings
By Ronald G. Carrillo

These Eagle Rock nights

Of my loneliness

Cathedral spirits stir

In a purple mist

Of memory

Unrequited affection

Was Sophomore rejection

Smuggled in

Those Cathedral gates

Scholarship boys traded

For Hollywood landscapes

Coming into our own

The hippie boys of high school

Paraded in glitter and platforms

Signaling the flash

Of desires kept inside

Liars of our own

True value

Sinking in the riptide

Of self despised

False molds

Status quo barriers

Burying us alive

Until finally

The faggot fur flies

Inner core

Heart of hearts

No longer denied

Recognizing

Never verbalized

Our seedlings sprout

Their first leaflets

All in secret code

Amongst birds of a feather

Flocking together

In pink flamingo sanctuaries

Then to fly

And feel comfortable

In our own skin

Let this new life

Begin

Meeting him

Seeing him

For the first time

Talking to him

Being close to him

Even kissing him

Fireworks

The Summer of 1972

His name was Sean

He was a doorman

At an under twenty-one

Gay night club

Sweet and empathetic

Novice feet

Dipping my toe

Into the stream

Of teenage romance

He read me like a book

I waited for his call

Not to be

Gone to blue

In sad Cinderella shoes

Blown off course

In this strange new

Geography

Those gay days

Of self-hate

Abandonment

Men meet

Compete

Like gladiators

In disco arenas

Depleted me

Of my innocence too soon

Eclipsed the Eros moon

Back to listening

To Joni Mitchell epistles

Leaving the garden

Of my youth

Exploring new lands

Mind traps

Of foolish untruths

To drink in

The eyes of men

Unable to touch

Their hearts

An unaffectionate

Father’s disinheritance

Plagued me

A self absorbed

Mother’s poverty

Were my silver spoons

Born a stranger

In another cruel land

That would be

Against me

Baptized in the blues

Of that love

That Oscar testified

Dare not speak

Its name

Collecting dues

On the Hollywood

Streets

Deepening the hues

Of desire

And kindness

From strangers

Looking for the clues

Of my existence

In movies

And the music

Tendaberry

And Gibsom Street

Speak to me

Lover man

Captains sailors

Tom cats

Of every color

Calico men

With fickle regard

Regard me

The lion

Has awakened

From a deep slumber

A hibernation

From the lamb

Mercy and salvation

Sought through drink

And assimilation

Humiliation

On weekend sojourns

In undercover garb

Needing a romantic

Sabbatical

The scales

Of my balance

Off kilter

Coda: Tennessee exiting

A serious streetcar

Of conformity

Walking to a shoe factory

Daily

Like giving blood

After morning coffee

Rise and shine

Walk the line

Eight to five

To stay alive

Mother and sister

On the ropes

Of survival

The old man

Escaped town

Tennessee took hold

Of the reins

Of a father’s discontent

Inheriting an absent parent

Becoming his father

While hating his mother

I recognize a brother

Of high regard

Going down

In a sinking ship

So ill equipped

For dry land

Going through

Disaster motions

To hang on

Getting drunk

Reckoning adventure

From anywhere

Writing poetry and stories

During a pirate’s lunch

Gentlemen callers

And bits of glass

Under the sliver

Of a white wedge

Of moonlight

Far off in the mist

Stanley hollers “Stella”

SOCIAL MEDIA
By Courtney Olanzapine

City lights once again I waved you goodbye

Friends! Friends found!

You'll be there on and off, like an agonizing bulb

Where else can you go?

It's a tapestry weaved with many a face

And it's a crowded highway leading nowhere

Slowed down conversation

Slowed down time

Is this it? Or just a pantomime?

Haphazard, overdue interest

In this night, the city as lonely as it gets

At this weird ballroom where we sell simplified selves,

With all its royal emptiness

You can cry. You can recklessly stay

(You'll go on and off, like an agonizing bulb)

Or like a flower you can spread

Poem
By Christine Bullard

Toxic trash smoke fills my lungs in Kaštel Novi

Bronchitis sets in...deep

Why pollute the air you breath

What about the youth and old

Perhaps they adapt

Generations live in living museums

Behind walled cities

Inside castle walls

Century's of story telling

Most have been told

Some we'll never know

The Adriatic sea with dramatic shades of blue

Islands, boating and floating

Croatia, I love you 🇭🇷

Christine Bullard is a native Angeleno from Highland Park. As seen in Dwell and other magazines, she's an architectural photographer, LA realtor, a professional bellydancer, and recently became an Italian citizen living a digital nomadic life traveling throughout Europe.

Love is not
3/28/24
By Lady Luuuna

Love is not the wounds you inflict,
In hopes of another's downfall,
Making them believe they are deserving of empty nothingness.
Love would not destroy a smile with a pit of frowns,
And make another believe to be a cowardice clown,
Who's heart of happiness is meant to burn bitter,
Because of their own misfortune and wither.
Love would not call you all names other than your own,
And adopt you to traits that isolate u alone,
Into believing you are someone that you hadn't been raised to know.
Love is not whose toxicity screams care,
Whose anger screams passion, admiration, and fair.
Love is not the one to leave me alone and bare,
To survive on my own and expect me to chase them as if I fear my own company.
Love would not leave me hanging dry after leaving me soaking wet in the cold for some time. It would warm me up and keep me dry,
Away from, avoiding, molding in between the lines.
My love does not ache or chase is despair,
For a damaged soul to yearn for what they can't see is there,
Right in front of them, light and peace they cannot see,
Love would not chain me and keep me from being set free.

My name is Ashley Wiggin and I'm 25 years old from San Diego, CA. I have a love for all arts and enjoy pursuing in writing poetry and painting majority of the time, when I'm not taking care of the other responsibilities of life.

Ur Killing Me
3-10-2024
5:46 pm
By Mary Cheung

What doesn't kill me...

Just makes me wanna puke...

Out my guts.

Out my sanity,

Out my humanity.

Just so that I can become a robot for you.

And continue to churn Out goods to keep this machine running.

This commerce coming,

Well ain't that sumthing.

To viewers in HD, so much product to see!

But nothings for free.

For my life I sold to thee.

To keep the revenue flowing,

cuz the big wigs needs to keep his income a growing.

Built on the backs of our sweat.

Our tears are running a river of red.

The days bled into each other.

The calendar dotted with numbers and names.

Each day's a shuffling variation,

It feels like an unwinnable game.

And if you didn't own me b4,

well you sure do now.

Got me on a tether,

Tripping up my weekends and how!

Time lost so precious and few.

Some parents whose children will grow up foreign,

all because of you.

Missing their school recital.

Missing chaperoning their first school trip.

Or maybe missing their Halloween parade.

now that, ain't too hip.

But these are the sacrifices that we make.

As parents, as humans to make a livelihood.

Crosses a line, when it crosses your life

that can't be very good.

Cuz we need more then just work,

to balance out the gift that is called life.

We need to carve out the space to remember that we have a husband or a wife.

Don't know why they call it working.

Because this feels more like a slow torture and exercise of endurance and of faith.

Leaves me counting the days until it's over.

So I'll stick it out and hang onto, my previous four leaf clover.

Until then I can only wonder,

where this road is taking me,

To an early grave?

if so what shall they engrave?

On the slate, on the plaque above me head.

Here's lies....... with stitches in her vein and pins stuck in her head..

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

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."

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, 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

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/

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.

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

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’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

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/

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

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

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 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

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.

"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.

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.

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

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 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

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.

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.

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

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

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 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

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.

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

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.

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 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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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/