POETS PLACE
December 2021 Edition
Poetry is a wild ride in my book. I never know where a piece will take me. It has to do with the crazy, uncontrolled thoughts in my head that whirr around, sometimes causing great discomfort especially when its a tune I don’t want to hear!!! There’s usually a dire need to expel what’s inside my head, hopefully on to paper or computer and often in front of an audience. My brain sounds and feels like those song mash ups currently flooding the music craze of pop stylings of this generation. At times familiar, yet often agonizing, my head banging furiously to the incessant techno beat-throng throng throng. It’s highly possible that my lifetime listening exposure to loud vibrations of heavy metal and almost all genres of music has created zillions of musical synapses, a constant symphony magnified of musical mash ups. In my head I hear music ranging from David Bowie, Bjork, Beatles, Stones, Led Zeppelin, James Brown, Ray Charles, Ella Fitzgerald, Aretha, Blondie- aaaghhh…I simply cannot list all the sounds in my head! Hum a tune and I will follow up with my head version of the chorus! “We’re gonna dig potatoes. We’re gonna pick tomatoes”. A veritable library of sound!
It’s all good.
This month hosts poets from all over the country of Cali. And as far away as Puerto Rico and Ohio! You guys are a blessing to me! Thank you for keeping Poets Place alive with your words, your stories and your rhythms of the heart. Keep em coming!!! XXXXXXX
Super big love,
HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!!!
Enjoy!!!
Linda
Life, What a Risk
by Linda Kaye
Nov 2021
Life, can be risky. Plain and simple. Authentic living in life, means exposure. A risk of being revealed. Outed before your peers. Possibly humbled or humiliated.
Life lived safely equals suppression
You represent what you can, maybe only share the edited version of self, the depressed dark and sometimes the illuminated enlightened light, and only give up what you can safely, defensively expose.
Bottom line, It’s all up to you to take the risk.
And the risk is very personal. That’s why it’s so scary
the risk is risky.
The risk will demand commitment, intention and require follow through
to face fear
ignore judgment
squash resentments
inhibit jealousy and lust or
exhibit jealousy and lust
Maximum risk? Well now you’re talking! Taking the deep dive into the unknown-oh boy!
Takes huge cajones. Chutzpah. Mazel.
Life requires that you live it
it means you’re alive so you need to live it to its
fullest
that’s what I said on my website suck it dry. Life. Suck it dry.
Sara Sylvia Simpson Sloan
by Jeff Chayette 8 November 2021
Signs adorned the highway
“Virginia is for Peanut lovers”
green everywhere
blue grass
rye grass
tender grass
gas stations
speedways
station masters
speed traps
drunken rats
3 generations of Seventh Day Adventist
lived in the Belco Motor Court and Restaurant
on the outskirts of Emporia a quaint berg of six thousand
gun loving motor crazy Christian enthusiast
god
guns
gas
don’t tread on me flags fly
police force lays out speed traps to keep the schools running
the streets clean you can chew but you can’t spit on our streets
the vegetarian cult at the Belco Motor Court praised Jesus
and the holy communion of peanut oil adorned on the foreheads of the children
Harold Everett Simpson the III
led the congregation of the Everett Simpson clan
cousin loving
sisters brothers
white stripes
paid for the rites of endless motor nights on route 301
holding guns for twenty years
the end days are near
our congregants do not fear
the queer
the jew
the free style rapper
the trans
the bi
the mixing of the races
will destroy what plans were God’s creation
Harold Everett Simpson Sloan, the great grandson of H.E.S. the III
studied taxidermy, specialized in song birds
downy woodpeckers
mourning doves
blue jay
hermit thrush
meticulous and never rush
the bird museum graced their spiritual prison
graced their hate
with sweet veneer
outsiders had no idea what sick plan
was being cooked in the kitchen of the Belco Motor Court
Tufted Titmouse, Carolina Chickadee delivered to the Sunday’s nest by Cooper’s Hawk
a heavenly avian decor adorned the joint
no meat or foul on the plate
potatoes, red beans, greens, and home grown wheat
life appeared so sweet
the trick of the sick
Sara Sylvia Simpson Sloan bit her tongue
her thoughts would not be shared in the family square
told the handsome visitor
beware
take me from here if you dare
he blinked shook thought what a kook
lord this is so cliche
I’m too sophisticated for this country lady
the dudes are creepy all right
I bet they tie her up at night
she stared right through him
cold unblinking
what is she thinking
she passed a note
sweet sixteen and never been kissed
don’t be stupid what have you missed
the sign post
potato roast
cornbread toast
I will die here fried in peanut oil
while they enact Job’s boils
on my skin to purge my sin
the second coming and I am running
with or without you handsome man
are you my hero or just another zero
passing through Emporia dodging speed traps
Smokey and the Bandit, that’s your gambit
you think you’re Nicholas Cage
caught on stage with an Orchid Thief
look in the mirror
who do you see
the frightened boy with matchbox toys
take me
meet me outside behind mile marker 33 off highway 301
I’ve got the laundry duty
once the washer starts I’ve got an hour before they’ll miss me
don’t smile
wink
scowl
blink
wipe your face and leave no trace
Sara grabbed the dinner linens and disappeared
clammy sweat
a jaundiced glow
shook the mustached stranger’s countenance
dine and dash
where is my check
he croaked
guzzled water gasped for air
gathered himself
what just happened
damn the Jesus chick was sweet
he paid his bill tucked in his shirt
grinned from ear to ear
what is there to fear
he grabbed his hat and swaggered out into the night
looked at highway marker 32
just one mile down the road he’ll wait for her
a movie reel spun in his head
Farley Granger that’s my man
femme fatale be damned
male cliche led astray
“butteries and zebras”, little wing played on Spotify
looks like a nice night to die
Jeff Chayette- has lived and loved for 4 decades in Los Angeles.
He is a multi-faceted artist who attended Art Center College of Design In Pasadena, Jeff has worked on stage, television and films.
His design work has been peer recognized with National and local Emmys, CBS Eye on Excellence and Promax BDA awards.
His current poems are reflections on past and present life in Los Angeles through the eyes of the pandemic.
The Whale’s Tale
By Lee Boek, Marlene Rasnick and Sharon Stricker
And a poem from the Creole of Paule Barton
It’s Spring
Time to go see…..
The Whales
Poshen’s daughter
The one that isn’t disinherited
Gets tickets
Can you imagine how much time getting on the van takes?
“Going out to meet the moon whales”
How hard it is to move your buns when you’re 90 years old?
It’s tme
A quick drive down to San Pedro
Then Disembark
The van……..and….walk….led….by…Lena
The Queena….Sloooow!!
“High in the round fruit trees we saw them passing under the moon”
Some believe she walks so slow on porpoise
I question her locomotion
“The manta rays lined up to slowly flap their wings…..”
All the way to the ticket window
“Then we floated out on the manta waves”
Out to the boat itself
Time…..”There was no time we were happier.”
But, on time
The Boat Disembarks
Out to sea, the rocking rolling boat
The churning, yearning sea
“Whales Look!” Look Daddy,
“I vant to go up top and look at the Vales”
(blow the sound of a whale)
“Look, over there ! Vales! Vales!”
“I have not died too young”
When Jacob and I go downstairs into the bottom of the boat where
The others are sitting in front of the big bay window looking out at
The Sea
There is one person
Ruby
Laying
Face down and Sea Sick
Suddenly, The sea is alive
Schools of Fish
Whales, Dolphins, Porpoises, mantras, sea lions
Pelicans and Flying Fish,
All right in front of the window leaping and cavorting
Playing and gurgling
We see it All! We All see it
Life
“I floated out in the wood boat I was born in fifty years ago”
“When the moon whales were swimming here”
Crustaceans to octogenarians, a message from Davey Jones’ Locker
“Ahoy Mateys!”
“Don’t be crabby you little shrimp.”
Lee Boek: Artistic Director/poet
An integral part of Public Works Improvisational Theater Company since the 1970s, Lee took over as Artistic Director of the company in 2001 after founding member Marlene Rasnick’s passing. The California native, born in 1941, has had successful careers as a Fundamentalist Evangelist preacher, radio host, actor, writer, producer, union organizer, husband, father, grandfather to many & champion for the under-served & wronged. A staple of the Silverlake arts community, Lee continues to be on the forefront of accessible, socially-relevant performing arts productions
Unconditional
By Mary Cheung
1-4-2021
9:46a.m.
Unconditional, unselfishly, and without limits.
You give everyday.
Your quiet looks, your love, your joy;
In your own special way.
15 years ago, we took a trip to go and "see" a dog.
Unsure if we would be going home with one.
Uncertainty being the only cog.
Prompted by Riley and the desire to have a pet.
Boy you were such a gift,
a rare treasure and then some.
For a year you didn't make a single peep.
You were very shy and quiet.
Afraid to be yourself and scared of riding in cars.
Throwing up every time you got in for a ride,
Even if it wasn't too far.
Gradually we earned your trust and we gained your confidence.
The first time I heard a bark.
I was surprised to find it came from you!
I guess that means we are your family now.
You barking to defend your castle was my clue.
Over the years many many adventures were had.
Hikes to mountaintop and waterfalls.
Trips to the beaches, coming home full of sand and dirt!
Great fun to be had by all!
You put up with the Halloween costumes I made.
Leprechaun, Bat, Superhero,
Ufo and Rapper.
You made it all look good!
Even though wearing them didn't make you any happier.
I was always sad we couldn't take you on our long summer trips.
So you were left home alone with a sitter.
Returning home was always heart warming and scary,
not know if there was anything important that we had missed.
So now covid was a blessing,
the fact that we spent all year alone with you.
And got to remember what a treasure you are.
Always there to dole out love,
comfort and happiness,
never straying too far.
I scares me to see how you are aging.
and really needing that special care.
When I call you, you don't hear very well.
And seeing your eyes clouds over to complete blindness...
Well that's my own personal hell.
So daily attention to give your life quality,
vitamins, good food and exercise.
We hope to extend it by far.
Seeking out information and professionals advice is on par.
So I don't know if you know, what you mean to us.
You keep the loneliness and sadness at bay.
Remind us of the simple pleasures in life.
hopefully for a much much longer way.
I love you lucy, I hope you understand what I say.
I'll try to be worthy of your love.
The same one you give me every.... single... day.
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”.
How old are you.
By Ed Burgess
How old are you
You will be asked
Again and Again
What’s your DOB
On paperwork
Over the phone
On line
In the dating app
At every corner
At every turn
How old are you today
Old enough to know better
Old enough to leave the past behind
Wisdom is wasted on the old
And youth is wasted on the young
How old where you
When you conquered the fear
And had your day in the sun
Or when you fell in the hole
And tasted blood under the moon
All these days
Made us who we are
We are here to celebrate them all
Every day, Every day, Every day
Into eternity
That’s how old I am
How old are you.
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. Although he writes poetry he sometimes reads it publicly.
Homie Never Had a Chance ( to redeem himself )
by Joe Kevany
Homie never had a chance to redeem himself
They say he was a bad actor, always searchin' for a style
His pants were gangster, his shirt was hipster
and on his chin a 'food Manchu' with not a hint of guile
spends his days minin' the ruts, no ifs, ands or cigarette butts
He was last seen eatin' street tacos usin' a ragbox for a table
and was mixed up for an ex-narco, tipped off by an invisible label
What's the use of skippin' breakfast if you eat a double lunch ?
While some cases are closed with a mere prayer and a hunch.
Somehow he knew this wasn't gonna be another flashlight therapy session
delivered in solemn shades of blue non-passive aggression
but...homie never had a chance to redeem himself
it may be true he had some more bad to do
but, the tip of a finger was judge and jury of some tenured deadringer
who unleashed his badge of fury
spent more than a couple of nights checkin' the Homicide Report
just to see if he was there or some like minded co-hort
Until it took one leaky faucet to drip on up to the top
and shredded cliches like pullin' a tab from an old can of soda pop
as walking scapegoats with their suitcase of bad choices
only really liking the sound of their own voices
Meanwhile no ward of the state slash slammer student of the month
or jailhouse Bible school teacher's pet
No Ted Talk spewin' Moth-like cautionary tales drippin' with sincere remorse or regret ..cuz..
Homie never had a chance to redeem himself...
Homie never had a chance to redeem himself...
Born and raised in Los Angeles, Joe Kevany is a retired LAUSD teacher with a lovely wife and three kids. While primarily a songwriter and front man for his band The June Gloomers, this is his first venture into the wonderful world of poetry.
WHEN THE NIGHT GAINED ITS STARS
By Richard Russeth
There is the sadness of flowers of course,
when they throw their seeds to the wind
and nothing is there to hold them,
no angels or sun or rain.
There is the suddenness of loss -
as when a friend dies
that you’ve been meaning to call
but then you get the news
and everything is broken glass.
There is that place where love and hate intersect,
that sniper’s dream, that place where
you can never run fast enough
and everything is far.
There is the dream that ends with an alarm.
And another that ends with eternity.
And another that just ends, and you realize
the sunrise ever does not wait.
There is hopelessness of course. Always that.
The wonderment of God, and what does this mean,
and why does life hurt so much
when all you did was open your eyes
after a journey of blood and stars and months.
There are times when only bare trees make sense,
only clocks have time, only babies have hope,
the impossible cost of truth is revealed,
forgiveness is given, and the trees bloom
with a passion born of forgetting
that they’ve done it a hundred times before.
But we are given this life
for remembrance of that moment
when truth had a beating heart,
for when all that was thought lost was found,
and the night gained its stars.
Sweet Man in a Time of Thanksgiving
By Ronald G. Carrillo
I am hungry for a sweet man
A cinnamon colored horchata drinking dude
Who’ll lift my mood from gray skies to blue
A Louisiana gumbo man with a jumbo personality
Who doesn’t ride that streetcar of desire
A barrio brother raised in the hood
Who speaks Spanish in bed
Whose whispers and tongue get into my head and heart
A Korean American man with kimchi on his breath
A spicy Asian fusion man who eats burritos in the Pico-Union
I am hungry for an Autumn man with no dead leaves
Who will fall heavy for me
I want a champurrado complexion man
Who doesn’t have to suntan
Whose love making is as spicy as his chile colorado
Un hombre que esta enamorado conmigo
Un papi dulce que yo soy su mijo
I want a tamale tasting man with big hands
A Jose Feliciano man who serenades me a-la “Sabor A Mi”
I want a mariachi singing man sin mentira y de puro macho
Don’t want a down low type of man
No time for a black brother scam of my heart strings
Let me drift in your African roots that will mingle
With my cultura and south of the border sensibilities
We have virilities that go back centuries
I want an incense burning long-haired Summer of Love man
Who grows that good San Francisco bud
Who talks Castaneda and plays guitar like Paul Kossoff
I want a “Nights in White Satin” kind of man
That Sunday kind of man with a Friday night kind of love
A sweet honeymoon type of man
Till death do us part for the long haul man
Oh how I will love you through the seasons
I want that Daddy man that is so manly it makes me cry
A bearded hipster man with a masculine gait
A make me wait kind of man that likes to hold hands
A hard working muscular kind of man
His perspiration a sweaty musky smell of desire
A come on baby “Light My Fire” the extended long version man
I want that “Where’s That Rainbow” man
That Barbra Streisand sings of the younger twin brother
Of “The Man That Got Away” that eluded Judy Garland
Laura Nyro’s Eli man a tom cat slipping out the window
No not that man I know too well a city faker
He’s got the dream but no fuel or takers
No Joni Mitchell blue man that I used to drink a case of
My Frank-in-sense a very young man
My high school sweetheart purple and white
With cherry red lips that made me ache for his candy
Yes I want that man I never had
A real step up to the plate man
That no nonsense never arriving late man
With long kisses and sweets in his hand for me
I want a no more war man who wears camouflage fatigues
I want a red, white and blue man
Balls to the wall, a constitutional man
Who knows all the ugly American history
But still feels in his bones this is a great country
A salt of the earth man with great dignity
I want that Cat Stevens kind of man
The one on the back cover of “Tea For the Tillerman”
Vocalizing his manly pain in a son for his father
I want that send me yellow roses chivalry man
My December boudoir man who will love me timelessly
A Winter man in flannel and timberland leather boots
Of course I want a Chicano man from Lincoln Heights
Who knows my young geography and history
An East Los man with bravado baby
Who wears Tres Flores in his mane of thick hair
I want a great cook of a man
A good looking man in an apron con ganas
Who knows how to grill a steak medium rare
I want a rancho man who can ride a horse
A burly brown man that cooks his meat under the ground
I want a cowboy man that looks studly in his chaps
“That someday” soon rodeo man of Judy Collins
A keeper Western man that lets me polish his boots
I need a book reading man who can read my thoughts
A man who likes to talk about the big and small things
I want a nopales eating man from Mexico
With a Nahuatl name who represents his indigenous culture
I want that man who is my best friend
Who drinks coffee with me every morning
That man who is my bookend
A self-starter man who stirs good things up for two
A lad from Liverpool, a punk from Manchester
Who recites Shakespeare and Morrissey from memory
I want a hipster Hispanic man who loves the Smiths
Who takes me record shopping at Amoeba
I want that blues in the night man
Waiting for a cool train in vain like a rolling stone
Traveling miles and drinking champagne
I want a “Gonna Take A Miracle” man
Who sings me “Ooo Baby Baby” in his falsetto
I want a gentle man with dark mysterious looks
My senior man who recommends good books
That makes a spicy guacamole and bakes his own bread
I want that all American true melting pot man
With deep dreamy blue eyes and no disguises
And a deep masculine voice that makes my head spin
I want a do right kind of man
That knows just who I am
I want into that romantic dream
I want out of this stale reality that is too mainstream
I’ll take a big slice of his apple pie
But when he cries I’m mystified
Sometimes the hurt is too deep
Despite the lies he has felt pain
Despite the red, white and blue of it
Whatever he knew of it I could not fix
It’s complex, it’s cruel and all I could do
Was be beside him and try to bear some of the weight
Future man with your golden tan of serenity
Propose to me in senior time
Johnny Angel has appeared to me in his maturity
Let’s seal the deal in security
Exchanging vows of authenticity
And bands of freedom minus the publicity
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.
A POETS BEING
By: IE Carlo 1July 2021
A poets being is one of delight and yet
Of deep thoughts of that being in their being
For it acknowledges that of their deepness of thoughts
It allows the poet to uncloud its mind of thing mundane
A reflect on that of their inner being that speaks and yet can not be heard by others, all others will ever know are words that at times hide the message being told for poets need not explain, you either except or not! In most cases what the poet is relating is their thoughts and if it attracts your being they have accomplished nothing, it now belongs to you the listener, the observer, you now own it.
Ismael (East) Carlo, poet, actor begins on the streets of East Harlem, el barrio whose monica of “East” happened due to others not being able to pronounce the name, Is-Ma-El…
East, considers himself more a storyteller than a poet, although at times he gets lucky and poetry emerges from his stories...
For more about East, visit IMDB. Paz en Vida
The New Dance
by Jane Cantillon (1992)
Your firm body dances against
the Odyssey’s rainbow lights.
Siren’s scream while the disco ball
reflects on black lights, blue eyes and sweat.
Tides of sweat roll down.
Eyeball sockets darken then eclipse.
You smile and dry folds pull back to reveal
perfect teeth.
I realize you’re another ghost
of a friend.
A generation later we hide
open sores like open-toed shoes.
Your big features shrink back,
gray like our cigarettes at 4am
up all night after Rage and Circus.
You dance into the hot season
but stop before the shorter, cooler days.
Death unfolds in a blush, a fever.
I recognize you. I miss you.
You are my new holy man.
Death, you are the new dance.
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 Orchestra, and she produced and directed a critically acclaimed documentary called "The Other Side: A Queer History's Last Call".
Thanks for joining us! We will continue to host writers and poets of all genres.
With great hope for a loving and accepting future!
Love,
Linda Kaye
Please submit your written work to:lindakayepoetry@icloud.com and include a short bio.
Linda Kaye writes poetry, curates 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. https://youtu.be/5Te4-dlhxco
Her most recent project a rap music video in collaboration with Mary Cheung, “ERACE-ISM” can also be seen on youtube. https://youtu.be/NfrbveNUBgg
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 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.
Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry
