POETS PLACE
JANUARY 2021
ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY EDITION
HELLO! HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!
It’s been one year since I started this column. And what a year it has been! AGHHHHH!!! I will not rehash all that has passed and trampled our lives since it was too horrible and devastating to describe. So many people I know have gotten sick and are still in the throes of recovery. I imagine every one of you knows someone who has faced tragedy this last year. Tragedy comes in all shapes, sizes, forms and experiences. Loved ones die from disease as well as broken hearts. And sometimes, intentionally. People suffer in different ways. Our strength, our humor, our intellect, our compassion, our empathy, has been tested to its fullest capacity. It’s all too close to home.
Maybe we can ponder a bit of the future now that the worst is behind us. What can we say about what we have left that’s unfinished? What are you planning to do once the all clear bell rings? Will you return to your past lifestyle? What’s your new normal? I tend to believe that following your passions and listening to your heart will be your truth. Your own personal destiny. Not one that has been dictated by societies norms and expectations. A life suitable to the inner workings of your soul. A life nurtured by a lifetime of personal experiences. Some failures and yes some successes. I would suggest taking a moment to reflect on how you will step into this new era. We have this new luxury of quiet time to self reflect- Time now allotted to make any changes to our past behaviors that have inhibited us or guarded us from making those difficult decisions to… take that risk, that scary plunge. It’s all up to you.
Now that it is quieter, maybe we can move forward and take that new path or maybe take baby steps to look at the old one. My hope is that we can be a kinder nation. I desperately want to be a part of this rebuild.
Do you?
This month in this NEW fresh year, Poets Place has many contributions from writers that share those thoughts of rebirth and hope. Some familiar faces, and some famous ones too! I am thankful to LAARTNEWS for this platform to host anyone who wants a forum to share their hearts, souls and unleashed creativity. IT’S 2021!! BRING IT ON BABY!!!
ENJOY!
What’s left unfinished?
By Linda Kaye
Have you completed or started your bucket list? Or are you just thinking about what you don’t have?
Did you finish that novel that poem or that letter to your family asking for forgiveness sharing those crusty harbored feelings of abandonment hurt anger or love? Or are you just pining and procrastinating about them?
Have you started that course you wanted to take forever to learn how to bake that bread make that ceramic bowl plant that garden travel to that mystical foreign land that you have spent copious hours researching the Internet about? Or write that love hate angry disappointed in it all song?
What’s left unfinished?
Have you planned that perfect death that will spell out all your desires and wishes at the end? Creating a to do list for your final countdown? Which includes having your nails polished a certain color, clipping your beard, tweezing those ugly nose and chin hairs, and specifying someone to put lipstick and makeup on that suits your preferred lifestyle ? Have you thought of what you’d want to wear at your funeral? Hawaiian shorts and a tee? The black sequined gown you never got to wear again? A rabbit costume? It’s in your court to decide. Have you written that Will or created a living trust about stipulating and assigning someone to deal with all your leftover stuff you never had a chance to go through, and someone to cancel all your social media accounts?
Unless you want everyone to wish you a happy birthday forever on Facebook! LOL!
What do you want your friends and family to say when you die? Rest in peace? He /she/ it /them /they was a good soul an unselfish humanitarian who went out of their way to acknowledge all who had crossed their path with encouragement acceptance and unconditional love? Or were they an entitled thief of love and friendships that never reciprocated an ounce of affection or attention, most likely a lonely isolated and fear mongering soul, or a neurotic selfish narcissistic bitch?
The eulogy left to others devices, well; anything could be said about the deceased- it’s personal and subjective. Why not create the perfect memorial service ahead of that time give out personalized leaflets or scripts with detailed instructions to recite!
Would that fly? Ha!
You could ask for donations at the funeral so the deceased family wouldn’t have to pay the bill entirely for the reception or have a go fund me funeral fundraiser, which is now the acceptable course of business these days. And you can do that while you’re still alive to see who donated! So tacky.
What’s left unfinished?
This poem
POST SOLSTICE
By Lisa Roman
Walk softly in the winter
So not to destroy
Tiny things below.
Little lives, burrowing in
Reddish orange blankets.
Like many things hidden
From the human eye.
Speak gently to the
Years End.
Lisa Roman is a native Californian, writer, artist, filmmaker and healer. Her background consists of set decorating and art direction for film during the 80's and 90's. She began doing pop up shows for various local artists during that time. Writing consists of poetry, humorist tales, scriptwriter and script doctoring. Her stories of magic and healing contain metaphysical essence. Entering 2021 as a film producer/writer with intent of continued expansion of spirit. Hope for a more sensitive future.
Deal with it!
10-18-2020
10:12a.m.
By Mary Cheung
It's easy to complain and to not see the joy.
Bring down, break down,
to live in a tunnel of despair, tear and destroy.
It's hard to keep your patience, temper that anger that threatens your common sense.
And sometimes you just want to let it go and give up.
Easier than being dragging down by this feeling that smothers you.
Walk away from it, let it breathe, take some time to digest.
Stop fighting and resisting, just... give it a rest.
Because than all of a sudden you will see,
The answer to your problems; was always there, staring right back at me.
Sometimes you have to let go. Instead of hanging on so tightly.
Arguing of who is right and wrong, an ugly truth that is so unsightly.
Let it go, take a deep breath.
Let your body fill with positive energy.
Now use it and channel what you need.
The out come might cost you more than a few pennies.
But your peace of mind and sanity is worth the costs.
Do it, before your humanity is lost.
Mary Cheung is an innovative Artist and Costume Designer. Her works contain a strong sense of story as well as a highly sensuous style. She mostly works in paint or photography and sometimes making art that is wearable and innovative. She states “I am usually more of a Visual style Artists and have only recently been open to sharing literally art/poems, often paired with visual art of my creation, birthing a new form of spoken word art as another form of expression”.
The Speaker
By Dan Frischman
11/12/81
In the McDonald’s on Westwood Blvd., I saw a man at a table, mumbling aloud to no one. I chuckled to myself and walked up to the counter.
“Help you?” “Yes, I’ll have a Fish Filet, a fries, and a chocolate shake.” “You’ll have to wait a few minutes for the fries, okay?” “Fine.” I paid, then looked back at the talking man, jabbering away. He was
dressed well enough — crinkly brown sports jacket, dress pants, patent leather shoes. The scraggly beard and Larry Fine-style hair left much to be mowed, though.
“Here you go. Thanks for waiting.” “Sure.” I sat against a wall, facing the man’s side two tables away. Looking
closer, I noticed he wasn’t just talking to a non-entity — he was relating to one. He looked it in the “eyes” when he spoke; he reacted to its imagined replies with earnest aplomb. I listened in, feeling like an interloper. Fortunately, the party I was facing was invisible.
“So I left this girl in Elizabeth, New Jersey,” he said. “It was no big deal, really. We had our time and when it was getting rough, we broke up. No big deal. We talked of my going back there, but I said forget it. I’m not going back there. Forget it, I said. We had our thrills, though. Huh?.... Yeah, you kidding? Yeah, we made it! Made it lots of times! All over the place! We made it in the park lots of times. On the grass. It was nice.... Cops?.... Yeah, no, they never came around. We had the whole place to ourselves. On the grass. It was nice. We did it there, sometimes we did it
on the sidewalk behind the library. Ha! It was great, we had a great time. But it wasn’t as nice as the grass, it was too hard. The grass was soft, and we had blankets and pillows. We did it there, the swimming pool.... No, no big deal, the swimming pool.... The shower? No, never did it in the shower. It was too—I don’t know—clean. You know where’s the best place to do it? You really want to know? In a bed. A soft....warm...bed. That’s where to do it. In a bed. Soft and warm.”
I was quickly sucked into the show. The man was interesting and very theatrical, his arms gesticulating wildly, and his eyes popping for emphasis. I was watching a one-man play, complete with logical progression and smooth segues.
“My parents almost never got it on. I know. If I wasn’t born, I’d swear they’d never got it on. My father was a prick. I hated his guts. Grade-A jerk bastard. I hated him and his guts. My mother was nice. We got along. I liked my mother. My grandfather was prick. Dumb butt, dumb jerk. Pervert prick bastard. The only one I really loved was my grandmother. I loved her. I loved that lady so much. She was the only one who could slap me. My mother did it, I’d have taken a hatchet to her. I would’ve. My grandmother could do it. She was old, and I respected her.”
He continued on about his grandmother while a middle-aged man sat next to me with a coffee. I hardly noticed him at first, as entranced by the talking man as I was. Then he addressed me.
“He’s a very interesting person.”
I turned to him. He was an amiable-looking fellow, about fifty-five, balding, honest eyes—the kind of guy you’d expect to be named Jerry.
“He’s here almost every day and he sits and talks to himself. Excuse me, my name’s Isaac. What’s yours?”
“Dan.” “Hi, Dan.” “Hello.” I was trying to divide my attention between Isaac and the talking man,
which was tough. The talker segued into religion, and why he was glad to be Presbyterian instead of Roman Catholic, which lost my interest. I opted for Isaac.
“I come here everyday for a coffee. I like to get out of my apartment once in a while. I’m on the admissions staff at UCLA, but I’m on break now, taking it easy.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Everyday around three-thirty, I come in here and listen to the Speaker. That’s what I call him. He’s very interesting and very prolific. It’s great entertainment, better than a play or a movie. Here you just sit, buy a coffee, and watch this guy talk about everything. I don’t always agree with what he says, but he’s very logical. He’s always backs up his premises.”
“Did you ever talk to him?”
“No, never tried talking to him. Ha, ha! It might be interesting at that. Ha! No, the show might end, and he seems pretty involved with whoever he pretends he’s talking to.”
The Speaker was into the War Years. Isaac and I tuned in.
“World War Two was hell, man — fuckin’ hell. I was there, man... Hell, yeah, I was there, blastin’ them gooks! I killed my share. I killed ‘em, I did. I aimed and I shot. Killed a lot of them... Nah, I didn’t’ like it or nothin’, it just had to be done. They told us to do it, and it was kill or be killed, you know what I mean? There was some guy there who fell into this
trap — a hole in the ground. That’s bad, man, fallin’ in a hole. He yelled. I said, ‘Hold on, man! Just hold on!’ I looked in on ‘im. He was impaled on a bed of spikes. All through ‘im. The only thing I couldn’t figure out is how the hell he was able to yell. I mean if you saw ‘im.... War, man—fuckin’ hell.”
He dug his cigarette into the ashtray.
“He’s going to get up and buy another coffee now, “ Isaac informed me. “Watch.” Sure enough, the Speaker got up and walked to the counter. “He always does that. I watch him all the time.”
Isaac was obviously proud of his knowledge of the Speaker. “Now, you see that man over there?” Isaac pointed to a fat balding man with a cauliflower nose sitting in
the far corner of the room. He wore a white business shirt and black pants, and could easily pass for W.C. Fields. He was wiping his hands with a load of napkins, and looking uncomfortably at the table where the Speaker had been.
“He’s mad because the Speaker is sitting in his favorite seat. He’s here a lot, too. He comes in with a paper and just sits for hours cleaning his hands. I call him the Cleaner. And he always sits in the same chair — the one the Speaker sat in today.”
The Cleaner was standing now, looking back and forth between his favorite table and the Speaker, who was in line for his next coffee. The Cleaner seemed at a loss because the Speaker had and old green knapsack sitting on the table. If he reclaimed his regular seat, he would have to move it, which could provoke confrontation. He just stood uneasily, not knowing what to do.
The Speaker returned with a steaming coffee, not noticing the Cleaner glaring at him menacingly, and sat down to resume his monologue. Surprisingly enough, he started in again about the girl from New Jersey.
“So I left this girl in Elizabeth, New Jersey. It was no big deal, really. We had our time, and when it was getting rough...” Almost verbatim. I asked Isaac if the Speaker always repeated himself. He said never.
“He’s always got something new to talk about. Never any need to go back.”
“Yeah, but he just did. That stuff about the girl from New Jersey.”
“Oh, yeah? I must have missed that part. Pretty interesting, huh? Heh, heh.”
I remembered that Isaac came in just after that section, and an idea struck me. Was the Speaker repeating the story for Isaac’s benefit? He never made note of our existence, but we were only a few tables away.
“We made it in the park lots of times. On the grass. It was nice....” He stopped and stared at his coffee.
“No cream,” Isaac whispered.
The Speaker got up and took his coffee back to the counter. The Cleaner made his move.
“Uh-oh.” Isaac was worried.
The Cleaner moved the knapsack to another table and sat down. Now content, he resumed cleaning his hands.
“You came at a good time,” assured Isaac. “This’ll be some episode. I guarantee it.”
The Speaker got his cream and started for his seat. He stopped cold seeing the Cleaner, and just stood expressionlessly for half a minute,
watching him clean his hands. Then he slowly picked up his knapsack and headed for the Men’s room. Isaac sighed and stood up.
“Well, that’s it. We won’t see him for a while now.” “He just went to the bathroom.” “He locked himself in. He always does that when someone bothers
him. He’ll be in there for at least twenty minutes.” “Locked himself....”
“Yup. Well, so long, my friend. Stop back sometime and we’ll watch the Speaker together. Bye now.”
“Bye.”
Isaac left. A boy tried entering the bathroom, but couldn’t get in — the door was locked. A few others tried with no luck. The whole thing struck me as very funny and I started laughing. The restaurant manager tried the door, and knocked. No response. I was in hysterics now. It was like a circus: “Step right up and see the Speaker and his invisible friend! The Cleaner and his napkins! Isaac the ringmaster! Step right up, no one turned away!”
I was doubled over with laughter when some girls walked by me giggling. I turned in time to see them watching me, and they quickly scurried away. I suddenly felt very self-conscious. There I was, sitting by myself in a McDonald’s, laughing into space. Like some nut.
I finished my fries and left. ******************
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
Prosperity:
By Ronald G Carrillo
Divine consciousness
God is my supply
Unlimited prosperity
Reset my creativity
More defined focus
Leaving behind the mundane hocus pocus
In simplicity I see the bigger picture
My direction is sharper
My edge is kinder
Less fear more clear
Age has created an erosion in me
Worn down my rough edges
Built up my patina
Mellowed my soul
Filled a hole in my heart and head
Becoming more whole
Settled into this skin
Much more comfortable within
I begin not again but anew
Even my aura of blue is gleaming
Sunshine streaming through all that I do
A new school of learning a spiritual view
My personal journey has met a fork in the road
Leaving one path and embarking on another
A deeper route I’m exploring with gratitude
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.
Celebration
By Mona Jean Cedar
Alone
At home; in my head
Alone All alone All together
I know you’re there. out there out of reach
I know we will be together again
Will celebrate together, again
All together again
The troubles that separate us, Will leave us
Our world has turned upside down
The commotion has calmed
Our thoughts turned inward
Reality is clear
All has Become peaceful; holy; silent.
But now, in this sacred silence we sow seeds of spirituality
Soon to bloom into a bounty of beauty.
In this sacred silence the world opens;
We perceive, receive, conceive
A new global enlightenment
We will learn new skills of connection
A new language of inclusion
A new global vision
And together, a glorious global celebration!
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!
Unleashed
By Mike Sonksen aka Mike the PoeT
Unpredictable like January rain
Santa Ana winds come from the east
Eucalyptus trees in the left turn lane
Mother Nature unleashed
on Pasadena streets
20 Twenty One
2021
things will never be the same
don't watch the rerun
2021
the Rose Parade was cancelled
throw your own instead
2021
stay safe social distancing
get to know yourself
Mike Sonksen aka Mike the PoeT is a 3rd-generation Los Angeles native. Poet, professor, journalist, historian and tour-guide, his latest book Letters to My City was published by Writ Large Press. His poetry’s been featured on Public Radio Stations KCRW, KPCC & KPFK & TV programs like Spectrum News. Sonksen taught high school for five years and now teaches at Woodbury University.
Lucky One
by Jane Cantillon
Like she was going into a sunny Embassy Suite, she slipped into the Disney Cancer Center and smiled at the receptionist, a perky Doris Day look-alike with her earnest "how are you?" Probably, Joan thought, another survivor. Her right breast was tender, second degree burns spreading in the shadow of the pendulous one in question. Mechanically moving toward the locker room, down a nondescript hallway marked with a painting of a California mission, she pushed open the door and she peeled off her shirt and virgin white hospital bra she was given after surgery, and there she looked at the angry smile of a scar on her breast, pulled this camisole around her waist and said "Hey dear, you alright? All quiet in there?" She began to gently massage her right breast for she had heard a recent report that breasts that get more loving and massaging are more likely to be cancer free. She was curiously feeling herself up, like when she first found the tiny bump. Then a crooked woman came through the door just out of treatment. A scarf wrapped neatly around her head, a perfectly slender and obedient patient marching out of the breast cancer factory. Joan knew this woman, always did what she was told, cautious and thoughtful in her life, a perfect student, then wife and mother, and now, a perfect cancer patient.
"Hello "she murmured a daily nod though she seemed to be growing weaker than Joan, who was one of the lucky ones who didn’t need chemo. Lucky, she would sigh. She then climbed into her fresh laundered hospital robe and pushed the door open to the inner sanctum waiting room.
A Big 3D screen with scenes from a perfect white sand beach pixelated seagulls appeared to greet her there, a Disney ride gone terribly wrong, next to a small kitchen with burned coffee and traces of coffee mate from the early morning customers. She now had a habit of placing her left hand over her breast "Now now girl, promise not to let those nasty little cells run wild again.?"
Like clockwork, a large Russian man came out, Miss Joan, we are ready for you." Down a long hallway to the other familiar technician that knows every cell of her right breast and mumbles a hello, she then removed her gown waist up lies down on electric gurney and places her arms above her head.
She is then locked in--shackled like a 17th-century prisoner in the belly of a steely ship, when they spout out numbers, measures, do not move they say as they position her body like the prep of a large holiday turkey. The remotes are pushed, machines like cannons move to each blue mapping tattoo, the three positions of her right breast, throbbing now. They are ready to fire the radiation into her body, then the nurse routinely says,"Your name and birth date please." Joan of Arc, January 2013." she laughs as the technicians scatter behind the thick barrier walls. "What was that?" the nurse says, safely hidden away.
Multi-talented Jane Cantillon is an Emmy-nominated producer, working in daily television for over 24 years. More recently, Cantillon been an improvisational creative writing and arts facilitator who hosts private salon-type workshops and retreats in Los Angeles and Joshua Tree. Designed to help non-writers and artists manifest their dreams through sharing their work, she creates unconventional prompts that develop into moving stories. She also conducts art and music therapy at various assisted living facilities in Los Angeles. Cantillon also fronts an original rock band backed by her husband called The Dick and Jane Family Orchesrtra, and she produced and directed a critically acclaimed documentary called "The Other Side: A Queer History's Last Call".
Thanks for joining! We will continue to power through and hopefully make this next year more loving and accepting.
With great hope for a healthier future
Love,
Linda Kaye
Please submit your written work to:lindakayepoetry@icloud.com and include a short bio.
Linda Kaye writes poetry, 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 and 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.
Linda Kaye is a native Angelino 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 was working for the last seven years as a psychotherapist and licensed clinical supervisor for an out patient mental health clinic. She was a licensed medical social worker for 25 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.
www.lindakayepoetry.com
Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry
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