POETS PLACE
AUGUST EDITION 2021
It’s hot! Muggy, yucky and full of grief and loss. Can someone just put on the brakes a sweet minute to catch my breath?? Dang, too much loss. If it wasn’t for the support and poetry from all of you, I’m not sure I coulda hung on much longer. Drowning. No kidding. Just full on struggle.
Poetry can soothe the soul and calm your anxiety, and it can also open up its floodgates of traumatic and depressing thoughts. Oh yeah. Truth be told. Word.
Paralyzed by loss
By Linda Kaye
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 able yet to find solace because the deceptive shock still exists
there’s an 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
temporarily, until the next loss surfaces and the hurt begins it’s paralyzing cycle once again
Raga
By Judith Terzi
There's no one sitting beside me. No one
in front. No one in back. There are no
rows, no siddurim––no prayer books––
stacked on tables in front of the sanctuary
doors this Day of Atonement. No eau de
parfum lingering between stained glass.
French roast the sole aroma. I'm listening
to a cantor on YouTube. Her voice is
nostalgia, it glistens, it's the end of drought,
our fires put out. It's a windfall of serenity,
pulse of astonishment. Now the rabbi's
perched on a boulder in mountains where
there is no fire. He's singing about the opening
of hearts. He's playing guitar. Over six feet
away is the cantor––this is a pre-recorded
portion. There's a bridge, a vigorous creek,
a waterfall. They're in casual clothes. Inside
the sanctuary they stand on either side
of the Ark in white kittels––a coincidental
distancing. The cantor smiles while she sings
words my father sang, his recitative rambling
through our house while he rehearsed, his
tremolos way too wavy for a child's patience.
His cantor's cap still lies inside my dresser
drawer, kittel given away long ago. Rocking
back and forth. I'm rocking back and forth
singing transliterated Hebrew on my screen.
Singing the English. I'm mesmerized by this
service: its relevance, compassion. Its panache.
Nothing is quite the same. Yet everything is.
Judith Terzi is the Author of Museum of Rearranged Objects (Kelsay) as well as of five chapbooks, Judith Terzi's poems have appeared in a wide array of journals and anthologies. Her poetry has been read on BBC Radio 3 and has received Pushcart and Best of the Net nominations. She taught high school French for many years at Polytechnic School in Pasadena as well as English and French at California State University, Los Angeles, and in Algiers, Algeria.
Life, a Fool's Errand
By:IE Carlo
23 June 2021
What is your objective in life, but to live!
Yet, it’s a fool's errand
For life even when pursuing a goal
Will still lead you to a worthless place, a place of no value
A fool's errand
Life is just that, life, the irony is how civilized
People make life a fool's errand
Smiles of riches, drawn faces of despair
Why? Should we ask?
What is it to own a twenty room house, a yacht, a plane, yet
Have no place to live in your being
Smiles of riches; laughter from artists
Art of living is not a fool's errand
But life without art ‘is’ an errand for fools
Shake, rattle, and row, and eggs migrate
I, You, the only survivors of more than over a million migrants in one shot
Born into a fool's errand
By those rich smiling faces who utilize our being and talents
As an artist I take life for granted and utilize it to my advantage knowing full well of those smiling faces and their ways of sending many on ‘a fool's errand’.
Summery: the phrase ‘a fool's errand’ is an undertaking that is doomed to failure because it is impossible ‘or’ frivolous in its nature...so, for me, not to take life for granted would be ‘a fool's errand’...Paz
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
Fecund with Promise
By Lillian Doyle
My vision is static and it’s time to flee,
to slip out from under these ominous lights,
the colorful ads that cast red and blue shadows over my face.
Premises are why
and conclusions are what,
but there is no argument to be made.
Everything is funnier with a beer dribbled chin,
or in a quiet room-
doubled over, tight with laughter- where can we release it?
Follow the lurch in your stomach when you slam on the brakes-
your ears will ring; catch the call-
wonder seeks wonder and the road is fecund with promise.
Lillian Doyle is an artist and poet living in East Los Angeles. Lillian incorporates her poetry into zines and ambient music. Her work is self-reflective, ethereal, and inspired by the nature she grew up around. Last year she released her first ep and book "Legends".
A Goddess Looks Over Her Shoulder
By Lisa Montagne
A goddess without Love is
A shell emptied of its contents
A flower bereft of its petals
A single bird left behind when all others
Have gone extinct.
A goddess without Love is
A world without color.
Winter without fall
or spring or summer.
One day the Goddess looked over her shoulder and
Found Love wondering on a street corner.
The strength of a whole universe
Distilled in her gaze.
She became La Loba, mother Nyx,
Durga, Coatlicue, Radha once again.
She was Home.
is okay.
Lisa Montagne, Ed.D. A native of Southern California, Lisa Montagne, Ed.D., is a poet, writer, artist, and college English professor who specializes in online learning. She has read her poetry to audiences in Los Angeles, Portland and Tampa, including at the Beyond Baroque poetry center and for Writ Large Press and PenWriter America. She has been published by The Ear literary and art magazine, the Variant Literature Journal, Boomer Reviews, and Running Wild Press.
By G. Billie Quijano
As the pandemic is lifting, I feel like I am a lotus rising from the murky waters to meet the sun.
This last year and a half overwhelmed us with much grief to process. It seemed like it would never end, but we never gave up hope.
Thank the goddess I was able to channel my anger and grief through poetry. I was able to say goodbye to George Floyd and John Lewis. But I still have rage for the killing of Breonna Taylor.
Her murder like the murders of the women of Juarez are not just statistics. They are women who loved, laughed, danced and had a future of memories to make. Then comes another blow, Bill Cosby released from prison on a technicality.
It is the passion of La Corazon Feminista that will not allow them to be censored from our souls. They will not be mere shadows, but front and center in their narrative.
Their memory will echo our rage, grief, love and victories.
This is for you Breonna
Oda a Breonna
By G. Billie Quijano
Why is Breonna's womaness a crime that resulted in Femicide?
They were brazen in that act
And your assailants can never hide
She was innocent in her sleep
While her dreams swirled in the deep
Why was the color of her skin
Their win?
Her skin color was not probable cause
Yet they make their own laws
She gave service to other humans
Now we're in the streets movin'
They refused to see their crime through their hate
Their evil was the cause of her fate
Kentucky make no mistake
Our blood is not for you to take
Your decision not to indict
We will not resist the fight
How many kisses will be lost
Love always remains the cause
How many dances are painfully still?
Our rage is our will
Breonna you have graced the covers of O and Vanity Fair
Oh my goddess, at times its more than we can bear
Your sweetness will be missed
But your memory will persist
Breonna you have taken your place in the court of queens
Let our voices be heard
Let our anguish be seen
"Say her name"
Vanessa Guillen
Sandra Bland
Layleen Polanco
Riah Milton
Dominique Fells
Mujeres of Juarez
Ana Mendieta
“Progressive art can assist people to learn not only about the objective forces at work in the society in which they live, but also about the intensely social character of their interior lives. Ultimately it can propel people toward social emancipation”. Angela Davis
G. Billie Quijano
Gracias Angela. My life as an artist has liberated me, my mind, body and soul. Expression is boundless, color eternal. Art ignites movements. We are citizens of the collective consciousness. This month I am submitting 2 poems. This mine and Frida’s birthdays. We share a cosmic connection-East Los to Coyoacan, Mexico. Angela, Frida, Dora Maar,Lola Alvarez Bravo, Sor Juana Ines, sisters, brothers, and yours truly are the faces of freedom.
Ode to Tennessee Williams
By Ronald G. Carillo
Tennessee exiting a fictitious streetcar of conformity
And walking to a shoe factory daily
Like giving blood after morning coffee
And a rough night of going to the movies and heavy drinking
His mother’s voice proclaiming rise and shine
Walk the line eight to five to stay alive
But he’d rather go to the moon of his imagination
Mother and sister on the ropes of existence
And the old man has escaped town handsome though he maybe
Now you hold the reins of your father’s discontent Tennessee
And also inherit his absent parentage
Becoming your father while hating your mother
But I recognize in you a brother of the highest regard
Going down in a sinking ship
So ill-equipped for dry land
You go through the disaster motions as long as you can
While getting drunk reckoning adventure from some faraway port
Writing poetry and stories during a pirate’s lunch
Gentlemen callers and bits of glass
Under the sliver of a silver slipper moon
Make a wish Mr. Williams and hope for success and happiness
Far off in the mist of memory Stanley hollers “Stella”
A banished Blanche DuBois retires to writing
For Romeos and wedding vows that will not arrive in time
I too must set sail as there is no rescue
Only cold sheets and sacred cows too many to disavow
Tennessee Williams and Miss Alma
Rising out of desire and smoke
Thick enough to choke any hope of love
But rising still to heaven to create great Art
Two souls forging yet breaking apart
The ancient original sin of Paradise lost
Tennessee channeling the great rivals
Dark and light and major and minor divisions
Our secular tendencies and those sacred traditions
A doubting Thomas but not quite a Judas Iscariot
Tennessee battling internal addictions
And external temptations but always observing human folly
Cruelty and male adrenalin facing off with fragility
The beaten down played out and escaping crisis
The lion unable to lie down with the lamb
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.
Happy Mother's Day To Me
4-9-21
5:59 a.m.
By Mary Cheung
Where did the time go?
It all went by too fast.
You started out just as a thought.
Than as a tiny spot in my body.
All part of my plan;
a life to join in my party.
Oh wouldn't that just be grand!!
Committed now, of what my future will be.
I rolled with all the changes in my body.
I looked down one day,
and my feet I could no longer see.
Throughout morning sickness
and a steady widening of girth..
I readied myself to be a mother,
determined I'd prove my worth.
But no books can prepare you for what's ahead.
Even if you think you know it all.
Regardless we stumble and learn;
Hoping each decision was the right call.
All I can give you,
is my love, my experience and wisdom of past.
These 2 arms to hold you,
And promises of a love that would last.
I hope that my knowledge can help to lessen,
any hardships along your way.
I can only dream for you what I hope,
you might become one day.
I've guided and given all that I could.
Now it's up to you,
To create,
and to live it as you think you should.
Turn your dreams into existence.
Be the princess and the prince in your own tale.
I believe in you, your fierce determination.
Your passion as big as a whale.
Your whole life is ahead of you,
possibilities are boundless and more.
I can't wait to read your story.
It started the minute you walked out the door.
Wander off to far away lands.
I hope I've prepared you well.
One day you'll learn what I have.
And pass onto your children as well.
That a mother's love doesn't end.
No matter where you are.
It reaches those you love.
Whether near or far.
And that Mother's day is our new Christmas.
The gift that gives and never ends.
Eternal is my bond with you;
You are my life,
my love,
my friend.
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”.
Daniel Schack
To those, regardless of political affiliation or party, personal or religious philosophy, or gender or orientation, or ethnicity who are fake or phony. To say it bluntly, " I would rather spend time with a wh-re instead of a bore. The former has more character, most likely.
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
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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
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