POETS PLACE
JULY 2020
July!!! Yes. Let the fireworks begin!! Wait… They’ve already started. Nightly, since the pandemic began. Sigh. I’ve read in the local papers that it has become quite the problem in our neighborhoods. Let’s pray there are no fires due to the epidemic of pyromaniacs! Most of us are staying safe and following the precautions of wearing masks in public and actively, sometimes hourly hand sanitizing. I know I am. With over 30 years of hospital work as a social worker, I am fully versed and trained in infection control procedures. Not trying to out anyone, but before the pandemic, I had seen many a health care worker not washing their hands in between caring for patients, and coming to work sick and not wearing a mask. As have many of us! DOH! And you wonder why we’re in the bad shape that we’re in!! Stay safe everyone.
This month we are hosting some new writers and poets from afar. Even some celebs!!! I hope you are enjoying the column! I know I am!!!
KEEP UP THE GOOD AND SAFE WORK!! AND HAVE FAITH WE WILL GET THROUGH THIS!!!!
No Fanfare
by Linda Kaye
6/2020
It was over. Done. She had spent the last difficult and challenging days of her working career, saying her last goodbyes and farewells to her long-term therapy clients, support staff and to one of the best bosses of her career. This time was especially sad, choking back salty tears, sometimes expressing them, allowing them to lightly trickle down her face, alone, reflecting on the many hours spent in her office, counseling clients as well as offering her educated and supportive advice to countless suffering individuals who were dealing with an array of mental illnesses, that, because they couldn’t problem solve effectively, their lives were often in shambles. Knowing she did her best to help, she felt hopeful they’d be okay and would use the tools she had provided them. These people and countless others, were her bittersweet thoughts on the last day before leaving her office.
She was leaving with all her cherished posters of Bowie, the old Fellini movie posters, once belonging to her husband, whom she had ransacked from his office when he retired and put them in hers. She took the vintage childhood game puzzle with her that many of the clients, including her, labored over for months. This one particular puzzle represented the countless hours she spent bonding and developing trusting relationships with her clients which often helped to soften the upcoming discussions of the hardships they had experienced throughout their lives and gave them a comfortable psychological and supportive place which to begin the healing process. No way was she leaving that puzzle behind! She wanted, needed to take some remembrances from her office to begin the newly imposed social distancing. She hoped that having these items near her would add some comfort for her now that she was to work from home.
Now what? What she really had to face was-what now? Since the production of her new poetry musical was on hold till the quarantine was lifted, and that social distancing was the new rule due to the pandemic crisis from the virus-Covid19-she laughed loudly, unhappily, almost a scream. Her clients basically had been insisting all along that she would be bored once retired “what are you going to do when you retire? They mused. “Well I have a whole other life!” She chuckled. What was that line from the Bible she thought? “You make plans and God laughs?” Face that now. What was she going to do now that everything that was planned had come to a screeching halt! Bam! She felt as though she was bouncing off a cliff hanging by a long bungee cord just swinging up and down and up and down. Bouncing endlessly without the stability of her plan. Many of her friends it seemed we’re also bouncing around trying to figure out how to cope with this new world order. Why were her coping skills fraying at the edges? Failing her to make sense of this catastrophe?
Apparently, as she finally realized, was that Her catastrophe was fraught with an adjustment to life without work. The same advice that she has passed on to many a client, friend or family member, that any new change in your life needs time for adjustment. Breath.
She was retiring from a lengthy career of more than 30 years in the helping profession as a social worker. Yes. Helping hundreds of people work through devastating illnesses, crisis, traumas of all sorts, mental illness, significant deaths and dying. Where was her safety net? Who, she thought, could help her through this compounded loss? Everywhere she turned people were going nuts. Panicking about the current virus crisis and were super paranoid about getting sick. Who is ill? Who had symptoms? What were the symptoms? How are we supposed to behave? Where did this virus come from? Who was to blame? Thankfully years of social work education and experience had taught her to accept what she could control, such as her own response to these new rules and changes to societal norms- no touching no hugging no handshakes and social distancing 6 feet apart from everyone until? No one really knew. It wasn’t apparent yet. The evolution of this new world order would pan out eventually. The administration’s initial lack of concern, “this will blow over attitude“ hadn’t been fully realized at the beginning. She only felt her own painful confusion that was hitting her where it counts- in the gut. Throughout her life she had experienced an array of stomach problems due to life‘s challenges and stressors provided by an unwanted dysfunctional and lackadaisical parental upbringing in childhood. Although she, thank goodness, learned to survive her childhood experiences escaping from youthful omnipotent impulsive situational decisions that could’ve been fatal, those near misses had helped to strengthen her courage to survive- mostly unconscious and not recognized until she landed super depressed in therapy but that’s another story.
OK so now what? Retired, home 24/7, no poetry production to produce.
No goodbye party from work, everyone’s paranoid, freaking out thinking the worst-case scenarios. The daily headaches started up again, sore muscles from the gardening work and the newly found walk in the hood. Getting diarrhea from eating all the wrong foods not IBS friendly, experiencing phantom chest pains- checking her temperature, sometimes hourly for the slightest possible increase in temperature. Desperately wanting to go somewhere anywhere! Was anxiety entering into her purview of unwanted symptoms?
As the hours turned into days, then weeks, the hillsides began to call. The rustling of the leaves on the patio whispered their secrets of peaceful surrender sharing their happiness from the new attention given to them. They showed their appreciation by singing and harmonizing their praises of new growth and luster. Not only did she recognize and begin to adapt to this next chapter in her life did her body begin to heal from a lifelong internal suffering of gastric pain. Her 30 years plus career of service to others had come to a close and although there was no public fanfare- her garden spoke volumes of praise, which quieted and calmed her heart.
The Earth on a ventilator
by Inessa Love
Symptoms:
raising temperature
difficulty breathing
plunging oxygen levels Diagnosis:
the Earth got COVID 19
No wonder this wicked disease targets our lungs
To keep breathing we need
The feverish Earth is pleading for help, sending us a message to
We gotta stop
large sporting events
clean air s t o p
huge entertainment industry
massive cruise liners with pools and casinos
do not gather in crowds
We gotta stop
filling up the landfills with things we buy and throw away stampede traveling like the Earth is our backyard constantly running away from the discontent
We gotta stop
nursing homes
prisons
factory farming
stay home
maintain social distance
The virus is showing us our disgrace that we can’t run away from by simply
washing our hands
As the smog clears we can see more clearly what we are doing to the Mother Earth
We gotta stop
being the viruses inside its body
multiplying incessantly
using up our host’s resources cutting down its oxygen supplies
We gotta stop consuming
entertaining distracting
our young are spared from the karmic debt the rest of us have to pay
for our overindulgence
the poor, sick and frail are more likely to die but not without infecting the rest
we cannot build borders tall enough to protect us from the global misery we have created
the wildfire is ravaging the human race
like we have ravaged the Earth
We gotta stop
slow down
the Earth needs to breathe too.
Inessa Love
Professor
Department of Economics
University of Hawaii at Manoa
DRINKING PISCO SOURS WITH NERUDA
by Richard Q Russeth
A poet is an erratic bus
that must wait on
its good-for-nothing driver,
which requires such patience
that, sooner or later,
even the most patient
will try to drive the bus themselves.
Not because they can,
but in hopes that
the driver will hurry back to save them.
but often as not, he does not,
and there is a spectacular crash,
leaving words scattered
and dying everywhere
on a vast, white plain.
Simpler to simply wait
until the driver returns,
red-faced and drunk,
from drinking round after round
of pisco sours with Neruda
under the hot Chilean sun,
and then follow his lucid directions
to a poem that is but merely
three days drive, allowing ample time
for strong coffee with bell hooks
and Maya Angelou
along the crooked way.
Richard Q Russeth
Baker, Poet, Conjuror, Photographer, Attorney
www.richardqrusseth.com
The Weekend I Thought I Had COVID
by Dan Frischman
I went to sleep just after 11 pm last Thursday. At 2 a.m., I was jerked awake by a frightening reality: I was gasping for air, and the effort wasn’t going at all well. I leapt out of bed, panic-stricken, struggling to draw in breath. I made the loud, hellish sounds you’d expect in this situation, and though I was alone, any witness would have been fairly certain I was on my way to becoming a statistic.
When the attack ebbed a minute later, I was propped against my dresser, sweaty, shaking, and wheezing intensely. My first thought: It’s real. This is real. I have Covid. How...did...I get it?!
Was it the checkout clerk at my local supermarket a few days before who wore neither a mask nor gloves? When I questioned him about it, he said, “Yeah, I use a hand sanitizer whenever I can,” which I read to mean not since Tuesday. That was it?!
Well, I’m also a bit slow to wash my hands in general, and I never washed the food containers or boxes I brought into the house. (The regular mail, I was very careful with. Go figure.) So the clerk? The packages? Other than that, I’ve been very careful, but I’d apparently made that sole mistake the virus is lying in wait for.
My chest hurt for hours after the attack, perhaps due to the gasping or maybe on account of the well-advertised Covid symptoms. The deep, dry coughing fits that immediately followed, for instance, were so forceful that I shut my windows in case neighbors heard me, leading them to call an ambulance. I considered 911 myself, but even though hospitals have been our heroes, Covid ward images on TV had me likening them to the Hotel California.
I decided to wait it out, though even when my breathing situation returned to relative normalcy, I couldn’t sleep — I was too anxious to even shut my eyes, fearful of a second, worse strike. I lay there instead, monitoring my every twitch.
In the darkness, the bleak thoughts crept into my mind until they were dancing about unencumbered:
Is my Will what I want it to be? Yes.
Have I filled out my health directive? Yes, it’s sitting in a pile of papers...in a box...somewhere.
My Trust and Power of Attorney in place? Yeah, no, been meaning to get to those for a few decades.
And then my mind inexorably dropped to the sunken place:
Are there any final words I want to say to anybody, other than the standard “I love you’s?” Yes, and those things will be said. One apology is involved, and one simple “Thank you” to someone I’m no longer in touch with.
Next: In that moment, I realized I want to be buried rather than cremated. Why? I don’t know, it suddenly felt suitable to me, and have you ever watched a marshmallow roast? Okay, right? Death itself, I decided, I could accept if this was indeed it for me. There were many centuries before this that I wasn’t around, and that didn’t seem to bother me much, so why worry about the next few?
And finally, what do I want to be buried with, and where should I write it down? I realized, oddly, that the short list included a magic trick, the lot of which are my personal “Rosebud.” Well, perhaps just a magic wand, tucked in my hands. Why damn a good magic trick to eternal darkness, and where in the casket would it not look stupid?
These were my real thoughts in the dead quiet of 3 a.m.
On the plus side of this morbid revelry, I was good with being single and alone at that moment. If there’s something I’ve learned in this isolation period, it’s that I’ve been more comfortable in my own skin, having dropped the FOMO that comes with thinking that I have to be doing more to entertain myself. Even Saturday, the perennial date-night standard, has joined the What-Day-is-This-Again? Club, and hanging with my cat, reading, or watching a show has felt just fine. This mindset could change once this sh-- storm has lifted, I realized, and I’d definitely want a new love relationship when one presented itself.
This, however, hinged greatly on my ability to remain a sentient being, and in the moment, I was feeling closer to becoming sediment. By dawn on Friday, I was shaky and trudging about like a White Walker, the center of my chest feeling torched. At six-thirty a.m., I made an online appointment with a doctor. Then I called family to fill them in, and my brother Bill reminded me of something major:
He and I both suffer from GERD, which is the prettier name for chronic acid reflux. He’s had episodes where it hit him so hard, he had to gasp for air. This happened to me once, too, eighteen years ago at a cousin’s wedding in Chicago. After a huge dinner, and many drinks and desserts, I woke up in the wee hours, fighting for breath. I was later diagnosed and treated for acid reflux.
The comparison between then and now? Late Thursday night, I decided to snack on a few M&M’s I bought for a magic trick, since I’ve been posting short performances on YouTube. A few M&M’s became half the family-size bag, along with an equal portion of roasted peanuts. I then went right to bed. If one was looking to test oneself for vestiges of GERD, this was as good a plan as any.
That was, in the end, the complete cause of the incident. A Covid test confirmed what I already knew by Sunday — that I was fine — and I felt lucky and grateful, with extra empathy and sadness for those who are presently suffering or have passed.
I am now assigning my own incident to the past as quickly as possible. Today, Monday, feeling spry once again, I returned to figuring out what trick I will next film and post for my modest social media following.
I also wiped down the f---ing food containers.
— end —
Dan Frischman is an Actor/writer/magician best known for his 80s/90s roles as "Arvid" on ABC’s Head of the Class, and as "Chris" on Nickelodeon’s Kenan & Kel. TV/theater director. Short magic performances at http://www.houdanny.com
Under My Skin
by Mary Cheung
1-7-15
3:42 a.m.
You invade my thoughts,
I cannot sleep.
Giving birth to velvet dreams.
Rubbing low, a tender touch.
Softly brushes and flames my soul.
A hole that grows in your absence still,
Waiting, aching for you to fill.
A hunger, a thirst, there is no control.
You stroke the fire,
2 halves made whole.
You invade my thoughts,
I cannot sleep.
I resign myself to the lust and the heat...
Mary Cheung- she is an innovative Artist and Costume Designer. Her works contain a strong sense of story as well as a highly sensuous style. She mostly works in paint or photography and sometimes making art that is wearable and innovative. She states “I am usually more of a Visual style Artists and have only recently been open to sharing literally art/poems, often paired with visual art of my creation, birthing a new form of spoken word art as another form of expression”.
RAFT OF THE MEDUSA: 9/21/17
by Ed Burgess
Lashed to this raft
Lost at sea
No walls in sight
Can't build a wall on water
If you Can't swim
Then start drowning
Ripples of time
Push us
into a kind of sleep
We dream about walls
We dream about homes
our mothers baking
Apple Pies
Just for us
Not for you
Or you
Or you either
We fall deeper into sleep
We drift farther out to sea
Get off our lawn
Stay away from our dreams
We can have it all
We can fit
More shit
Into one bag
We can make you be
Like us
We will build a wall
God himself
Has shown us how
We will show YOU.
Waves of time
Crash over our heads
We are awoken
Huddled together on this raft
Not in a dream
We are in the desert
We have built the wall
It is right over there
And right here
Between us
Tear down this wall
Break through the fear
Drift out to sea
Know that you are free
The dream is real
But only when we are awake
Ed Burgess is an artist, poet and all around bon vivant. He has lived in LA for 20 years and is an active member of the art community. He has exhibited his artwork in many galleries around Los Angeles.
The Full Moon, Souls, and Things
by Jen Bouchard
Energies shift
All sediment putrid below the coals of hell
Bubbling outside my door
What awaits me is chaos
The biggest threat is the danger to my mind that has to stand still But can’t
Do I go this way or that way
Do I step left to race towards or do I dodge right to avoid
Carry on my back the broken/lonely/sick/forlorn
Worn from work
Torn ex lovers I hear your cries
Your tugs on my nightgown
My tight cap I firmly wrap around my eyes
Cover my ears
Drown your wails
Hollow whimpers
If I loosen
I am not certain I will make it to the other side
Where my dreams goals and aspirations
Sickening to my stomach
Lie
Plastic poisonous
Toxic
You do not wish for my arrogance
When you fold your hands to pray for my soul
I should be so humbled to imagine in my mind’s eye You
Pressing your hands
Kneeling in the river of salvation
For my safety
For my happiness
For me to be saved from my broken status
Once this is all over
For us to both be alive so you can hold out your arms To embrace me
Me.
Foolishly putting things on a ridiculous pedestal I cling onto things
When it’s your spirit alongside me
That I truly wish to attain
Your spirit
That I would never have to ask for permission
To cling onto
You recognize me as a someone
That is a blessing beyond comparison when I have wasted precious years on things
That regarded me as someone they would have to fit in between their lunch break and next appointment.
Open arms
Warm hearts
Helping hands
Laughter sprinkling comfort to your words How to repay the spirit you offer
A warm spring
I soak in your calm waters
On the eve of this full moon
I embrace souls and release things.
~ Jen Bouchard
Bio:
Jennifer Bouchard is a poet/actress residing in Los Angeles. Being a sexual assault survivor, the majority of her writing revolves around her healing process. Jennifer recently performed a piece at Healthy Housing Foundation’s slam event, The La Dream. She also recently self published her first collection, White Helmet.
Contact Info:
Jenn3382@gmail.com
Thanks for joining us! Let me know how we’re doing here and PLEASE, more than ever, continue to support the arts!!
With great hope for our future
Love,
Linda Kaye
Please submit your written work to:lindakayepoetry@icloud.com and include a short bio.
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