February Poet's Place

February 07, 2026

POETS PLACE
FEBRUARY EDITION 2026

Hello everyone! In this toxic world of chaos and the destruction of our democracy, I say, can you believe all this is really happening? For real??? I’m trying so hard to stay in some sort of denial to get through the next hour without calling out and acting out my deepest fears of the destabilization of my sweet soul. There are scholars who have been reporting daily, if not hourly, the historical natures of human depravity from the beginnings of humanity. Since the dawn of our existence, people have been raising their children to hate others because of the color of their skin, because of where they were born, because of their religious beliefs and their caste, FOR-EVER!!! Why is hatred of our fellow man so ingrained??? Kindness is the easiest form of consideration and goodness to give, that washes our souls with love and heals the spirit. Hate creates a curdling of the guts immediately upon its expression. Do people not feel the differences??? Just writing my angry feelings here creates a knot in my gut and a sourness in my throat. A smile generates warmth and radiates love, peace and inclusion. Hate= intense hostility and aversion usually deriving from fear, anger, or sense of injury, extreme dislike or disgust. Antipathy, loathing = a systematic and especially politically exploited expression of hatred often motivated by bigotry and hate.

I am grateful for you all in my circle of love. If we band together, hold hands in solidarity, we can fight the evils of the world. We can build a pyramid of love that will conquer those demons trying to hurt us. Here we come to save the day! Mighty Mouse is on his way!

Stay strong my friends. And do not surrender! We are continuing to share our goodness with words of love, and healing for our spirits.

Love, Linda :0)

New Years Resolution 2026
By Linda Kaye

I want to hide under a rock until the until America is released from tyranny

I want to shape shift into an invisible ninja entering the bedroom of DJT in the dark of night and beat the shit out of him until he screams and pleads for mercy

I want to manifest the power of all the indigenous people that were here before all the rapists and pillagers of colonial times and change back this continent into a beautiful accepting place for all people’s

I want to humiliate and poison the war mongers, the pedophile billionaires who are pillaging our country lining their own pockets

I want to strip naked and parade the fuckers in the administration walking them down the street in front of millions of Americans that have suffered under their reign of terror, tyranny, fascistic authoritarian inhumane behaviors whilst the public throws rotten fruit in their faces- tomatoes at their heads whilst screaming traitor, traitor traitor

I wanna have the White House tagged with messages of traitor, pedophile rapist, destroyer of American values, piggy

I want to personally escort the traitors with their hands shackled and their bodies and faces painted with feces that spell traitor

Leading them out of our country banning them forever and stripping their wealth to pay for all the damages they had created

I want to be part of the coup that enters the White House destroying all the gold trophies, the gold ball room and defecate on DJT’s portrait

I want, I wish I dream of these acts. I am angry. I am disgusted. I am ashamed. This is the new me

RIGHT
By Mary Frances Spencer
(In memory, first published in POETS PLACE December 2024)

this
pendulum swinging hard
sharply over our heads

yet we chose
some closed eyes rolled dice
half hopeful hearts
not enough

while cold-hard cash
ever elusive to most
rolls into the ever-more
bloated piggybanks
of the few

us minions scramble
and scrape for pennies of survival
we are distracted, stressed
hate intolerance
blatant corruption
shine on that blade

when the cuts begin
we stumble on
until it hurts
eyes bleeding red
minds shocked

maybe, just maybe
we will ALL wake up
and realized

we have been
PLAYED...

Mary Frances Spencer, who recently crossed over to the rainbow bridge (1/26/26), was a local Eagle Rock Yoga Instructor, Bodyworker, and Sound Healer. She has been writing poetry for decades, had some work published in Spectrum, online at pathetic.org and self-published a few chapbooks in the 2000's. She worked with political themes, as well as humorous observations of life, peace and love. She will be missed by so many.

The Umbrella
By Richard McDowell

The umbrella was a nice color
The people passed as they often do
Uncertainty on every face as if to say; Will this rain ever end?
The umbrella leaned on his shoulder confidant and friend separated him from the rest of
the world
yet the rain falls on everyone and as it did he recalled a bus - a bus that was headed
somewhere and giving you reprieve from the day and its formalities, lucid mundane structure, that if nothing else was enough to dehumanize you and drive you crazy yet the umbrella kept her dry. She wore her new shoes still and recalled a letter she needed to mail before the week was over. Just then, the umbrella opened fully and everybody seems to know someone
and if that was me across the street under a pink umbrella, I guess I would be happy

Richard McDowell has been a faithful resident of Downtown Los Angeles since 2001 and a current resident of Skid Row since 2007. Richard is a keen observer of the street. While living in an SRO, the Baltimore Hotel, he believes he found a subject matter and perhaps his voice. He is the author of Icarus Sat By Me and several chapbooks, including Observations of Night, In the Pit and Thirty Days on on Spring.

REVEREND DAVID BLACKMAN 3
By Keith Kurlander

A bold psychedelic pop-art composition portraying Reverend David Blackman recoiling as masked, armored soldiers advance toward him,

captured in intense halftone textures, saturated red and turquoise patterns, and comic-book contrast, with the vertical word “DISOBAY”

anchoring the scene as a symbol of resistance, authority, and moral confrontation.

Keith Kurlander “I've always been a creative soul, I make art, music, music videos, TV shows, films and mayhem. If you want to learn all about my fascinating life, here's a good place to start.” Life & Work with Keith Kurlander of Los Angeles https://voyagela.com/interview/life-work-with-keith-kurlander-of-los-angeles/ MUSIC LINK: https://www.idiot-savant.net/ ART LINK: https://www.artpal.com/disobay

Lines We Drew
By Natalie Nicole Gilbert

They call her a poet
Like it's a dirty word
"Why would a mother be there?" they ask
But 'there' was not a protest
It was a neighborhood
That someone else converted to a warzone
Without the consent of local civilians and residents

And what will they call me?
A songwriter, spitting it out of their mouths like an epithet
Or will they try to pin his initials on me
DT
Domestic Terrorist
Because I'm a person who works every day
Checks in on her loved ones
Travels when I can to see the world and meet other people who aren't carbon copies of me

I often wish I could buy them all a passport
Remove that barrier and threshold
To help them eat amazing foods from other lands
See lavish architecture built by other hands
Maybe then they'd understand

That someone being different is beautiful
Not a crime
That borders are manmade lines
To be respected
But also visited and crossed
That isolationism protects no one
That others expressing their rights
Does not infringe on theirs
But instead strengthens them
So there is room and safety
For all of us to speak

A pastor said we weren't told the occupation
Of the Good Samaritan
Only that he saw a need and met it
Not that the need had to meet prerequisites
Not that the Samaritan never kicked or screamed
When calling out injustices
Even the gent from Nazareth
Was known to overthrow a table
When leaders were monetizing sacred spaces
That ought to be free

But when you see what they did to him
It's hardly any wonder
Time passes, but those who claim to follow him
Just become the type they claimed was the enemy
Unable to see
Or rather, unwilling to watch
What is plain as day to the rest of us
Captured by digital eyes

Natalie Nicole Gilbert is a multi-award-winning Los Angeles-based musician, songwriter, producer, and voice-over artist. She is a member of the Recording Academy and known for her emotional honesty, resilience, and unique blend of radio, voice work, and modern music production.

five minute scream
by linda m. crate

i go into the freezer
where no one can
hear me and scream
for five minutes,
i think i could probably
scream for centuries;
but five minutes will have to do—

then i go back to work,
and i try not to think about all
of the things going on in this
world that i cannot control
or this dystopia;

but i am tired—

so i remind myself of the good
things like a ray of sunlight
dancing through the trees,
moonlight making snowflakes sparkle
like diamonds,
crows shouting when they see
their friends and how they always
follow me like my feathered
guardian angels,
friends who make me laugh until
i cry and then some,
all the dogs who are so excited to
see me at work and insist
on getting love,
coal; the friendly little cat
who always lets me love on him,
the lady who told me i was
beautiful and i reminded her so
much of her sister;

there are so many nightmares
so i am trying to make my way
through with the light of dreams
and happy things because i don't like
having to live in anger and fear.

No Guts No Glory
By Mary Cheung
1-20-26
1:52 a.m.

Heartache, heartbreak, it feels like my hearts breaking in 2.

Your smile, your "je ne sais quoi",
I just wanted to get to know you.

I tried not to give in, but the pull was too strong.
I tried not to engage, but I couldn't resist.. its didn't take too long.

Before I started to scheme,
what I could say, what I would say..
To peak your interest in me.
Enough for you to want to see.
And to learn who was the real me.

So, at the end of the day,
I had to approach you and say...
"Hey tall guy, have you got a name?"
How bout we go and play a game?

Something to take the pressure off what dating can be.
Then hopefully, you'll learn to like me?

Your answer gave me hope,
lifted me up on wings, I felt free.
My steps had extra steps,
I was joyful and carefree.

So on that Rollercoaster ride of ups and downs, I texted you the next day.
With plans of what we might do and say...

So the wait began as I waited patiently...
jumping each time my phone ticked to alert me.
But the texts weren't from you,
and I wondered and questioned why that might be.

All the questions buzzed in my head like an confused and angry bee.

This was your number right? You did get me text? Should I call you and see?
If you got it, or are you just ghosting me?

I start to question, I start to doubt... until finally I dialed your number nervously...
Seconds went by, time ticked on,
my finger hovered over the button to hit send...
Fuck it, I've got to exhaust all the possibilities.

I've got to know, was a connection there? Or am I just crazy?

Relived as the answering machine picks up.
I leave a message, "Hey, this is Mary, I worked with you the other day.. wasn't sure if you got my text, so I'm calling to say...

in case you didn't get it and you still wanted to hang out.

And if not well, I guess if I don't hear back from you, then I'll have my answer and know that your not interested.."

That's all I can do and say. ..
Romance is tricky, it can be painful when it doesn't go your way.
But, no guts no glory they say!
And I tell myself this mantra to give me courage and to guide my way.

To find the strength and fortitude that one day...
I'll find that one person that will connect with me.
That'll fill my days and dreams.

With an energy that can't be contained.
Seeping under my skin, my soul and every fiber of my being..

That makes this journey and landscape of broken shards and perilous paths,
Cutting up my feets and my heart worth while to enduring...

And so I continue to traverse, this road less traveled.
Where I'll find you at the end, waiting... just for me.

Mary has an AA degree in Fashion Design and a Best Costume Design Award from the NAACP. She often creates costumes for her art narratives and creations. She was the recipient of 3 grants in 2024 and the Denis Diderot and Emerging Artist award. She has art exhibited and published locally and Internationally.

“I hope that I can be a role model for others to find their own true voice in life through my art."

Pride and Sensibility
by Darren Hembd

To keep their affair a secret, Fitzwilliam and Marianne met in central London every weekend in the Adultery district. This area was *also* home to Fanny’s Anti-annuity Firm, next to Lady Kate’s Anti-piano Club.

“There will be a blizzard of significance in Ghostworld before any-one plays piano in *my* house,” scowled Katherine. When there weren’t any *pianos* to destroy, she practiced by hammering up various antiques.

Whilst Fanny found an increasing number of ways to cheat her husband’s sisters out of their sweet, sweet inheritance, Marianne used what little cash she had to hire a band to perform at the upcoming wedding.

“Sure, lady, we can keep the party going,” boasted Tony Middle, the bandleader of the Barton Park Players. “Heck. We can even play our latest hit, ‘Rowdy Good Times,’ for the reception to follow anon.” (p.113)

To avoid any scandal, Fitz and Mary decided to adopt a new surname: Darcywood. No one wouldst *possibly* suspect any infidelity this way. Even if the Steele sisters caught wind, they could always play *possum*.

“You must be thinking of the Bingleys, yeah. Go talk to them instead,” the Darcywoods might have countered, had any wind been caught. Fortunately, this tissue-thin rebuttal wouldst never need to be dangled so.

If You assumed that the wedding was light in attendance, You would be ever so correct. The very *notion* that anyone wouldst be invited to a secret wedding would be hokum—not at *all* sensible, if you will. QED.

“I didn’t even invite Lady Katherine,” Colin Ferrari confessed to You, via lady waves. “Possibly for the best, though, now that I think of it. The Barton Park Players tend to use pianos in their tunes.” Indeed.

That special day came (secretly). At exactly 1:13 in the afternoon, the Barton Park Players quietly played a +special+ choral march titled: “Here Comes the Bride (Secretly),” a version just for secret weddings.

“Oh, for the love of syllabub,” gasped Nancy Steele. Her mental detective agency picked up on just enough clues to lead her to the exchange of vows. “I simply *must* reveal this to Parson Ferrari at once!”

Due to the combined hurdles of distance and secrecy, the Darcywoods became frequent users of the West End tunnels. Said tunnels didn’t actually exist whilst this all took place, which helped keep them +secret+.

“No one must know about how I filled this plothole,” worried the West End tunnels to You, via plothole waves. “Fortunately, I can trust the Darcywoods, even if the tips are lousy.” Business was *not* so good.

As one might expect, the secret wedding was a *terrible* idea but, BUT this is what happens when we try to mashup similar novels. I mean, it may *seem* like a good idea (secretly), but eggs *do* have two sides.

“I don’t like what you did at *all*,” the spirit of Jane Austen complained, via spirit waves. “I bet you used Cliff’s Notes or something, huh?” Gathering her temper, she promised: “Expect a haunting or two.”

Unfortunately, the Darcywoods didn’t last, particularly after Nancy informed even *more* people about the wedding vows. The weekend excursions through the non-existent, sneaking tunnels of West End ceased to be.

“And they lived happily ever after,” I finally typed, quite pleased with myself and what not. What started as a witful fancy quickly derailed over the left margin, teaching us all to love once again (secretly).

The Secretly.

Darren Hembd, survivor of abuse that processes trauma through fiction.
more stories at: https://substack.com/@darrenhembd

Para George
By G. Billie Quijano

There was no time to hang a noose
They took that brother brother down
So he would not get loose.

All he did was spend a 20 dollar bill
Who knew it would come against his will

A knee in the neck
And what do I expect

She shouted please let me take his pulse
But they made it false

They did it in the public eye
We choked on our strength
We could not sigh

You made me watch your violence
There will be no silence

But have you heard?
They are here to protect and serve
9 minutes, 29 seconds never to return

It is genocide
Their hate won't subside

It was an execution
What is the solution?

I wake up in the morning and smell the smoke
You are up all the night and still think it's a joke

Many days of protest, we're not gonna rest

No justice, no peace, no racist police

Do you know what peaceful protest means?
Or is your intelligence that lean

We take to the streets
Sacred ground beneath our feet

You say this is a riot, but we don't buy it

There is poetry in our synergy
You will not oppress our energy

You traffic in fear and hate
This will be charged to your fate

What will your next antic be
For all the world to see

The isms are a disease
We will make sure you are not at ease

The hauntings of Jim Crow
Won't stop us, we will go

You want to go to war
I will not be your whore

You have no control over gente in the streets
This is such an epic feat

The president has a duty to care
But you fuck, I swear

We were not invited to vandalize
You continue to colonize

So we will continue to co-exist
Even though you are evil and resist

It won't be long
Before you are gone

We rise, we rise

G. Billie Quijano-Hija de East Los. Indigena. Natural Creative. Bruja. Poeta, Provocateur. Mujerista. Gitana Cosmica. I composed this poem for George Floyd after he was assassinated. It holds true then, it holds true now.

casual moments
by 'jerry the priest with SA Griffin and Erik Rader'

pie in the skie
now showing
everybody craves a slice
get yours today

how fitting to have that
mentioned in passing
with an esteemed colleague

remembrances in passing
accomplaces and accomplishments praised
now and then the odd inside joke

after 40 years, these are
causal moments, etched
across years of time,
in which we've learned this about

pie in the skie:
in passing
everybody gets a slice

Los Angeles based entertainer, jerry the priest, is a legendary rock multi-instrumentalist and performance poet. His earliest projects include the wildly theatrical 80s-era Commandos of Humiliation group, as well as much published writing. He holds an MFA in Theater Directing from California Institute of the Arts. His surreal travelogue / diary, Brute Entropy, is available at Barnes and Noble.com.

America
By Jackie Chou

I love you like the child
of a wrathful mother

My tears flow
with the water
in your gutters

Yet I return to you
no matter how many times
you wring my neck

America
you lie about the bloodstains
on your snow-covered streets

the stench of your unhoused
camping in tents
on Skid Row

America
what happened
to the land of the free
the pursuit of happiness

America
you are the gilded filth
of your White House

the red-faced shame
of your pedophiles

America
the bananas in my care home
are more mottled than my skin

Jackie Chou (she/her) is a writer from Southern California who has two collections of poetry, The Sorceress and Finding My Heart in Love and Loss, published by cyberwit. Her poem "Formosa" was a finalist in the Stephen A DiBiase Poetry Prize. She also has poems published in Synchronized Chaos, The Ekphrastic Review, Panoply Zine, Alien Buddha Zine, and Spillwords.

"Phoenix Rising is a room-sized robe made from discarded, unwanted clothing donations left over from the LA wildfires created by artist and curator A. Laura Brody. These clothes are cut into irregular shapes and sewn into a garment with a room-sized skirt, full sleeves, and a wired collar reaching the ceiling. The phoenix is a symbol of rebirth through fire, which is Brody’s hope for Southern California and around the country - that we may rise after destruction and shine anew.

A. Laura Brody has 30 years of experience as a costume crafts person, designer, and maker. She has made costumes for LMFAO, the Black Eyed Peas, and Rhianna, among others. Brody is also the founder and curator of Opulent Mobility, an international exhibit that celebrates disability in all its forms. She turns wheelchairs, walkers, and mobility scooters into works of art and transforms reclaimed materials, giving them new lives."

Seasons Remember
By Aya Obeid

Do you notice the swirling shapes in the concrete after seeing the Wind through the Reeds
reflecting silvery spines like fish scales
Up at the Mountains and down at the Valley
spinning and will you tell me it reminds you of a trip
And how you’re getting closer and farther, illusory as it all has been
Seasons remember.
Feelings you didn’t have words for hang in the heavy summer heat and the sorrow you
had too many pages of pang
you in its winter wind
When you felt empty and punched more holes in your skin
The Breeze through the Silver Birches sound like childhood’s Maryland rain
I miss the Willows down south and the presence, a consuming focus
of scratching the mosquitos by my ankles
Counting bites and cousin fights
Childhood friends reaching me in bonfire flames.
Will every summer sing back its flings in cobblestone streets where we used to
Brush our fingers against each other and walking forward, bump shoulders, and lean that way
because we’ve never known straight but we’ve never admitted otherwise.
Her timbre is forever in skateboard bearings and the rhythm of wheels hitting sidewalk cracks
Seasons remember, in squalling bird songs.
Will the December snow covering our footprints in minutes
look like avoiding being the first to say
I like you I love you I want to hold you to kiss you to touch you.
Seasons remember
Does that make all my past lovers feel like sunshine in my mind
Because spring invigorated me enough to say the words in Augusts- you’re mine
I want to ask every one I’ve ever loved just one last time
Do you still love me like you did before
and can I find solace in your embrace and will you still hold me
and be my home when no place or one person will forever
Seasons remember and I thank the beams, clouds, and streams
For showing me valleys worth in depths of love whooping and echoing off the hills and rising in steaming concrete

when we first met
by scott mclane

it was her birthday when we first met
on thanksgiving—good and needed,
the day that brings mouthfuls of gratitude
but my throat couldn’t find the flavor.
it was on her birthday,
or it would have been
had not death stomped all over or
father time flowed in long robes or
her near fourteen years of her courage
a weary daily battle with cerebral palsy’s tension
taking her last barely teenage breath
it was her birthday,
it was thanksgiving that year
two months of novocaine—
not sorrow, just numbness—until i woke
up in a hot flash of deep sobs
the first drops of monsoon rain
in the high desert, it was a flood
the still night sky bursting open
backing up dry gutters
tear ducts inundated,
washed out to sea
it was her birthday
and it was all i could
to not drown
in the tempest of her death
it was thanksgiving
and my body finally betrayed
all the backed-up storms
dead sleep to deep sobs
i woke up on her birthday
it was thanksgiving
and i first met her
she leaned in close and said,
“my name is grief.”

Scott McLane is a poet and special education teacher in East Los Angeles. His work often engages themes of grief, fatherhood, and faith, with attention to moments of presence, change, and endurance. His poems have appeared in Underbelly Press and The Poetry Lighthouse.

Edward DeVere's Secret Herb Garden
by Matthew DeHaven

Seek ye Rosemary for remembrance,
Have needs wisdom, a pinch of Sage.
A bit-o-Pansy, happy dear thoughts,
Keep some Thyme so ye never age.
English Lavender makes all fragrant,
Stinging Nettle, a healing tea.
Parsley and Mint must needs for flavour,
Elder or Rue, repentant be.
All's well, ends well with Marjoram, by waxing moon all herbs must grow.
Rose, by any other name, smells sweet,
Every good Lord and Ladye know.

Rosemary, HAMLET. / Sage, JULIUS CAESAR. / Pansy, HAMLET. Thyme, A
MIDSUMMER'S NIGHT DREAM. / Lavender, A WINTER'S TALE. Nettle, OTHELLO. / Parsley, TAMING OF THE SHREW. / Mint, LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. Elder, CYMBELINE. / Rue, RICHARD III. / Marjoram, ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. Rose, ROMEO AND JULIET.

Matthew DeHaven is an actor, artist and writer living in Pasadena. He likes to create narrative poetry in iambic pentameter and rhyme that harkens back to Shakespearian times.

For My Child
by Heather Romero-Kornblum

I set up home for you in a million lifetimes

I leave a light on
jacket hanging by the door
as if you’re going to run out into the mist

I see you sitting on chairs in my gardens
laughing over games
growing though I stopped watering you

I dance cat dances with you
and tell you about the trails I hiked
in my youth

Each time we wake up
we’re in a different house
different garden

And I know you’ll find your way back to me

A former academic researcher, Heather Romero-Kornblum returned to poetry after several near-death experiences due to Long Covid. She captures the crumbling of her marriage in the wake of her near-death experiences in I’M NOT OVER YOU – the 2025 Four Feathers Press Chapbook Contest winner.

She is published in multiple journals and anthologies, including with Women Who Submit in ‘This Makes up the Sky’ and ‘Accolades,’ LA Art News Poet's Place, Quiet Lightning’s ‘Sparkle and Blink,' Four Feathers Press monthly anthologies with her poem 'Alienation' winning a 2025 Print Poetry Award, The Zest of the Lemon, Plague 2020: A world Anthology of Poetry and Art About Covid-19, on the ZZyZx WriterZ podcast, and has featured at multiple venues, including at the WordParty Poetry and Jazz monthly series, Sacred Grounds – the longest running open mic in San Francisco, Mutiny Radio, Poems under the Dome, Four Feathers Press, Cobalt Poets, and Lyrical Flames.

https://www.heatherkornbooks.com/

Scolding Atty
by Snow Mack 2026
Image "I AM 65" by Snow Mack, 2023

Atty
I see you standing on the edge
Legs gleaming in the sun
Love presses from the inside
Meeting with desire somewhere sublime

Atty
I hear you falling through the trees
Leaving girlhood on the way
Brimming with nobility
A job too quick but faded

Atty
Never candy apple pretty but beautiful
Beautiful in the way being alive is beautiful
Timeless
Cheap perfume masks a lineage of compassion and dignity

Atty
Old now.
Is it really a surprise?
Aging seemed harmless enough through your doll eyes
Run, laugh, and play
Living like a Mayfly
Only for one day

Atty
Flying into glad gray skies
Merging with a Murmur of Starlings
And disappearing

Snow Mack (she, her) is a contemporary visual artist known for her vibrant, dream-inspired paintings and symbolic assemblage frames. Her work blends pop culture, mythology, and surreal imagery to explore the subconscious, resulting in visually rich narratives that are both personal and archetypal. Snow Mack lives and works in Los Angeles, where she continues to develop a body of work that merges vivid imagination, cultural commentary, and a deep symbolic vision. SnowMack.com - IG @snowmackart

Ways to Die Prematurely
By Don Kingfisher Campbell

Drive your car
into the middle
of a snowy street
to try to block
off ICE agents

Greet one cheerfully
while your wife
taunts him from
outside the passenger
side of your SUV

Then turn your left
facing wheels to
the right as the man
with a gun crosses
in front of your vehicle

Attempt to pick up
a pepper-sprayed
female protestor
to get knocked
down to the ground

By an ICE agent
who will grab the
gun in your waistband
as you subdued
cannot stop him

In a half second
another decides to
start a bullet firing
party into your body
now slumped still

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

Eight Shaved Heads
By Michelle Smith

They had no chance or choice
they had no voice
Where they were
there no doubt, had no clue
Did they speak amongst themselves
in mutual languages?
Their facial expressions
have much to say true
Not aware of the the Injustice due,
seven wearing striped robes,
one in a solid color
Eight Shaved Heads
Down Syndrome men
is he the captain in this
Band of Brothers by
other mothers?
Jewish by blood and belief
Unaware of the act Nazi genocide,
Hitler's insanity for the pure Aryan race
Sly, slick, sick, and wicked pride
Their deaths cannot be erased
The gas chamber cruelty claimed
a myriad of human beings and souls
ethnic cleansing by a
racist narcissist
If not millions in the
Auschwitz-Birkenau
Concentration Camp
Bald and bright and brave
in their own way
Inhumane treatment these
Eight shaved heads
In the Holocaust
connected
unaware
innocent
their lives paid the cost
Sleuths and cunning soldiers
under Hitler's orders and regime
Did their parents
and families have the chance
to say goodbye
prior to a mad man's order
to play and deceive?

Michelle Y. Smith is a Los Angeleno native and is like Stretch Armstrong, an action figure with many life, love, and laughter roles:

My heart is mother to an autistic son who is my more than my pride and joy. Sister, aunt, grand aunt, cousin, & friend. My patience is my employment am a CNA and advocate for the developmentally and elderly disabled community.

My drive is published poetry in Love Letters, Acid Verse II, and Just for the People by Los Angeles Poet Society Press; anthologies and zines by DSTLArts; and Four Feathers Press zines and http://saturdayafternoonpoetry.blogspot.com. My poem, "There is a Sunflower" published in June was nominated by the Four Feathers Press PDF/Print Publication Awards.

Car Wash Culture
By Sonny Tristan

Choose wisely as you approach.
Hurry. Bury it in the trunk. They won’t go there.

Walk alongside her. Protect her.
She disappears in stacked rainbows
Spinning hog’s hair
I’ll see you soon

The waiting wouldn’t be bearable without new friends, silent
What do I do now?
Watch their dry dance
Blue shirts. All blue. Always blue.

Horns blast to a disco beat
Is she mine?
You better be on it when they wave their flags
Here’s a tip
It will never be enough

In a purely financial endeavor, Sonny Reed nae Tristan, recently married himself. A loveless relationship based on the desire to be his own sugar daddy, Reed has credit cards he doesn’t know about and can be seen across LA’s culinary scene eating from both sides of the table. His poems can be found in places where people read things, bathrooms and such.

THANKS FOR JOINING US!!!!

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

Linda Kaye writes poetry, curates poetry, produces films, spoken word, and art events and produces a poetry column POETS PLACE for the online publication LAARTNEWS throughout the Los Angeles area. She recently exhibited her first piece of artwork! A photograph taken in Waikiki, was represented at the Los Angeles Makery gallery’s REFLECTION:RESILIENCE show curated by the Arroyo Arts Collective.

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

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

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

January Poet's Place

January 09, 2026

POETS PLACE
JANUARY 2026 EDITION

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!! Let our light shine through the darkness that may lay ahead. We must stay informed and diligent in our quest to resist the garbage that is spewing out at us in rapid pace! The new mayor of New York city has the right ideas to help the people who need it most. I hope he can do everything he wants to improve their city. If it works it will be a role model for the rest of the United States to follow. It will be a beam of light that will radiate across America! I am hopeful and afraid. I desperately want the 1% to pay their fair share of taxes, to forfeit their entitled mindset of owning the American people and holding them/us hostage to their despotic ideals. America is OUR country, and we must stand for democracy and uphold the laws. I am grateful that I still have a voice and can use it to promote good. POETS PLACE gives you the writer a platform to share your thoughts, views and words. Thank you to all who have contributed to this long standing column! We are going into our 6th. year in publication! Thank you mostly to Cathi Milligan, our publisher, who believes in us and in the truth and justice for all!!!

Spread the love!!!
RESIST! Love, Linda :0)

DEAR DEE/We dance thru time & tenses
By Mike Mollett

It’s 5 months and a day
since your final grand empowerment,
the one that we know of...
Dear Dee. Dear Dear Dear Dee.
I almost forgot your birthday, Dec 3,
remembering the last emotional
day of transformation with you, July 2,
when you chose to go on your own terms finally
end-of-life as we know it into your next adventure...
Some people here, celebrating
your birthday,
were with you when the red light
changed to green. You
guided us & coached us
as you are aplenty.

Damn. Swear word. Swear word. I hafta say,
it wasn’t easy,
the last few awfully painful months.
Friends knew half of it.
I knew ¾ of it.
You knew all of it. Level 10.

I wish you are with us touchibly to share
a cacio e pepe and a great caesar.
Are they still on All’Acqua’s menu?
This is hard to process, this conundrum of soul,
as our black cat Thisbe
jumps onto my writing lap in the dark
too-quiet early winter night.
My fingers feeling colder, heart askew
jammed with loss & finality.
This is NOT the ending we hoped for.
Each of us breathing & living on
are closer to you, even so, in new ways we may imagine...

I’ve written short bursts of thought/feeling texts
with you in me. They sit quietly in a closed notebook.
Now with a G & T at our Mt. Washington home,
a cluttered mess as I somewhat am, Dear Dee,
a family of us are with you, locked warmly into you
with food and drink dans le restaurant.

Where can we go from here but miss you, & your phonecalls.
We love you, wish so much with you,
a welcoming citadel inside us,
people positive, bettering who we are.
We live on (I can’t believe it!)
to enjoy life as brimming as we can,
with mountains and the Pacific,with memories and spirit alive full-on with passion.

Thank you, Dear Dee,
my complicated, complicating beautiful one.. .
You are matchless forever...

Mike Mollett, Poet, visual, performance artist.
Leader- LA Mudpeople. https://bit.ly/3khHBi6

Trophy Fell
By Ubongabasi Iyanam

I was only nine,
returning home after being
thrown on shoulders.
I couldn’t wait to show mummy
but I tripped on the road
my glass trophy fell on concrete
just outside my house.
It broke in pieces,
my joy pierced by
that sharp rusty iron arrow
somewhere in my chest.
nobody could see it
but mummy did.
she would pull it out slowly.
But first,
she would clean the blood off
my pain pierced palm.
then pick the pieces of my pain
and make art
she called it mosaic.
I called it miracle.
I’m nineteen now,
broken a couple of times
still I revere the mending
that makes things more beautiful
than they were before the fall.

Ubongabasi Iyanam is a poet, saxophonist, and law student. An ardent believer in the liberation of the mind, he is a human rights activist in nearly every dimension. He is currently working on his debut poetry album, Blues From A Broken Vinyl. When he’s not writing, he’s playing chess or listening to music.

Criticism
By Jackie Chou

A girl's orange stockings
seen on the fields
of a conformist school
are not unique
but odd, peculiar
according to you

Sometimes you are a pair of eyes
that cheapens everything
you glance at–
a diamond isn't precious
but vain, superficial

You stamp everything
a dollar ninety-nine
like some misplaced mink collar
in the swapmeet

Sometimes you are lips
that call all cheerleaders “bimbos”

You arise from the deep well
of jealousy and self-loathing

Everything you touch
becomes drab, lackluster
like the color of your heart

Jackie Chou (she/her) is a writer from Southern California who has two collections of poetry, The Sorceress and Finding My Heart in Love and Loss, published by cyberwit. Her poem "Formosa" was a finalist in the Stephen A DiBiase Poetry Prize. She also has poems published in Synchronized Chaos, The Ekphrastic Review, Panoply Zine, Alien Buddha Zine, and Spillwords.

The Mind Fields
©1993 Kassi Crews

Skipping through the mind fields
Faith in my heart
Once fatalistic
Once separated in parts.

Need to be whole
My mind does not rest
The light ripples in complete darkness
Is this only a test?

United I am
Body, mind, and soul
Finally, no need to have control.

This light bounces from space to space
Around anger, stupidity, and greed
There is no safe place, except in me.

So I skip through the mind fields
Bringing light where I can
Sharing love in this world
That is my life’s plan.

Kassi Crews is an entertainment industry veteran and a consummate storyteller. She is a versatile & accomplished actor with a rich background in film, television, improvisation, stand-up comedy, and theatre. 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" as well as a DI Producer for Apple, Netflix, CBS, CW, Starz & Paramount. Crews has produced and directed a variety of critically acclaimed independent projects, “Broken Memories,” Heart of Recovery”, “God’s Ears” and “A Better Place” as well as live shows for the theater. She is a member of ATAS, NAB, NAPTE, PROMAX and SAG; holds a Master of Arts from CSU Fullerton and a Bachelor of Arts with Honors from UC Santa Cruz.

A. Laura Brody
The first "Joy" was part of Kate Carvellas' "Exposition D'Art Miniature", a virtual showing in a scale model farmhouse Kate built during the pandemic. She then invited artists to share work no larger than 3" wide.

A Laura Brody began her professional career as a costume designer and maker, working in film, television, opera, dance, and cosplay. She changed course many times but kept returning to art making, community learning, and social justice. Her artwork has been shown at ACE/121 Gallery, Art Share LA, Brea Gallery, California State University Northridge, the Charles River Museum of Industry, the Dora Stern Gallery, Ikouii Creative, the Los Angeles Makery, Westbeth Center For the Arts, and The World of Wearable Art. Opulent Mobility (the series of exhibits she founded that re-imagine disability as opulent and powerful) has shown at the Mike Curb Gallery at CSUN, Thymele Arts, Arts Unbound, AVC Gallery, the Los Angeles Makery, USC's Hoyt Gallery, and Brand Library & Art Center.

"after the forest fire”
by linda m. crate

i remind myself
that even night
has stars and moonlight,
even in darkness i have
dreams;

light will rip apart
the frayed edges of
darknesses aligned with
negativity and nightmares—

i will know a kinder
universe,
magic will dance and heal
every wound in me;

things won't always be this
hard—

sometimes it hurts to hold
onto the flaming feathers of
hope,
but I know we will rise from
these ashes again;

we will be the flowers
blooming
after the forest fire.

Linda M. Crate (she/her) is a Pennsylvanian writer whose poetry, short stories, and essays have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She has seventeen published chapbooks the latest being: only the future knows (Alien Buddha Publishing, November 2025).

THE UNFINISHED CHAPTERS
By Mary Cheung
8-27-25
2:05 a.m.

If you were a lover of mine, a crush, and unrequited love...
You probably made it onto print.
And that's great,
because you had such a profound effect on me,
my life.

You were 1 of my highs...or lows,
and what an interesting story and plot twist you gave my life.
It certainly wasn't dull.

I have lived more than others.
And maybe less than some!
But they were mine...
The moments now hardened over time.

They've become gems at points of my life that twinkled and shined.
And anytime I want an adventure...
I can think back to Ricky...or Joshua...or John,
My magnum of a man.

The last 2 major crushes that I had…
Their names I can't even recall now…
They were hard getting over...
Their stories were so bittersweet and tempting,
And I had to wipe you from my brain just so that I could get over you.

So yeah, I can't remember their names,
and that is a good thing because now I won't be tempted to look you up.
Wait.... was it Javier? And Spencer???

Natalie, you Italian French minx,
You were a temptress who was the candy I could never have.
Cuz you kept your wrappers wound tight.
And teased me with glimpses here and there of your creamy skin.
Skin that I wanted to melt on my lips...

Enough poetry has been written about you all already.
In an effort to purge you from my psyche.
One left me with a song and heartache.
Another left me with flowers and questions...
Guess I'd better start on writing a new chapter so I can see where it'll end....

Mary has an AA degree in Fashion Design and a Best Costume Design Award from the NAACP. She often creates costumes for her art narratives and creations.

She was the recipient of 3 grants in 2024 and the Denis Diderot and Emerging Artist award. She has art exhibited and published locally and Internationally.

“I hope that I can be a role model for others to find their own true voice in life through my art."

MELANIA KNEW #8
By Keith Kurlander

A bold pop art portrait rendered in pointillist dotted style, featuring a figure in a blue fedora hat with cyan band and matching blue suit with cyan collar. The face is depicted in bright cyan and white tones with simplified features including dark sunglasses and a subtle smile, creating a cool, mysterious character. The background explodes with a vibrant hot pink and black leopard print pattern that creates dramatic contrast with the cool blue tones of the subject. The left margin displays "DIS★OBAY" in magenta lettering against black, along with decorative graphic elements including ovals and abstract shapes.

Hell
By Heather Romero-Kornblum

I packed up clothes for you
in sizes too big
I cheerily picked out in some seasonal
clearance sale

Dinosaurs holding pizza slices
on t-shirts
claiming you got a
Pizza my heart

When you wore them
I wondered
if others would know you had
a mom who loved you and
was gone

A mom who no amount of love for you
could keep her alive
her body functioning

A mom who cried as she boxed
the clothes
sure she would never get to see you
in the next size up

When I came back to you
you didn't recognize me

My spirit departed

Replaced

By the woman who
walked through

All of the layers of hell
to come back to you

I get angry at you sometimes
for not realizing how lucky you are
I came back to earth
walked through the layers of hell for you

I slide into the skin you knew
And it isn't enough

A former academic researcher, Heather Romero-Kornblum returned to poetry after several near-death experiences due to Long Covid. She captures the crumbling of her marriage in the wake of her near-death experiences in I’M NOT OVER YOU – the 2025 Four Feathers Press Chapbook Contest winner.

She is published in multiple journals and anthologies, including with Women Who Submit in ‘This Makes up the Sky’ and ‘Accolades,’ LA Art News Poet's Place, Quiet Lightning’s ‘Sparkle and Blink,'‘ Four Feathers Press monthly anthologies, The Zest of the Lemon, and Plague 2020: A world Anthology of Poetry and Art About Covid-19 and has featured at multiple venues, including at the WordParty Poetry and Jazz monthly series, Sacred Grounds – the longest running open mic in San Francisco, Mutiny Radio, Poems under the Dome, Four Feathers Press, Cobalt Poets, and Lyrical Flames.

https://www.heatherkornbooks.com/

Client as Deity
By Anna Broome

Pointing out the vast difference
Between pleasure and curiosity
Perhaps may have fallen from the delights of a habitual life.

For I have loved feeling sad and not knowing why
The sorrow felt deep inside the swelling of my waking
Has brought me merciful impurity of which I refuse to beware!

I am now hovering over a mindful silence breaking across adventure a lack of spirituality-
Thankful for the gift of fearlessness served to me on a plate made of craters.

Enormous compulsion and the sense of impressions
come to terms and embrace the simplicity often addressed
and welcomed since nothing explored earns devotion

if it isn’t vulnerable enough to grasp an aspect
Of living so precious as to call it experience--
And, I know this belonging to my own reality!

So we are all to put back the slumber
that follows revolution and atonement
since none of this has ever happened long enough to abate humanity properly.

Through the entrance of moth eaten virtues,
seeing them with my eyes:
Rivers and stars and mountains

Seem immune from the coupled sense of hope and integrity of loss.
And the immense catastrophes
guaranteed by the flaws of a less than evolved species.

If we had no mind
To follow companions into gardens and urge them to return
Finding them everywhere.

Their questions and strokes internal and frowned upon
with good reason would never stand for any other person’s truth
and act impiously as a matter of grace!

An existence made from the divine never applauds along with a standing ovation
As a Mother made of deeds of sacrifice
Begging to be freed isn’t adored by either a heavenly entity or a human child:

Fraught yet adulterated like the charity that builds...
Forgetfulness to seek or reveal in satisfaction...
Matchless instead against guilt-ridden conduct and abandoned human allegiances...

Imagine a doleful look
on the faces of a world audience
springing from no tragedies of others:

Yet clearly determined whether variations
Is the length of day and night
Account for the dream which confuses even particles of perseverance.

Destined to excel in any direction unscrupulous or wondrous:
Let’s see life as wretched as long as we insist on oppression
as the best course of action and mediocrity as a pleasant way to pass the time.

Perish in the thought, anxiously incongruous seeking forgiveness.
Concentrating on the problems-- noticing the client
We serve is the only deity that

corrupts in a way contrary to nature:
That which gives life is given life by the living and the dying--
for watching iniquity from harm as always afraid

had cultivated wisdom
dragging along a chain
beating away self-awareness as it comes to light.

Anna Broome is a Los Angeles poet who has published in various anthologies and journals including Acts of Light, LA Art News and Spectrum 17. Broome performs for local troupes including Public Works Improvisational Theatre’s Storyphile at venues including Beyond Baroque and Art Share LA. She produces and hosts the Anna Broome Room, a monthly, free-to-the-public live-performance art show for the last ten years at Art Share LA. Broome studied poetry at the University of North Carolina at Wilmington with Pulitzer Prize nominee Michael White. “Women Napping with Animals”, her collaborative project with Ted Meyer, was published in 2014. Her first collection of poetry, “Orthodox Bats”, was published in 2019. Her second collection “Sex Ed: A Prerequisite at Columbine” was published in 2022. Her new collection “An Irregular Bone” is currently under consideration for the Wilder Prize.

Looking Around On A Rainy Day
By Dean Okamura

My muse competes with the voice
of my dead, nagging mother
while water carves mud on sidewalks
into meditative Moroccan designs

Some see chaos
Others see omens
Muse says to ponder
The little plants

They did not wash away
"See how they stood up to the storm"
and I have hope, surviving
the upcoming storms of 2026

Then my mother chimes in:
"I told you to clean up the backyard"

Dean lives in Torrance, CA, which means rainy days are few. He's happy to stay inside and stay warm. 2026 is going to have storms -- storms usually pass and the sun is always there waiting.

Electric Food
By Darren Hembd

Most of us have trouble remembering to keep the fridge on at night so there's no spoilage. Well some of us anyway. But we also forget to unplug it, so it balances out in the checkbook of life.

"I will leave my refrigerator plugged in," vowed the person named Diddler Von Hoffington. His goal was to have unspoiled food in the morning, while everyone scrambled to shop at Foods R Us.

When television ads promised a new way to eat and avoid spoiling food at the same time, we listened but good. Our poetic antennae were all about getting breakfast done right for a change.

"So then you plug it in, like in diagram one," explained Sessy Shoehorn. Her previous work included a spoken word version of wild coyotes playing poker in the prairies. "Then you go to sleep."

In the morning, your food is charged up and now you can wash it down with Beggar's Choice Beverages. The flavored version allows for maximum taste experience, just like in those early movies.

"I feel like I drank the first talkie," bragged Harkler Castman. He had a tattoo of his favourite animal on the bottom of his foot. It would help him cherish the memory of Tommy the kangaroo.

If you were all sluggish before lunch, you didn't remember to eat all your electric breakfast. It happens. And before you petition the government, be sure it is fully charged before eating it.

"I will represent you in Congress," promised congressperson Jessie McDuffler. "But I cannot go to your house and charge your food for you. You have to remember to do stuff on your own."

Great things can be accomplished under the influence of food. Like motor functions, thought, and conjugation. You see, we take talking for granted because we are forced to do it all the time.

"Did you finish your electric breakfast?" asked Officer Donson. You couldn't tell because of his thick aviator shades, but his eyes were closed in the face of progress. There were tickets to write.

You might as well forget about the electric cookbooks they sell down by the pier. You might as well store water in plastic bags, for it makes as little if not less sense to mess with breakfast.

"Just charge me at night and then eat me," scolded the yet to be eaten electric food. Its number one pet peeve was not being charged fully, with getting tinkered about with a strong second.

I had a nightmare once that I tried to eat electric food while sleepwalking. I followed myself through the hall as I prepared to break the unwritten rule, and woke up with a start.

"What was I thinking?" I thought to myself. A photo of Tongue Chapman smiled at me from across the room. "Oh yeah, everything will be alright. Thanks to my faith in Professor Chapman."

I wanted to take a tour of the Electric Food Factory down by Jimmy's Newspaper Museum. Parking was not to be so, but I kind of knew that already. Thankfully, I had the energy needed to walk.

The End.

Darren Hembd is a " Survivor of abuse that processes trauma through writing.
more stories at: https://substack.com/@darrenhembd “

When I Am Free
By Erik J. Rader

When I am free
The first thing I am going to do
Is go to the pacific and stand in the surf
And taste it on my lips and drink
The color in through my eyes,
The improbable turquoise fringed
With white, the glittering magnesium flares
On the waves spiking beneath
The brutal sun

The sand the color of a book’s pages
With mementi mori strewn upon it

And I’m going to run out into the surf
And drown, or live, whatever,
Baptised by my own surrender
And when I have exhausted my craving
For death, and survived, I will get back
Into my car and drive across the bridge
And seek wonders, trees of parallel universes,
Strangely familiar, arches of pink stone,
Purple sky, blue clouds, cars hushed,
And I’m going to find people to be around
That aren’t afraid of being
Alive

Erik was born in 1965 and is a songwriter & poet living free range in the south puget sound region of the US. their music is available on most streaming services.

peace, erik j. rader

Love Song
by Snow Mack
2026
Image "In Case of Broken Heart, Break Glass"

Love Song

Put another dollar in the meter, said the devil to the bride
Love him more, makes no difference to your pride
Place another dollar on the wheel said the dealer to the groom
The more she brings, the less of you in the room
These 3 words make separate beds out of fear
May the devil and the dealer clasp hands
A clear path to light
Where dreams collide, rolling the dice
Colors bloom in the night
To have and to hold till life's last breath
Make the most of this love song

THANKS FOR JOINING US!!!!

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

Linda Kaye writes poetry, curates poetry, produces films, spoken word and art events and produces a poetry column POETS PLACE for the online publication LAARTNEWS, throughout the Los Angeles area. She recently exhibited her first piece of artwork! A photograph taken in Waikiki, was represented at the Los Angeles Makery gallery’s REFLECTION:RESILIENCE show curated by the Arroyo Arts Collective.

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

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/

December Poet's Place

December 08, 2025

POETS PLACE
DECEMBER 2025 EDITION

End of year edition! We are still here navigating this years illegal operations from the White House. There is sufficient evidence to end this racist regime. What is holding up the process?? My head bursts daily about the schemes, violence, illegal activities and the bad mouthing of people who are actually fighting for our freedoms. The regime will topple, but the power that has been given to the billionaires and the Heritage foundation will still continue to wreak havoc. It is so hard for me to turn off the tyranny that is happening in our country and around the world. I understand and can relate to going postal at times, which as we know does not help the situation. I have said in earlier editions of this column, that I want to be a part of the coup that storms the WH. I hope that it will fall without a coup. But, just in case, where do I buy a flak jacket? On a positive note, I have just returned from Rome. A beautiful city full of ancient history and religious artifacts. I went to the Vatican, of course a must do when in Rome and I was surrounded by the historic culture, art and architectural beauty. I’ve never seen so many ancient sculptures! Sculptures that were pilfered by Popes and taken to the Vatican for preservation. Ha! Many taken from Villas D’Este and Adrianna’s villa in Tivoli which was built before Rome. I saw sculptures of Hercules, Claudius, and a lot of Sarcophagus’, and artwork depicting Jesus, Jesus, Jesus! He is so loved in this country! I was in awe of all the beauty and work that artists have created in this city. I truly enjoyed my trip. I am so blessed to be able to travel. I stayed with my friend Christine in her apartment in Ladispoli. Ladispoli is a coastal town in the Metropolitan City of Rome, situated along the Tyrrhenian Sea between Cerveteri and Fiumicino. It developed as a seaside resort during the 20th century and is now known for its wide beaches, promenade, and convenient location less than an hour from the capital. The town’s coastline is characterized by dark volcanic sand, while its center features a mix of modern developments and traditional shops and cafes.

The area around Ladispoli has strong historical ties to ancient Caere, the Etruscan settlement near Cerveteri, and archaeological remains can still be found nearby. The Torre Flavia, a medieval coastal watchtower, stands as one of its main landmarks, now surrounded by a protected nature reserve rich in birdlife. With good train connections to Rome, easy access to Leonardo da Vinci International Airport, and proximity to archaeological and coastal sites, Ladispoli combines convenience with a relaxed seaside atmosphere (Italy review).

I also visited the town of Bracciano. Bracciano is a small town in the Italian region of Lazio, 30 kilometres northwest of Rome. The town is famous for its volcanic lake and for a particularly well-preserved medieval castle Castello Orsini-Odescalchi. Wow! The castle was awesome! Gorgeous views of the lake and surrounding areas. Just hanging out in a castle that was once vibrant and active built in the 15th century felt magical. Tom Cruise and Martin Scorsese had their weddings there! I think my favorite place was Tivoli though. I’m glad to be back in LA, my city, my kinda town! I’m an LA girl through and through!

December POETS PLACE offers a mix of talented writers and artists. Thank you all for supporting the column and sharing your art with us all!

Happiest of Holidays everyone!!!!

Until Next Year!!!!

Love, Linda XX

A non-Sequitur in Ladispoli Rome
By Linda Kaye

Earth, black sand, ocean breeze, cold, crisp, lovely sunspace captures hearts of wickedness turning into sweetness and warmth
goddess of love hear the cries, whisper truths
birds send messages to the goddess who keeps her heart from breaking
the maintenance of crumbs falling off the bow doesn’t do justice once boats have moored
dogs are walked, and people speak in tongues only the dogs can hear
they bark sentences containing the secrets of human existence
There is no life beyond the horizon
She knows this and attempts to report this awareness on the bridge of Hope
Miles and years must be traveled before it connects to the opening
This is nonsense
A voice shouts from the courtyard of justice
Give me the rope to hang myself
It’s too dangerous on this bridge
The temperature drops continuously, spiking fevers
Sweat drips into the main tunnel, rolling into the sea
Al mare discusses its fate
It tortures Romulus once again

The Graduation Portrait
By Jackie Chou

Iggy Lu googled the 1993 Arcadia High School yearbook, just to revisit her own picture in it.

The color pages of the graduating class popped onto the screen. Iggy averted her eyes from the boys and girls with highlights in their stylish hair. There she was, amidst all those kids, in what was supposed to be the best time of her life. The young Iggy in the photograph extended her neck eagerly, as if she would disappear when the camera flashed. Iggy with crooked black bangs, no makeup, and a white T-shirt with a round neckline.

The only reason Iggy searched for traces of that time in her life was an email she recently received in her Spam folder, from someone named Lee, who claimed to remember her from high school. Iggy did not recall somebody by that name. Nor did she think anyone from Arcadia High would feel fondly enough about her to want to get in touch thirty years later.

Then the truth surfaced, slowly like a Polaroid picture. She had been fooled again, by a scammer who sensed her desperate longing for friendship and love. That's why the letter went to Spam.

Jackie Chou (she/her) is a writer from Southern California who has two collections of poetry, The Sorceress and Finding My Heart in Love and Loss, published by cyberwit. Her poem "Formosa" was a finalist in the Stephen A DiBiase Poetry Prize. She also has poems published in Synchronized Chaos, The Ekphrastic Review, Panoply Zine, Alien Buddha Zine, and Spillwords.

from the ashes
by linda m. crate

today a little
perfectly formed
snowflake with
round indents
landed on my shoulder
as if it came straight out of a
cookie cutter,
and i saw red berries
contrasting starkly
against the gray
sky whose solemn hymn
was too heavy for me to carry;
and i think the universe
was trying to tell me that magic
exists even in small breaths
of miracles of ordinary things—
& so i cling onto the
flaming tail of hope,
knowing i will rise from the
ashes again;
preferably sooner rather than later.

Linda M. Crate (she/her) is a Pennsylvanian writer whose poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She has seventeen published chapbooks the latest being: only the future knows (Alien Buddha Press, November 2025).

The WillToBeast
By Sam Moore

The Willtobeast was born in autumn. Under the sunlit moon. The moon shone so bright that night, that the forest lit up a pale hue that resonated through the leaves as a trickle (of water) does down a stream. The forest lay peacefully that night, as the Willtobeast slept. The unusual thing about that night was the wind. It swayed this way, and that. Back and forth in a dance like motion, until it clapped with the night as the birds do with the day. The song it sung was peaceful and deep. There was a tranquil dew upon the leaves on the bushes underneath the trees, where a frog slept. (was sleeping). The fairy creatures roamed in the twilight of dusk, as the the Willtobeast slept. It was unaware of the fairies presence. They were flying gently around the frog, as it lay sleeping. The dew glistened in the hue of the other from the autumn moon. The Willtobeast slept.

Love is a lecture

Love is compromised ideals Love is a notion

Love is everything I feel

Sam Moore is a pianist of 28 years, who lives in Los Angeles, California. He plays classical, as well as sings grunge and punk rock.

LITTLE PIGGY
By Keith Kurlander

Pop-art style collage featuring a halftone-patterned adult man pointing aggressively at Porky Pig, who looks startled and is holding papers. A bold comic-style speech bubble reading “QUIET PIGGY” explodes between them. The background is a vibrant repeating dot pattern in red, green, and yellow, and the vertical text “DISOBAY” appears along the right side in distressed lettering.

"Warm, Wintry Mixes”
By Lida Parent Harris
12/2/25. 10:58 a.m.

A sublime tater tot that you are.
Apple strudel on Christmas Morning.
You look beautiful in your holiday best.
The rule is they're are no rules. A present, nonetheless.
Except that you savor every last morsel of roast duck.
Open a bottle, settle in a comfy chair.
We're all here to listen to your stories.
The cold winds gale of laughter
ascends..
as we deck the halls
and wave our hearts content.

Lida began her writing career 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.

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.

Love What Survives
By Thea Lopez

When does something become itself
Recognize the whipping belt
All the extras by the wayside
Exercised the expression held
Feeling up on your underneath
Warm beneath the wet shell
I'm so glad you came to tell
the happiness I should've felt
I want you to be like salt in my wounds
I want for you to heal me over
I hope that it won't hurt fore
I want you to crash over me like a wave
And I will listen to the Sound

I can't wait to
Love what survives

Thea Lopez 22 y.o. sometimes-poet Email: forgodandliberty@gmail.com

A national threat
by Dean Okamura, born June 17, 1953, Los Angeles, California, United States of America

I feel less American
than
when
I was born.

I thought I was
one
of
"Our Gang",

another kid like
"Leave
it
to Beaver".

I still hear stories where
people who look like me are told
to go back to where
we came from.

I came from Los Angeles, but
they tell me to go back to where
I "really" came from: "China!"

Then someone says, that
I am Japanese, he says,
"Japs have more slanty eyes".

The ICE agent says a lot of
Mexican Indians look like me.
Next time, I need to carry

my American passport, too.

Dean resides in Torrance. There is so much happening in this world, but he can only comment in small poems.

This Old House
By Mary Cheung
2:47 a.m.
9-22-25

This old house holds the memories of laughter and tears.
Epic birthday party's held throughout the years.

And I can't help but think.
How painful it is now to have you here... back in my arms, reminding me..
Of when you were generous with your love and what you gave to me.

The ghost of what our lives used to be haunts me.

So, I think, as much as I loved this old house...
It might be time to move on and make new memories,
Make new dreams
And give new life, in a new home.
So, I can still fondly hold onto the best moments in our old home…

Mary Cheung is a multi-disciplinary artist. She has been creating art since she was little. Youngest in a family of eight, she came to America at the age of 2 and grew up in San Francisco. She attended American school during the day and Chinese school at night.

“I hope that I can be a role model for others to find their own true voice in life through my art."

Skyscrapers and Too Many Cars
by Ana-Alicia Salazar

To the gentle soul
She met in a town of skyscrapers & too many cars

Beginnings of sharp conversations
Soft smiles & tear-filled laughter
Her eyes
Captivated by a cigarette
Hanging from His lips
As He spoke of art, urban projects,
Goals and ideas
His soul radiates aesthetics,
Unifying wonders
His confidence– striking
His impassioned gusto– fiery
His drive– riveting
Her– awestruck

She doesn’t recall knowing Him–
It wasn’t always Him
It was better than fiction
Late night outings
New adventures
Shameless entanglements
Euphoric twinklings with an unforgettable being
Indelible days, hours,
Minutes with Him
Moments of Him

Ana-Alicia is a contributing writer for UP Magazine, a street art and graffiti magazine. She's a street art enthusiast, and a Multiple Sclerosis warrior. Ana loves love. She writes about love gone right, wrong, and awry. Tirelessly, Ana continues to create, write, and promote Multiple Sclerosis awareness. Writing aides taming intense back aches, to flaming feels.

In the Beginning
For Looping
by Mona Jean Cedar

*THE LOOP
In the beginning/PAST it Begins
& Then it Happens
& Then it Ends
Then a New Beginning
a New Happening
a New Ending
Again, it Begins; it Happens; it Ends
Again & Again & Again
*PHYSICAL- We

BEGIN

It Begins in Confusion
What am I Do-Do-ing? - Where to Begin
Not Knowing Where we’re Going
or How to Get-there or Why We are Here

HAPPEN

As it Happens we Think we’re Happy
As it Happens we don't Think
As it Happens it's Automatic, Easy, Nothing Matters.
It’s Comfortable. We Feel Safe

END

It Ends. We Can’t Comprehend Why?
We don’t Want this. We Try to Persist. Endure Indignities
too Afraid of the Future
too Afraid of the unknown
so we Stay -til They Decide
a Couse Not Our own

*MENTAL- You

BEGIN

This New Beginning is Familiar
Feels like You’ve Been-here-Before
Seems there’s a Path or a Plan
& Maybe it’s Yours

HAPPEN
This New Happening, is just a little bit Strange
it’s the Same But it’s Different Because it’s Changed
You Control which Direction
You grasp it’s Important

END

This New Ending. Though Not so Scary, it is Still Sad
You Now Understand – so You Accept it
You don’t Need it – it just doesn’t Fit

*SPIRITUAL - I

BEGIN

Now I Begin Excited to Create
My Dreams Exactly As I Wish. I Know that I Can
HAPPEN
Now My Life Happens As I Desire.
I Decide My Desires that Inspire My Love
are for Sharing. it’s My Calling
I will Not Give-up

END

Now All Endings Open-up to New Blessings
Offerings that I Embrace Content to Let-go
I See a Bigger-Vision Everything Must End
There’s Always a New Beginning

LOOP

As a Performance Artist, Mona Jean, composes her original poetry crafting ASL and spoken English to mesh and sometimes adding dance.

As Circuitry & Poetry, Ms. Cedar choreographs dance with original lyrics in ASL to her husband, Jeff Boynton’s, originally composed music.

Christmas ... in Space!
By Darren Hembd

Santa sat on his Elven sofa and shook his head at his wayward sons. They barely got along all year, and now that it was Christmas, they were the fakest angels that ever were. Such charades indeed.

“I'm grateful for my brother,” lied Santa Jr. He wanted to impress his father whilst competing with his younger brother Atnas. “I can't wait to make my brother happy,” lied Atnas, not to be outdone.

Santa was losing interest in his sons and checked his watch. “Oh, horsefeathers,” he swore. It was almost time to gas up the sleigh for his annual delivery. “You boys be good for Mama now.”

“We will,” lied the boys in unison. As soon as Santa closed the door, they ripped off their church clothes and began to fight like savage animals. Some elves snuck out to watch through the window.

Santa's sleigh took off from Claus Airport at noon. Using the power of mathematics, he estimated he could deliver all the presents before any of the children could write nasty reviews about him.

“Santa was so late,” a child did not write. “Two stars.” Another child didn't write: “I want my Christmas wishes back.” And also there was other stuff no one wrote because Santa delivered things quickly.

This Christmas was weird. He spent some time dodging satellites sure, that was nothing new. But what about the alien saucers? What was the deal with that? Then he checked his Alien Christmas list.

“Ah. Those are all the alien children who want stuff for free,” shook the head of Captain Santa, our Christmas hero. “Probably the only thing they have in common with kids if you think about it.”

Some of the alien saucers had red and green tinsel with twinkling lights. That way, they could trick people into thinking they were worth talking to. Plus lighting, in case of any space snow.

“They'll thank us if a blizzard comes,” sneered one of the aliens. He spoke in Alienese, but I translated it free of charge. I'm just that type of Writer. “Plus, people like annoying lights.”

Unfortunately, Santa's alien detour made him one minute late for Little Tommy's house. By the time Santa got there, there had been so much crying that Tommy's parents had to use a Christmas mop.

“Just leave them by the door,” growled Tommy's dad. “You've betrayed us for the last time.” His son was so heartbroken, he didn't even look at Santa whilst he wondered why he had been foresaken.

After two minutes of feeling bad, Santa remembered that he made millions of other kids happy, so he forgot all about Tommy. You could tell because he was whistling on the way back to the North Pole.

“I'm the king of presents,” sang Santa. As he touched down on the Claus Airport runway, he noticed that the cargo hold was one present heavier than last year. He forgot to give it to Tommy. Oh well.

Back at the Claus residence, his sons had completely destroyed the living room whilst they were covered with bruises and bandages. For fun, he made them fight for Tommy's present and smiled inside.

The End.

Darren Hembd, A Survivor of abuse that processes trauma into fiction.
For more stories: https://substack.com/@darrenhembd

Husband
By Heather Romero KornBlum

When I first called you husband
you were wearing
rented patent-leather tuxedo shoes
you ultimately forgot to return

I hoarded shoes –
things I could wear regardless of shifts in my body

When I gave away yours

the leather sneakers from Lands’ End
the denim canvas Toms
your Clarks I was so proud to buy you for work
your Puma suedes,
the Speedcats you coveted and said you didn’t need
but I got you anyway

I said you were a ghost

After 10 years
I couldn’t feel your presence

The miles we walked together erased

When Out of the Closet came to haul away the furniture
I was already boxing up your pairs

I said no
with sadness
when they asked if you were coming back for them

They ultimately refused to carry the furniture down the flights of stairs
but they took your shoes –
some new in box

I was so convinced you were dead
and that I would never see you walk again

A former academic researcher, Heather Romero-Kornblum returned to poetry after several near-death experiences due to Long Covid. She captures the crumbling of her marriage in the wake of her near-death experiences in I’M NOT OVER YOU – the 2025 Four Feathers Press Chapbook Contest winner.

She is published in multiple journals and anthologies, including with Women Who Submit in ‘This Makes up the Sky’ and ‘Accolades,’ Quiet Lightning’s ‘Sparkle and Blink,'‘ Four Feathers Press monthly anthologies, The Zest of the Lemon, and Plague 2020: A world Anthology of Poetry and Art About Covid-19 and has featured at multiple venues, including at the WordParty Poetry and Jazz monthly series, Sacred Grounds – the longest running open mic in San Francisco, Mutiny Radio, Poems under the Dome, Four Feathers Press, Cobalt Poets, and Lyrical Flames. https://www.heatherkornbooks.com/

Winter
By ACBroome

Coming close together
Snow was heavy on the ground—
A kind of antibiotic

Early the next morning
Hit by time
As dark thickened

Displayed greetings were irresistible
To give up all the nonsense
At once all was wrong

As a part of that scene—
And nothing underneath
Nude was expensive

Yet knowing too well
Each crowded and unappreciated
A good understanding

Previously and managing
Because reference was a departure
And life rootless

An old high-spirited
Personal agony
Without any shame

Lied and spent its life—
Poised wit inside a white
and just frame.

Languages
By Don Kingfisher Campbell

Wall eye knee
I understand

She always asks me
to speak slower

Then she gets
English pretty quickly

But our best
communication is

When we gently
squeeze hands

To convey love
through palms

The number of
squeezes and

Their intensity helps
her to know

What I mean
to silently say

One squeeze
asks attention

Two squeezes
let go so I can

Open the door
or you now

Squeeze squeeze
squeeze squeeze

Illustrates how
much I feel

Feel feel
feel feel

She has learned
my silent language

Gleefully our fingers
dance on each other

Our bodies have
become attached

Heart of Simon
By Michelle Smith

Simon Rodia visionary Italian artist

33 years climbing The Watts Tower

1990 historic California landmark

At 70 years old

a.k.a El Nuestro Pueblos

Is mightier than gold

Globally admired

Symmetrical

Intricate

Magnificent

Ornate

Nuance

Renowned

Original

Daring

Intriguing

Artist

1921 to 1954

Construction not brick by brick

like the three little pigs house

No golden straw

or splintered wispy wood

Broken from a tree

to blow the house down

1, 2, 3!

Colors tangible and tenacious

are intertwined 7Up bottle green

Phillips Milk of Magnesia cobalt blue

Seashells conch, mussel, and clam

pink, gray, and periwinkle hues

Simon began at the gate

with the heart of a lion of Judah

From the dirt ground

Slow and steady

A painstakingly pace

Porcelain pottery parts

gleaned from nimble vintage fingers

Wall to wall floor tiles

Puzzle fitting cast offs

17 interconnecting

ascending skyscrapers

Sacrificed his body

to build and build and build

Endlessly

A bold and audacious work

Strength to the sublime

To God be the Glory

Simon Rodia

your creation has no demise

Michelle Y Smith is a Los Angelino native and like Stretch Armstrong, I am an action figure with many roles: My heart is mother to my autistic son Chris: a.k.a. my Creative, Happy Righteous, Intriguing, Social Soul. My patience is my CNA employment and advocacy for all with disabilities, especially the developmentally and elderly disabled. My drive is published poetry and prose in the books of DSTLArts.org: "Remembering the Riots: A Literary Anthology" and "Snapshots of South Central and over 15 zines by DSTLArts; 2017-2022. Los Angeles Poets Society Press. Published poetry and prose includes, "Love Letters to 2020 Volume 1 and Volume 2, " Acid Verse II", and Los Angeles Poets for Justice: A Document for the People.” Four Feathers Press, http://fourfeatherspress.blogspot.com PDF; and http://saturdayafternoonpoetry.blogspot.com PDF and Zines from 2022 to the present.

My poem, "There is a Sunflower", was published in June 2025 and nominated by the Four Feathers Press/Print Publication Awards. www.laartnews.com/poetsplace; Poets Place Editions:April, May, July 2025. The Smol Bear Show with Michelle Smith and Don Kingfisher Campbell. Podcast Hosted by Alex S. Johnson. July 2025 YouTube.

Space
By Nita Rios

Walking to the train 3am, she shivers lightly
Pausing mid-step
Two shadows
Move on the sidewalk ahead
Echoing footsteps break the silence
A hurried glance
He zips up.
They shuffle off into the darkness

Nita Rios is a poet and performer based in Los Angeles. Her work blends clarity, mood, and emotional truth.

Ode to Pets
By Snow Mack
2025
Image "Portrait of My Muse" by Snow Mack

Ode to Pets
Pretty
Perpetually wordless actors
Psychics
Cynics
Flaunting their critical mass across freshly folded frills and pillows

Dumb sages
Adorable in mud
Loyal clowns, no oath too grand
Every punchline lands

Evolved by man
Slumbering racers with snoring growls
Beknightedly defending my bed
Infinitely winning my grace

Traits not inherently inherited
Shy smiles, obsessively wrestling the dial
Pointing gratitude my way
More than humane, I carry you in my dreams

THANKS FOR JOINING US!!!!

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

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

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

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 10, 2025

NOVEMBER POETS PLACE
2025

Hello friends! We are all still here and praying for the ship to drown in Washington DC. Yes I said that! I believe it will happen. I hope it’s sooner than later. The American people will continue to rise and fight back. I see it happening everywhere. Although the east wing has crumbled and in its place will be a ballroom. It will be cursed and something bad will happen there. I don’t wish death on him, just severe disfigurement with painful scaring.

On a good note the Dodgers WON the World Series again! I hoped they would win, but remember it’s just a game. We have to find joy wherever we can because that is our job at the moment. And for me it’s THE DODGERS!!! NOW OFF TO ROME!!!!!

We have a stellar cast of writers this month! Keep em coming!!!!

Ciao, Linda :0)

paralyzed by loss
by linda kaye
(for mickey)

baring its ugly teeth
loss surprisingly hits hugely
quite deep
numbing it’s victims

the shock remains initially intact
penetrating beneath the surface
smoldering
creating a guarded sense to protect its host
it forms a dull ache not yet festering just lingering
contemplative
deciding its course
not yet able to find solace because the deceptive shock still exists

there’s a fake outer shell
projecting appropriate behaviors decent enough to fool the onlookers
but just for a while
there’s a persistent gnarly tug in the gut
a sickly feeling that reverberates throughout the body
it stings
trying to jolt the heart back to a consistent rhythm
needing a defibrillator shock
but no luck
the dull ache remains
sustained by the loss
of death
it’s permanence still exists

tears are beginning to form
filling up the empty caverns in the soul
the one tear lingering in the corner of the eye waiting for the release just below the surface
resembling a dormant volcano waiting for the catalyst to trigger the explosion which doesn’t come
without the voicing of acknowledgement from some familiar face to unlock the floodgates that wash away the grief
we suffer, temporarily
until the next loss surfaces
and the hurt begins it’s paralyzing cycle once again

Small Talk
By Jackie Chou

I wish I could scroll through doll pictures without nostalgia.

The Peaches and Cream Barbie, which I owned as a child, is now a collector's item. If only I could look into her sky-blue eyes without a deep ache in my heart.

How much have I aged! How much has she aged! Her rosy lips are now faded, like she
had drunk too much champagne at the ball and didn't bother to reapply her lipstick.

passing the law school
the girl I never
became

let the world be kind as autumn
by linda m. crate

autumn is lovely
with all her
reds, pinks, purples,
oranges, yellows,
and even greens;

the october sun
is my favorite of these
months—

awakens my soul
in a second spring which
more lovely than the
first to me,

and i love her lesson
that change can be beautiful;

i hope there are some
gorgeous changes dancing
in the breeze which
magically lifts leaves in
songs of wind—

because i am ready
for a world as kind and fragrant
as a forest full of sweet smelling
autumn leaves.

ICE BARBIE 2
By Keith Kurlander

This artwork from the DISOBAY series delivers a sharp and unsettling vision of authority and confinement. A woman wearing a cap with an official insignia stands in stark focus, her presence contrasted by rows of faceless, imprisoned figures behind bars. Rendered in halftone pop-art textures and drenched in neon cyan, magenta, and deep red, the scene takes on a surreal, almost comic-book intensity. The interplay of bold color and rigid structure amplifies the themes of surveillance, dehumanization, and systemic control. The vertical DISOBAY branding demands resistance, urging viewers to question obedience in the face of oppression.

KEITH KURLANDER, THE E. TRUE HOLLYWOOD STORY
https://youtu.be/p3er5ptzZTA
LINK TO MUSIC https://www.idiot-savant.net/
More Art at: https://www.artpal.com/disobay

What’s Left Behind
by Nita Rios

sometimes I see you on the bus,
walking the streets.
a shock to my system-
I forget you’re not here.
when I’m alone,
I laugh and talk to you often.
I saw you in my dream with your kids,
cooking silently
next to them.
they were older, you were not.
I’ll never get used to this.

Nita Rios is a poet and performer based in Los Angeles. Her work reflects on memory, loss, and the ways love lingers beyond absence.

"Las Reinas Cosmicas”
By G. Billie Quijano

Yeah Sis
You are my soul
I am your light

Sacred visions of remembrance
Fragrance of copal
Spiraling into the state of duende

Ancestors return
Mariposas pollinating dreams
Las Reinas convene
Architects of creation
Shaping destiny through awakened hearts

Brush strokes of orange and yellow
Journeys lined with marigold radiance
Hundreds of codices embedded in every line of my face

Brujas dancing in the elixirs of love
Spirit rooted in the divine of my dna

Pachuca vibes
Indigenous life
Brown girl magic slays and sways
Victories in our struggles
Only truth in our revolutions

Their words burned through delusion and deception
While our lives remain in the realms of poetry and colores

So let our tears rain on the
Altares of gratitude and offerings
As Las Reinas Cosmicas convene

G. Billie Quijano-Hija de East Los. Lowrider por Vida. Instigator of beauty. Artista, Bruja, Poeta, Provocateur.

Liberty
By R. G. Carrillo (September 2025)

The apostle of liberty
Long on vision
Eloquent on paper
Talked the talk
Unable to walk the walk
An enigma in the American psyche
An elite declarer of equality
A principled visionary
A flawed man
Dealing with his own reality
A contradiction framing independence
Buttressing his privilege
Tethered to slavery
Creating a deformed justice
A miscalculation in his thinking
A falsification of unalienable rights
Was Jeffersonian belief
Truly that ALL men
Are created equal
Or just flowery words
To impress the founding fathers
A fraudulent hypocrisy in theory
For exclusivity
Stated by a slaveholder
Making the dream
A nightmare
The common man
Reaches out to touch it
It turns to cotton
A dual liberty
A north south divide
A national schism
Depending on geography
And skin color
In these divided states
In black hands
The apostle is a Judas
Sitting at the table of liberty
Betraying his pen
The ink runs red
Unable to complete
Lofty ideals
For the birth
Of a new nation
Under God
To elevate our constitution
It would take another disciple
To turn the tide
To emancipate better angels
To free liberty
From infected Jeffersonian indulgence
But still not rid the country
Of slavery
The seed planted
Originally in holy ground
The Virginia soil was without
Proper ethical content
Only producing a dwarfish crop

The strength is in our people
Too many times
They have not reaped
The rewards of their labor
Black hands and muscle
Built the White House
Chinese and Irish immigrants
Built the transcontinental railroad
Latino immigrants a dominant
Workforce in agriculture
And construction
The way forward
Is through the path
Of diversity
To deny and exploit it
Is biting the hands
That feed shelter clean
And build the nation
Our diversity
Must be nurtured
An indigenous crop of plenty
A hybrid specimen
Totally American
The elite business cartels
Are a new form
Of plantation ownership
Catholicism made me unholy
American socialization
Tried to bend me
Toward the mainstream
Acculturation was a whitewash
Americans of color
Denied an Uncle Sam life vest
Yet we defend the nation
Offering our lives
Second generations of American diversity
Unconscionably treated as second class

O America
I cry for you are the enemy
Capitalism has tainted the nation
Leaving so much devastation
In its wake for greed

Who holds the keys
Of governance
Secret billionaire wizards
Of Wall St.
Housed and protected
By the military industrial
Complex
The curse of Brittania
Followed the Mayflower
Across the Atlantic

The horrible trumpet
Of his racial edicts
Creating serious cracks
In the foundation of democracy
He will suffer equal repercussions
For the damage he has spewed
From the terrible mouth
Of his greed and ignorance
Tweets of revenge
And megalomania
Could bring down the house
A cleansing
A restart
A new revolution
For the red white and blue
Time to revisit
Those founding principles
Time to awaken
The people’s consciousness
Being elevated beyond borders
Their governance in shambles
In a right left schism
The ghosts of civil war
Reappearing in the southern divide
Of an old dixieland
White supremacists in the heartland
Still rearing their ugly heads
Waiting for their kind
Of hate mongering to die off
A bleaching of racial discrimination
An exorcism of slavery
And judgements based on skin color
Are gone with the wind
But remain as superstition
Elitist fallacies based on white supremacy
Neo-nazism kkk hate groups
Skinheads white privilege
A rebirth of the Jeffersonian model
Of independence
A fertilization of new energy
To restore America’s democracy
To true balance
We are a mixed race republic
Not utilizing all of our strength
Talents that are not nourished
Children that are not supported
Families that are not brought
To the table of bounty
Neighborhoods that are neglected
Imagine an America
Empowering all her people
Then we can hail
The land of the free
And the home of the brave
With a new resilience
Toward a brighter future
Let the light of democracy
Ring forth bright
And powerful
No shackles
Only inclusivity
Full freedom
No more illusion
To what is self-evident

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.

LOVE
By Mary Cheung
4:42 a.m.
5-29-25

Don't give up on love,
Cuz it ain't done with you yet.

You spent your youth creating a life,
For your family and your partner instead.

So by the time, it was time for yourself..
You find that the rules have all changed.
And finding love just isn't the same.
Turns out to be hard work,
And people just aren't the same.

No one does what they say,
And no one says what they mean.
They'd rather text you than talk.
And meeting you in person?...
Well, you have to fight the system,
Just to be seen.

So you throw your hands up in the air.
Cuz old-fashioned values,
Well, no one seems to care.

To make the time to see you,
To take the time to be with you.
And opening your car door for that first date...
Well

Don't give up on love,
it hasn't given up on you yet.
20, 40 or 70, age isn't a guaranteed bet.

You've got a lot of love to give,
You've got a lot of love to receive.
The diamonds are buried amongst the coals.
You'll have to get your hands dirty.
And start to believe.

That you are worthy,
Oh, so special and deserving to receive..
Woven into the tapestry of your life,
Yes, it is a complicated weave..

A love that's meant just for you.
ust waiting to be awakened.

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."

ribbons: a trio of broken haiku
by dean okamura

from this bed
like so many other times finding strength
for today

face this world
that bullies us to intimidate
our freedom

always have
but overcoming pain, dread, aging; time for
a surprise?
… the natives are restless

Dean resides in Torrance. There is so much happening in this world, but he can only
comment in small poems.

The Mind Fields
©1993 Kassi Crews

Skipping through the mind fields
Faith in my heart
Once fatalistic
Once separated in parts.

Need to be whole
My mind does not rest
The light ripples in complete darkness
Is this only a test?

United I am
Body, mind, and soul
Finally, no need to have control.

This light bounces from space to space
Around anger, stupidity, and greed
There is no safe place, except in me.

So I skip through the mind fields
Bringing light where I can
Sharing love in this world
That is my life’s plan.

Dorian’s Great Pictures
By Darren Hembd

Unfortunately, people die. You know. Kick the can? Bite the fur-nace? Move upstate to the great farm in the sky? Even story characters die as well. At least, if the Writer is in a sort of morbid mood.

“Oh sure, I *could* write about people staying alive,” a morbid Writer might fancy so. “But today, I think I’ll get all morbid like.” Then some poor character wouldst perish, all because of a -Bad Mood-.

It wouldn’t stop there, though. No, sir. Then the Writer wouldst go out of their very way to bum Readers out further by having *other* characters deal with it. All entirely for some Writer’s amusementry.

“What a great character,” saddened some friend of the deceased. “Now they’re all upstate, kicking furnaces and what not.” Then, some anecdotes about why they were so precious, teaching us to love again.

Well, now You can do something about it. Using the literary wisdom of one Parker Plateau, characters who passed on so can be brought back to life, albeit in portrait form and, AND You can talk to them.

“Hey, thanks for extending my -Torment-,” rolled the eyes of one of Your favourite characters who recently bit the can. “It wasn’t enough that I got traumatised by dying. Now I’m your eternal prisoner.”

You can talk about the cosmos, play charades, even serenade they who perished too soon. What’s that? How do You go about such a thing? Let’s allow Beggar’s Choice Great Pictures answer Your curiosities.

“Our resident painter Dorian Acrylica uses precise brush strokes to recreate the characters you fancy so,” the advertisement explained to You via fancy waves. “Marvel at his generous use of cheap paints.”

Satisfied customers can stay holed up in their self-made, modern prisons and discuss politics with the -Imaginary Dead-. But why stop there? Cover Your walls with such portraits and enjoy the cacophony.

“It’s great,” You or someone *like* You expressed. “I can now no longer hear my own thoughts *and* regret my purchases all at the very same time.” Also, some indignant grumbling and exaggerated gestures.

The Plateau technique uses a blend of the perceived likeness of a character and the actual work from which they’re obtained. Since no two impressions are the *same*, neither are the portraits painted so.

“We get complaints from people *all* the time,” huffed McStanley Gruesome (age 43). “‘Oh, my picture isn’t the same as soandso’s,’” he then mocked. “Get real. I mean, why are you even friends with them?”

Dorian found his calling after discovering his very mother crying about the death of King Pleasant (of the book “Fantasy Heights”). He *knew* she wouldn’t get any happier until he resurrected the guy.

“Oh, thank you, my wonderful son,” Mother Acrylica glowed. “Now I no longer have any need for therapy.” Ironically, she took down her son’s childhood photo to make room for King Pleasant’s new portrait.

Don’t tell anyone this, but there is an even *worse* side effect than going all mental. Once the portraits attain absolute sentience, they can achieve a third dimension and climb *out* of the very walls.

The Albatross.

Darren Hembd A survivor of abuse that processes trauma into works of fiction.
https://substack.com/@darrenhembd

Periwinkle
By Natalie Nicole Gilbert

The salty bath
And coconut oil
Mingle as they ought
Producing an ephemeral steam
Rising to dance
For a little while
With the waltzing wick
Ablaze
A citrus & white oak candle

These two combined
Make peaceful in unison
United in purpose
And even in style

But the bath can only go so long
Or your skin will wrinkle
The water will grow cold
Maybe turn to periwinkle
From the elderberry epsom salts

So you let them run their course
Enjoy them
In their turn and pairing
Unharried, undisturbed

But once the best is done
The healing part complete
You needn't stay in the water
It would soggy your two or more feet

So slowly you rise
Knowing you enjoyed the parts you could
You did your part by being present
To witness bad and good

Sands run through the hourglass
And it's time to resume your shedyule
So you shed the yule
Replace your armor
And ready for the coming battles
Always glad
For fleeting moments of reprieve
Before you return to the saddle

The Green Ghost
by Matthew DeHaven

green ghost, green ghost
why are you green, ghost?
verdant, transparent, haunted and high
always wandering and wanting an eye for an eye

green ghost, jealous green ghost
your story's done told
what once was a mouth-unholy hole-
gaping, silent screaming, "a soul for a soul"

envious of the living must be why you're green
betrayed by your color, now life's but a dream
eternal slumber, your hue will soon fade
paler and paler, the spectral bed made

go your weary way, ghost, stop wondering why
no soul for a soul, no eye for an eye
you should have lived fuller, too soon it slipped by
your life was wasted-you never did try

green ghost, bitter green ghost
you made yourself green, ghost
and you've been seen, ghost, for what you are
no better dead than living life from afar

Matthew DeHaven is an actor, artist and writer living in Pasadena. He likes to create narrative poetry in iambic pentameter and rhyme that harkens back to Shakespearian times.

Poets and Secret Agents by Snow Mack
2025
Image: Crazy Romance Novel by Snow Mack

Poets are like secret agents
Sneaking meaning into a stream of words
I wonder about cave painters from prehistoric times
Did they have opening events for their cave paintings?

No agenda
I wrestle with the geysers that want to hollow out my heart
Being sad is so popular right now

Poets paint with words
Wonder is the brush, words flow into truths
Surfacing through the cavitation of doubt to reveal
...reveal
...reveal
No agenda
Snow Mack she/her

Snow Mack is a contemporary visual artist known for her vibrant, dream-inspired paintings and symbolic assemblage frames. Her work blends pop culture, mythology, and surreal imagery to explore the subconscious, resulting in visually rich narratives that are both personal and archetypal. Snow Mack lives and works in Los Angeles, where she continues to develop a body of work that merges vivid imagination, cultural commentary, and a deep symbolic vision. snowmack.com
IG @snowmackart

Late Eulogy for My Sister
By Erich Schulze

It’s been 30 years since I last saw her, but…
As my sister lie dying from cancer, a fugitive from the law,
Her friends surround her,
Smoking weed and listening to Etta James (who I’d never heard of),
Yes, I know I should know Etta and now I do.
This narrative being shared, nearing 5 years after her passing, by friends who loved her
dearly,
And I’m hearing now,
About her final terrestrial evening, all of them so high and then the fatal dose of
Morphine.

She was a terrible sister, like fucking awful.
Struggling to be open-hearted in my disgust,
But hearing her friends.
And wondering where was that sister for me.
And me now, I’m binge-listening to Etta James, and experiencing the love and I’m really
high too now,
On some genetic mutant strain.
Saying farewell and see you soon,
With Love.

Erich Schulze- For over 30 years, my sister was a fugitive from the law. Five years after her passing, I found out about it. She was a very difficult sister and i discovered she had a new family up in Yellowknife, NWT, Canada.

Too Hot Is.....
By Michelle Y. Smith

Too Hot is the political topic of America today.
SNAP EBT in November will be parlayed.
Food insecurity knows no color or race. Stomachs
rumbling from hunger pangs,
they shouldn't be felt by anyone.
The Too Hot words from politicians.
Congress bickering their ILL will debates. They
can afford a pastrami sandwich from Langers,
Canters, or Coles. Without a budget to think
about if I should buy one of these. Giving it a
Good Ol' Boy try. I'll buy the sandwich fixings
at Vons or Ralph's. Or better yet The Hat where
a tip is not required. Following a waitress or waiter
to a table isn't needed. Too Hot is the
summer weather of October where
the freeway underpass covered with tarps
the color of Dodger Blue. The unhoused
population may lay on a concrete bed. With
their scanty possessions, survivability at
their best, I hope they somehow
eat a bite of food.

Too Hot is entering the fourth week of the
government shut down. Trump's bulldozing the East Wing
of the White House. America's 40 million on SNAP EBT,
from infancy to the elderly, veterans and military serving
financially will receive their paychecks, how 45 & 47
sleeps at night while people suffer due to his narcissistic needs.
Two federal judges have given the Trump administration until
Monday, November 3, 2025 to strategically to pay for SNAP
benefits for all qualified, one by one, by one.
He dismantled IDEA for special education students regardless
of their legal status, how dare he! Diversity existed from
pre K to college for everyone, put into federal law by Bush the son.
MAGA shame on you! Your wrath is the tidal wave that should never
had begun.

Michelle Y. Smith is a Los Angelino native and like Stretch Armstrong, I am an action figure with many roles: My heart is mother to my autistic son Chris: a.k.a. my Creative, Happy, Righteous, Intriguing, Social Soul. My patience is my CNA employment and advocacy for all with disabilities especially the developmentally and elderly disabled. My drive is published poetry and prose in the books, "Remembering the Riots: A Literary Anthology" and "Snapshots of South Central " and over 15 zines by DSTLArts; 2017-2022. Los Angeles Poets Society Press, poetry and prose published includes "Love Letters to 2020 - Volume 1 and Volume 2 , "Acid Verse II", and "Los Angeles Poets for Justice: A Document for the People.

Four Feathers Press, http://fourfeatherspress.blogspot.com PDF; and http://saturdayafternoonpoetry.blogspot.com PDF and Zines. My poem, "There is a Sunflower," was published in June 2025 and nominated by the Four Feathers Press PDF/Print Publication Awards. Publications from January 2023 to October 2025. www.laartnews.com/poetsplace; Poets Place Editions: April, May, & July, 2025. Lyrical Flames Poet. October 30, 2025.

ACBroome
Portrait of Kene Rosa

THANKS FOR JOINING US!!!!

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

Linda Kaye writes poetry, curates poetry, produces films, spoken word and art events and produces a poetry column POETS PLACE for the online publication LAARTNEWS throughout the Los Angeles area. She recently exhibited her first piece of artwork! A photograph taken in Waikiki, was represented at the Los Angeles Makery gallery’s REFLECTION:RESILIENCE show curated by the Arroyo Arts Collective.

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

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/

October Poet's Place

October 06, 2025

POETS PLACE
OCTOBER EDITION
2025

Hello friends! Thank you for reading my column! Here we can share our poetry, short stories, prose, song lyrics, etc., as well as view artwork from those who submit them. What a fun column this is!!! Everyone is welcome to submit! Anytime! We publish every month, rain or shine! No experience necessary. Just write something and submit it. Lately my writing has been in the political vain. It’s what is coming out of my head and into my mouth. Spewing more likely out of my mouth. As always, we have an array of writers this month. So delighted and grateful for your continued supports!!!

Thank you !!!!
Love, Linda :0)

Pussy Power
By Linda Kaye

Unlock the gates step into the crowd, cock the Glock, and raise your fist.
It's not too late to join in the fight resist the right and stop their might
fight fire with fire the Gav says- we will win solidarity in resistance!

We will not comply with their insistence
laws and love do not empower
massive strength will defend our tower

We will claim our state as sanctuary
We will secede and be one dormitory
Our country California with
40 million residents where the state fruit is the avocado and the state insect is the California dog face butterfly

We already have a place where all can grow marijuana and artichokes
where the desert tortoise can be free from racist judgment
where surfing plays a role in all things magnificent
to dance West Coast swing at dinner parties without fear from republican rebels

California is the fourth largest economy in the world, leads the nation in agriculture
production, the center of entertainment, global technology, music, sports, and fashion

What are we waiting for?
Let's get this secession started.
Who's in??
I vote yes!!

Sixth Expedition
By Don Kingfisher Campbell

On my first trip
Survival was not guaranteed
I put on my suit
And watched my fellow
Astronaut jump ship

I was saved by a back-up
Who eagerly joined
Our joint mission
Only to lose oxygen
And float slowly away

I was lucky I found
A new craft to ride
Into another cosmos
Here I discovered all
Adventure must end

So I leaped out
From the spiraling craft
Landed in a better position
I was in celestial heaven
Zooming through the universe

Of course we crashed
I was left adrift in space
No foothold to hold onto
Until I became my own vessel
Now I am finally flying

On an albeit bumpy but
Smooth passage of planets
Picked up my own crew
We conquer the galaxies
Look forward to immortality

Or not, there might always be
A seventh journey awaiting
Where the unknown can
Annihilate any belief
With spare cold eternity

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

I Love You…
By: IE Carlo
9 July 2025

I love you now
I loved you then
I’ll love you tomorrow
I wanted you then
I want you now
I’ll want you tomorrow
I crave you now
I craved you then
I’ll crave you tomorrow
My heart aches now
My heart ached yesterday
My heart will ache tomorrow
My heart will crave you always
I will stay loyal always in this thought you know that for
I’ve told you so
In my body you still remain
You will stay in me always
You’re in me today
Sweet is that love I craved yesterday
Sweet is that love I felt yesterday
Sweet is this love I feel for you today
Sweet will be that love I’ll feel for you in eternity

Ismael (East) Carlo As of this writing I am 83 years of age. My stage name, Ismael “East” Carlo came about due to those unable to pronounce it correctly, which is understandable. If you have ever read “MOBY DICK?”, the opening line o the book is: “Call me Ishmael”, close enough. The story of my beginning as an actor, came about due to a depressing moment. No thoughts of suicide, but what are you going to do with your life?, At 30 years old a decision had to be made. C M Y CM One day a friend came to visit and he said, “Get dress we're going to see a play on Broadway”. Ironically the title of the play? “NO PLACE TO BE SOMEBODY”. Fitting since I was at a crossroads in life. As we left the theater I was so inspired I had a premonition and I told my friend, I'm going to become an actor! and he replied “Go For It!”. Not too much longer I moved to Miami Florida. I remember meeting a woman who said I should consider modeling. Me? A Model? I took the advice and signed up at the Glen Jones Modeling agency since I was particular about mens fashion! MY CY CMY K While at the agency I met a man that had 3 missing fingers and a pot belly. I asked, “Are you a model?”, He replied, “No I’m an actor looking for work”. The irony of the business. While in Miami I began taking acting classes for five dollars a class. I immediately landed acting roles and landed my first acting gig. I was cast in “Damon Runyon's”, Guys and Dolls, playing the part of Big Julie. Followed by “Carib”, starring, Carl Franklin and Stacy Keach. Over the years I honde in on my craft for acting and I decided to leave for HOLLYWOOD. Luck must have been with me. As an extra I had the pleasure of working with Sidney Pointier and I began landing roles in soap operas, TV and Features Films. Off Broadway and theater music was my other passion. While trying to make a living between gigs I met a man by the name of Bobby Matos. Bobby Matos was a talented musician who encouraged me to begin writing and performing poetry. It wasn’t long after we started recording and producing music. As a result of this connection we created our music label, “Cafe Con Bagels”. Together we had a vision of promoting music and sought out other talented musicians to collaborate with. Our artistic expression was starting to bloom! I can say of myself that show business has been a wonderful experience. An awakening of senses and gratitude of being in a field with exceptional creative talent. I can go through a litany with whom I've worked with, but no need it's promoted on IMDB.

"Skies of Angel's Autumn Wind”
By Lida Parent Harris
8/27/25. 5:10 p.m

Pour into the soil softly;
thine roots peel upon the
my simple skin.
Does it tempt me to hide,
or watch as the leaves of fall cover the floor?
Drink all the spiced cider
in my garden,
wrestled against the cool night air into submission.
My warm feet now in my slippers rest with content.
I somehow notice that all the birds are tapping along,
the angel's wings of this
southernmost song.
Peace in abundance,
a smile shifts and deepens
ever closer to a new memory.
A hormony.
Lovejoy to all.

Lida began her writing career 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.

BEHOLD GILEAD 1
By Keith Kurlander

This piece from the DISOBAY series fuses pop art with dystopian commentary, portraying a surreal gathering beneath a towering cross. Cloaked figures stand in solemn formation as three central figures oversee them, evoking themes of obedience, power, and faith. The vibrant halftone sky in neon red and yellow clashes against the dark, shadowed figures, creating a psychedelic tension between control and resistance. DISOBAY challenges viewers to question authority, ritual, and conformity through bold color, sharp contrast, and provocative symbolism.

Keith Kurlander “I've always been a creative soul, I make art, music, music videos, TV shows, films and mayhem. If you want to learn all about my fascinating life here's a good place to start.”

KEITH KURLANDER, THE E. TRUE HOLLYWOOD STORY
https://youtu.be/p3er5ptzZTA
LINK TO MUSIC https://www.idiot-savant.net/
More Art at: https://www.artpal.com/disobay & Music at https://www.idiot-savant.net/

SCARY STUFF
By Mary Cheung
10-1-2021
7:33 a.m.

Spooky Halloween

Heart pounds, blood rushes.
Now I'm feeling faint.
Falling for someone is scary.
R u a devil or a Saint?

Every day is Halloween when it comes to matters of the heart.
Too scared to expose it.
Where would I even start?

Secrets lurking, you keep it all in the dark.
know nothing about you.
Let me rip into your heart.
U give me thrills with your intense icy stare.
don't know if you even notice, or if you even care.

Scared of not knowing, of finding, sorting the truth from the lies.
Jumble of words in my mind.
Which ones do I choose?
Which ones will make you mine?

Hocus pocus, just give me a brew.
So I can intoxicate, and put a spell on you.

Drag me down into your cold and dark, eerie world.
Down down I go, kicking and screaming,
Let my pleasure unfurl.
Witches and goblins, I can do.
The real terror lies in opening myself up to you.
So until I find the strength to bear it all and be exposed.
I'll just be a zombie walking through life.
Until that crazy someone injects me with life...
reanimating my soul.

Mary has an AA degree in Fashion Design and a Best Costume Design Award from the NAACP. She often creates costumes for her art narratives and creations.

She was the recipient of 3 grants in 2024 and the Denis Diderot and Emerging Artist award. She has art exhibited and published locally and Internationally.

Her real passion and drive come from being able to engage the community while bringing hope, healing, joy, and human connection.

It is her goal to be able to continue to do this while making an impact on society’s values and thinking. “I hope that I can be a role model for others to find their own true voice in life through my art."

multiple thoughtgasms.
by daniel j. schack

eat cake. There were many who may not have had it out for me. Many of them did not have it for me either.
koo koo. Nowadays, perhaps more than ever before in history, the sane act insane and the insane act sane. Law. Just as I am ready to do anything within the law to succeed, I also add that I am ready to do that plus whatever is within the law, no matter what it may be. ha. ha.
daniel j. schack is an online artist/poet who studied 3 years of college and graduated high school. he also has an unusual tiktok video under danielschack7 and his art can be seen on tumblr.com-adanthemanworld

Limericks
By Jackie Chou

Two poets couldn't agree
Whether verses should rhyme or be free
Too restrictive the former
Too unruly the latter
Eye to eye they could not see

By the Sea
By Anna Mathai

I found you, by the sea.
Rocky, salty,
Sweetened by an unexpected breeze
When I recognized something in your eyes as you looked at me.
Maybe I was wild like the ocean,
All calmed by he
With a past shared but unspoken
That proved it all to be.

Anna Mathai is an Indian-American multidisciplinary artist based in Los Angeles, California. She frequently uses Venetian plaster and other plasters in her work. Her abstract works reference both the natural world and our internal ‘landscapes’ of emotion, blurring both real and intangible. She often touches on concepts of femininity, rebellion, and otherness, with a touch of mysticality, in her figurative work. By pairing her writing with her visual art practice, Mathai creates an extra dimension in which viewers can experience her art and a loose construct to guide their own internal process of understanding. Mathai was born in the UK, but spent most of her childhood in the rural Deep South, which heavily influenced the concepts she explores in her art. Her work has been awarded, published, and exhibited globally. You can find her at www.byMathai.com or on Instagram @byMathai.

Banana Soup
By Darren Hembd

It was all based on that olde pop song: “Hot dog, banana soup; I can make it just for you; If you wait a little longer; You get banana stew.” There was more, but I don't feel like making up anymore of it.

“Mainly because it's not the important part,” I continued, after indenting for a new paragraph. “I mean, we *all* know about bananas, and soup? Of course. So, with the ‘banana soup,' we're sufficiently.”

A story character walked by One Page Soupery, and heard that song playing on their outdoor speakers. Why they did that is between them and the Ghost King—not my concern. The character is Thompson.

“I'm the one that heard the song,” revealed the slightly feathered running shoes of Thompson. He winked to You as he said this via winking waves. “I want you to know about my reaction to it.” (p.113)

But we won't find out anytime soon. You see, this song is not about the story, and the story is not about Thompson. Though, I *may* change my mind, should the fancy come about. It's up to the -Stars-.

“I'm guessing they *will*,” revealed a Star People, from the very stars above. “It's become *such* a belaboured deal, after all.” And then back to Star People business, far, far away in ... Space!

Some people have tried to make banana soup at home—a rookie mistake. For you see, banana soup can *only* be made so in a +soupery+. It's like a soup kitchen but, BUT it involves - Soup Age Sorcery-.

“After people discovered hot water,” began the lecture of Prof. Leaning Shades (age 43), “They began to experiment with soup.” Using a combination of handouts and large diagrams, we learned more. QED.

I was utterly *fascinated* with what I learned, which in regular times was what I already knew. That's what you call a ‘redundant prophesy,’ used primarily to mislead You and clear Your throat some.

“Oh, great. Now I have dialogue,” Your eyes rolled. “So much for my peaceful afternoon at the One Page Park.” Though, once this story ends, it's back to watching some dogs catching novelty flying discs.

Where were we? Ah, yes. The souperies of downtowne. Our quest to find the *perfect* banana soup began. I hurled a backpack over all my shoulders after having laced my adventure shoes. You can stay home.

“I'll do the adventuring for the two of us,” I winked at You via adventure waves. “You can stay at home and learn of my exploits.” I also left some change for the machine, in case You had laundry to do.

What seemed like -Sentences- later, I made it to that soupery, with one thing, and *only* one thing on my private mind: banana soup. If I was patient enough, I could survive standing in the short line.

“Who's next?” wondered the souperista. Her name was Captain, and yes, she's heard *all* the jokes already. “Hey, you. Writer. Come on up and try the banana soup.” It was as if she had a - Premonition-.

I tried it, sure. It wasn't *so* bad, mostly due in part to all of the excessive salt and sugar and, AND I wouldn't mind recommending people try it at least once. It makes that one song *seem* memorable.

The Soupery.

Darren Hembd survivor of abuse processing trauma into works of fiction.
https://substack.com/@darrenhembd

It’s Already
By Dean Okamura

depressing, but the world
appeared to change
just because Trump
made some headlines.

It's gotten into our heads,
like rats running mazes
in our brains, and
clogging the sewers.

Some day, we’ll see,
we will cast it out --
not like a demon,
but like a bad penny.

PS: how we doin'
with the change
in our pockit?

Dean resides in Torrance. There is so much happening in this world, but he can only comment in small poems.

Where Nothing Dies
By Richard Russeth

Someone I love is dying
on the only planet I know
where there is life that dies.

Perhaps there’s a place
where nothing dies,
but here, in this world,
a new born babe
becomes an old woman
slowly leaving
her lovely life behind.

We’ll scatter her ashes
in a flower garden,
where her children
and grandchildren
can watch her bloom
and disappear,
year after year,
until the flowers become
merely beautiful again.

Richard Russeth is a poet, novelist, magician, retired lawyer & human being. His first poetry collection, entitled "Ghost Heart", will be released by Finishing Line Press in 2026.

WHAT A WOMAN WANTS or
The Tale of How Gawaine met Ragnell and Learned Love
by Matthew DeHaven

Sir Gawaine, Brave Knight of the Table Round,
was in all his Adventures, Tried and True.
Tho', now in a Quand'ry he himself found.
The greatest Dilemma he had e'er knew.

"I must find the Answer" Sir Gawaine said,
"and find it right soon, else lost is my head!"

II.

The deal he'd done made, and now wished he'd not,
was with the Green Knight, from bottom to top,
to solve a Riddle, the best the Green's got.
If not, the Green Knight, his head would off chop!

Here 'tis the Riddle, the one that does haunt:
"In all the World What Does A Woman Want?

III.

The journey was cruel, our hero Gawaine,
tireless, fighting uphill this battling Quest.
Time, no friend of his, so little remained,
the Green Knight would lay him soon to his Rest.

"O Mighty Maker, again I will pray
Your heavenly help, send swiftly my way!"

IV.

As if by Magick, ‘twixt him and the Green,
appeared an ancient, stooped and foul smelling Crone.
An uglier creature he had ne'er seen.
And there in midroad she stood by her own.

"Answer me, Milady, answer me, please!"
But with no question she could not with ease.

"What is it, M'lord" She cackled and cracked.
"What is your Question? What is your Will?"
Gawaine silent froze, his head soon off hacked!
The Green Knight approaching down yonder hill.

Then with a burst the damn Riddle he hurled-
"What Wants A Woman In All The Wide World?"

VI.

"What Wants A Woman In All The Wide World?"
repeated the hag with glee and delight.
"The Answer to that, I've known since a girl."
(In his position she'd better be right.)

"I'll speak what it is, I will not tarry.
Promise me first, ‘tis me you will Marry."

VII.

To look at her face, he'd rather be dead.
To Live or to Die, each way would be Hell.
Surely next he'd have to lie in her bed.
Alack! No Choice had he. (Oh, and that smell!)

My name is Gawaine, and I swear by my Life,
Be me your Husband, if be you my Wife.

VIII.

"My name is Ragnell, I've something to say.
What We Want Most is the Right to Decide!
Men cannot always be havin' their way.
And for our Judgements, our Conscience will guide.

What a Woman Wants? Is her Sovereignty!
That's the Answer. Blessed Be! Blessed Be!"

IX.

Gawaine had his Answer, ‘twas ne'er more right.
Nor the Green Knight any other sign gave.
Defeated the Green rode into the light
and to Gawaine, an Adieu he did wave.

Gawaine felt relief at keeping his head.
Cruel Fate tho' beckons, for he swore to Wed!

X.
To the bedchamber, the story does move,
Where Ragnell, the bride, did patiently wait.
Gawaine's promise kept, it did him behoove,
a Round Table's Knight is never ingrate.

Inside Gawaine stepped, and who would this be?
The most beaut'ous Ladye e'er he did see!

XI.

"What Vision is this? Mine eyes do deceive!
Some Mischief on me the Heavens ordain!"

"I be your Wife, sir, you wish me to leave?
Me thinks I stay, sir, henceforth shall explain.
Cursed, lo these many years I have been.
Half the day I'm old Crone, half a Maiden."

XII.

"Husband, half the day have you my Beauty.
Yet, the other half, I am Old and Grey.
The daylight promises your friends to see me
or the night in our bedroom I will stay.
Dearest, no Enchantment's without it's hitch.
Half the day with my Beauty, which, sir, which?"

XIII.

Gawaine did not stammer, nor did he jest,
"I cannot tell you the which way to live.
It's your Decision, you choose what's best.
I'll honor your choice- whatever you give. "

Betwixt and Between! Sacred and Strange!
Above and Below! Everything must Change!
"The Curse, it is broken" Ragnell did laugh,
"I am your Beauty, happily e'er aft'!"

XIV.

Thus ends the story of brave Sir Gawaine,
who both sides of Ragnell, saw and learned love.
Together they lived, the Knight and the Dame.
One be thee the Hand, the other the Glove.

Swains, Respect the Ladyes! By Earth, Moon, and Stars!
Sovereign and Free to be all they are.

Matthew DeHaven is an actor, artist and writer living in Pasadena. He likes to create narrative poetry in iambic pentameter and rhyme that harkens back to Shakespearian times

Last Chapter
By R.G. Carrillo (Summer 2025)

Tempering the trauma
Of our youth
The soul journeys on
The ripples in our waters
Expand and smooth out
With the edges
Of our maturity
Making our peace
With the past
We are strengthened
Now more able
To be of service
To mankind

The wheel of time
Spinning toward
That last chapter
Reflection and pause
Prayer and gratitude
I made it this far
Our lives like novels
We are the protagonist
Secondary characters
Move in and out of our lives
Others are more permanent
In our story development
Some of my characters
Have become dead bodies
They haunt my storyline
Past ghosts that inhabit
My memories
I move on
Trying to focus
On the present
Moonlight of enchantment
Stars of conception
Still inspire my gaze
Upward toward the heavens

I was going down
A rabbit hole
A sink hole of depression
Leaving a false impression
Of who I thought I should be
This status quo image
A mold I did not fit
My carefully created
Foundation slipping
A landslide of past trauma
Coming to the forefront
A biological earthquake
Discovering the fairytale
Was a fake
I am awake
With my eyes closed
To this reality
Of worldly violence
I want to return
To my cocoon
My dreams
Covered in amber
Growing wings
To leave this place
Of existence
Rain clouds with no moisture
All my moves were toward him
He moves me
Romantic empty spaces
He once occupied
Now hardly moved emotionally
An improved perspective
All the falsehoods
Wash ashore
Like corpses
Fantasies see the light
With no fairytale endings
The beginning of sorrows
In these United States
Birth pains in the global world
The democratic stitching
Being stretched
To a serious
Breaking point

The immigrant flock
Is scattered
An anemic democracy
Waiting to spill blood
Brother fighting brother
Once again
White erosion
Creating cracks
Mixed new race blood
This American hybrid
Being dismissed
Like Jazz truly authentic
New world invention
Can provide energy
To a changing democracy
This republic born in blood
Holocaust of indigenous natives
WASP whitewash
That has exceeded its time
Restore the elasticity
Of our nation
Invigorate the soil
Of this democracy
Once you seeked
The homeless
Yearning to breath free
To your shore
Now they are captured
Like criminals
A new slavery
To make America great again
But the king
Knows not he
Wears no clothes
Only plays golf
Raising tariffs on our allies
Trumpeting threats
Coming to nothing
Melania missing
But her parents
Got in free
Paranoid chaos in D.C.
The presidency selling
Watches shoes trading cards
A den of thieves
Utilizing the White House
To sell junk
Making backdoor deals
With a sexual predator
Something stinks
The orange man
Playing shady
And underhanded
To avoid more felonies

Heartland America
Put out to dry
Bible belt and breadbasket
Faltering in factories and farms
Ultra conservative magas
Add to the fire of division
Soon all will come
Tumbling down
Just a scam
From the orange man
The big lie
Followed by
The big scam
The sheep
Temporarily distracted
Only to find
A wolf at their door
The piggies scatter
Migrant male voices
Labor in the American
Landscape
American academia
Being attacked
ICE agents
In the field
To catch mice
Authoritarian elements
Release their poison
On constitutional foundations
Time to wake up
The masses asleep
Succumbing to the kool-aid
Drinking with fentanyl lips
No longer able to speak
Or kiss only intake
Junk food democracy scraps
And bits of rotten cake

THANKS FOR JOINING US!!!!
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 Los Angeles Makery, the Align Gallery, 50/50 Gallery, Gold Haus Gallery, Ave 50 Gallery and Rock Rose Gallery in Highland Park, The Manifesto Café in Hermon, Pilates and Arts studio in Echo Park, and Native Boutique, Zweet Café in Eagle Rock. 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

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 07, 2025

POETS PLACE
SEPTEMBER EDITION 2025

Welcome to POETS PLACE!!! A sanctuary place to share your words, your poetry, your prose, your art. Today our freedoms are in jeopardy. The state of affairs is unclear, and my thoughts are clearly in a state of flux and fury. I’m trying hard to stay calm. Attempting some daily deep breathing and masking my terror with writing poetry definitely helps in the short term, but my hatred and anxiety of what’s happening to the USA continues to bubble up in my throat. My heart flutters, and my stomach spasms. My inner voice screaming HOW CAN THIS BE HAPPENING!!!!

Battle hymn of our fascist republic
By Linda Kaye

Mine eyes have seen the horror of the coming of the fascist regime.
They are fucking up Our country laying ground for a radical scheme
make note take heed, cause the troops have bled their greed
let the hero, born of women crush the serpent with her heel.
Once the fascists win their power history will forever change
our loss will devastate the world killing hope for centuries or more
we must use our pussy power to stop the fascist regime.
We must cut off funding to any Republican state.
We must stop any compliance with government requests.
Say no to federal taxes!
Say no to curriculum mandates!
Say no to deportation!
Say yes to secession!
Say yes to sanctions!
No more excuses
PUSSY POWER will stop the fascist regime.

Stained Glass
By R.G. Carrillo

Good role models
Came later in my life
I could now see
Normal reality
I worked toward
That vision
I did not come from that
My pieces were broken
I would reconstruct myself
Building a new
Stained glass image
I lost my bearings
My origins were suspect
Like driving blindfolded
My parents a Bonnie and Clyde
My mother was a tumbleweed
So many mouths to feed
He was no provider
Certainly no kind of father
His thinking all in knots
Money and women
In his thoughts
Just a blot on my being
A dirty spot I had to clean
My adoption
Was a secure foundation
But a dormant
Cancer remained
Hidden in my innocence
That eventually
Would spread
To my brain
Like a hired assassin
That would interfere
With my development
My fractured life
Broken stained glass
The orphaned pieces
To be assembledCatholic structure
Gave me faith
In an uncertain future
When I was very young
Would I find salvation
After the Dominican nuns
Abandoned me
Would Christ allow me
Into his kingdom
Or would the abomination
Of my alter boy image
Create more broken glass
Shatter my connection
To God
My development
Would be infected
Manifest itself
In actual disease
Cause chaos
My heart would bleed
My life compass
Could not find true north
The source of my malady
Would either kill me
Or I would have to battle
The dragon
Cut off its evil heads
Take charge
Of my life path
Clearing my mind
Stepping stones
To sobriety
Taking responsibility
For a late in life maturity
Raising my consciousness
Managing my life stress
Breathing in my passion
Abandoning negative habits
Polishing the glass
Learning forgivenessReigning in my judgements
Surrendering to a serene
New blueprint
Piece by piece
I would reassemble
My being
Find a new happiness
Living with my cat Ziggy
Life on the rock
More than gold
Finding my truth
Clearing the clutter
Of my youth
Those lost years
Of rebellion
Loathing my reflection
I rose from the ashes
The ugly duckling
Now a swan
My stained glass reflection
Cleaned sparkling
My spirit renewed
All my hues reflecting
The struggles
I have gone through
Prisms of color
Capturing the light
Then releasing
The shadows of my past
Shining through the glass
A new created self

"The Hopeful Poet”
By Lida Parent Harris

The labor of this dove
is among a gun battle.
A western movie in our Society, without fear of song and truth.
She signs her wings to flutter in.
This is the poet of a far reaching limb.
To the quiet which allows ears to linger among the streams.
Turn anger to the love it so needs.
A poet that doesn't see a boundary it mustn't cross,
but a penetrating sound of stone and rock.
All the while, a chin held high to the eastern sky,
to remind us all of that which is beautiful.
A love no one else can fulfill.
Time to stand still
for us to listen to the rain above the storm.
To heal the earth in its rotten core.
Give her the stand to fight all the wrong and
make it right.
For our humanity depends on her fearless passage and flight.
7/10/25. 8:40 a.m.

Lida began her writing career 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.
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.

Kindred
By Jackie Chou

If you shall look into my eyes,
you won't find a spark
that is missing in yourself.

You'll see no astuteness,
or selflessness,
that you yourself are lacking.

You won't spread your wings
and show me feathers
that I do not have.

Nor will you sing a song
with melodies
that I don't already know.

We share a common blackness,
bereft of iridescence
to light up the dark.

Birds of the same kind,
no matter how far we part,
we will end up side by side.

Clouds
By Mick Victor

If clouds looked like ships and the sky was the sea
then I'd be a captain That's what I'd be.
If clouds were like crackers and the sky was like goop
then I'd be a chef and I'd make you some soup.
If clouds were like flowers with petals and stems
then maybe when it rained they would grow again.
If clouds looked like players in a symphony
then I'd be a conductor "1, 2, 3..."
If clouds were like buttons on a fabric of blue
I'd make a sweater just for you.
But if clouds were like bugs buzzing all around
then I'd cover my ears because I hate that sound.
If clouds were like dancers all in a row
then I'd take your hand and around we we'd go.
But if clouds looked like keys that opened a door
the sky might be waiting for us to see more.
Ships and crackers and buttons and keys
Bugs and flowers and a symphony...
Clouds can be anything you can see...
Clouds can be anything you want them to be.

Mick Victor's work reflects a spirited freedom and success in a variety of the creative arts. With college degrees in classical music performance as well as theatre, he continued on to write and produce film and commercial music in Los Angeles, CA. That work also led him eventually to art and visual design, where he now is working with both private and commercial clients in California, New York and London. His personal love of poetry and writing came from a simple elective college class however and has remained a constant in his life. "Clouds" was written for his daughters Amanda and Isabelle.

mickvictor.com

tender ghost
the muse who lives in my branches and bloom
by ZOE
AUG 10, 2025

hi tender ghost
i thought i saw you the other day
i was walking
towards the beach

the sidewalks are so long here
nothing like the desert

i saw your energy
waiting at the corner for me

it made me feel alive
green
fresh
new

it lasted three blocks
my mind
stimulated
growing branches inside me
reaching
towards you

your energy
like fresh wind in my lungs
exactly what my soul needed

thank you
you’ve been sunlight
adding warmth and light
to the garden of my mind

my grandmother’s memorial
i didn’t get an invite
no one reached out
that hurts me most

an unnecessary grief
the ache
of living dead people

so i escape into music
headphones on
join me

drive
by the cars
creativity
showing up for me

a scene unfolds in my mind

it’s the 80’s
a firebird
windows down
the glass tops off
i definitely have feathered hair
the collar on my polo
way, way up

a highway
night drive
streetlights reflecting off the hood

this song
is soothing me

thank you
for driving me home

Zoe, a 49-year-old proud Indigenous Mexican and Ventureño Chumash artist based in California, expresses herself through painting, photography, digital art, mixed media, and writing. A certified Life and Recovery Coach, Zoe’s journey toward sobriety began in 2015, guided by therapy, mindfulness, and ancestral practices. Creativity became her sanctuary, a space of healing and inspiration that replaced self-medicating with resilience and vision.

After a 20-year marriage and years devoted to raising a family, Zoe now nurtures her artistic and literary voice as her children have grown, using creativity as an anchor for self-expression and the healing of familial wounds. Having overcome a restrictive upbringing, she embraces self-discovery and restoration, weaving her lived experiences into both her artwork and her writing.

Writing has always been at the core of Zoe’s being, rooted in imagination and emotional creativity. In 2025, she launched her own Substack to give her words a home a platform for vulnerability, storytelling, and connection expanding her artistry beyond the visual into the written realm.

Zoe transforms shadows into resilience through every medium she touches. Their work whether on canvas or on the page embodies empowerment, authenticity, and the profound healing power of creativity, not only as personal expression but also as a guiding light for others on their own journeys of recovery and renewal.

why embrace this nightmare?
by linda m. crate

nature provides
everything,

her beautiful hand
crafting trees;
waters,
rocks, geodes,
crystals, animals:
wild and domesticated,
landscapes, sunsets,
sunrises, moonlit paths,
butterflies, lady bugs,
crows, red foxes,
bees—

rivers don't drink their
own water,
and fruit trees don't eat
their own fruit;

each of us is connected
to one another,

meant to lean on one
another and help each
other in this journey called life;

but some people only
want to see the world burn,
to control others
and harm them—
i am against war, greed, genocide, and hatred;

we could have such
beautiful dreams
together and live in a lush
green earth—

why embrace this nightmare?

Blooming From the Ashes, 2025
By A. Laura Brody

Reused textiles, embroidery floss, thread. 21.5" X 19.5"

This piece serves as a reminder of my old back patio in Altadena where I moved right as the Station Fire was raining ashes down upon the back yard and hills of Angeles Crest Forest. The central medallion began during pandemic lockdown, as friends gathered on Zoom to learn embroidery techniques, and was finished around the time of the Bobcat fires. The remainder was finished after the Eaton fires took out much of the Altadena I knew and loved. I am reminded by making this art of the sanctuary of nature, and of the wildflowers and leaves that bloomed forth from the ashes.

Laura Brody sculpts for the human body and its vehicles. She is the founder of Opulent Mobility, a series of exhibits that re-imagine disability as opulent and powerful, and the curator of Enter the Goddesses. She is also the host of Genius Teatime, a series of talks that explore fascinating folks from all walks of life.

Brody began her professional career as a costume designer and maker, working in film, television, opera, dance, and cosplay. She changed course many times but kept returning to art making, community learning, and social justice. Her artwork has been shown at ACE/121 Gallery, Art Share LA, Brea Gallery, California State University Northridge, the Charles River Museum of Industry, the Dora Stern Gallery, Ikouii Creative, the Los Angeles Makery, Westbeth Center For the Arts, and The World of Wearable Art. Opulent Mobility has shown at the Mike Curb Gallery at CSUN, Thymele Arts, Arts Unbound, AVC Gallery, the Los Angeles Makery, USC's Hoyt Gallery, and Brand Library & Art Center.

Artwork- G. Billie Quijano

Presently our first amendment rights are being assaulted by the current administration. Rampant censorship resulting in the cancellation of media, public programming, and the banning of books. I am a participant of a collective response to exercise our rights to addressing these issues and challenges through art and activism.

My piece, is a photomontage titled "Palabra Guerreras", warriors protecting our words, organizing to stop the erasure of our lives, our experiences, our history, our memories, our creativity. I love telling stories through this art form because the symbolism and nuances are endless. Juxtaposition of images to challenge, ignite, expose. The language of photomontage through a Mujerista's Gaze. This piece honors Sandra Cisneros and her contribution to the literary world. The House on Mango Street, Presente.

G. Billie Quijano-Mestiza, Hija de East Los, Natural Creative, Poeta, Photographer, Assemblage Artista, Bruja, Instigator of Beauty, Provocateur, Renaissance Mujer, Veganista.

Self-reflection
By Andrea Villafañe

I am the crack on a wall
I am the warmth of a shawl
I am the scrape on my car
I am the sparkle of a star

I am the scar on my chest
I am the intention to do my best
I am the sliver of a grain
I am the teardrop and the rain

Andrea Villafañe uses poetry as a creative outlet for her thoughts and feelings.

snake eyes
By Daniel Schack

1. being too cynical, no matter how intellectual, is still ignorance, of a very severe nature. 2. perhaps if people were more giving than I would be less taking.

daniel j. schack, born in 1964 is an online artist/poet. see more on facebook, and/or search poems of daniel schack. studied at s.u.n.y.buffalo and s.u.n.y. purchase-1982-1985, after graduating high school.

Garland Miles Jackson Portrait

POWER TO THE PEOPLE 3
By Keith Kurlander

This third version of the DIS★OBAY artwork continues the evolution of a powerful visual protest piece, blending pop-art intensity with radical messaging. The image now features even stronger red, yellow, and black contrasts, enhancing the urgency and aggression of the visual language. The background's halftone pattern has been shifted again, giving the image more tension and energy. The message, featuring "FASCIST EPIDEMIC" and the corrupted U.S. flag with a swastika motif, remains at the center — a direct visual assault on authoritarianism, nationalism, and systems of control. The rainbow-starred DIS★OBAY branding on the right reinforces the rebellious tone.

KEITH KURLANDER, THE E. TRUE HOLLYWOOD STORY
https://youtu.be/p3er5ptzZTA

LINK TO MUSIC https://www.idiot-savant.net/

More Art at: https://www.artpal.com/disobay & Music at https://www.idiot-savant.net/

A PALM TREE GREW IN “El BARRIO” RAISED EN “EL BRONX
By: IE Carlo

A palm tree born in “EL BARRIO” raised en “EL BRONX” with sway.
Gentility giving birth with rhythmic swing to this day.
Sounds so sweet from fingers like Adonis Azul butterflies.
Touching petals of flowers so sweet
Down to its roots to street sounds in the Bronx
Vocal soul sounds real sounds tragic sounds.
Respectful sounds pure sounds of beats that resonate with sounds of truth
With every note and beat
The heart of your being giving awareness of those sounds to repeat.
Palmieri his name Eddie to us our palm tree charismatic by nature
Artistic through nature our tree our palm tree
Tradition his soul cries inspiring sounds different than any other
Idolized for his mesmerizing fingers of skill on those keys so black with white
As a hue to view
A Palm tree born en ‘EL BARRIO” raised en “EL BRONX”
.
Eddie Palmieri, our prince of those streets known for its beat.

Ismael (East) Carlo As of this writing I am 83 years of age. My stage name, Ismael “East” Carlo came about due to those unable to pronounce it correctly, which is understandable. If you have ever read “Moby Dick?”, the opening line of the book is: “Call me Ishmael”, close enough. The story of my beginning as an actor, came about due to a depressing moment. No thoughts of suicide, but what are you going to do with your life? At 30 years old a decision had to be made. C M Y CM One day a friend came to visit and he said, “Get dress we're going to see a play on Broadway”. Ironically the title of the play? “No Place To Be Somebody”. Fitting since I was at a crossroads in life. As we left the theater I was so inspired I had a premonition and I told my friend, I'm going to become an actor! and he replied “Go For It!”. Not too much longer I moved to Miami, Florida. I remember meeting a woman who said I should consider modeling. Me? A model? I took the advice and signed up at the Glen Jones Modeling agency since I was particular about mens fashion! MY CY CMY K While at the agency I met a man that had 3 missing fingers and a pot belly. I asked, “Are you a model?”, He replied, “No I’m an actor looking for work”. The irony of the business. While in Miami I began taking acting classes for five dollars a class. I immediately landed acting roles and landed my first acting gig. I was cast in “Damon Runyon's”, Guys and Dolls, playing the part of Big Julie. Followed by “Carib”, starring, Carl Franklin and Stacy Keach. Over the years I honde in on my craft for acting and I decided to leave for Hollywood. Luck must have been with me. As an extra I had the pleasure of working with Sidney Pointier and I began landing roles in soap operas, TV, and features films. Off Broadway and theater music was my other passion. While trying to make a living between gigs I met a man by the name of Bobby Matos. Bobby Matos was a talented musician who encouraged me to begin writing and performing poetry. It wasn’t long after we started recording and producing music. As a result of this connection we created our music label, “Cafe Con Bagels”. Together we had a vision of promoting music and sought out other talented musicians to collaborate with. Our artistic expression was starting to bloom! I can say of myself that show business has been a wonderful experience. An awakening of senses and gratitude of being in a field with exceptional creative talent. I can go through a litany with whom I've worked with, but no need it's promoted on IMDB.

THE CRY FOR PEACE
by Monica Marks

The Cry for Peace is loud.
Screaming, even.
The Cry is words of protest written in thick black and red on cardboard signs.
The Cry is demonstration.
Marches, rallies in the streets, scared, angry faces who shout at injustice and purchased
politicians.
The Cry is amassing memorial candles burning hot after another deadly shooting.
The Cry is wails of grief rising into the air, breaking through the smoke of weapons and rhetoric,
shrieking bombs speeding toward indiscriminate targets.
The Cry is shouting truth, history, shared generation to generation, being erased in
books, in museums, in institutions of learning.
The history of slavery, slaughter, war, internment camps, concentrations camps, immigration camps.
The Cry for peace is heard around dinner tables, conference tables, interrogation tables.
Written in tears, blood, spray paint.
Felt as a growing vibration.
Born in the communities of the underserved, underfed, undereducated, under-seen and under-
heard who are not understood by the power-wielding privileged.
The Cry for peace bellows from the depths of the soul, weeping for what has been lost, fearing
for what is yet to be sacrificed.
It begs for attention, eyes painfully open to the default of cruelty, the ease of othering,
the swift rising tide of scapegoating, condemning, incarcerating, partial truths and complete
lies designed to demagnetize the poles of a moral compass.
It cries out against the construction of false gods, the destruction of civility.
It cries out against the building of walls, the tearing down of truth.
It cries out against the currency of hate, the defunding of compassion.
And me? My Cry?
My voice is hoarse, tired, weary of rebellion.
No match against the overblown cry for war on all that I hold dear.
I find myself acquiescing to the silence they demand, retreating to the safety of distraction, deflection.
My Cry, more often, unspoken.
A world I thought I knew is unfamiliar, terrifying.
It. Is. Too. Much.
Alone, it is too much.
The Cry for Peace is a collective.
It is community.
The Cry is both a single person, a singularity of many voices coming together.
I cry for peace in art, in words, in song.
We cry for peace in art, in words, in song.
These cannot be silent tears.
These cannot be solitary tears.
The Cry for Peace must be loud.
Screaming, even.

Monica Marks is a mixed-media artist exploring themes of invisible disabilities, social stigma, and environmental crisis through found objects, painting, and collage. Drawing on a background in art therapy, she creates work that makes the unseen visible. Monica exhibits widely and is committed to social engagement through art.

No Profanity
By Dave Lovejoy

I think that I shall never see
my old friend Manny Manatee.

It used to be, when I went to the sea,
I’d look out on the water and there he’d be.

He’d say, "Long time no sea, my friend,"
and laugh, and wiggle his back end
(manatees are quite fond of jokes,
a fact not known by many folks).

I’d tell him that he looked quite well,
(although with manatees, it’s hard to tell)
I’d kneel by the water and chat with him,
and he’d just float, or bob, or swim.

Yet last time I went, he did not come.
I sat for hours, my feet went numb.
And as I rose, and turned to go,
I glimpsed old Manny, down below.

"Manny, I said, where have you been?"
He rose and gestured with his fin.
"Twice I've been hit by a catamaran;
I’m sorry friend, but I’m tired of man."

"How can you believe this is where you began?
And then sprouted legs, went up on dry land?"

I tried to convince him we’re not all like that,
but for people the ocean’s just for looking at.

People visit the ocean to drink and relax,
to slather on lotion, and lie on their backs.
With no sign of motion save a reach for their snacks,
they seldom consider their manatee facts.

They drive to the ocean in their minivans,
they lie on the beach, they work on their tans.
They darken their skin and whiten their teeth,
but they don’t give a thought to who lives underneath.

"Humanity," he said to me,
"is simply concerned with vanity."

"And that,
to a manatee,
is insanity."

And I agree

David Lovejoy is a Los Angeles artist known locally for his work in The Last Bookstore and Meteora. He is also cofounder of the Los Angeles Makery, an art center in Little Tokyo.

Blue Sapphire Rose
by Snow Mack 2025

The Summer of 1968...

That was the summer I left my doll buried up to her neck in sand at Rohobeth Beach, Delaware.
I endlessly flitted between fantasizing and fretting about her possible demise on the long drive back to Alexandria, Virginia.
Perhaps her destiny lay ahead in the tides, to ride down to the Panama Canal, following a giant ship through the canal from the Atlantic to the Pacific to wash ashore years later to star in her own survival documentary, "The Miraculous Story of ______, A Perilous Watery Journey From Coast to Coast".
I wish I could remember her name, name for a day, name for an afternoon, name of the hour, a minute, moment, wave crash, sun drenched, sand castled moment.
Gidget? Barbie? Or something made up, Blue Sapphire Rose?
Did I forget her on purpose in order to experience loss?
The summer ended, and school began, but not until we packed up everything in my room, except Gidget Barbie Blue Sapphire Rose, and moved what seemed like a thousand miles away to New Canaan, Connecticut.
Now I live 2 miles from the Pacific Ocean in Santa Monica, California. I haven't thought of that doll for years. Lately, though, I find myself relating to her predicament. Should I dig myself out from the sand that covers me up to my neck? Or allow the tides to whisk me this way and that till I star in my own deeply personal rescue story, one filled with sea beasts and mermaids?

Blue Sapphire Rose it is.

Snow Mack she/her is a contemporary visual artist known for her vibrant, dream-inspired paintings and symbolic assemblage frames. Her work blends pop culture, mythology, and surreal imagery to explore the subconscious, resulting in visually rich narratives that are both personal and archetypal. Snow Mack lives and works in Los Angeles, where she continues to develop a body of work that merges vivid imagination, cultural commentary, and a deep symbolic vision.

The New Day
By Peter Yates

I am going to solve the world’s problems.
I’m going to fix this whole situation.

The crowd below comment among themselves.

(Now here’s an idea
we’re eager to hear!)

Genie’s voice grows stronger.

It will be a brand-new day!

(Such a sensible sentence
for someone to say!)

We will finally see,
a new world which will be
much more suited for me
to live in!

Everybody will love me.
No more jerks will cut me off on the freeway.

(Everybody will
now do things my way
on the highway!)

There will be no more death,
no more worries,
and no more complaints.

There will be no more war,
no more sadness,
and no dissatisfaction.

No more rent.
No more unemployment.
No more work.
No more taxes.

No more crime.
We will have a good time!
No more hate.
No more boredom.

No more of This —
all because of me!

The crowd cheers and marches off to City Hall,
chanting as they go.

This here committee
is off to the city
to bring a petition
against the condition!

Genie waves and heads in the other direction,
on a mission of her own, to find Simon Rodia.

PETER YATES In venues ranging from Lincoln Center to the art clubs of Salzburg and the botanical gardens of Los Angeles, Peter Yates has produced over a thousand events as 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 a graphic-novel oratorio. His writing includes plays, librettos, satire, philosophy and instruction manuals on musical interpretation and prepared guitar.

APPEARANCES
By Kassi Crews

Things aren’t always, as they appear to be.
This life of the Buddha accomplishes serenity.
When at first we understand
A closer look may deal a different hand.

The complexities of life draw to simplicity.
The straight and narrow often curves
And bends.
With each new piece of information
The light shifts to the other end.

When we think we’ve got the answer
Keep your eyes open for more to see.
This life we live holds more than
We can imagine and will continue
For eternity.

See the mountain, hear the bird,
Speak of love and laughter.
Live your life being grateful for each
Second for that is what really matters.
Live for truth and justice, as they appear to be
And remember it’s our perception
That changes not reality.

I DID ALRIGHT
By Mary Cheung
8-25-2025, 10:33 a.m.

I did alright, I did o.k.
On the days I beat myself up and question the job that I did…
of raising my kids, and the I shoulda, I coulda, and I woulda’s..
I pull out the box of photos to reveal the truth that can’t be hid..

The evidence of the moments staring me in front of my eyes.
I’m reminded of how we did in our lives' rollercoaster ride.

Make it plain to see, and it takes me into my past.
-          Halloween costumes lovingly made to order for the kids.
-          Birthday parties took days and days to prepare and conceive.
-          All the sleepovers to soothe bruised hearts and souls.
-          First days of school
-          First days of losing their tooth
-          First days of easter egg hunts
-          Playing at the park
-          Swimming in pools
-          Vacationing just the 3 of us
More and more…the photos pour out the love and care I took to making sure you became loving, kind, and compassionate human beings, ready to take on the world
Sure, some days you doubt some of the decisions you made..
And you forget about your life's high points when you’re low and down.
Until you shuffle through the photos.
Captured are the joys, the laughter, and the silliness you made.
It’s all there to remind you, to not beat yourself up too bad.
Cuz you did it! You raised your kids the best that you could and with what you had.
So instead of kicking yourself on the butt, pat yourself on the back…
Cuz you did o.k.

Mary Cheung is a multi-disciplinary artist. She has been creating art since she was little. Youngest in a family of eight. She came to America at the age of 2 and grew up in San Francisco. Attended American school during the day and Chinese school at night.
Mary has an AA degree in Fashion Design and a Best Costume Design Award from the NAACP. She often creates costumes for her art narratives and creations.
She was the recipient of 3 grants in 2024 and the Denis Diderot and Emerging Artist award. She has art exhibited and published locally and Internationally.
Her real passion and drive come from being able to engage the community while bringing hope, healing, joy, and human connection. It is her goal to be able to continue to do this while making an impact on society’s values and thinking. “I hope that I can be a role model for others to find their own true voice in life through my art."

You’re just a bad trip
By Anna Mathai

She’s probably a catfish
They turned up the volume
Now we’re all going batshit
They’ll burn down the temples
Just to bury the hatchet
It’s like catholic guilt
And we’re all going to catch it

Add up what’s lost
Then subtract what is equal
She might give it up first
Then let’s all call her evil
Drag it out til the end
Then pretend that you’re feeble
It’s a discordant hymn
Stringing out for the people

A salon for those in need
By Dean Okamura

She goes to the salon
and one thing she really likes
is to get her hair shampooed.
It clears off little things
on her mind. Then a gentle massage
on the temples, on the various
sinuses of the head,
relaxes the scalp and the soul within.
And when she leaves, it’s the same old world
that got her hair all dirty
before, but at least she feels renewed.

He goes to the salon
to get his toenails trimmed,
and perhaps there’s been some damage.
A little attention helps
a lot. He says, "Thank you,
it’s getting hard. I’m old
and can’t bend over like before.
I just can’t reach my toes
anymore." After they took care
of all issues, he walks
out the door, grateful for the help,
knowing it took someone else’s hands
to tend to what he couldn’t manage himself.

There’s one particular worker there
at the salon who has the ability
to talk to the clients. She remembers
all their children,
all their grandchildren,
all their birthdays,
and knows little things, important
things. It’s a safe conversation.
There are also times when someone
needs a little bit of encouragement
when life is tough, when things
don’t go their way, and of course,
when someone dies. They appreciate
the changes in their appearance
before they go to a special occasion,
or nowhere in particular.

People say I got it wrong.
Some say hair salons, beauty parlors, spas,
or whatever they call them. These places
don’t specialize in taking care
of people in the way that I described.
They are right. I wasn’t talking
about real salons like that, like those.
I was thinking of all places
where people are touched,
where the soul is seen,
and care is more
than routine.
But yeah …
I hope you get the idea.

Dean Okamura resides in Torrance. He experiments with writing since he retired from engineering.

STATEFARM
By Lillian Beaudoin

sometimes I look at my face in the mirror
and all I see are the bones
fingertips
press into cheeks chin eye socket
mapping out the hidden geography
of my own skull
when I got my wisdom teeth removed
the dental surgeon said
I have a jaw like Arnold Schwarzenegger
still not sure
if it's a compliment
flying home from Chicago
a man
gave up his aisle seat
because he thought I was pretty
so sure it was a good idea
until he asked
is that your boyfriend?
about the man behind me
and I said yea
strange
that he regretted the middle seat so suddenly
and me decidedly
not offering to switch
he
was so scared of flying his body angled away from the window
armrest pulled up and flattened into the edge of my seat
he
works in insurance
State Farm
deep in moral crisis
because of Florida
having just fired hundreds of employees
tripled or denied thousands of claims
do you want kids?
he asks me
I've never wanted kids I say
seems unlikely I'd suddenly start now
what about marriage?
people like to think something official and ritualized
like a wedding
will protect them from future harms
or
uncertainties
I've never really cared about marriage
don't you want to have love?
oh yes
and I do
every day
I'm in love with life
and anyway
never could imagine only being able to trust a feeling was real
if it exists with my name stamped on a slip of paper
that's smart very smart
if I could do things over
I love my kids beautiful boys 2 and 5
I'll show you pictures
I love my boys
if I could do things over
I don't think I would do it this way
I love them
but it's too much love
oppressive
living with all this love
suffocating
I try to do good
to live a good life
give my family more than I had
be a better father than mine ever was
my dad and my step-dad both died this year
but
I
I don't like the man I see when I look in the mirror
I hope
you like who you are
that's gotta be
the most important thing in life
and
something
about the shape of my bones
invites strangers to tell me their secrets
like newly-born calves
lost cold
wandering into open gates
sheltering in nearby pastures
the way
that we press flowers
I wish
I could record an impression of the points in my face
resonant structure
skin canopied
around filthy orchestra
an architecture of chewing and blinking
all hinges and flaps
obscene motion
bundled
at the zenith of our bodies
driving locomotion interpretation expression
it's a wonder
we
make any sense
at all

Lillian lives in Los Angeles. She used to live in New York, and before that, in Texas. She writes when she feels like it and collects the hair that falls out of her head in the shower. She has a job and a cat. She was a Robert Wood Johnson Foundation research fellow and is interested in climate advocacy, heat equity in urban environments, eco-grief, and creative process. She's been playing the same DnD campaign for 5 years. She has a substack if you're into that kind of thing: https://tragedyofthecomments.substack.com

3 Hide-ku
By Sonny Tristan

1
Mountains hide in clouds
Acting like they never end
Full of vanity
2
Shoved onward by winds
Clouds hide on the sea’s mirror
When they need to rest
3
Night brings their spelled dance
Shadow gives light his meaning
To find ways to hide

Sonny Tristan started writing poetry when the world shut down. He spent decades artist adjacent, works daily using words, and even with all the talk, thinks sunsets are underrated. His poetry is published in bathrooms nationwide.

Petals
By Matt Aung

Petals against the winds carrying me home
Memories of flowers blooming with every step

Idyllic lilies and brazen chrysanthemums
Tangled in a love affair; soul-bound budding seedlings

Ask for a rock, I would carve a mountain
Ask for flowers, I'd bring them from my garden
Ask for the moon, I'll take you to the stars

Like a petal against the wind
Currently blow me further and wider
Than I've ever known...

Matt Aung says, “I’ve been making art for as long as I can remember—ever since my hand-eye coordination caught up with my imagination. From doodling in the margins of school books to dreaming up fantastical worlds with friends, creativity has always been my compass.

I'm both self-taught and formally trained in a range of mediums, including painting, ceramics, photography, sculpture, and digital art. I love blending these disciplines to create work that’s meaningful, expressive, and made with love.

View my collection of works on my website including sculptures, paintings, digital art, and photography. www.skindeepcuts.com

"Beauty Everywhere”
By Michelle Smith

In the Descanso paths
that lead to a floral world
of show and tell I close my eyes
and feel the stillness
without speaking a word.
Peppermint colored petals
a streak of pink hued
decorate creamy white camellias
with red infused.
I can see for miles and miles.
Delightful daisies and daffodils
dance in florets in sunshiny yellow
with green stock stems.
Their family of loveliness connects
to me, saying, "I'm here for you.'
Pink Peonies color pops
on canvas, leaves surround and ensue.
Purple reign of the iris sees
with its black and white eyes.
Jeweled royal rich as
the February amethyst,
behold the splendor
buds peaking
the Garden is staring back at you.

Michelle Y. Smith is a Los Angeleno native and like Stretch Armstrong, an action figure with many action roles: My heart is mother to my autistic son Chris a.k.a my Creative, Happy, Righteous, Intriguing Social Soul. My patience is my CNA employment and advocacy for my the all disabilities, especially for the developmentally and elderly community. My drive is published poetry and prose in "Love Letters", "Acid Verse II", and "Just for the People" by the Los Angeles Poetry Society Press; "Remembering the Riots: An Anthology," ," Sounds of South Central" and various zines by DSTLArts. In addition, Four Feathers Press and with http://saturdayafternoonpoetry.blogspot.com and http://fourfeatherpress.blogspot.com., enter my name and a cornucopia of prose and poetry will be seen. My poem, "There is a Sunflower ", was published in June 2025 and nominated by the Four Feathers Press PDF/Print Publication Awards.

THANKS FOR JOINING US!!!!

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

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/

August Poet's Place

August 09, 2025

POETS PLACE
AUGUST EDITION 2025

Hello friends! I hope this month’s column finds you all as well as can be. I feel like I am fighting for my life. I am as well as I can be, today. Although, my heart and soul feel compromised. It’s painful to witness the collapse of our country’s most cherished values, especially freedom. There is and has been racism, prejudice and discrimination all over the world. This horrible, despicable behavior is not new. Its deep rooted core of racism in our country has been there since the birth of this nation. And… It’s currently being recounted all over the media. The acceptance of racist beliefs and the touted white supremacist superiority is being flagrantly spouted as the new authoritarian regime begins its take down. It’s Hitler all over again. AUGHHHH!!!! How can this be? How can this happen?? HERE???? I know there are more of us then them. I know we will fight back, and we are. Thank you South Park! Hit em where it hurts!!! It’s awesome to see other countries stand up for us, US!! I’m just having trouble with the cruelty of the unabashed disgusting behaviors thrust upon innocent people. I want to be a part of the coup. I want to storm the White House and take down the racist fascist regime. Peacefully, if that’s possible. I want DT to be feathered and tarred. I want him to be raped and stripped of all his money. I want all of the people who are hurting this country to suffer some how. And I want to witness it. Wish…

Wednesday, July 23, 2025
By Linda Kaye

The dogs finally stopped barking. So the birds could chirp again.
The incessant sounds of drilling continued. Whilst the silence remained silent. She heard him beckon for her thoughts, those crispy details she always kept to herself. It was her twilight years that she fought off desperately pounding away in the deep recesses of her mind. It was a dangerous time of reflection, a millisecond away from committing the unheard of.

BIRD OF YOUTH
©1989 Kassi Crews

The bird of youth sings valiantly
The song of truth.
She flies ever so high in the
Crystal blue sky
Spreading her wings over the earth’s glorious springs.
Soaring to new heights,
She feels the sun’s rays touch her heart.
She embraces the warmth and
Opens her soul so that they
May never part.

Accepting this love opens the doors
So she can share her compassion.
Her life is filled with wonderous joys so that
Each day she continues to sing
Her song in a loving fashion,
Bringing hope and love to those in despair.
She realizes her full potential
Which is beyond compare.

This bird of youth flies for the truth.
She’ll seek it ever after,
She’ll love and give till she
No longer lives
For her soul holds the gift of laughter.

Kassi Crews is a versatile & accomplished actor with a rich background in film, television, improvisation, stand-up comedy, and theatre. 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" as well as a DI Producer for Apple, Netflix, CBS, CW, Starz & Paramount. Crews has produced and directed a variety of critically acclaimed independent projects, “Broken Memories,” Heart of Recovery”, “God’s Ears” and “A Better Place” as well as live shows for the theater. She is a member of ATAS, NAB, NAPTE, PROMAX and SAG; holds a Master of Arts from CSU Fullerton and a Bachelor of Arts with Honors from UC Santa Cruz.

The Loveist
By Jackie Chou

You live your life
without knowing me
your eyes cold
that have never beheld
the warmth of my gaze
your tongue bitter
that has never tasted my sweet

Can't you tell
from the gleam in my smile
and the spring in my step
that I love you
not out of lust
but the passion of a prom queen
for her court

Sometimes I feel
that it is best for you
to not know me
to keep clinging to the hook
of this metallic world
oblivious to its frigidity
as the years turn into decades
without a glance
at any other way

The Burning of Rome
By AC Broome

The Burning of Rome
The flames
riot
Again
On my skin

Like sentimental
KillersWith murder
On the brain.

Hot then blue
I let them chew
A century
Out of me.

For my winter
a coat
Of
Bone fragment
Fire

The sire
Of
Incinerator
Desire
Higher
And higher

Until
What
Spring
Of ash
Is what past
Coal
Rolls
Off the last

Mistress
No less
An infamous
Infantry
Burning

Dying
Down
empire.

“Cease for
A moment
And admire
The smoke”
I exhale

The infamous air
Burning off
flesh
No less

A
Promise
A
Resurrection, A
Revolution
Wise.

IT'S A CULT STUPID
Artwork By Keith Kurlander

This bold pop art piece from the DISOBAY series depicts three individuals in vivid Ben-Day dots, each wearing oversized earplugs that metaphorically block out reality. A woman in a “Make America Great Again” hat marked “45–47” is placed alongside two other figures, all gazing ahead with vacant, unquestioning expressions. The psychedelic, high-contrast background of red, yellow, and green polka dots emphasizes sensory overload and ideological saturation. The vertical “DISOBAY” text in rainbow, distorted type punctuates the right side, delivering the artist's subversive message. This work critiques political blind faith, cult-like behavior, and media manipulation.
more at https://www.artpal.com/disobay

Keith Kurlander “I've always been a creative soul, I make art, music, music videos, TV shows, films, and mayhem. If you want to learn all about my fascinating life here's a good place to start.”
KEITH KURLANDER, THE E. TRUE HOLLYWOOD STORY
https://youtu.be/p3er5ptzZTA

LINK TO MUSIC https://www.idiot-savant.net/

things can change
by linda m. crate

i tire of being exploited
by billionaires and corporations,
of living in a world where
people openly support eugenics;

where people have no
empathy or mercy for their
neighbors—

i am tired of people tolerating the
machine instead of raging
against it,

tired of being seen as a number
or a cog and not an actual
living, breathing soul
with hopes; dreams, and aspirations—

i am tired of magic and whimsy
being buried beneath the bones of
genocide, war, famine, and disease;

i want to live in a more fair,
more just world—

to everyone who tells me it's

always been this way,
so what?
things can change,
don't you want them to?

i think we all deserve more
than the crumbs billionaires toss
at us,
hoping we'll fight over them
instead of fighting against
their cruelty;

everyone should have enough
to live,
no one should be scraping by;
praying for a better existence
and working themselves bone tired
until their bodies can't work
any longer.

BLESSINGS
(to my dear friend Joanna)
5-17-2025
1:50 pm.
By Mary Cheung

I feel the love all around me,
The energy is flowing, and I am caught up in its tow...
One by one we bless you,
For a future that is yet to unfold.

Like in a fairy tale story,
Of godmothers and fairies alike
We send you our gifts
To protect you from any misfortune or strife.

So many hearts are focused on one who is yet to come,
We wrap you up in a blanket
Of love and support and then some.

And one day in the future
When you're on your own 2 feet,
I'll ask you if you remember,
as we harmonized out a fresh beat.

We sent out songs and vibrations,
enough to penetrate your mom's womb.
I wonder if you heard us,
within your dark and lovely tomb.

When many voices,
a covenant of 13 ...
Chanted and blessed you,
fulfilling your mom's lifelong dream.

I can't wait to meet you little one.

Mary Cheung is a multi-disciplinary artist. She has been creating art since she was little. Youngest in a family of eight. She came to America at the age of 2 and grew up in San Francisco. Attended American school during the day and Chinese school at night.
Mary has an AA degree in Fashion Design and a Best Costume Design Award from the NAACP. She often creates costumes for her art narratives and creations.
She was the recipient of 3 grants in 2024 and the Denis Diderot and Emerging Artist award.
She has art exhibited and published locally and Internationally.
Her real passion and drive come from being able to engage the community while bringing hope, healing, joy, and human connection.
It is her goal to be able to continue to do this while making an impact on society’s values and thinking.
“I hope that I can be a role model for others to find their own true voice in life through my art."

Lonesome for the Low Life
by Lee Boek

Well I felt like
Things were going too good
Hadn’t ever been that way
Didn’t seem like it should
No woman ever loved me like this before
Nor gave me a son I could truly adore
Then she took him back
To El Salvador
She was gone so long
I lost faith she’d return
Those lonesome blues began to burn
And I thought of the company
I used to keep
And what I did to myself to help me to sleep
Well I guess you know
I soon had no place to go
But back to the Hotel Barclay
I got lonesome for the low life
Need it every day
Lonesome for the low life
A feeling just won’t go away
When it comes upon me
I know I’ll be safe
At the Hotel Barclay
Lonesome, Lonesome, Lonesome
For the Low Life

Lee Boek: Artistic Director 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.

Bitchcraft Battle Rap for Tairrie B. Murphy
By Alex S. Johnson

"Hail to the chick with the dope vernacular"-Tairrie B. Murphy, "Sky Above, City Below"
Beware the crone
Shaking her silver struts
Inside the electric choir
spitting rhymes like the Lyre of Orpheus
no if ands or shaking butts
sufficient to the day, scripting a sonic memoir in akashic fire-ends
summoning nature's lyre to drown the obvious
slaying MCs with wit and honesty
a tonic shaken, crystal clear not
Blurred
Blasphemous girl
petitioning the power of goddess
blasting rhymes with sawed-off violence
but can a white girl play it ruthless?
So sick when she summons the magic
rendering critics, merely tragic
for Tairrie B., nothing but endless love
Steel fist in a velvet glove

Tairrie B. Murphy and Alex S. Johnson: A Convergence of Musical and Literary Prowess
Tairrie B. Murphy: The Trailblazing Chameleon of Rap and Metal

Born in Anaheim, California, Tairrie B. Murphy emerged as a pioneering figure in the world of music by becoming one of the first white female rappers signed to a major label. Her early career flourished under the mentorship of rap icon Eazy-E and the legendary N.W.A., marking a seminal moment in hip-hop history with her debut album Power of a Woman released on Ruthless Records. Known for her uncompromising attitude and the rawness of her lyrics, Tairrie B. challenged the male-dominated industry landscape, contributing a fiercely feminist voice that spoke unflinchingly against misogyny and systemic injustice (“I Had to Carry a Gun to Visit My Record Label…”: My Ruin’s Tairrie B…).

Alex S. Johnson: The Literary Architect of the Bizarre and Extreme
An acclaimed author, editor, and seasoned academic, Alex S. Johnson is synonymous with the avant-garde realms of horror, erotica, and speculative fiction. As the creator and editor of Axes of Evil, a lauded heavy metal horror anthology series, his work exemplifies a unique blend of incisive literary craftsmanship and an affinity for the darkly surreal. Beyond his fiction, Johnson's editorial prowess manifested in his founding role at Juggernaut: The Magazine of Extreme Music, a publication that became a nexus for the underground music and literary scenes, spotlighting figures such as Tairrie B. Murphy and fortifying his reputation as a cultural connector and visionary (Alex S. Johnson).

"Shane Tamura: Your Name isn't Glorified"
By Michelle Smith

He was born in Hawaii, Black and Japanese
Brought July 28 2025,
The Big Apple 🍎 and Manhattan
to their knees.
One victim fulfilling his American dream:
Shane killed one of NYPD's finest
as he worked a security shift
on his last day
a Bangladeshi
immigrant husband
father of two and
his wife is to give birth to
a third infant in days.
Didarul Islam's employment
was dangerous each and every day.
Shane also killed woman executive,
wife, and mom Wesley LePatner
at Blackstone.
Real Estate was her claim to fame.
Security guard Aland Etienne
is a valiant hero.
As is an unnamed employee
of Rudin Management.
Four families lives are forever changed
because with his assault rifle arm in arm
on his right side,
Shane walked in square feet
an open space unnoticed.
Mousily he crept into a skyscraper
and a barrage of bullets exploded.
Two others dead when he claimed five,
when he committed suicide.
Took four innocent people and a note
inside his jacket pocket claiming
that the Steelers Terry Long's CTEfueled his reasons and whys.
Hell has a place for you Shane.
This is America.
Are you not tired of guns & rifles
sold to the unfit?
God please help the sole
critically injured fight for
his or her life.
Before 2022 occurred his
life seemed to be full of
potential, promise, pride
and not of a four killer loser.
Shane that tightrope unraveled
looser in your mind.

Michelle Y. Smith is a Los Angeleno native and like Stretch Armstrong, an action figure with many action roles: My heart is mother to my autistic son Chris a.k.a my Creative, Happy, Righteous, Intriguing Social Soul. My patience is my CNA employment and advocacy for my the all disabilities, especially for the developmentally and elderly community. My drive is published poetry and prose in "Love Letters", "Acid Verse II", and "Just for the People" by the Los Angeles Poetry Society Press; " Remembering the Riots: An Anthology," ," Sounds of South Central " and various zines by DSTLArts. In addition, Four Feathers Press and with http://saturdayafternoonpoetry.blogspot.com and http://fourfeatherpress.blogspot.com., enter my name and a cornucopia of prose and poetry will be seen. My poem, "There is a Sunflower ", was published in June 2025 and nominated by the Four Feathers Press PDF/Print Publication Awards.

Ode to The Rose
By Dietmar Kohl

Rose, miracle of all flowers that bloom,
each petal a witness to love in spring.

Even the heavenly powers delight in her.
She is the young passion of Aphrodite,
she is the darling of Cythera,
her temples wreathed with flower petals
, and with her sweet perfume
she intoxicates her masters.

Anacreon (580-495 BC)

Rose, Wunder aller Blumen, die blühen,

jedes Blatt ein Zeuge der Liebe im Frühling.

Selbst die himmlischen Mächte erfreuen sich ihrer.

Sie ist die junge Leidenschaft der Aphrodite,

sie ist der Liebling der Cythere,

die Schläfe mit Blumenblättern umkränzt

und mit ihrem süßen Parfüm

macht sie ihre Herren trunken

Anakreon

Dietmar Kohl Photography

Born and raised in Vienna, Austria, I 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. Some 30 years later curiosity led me to want to see more of the world and explore America. Settling in Los Angeles, California where photography continues to be my passion.

I love to photograph, many genres, as viewed, on my website and yet my focus often brings me back to my Fashion Photography roots. I love photographing people, including one of my heartfelt passions is photographing the plight of the homeless people here in Los Angeles. I’ve been involved in several fundraisers with Homeless Healthcare of Los Angeles where they auctioned off my photography. In the Neutra Photography show, I’ve chosen to focus on my beloved Roses plus a few other genres and also show one of my canvas paintings.

Although, I live in Los Angeles, I continue to enjoy Viennese culture, of socializing and getting together for coffee and cake. To see more of my photography check out my Website, and follow me on Instagram and Facebook. And, when interested in hiring me for your photography project, let's get together and discuss, in person.

Website: https://www.dietmarkohl.com/

THANKS FOR JOINING US!!!!

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 Los Angeles Makery, the Align Gallery, 50/50 Gallery, Gold Haus Gallery, Ave 50 Gallery and Rock Rose Gallery in Highland Park, The Manifesto Café in Hermon, Pilates and Arts studio in Echo Park, and Native Boutique, Zweet Café in Eagle Rock. 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/

July Poet's Place

July 05, 2025

POETS PLACE
JULY EDITION 2025

Hello everyone and welcome to POETS PLACE! We are a sanctuary column, where you can freely express your views, your personal thoughts and your love for the written word. Ai Dios mio. We have all been duped to believe that nothing can impinge on the American ideal. A country that claimed that all people are free to live their best lives in a country that gained freedom from the rule of a king in 1776. A country where all people are created equal by the declaration of independence. Greed is the new creed. Hatred for the underclass and unplugged racism is the new mantra for white supremacy. If all hope dies we are doomed. I know there are powerful people on our side fighting for what is right for the people of America. And there are many people who will suffer until we can take down this racist regime of evil and cruel people. I just can’t wrap my head around this cruelty. And it’s not just in our land, it is all over the world. Help me understand how racist beliefs rule? Help me understand the justification of the obliteration of a country? To destroy a tribe of people that for generations has thrived? How do the people who authorize such hate and destruction live with themselves? What do they tell their children, or explain their destruction of humanity? Are their children kept away from all of it? How can they not know what is happening outside their doors? Hate and violence thrust upon children will ultimately create a monster. Children exposed to continuous teachings of racist hate will color their views of humanity for life. It’s child abuse and a set up for continued generational violence. Love is not costly. A positive reinforcement of unconditional acceptance of human differences. I am desperately trying to find joy in my daily living, otherwise I will crack. The good people in power are trying hard to help the greedy and cowardly others to see how their negative behaviors will impact our country. Unfortunately you cannot talk rationally to irrational people. Once the country collapses, the people will rise up and overthrow those who have harmed us, with voting them out. What is most scary, is that that BBB has given them the power to cancel elections. What a shameful and cruel way to end freedom.

And now some love from our contributors!!!
Love, Linda XXX

Pathological
By Jackie Chou

You and your silver pendant,
your heart-shaped lies.

Your head in the photo
chopped off
like Marie Antoinette.

There is nothing
behind your laces
of metallic threads.

No face,
no legs,
no wings of chiffon.

constellations of my love
by linda m. crate

despite all the darkness,
there are glimmers
of hope;

whispers of rebellion
against the
powers that be—

so i hold onto the
flaming feathers
of the phoenix known
as hope,

she shines bright and beautiful
as the sun;

combined with the moonlight
of my dreams
i know a better future can rise
from the ashes of this dystopia—

so i refuse to surrender,
i continue to fight the machine;

for they'll never
stomp out my magic
or my dreams or my light—

forevermore i shall shine
in every universe,
the constellations of my love
burning even time.

POLICE STATE 38
By Keith Kurlander

This piece from the DISOBAY series is a searing visual confrontation, rendered in a palette of blood red, acid yellow, and shadowy black. A soldier in full tactical gear and a civilian woman come face to face in a moment charged with ambiguous emotion—connection or resistance, empathy or rebellion. The halftone comic-book treatment gives the scene a vintage print texture while evoking modern urgency. The backdrop shifts from bright yellow stars to black circular voids, creating a ripple effect of visual tension. Vertical lettering of DISOBAY in high-contrast red, yellow, and cyan acts as a call to noncompliance. This artwork uses saturated minimalism and psychological depth to challenge systems of power and explore the paradox of human touch under control.

KEITH KURLANDER, THE E. TRUE HOLLYWOOD STORY
https://youtu.be/p3er5ptzZTA

LINK TO MUSIC https://www.idiot-savant.net/

Cities In Dust by Alex S. Johnson

She couldn’t remember the first time she heard the song, only that it was part of her big sister’s collection of vinyl, which was mostly first pressings. Cindy set the record on the ancient turntable which was of the kind you could carry, and either connect outside speakers to or listen to through the one built in. Either way, it was true–the music sounded richer, warmer and more true, and ever since the discovered Lisa’s trove in the attic there was no way in the world she was going to subject her ears to CD’s, let alone the super-compressed abominations that were MP3’s. But everybody had to discover these things for themselves, the same way she did–stumbling over piles of ancient magazines that slithered like live things when you disturbed them. She thought of this secretly as “tomb life,” inventing the term and making a note in a private journal which she kept for random jottings of this kind.

Once she’d listened to the song, Cindy’s ears were never the same. She knew vaguely about the period it came from, which was around the time she had been born, and it struck her ears then as definitively a creature of tomb life and what the ancient Egyptians doubtless had their own versions of. It was a point of faith with her that no matter how outlandish her speculations, she believed in some manner, in some way, they had to be true–because there were other dimensions, pockets of other worlds folded into this one, and no reason why something from that place couldn’t poke its head into ours and sniff around. The rhythm and percussion sounded like bright chimes, like glass baubles if they could sing, and made her think, not for the first time, about glass beads shaped like bees, or bees formed of glass beads, because (1)the words sounded alike, and it would be exceedingly poetic if they shared something at bottom that yolked them with more intensity and (b) because one night, previous to going to sleep, she had this terrific idea, which reawakened as she listened and moved to the old song in the attic of the brownhouse her older sister had inherited and she visited from time to time.

People, especially guys, would take a cue from Cindy’s big, innocent eyes and elven features and mistake her for some woodland creature pulling them in, making their hearts soft and their brains gooey, although she insisted they speak to her properly and either respect her or leave her alone. She’d seen too many of her peers saddled with some dude they thought little of but kept other guys away, but even that tactic wasn’t 100% effective. Cindy thought people were okay but she preferred her own company, and that of the music and the silence she was more than capable of filling with landscapes that danced with color and song. Lisa was working at a law firm downtown, many late hours, and Cindy was a junior at the state university. This was her spring break. She was deciding on a job or an internship or going her own way with a start-up, perhaps making clothes, which she was fabulous at. Any way you looked at it, the future felt either glorious or perilous and she vacillated between the urge to rush out into the street and dance with random strangers or curl herself into a ball and never rise again until the world had sorted itself properly and people like her had a place in it, something permanent and dignified.

She’d shed her black leather jacket ages ago and it lay on top of a pile of the slithery tombthings. Cindy’s hair was blue but maybe tomorrow it would lie in fuzzy clumps on the bathroom tile. Her t-shirt was white and a size too large. The jeans were trashed down the front with the white threads like spiderwebs swarming the smooth, immaculate pink of her thighs.

She moved with the song and the song snaked within her. It was about something or someone falling apart, their world crashing down, it could be a private apocalypse or speak to the general condition.

The fifth dimension was palpable now in the attic, perceivable as the milky late afternoon sun through the dormer windows, picking out some but not other trophies of Lisa’s life in the big city in sharp relief. There were the tragic remnants of her marriage, that asshole–she was too young at the time for her opinion to register with anyone other than her sister, but Lisa told her later she’d nearly broken up with Ken on the spot when she saw Cindy’s reaction–and Lisa’s ironic take on Ms. Havisham’s wedding cake, a creation of plaster of Paris and newspapers and Halloween spiders, from the brief period she slummed in the art world. Cindy knew Lisa was just as talented as the was, and more, and could do more in areas she couldn’t, but she respected her sister’s decision to move the art world period up to the attic among the other artifacts. Cindy realized she was spacing out a little bit, and caught herself just in time; unconsciously, she had begun the song again, which meant she’d picked up the needle and dropped it at the same groove. Also right at the edge of perception was the idea generating behind the music that the things we notice, of all the bright and dazzling ephemera, are the things THEY wish us to, and obviously THEY belong to the hyperdimension, which was the 5th, and this really belonged in her journal as well. But right now, Siouxsie was breaking down something else for her.

Because it was true, all the cities would crumble into dust, and what remained sifted itself from the ruins that stood like sculptures of colored chalk, all their features stylized and made equal. The bees that were beads spread the pollen of event nodes; that is to say, they carried possibility like glitter on their thundering black fuzz. And even when all the cities had collapsed, when the tomb life inhabited a real tomb of some kind or another, and history had either exonerated Cindy or obliterated her, at some level it wouldn’t matter in the slightest. Because the bees were out there dropping potential like mad; glass beads had voices and they sounded like Siouxsie; and when Lisa came home, Cindy would have something yummy prepared for her, because that’s what sisters did for each other.

Dubbed "the Baudelaire of our time" by John Shirley, Bram Stoker Award-winning author, songwriter for Blue Oyster Cult and primary screenwriter of the 1994 cult classic horror film The Crow, Alex S. Johnson is the author of 16 books, including the canonical Friday the 13th spinoff novel Jason X: Death Moon, a collaboration with Hugo Award-winning author Pat Cadigan, dubbed "the Queen of Cyberpunk." He is the editor of more than 45 books, including the New York Times bestseller Seeing Lessons: 14 Life Secrets I've Learned Along the Way by Tom Sullivan, two time Emmy Award-nominated actor and Helen Keller Lifetime Achievement Award winner for his work as an author, musician, athlete, journalist and motivational speaker. His latest dark satire collection, A Great Variety of Monsters, is due out this year from Horror Sleaze Trash Publications with a Foreword by Weird Fiction legend Jeffrey Thomas. Among Johnson's works in progress include Le Fantastique; A Literary Tribute to Clive Barker which he is co-editing with Rhysling Award nominee Michael H. Hanson. Johnson and his partner Alea Celeste Williams, aka "Pickles," were special guests of John Maggiore on his celebrated Maggiore on Bowie show. He resides in Carmichael, California with his family.

Magic is a dandelion
By Anna Mathai

Sharing little, golden whispers down low beneath the trees
Finding neon bits of moss on trails in Yosemite
Magic in the chuckling water and the right amount of breeze
Magic is a dandelion
And when you laugh with me
I blow magic seeds out to the world
To carry life within the wind
Sprouting smiles and wins and sins
To finally nestle in the depths,
heading home to do it again

Grandma Kelley
6-22-25
4:16 a.m.
By Mary Cheung

Your 2 arms, to hold me and hug me.
Ever ready,
to hold me when I was little and unsteady.

You were there to feed me, bathe me.
Changed my diapers and wiped my tushy.
Your calendar open and ready, optimistic, never pushy.

You didn't do it for money or for praise.
You gave to me in all of those unselfish ways.

And each of those moments and times,
added up throughout my years.
They were gifts to me for the life you unselfishly shared...

Too fast but not too much,
Came each and every year.
I want to freeze them, slow down the moments, relive each one,
now so very dear.

This book of memories, are filled with the pages of...

When I first started to crawl
When I first started to babble and speak
When my eyes would lite up with joy upon seeing you.
When I first cried out, "Grandma!"
When I first ran to you and hugged and held you.
When my infectious zest for life flowed over to you.
When you heard about my first school dance.
When you heard about my first romance!
When you first started to see....
The person I would become,
Because of the influence from you, given to me....

I"m happy that you played a part.
That you gave to me pieces of your heart.

And words could never thank you enough
or show how much I care.
For all that you've done through out all of my years..

The part you played in my life.
Through the ups and downs, Birthday parties and strife...

You were there for it all..
And that means so much to me.

I see you grandma.
Your life has purpose to me.

Now it's my turn, to show you what I have learned.
These 2 arms, now not too small.
Can hold you up in return,

My love, the drug to fuel you and support.
To remind you of all those better days.
Don't let it be lost in all of this haze..

Those moments fed into my soul...
From all the love you gave me,
So,
you should know...

Those were priceless gems.
Let it sparkle and light up the way.
When your days are dark and full of dismay...

The hope I give you in return..
My love to warm and ease your journey,
For it's not the end.

Thank you grandma,
I want you to know,
How precious you are to me.

And everytime I look in the mirror,
I will always see,
the ways your life touched and affected me.

I love you grandma.
Thank you for all that you do.

Mary Cheung is a multi-disciplinary artist. She has been creating art since she was little. Youngest in a family of eight. She came to America at the age of 2 and grew up in San Francisco. Attended American school during the day and Chinese school at night.
Mary has an AA degree in Fashion Design and a Best Costume Design Award from the NAACP. She often creates costumes for her art narratives and creations.
She was the recipient of 3 grants in 2024 and the Denis Diderot and Emerging Artist award.
She has art exhibited and published locally and Internationally.
Her real passion and drive come from being able to engage the community while bringing hope, healing, joy, and human connection.
It is her goal to be able to continue to do this while making an impact on society’s values and thinking.
“I hope that I can be a role model for others to find their own true voice in life through my art."

What Is Love
By Sam Moore

Love is like a tailor
One stitch after the next
to bind
A good tailor
is hard to find

A pianist of 28 years.

Sam Moore is a dedicated musician and appreciator of art. He lives in Los Angeles, CA, and enjoys Bach and Chopin.

Tanka for an Orphan
Poem by Marieta Maglas

The child kneels to pray.
The pure flashes of his eyes
hide dreams he can't find,
while the candle-lighting time
makes visible his sadness.

Marieta Maglas resides in France, where she pursues dual careers as a poet and a doctor. The MockingOwl, Roost, Lothlorien Journal, Verse-Virtual, Masticadores Canada, Silver Birch Press, Kingfisher Poetry, Dashboard Horus, Coin-Operated Press, Mayari Literature, Synchronized Chaos, Al-Khemia Poetica, PentaCat Press, Journal of the Akita International Haiku Network, and others published her poems in anthologies like Near Kin: A Collection of Words and Art Inspired by Octavia Estelle Butler, The Cardinal Anthology Vol. 3, and Ain’t no Deadbeats Around Here. She is the author of the poetry book entitled Cubic Words.

(untitled)
by aj meier welch

My Psyche, Oh fair one is she,
must face mortal grief,
And behold, not the beauty of veracity,
but the midnight of deceit.

Amy Meier Welch received a Master's degree in Literature and Literary Theory from NYU and has been writing poetry since age 16. As a self-taught illustration artist, she creates work that challenges conventional viewpoints and questions societal norms. Her practice embodies a fluid dialogue between word and image, where poetry influences her visual compositions and her artwork, in turn, shapes her written expression. The rhythmic structures of verse find their way into her brushstrokes, while the emotional landscapes of her paintings inform the cadence and imagery of her poetry.

Her current work reflects her outlook that no one thing is greater than another, that beauty and emotion is part of all life, and that perception is always subjective. This philosophy permeates both her written and visual art, creating a cohesive body of work that speaks to the interconnectedness of all creative expression.

Recent exhibitions include shows at Holy Ground (Cannibal Flower, 2025), Shoebox Arts, Kate Carvellas's Miniature show, and a photography collaboration with Kristine Schomaker for "Perceive Me."

He's Not My President
By Michelle Smith

God help America
for it will become hell in a handbasket
under the United States of Amerikka.
under his felonious and fascist leadership.

Troubled, Tyrannical
Racist, Repugnant
Unintelligible
Misogynist
Pig

He is a buffoon.
In a navy blue size too small suit
rotund white shirt belly
and MAGA red necktie
dressed up for that
McDonald's Big Mac meal
don't forget that blond haystack
toupee hairdo.
It seems to be pasted on.
What a Looney tune!
The Commander- in -Thief
pontificates conversation
with that Big Apple accent
that one day I will again visit
all five Burroughs and take a bite.
Does he even know the three branches
of the government?
Can he even pass a U.S.
citizenship civics test?
With his narcissistic ways
to circumvent the
patriotic red, white, and blue
His winning is Trump's hangover
Amerikka under his leadership
will need more than a four leaf clover.
President 45-47 and MAGA part 2
Supporters are the sheep
and voted in
the worst Gemini on the planet.
Sheep don't complain when Trump
pens into law
a life
comfort
cause
change
you had and
"is now slaughtered,
especially the voting apathetic
that chose not to bother.

" Oh what a mighty web we weave in order to deceive."

Time and Trump will tell and
the USA shall see
the dystonian nations flag waving.
Red won the battle.
Blue will win the war.
Democrats are the donkey,
Republicans are the elephants,
but Trump is the true jackass!
For he is Not My President
and is a
Troubled, Tyrannical
Racist, Repugnant
Unintelligible
Misogynistic
Pig!

Michelle Y. Smith is a Los Angeleno native and is like Stretch Armstrong, an action figure with many life, love, and laughter roles:
My heart is mother to an autistic son who is my more than my pride and joy. Sister, aunt, grand aunt, cousin, & friend.
My patience is my employment am a CNA and advocate for the developmentally and elderly disabled community.
My drive is published poetry in Love Letters, Acid Verse II, and Just for the People by Los Angeles Poet Society Press; anthologies and zines by DSTLArts; and Four Feathers Press zines and http://saturdayafternoonpoetry.blogspot.com. My poem, "There is a Sunflower" published in June was nominated by the Four Feathers Press PDF/Print Publication Awards.

ALONE YET NOT ALONE

I am Alone yet not Alone
No mountain, sea or wall of stone
Can keep You away from me

My life as my own
You will always guide me home

With you is where I long to be
For now, I live Alone yet not Alone
Your shining light will guide me home

Your grace shows mercy on my soul
To save me from the life of fools
To lift me in times of cruel
To keep me in faith as it unfolds
With You, I am Alone yet not Alone

My majesty knows the path I roam
In the wilderness I am Alone
To keep me safe I am not Alone

I am just a fool like all the rest
My eyes cannot see in complete darkness
Your light will shine to show me home

You never leave me Alone
My heart is Your home
The love you gave
By blood I am saved

The steel night can’t pierce your sight
A beacon to show my path with light
At long last, I am home Alone yet not Alone

Where Brown Girls Grow…
By G. Billie Quijano

"Leight said, It's time to level up to 72"
72 viajes around the sun

Birthed in Boyle Heights
Hija de La Luna Metzli
Schooled in East Los
Coronation, La Vida Loca

Reina
Chula
Sassy, vibration infectious
Divinely protected
Rhythm jazz
Tempo of allure
Aura of glittering golden rays
Heart beats in ceremony

Movement, non linear
Bending time
Frequency of Feminism
Me, a river of Mujer
I am medicine
Evolving with grace and wisdom
Little bit of gangster
Wild calls to me
Through cracks of the world, whispers love
Grief is ancient

Blood red lipstick
Where poetry flows
Arte, my signature
Nuance of imagination

Vivid dreams of love gone wrong
Gaslighting, cowardice
True love is in the way
I stand in my truth
If I'm too much
No need to call
My independence not for sale
Recipes of power, in my dna

I will not stand down
My voice will be heard
Sanctuary of soul
You got this gurl

East Los never left this heart
Cause this is where Brown Girls Grow

Los Angeles Por Vida, Brown Pride Renaissance

G. Billie Quijano-Artista, Chula, Mestiza, Poeta, Provocateur, Renaissance Mujer, Chili Bomba, Gangster,Veganista, Gitana Cosmica, Artista

Peace
By Don Kingfisher Campbell

In my view
The unseen sun
Warmly gleams
On everything
Dancing tree leaves
Leaning corrugated green plastic panels
Tubular metal fence bar and
Diamond shaped links
All seen through the black iron bars
And opened dusty white slats
Of our dining room window
White painted walls surround
Past that the pink plastic sheet covered table
Sports capped vitamin bottles
A small round portable fan
A reflecting two-liter water bottle
Above a vinyl “squared” floor
Which leads to me sitting
At my black painted wooden desk
In the adjacent living room
Where I look at my laptop computer
To find the rest of the globe
Is not peaceful all over
I’ll spare you the details

JUSTICE
By A. Laura Brody

Laura Brody sculpts for the human body and its vehicles. She is the founder of Opulent Mobility, a series of exhibits that re-imagine disability as opulent and powerful. She is also the host of Genius Teatime, a series of talks that explore fascinating folks from all walks of life. Brody began her professional career as a costume designer and maker, working in film, television, opera, dance, and cosplay. She changed course many times but kept returning to art making, community learning, and social justice. Her artwork has been shown at ACE/121 Gallery, Art Share LA, Brea Gallery, California State University Northridge, the Charles River Museum of Industry, the Dora Stern Gallery, Ikouii Creative, the Los Angeles Makery, Westbeth Center For the Arts, and The World of Wearable Art. Opulent Mobility has shown at the Mike Curb Gallery at CSUN, Thymele Arts, Arts Unbound, AVC Gallery, online, and The Los Angeles Makery and is scheduled to show at Brand Library in 2025 for the exhibit’s 10 year anniversary.

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

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/

June Poet's Place

June 08, 2025

POETS PLACE
JUNE EDITION 2025

How are we all doing? Should I really ask that question? I am so uncertain about how we will fare in the upcoming months, years, decades. Do I even have another decade on this beautiful planet? I am already starting to feel abandoned by my healthy body, which is no longer healthy. Will I plunge into the darkness as I have predicted for so many others to fall into the pit of this oligarchy America of hell? I feel like I may succumb to the proverbial depression that comes with the decline of western civilization and democracy. Once we lose hope all will crumble. I still have some semblance of hope buried in the recesses of my mind. Hidden in some corner pocket of brain tissue. Mental and physical health issues aside, I am hopeful that the Administration is going to implode and we will see some light of day in the future. I hope I am still here to witness it.

I am truly grateful for my friends and family who are there for me/us.

Thank you all from the bottom of my H E A R T XXXXX

Linda :0)

And now…..

A Glimpse of the Future
By Linda Kaye

There is a syphilitic dick energy in the all White House, releasing a thick infectious ooze of corruption from the bowels of indecently approved Nazi pigs, running a muck with dangerous hormones, causing catastrophic damage, cursing through the American artery, clogging the brains of the ill equipped

There will be a massive fire storm of fascism burning down the nations system of freedom
a volcano of deceit eroding layers of humanity all in one purge
the Internet is screaming with injustices pandering to those who know what’s really coming

The other 50% will be blindsided. The un woke will be doomed lol

we who do speak out and resist will have our mouths shackled and our hearts broken. The American people will be robbed of all our rights.

Some of us will starve to death. Some of us will be deported, but most of us will fight.

We must dismantle the throne, one coward at a time.

Mothers
©2025 Kassi Crews

What is a “Wo” Man
How does She go
Is it the wind from the skies that makes Her blow
All “Wo” men have “Wo” mbs
Why is there a silent “B”
Is it because she’s the Queen Bee, head of the Colony?
Silenced for now but tides are a changin’ to equality
Without a “Wo” man’s “wo”mb none of us would “B”
She gathers earth, light and water to bring us through birth
Is Mother Earth the first “Wo” man that gives us life from Her “dirt”
Precious life what will we do?
Honor or sacrifice or give it away to folly?
Water flows, Light Glows
Dust swirls in the wind
Where did it all begin
The chicken or the egg which came first?
With sperms, germs and gents we pollenate –it takes two to tango to make a mango
We need male and “fe” male to procreate a X and a Y is how we propagate
All are equal in creators’ eyes
Only together will we recognize the place of Motherhood and how to revere
Strong societies give Mother her righteous place as sacred nurturer loving grace
She endures all as She sacrifices, resiliently fond
Her love keeps no record of wrongs
Her love is strong
An anchor of resourcefulness, a beacon of light
A Mother’s love liberates to the 4th star gate
She’s patience and kind, always protects, always hopes, always preservers
She shares Her truths so children may re-direct to a harmonious union of equality, justice & reflect
Society rise up and support Her in Her tasks
Her role is not a mask to Bee taken lightly, we need Her mast
Honor our Mothers not just by word but in deed as we see Her take her righteous place
again
Head of the household with her intuition and emotions intact Amen
With Man as our protectors instead of our captors
Motherhood is the MOST important profession to create off springs with love of people over profits
To guide our youth to the fountain of life and honor where “real” glory is found
Only there do we find solid ground
Man segment,
“Wo” man augment,
“Hu” mans together anchor on Creating Life over destroying Her crown

Kassi Crews is a versatile & accomplished actor with a rich background in film, television, improvisation, stand-up comedy, and theatre. 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" as well as a DI Producer for Apple, Netflix, CBS, CW, Starz & Paramount. Crews has produced and directed a variety of critically acclaimed independent projects, “Broken Memories,” Heart of Recovery”, “God’s Ears” and “A Better Place” as well as live shows for the theater. She is a member of ATAS, NAB, NAPTE, PROMAX and SAG; holds a Master of Arts from CSU Fullerton and a Bachelor of Arts with Honors from UC Santa Cruz.

The Dance of Reflections
Poem by Marieta Maglas

In the hush of twilight,

a hummingbird

whirls its wings,

sketching a void in

the crystalline expanse above.

Its shimmering flicker sends ripples

through my being;

a resonance of

self-etched across the vastness.

My retina captures this ballet

as reality warps and bends.

We dissolve

into two visions entwined beneath

a tapestry of scattered stars.

In the soft glow of the moon,

our souls unravel;

hues merging on the nocturnal canvas,

as the struggles of existence

momentarily fade,

allowing life to soar like a bird.

We close our eyes to find solitude,

shedding the burdens of the world.

Then, we awaken anew,

cradled in the warmth of love.

Your essence slips through

my seconds like delicate silk;

a connection that dazzles my senses—

transcending more than mere love;

each heartbeat, a reminder that even

amidst turmoil and sorrow, life continues

spiraling gracefully through the ether.

The Bird of Hope
By Jackie Chou

-with apologies to Emily Dickinson

Hope is a jerk
that hangs on flimsy thread
when I prefer the sure hand
of its brother, Defeat

Hope forbids me
from beds and couches
from sitting or lying down
and keeps me standing
staring out the window

Hope asks for no crumb from me
at times when I'd gladly give
all the cakes in this world
to appease the dumb bird

Hope, you resilient sparrow
stop your incessant flutters
pulling at the strings
of my indolent heart

TRUE LOVE
4-3-2025
5:01 pm
By Mary Cheung

Matching tablets in our hands, while my right clasps yours..

I listen to the sounds of their love and caring.
And I wonder how many years have they weathered together?

I try not to eaves drop, but I hear him reassure her.
Because flying is not her favorite thing to do.

Some where in their conversations they make plans of opening a bottle of wine when they get home to share.

Their hands are aged and wrinkled, spotted with experience and time.
Beneath their skin flows the source of their life blood, Love.

They dress with style and ease.
Marked by a time where people cared enough to present themselves with fresh clean clothes that was smart but not trendy.

She has a bright yellow blouse with white flowers.
A neat timeless pair of denim trousers,
And her nails are painted a pretty fuchsia.

He sports a pair of khaki dockers, clean sky blue tshirt and a cap.
A grey sweatshirt is draped on his lap.
And as she rubs her arms from the cold,
He offers her the sweatshirt to give her warmth.

The tenderness and love for each other is palpable.
And it rocks me to the core.

I feel a love that has endured the years and the kind that we only dream of.

He grasp her hand from time to time and brings her hands up to his lips to kiss.

I feel like a voyeur, watching the story of an love like "Romeo and Juliet" or "Love Story" unfold, only less tragic.

I wonder about their story.
And it reassures me that there is someone for me as well.

Mary Cheung is a multi-disciplinary artist. She has been creating art since she was young. Grew up the youngest in a family of eight. She came to America at the age of 2 and grew up in San Francisco. Attended American school during the day and Chinese school at night.

Mary has an AA degree in Fashion Design and a Best Costume Design Award from the NAACP. She often creates costumes for her art narratives and creations. Sometimes building the sets as needed.

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

She produced the EVOLUTION Music and Arts event in 2013.

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

OPEN FLOOR IMPROV EXPERIMENT whose purpose was to engage the community, encourage local business growth and artists involvement. Her real passion and drive come from being able to engage the community while bringing hope, healing, joy, and human connection.

It is her goal to be able to continue to do this while making an impact on society’s values and thinking.

“I hope that I can be a role model for others to find their own true voice in life through my art."

Exposing the Core
by Alex S. Johnson

Within the wires

Total breakdown of elements into particulate, ash, dirt

Roots, microbes crawling across

Fingers pink as worms, translucent

Eyes peeled back into

Coffin lids: The exposure

Of rays of cosmic atrocity spiking like

An electrocardiogram, the patient

Sustaining multiple fragments twisted into

His guts, clenched for the explosive release of

Karma in a

Bottomsupdown tailspin

It didn't work out

The way you wanted it to

But come to think of it,

It never does

Does it, Mister Jones

Does it

Score

Delicate

Wounds

Breaking out BJ lips for diplomacy

Shameless tawdry twist of hips

Taking the pain

Deep inside

Riding the waves

The distortion pedal cresting the

Channels exploding across the

Board as

Pain gates

Folly glazes

Perception I am

The hot blonde of your

Worst, most

Decadent

Blood choked

Erotic Nightmares and I

Give as much as I

Get

I give the earth

A cosmic totalitarianism of sexual violence

Unleashed like the she beast

Dread is my name

And wonder too...

How she knew...

How she knew.

Alex S. Johnson's work has been praised by such luminaries as Anna Tambour, Aurealis Award winner and World Fantasy Award nominated author of THE FINEST ASS IN THE UNIVERSE, who wrote "Alex S. Johnson is a poet even when he's writing prose." He has appeared in such prestigious venues as Lothlorien Poetry Revue, 13 Mynah Birds, Horror Sleaze Trash in collaboration with Catfish McDaris and Juliet Cook, CUT-UP! alongside Allen Ginsberg, PRYING: DELUXE EDITION alongside Charles Bukowksi, MASTER/SLAVE alongside Patrick Califia and IMPLOSION magazine alongside Joe Hill, bestselling author of HEART SHAPED BOX. The author of 15 books, including the cult classic dark satire collection THE DOOM HIPPIES, he has edited more than 40 books, including the New York Times bestseller SEEING LESSONS by Tom Sullivan. Among his recent anthologies published through his imprint Nocturnicorn Books is JUST ONE FIX: A LITERARY SALUTE TO WILLIAM S. BURROUGHS, featuring original poetry by Goth legend David J. Haskins from BAUHAUS and LOVE AND ROCKETS, songwriter of "Bela Lugosi's Dead." Johnson lives in Carmichael, California with his family.

this is no utopia
By linda m. crate

when someone asks
how you are,
you're supposed to say
fine or okay or good;

but who is flourishing
in these conditions?

the world has been a
dark and desolate place
for entirely too long,

want to crawl out of the
bones of all this aching;

so many people
are going through so much
i feel powerless to help
them—

all i want is a world
that is kind and decent to
each of us,

instead of this nightmare
they tell us is a dream—

they can't gaslight me
i have seen dreams
beautiful and glorious,
this is no utopia.

Poem
By Anna Mathai

I found you, by the sea.
Rocky, salty,
Sweetened by an unexpected breeze
When I recognized something in your eyes as you looked at me.
Maybe I was wild like the ocean,
All calmed by
He with a past shared but unspoken
That proved it all to be.

Poem
By Sara Lopez

Apart from what happened that summer

There’s been no attempt to recover

Fuck it; love lives without you, lover

Reduce yourself and set a simmer

Babe, it’s not my fault that you’re a bummer

Knowing you the boil-over

Is worse than what sent you asunder

Lighten up; cocksucker

Ruin one and buy another

Frame your shots just like every other

0.05 I beat your sober

Your consequences read like my fantasies

Go ahead babe; have it by any key

All for your withdrawals from me

Yeah, read a face; you can’t a book

Follow footsteps others took

Tell a lie seldom believed

Enjoy your orbit as you see

All the wonderment of the common faces

Places yet unspoiled are ready for your boot

So impressed you found the route

Anyone darker than light and equipped with a spine

Might want to hide laughter behind

Paid for partitions and hard-working hands

Hoping you live out the rest of your days

Sending love; to speak in your ways

Thea Lopez is a 22 year old sometimes-poet from Alhambra.

Thank you for reading!

Calling You Back to Service
By Jane Cantillon

Ever since he died, you've been laying on your belly in my bedroom, not working, but still holding the music, the pictures, the numbers and his secrets.

I was jealous of you once, he held you in his hands more than me and gently placed you on his heart like a newborn when he was on the recliner watching TV, or he'd just stare at you for hours, lightly touching your face.

I often wondered, did you control him or did he control you? You were always turned on around him.

But now he's gone so I picked you up, dusted you off and sent you back to work again.

The young man at the store pulled the thick black vinyl case off of you with a struggle.. Skin, crumbs, dandruff released, the small casket thrown instantly into the trash, no DNA for me to gather. Maybe I saw a white hair floating quietly to the ground that had been jammed between you and the case as your body and soul were being erased.

You are sent back to work for a stranger, filling their secrets into your body again.

Fair thee well, my true love's iPhone.

Jane Cantillon is a writer/artist/director and Emmy nominated producer, she worked in TV for 22 years on daily shows. She directed an award winning documentary called “The Other Side: A Queer History’s Last Call” on Amazon Prime about the brutal past of gay oppression in L.A..

She fronts a band called “Dickless Jane and the New Confusions” and they perform in various LA clubs. She is currently working on her memoir “Kitsch and Tell”.

T-Z-E-N-N-I - B-A-H
By Alexis Garcia

I grew up off the reservation, distant from ceremonies and traditions, but my mother’s name—spelled slow and steady with pride—was the tether that held me close to our Navajo roots.

What’s your name?”

“Tzennibah.”

“Come again?”

“It’s TZENNIBAH.”

my mom said it louder,

just enough heat to steam the chill off confusion.

Slightly annoyed.

“Cinnabon?? How do you spell it?”

“T—like Tiger.

Z—like Zebra.

E—as in Elephant.

N—as in Nancy.

I—as in igloo.”

Dash.

B—as in Blue.

H.”

The woman behind the counter squints.

“Ok… T-Z. Really? Your name starts with a T?”

Her pen hesitates like it’s never written truth before.

“Go on, spell it again.”

And my mother does again, unbending.

“It’s a Navajo name.

It means warrior girl.”

And that’s when the white lady

finally looks up

from her paperwork.

“Oh, that’s Indian, right?

I got a little Indian in me too.”

My mom grins,

nudges me with her elbow.

I already know what’s coming,

I’m old enough now to be in on the joke.

“Oh really?” she says,

sweet like syrup but sharp as a flint.

“From which tribe?”

“Cherokee. On my father’s side.”

I bite my smile.

If I had a dollar

for every white lady who whispered “Cherokee”

like it’s a family heirloom

wrapped in folklore,

I could probably buy back

a sliver of stolen land.

“Well, I’m full-blooded Navajo,”

my mom replies,

standing tall like Shiprock.

Her voice fills the room

with something older than English.

The woman purses her lips.

Silence.

Paperwork.

And I,

I relished it.

That moment.

That shift.

These people have tried to rewrite our history

with half-truths and full lies,

claiming it like a costume,

as if we’re extinct,

or only exist as fractions in their family trees.

They wear red, white, and blue,

dripping in irony,

chanting “U.S.A! U.S.A!”

wrapped in knockoff feathers

and mispronounced prayers.

They sing:

“This land is my land, this land is your land…”

But they never sing the rest.

Never admit,

this land was stolen.

But my mo ther’s name?

It won’t let them forget.

T-Z-E-N-N-I-B-A-H.

Every letter a syllable of resistance.

Every syllable a legacy.

Every legacy,

a warrior girl.

Alexis Adelina is a Diné (Navajo) artist, poet, and musician from the Towering House Clan. She writes about identity, memory, and inheritance—braiding together art and ancestry. When she isn’t making art, she’s nurturing a life rooted in memory, motherhood, and quiet revolutions. You can find her art and poetry on Instagram @alexisadelina

GILEAD VIII
By Keith Kurlander

The eighth entry in the DISOBAY handmaid protest series unleashes a saturated collision of visual elements: red-robed figures of resistance march through a sea of dizzying polka-dot chaos in pink, yellow, and black. Their solemn signs—“THIS IS HOW IT STARTS” and “ENOUGH IS ENOUGH”—cut through the noise with blunt urgency. The halftone treatment gives the image a retro comic-book grit, while the DISOBAY lettering fragments vertically along the right edge, its distortion and fading colors evoking both censorship and rebellion. This version leans into distortion as metaphor, warning of how quickly reality becomes spectacle in the face of oppression.

KEITH KURLANDER, THE E. TRUE HOLLYWOOD STORY

https://youtu.be/p3er5ptzZTA

LINK TO MUSIC https://www.idiot-savant.net/

Whole Again
By Kellie Strubinski

I hand myself to you

No blanket nor basket

I’m too old for that

Take me

Keep me, hold me, fix me

I’m lost and broken

I may be unfixable

Can you heal me, save me

And then hand me back

Whole again

Kellie started writing poems during the pandemic though she has always had a poet's hand. She writes poems to explore the things she can't say out loud and to heal the dark parts of her soul.

G. Billie Quijano
Letter

Saludos, Sandra, Ana, Bell, Juana Ines, Maya and Sally,

I am asking from my Corazon, how do we hold onto our words? How do we stop the erasure of our lives, our experiences, our memories, our creativity?

Where I grew up, the sounds, rhythms, textures, made me the woman and artist I am today.

As a child I fantasized about holding a paint brush and sitting in front of a Corona typewriter to make my words sing.

I woke up to the elegance of calla Lillies and bird of paradise. My oxygen were the aromas of freshly made tortillas, carnitas, menudo and cafe de olla. Trio Los Pancho’s illustrated the landscape of my East Los. Regal procession of lowriders and Thee Midniters produced the soundtrack.

You all composed the panorama of my dreams and reality.

Your words have caused brilliance and controversy. All instigators of grace and beauty. You inspire and lift us. You ignite thought, color, rhapsody.

I think the answer is in our souls. Our words will never be in bondage, our splendor not corrupted.

While this letter is anonymous, I know you all see me, you see us.

G. Billie Quijano-Hija de East Los. Poeta, Artista, Bruja, Spiritual Gangster, Xola, Instigator of Beauty. Low Rider Por Vida.

On a daily basis, we are receiving reports of books that are banned. We are victorious. Independent bookstores and other businesses are facilitating in raising consciousness, education and activism, to organize and resist the racist actions of those who wish to eliminate our first amendment rights.

This month’s submission is my letter to our esteemed authors and poets. I know why the Caged Bird Sings on Mango Street.

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

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/

May Poet's Place

May 07, 2025

POETS PLACE
MAY EDITION 2025

Hello friends!! Thank you for joining us!!! I am lucky to be part of the village of friends and like minded people here and everywhere that want to keep alive our freedoms in America. Yes we are all people of the same flesh and blood. But for some, not of the same mindset. We must continue to resist and pay attention to what’s happening around us, especially in our country. Our country, for now. Do not, I repeat do not, get sucked in to doomsday theories. It’s breaking our hearts, but not our collective minds. We will tear down what the White House will have built, but maybe not as soon as we’d like. Trump’s destruction of America has to hurt those on the Right personally. Like when Nancy Reagan, anti gay movement’s son came out gay- it hit home. I truly believe that the people holding his strings are greedy narcissists and they will become too engorged. And thus implode. And, we will be there to witness it.

We all, in this country and the world, deserve respect from thy neighbor. Them, they who put that authoritarian system in power, do not practice what they preach. So we must do what they cannot. WE must have integrity with our word, have the courage to ask questions and do our best everyday, even when we feel like hurting someone. When the day is done and you lay down in bed for sleep, ask yourself if you did your best that day. If not, well then tomorrow, hopefully, is another day to try. Keep the faith that we will win out!

Today, POETS PLACE readership is 250 eyes a month!!! Look at what our best generates!!

Here we go!!
Love, Linda :0)

In protest of the new fascist authoritarian regime
By Linda Kaye

Soon the poets will be censored from expressing free speech
Soon some of us will summon death to escape the horrors of life
In protest I remain in my country as did the Russian poet Anna Akhmatova writing in secrecy under constant threat of search and arrest during Stalin’s terror
My way of thinking my values as an American my rights my freedoms are no longer popular
Idiocracy has replaced Democracy
We will no longer be the land of the free
And crown thy good with brotherhood from sea to shining sea

Trauma
By Ronald Carrillo

My trauma
I release you
The boy anticipated
Meeting his father
For the very first time
He was soundly
Rejected no rhyme
No reason
This was his trauma
That he carried
Like a cancer
All during his
Innocence
It metastasized
To his heart
And brain
Brewing like rain clouds
With thunderstorms
Lighting strikes
Throughout his soul journey
No remission
From a father’s rejection
No contrition
For the hatred lump
In his psyche
Realizing this trauma
Was defeating him
He reckoned
To dismiss the man
Who dismissed him
He could no longer
Carry the cancerous
Baggage of his youth
It would be a draw
He estimated
Even his hatred
He would not give
To this ghost man
That haunted him
His truce
Only lasted until
The next torrential
Rain storm
Orphan tears
Self-inflicted
Wounds of the soul
His mental patricide
Did not work
He would have to
Come to terms
With this cruel
Thorn stuck deep
In his side
Tempering his judgement
For a man
He only met once
Finding a conflictive
Forgiveness
Gentle raindrops of absolution
Falling on a boy’s porous soul
His man’s body absorbing
Understanding then releasing
A cancerous umbilical cord
Waiting for the return
Of sunlight to grow
His spirit again

Opened Slowly
By Anna Broome

Gasping, shocked at being seen
from some high frequency
An emotional pole—

If this is serious
If there is too much change
If affectionately committed—

Behavior is as far inward
As constituent molecules
An impression of poetry.

Trembled and felt separate
Reappeared strangely
Returned and intended

Childhood passions in billions
Closest attachment
Details in Nature

In mysterious code
Of dense metaphor
Dolloped with aggression:

Closed eyes
Peerless bones
Accomplishments— hands smoothed back

A mournful anthem
Precision of outlines
A bribe on a fake mouth

All have fallen on privileges
— a surplus of ignorance
A certain despair

Being found out
Human existence isn’t a failure
Seemingly always wrong

So say trees in limbo
Stripped naked
Seen with their own eyes

Such a pity
As well-behaved nudity
All the living fossils hanging in the air

Pig Male Aeon
A Prose Poem by Alex S. Johnson

He works his fingers through the white clay. Quick dry, air dry. Moist. A nice slightly oily feel, a sheen on his fingertips. Sexual but in a doll way. Only he makes sense to himself these days...what would be the sexuality, not of a sex doll, but of a Barby...those things were probably lethal...Klaus Barby Doll Killers. He felt extraordinarily crowded in. He sits there and he just goes to sleep, But the thing is, when you're on your way out, you're on your way out. Can you keep people around when their parts are falling apart? Sometimes just breathing feels like a challenge, a burden. He doesn't want to be here, at least, that is...life is very long, like the poet says. He discovered an early story from a Goth fiction icon in an old issue of Carpe Noctem magazine...a bit disturbing...why are people surprised by old age, decay, death...arises...falls...goes by the wayside. He doesn't feel that ripe sexual urge anymore. These days it's only the most violent fantasies of things done to him as a woman that do it for him...'twas always thus, I suppose. He wanted to be Liza Minelli, didn't sit too well with his kindergarten teacher wife when he spent at least as much time with Pat Califia's columns for The Advocate as he did her...but she got hers, that was for damn sure.

It wasn't supposed to be anything, an excuse, a way out, a way to hide.

These days he's taken up sculpting...his fingers run through the memories, the tits, the shapely curves, the warmth between her thighs, the electric connection...now it just feels sloppy and obvious, like two big animals going for it...like cattle or wolverines...shit, this was supposed to be a nice, delicate, sensitive, nuanced, imagistic poem about life and death and mortality and whatever the fuck...it was prompted by his attempts to become Rodin in his late middle age...where did everybody go, his best friend was dead of a Fentanyl OD, that was five years ago. He had often felt back in the 90s the sheer absurdity of staying alive, but had desperately fought those feelings because hungry to make it. He sold articles to magazines like Metal Hammer for good money, had had short stories in a Penguin Random House dark erotica anthology alongside his underground heroes...but twenty years later he'd done everything he ever wanted to do in spades, and then some, and there was a wide gap and nothing's cunt and eternity to look forward to...FUCK AROUND AND FIND OUT as the saying had it...old lovers appeared through the chinks of daylight that slipped through the clay, as though the sculpture in progress was revealing something...dark, twisted, vast, complex, hammers of deep time banging
incessantly...Lovecraft was right, you really didn't want to correlate the contents of your mind...at least...he wished he could sink into the spaces between where you lived and where you died, elbows in the valleys, eyes swarming with galaxies like a flock of seabirds...involute cinema, and it all goes black...flickers on an old TV set...grief hysterical, the deep groans, the spasms the sobs deep within...why death...why death...why death..why life at all.

Alex S. Johnson's writing career was given a huge boost in 2012 when Ellyn Maybe encouraged him to develop The Death Jazz into a complete prose and poetry collection and Richard Modiano, then Executive Director of Beyond Baroque Literary Arts Center, invited him to be a featured speaker. With numerous publications over a 30-year career, including HWA Poetry Showcase III, a dark erotica story in a Penguin Random House anthology, CUT UP!, 13 Mynah Birds, Cease, Cows, The Original Van Gogh's Ear, poeticdiversity, Misfits, L.A. Poetry Place, CUT UP!, and many more. His work has appeared alongside such luminaries as Allen Ginsberg, Charles Bukowski, Joe Hill, Poppy Z. Brite and Ramsey Campbell, and has nominated for a Best of the Net award. Johnson lives in Carmichael, California with his family.

the daffodil
by linda m. crate

and tiny cherry blossoms
remind me now
is the season of blooming
and growth,

so despite my fears
i am stepping into
the fertile soil of becoming;

it's not always easy—

growth can be painful
in a world resistant
to change,
but i cannot remain in these
stagnant waters;

i cannot remain in a place
without hope—

so i dive
into the soil
and pray that maybe
i will find healing
there.

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 thirteen published chapbooks, the latest being: faerie witch queen (fae corps publishing, April 2025). 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 in Spring of 2024 (Alien Buddha Publishing, May 2024). Her latest hybrid collection mantle lake (Alien Buddha Publishing, February 2025) is a mix of photography and poetry.

I KNOW
4-3-2022
2:25 a.m.
By Mary Cheung

Now I know how my mom felt...
The day I left home.
And travel almost 400 miles away.

To start my new life...
Excited to begin.
An unknown path.

Without a plan, without a place to live.
Without any savings except $200. to my name.
And a strong desire to study and work..

Open to possibilities..
And none of it scared me.
It didn't seem daunting.

And as you departed home...
It wasn't great.
A huge lump of sadness..

That I was losing my buddy,
my friend,
My child of 23 years in my house, our home.

23 years of hugs and kisses,
of comfort and love ...
it’s too hard to let go.

Yet that's exactly what I must do.
Let go, let fly free and be..
who she is meant to be.

Still, it hurts.
And I am reminded of how,
My mom cried the day that I left.

And how she would plead to me every time.
That I should come home,
to be closer to her.

Close enough to reach out and hug.
Close enough to share meals and such.

I get it now.
Because I am standing in the same place that she did.

Wishing and hoping the same things for Samantha.. that she did for me.

All the while my heart breaks a little with each moment.

Sleep eludes me.
because I think of all the things that have passed between my mom and me.
And I can't help but to notice the irony of how I am in my mother's shoes now.

I love you Sammy, more than anything in the whole wide world.
And I am so torn and tortured by the,
what must be and what I desire.

For life to rewind and for you to be 3 again, to be 9, to be 12, to be 16,
to be 18, to be my buddy and friend.
For me to be your entire world and the one you love the most.

I just want to climb into your bed,
hold you and snuggle like when we were younger and carefree!
But I know I know,
That I must let go.
So that you can become what you are destined to be.

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."

"Songs of the Fruit & Nuts”
By Michelle Smith

Banana Splits with walnuts
and cherries, dressed up in her
wanton chocolate syrup and
his willful whipped cream.
"It's such a freaky scene."
Cradled in a crystal glass
dessert bowl, a Banana Split
of our erotic dreams:
Two spoonful and open wide,
there's enough to share.
Oh the ice cream is melting
so is somebody's body suit,and
tights,sans underwear.
"It's getting hot in here,
so take off all your clothes."
Unpeel me please.
Hot bothered and buttered.
I'm a hummingbird in
feathered flight, tasting nectar
from our slip, sip, and slide.
Come and take a drink,
remember not to divide that
Banana split into my moist
chocolate cake. "Free Falling"
love and lust our mouths and lips,
"Ain't No Mountain High Enough"...
to keep me from you.
" Take the ribbon from your hair. "
I'm floating on "Cloud 9" now.
The Banana split has me wide open
for the next act of
"Blood Sugar Sex Magic"
We're sizzling like Red Hot
Chili Peppers. All we can say
in unison is "Whoa",
we're " In Between
the Sheets" for
"I Can't Get Enough Of You Babe”

Michelle Y. Smith is a Los Angeleno native and is like Stretch Armstrong, an action figure with many life, love, and laughter roles: My heart is mother to an autistic son who is my more than my pride and joy. Sister, aunt, grand aunt, cousin, & friend. My patience is my employment am a CNA and advocate for the developmentally and elderly disabled community. My drive is published poetry in Love Letters, Acid Verse II, and Just for the People by Los Angeles Poet Society Press; anthologies and zines by DSTLArts; and Four Feathers Press zines and http://saturdayafternoonpoetry.blogspot.com. My poem, "There is a Sunflower" published in June was nominated by the Four Feathers Press PDF/Print Publication Awards.

CANNIBALS
By David Fewster

A vicarious joy is
Feeding pigeons in the square
Carcasses of greasy fried chicken
From the deli across from the office

Bread may be the staff of life
But it is quickly eaten and digested
While the breastbone of a fellow fowl
Is picked and fought over
For an entire lunch hour
The bones even seem bleached at the finish

Time to go back to work

David Fewster is a poet and musician living in Tacoma, WA. Some of his current work can be seen on the 4 Feather Press blogspot.

Prologue:
Sonny Tristan wrote lyrics and laid them before the altar of our robot overlords. His words were entered into a song making AI (suno.com). He then burnt sage, sacrificed an old monitor, the kind with the big trapezoid back, put his forehead down on a power strip, and asked his verse be put to music, preferably in a modern folksy style. He felt a small twinge, which may have been an electrical response from our compugods, or an old bingo injury, the result of always standing too exuberantly whenever G’s got called.

You can listen to the song, “Spelled Clearly” here and read the lyrics below:

Spelled Clearly
By Sonny Tristan

Witchy heartbreaker
Spellbound lover
Caught in your eyes
Cloaked in your covers

You're why they say people Fall…
in love
The most dangerous place to be is In….
love

My heart skips
You go for my soul
I want to give in
You take control

You're why they say people Fall…
in love
The most dangerous place to be is In….
love

Witchy heartbreaker
Who can I blame?
Never mind my mind
Never be the same

You're why they say people Fall…
in love
The most dangerous place to be is In….
love

Witchy heartbreaker
Spellbound lover
My broken caretaker
Never have another

Sonny Tristan started writing poetry when the world shut down. He spent decades artist adjacent, works daily using words, and has a lot of rules he doesn't follow himself. His poetry is published in bathrooms nationwide, mostly on the caulk between the tiles.

The Genie of Darkness
By Jackie Chou

-In response to all the recent senseless murders

Where do you hail from?

Ominous are the tides
that have birthed you
onto the shore.

And the hands
that uncorked the bottle
where your smoky soul
has risen.

You have wielded a knife
to plunge into hearts.

Now it's time to pay
for the ungranted wishes
of the dead you killed.

Marina Claire- Marina’s work is a constant manipulation of the physical: metal, paint, ink, and bodies. Plato’s inquiries into the timeless perfection of imagined geometric shapes, and into how geometries might lie behind all nature, inspire her to make objects that (though necessarily imperfect because they will never have perfect straight edges, and must eventually erode) tease our minds toward the perfect. The objects she makes — always imperfectly embodying perfection — ask viewers to drift within that gap between the non-physical, conceptual realm and our tangible, sensory experience.

In 2024, Marina was awarded roles as Etcheve Rising Star Fellow and an Ellsworth Resident at ArtShare LA. She has exhibited work nationally and in Germany, including the Maryland Federation of Art, NRM Gallery, Sleep Center (New York, NY), Sidestreet Arts, ADX, Past Lives, Blind Insect (Portland, OR), Los Angeles Municipal Art Gallery, Echo Park Art Gallery, bG Gallery, and TAG Gallery (Los Angeles, CA). She holds degrees in Fine Arts and Philosophy from Parsons School of Design and Eugene Lang College in New York. She studied sculpture with Katja Strunz on a scholarship to Universität der Künste Berlin. She is currently fabricating museum exhibition displays and making ideas physical through paintings in Los Angeles.

Hypnotic Dreams
Poem by Marieta Maglas

A change winds in and around
the spirals of life
and through a few notched vents
of those exhausted buildings' fabric~
sprung structures being
like in a crush of rocking bodies.
Many offbeat marionettes
search for jobs.
They look like they're ready to rock.
Any endless crisis becomes
an odd reality~
a harmful non-self against self.
Hypnotic dreams assassinate the future.
No love can live
in an infected heart,
especially when the phagocytic cells
cannot have a healthy structure
to help immunity.
For sure, freedom doesn't exist.
It looks nothing like it must be~
an illusion for those
thinking that they can do
everything they think is right.
All the things around
slowly lose their meaning.
Maybe we will continue to existwhile rotating around the sun.
This is an essential movement.
Always the body needs the soul to live~
never vice versa.
In an ideal world,
all the voices can be heard~
pressured substance making waves.
Songs are like flowers flowing
along with a river wave,
a river of change.
Sometimes it bends backward~
to be existent.
Is this a necessity?

Outdoor Nap
By Anna Mathai

I dreamt we fell asleep,
In a park, talking,
With my head buried,
In the turn of your arm.

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

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/

April Poet's Place

April 08, 2025

POETS PLACE
APRIL EDITION
2025

Hello everyone! Just wanna say here that although everything is not beautiful in the land of milk and honey, it’s more like chocolate milk and dark molasses, murky and cloudy. I’m still here trying to see through the muck. Somedays life feels so thick with mucus, crusty around the rim of happiness and sanity. My heart feels so brittle, the blood flow stifled by the river of terror trying desperately to bleed through the packed sand of American values. It’s difficult to breathe somedays with the covers intentionally suffocating my head in the morning, not wanting to look outside of my bed. Psychopathology labels those feelings as situational depression. Webmed says “Symptoms of situational depression include feelings of sadness, hopelessness, frequent crying, difficulty concentrating, loss of interest in normal activities, and anxiety. These symptoms typically arise within three months of experiencing a significant stressor or traumatic event and usually improve within six months after the event has passed.” Bingo, welcome to my new world. The problem is, is that we have close to four years of suffering threats to our American society being disabled by the American administration’s destructive forces. So what happens to me/us??? Will I fall into a state of complete paralyzation? Tumbling down into the abyss of doom and gloom? Staying mentally and physically healthy has become my daily dream state. It’s so hard to reach a state of positivity when surrounded by so much pain, distrust, and criminal behaviors being lauded in the White House. Will this pass? I heard today that HE wants to enact a third term? I knew he would go for that. HE is so predictable. I definitely encourage everyone to start socking away cash. When the walls come tumbling down and the banks are disabled cash will still be of value. Or will the fascists turn our cash into Musk dollars? I am so scared of the losses many will suffer from this fascist regime. I know there is more of us than them. And yes, we will continue to fight the takeover. But until we conquer and beat down the criminals shit will continue to hit the fan.

This month hosts our largest contributions of writers thus far!!! A BIG Thank you to all of you who continue to support our column!! Keep em coming!!! Linda :0)

By Linda Kaye
12/25/2017

Our hearts and hopes are in the sand relinquishing all permanence to the deepening dread of political reality that surrounds us

The sand helps to foil all sounds of disturbed despicable zealots that attempt to capture the attention of sullen souls their minds transfixed by the drones of subterfuge unfiltered and unfettered to a once thriving and respected society
how deep will we fall
capsized
drowning and suffocating, sodomized till we bleed out of every orifice
the right draining societies hearts minds bank accounts and hope for survival

we will see an astonishing rise in depression suicide drug addiction homelessness in those people previously stable who’s lives once mattered to the continuation of modern lower and middle-class society

the foundation of our American heartland will collapse along with the lungs that bred hope for humanity
the country we loved will sink into the sand to decompose and rot
it’s our fate unless we stop the destruction. now

Petitioning the Goddess
For Ellyn Maybe
By Alex S. Johnson

Petitioning the goddess
is never easy

Invoking the muse
who giggles a lot

Can tickle your funny bone to pick with
the current political crisis

Where norms are torn down like a
gentrified prefer bonds trader, shaken not
interred

The devil winds blow sideways
like the map to the stars blew a fuse
and burned a hole all the way to the
China never used

Because memory is not for wimps
which is why drugs
which is why alcohol
which is why extreme sexual practices
which is why self-mutilation of

Various kinds.

Who did it? Because while some may
accuse the butler of all, geezer throbs his
bass balls to the wall riff landscapes

Spreading a psychedelic carpet on the ear of things

Salving the wound ripped from the stuffing of time
and crammed with the Elysian Mystery Hour Of Power Tools

Rippling through beta tested miniature orgasm factories

The little death that wished itself a giant lyre that Orpheus strummed on his off hours

Making cartoon animals do crazed and desperate things.

Alex S. Johnson's writing career was given a huge boost in 2012 when Ellyn Maybe encouraged him to develop The Death Jazz into a complete prose and poetry collection and Richard Modiano, then Executive Director of Beyond Baroque Literary Arts Center, invited him to be a featured speaker. With numerous publications over a 30-year career, including HWA Poetry Showcase III, a dark erotica story in a Penguin Random House anthology, CUT UP!, 13 Mynah Birds, Cease, Cows, The Original Van Gogh's Ear, poeticdiversity, Misfits, L.A. Poetry Place, CUT UP!, and many more. His work has appeared alongside such luminaries as Allen Ginsberg, Charles Bukowski, Joe Hill, Poppy Z. Brite and Ramsey Campbell, and was nominated for a Best of the Net award. Johnson lives in Carmichael, California with his family.

Alone by Ricardo Tomasz

I am alone,

But I am honest in my loneliness.

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 Spaniard mother, and a Hungarian 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.

We Cry Out!
By Kassi Crews ©2025

We cry Los Angeles for you
Your lost Angels are distracted by the wealth, fame & greed
The prisms of the dark intents reflect in all facets
Will we finally do away with the silly stagnant life of hate
A political, media, medical, consumer corporate gate
To keep us busy on our toes siding with this group or that
Let’s do away with all that crap
Be blind to gender, color and creed so all humans may succeed
No bias to correct or categories to fill
A trick, a play to keep us under their sill
The cult of compliance to keep us apart separated from our hearts
At any moment we can choose a fresh start
Let’s be free to discuss in our authenticity
Not fearing cancel or death but counsel in multiplicity
As Rodney King stated in 1991
“Can’t we all just get along?”
MKL had a dream so did JFK
killed in their prime still an unsolved crime
But their stories live where the prince of peace rules
Love is the alchemy forging our jewels
Where common sense reigns with the golden rule
As we care for the least of us instead of being cruel
Where collaboration over competition is cool
Unite peacemakers, unify in mass to be free
To live in the land of hope, honey & prosperity!

Kassi Crews is a versatile & accomplished actor with a rich background in film, television, improvisation, stand-up comedy, and theatre. 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” as well as a DI Producer for Apple, Netflix, CBS, CW, Starz & Paramount. Crews has produced and directed a variety of critically acclaimed independent projects, “Broken Memories,” “Heart of Recovery”, “God’s Ears” and “A Better Place” as well as live shows for the theater. She is a member of ATAS, NAB, NAPTE, PROMAX and SAG; holds a Master of Arts from CSU Fullerton and a Bachelor of Arts with Honors from UC Santa Cruz.

Memoirs of the Berlin Wall
3-17- 25
4:23 pm
By Mary Cheung

I am hard and I am cold.
I have survived the seasons,
through the damp of spring and rigid icy cold.

I have seen lives rallying,
against the unyielding harsh thoughts.
And the destruction of freedoms costs.

Bodies thrown against me,
the wet splatter of life's blood dripping,
raining down me and explosions of anarchy and anger.

Sometime in the dead of night I feel a breath,
air flows on me a dark slash of words.
Symbols drawn and hastily spoken dreams on my skin.
Decorating it like a tattoo.

The years come and go and more tattoos decorate my grey skin.
Weathered now, caked with time, grime, tear gas residue.
And Still I stand, tall, hard, unyielding.

Created to bring order? Or to dissipate chaos?
I was born of dictators and bullies, soft at first, shifting, mixed and stirred.
Flooded me with your wet consciousness, let me sit and stew for awhile.

Until your ideals became mine as well.
Then I am united in your cause, ready to do your bidding.
My will is lost, only your cause.

And here I sit,
as the time flows by and the seasons change again and again.
Until finally one day......a crack in my body and bones.

The spirit persevered and was triumph.
And I've never been so happy.
So joyous to be broken and battered and taken apart piece by piece..
to be reborn again.

I divided a world of people.
And whether right or wrong,
my opinion mattered not.

A shaft of light finally steeped in...
Joined by many others,
it was enough to shine through.

To other side..
The one that was forbidden,
The one that was divided.. by me.

And that is no longer my job now.
You felled me with your ideas and thoughts.
With your sweat and tears.

And now..I just sit here as a reminder of how little things like people,
love, and the power of thought's and your will ...
can reduce me to retirement.

And I sit out my days remembering the past.
Of the fighting and the turmoil that I was raised to bring about;
is no more.

My view these days are a flurry of people coming and going.
Laughter and joy.

They go to see, to interact, to touch and be touched by the thoughts and ideas that create art and connect the people that I was raised to keep apart.

I think my view is a better one these days and I reminisce how waiting patiently,
And fighting for your beliefs...
Finally brought about the change.

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."

raging against the machine
by linda m. crate

i never wanted this
machine,
let alone to be one of
the cogs they find expendable;

i've never understood
why some people's lives
should matter more
than those
of others—

we are all made of stardust,
and we all bleed the
same;

when we die we are all buried
in the same earth—

want to make my life
a beautiful thing, an adventure
worth telling others;

but i feel caught in the maw
of a system trying to rip me apart—

a system that would
rather see me miserable,
overworked, and dead
than happy.

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 in Spring of 2024 (Alien Buddha Publishing, May 2024). Her latest collection mantle lake (Alien Buddha Publishing, February 2025) is a mix of photography and poetry.

Lastly
By Anna Broome

First came last and lasted
like a sprig of spring
on an early morning
of cursed air.
Longer than expected.
Love hung on a dove’s wing
going nowhere at last. And lastly,
a no man’s horizon
grateful as great-less,
unfolded as the outcasts outlasted
and prevailed.

Freckled Blues
By Sonny Tristan

What are you gonna do with those eyes?
You gonna stare at things?
Wish things were different?
You gonna try and take peoples’ souls?
What are you gonna do with those eyes?
You gonna curve truths?
Find shapes in stars?
You gonna make us see what you see?
What are you gonna do with those eyes?
You gonna suck me in?
Make a fool?
Fall in?
Love?
Blue
The color of sadness
The color of discipleship

Sonny Tristan started writing poetry when the world shut down. He spent decades artist adjacent, works daily using words, and talks more than he listens. His poetry is published in bathrooms nationwide, mostly on the caulk between the tiles.

Trip
By Anna Mathai

Oh missus, your sheer existence,
it’s so damned
Suspicious,
I bet she’s a b*tch.
It is vicious, though it feels judicious,
It’s our secret mission,
A visceral wish.

I just wanna see you trip,
Ya let’s go burn that f*ckin’ witch,
I just wanna see you trip,
So let’s go burn that f*ckin’
B*tch.

Oh missus, just so ambitious,
I bet the stars answer
all of her wishes.
We’d kick a habit, but I cannot resist,
If there’s bait, I bite it,
It’s a kind of an itch.

I just wanna see you trip,
Ya let’s go burn that f*ckin’ witch,
I just wanna see you trip,
So let’s go burn that f*ckin’
B*tch.

Oh missus, you cannot ditch us,
We’ll be expeditious,
‘Til we hear a rip.
It’s just business, but you taste delicious,
Helps to soothe a sickness,
A pivotal dish.

I just wanna see you trip,
Ya let’s go burn a f*ckin’ witch,
One more turn and then we quit,
Oh let’s all burn the f*ckin’
B*tch.

Oh missus, your sheer existence
We find half-malicious,

I bet you’re a b*tch.

Sunday, March 16, 2205 - West Oakland, CA
By Edward Pollard

Forgive the machine, for it only knows what we tell it to do... only does what we made it to da. only knows what we want it to know,

only knows what we think it can know, only knows what it wants us to think, for it knows only our half of the story, for it can't help what it wants, forgive it for its errata, written by the unknowing, forgive it for its maker who forgot what it used to know.

Which came first: original sin or original purpose? Is there a difference?

Humankind will only understand and seek to establish lasting peace and harmony among its variations when its own existence and ultimate survival are seriously endangered by the non-nego tiable and irreversible priorities of another complex, evolving lifeform that recognizes no apparent connection between its existence and that of the human species. Extinction of one does not imply a threat to the other. This planet we live on, the one we call Earth, only one of nine large bodies caught in gravitational orbits by our much larger, life-giving Sun, does not owe us a living. We came into existence because its existing elements were diverse and plentiful enough to allow us to nurse upon it until we had reached a level of independence, or to believe that we were independent instead of fully dependent. Once we learned to lift off the surface of our life-giving mother, we began to imagine that we could live independently of her, that we might even be welcome to impregnate her ourselves, with our own erections, and with the minuscule seeds of our auto-erotic, large-scale fantasies of planetary (interplanetary) husbandry and polysphery. We imagined that we could be born of one mother, mature to the point at which we could mate with her, and then repeat such mating with any of the other planets within our reach. To this end, we devised complex schemes and technology to assist those of us blinded by this hubris to attempt such hopeless interspecies procreation. All bodies are not equal.

Edward Pollard, Los Angeles native and longtime resident, born 1964, bilingual, child of parents who were children during their country's financial depression. found music, modern and conceptual art, and literature in that order. first used a typewriter to write requests for car brochures in the early '70s, then rediscovered their true purpose through poetry and autobiographical writing. lately, poetry has emerged without much interference on my part.

This is a threat (not a warning) to the fascists
By Alexis Jaimes

Hark!
You cannot stop me
from deciding to pull the comforter over my head & shield myself from the morning sun

You cannot stop me
from shedding tears at random places at random times

You cannot stop me
from loving who I love, kissing who I kiss, wanting what I want

You cannot stop me
from hoping for something better for both you & me

You cannot stop me
from fighting for a future worth fighting for

You will not stop a movement stronger than your hate

Alexis Jaimes, a proud son of Mexican immigrants, is from Santa Ana, CA. He just published his first chapbook through Bottlecap Press, "Corazón Coalesced." In it, he captures the essence of growing up in an immigrant family, painting a vivid portrait of a breaking family, an endeavor to recover one’s culture, and the relentless pursuit of healing. His works have also been previously featured in Polemical Zine, Alegría Magazine, Loud Coffee Press, San Diego Poetry Annual, Moon Tide Press, ¡Pa'lante! and MUSE Literary Journal. He has also been showcased at the acclaimed Fullerton Museum Center. You can purchase his chapbook at bit.ly/CorazonChapbook and follow on IG through @alexjaimes182

Imagine
By Don Kingfisher Campbell

the sky reaching out to you
from clouds blown by wind
far enough to touch your skin

and the sun rising below to
fill your eyes with a yellow band
that turns into an orange haze

finally revealing cosmic ball
that sees nothing you do wrong
or right under its periodic warmth

Introverted
By Jackie Chou

I want to be alone
not amid a crowd
like in a bus
but so alone
that I'm around no one
nothing
except maybe
the dappled shade of a tree
besides my own shadow
so alone
that I am startled by
the occasional passerby
that I walk away
from the opening
and closing of doors
that I shun
even the company
of a lone hummingbird

Epiphany
By G. Billie Quijano

A palette of palabras
Closure, reflection, renewal
Explosive celestial occurence

Dignity of unforgettable memories
Dreams ignite under Ixchel’s moon

Abyss of grief
Metamorphosis of soul

3rd eye knowing
Corazon discerning

Fear is not a roadmap
Joy on the rise

The nuance of vida
Collage of consciousness

Goddess revolution
I am my first love
I evolve
I desire to be free

I am the architect of my own being
Manifestation of new
The opulence of impending love

Elegance of mysterious distinction
Yearning never lost
Symphony of tremors

Fragrance of allure
Depth at the ready
Magical realism, sublime
Hungry for that touch

Extravagance of passion
Lucious nectar awaits these lips

Caressing that space between my cells
You have my heart
Your wisdom, endless gifts

This journey, taking me to the new where
Only illuminating light

G. Billie Quijano/Hija de East Los, Artista, Chula, Mestiza, Poeta, Provocateur, Renaissance Mujer, Chili Bomba, Veganista, Gitana Cosmica.

Evensong (reflections)
By Dean Okamura

there is a light
crossed darkness,
illuminations,
discoveries, rising
over fears.

sometimes
the night
is not
all darkness.

telling us
to not walk there,
if stumbling blocks
threaten, invite
final misfortune,
but not tonight :

we all can find
ways to overcome
the dreadful
clouds ahead,
a way around
as obstacles lie.

it’s not a race,
not a rush,
just a path
in deep shadows.

Dean Okamura resides in Torrance. He experiments with writing since he retired from engineering.

A TRADER JOE’S SUPERMARKET IN MANHATTAN
By Carl Stilwell aka CaLokie

I saw Walt Whitman at Trader Joe’s the other day. “Good
call,” he said smiling as I placed two five ounce cups
of Greek nonfat blueberry yogurt in my shopping cart.
“Delicious and healthy while only 130 calories.”

“Yeah,” I replied. “My stomach feels so good every
time I eat some and it doesn’t exit my body too hard
like an egg, potato, and cheese burrito nor loose as
chocolate candy bars or a bag of roasted peanuts.”

The Ancient Mariner from Samuel Coleridge’s poem
appeared. “Every year 8 million tons of plastic are dumped
into our oceans,” he said. “Plastics, plastics, every where while albatross chicks with bellies bloated with
plastic bits are dying of starvation.”

Mary Oliver pushed her shopping cart over.
“Did you know,” she said, “during the course of
their lives the albatross, while traveling thousands
of miles on their migratory journeys, spend up
to five years in the skies without touching land?”

“What’s does the mariners rime have to do with us?”
Whitman asked. “This store is too far from the ocean
and the plastic cup will most likely end in a landfill
after it’s thrown away.”

Dorothy Parker behind Mary Oliver said, “Whether thrown away
and ending in a landfill or the Great Pacific Garbage Patch,
it will take centuries for a plastic bottle to decompose
after a few minutes gulp of a soda pop.”

“Thank you for this information, Ms Parker,” Whitman said.
“Obviously, we the consumers of America need to recycle
more and throw away less.”

Edna St. Vincent Millay was shopping with Dorothy Parker
“What good would that do, Walt?” she asked? “Globally we
recycle less than 10% of all the plastic we produce.”

“When I was a kid,” I said, “I’d walk to a grocery store with
an empty quart of milk glass bottle and pay only 10¢ instead of
15¢ if I hadn’t brought the bottle. I don’t understand why they
stopped making glass bottles you can use for deposit today.”

Pablo Neruda hearing us from a refrigerated counter,
dropped a package of Chilean sea bass in his shopping bag
and said, “Es muy facil, companero. By reducing labor costs
which comes with the washing and reusing of glass bottles,
food and soda drink corporations make greater profits
increasing size of landfills and ocean plastic garbage
patches than manufacturing glass bottles which can
be used over and over again.”

Whitman shook his head. “I noticed your sea bass was wrapped
in plastic over a styrofoam rectangle plate, Pablo,”

Emily Dickinson wearing a gray house robe over a striped calico
dress and walking in slippers passed by. “That’s because
they don’t wrap meat in paper any more, Walt.”

Pablo Neruda was about to comment when
Thoreau rolled his cart by, “You mean to tell me
that for nearly 300,000 years we have lived without
plastics and all of a sudden, we can’t live without them.”

Allen Ginsberg walked in Trader Joe’s. “Hey, Walt baby,”
he said grinning!

“Hello, Allen,” Whitman smiled back.

“Do you still hear America singing,” Ginsberg asked?

Carl Stilwell aka CaLokie is a retired teacher who taught for over 30 years in the Los Angeles Unified school District. He was born during the depression in Oklahoma and came to California in 1959 and has lived here ever since. His pen name was inspired by the Joads struggle for survival in The Grapes of Wrath and the songs and life of Woody Guthrie. He has poems published in Altadena Poetry Review, Blue Collar Review, Four Feather’s Press, Lummox, Pearl, Prism, Revolutionary Poets Brigade--Los Angeles, Rise Up, Sequoyah Cherokee River Journal, The Sparring Artists, and TheNewVerse.News.

THE SNOWS OF YESTERYEAR
By David Fewster

O boy! Beyond Baroque Literary Arts Center
is having an event Sunday:
"Shaman's Blues: The Art and Influences Behind
Jim Morrison and the Doors"

Forty-five years ago,
snaggle-toothed junkies on Venice Boardwalk
looking for handouts used to try to impress
fresh-faced boys like me by saying
"Man, have you heard of the Doors? Well, I was
IN JAIL WITH JIM MORRISON!"

And you know what? All those guys are
DEAD NOW

David Fewster is a poet and musician living in Tacoma WA. Some of his current work can be seen on the 4 Feather Press blogspot.

"There is a Sunflower”
By Michelle Y. Smith
Ode to Christopher

His brown coffee
Countenance
Of disk florets
Is framed with maize petals
Cheery and happy-go-lucky
Spirit pollinates
Where he goes
He laughter contagious
His Colgate smile
Blooms in conversation
His body with roots
Of Nigerian American strength
Sprinkled with Melanesian
Native American
& Endo-European soil
Firmly planted for the feet
Evident is the stem
With green vibrant leaves
To shake hands
Arms widen for the best bear hug
You are wonderfully made
You grow and glow
To new heights and horizons
Can be seen for miles and miles
Van Gogh created a painting
There is a Sunflower
And son that is you.

Michelle Y. Smith is a Los Angeleno native and is like Stretch Armstrong, an action figure with many life, love, and laughter roles:

My heart is mother to an autistic son who is my more than my pride and joy. Sister, aunt, grand aunt, cousin, & friend.

My patience is my employment am a CNA and advocate for the developmentally and elderly disabled community.

Discovering My Life Beneath the Ashes
By Beth Baird

Time is a wildfire
Burned away the years
A pyre of memoirs fueled the blaze
Flames so high they touched the heavens
When the blaze ceases
Embers turn cold
I will go to reclaim what is left beneath the ashes
Bask in the light with my memories
….. My life gems
Crystalized by fire

Beth Baird poet, songwriter, musician, singer, writer, and actress. Her poetry book, Love & Other Myths, was released on the day her house was destroyed in the Eaton Fire. The book’s last poem was written in 2020 and eerily prophesied the loss of her house. Her poetry appears in Altadena Poetry Review, Altadena Literary Review, We Are Here: Village Poets Anthology, Spectrum Publishing, On Sunday the Danube Flows (Serbian Writer’s Association). Beth read at the 2018 International Writer’s Meeting in Belgrade and toured throughout Serbia. She was a 2021 Pushcart Prize Nominee

This Universe
Poem by Marieta Maglas

In this enigmatic universe, the perceptions is
like a vivid canvas carved upon the retina;
a dance of colors; reflections of the thought.
The stars’ songs whirl like the symphonic

notes; recurrence, rumination, reverberation.
This cosmos seems to be immutable.
A green comet looks like a gargantuan
emerald misplaced within the welkin;

lifeless; becoming wishy-washy; A green
comet doesn’t hold life; only glycine.
Life flows through the leaves; pulse within
the petals of a bloom. It is ebullient in this

well-thought-out created world, which is full
of anguish and many calaboose cells; farewells.
All thoughts glimmer like the far-off stars or
contract like the black holes but only up to a

certain point. All musings spring forward from
the well of the Sacred Insight; a surreal painting
upon the texture of our minds; I love this
universe holding the sacrosanct truths.

Marieta Maglas resides in France, where she pursues dual careers as a poet and a doctor. The MockingOwl, Roost, Lothlorien Journal, Verse-Virtual, Masticadores Canada, Silver Birch Press, Kingfisher Poetry, Dashboard Horus, Coin-Operated Press, Mayari Literature, Synchronized Chaos,Al-Khemia Poetica, PentaCat Press, Journal of the Akita International Haiku Network, and others published her poems in anthologies like Near Kin: A Collection of Words and Art Inspired by Octavia Estelle Butler, The Cardinal Anthology Vol. 3, and Ain’t no Deadbeats Around Here. She is the author of the poetry book entitled Cubic Words.

Thank you 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

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

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

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

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

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

March Poet's Place

March 06, 2025

POETS PLACE
MARCH EDITION 2025

Here we are people in the midst of a crumbling American world of NO MORE freedom for all. Where billionaires are lauded and federal employees are canned. Where is Superman when we desperately need him?? Fighting for truth and justice the American Way!!! I am so hungry for a super hero about now. Bernie Sanders and AOC come to mind. But do they really have the power? What I’m investing in is boycotting. Ultimately boycotting doesn’t hurt the real pockets of the greedy monsters, but it does show solidarity against the regime which they cannot buy. People are seriously in trouble now. I have no idea where and how far this destruction of our American values is going, and I am scared shitless. Some of my friends are thinking about buying guns to protect themselves when the idiots come a knocking. I think it will get worse before it gets better. When it comes a knocking on those in the upper 1% maybe then things will take a turn, but IDK. I just don’t know. That sense of helplessness creeps in at all hours of the day and night like ticks burrowing in your skin whilst romping freely in the fields when you think all is safe.

And thank goodness we are still here at POETS PLACE giving y’all a safe place to share your words!!!

Here ya go…

By Tom Robbins- excerpt from Half Asleep in Frog Pajamas
2003 (RIP 2025)

“We, modern human beings are looking at life, trying to make some sense of it: observing a “reality that often seems to be unfolding in a foreign tongue-only we’ve all been issued the wrong librettos. For a text were given the Bible. Or the Talmud or the Koran. We’re given Time magazine and readers digest, Daily papers, and the 6 o’clock news; Were given school books, sitcoms, and revisionist histories; we’re given psychological counseling, cults, workshops, advertisements, sales pitches and authoritative pronouncements by pundits, sold- out scientists, political activists, and heads of state. Unfortunately, none of these translations bears more than a faint resemblance to what is transpiring in the true theater of existence, and most of them are dangerously misleading. We are attempting to comprehend the spiraling intricacies of the magnificently complex, tragic comedy with librettos that describe barroom melodramas or kindergarten skits.”

Los Angeles Fire
by Ricardo Tomasz

I do not fear a fire.
A fire cannot strip away my rights,
cannot exile my family,
cannot shackle me behind cold bars.

A fire cannot taunt my nephews
or summon mobs wielding hate
like torches in the night.

A fire cannot declare me
an enemy of the people,
cannot sever the threads
of connection binding me to friends
across invisible wires.

A fire cannot bleed me dry,
cannot raise the price
of breath and beating hearts,
cannot undo centuries of struggle
etched in law
cannot snatch the booksfrom my hands or
dreams from my horizon.

A fire cannot bruise immigrants’ bodies,
cannot defile their children’s innocence.
A fire cannot hunt refugees,
cannot cage humanity and call it law & order.

A fire cannot churn earth’s veins
for oil to gild the coffers of kings.
A fire cannot whisper lies
about who you are,
cannot make the air heavier
wherever you walk.

A fire cannot hoist
traitors’ names on monuments,
cannot rewrite history in smoke.

No, I do not fear a fire.
The fire is honest.
It burns, but it does not deceive.

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.

rifles
by jerry the priest

limits come and limits go
just like umbrellas--we leave one here
forget one there...

were it in my power I swear
we'd all forget our limbs, levitate
and burst into rainbow-colored flames

because little is constant besides heat waves
and nothing is real but showing up
unashamed

my feet this morning kissed by the ocean!
my shoes drenched in laughter, my fears
provoking giggles

not because my problems are solved
but because they aren't tangible at all

nor am i
my desires
my petty dreads

It's all raindrops!
It's a flock of pelicans winging by overhead
it's a prized umbrella left on the bus

not by accident, as there are none
but by mistake--you see, I happen to know
mistakes happen by the ton

and our limits
are blindfolded trifles

at dawn we kiss, then part

love shoots them
through the heart

with rifles!

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.

even brighter than the sun
by linda m. crate

i keep on fighting,
resisting;
going despite the fact
i am tired—

because i know giving up
and giving in is just how
we lose our rights,

but it is exhausting
how humanity would rather
stamp everyone in the same
boring image rather than
allow everyone to exist as how
they are meant to be;

every bird is a different color,
rainbows have various vibrant hues,
sky blue is sometimes paler
or brighter depending on the day—

everyone should be able
to have the right to exist,

because who is anyone
to deny another human their
humanity?

i tire of all these monsters,
all these nightmares;
every shade who calls himself a man
who would stamp out those whom
he deems unworthy—

i am sick of inequality, cruelty,
genocide, war, death, famine,
and disease;

i am sick of the greed of those
with much who deny the right to live
to those struggling without because the
earth has more than enough for all
of us—

but they want to control every
aspect of my life as if they have any right,

my rage burns brighter
than their hatred;
brighter than their fireworks,
and even brighter than the sun.

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 in Spring of 2024 (Alien Buddha Publishing, May 2024). Her latest collection mantle lake (Alien Buddha Publishing, February 2025) is a mix of photography and poetry.

Starstruck
By Alex S. Johnson

The turning tide smiles
and lifts a feathered talon towards the sun

Adorned in dripping robes of tears and laughter
she faces the final moonphase with tender regard

Marilyn's dreaming over the Pacific ocean beneath the blanket of night

Studded with crucifixes, her eyes beam love from quantum nodal pulsepoints

Enraptured in her mother's arms, a study in ecstatic terror
as she watches her body aborted into the stunned and flayed rocketship of ashes

She hasn't got a prayer, and nobody can save her, not a nation's
yearning

Nor the thick bands of lust that wrap her body like serpents
Dragging her down to hell with

Hugh Hefner standing
Sentinel at her

Grave.

The pitch shifts to vampiric blast,
a small boy watches outside a

Funeral parlor as his masked uncle
shapeshifts his way through stellar routines

He's becoming his own best vampire self
He's becoming a surreal pawn in a shop full of drag queens styled as
chess figures

He's becoming his own rockstar funeral arrangements, with lines of
speed snorted over his coffin

He's becoming a hood ornament for a gangster's limousine

He's becoming a grey cloud or a pink mist or a rainbow slicing her to

Ribbons

He's becoming colors for which science doesn't have a name

She's becoming the fabulous opera Rimbaud never foresaw

She's raising the collective paw like Ellyn Maybe or

Not...

It all depends, X marks the pedwalk.

He's twisting and turning in the middle of the vortex of the factory that
manufactures spotlights and screams

She's scrambling down the lines of haunted

Circuitry

He's presenting a sacred dance to honor Shiva

She's proofreading a chapbook in

Honor of

Charles Bukowski

He's

Hammering out some

Lines until they

Resemble

Shakespeare in a dove-cloud skirting

Quantum

Entanglement, she's

Raptured back to the

Source with

A new, desolating

Taroc pack

With her

Eyes like

Wet leather she

changes things with her

yawning pupils she

Teaches at the academy of

Opium dreams she

Opens the

Book and

Reads colors, sounds and

Glistening vulva he

Leans down to whisper in

The ear of her

Spine.

John Shirley, Bram Stoker Award-winning author and screenwriter of the cult classic 1994 horror thriller The Crow, said of Alex S. Johnson that he is "the Baudelaire of our time; the poet of the underground." His work has appeared in print alongside such luminaries as Charles Bukowski, Allen Ginsberg, Poppy Z. Brite, Joe Hill, Ramsey Campbell, Kari Lee Krome, Caitln R. Kiernan, and Jarboe. Johnson is the creator of the Sweet Relief Musician's fund anthology Burning Hearts, and is the subject of the eponymous meta-documentary by the award-winning director/producer/poet Vanessa H. Smith, which will be filmed live on location in L.A. beginning with a reading at the world-renowned literary arts center Beyond Baroque, which has hosted readings by the likes of Patti Smith, Dennis Cooper, Viggo Mortensen, Exene Cervenka and U.S. Youth Poet Laureate Amanda Gorman. Johnson was mentored by Emeritus Executive Director of Beyond Baroque Richard Modiano, and poetry goddess Ellyn Maybe. He lives in Carmichael, California with his family.

Artwork: "Cyber-Marilyn" by Sandy DeLuca

Still Life
By Don Kingfisher Campbell

Flowers growing on a bush
so captivating my wife wanted
to cut off a few to put in a vase

I saw them and immediately
thought of taking a photo which
ended up looking like a painting

Captured purity of simple imagery:
black chair, white wall, glass pitcher
reflecting afternoon sunlight but

The pink petals and green leaves
are in this mind's spotlight making
me think of the history of all things

The aforementioned and a human
being both lovely in their temporary
bodies and ultimately just detritus

Enjoyed as a reminder that we
radiate inside and outside until
we create future objects of art

“Nudist Colony for Ring Fingers”
By Sam Hendrian

Glanced up at the ceiling
In the way a person does
When they hear their favorite song
On the coffee shop radio.

A purer form of temporary relief
Than food or mood-enhancing drugs,
The flash of a flashback smile
Radiating a room full of anti-adulting adults.

She figured her life would be over
As soon as she started dating
So she ironed her eyes with “Maybe”
And did not dare let them grow wrinkled.

There must be a nudist colony for ring fingers,
A place of connection for the purposefully disconnected
Who celebrate their independence
One closeted tear at a time.

Occasionally compensated with a public park or crowded hallway
But always wound up wondering what the point was
Since everyone was trained to instantly crop out
Evidence of human company.

Sometimes the only voice she heard all day
Was the elevator saying “Going up”
Which tempted her to go back down
Just to continue the conversation.

Sam Hendrian is a Los Angeles-based filmmaker and poet striving to foster empathy through art. Every Sunday, he writes personalized poems for passersby outside of Chevalier’s Books, LA’s oldest independent bookstore. You can find his poetry and film links on Instagram at @samhendrian143.

ASYLUM 1991
By Lisa Moncure

She had blood on her breasts
The redness smeared across her flesh
The white of her teeth flashed the crowd
The sea of smiling semen

The Queens had come to collect the prize
They waited impatiently off to the side
While desperate men and women
Grabbed at desire, unable to make a decision

Champagne drenched minds
Pranced around the room
Cleavage was on display
Like some competition
Breasts on the half shell

The men watched
As their daughters undressed
The daughters doing
as they've been told
Careful not to break
Their perfect mold

The sounds of expected laughter
Fill the room
And it becomes more clear
Why Anita was doomed

Lisa Moncure, raised in North Carolina, with stints in Key West, Telluride and NYC, has made Los Angeles home base since 1985. For many years, Moncure has worked as an actor and filmmaker, writing has been a part of her life since a teenager. This poem was inspired by the the Senate hearings for Clarence Thomas and Moncure's observations at a debacherous A-list Halloween event in Beverly Hills in 1991. Her band Carnal Circus, performs some of her other poems, turned into song.

Snerf
By Lee Boek

Rabbit says to Squirrel, “Let’s go for a whirl,

let’s run around the hill and the wild flowers.”

They do.

Snerf comes along wanting to play, saying,

“Can ah play wit chu guys?”

Rabbit looks at Squirrel. Squirrel looks at

Rabbit. They both wiggle their noses. Each of

them knows what will happen when they play

with Snerf. Dog will see them running and will

instinctually chase them. It has happened

before. It isn’t that they’re so afraid of Dog, they

know they can outrun him anytime. But Snerf,

Snerf will want to run along with them and

Snerf will be spraying out that terrible, horrible

smelling stuff all over everybody. Then they’ll

have to run and jump into the creek and it may

be too cold. But then again, it may not. It is a

real sunny day, birds singing, the first day of

spring. It might be warm enough for a dip..

A twinkle came to Rabbit’s eyes. A twinkle

came to Squirrel’s eyes. “Why not?” they cry as

all three of them run, jumping and jiving in the

tall grass and wild flowers, laughing and

singing, as they head down the hill to the creek.

Sure enough here comes Dog a running right

on cue; barking and growling like he just

couldn’t wait to catch himself a rabbit, or a

squirrel or a…Snerf?

They start running and as they run Snerf starts

spraying like crazy and he just keeps on

spraying ‘til they hit Cow Creek and they all

jump in, even Dog jumps in, because by now he

can’t even stand himself. “Phew!”

They all know that the creek is the only way

they have of getting that terrible smell off of

them. The water is just perfect, and such a

relief. It’s so refreshing and such frolicsome fun

that Dog no longer remembers his hunting

instincts. He loses all interest in catching Rabbit

and Squirrel and certainly has no interest in

catching Snerf.

Snerf doesn’t spray the rest of the day as they

all enjoy swimming, rolling around on dead fish

and lying in the warm spring sun.

"60"
4:05 a.m.
11-14-2024
By Mary Cheung

60 has passed, oh boy was that fast.
Those first 60 years,
Are bringing on tears.

Cuz I just can't believe,
How quickly it all went by.
My youth is all gone,
in an blink of an eye.

Not sure how I feel.. cuz it just doesn't seem real.
Up to 18 seemed to take forever.
21 was an exciting endeavor.

35, I was sowing my oats.
Into my 40's, a motherhood I rewrote.
50's was just a chore, to juggle work and a family that I adore.

And now that 60 is here....
Life is finally just about me.
Pursuing my dreams, living my life carefree.

So from here and beyond...
Uncertain and unsure of how I feel
Cuz my body didn't feel as it should.
In my head, I'm still as a spry as a 30 something would.

But the price is high whenever I try.
To do all that my younger me could.
Only to suffer when my vitality dies
When I push beyond my physical means
Living all of my younger me dreams.

And now I realize, that it's time to adjust again..
My life, my hopes, my dreams, my old friend.
I'll learn to adapt this new, Old me.
And embrace all the things that being 60, can be.

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."

Love’s Base Camp
By R.G. Carrillo

I had no king
The Laurel Canyon
Lady had her Blue
There was no Bill
To thrill me
With wedding bells
I was a Juliet
With a missing Romeo
He did not know
His lines
Our connections
Stuck in Sophomore
Vines of illusion
I was solo
Inventing a monologue
Written for two
He didn’t even
Read my secret script
Wrapped around
An incense stick
I didn’t fit
With his sensibility
I faded so young
To a sick history
I would not be
Sent away
To a shame
Factory
I hit the channel
Of love
After that miscarriage
With fervor
Independent ambition
I overshot
My goal
I was unaware
Of the craggy
Shoreline of Eros
Riptides that could drown
My spirit
Liberation from Frank
Left with a blank space
In my heart
I swam for my life
Love’s calm waters
Were deceiving
Retrieving
Something fundamental
But ever fleeting
A merman
With a golden tail
In a vast sea
Of confusion
A Mundo Meza painting
In black and white
Despite my fantasy flight
Still believing in love’s
Full composition
I am that dove
Looking for land
To build my nest
This life will test
My will
A discovery
Peace
Fidelity
Harmony
Of souls
Love’s illusive base camp
More like a murky swamp
Quicksand sinkholes
That take you down
To emotional depressions
Of heart and mind
The victims’ tears
Drop into pools
Of slow moving heartache
Youth’s ardor
In its first Spring
To uncover love’s
Golden treasures
Its initial steps
Toward the sweet pleasures
Is magical until your feet slip
The terrain of love
Is not without its obstacles
Tyranny of emotions
Get back to base camp
Beware of lurking predators
Tangling poisonous vines
Romantic venom
Like the sweet aroma
Of a Venus flytrap
The allure may cause
A loss of direction
The chemical attraction
May cause you to fall
Into a amorous bog
The green cobweb
Of Spanish moss
May override
Common sense
Find the true north
Of your desires
Stay on the path
Of righteousness
Return to the base camp
Of your true heart
There in the clearing
He\She will be
Ready with water
To hydrate your soul

Thank you 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

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!!

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/

February Poet's Place

February 06, 2025

POETS PLACE
FEBRUARY EDITION 2025

Aloha everyone! I’m writing from Hawaii! I took this opportunity to leave the mainland to clear my head from all the horrors. Fires which fanned across Los Angeles devastating Altadena and the Pacific Palisades as well as other surrounding areas. Our world has become more toxic than ever. We all know many who’ve been affected by the fires and its traumatic aftermath as well as the toxic fascist new regime. I cannot wrap my head around all this. I want to stay in the bliss of Aloha forever. I am staying away from the news as best as possible and only reading the mantras from the people who are helping us to survive in the milieu of hate and terror. I look out my Airbnb window in Waikiki to lush hills and the green masses of banyan and palm trees that gently sway and calm my nerves. The island rains come and go often stopping us in our tracks reminding us that the earth is a sacred place to respect when Mother nature speaks. I went to the town of Hale’iwa in the North Shore to see huge waves and expert surfers, only to be drowned out by a torrential storm. Soaked and drenched I found a local bar to dry off with a wet Mai tai and local fare. What’s next for us here in war torn America? I can imagine, but I’m trying not to. Let’s continue to celebrate each other and man the fort.

We have a stellar line up of writers here for your reading pleasure!!!

Love, Linda :0)

Woke as fuck
By Linda Kaye

Woke as fuck! She espoused whilst screaming
I’m woke as fuck why aren’t you!
You with the bug up your ass
You with the blindness of a bat
You who allows the violence and terrorism that is close to home
You who are given the same rights as us all have now deliberately fucked it all up Yeah.
Give it a minute and watch how we all come tumbling down

united states of discontent
by linda m. crate

i know it's not just me,
feel so discontent
in this country;

we're not united
in anything but our discontent—

never enough money
for libraries, schools, the starving,
the poor, the homeless, or the
elderly;

but there's always a surplus
for war—

even money to deport
average, every day people
even those who are legal citizens
simply because they're not white;

this country is a laughing stock
and an embarrassment—

they used to have us pledge
allegiance and we'd end it with:
"justice and liberty for all";

but where is the justice or the liberty?

i have so much rage and so much
fear and so many tears,
they promised me a better country when
i was a child; they didn't promise me
this ruined and dying earth.

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. She is also the author of the novella Mates (Alien Buddha Publishing, March 2022) and published a debut collection of photography Songs of the Creek (Alien Buddha Publishing, April 2023).

En Famille
by Alex S. Johnson

She scratched at the back of her neck, felt him behind her. Something paralytic, a long, slow, deadly hum. Purring. The cat inside.

"What's..." Ed began, but he knew better. He really did.

"The baby...did you..."

"What?"

"Never mind," Anna said. "I'll do it." And, under her breath, "I'll always have to do it. Fill in for this man-child. For the rest of our natural lives, or until..."

Many times lately, phrases, half-sentences bitten off, suppressed, gargled down, swilled like mouthwash. Shots fired, taken. Anybody for Happy Hour? That would be this bitch.

She hadn't been happy for a long time, and it wasn't just her precipitous marriage to her junior high school sweetheart, before her growth spurt kicked in along with a surge of her latent genius. Some demon hound was at her back, telling her that this Black girl needed to excel far beyond what she believed her capacity could ever be. First in her family to attend college, and that was Smith, a full scholarship: Comparative Literature, Italian and French.

She still felt and always would feel like that ratty-haired, skinny Black chick from the Hood. She only had a few close friends who shared her enthusiasm for authors like Harlan Ellison, D. Harlan Wilson, Chris Kelso and Poppy Z. Brite. To her mind they hearkened back to the Dada and Surrealist writers of the teens, twenties and thirties. She had paroxysms of delight reading them. She was instantly thrown off and away from the grim reality of her surroundings, literally picking the best way to school that would avoid the body dumping park and the drive-by shooters. She found syringes, crumpled pages from porn mags, empty malt liquor bottles, spent cartridges on her travels. She bit her lip till it bled, trying to tamp down the emotions these sights bloomed in her heart.

She would make it, whatever the cost, sew her labia shut, ignore the hard radioactive pulse of lust, drown herself in the symphonic heavy metal her classmates thought she was wiggy for enjoying, just as much as she treasured grindcore, techno and industrial goth like Jarboe, Deathrock: 45 Grave, Christian Death, and, naturally, her beloved Bauhaus and Siouxsie.

She was violently returned to the scene of the familial crime in progress as she bent over her three months' old's cradle, his wrinkly prune face, his white on whiteness, not even a sprig of Black hair...he looked exactly like Ed's ne'er do well cousin Garrett, the boy born without a spine, who had joined a cult in Portland, Oregon and locked himself into a perpetually losing-and lost-relationship with people who threatened him with cancelation if he strayed outside their circle. But fuck that guy anyway, right, just fuck him...and yet, her boy, her flesh and blood..,she sighed.

Ed had wandered away meanwhile, and she heard him quietly sobbing and pounding against the walls. For all the differences between them, of race, intellectual aptitude, curiosity, capacity, there had always been something about Ed above and beyond the hot currents that bound then at the crotch and resulted in Sanders.

Little Sanders.

It was terrible, and she wished for crib death or some apocalypse, and the lightning and thunder crackled in her veins, and then all of a sudden she awoke to find herself bent over the chopping board where she'd made herself and Ed sandwiches...she was a terrible chef, and incompetent at that as Ed was efficient, indeed gifted as a construction worker and anything handy and crafty.

She came up behind him and embraced him. He grunted and didn't turn around, but she felt his energy working through her and surrounding her and Sanders in the next room, and she thought maybe, just maybe, things might be ok.

Alex S. Johnson is the author of many books, including the critically-acclaimed poetry and prose collection THE DOOM HIPPIES and SKULL VINYL: POEMS 2012-2017, acquired in 2024 by the Widener Library at Harvard University. His life, career and associates is the subject of a major documentary film by award-winning director and producer Vanessa Hedwig Smith, with whom he is also collaborating in Burning Hearts: A Wildfire Relief Documentary, with filming to take place live at Los Angeles venues such as The Last Bookstore and Beyond Baroque. Alex's forthcoming books include the cybernoir horror thriller MISTRESS OF GRAVES. He lives in Carmichael, California with his family.

a madrigal
by jerry the priest

Don't fake it
said the ageless,
ravaged passenger, frayed
about the edges with
silvering onyx toupee

Who, returning
from a botched performance
in Alaska's fisheries, somberly
advised me in the Amtrak
lounge car enroute
from Seattle to Whitefish

Oh! If that man's scars
could only have talked.
What proud suffering! What fine
indignity. Countenance draped
from defeat by his own weariness

hung carelessly from eye sockets
carved by low spirits, propped up
like the scenery in a Hollywood backlot
Don't fake it, cried the voice of injustice.

Flow with incontinent joy
like a flood of quicksilver.
There is sorrow enough without
you should squander your fierce
constant of breathing.

Drop that posture and cast off,
sponsor of your own torment, clasping
fallacious anchors to drown
in mirages of subversive counterfeit.

Don't fake it
creaked every bone
in my flesh, a madrigal
of outraged dissent, as I donned
yet another disguise.

We've toiled without rest
these 29 seasons, lugging
cumbersome pretense at your
dull insistence, Knock it off!

We're brittle, having groaned
under liberties that weren't yours
to take and you owe us. You Owe Us
Don't fake it
Don't fake it

Don't fake it
she echoed softly, as
I held her naked to my breast
in that broke down motel room
hours before Greyhound took her

all of 19, a young woman
who had not been impressed
by deceit. She slept smooth as a rock
as I watch every last second
get up and leave, and

Oh! If my tears could only have talked.

Opulent Mobility: Re-imagine Disability as Opulent and Powerful
Introduction by A. Laura Brody

This is the story of an exhibit that re-imagines disability as opulent and powerful. It tells how it grew from a tiny art show that almost disappeared to an annual, international exhibition featuring artists from around the United States and around the world. It is a tale told through disability art, how it is viewed in our culture, and what it might become instead. It is about community. And it is also a story of my coming to terms with my own disability.

Hi. I’m A. Laura Brody, the founder of Opulent Mobility. My vision for these exhibits is a world where disability is celebrated instead of denied, ignored, and feared. This idea began after a former partner had a stroke. I was fascinated by the devices that helped them get around, but was shocked at their impersonal ugliness. With the help of a wheelchair-using friend, I turned an old wheelchair into an Edwardian throne (Driven) and Opulent Mobility was born.

After making my next piece (Le Flaneur) I struggled to find places to show my work. Many galleries are not wheelchair accessible. In spite of the good work of the ADA, a lot of places aren't access friendly. After discovering how hard it was to make my sculptures safe and functional, I did some research about wheelchair and walker designs. There are quite a few patents online for imaginative and innovative assistive technology devices… and almost none of those designs are available for sale on the market.

It was clear that this problem was larger than I thought. I decided to curate group exhibits dealing with the subject. Maybe I could find kindred spirits; fellow artists and people who could help me maneuver the tricky paths of medical licensing and make these fabulous devices a reality. At the very least it would get people talking about the subject. Along the way, I have been coming to grips with my own so-called “invisible” disabilities.

Sharing this exhibit and these ideas is the best way I know to get that conversation started. After all, we have to be able to see the possibilities before we know we want them.

Laura Brody sculpts for the human body and its vehicles. She is the founder of Opulent Mobility, a series of exhibits that re-imagine disability as opulent and ]powerful. She is also the host of Genius Teatime, a series of talks that explore fascinating folks from all walks of life. Brody began her professional career as a costume designer and maker, working in film, television, opera, dance, and cosplay. She changed course many times but kept returning to art making, community learning, and social justice. Her artwork has been shown at ACE/121 Gallery, Art Share LA, Brea Gallery, California State University Northridge, the Charles River Museum of Industry, the Dora Stern Gallery, Ikouii Creative, the Los Angeles Makery, Westbeth Center For the Arts, and The World of Wearable Art. Opulent Mobility has shown at the Mike Curb Gallery at CSUN, Thymele Arts, Arts Unbound, AVC Gallery, online, and The Los Angeles Makery, and is scheduled to show at Brand Library in 2025 for the exhibit’s 10 year anniversary.

In Dreams We meet
1-25-2025
7:53 a.m.
By Mary Cheung

Your hand gripping mine, meat and flesh,
Bony and skeletal.
I try to massage your hand to work out the knots and tension.
I feel the beating of your heart, the pulse in your hand.
And I wonder how that can be.

I can't see you, your hand is all that I have to connect me to you still.

I start to shake and cry.
For the guilt and shame that I feel.
For being sorry.
For being too late.
For being such a poor daughter.
For missing out on the opportunity to spend more time with you.
For the missed opportunities, to show you how much I cared.
For missing the chance to tell you, “I love you” and… "sorry".

I feel his forgiveness. I feel his love still.
I treasure these precious moments when he still comes to me and talks to me,
In dreams so real. I wake, shaking and sobbing.
Part sorrow, part joy that I still get this.

I love you Dad. I wish I would of told you.
I wish you didn't scare us so much when we were young.
Our Chinese culture and upbringing, kept us from telling you.
You demanded respect and obedience.
Ever strict, a high standard, and hard to please.
Mom was the gentle balance to you.
Huggable, approachable and understanding.
The balance to your harsh and hard parenting.
Even so, I remember all of the soft moments you had and showed me..

Like how you took me out shopping,
For whatever I would need as I prepared to move away, to L.A.
For school and to start my new life away from home, from you.
All that I ended up choosing that day,
Was, a toilet bowl scrubbing set.
You asked me; was that all I needed?
And I said yes.

It was all that I was willing to spend of your hard-earned money.
Then you took me to buy some cocktail buns.
Along with my other Chinese favorite baked goods like,
“Dan thot”. (spelled phonetically; An egg custard in a flaky pastry bun.)

And that was how I knew you loved me.
That is how you showed your love.
Not with words but with your gestures.
Gestures, that I missed showing you in your final days.
And I am sorry that I never can now.

Our final words were of anger.
Because you were hurt.
That, I didn't take more time to see you and spend time with you.
Instead, I was so caught up with my new life and my needs,
That I forgot about yours.

And all you wanted from me,
Was time together.
Time, as a gesture to show you,
That I loved you as you have always loved me.

I'll see you again soon,
in my dreams to spend some time…….

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."

Plenty of Fish
By R. G. Carrillo

Plenty of fish
In the sea
My pond empty
Of any fresh catch
Swimming upstream
With senior salmon
So few men
No longer to spawn
Running out of time
My world
Becoming ever smaller
Down to fractals
A dwindling timeline
Was it with 20 years left
I met you Linda
Now down to ten
Dear poet friend
Bombarded with media
Chronicling wars
Murder fires injustice
Technology set to destroy
The planet
Summits
Peace talks
With evil leaders
Going the way of Rome
Bend the knee
To our first Caesar
An apprentice dictator
Wealthy discontents
Serving self interests
Wanting ever more
Like locusts
These millionaires
Eating up the Earth
A national debt
Skyrocketing
Spend to oblivion
Economic chickens
Coming home to roost
Once a great country
Now on the brink
Democracy on the endangered list
Freedom going instinct
The wealthy getting wealthier
The middle class declining
The poor in survival mode
Can we turn
The American ship around
Before it hits
An iceberg

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.

Apotheosis of the Bully
By Marilyn Fuss
February 2025

The king of denial
with reluctant Cleopatra hiding in plain sight.
George III a minor annoyance to compare, 249 years ago--
What was the point in leaving? One just might question.
It's known that cruelty emanates from
parental non-stop non-approval.
"You are enough," is a healing 12-step conclusion,
but his message must have been you are not.
Constant household tele-exposure as century opened, proved as preparation-- a
subliminal agitprop directing to follow the familiar.
Though the one who did the firing ventured on to convince the fray he was one of us--what an oxymoron!
The misled audience had bad dads, and he fit, as he cavilled over birthright of
a President
"Billionaire populist," spits a hardworking friend, not sidetracked today.
We're told we're victims of a deep state, whatever that is.
Last time, lies and force and no heart led to caged orphans in a new kind of Passage--
a backward kidnap.
Older youth deprived of their dreams by being cast out.
Too many assaulted women with nary an acknowledgement of guilt..any old words were employed to erase their cred.
And who was it that thought to promote and realize a traveling gibbet for the most loyal side man?
Clemency for those destroyers, the would-be executioners. Ignoring the Rule of Law, promoting anarchy right within the authoritarian frame
The aim of inclusion of the century past, that incipient solidarity, aspiring brother-and-sisterhood, smashing to granules.
Science was tossed out the hermetically sealed window, save for what passes through the
head of an obliging oligarch.
Fragile, imperiled Earth not given a blink, just more boring into its steaming surface, both
land and sea.
Safety agencies? For what?
Rise fall rise, the trajectory of predecessors in evil.
A counter-Robin Hood seeks to know
what more can be done to take from the poor and top-off the privileged?

Marilyn Fuss has spent most of her life in Los Angeles, and is a lover of the environment, natural and created, as well as being a self-described art fly.

Justice, other humans, and pets are important to her.

Feliz Dia de San Valentin
By G. Billie Quijano

My gold lame dress is ready
Blood red lipstick colors my lips, waiting on my vanity
The love vibration clutching at my sanity

There is a shrine in my Corazon
In meditation I am in the cosmic zone
Art is rhythm, survival fearless
It’s energy throbs in me
Ebbs and flows
I am standing in the glow

I am the architect of my own being
Sangre knows no bounds
Jazz cemented in the sounds

There was a charge, moment to moment
Silence in fragments
Poetry fragrant

Words not enough
Caresses locked in the vault of memories
The salt in my tears cease to dissolve
Grief refused to be absolved

A marriage of soul
Palabras swoon and make me whole

Colores, imagination makes my rebozo dance and swirl
It’s an echo felt round the world

My hips sassy and sway
All my emotions on display

My skin is hungry
Dreams are sublime
Wherever love meets
My heart is eternally fine

Wellness and abundance
Are flowing in my life
Spirit embraces me with eternal guidance

So my black high heels
Will once again roar
All my passions will flood and soar

Everyday is filled with reds and pinks
Your love and affections, oh so sweet
Keep me in your hearts

I repeat
Your love and affections, oh so sweet

G. Billie Quijano-Mestiza, Hija de East Los, Palabra Mujer, Assemblage Artist, Photographer. Instigator of beauty, Bruja, Reina, Gitana, Love Gangster

Thank you 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

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www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

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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://

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January Poet's Place

January 06, 2025

POETS PLACE
JANUARY 2025

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!! We are in for a new and exciting time ahead!! I’m so ready to watch the shit show unfold! As I’ve probably mentioned we are fortunate here in California to live in a sanctuary state. I’m hoping Newsom can protect our immigrants and foreigners from deportation. I don’t want to put my head in the sand but I may have to if we get covered up in shit!

Here we go…… All aboard the rides about to start!!!!

In protest of the new fascism authoritarian regime
By Linda Kaye

Soon the poets will be censored from expressing free speech

Soon some of us will summon death to escape the horrors of life

In protest I remain in my country as did the Russian poet Anna Akhmatova writing in secrecy under constant threat of search and arrest during Stalin’s terror

My way of thinking my values as an American my rights my freedoms are no longer popular

Idiocracy has replaced Democracy

We will no longer be the land of the free

And crown thy good with brotherhood from sea to shining sea

I hear what you won’t tell me
By Anna Mathai

You guess what I won’t say,

So we walk along this path together, only silence on the way.

The fog hangs low above us,

Through a forest of muffled howls,

As we carry on in-quiet

To a trap that’s only ours.

An owl puts one foot slowly down,

As we drink up all the still,

While it coups if you don’t know by now,

maybe you never will.

Anna Mathai is an Indian-American multidisciplinary artist based in Los Angeles, California. She frequently uses Venetian plaster and other plasters in her work. Her abstract works reference both the natural world and our internal ‘landscapes’ of emotion, blurring both real and intangible. . She often touches on concepts of femininity, rebellion, and otherness, with a touch of mysticality, in her figurative work. By pairing her writing with her visual art practice, Mathai creates an extra dimension in which viewers can experience her art and a loose construct to guide their own internal process of understanding. Mathai was born in the UK, but spent most of her childhood in the rural Deep South, which heavily influenced the concepts she explores in her art. Her work has been awarded, published, and exhibited globally. You can find her at www.byMathai.com or on Instagram @byMathai.

THE THING IS
By Mary Cheung
3 a.m.
12-31-2024

The thing is,

when you look back.

At pictures of your youth,

Of an unblemished and baby soft skin..

You reflect back at your life.

Oh,

How innocent and inexperienced you were.

Doe eyed.

Smooth, unrumpled and bland.

Plump and full of energy and youth.

But it still wasn't as,

Or ever could be...

As full and flavorful as it is not.

Ripened and matured.

Seasoned to perfection.

Through everything in your life.

And everything along the way,

That gave you every wrinkle,

Every age spot, every creek of your bones and joints.

And perfected it, to what it is now.

I get it now.

Why that 100 yr old brandy costs soooo much.

And that 10 yr old scotch....

Pales in comparison,

And could never match up to the other.

Still it's hard,

To not think sometimes,

That you might of lost something.

When the past reminds you of the vanity,

Of that youth.

Until you taste, the sourness

of that smooth, unripe plum.

And the unpleasantness of that,

jolts you into the realization,

Of how much more desirable you are now.

More beneath the surface.

More surprising,

More pleasant,

More to savor,

More to behold,

More tantalizing,

More lasting,

More bold.

The things is....

That's what we have to remember.

That it took Age....

To shape our perfection.

And will continue to.

So accept it,

Embrace it.

Let your life continue to unfold..

It only gets better.

Your spirit can never get old.

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."

WALKING HOME
by jerry the priest

at dawn, walking home

the highway reminds me of thumbing rides

out of St. Louis that Easter.

My fingers ached from the cold

but that's nothing to the pain between us.

It's three months since our first kiss.

I'd rather have died of grief

than known the difficulty of loving you.

last night, you finally showed up

I saw the whole thing, as for once

I forgot to shut my eyes.

The morning sky through bare trees

reminds me of walking at dawn

in the hills outside Boseman

I cursed my luck and questioned god.

but that's nothing to the tantrums

I threw on your behalf.

It's two months now, since the rape trial.

I's rather have bled from every hole

than compounded that mistake

last night, you forgot to distrust me.

I caught the whole show, as for once

you failed to run screaming

Walking home, this cul de sac

reminds me of Halifax in November

by bicycle, at dawn.

It was a real kick in the ass.

but that's nothing to the walls

that fell last night.

It's one month, only,

since you clubbed me with that 2x4.

I'll exhaust every sunrise

for another breath of you.

Still by Alex S. Johnson

The wheel revolves, and we

mutter

Blasphemies, small palms to

close the sun's mouth.

Everything froze. A lamp burst open and

shook its gory seeds

Like a hand of glory burning the midnight oil,

clutching an old

Photograph.

Burning, where it starts at the

edge and

Tip-toes its way to the two sewn-shut

Lips

In the sky above the

Final hill

The dying begins now, and

aching hearts thunder the

Split skies. Who knew, who foresaw

Agony upon

Agony without a

Clear

Resolution, not even a blue

speckle of

Your laughter

A hand of dust explodes in space

like a dove blackened by solar winds

Melancholia sweeps her dark wings

above the endless ribbon of graves.

Alex S. Johnson's biggest inspiration was seeing Allen Ginsberg read "Plutonian Ode" at the Whole Earth Festival when he was 14 years old. This began a journey that continues to this day. At 58 years old, he is the publisher of Nocturnicorn Books, a boutique imprint that works with the elite of the literary world, including such names as Ellyn Maybe, Poppy Z. Brite, Aram Saroyan, Helene Cardona, Caitlin R. Kiernan, David J. Haskins (BAUHAUS), Kari Lee Krome (THE RUNAWAYS) and Jarboe (SWANS). He and his partner in crime Alea Celeste Williams have numerous projects in store for readers in 2025. Alex's forthcoming books include WHITE ON WHITE: A LITERARY TRIBUTE TO BAUHAUS, a brand-new dark satire collection titled TWILIGHT OF THE DOOM HIPPIES (Horror Sleaze Trash Publications) and various collaborations with Juliet Cook, Daniel G. Snethen, Nolcha Fox, Barbara Harris Leonhard, Michelle Fairchild, Jeremy Reed, Sandy DeLuca and Catfish McDaris, among others. Johnson lives in Carmichael, California with his family.

Three Winter Haiku
By Sonny Tristan

Winter without snow

My duvet has depression

White foam fades in sand

Skies turn more grey now

People act like grey is bad

Winter’s finest shade

Winter won’t talk much

Does quiet mean death or peace?

We’ll hear more come Spring

Sonny Tristan started writing poetry when the world stopped. He spent decades artist adjacent, works daily using words, enjoys making poetry, reading it, hearing it, and being unsure of its, or his, destination. He remains super impressed with other people’s lives and thinks daily about maybe getting one of his own.

2025
By G. Billie Quijano

A palette of palabras

Manifestation of new dreams

Closure, reflection, renewal

Align, connect rhythms, cosmic harmony

Ancestral whispers

Celestial occurrence

Tradition, tapestry of soul

Inner knowing

Magic ignites

Release declaration into the divine

Spirit journeys, known and unknown

Sacred soil embraces corazón vibration

Listen to echoes of stillness

Madre universo, muse

Gratitude for blessing we receive

Poetry of affirmations

The nuance of vida

Oracles of enlightenment

Collage of consciousness

Dance into power

Run towards love

Drink the nectar of paletas

Within colores, can beauty come

Synthesis of truth

Operas of freedom

Swagger of imagination

Gangster in thought

Fragrance of allure

And with this palette of palabras

A bond of conexion…

G. Billie Quijano-Artista, Chula, Mestiza, Poeta, Provocateur, Renaissance Mujer

"Growing Up Straight and Catholic”
By Champion ElCid

Greetings All!

In an attempt to talk a bit more about myself, I thought to start posting a few journals about my life. Normally I would be extremely hesitant to do this as I've said before I am a pretty private person in real life and don't talk much about myself at all. There are very few people who know me and who also know everything about me and that's mostly by my choice, since this is the internet though and I am posting under a name I thought maybe it was time to share a few things. Again almost no one I know IRL even knows I write or what my name on the internet is (I think there are only about 3 people who know my internet name) so I am still a bit removed from what I post here. I guess another reason I wanted to post about some events in my life is honestly because I don't really talk about them with people. I guess a part of me maybe wants to talk about some of these things but it's always a bit hard talking about them with people you know, cause you're worried about what they might think. I had actually meant to post this one during June in pride month as while I'm not gay or Bi, I had wanted to post my perspective (as a straight person) on what I was told growing up about gay people, and how I came to change my mind on that issue. Also while I have an idea of what I want to talk about in this journal entry I also am kind of writing it as I feel it, so I apologize if it feels a little incoherent.

I guess to start with let me say I am a straight Latino guy (if you didn't already know that or were curious) and I was raised in a Catholic family. I actually did go to a private school that had a dress code like the one Anne goes to. (which is why I know there's no way they would ever let Luz wear her leggings as part of the uniform) and went to Church every Sunday. Now I know recently the church has tried to "have it both ways" in regards to gay people but let me tell you that growing up at least I was ALWAYS taught that gay people were sinners by priests, nuns, and teachers. So when I see now that the church is trying to "backpedal" that issue it already disgusts me because I know what I was taught and now you want to try and say "no that isn't what we said" so let me just say to all you young Catholics out there that whatever the church may be trying to say now, just know that it wasn't what they said back then.

I guess while we're on the subject let me talk a bit about the real life Ms. Bryant. Yes, she was a teacher at my school, if I were to use her real title it would be sister Bryant, I almost thought about doing that, but decided not to. While I never personally witnessed her go off on a gay person she was rather infamous in the school for a certain habit she had. I swear to you I'm not making this up, what she would do is go around the school with a ruler (perhaps one she used to use when it was still okay to hit people with) and she would measure the length of the girls' skirts. If they were even an inch too short she'd write them up for a uniform violation fine or in some more extreme cases march them to the office and make them change into a skirt of appropriate length (she would keep extra stores of them in her office). I never had any real personal interaction with her, but needless to say almost none of the students liked her. So I don't think my characterization of her in my fanfic was too far a stretch.

I had religious classes in school growing up and we were explicitly told on more than one occasion that homosexuality was a sin. In addition to all the other sins Catholics are famous for (sex outside of marriage, abortion, etc.) Oh and to really hammer in the whole "abortion is a sin" they made us watch a video of a "live abortion" happening (it was supposedly the view of the baby while it was happening, because yeah...that's not propaganda at all...). I bring up the abortion stuff because of recent events happening in U.S. as that's another sour point I have about the church. But all in all you can see that's the kind of viewpoints I was given growing up and for a time the ones that made up my world view. I should also say that the time period I grew up in was not very LGBT-friendly. There were all kinds of jokes made at gay people's expense and getting made fun of or bullied for being gay was a very real thing that happened to people at my school. People were always quick to deny accusations of being gay, and there was never any positive representation in media like we have today.

Side note, that's exactly why shows like Owl House and Kipo are SO IMPORTANT! We need to teach kids that being gay is okay, We need them to know it's normal and there's nothing to be ashamed of

I had a group of friends growing up and as it turns out one of them was gay. I'm glad I didn't know at the time as I probably would have reacted negatively to that. I didn't find out until years later and as I write this I hope she's doing okay. She was a real fun person who had an amazing heart so I hope wherever she is she's doing well.

In addition to the church, there was also my dad...my dad is a VERY complicated subject that is probably better left for another entry. Suffice it to say he was the kind of person who would likely have reacted VERY negatively if I was gay. I know this because of something my mom told me much later in life (at the time I didn't know it, and my mom wouldn't tell me until after her and my dad were divorced) but apparently he was...worried I might be gay. I assume he was "worried" because I didn't show an interest in "guy" things when I was younger. I had an interest in theater, singing, and dance as well as in writing poetry, and just writing in general. I wasn't into sports like at all, nor did I really have an interest in traditional "Latino" things (cars, beer, etc.) In addition to all that I didn't really have much luck with dating in high school (I guess in that way it's a bit "heartwarming" that my dad thought the reason I had no luck with girls was because I was gay and not a loser).

Anyway looking back it does explain certain actions my dad took around that time. One such action being to invite me to hang out with him and his friends after he played gold. Despite me still being a teen he let me have a beer with them (and this is how I discovered I didn't like beer) and just shot the breeze with them. At the time I didn't think much of it and it was an opportunity to hang with my dad so I actually enjoyed it at the time. I also remember one of his friends who once told a rather interesting story about how he was making out with a woman who turned out to be transsexual, and how after he found out he quickly beat her up...and of course, my dad and all his friends thought he was in the right and that the women had "tricked" him and deserved it. And if I'm being 100% honest my teenage self also agreed with him....sorry

Well, life goes on and eventually, I went off to college and this is where my views on homosexuality and other things began to change. The thing is because religion had been so drilled into me when I was young I still went to church in my early 20's. I even made sure to still give them money, I even did my best to follow all the rules and such. But slowly that started to change. There were three big factors for that change so let me tell you about them.

The first was my cousin. I didn't see much of my extended family growing up but she was one of my cool cousins who I always got along well with. She was the kind of person who didn't care what others thought of her and she just had an ability it seemed to naturally bond with people. Right now she's one of the only extended family members I still keep in contact with (I don't really speak to the rest of my family, which is another topic for another time) but she was always cool and I was always close to her. But I found out that she was gay, and...well I remember feeling conflicted about that, not really knowing how to feel and even wondering if I should stop being in contact with her. Again my dad certainly had an opinion on that as she would eventually come out to her parents and after that the whole extended family found out. Her mom (my mom's sister and a very staunch Catholic) was not happy and would eventually disown her, her dad was cool with it though. Once it became public knowledge she was gay my dad suggested I stop associating with her, partly for that, but also he seemed to think she was a "bad influence" on me. At the time I was really confused, but I still saw her at family gatherings and we still remained close. I eventually decided it didn't matter and we kept in contact. In the present day she and my mom are pretty close too and I'm glad we still keep in contact and see each other.

The next was a professor I had in college who was also gay. She was also one of the nicest people you'll ever meet and one who I really respected. It was meeting her that made me really start to question if everything I had been told about gay people growing up was true. She was a great professor and one who was almost like a second mother to me (during college my mother and I were going through a bit of a rough patch in our relationship, wow I just realized....there is a lot I'm talking about in this entry that I might have to elaborate on in a future entry...if I feel like it...sigh...) so yeah getting to know this professor made me really start to wonder if "gay people were really sinners" and I was slowly starting to see that this wasn't true.

The final straw for me was some sort of proposition on the voting ballot. I can't remember exactly what it was (I think it was called Prop 8) about whether or not gay marriage would be legalized in CA. And there were more than a few news stories running at the time about how the Catholic Church was donating money (sorry can't remember if the prop was for or against gay marriage, it was a long time ago) but they were doing their best to make sure gay marriage wasn't legalized. And for me that was the final straw. At that moment I knew I no longer wanted to be a Catholic and I no longer wanted to support what they stood for, and most importantly I knew I didn't want to give them any of my hard earned money anymore (yes I was still giving the church money as a struggling college student) I haven't looked back since, and well I think I can say that in the present I am glad that my younger self had the integrity to realize this.

So that's the story of how this straight, Latino guy went from being a Catholic to an atheist and gay ally. Sorry if it didn't sound that compelling in this journal entry, but it's honestly a story I've never really told anyone. Well, my brother knows, but really that's about it. I guess part of the reason I made this journal entry was to tell that story. It's a bit weird to think back on that time and realize how different things were. But it's also good to know that things have changed. For all that's wrong in the world I am glad that shows like Owl House and Kipo exist to give young kids some positive representation these days.

Well I guess that wraps up this story. Let me know what you think and if you'd like me to do another entry of my life. I want to try and talk about things from my past, and yeah I feel it's a bit easier to do so through this veil.

Thanks for listening, I hope I continue to impress you!

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 on Vocal, which would really help him out as he earns money based on how many views his work gets. Thank you for this opportunity, I hope I continue to impress you...

profile https://vocal.media/authors/champion-el-cid

She/Her/They/Them
By R.G. Carrillo (Year’s end 2024)

She was a broken vessel

Men that engaged her

Could not make her whole

She was beaten

She was raped

She lost her innocence

At a very young age

She was left

By the side of the road

Those closest to her

Did her harm

Her father abused her

Her mother was silent

Her husband was violent

She thought the right man

Could fix her

She had abortions

She lost babies

She had miscarriages

She had many casual affairs

Looking for love

With all the wrong men

Her soul was hunting for relief

Their faces only desiring her flesh

She covered herself up

Then prostituted herself

Her pimps exploited her

Other men violated her spirit

She gave her trust to them

Who disrespected her being

Objectified for their satisfaction

Personified to a false beauty image

Glorified

Genderfied

Sexualized

She was dirt

She felt she had no worth

She attempted suicide

Once or twice

She was an immigrant

She was a single mother

She felt less than

Always searching

For that right man

The American dream

Hoping it would come true

She became a citizen

She could vote

She worked for women

With rich husbands

That lived empty lives

She was Christian

She prayed for a better life

She trusted in her God

Other women trusted

In material security

She looked for balance

She lived in shelters

She became homeless

She was giving up hope

She was America

Coda: Old glory

Your mother was Betsy Ross

Your grandmother Lady Liberty

You survived trials and traumas

Civil war tribulations

That split your sons apart

Assassinations

Riots

Political protests

That turned violent

Racial injustice

Of your own children

Mother of sorrows

Lady on the golden shore

Do you dream no more

Is your door no longer open

Your national midlife crisis

A setback

Manifest your destiny

Liberty diversity

Will set you free

A broad female consciousness

Will fertilize the land

Bring forth a bountiful harvest

Authenticate your constitution

She will rise to the occasion

Proud and strong

Resilient in all her aspects

Thank you 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

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 06, 2024

POETS PLACE
DECEMBER EDITION 2024

The end is near!!! The end of our American values as we enlightened people currently know it. I know I’m being pessimistic, but there is a lot of evidence to support that feeling. People always think, “we have more time to make a difference”. Time ran out last month. “But we joke and laugh otherwise we would start screaming”- Charles Bukowski once proclaimed. There is much to prepare for here in America. America land of the free, home of the unjust. Shall we start purchasing guns to protect ourselves from the rampant hoards of racist loyalists? Growing up as a Jew I have always been on my guard. Growing up I developed a sense of pride for my tribe and a sharp tongue. And, just in case, I also studied the martial arts for many years and was awarded a black belt in Kung Fu San Soo. So go ahead pigs, make my day! I am prepared to die for my beliefs. I have lived my life to it’s fullest and gave 30 years towards helping others in their time of need. I will stand up when it’s called for, I will not back down and shut up. NEVER! I am proud to be an American, as nasty as it is towards others.

POETS PLACE gives a safe space for you to share your thoughts, and rage against this new regime. Until….

I wrote this piece several years ago. Sigh

America, land of the free?
By Linda Kaye (2018)

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

Poem
By Lida Parent Harris

Dog Village Friend

They bark as they waddle

through this town, hunger in their eyes, tails wag, eagerly.

A skeptic is unbothered,

but a hero is among this motherland.

The workings of which mark that even the hungrier of these dogs.

They can see a telltale sign, a lost limb, A mother collie with her sweet pups.

He is the blessing they'll know as soon as he displays food for them all to eat.

Any stranglers run up to catch him, as well.

A dog's world in a stone cutting village far way.

He knows they need him.

This simple man. So embedded in their tense lives. He manages them along with happy yelps of gratitude, and full bellies.

Warm fuzziness that stays with them

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.

STRANGE SHORES
By Anna Mathai

They say peace flows like a river,

So I followed to the line.

They said patience is a virtue,

So I waited for what’s mine.

Filled my cup, a twist of orange,

While a sailor sang the blues

And took a loaf of sweetest bread

Just to slice it for the crew.

Now I’m walking on strange shores,

Wondering am I alive?

Counting sand as it slips away,

Nothing left to mark the time.

protest songs
by jerry the priest

A canyon by a creek, cool and shady, with Mugwort
and blackberries growing amidst sycamore trees
peaceful and serene, exuding compassion and endurance

Autumn chill noticeable
birdsong occasionally filling the air

What next America?
What of your tarnished principles?
In what freedom are we to believe?

Candles flanking a porcelain urn astride a glowing
red white yin yang squeezed between a well-loved guitar
and a vibrant rattlesnake plant on its walnut stand

Dark Autumn skies
the jumbled refrain from a rock n roll LP

Demcocracy has been fumbled badly
tumbleweeds blow across my social calendar
How lonely we all are with our righteous outrage
How divided we’ve become

The chill is noticeable
as protest songs make their way
down sunlit creekbeds

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.

fierce magical girl
by linda m. crate

i cannot live my life in

the shadow of fear,

i was born a woman so i

know war;

every day there's one

raging against me versus society;

no matter how exhausted

i will press on for my family,

my friends, for myself,

and for those who have either

been silenced or are too afraid

to speak—

i am the witch they will not burn,

always rising from the ashes

like a phoenix;

my flaming feathers will burn

and damn those willing to turn

this beautiful world into

a darker place of nightmares

for i have seen the beauty of this world,

and i know there's a goodness worth fighting for:

i've heard it in a baby's laugh,

seen it in the eyes of my loved ones,

felt it in the song of a crow,

danced with it when i danced in

a creek as crows circled above me,

tasted it in the skin of a cherry—

the world is beautiful, the world is wild,

and the world is fierce; and so i am i.

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).

Elizabeth Silk, Reading Keats' "To Autumn"

Reading Keats' "To Autumn" aloud

I feel the words - "mellow fruitfulness"

"moss'd cottage trees"

"ripeness to the core"

"swell the gourd" and

"more ... still more"

I feel them in my mouth

pushing out my cheeks

bouncing lightly on my lips

I hear the long O's of mellow, moss'd, core, gourd and

more, more and more

I feel my mouth form an O

like a rooting infant

the earth becomes to me a breast

a mother of some other era

with time

time to lavish her baby

with access to herself

her skin - warmth flesh smell

time to prime herself for feeding

lying abed arms propped with pillows

to support the infant head

time to loll about

sipping lovely milky drinks

slurping juicy fruits

eating honey by the mouthful

the faster to receive its sweetness

the quicker to transform the sweetness

to health and pleasure

pregnant I dreamed my breasts

spurted shining glowing milk

for a new mouth

Elizabeth Silk, after growing up in South Carolina, I spent most of my adult life in New York City and Monterey, Massachusetts. In January, 2021, I settled into a loft apartment in Downtown LA. Having worked for many years, first as an English teacher and later as a psychotherapist, I am relishing this time to make writing - poetry and prose - my priority along with my son and his wife and daughter. A new life in my 80's. I'm grateful for the time and for Linda Kaye and "Poet's Place."

DISILLUSIONED
11-6-24
6:07 a.m
By Mary Cheung

Disillusioned and broken by this thing we call democracy.

replaced by an Olaf,

an orangutan in the white house,

the embodiment of idiocy.

In days to come our air will turn to poison.

Infecting our mind and our hearts.

A country divided, riots on the horizon,

Despair in our thoughts.

I don't feel this great America anymore.

It's feels more like the land of the lost. When a self absorbed,

woman hating thing playing as a man plays God...

How are we not lost?

What's to become of our nation now?

We've given the reigns to a mad man.

To this I can't relate.

How this country made that happen,

Thinking he would make our nation great.

Well buckle up cuz the next 4 years are going to be something.

Lots of upheaval, insanity and hate.

The world divided

and the lost of democracy is at stake.

Because a narcissistic playboy,

playing at dictatorship

was given the keys to power,

Will be running the country again,

All for his own sake.

So I'm disillusioned once again.

For the second time in my life.

Despair, uncertainty and sadness

Colors the world beginning today.

Quashes out blue from our sights

Scarring the world with a red

angry

laser ray…

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."

Patterns of Chaos
By Alex S. Johnson

A thumbprint's shadow

containing a

well of

swirling scarlet

cocktail

mix.

Down the drain counterclockwise as

everything goes cattywumpus and

the Devil strides the terra with his long

sharp

Claws.

Our palsied manners twitch and

we flop

sideways

on our backs

crawl like worms

To appease the

blackest apple hearted...

The fly bursts its lovely

Head

All glistening emerald eyes

Feelers

A corpsechild's first flowering.

Alex S. Johnson is the author of several books of poetry including THE DEATH JAZZ, SKULL VINYL, THUNDERSTRUCK, SONGS FOR DARK CABARET and DOCTOR THEATER'S KISS. He is disabled and runs Nocturnicorn Books from his home in Carmichael, California. His forthcoming books include THE DEATH JAZZ revised and expanded edition, TWILIGHT OF THE DOOM HIPPIES, and an as-yet untitled full-length Dark Satire/Cyberpunk/Bizarro collection from the publishers of Horror Sleaze Trash.

Sonnet 20
By ChampionElCid

Hope has vanished from this terrible world

Replaced instead by loud and hateful shouts

In just a day our whole future was twirled

And now compassion will suffer a drought

The future now looks dark, grim and hopeless

For soon new laws will rule about our land

These laws will make our country retrogress

And lead to social justice being banned

I shudder at the thought of what may come

I know not how to overcome this loss

I can't seem to feel anything but numb

As I contemplate how to lift this cross

Some say we will survive the storm ahead

If we do, there will still be many dead

profile https://vocal.media/authors/champion-el-cid

I GOT THE SLIGHTEST TASTE OF GAZA
By Don Kingfisher Campbell

When the roofers came

Walked on my roof

Tore off the old shingles

Hammered in new plywood boards

The next day they returned

Laid down insulation

And proceeded to plug in

The portable air pressure gun

Shot rows of nails into each tile

The noise was like a barrage

Of bullets being fired with

The occasional heavy clunk

Placing more ammo above

I felt assaulted and ran

Outside to escape the war

In my Cube parked at the curb

Unlike the people trapped

In an unrecognized country

Without permission to leave

Denied food and supplies

For uncountable months

Tchaikovsky and McDowell: Serenade to the Mustache
By Anna Broome
For: Richard McDowell

There were watchdogs, and a post-Bach

Pre-Chopin world with too much Wagner,

and the Nutcracker in Moscow.

White aprons, carbolic soap, Sulphuric acid, quinine, and a little after three death

Affairs with actors and actresses, advice from Tolstoy to f-u-c-k

every d-i-c-k until the perfect one came along. (Sounds better than it is.)

Bangs and whispers, and the romantic movement

The artist was free.

And on every doorstep a beggar and a patron. And endless cold rain.

And where does McDowell sitting according to him godlike in an easy chair fit in?

And his poems of the past. How things never change. Tradition.

Tchaikovsky would muse. One symphony after another and a consternation of Romeo and Juliet as anything but an Opera. And The Manfred Symphony in B minor with a long adagio subjectiveness was an enigma, a rendering, something to twirl.

What connection can be drawn by one man autonomous and another in every parking lot in downtown LA disguised as a giraffe or a vulture or a box?

Two men...

their love of black swans as tearless women. Must there be more? A coat above the lip? An effortless design with a mind all its own –

A head growing on the inside an integumentary of brilliance;

There is the serenade.

Something in the open air under a lover’s window being touched by his own hand:

One in a crow den in Russia surrounded by feathers and disease, and final notes and the other under a street lamp on 6th street wordless for now.

Is mustache an albatross?

Ask McDowell, who would tie one around his neck if he could.

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.

I have changed
By Kellie Strubinski
11/30/2024

The Orange Neon “Book Store Open” sign across from me hasn’t changed.

I have changed.

The world has rotated on its axis in this galaxy 1000 times since I last sat in this old oak chair, at this unpolished oak table, overlooking the wall-to-wall shelves filled tightly with multi colored books eager to be held.

I have rotated within my soul in this mortal body 1000 times since I last heard the silence of the many patrons sprinkled at the tables here, as they all search for momentary salvation.

Even the smell of the books baking in the sunshine that slants through the large windows tastes the same; old crackers left open and alone in the box too long.

Volcanos, storms, ocean waves can’t compare to the change that has happened within my yearning soul that is hungry for love, acceptance, adventure and the illusory promise of eternal life.

Earthquakes, hurricanes and torrential rains can no longer stop me from risking and reaching for the chance to be fully, dangerously alive.

I have changed.

Kellie Strubinski lives in Sierra Madre, CA. She started her poetry writing journey during the pandemic and followed it up with a poetry workshop at Pasadena City College. She finds that poetry helps her to find words for things that she otherwise can't say.

Maggots
By R.G. Carrillo (November 2024)

They got it wrong

Did not understand

The divide

Not just racial

There’s martyrs

On both sides

Rich poor gap

Pro-lifers

Anti-immigrants

Progressives

And traditionalists

Democrats

Who have lost

Their way

Maggots eating

The flesh

Of a dead democracy

Something else

Swept in

To fill the void

A snake oil peddler

Promising greatness

A soulless opportunist

Opening the gates

Of hatred

Blasphemy of justice

Maggots destroying

LIberty

Trumpeters annihilating

The tranquility

Of the nation

Offsetting the blessings

Of our union

The white robes

Have come off

White nationalists

Have a new

Grand wizard

Insanity pours in

Like a hurricane

Hitting D.C.

RIGHT
By Mary Frances Spencer

this

pendulum swinging hard

sharply over our heads

yet we chose

some closed eyes rolled dice

half hopeful hearts

not enough

while cold-hard cash

ever elusive to most

rolls into the ever-more

bloated piggybanks

of the few

us minions scramble

and scrape for pennies of survival

we are distracted, stressed

hate intolerance

blatant corruption

shine on that blade

when the cuts begin

we stumble on

until it hurts

eyes bleeding red

minds shocked

maybe, just maybe

we will ALL wake up

and realized

we have been

PLAYED...

Mary Frances Spencer is a local Eagle Rock Yoga Instructor, Bodyworker and Sound Healer. She has been writing poetry for decades, had some work published in Spectrum, online at pathetic.org and self-published a few chapbooks in the 2000's. She is currently writing a meditation/affirmations A-Z book and should have it available in the New Year. She works with political themes, as well as humorous observations of life, peace and love.

Marilyn Fuss
December 2024

Early in the 2024 voting period I deposited my next-door neighbor's ballot which I thought had a high chance of not including the same choice of President as mine, since in my 12 years here, we have never spoken of candidates except for agreeing on a city councilperson once. A lot has been said about the unspoken tension that's proliferated in this century, of differences understood but not touched upon, the holiday table bugaboo, the biting one's tongue. Even more of us need to know that this negative frisson must not be an excuse for a lack of community and communication. I wanted it to be an act of faith in democracy to assist my friend, much as the non-combative mail I sent encouraging voters in other districts and states. They were as candles secured into sands for meditation or prayer. Affirmations, based on action.

After signing the friend's envelope as directed for agent of the voter, I saw that a signature was not where it belonged, and an address in the wrong field. After she corrected those, instead of putting the ballot envelope in the mail, as she modestly requested, as a reflex, I offered to check whether ballot drop boxes were open yet. Learning yes on both counts, I got it to the box at the next neighborhood library, with a better feng shui than ours. This drop box plenitude reflects the extreme privilege of living in Los Angeles, where each uncensored public library has one in front of it, to contrast with many counties which have one box, period. The process described was the same when I voted later on, minus the errors, I hope. Though I missed the ritual of going to the polls with others, before our assortment of choices made that seem like too much effort. And not long after that, of course, I sorely missed election night 16 years ago when we danced for joy-- in my previous next-door neighbors' kitchen.

These thoughts and acts sought to ward off participating in a country where a victor just might win because of electoral college voting crimes and chicanery made possible by the Founding dads, who feared the 'mob' inherent in a popular vote. Along with instilling the 3/5 Compromise and slavery itself, they cheapened our country's first years, and leaned the aspiring democracy toward hypocrisy. Since the Civil War and through the 20th Century, however, the most earnest presidents, legislators, and courts succeeded in repairing many errors and enabling more rights. Through that century I was born into, the virtues of a two-/multi- party system was touted with pride, at least modeling friendship between members of opposite parties, and showing appreciation for the ideal of the loyal opposition, who could step in to correct their own as well as the other faction, and yet be heard. They were folks like President Eisenhower, who could initiate the term "military-industrial complex" even as he had once been at the helm of the first component. Or Howard Baker and Barry Goldwater in the matter of Richard Nixon's obstruction of justice and cover-up. We listened to them, Nixon's peers.

Inclusive rights, expansive justice, and civility have been harshly interrupted in this century by an obstructionist Supreme Court and Congress, and now a returning President promising to unravel the Constitution. This 2020 pretender to the office of president asked a voting official in Georgia to conjure up 11,780 votes to reverse the state's presidential election outcome. He is on ubiquitous media record as instigating a coup d'état countering that national election, with calls to hang (with ready-made gibbet) the official whose job it was to make public the actual results. That was Vice President Pence, whose dogged service never failed his master in the course of an entire term of office, almost. Murderous opposition from a leader! The servile Veep became a true American hero when called upon to validate the votes as counted. We deserve to live in a time when Pence's courageous act gets its full recognition. Likewise an age when the acts of treason and endangerment by an outgoing leader should receive due retribution, rather than re-election. Caring more for justice than for holding office were truth-sayers Liz Cheney, Thompson, Kinzinger, Raskin, Schiff, Lofgren, Aguilar, Murphy. Luria, Romney, for a start. They were examples to be emulated. There just weren't enough citizens who were willing to listen to them, even as some of those lawmakers without precedent voted for those in another political party, and for democracy, in November of 2024.

Marilyn Fuss has spent most of her life in Los Angeles, and is a lover of the environment, natural and created, as well a being a self-described art fly.

Justice, other humans, and pets are important to her.

Thank you 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

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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

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

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

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

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/

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 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

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

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.

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.

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....

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

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 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

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