POETS PLACE
November Edition 2022
Life is sometimes fraught with immeasurable challenges. To deal with these challenges, we as a people often seek refuge in the comforts of what’s knowable, comfortable and safe. But we are not always knowable, comfortable and safe. When we are at our most vulnerable, people can often misguide us, taking us places where maybe they feel less judged and less at risk of exposure. The heart beats with intensity because we know there is something amiss in their intentions. It doesn’t feel authentic. Why do I write about this? Well, I am empathic by nature, not nurtured. And because not everyone has the power to see through those with impure intentions. I want to impart wisdom that encourages critical thought, that is nurturing, supportive and empathic. I believe that sharing what you have learned and experienced is important. To teach, so that my experience and wisdom passes on. Maya Angelou said, “when you learn, teach, when you get, give”. From my profession as a social worker and professor, I have taught so many students, co-workers, doctors, nurses, patients, clients, friends and family, all that I know about the importance of trusting and respecting your instincts and allowing your authentic self to dictate your choices. Only then can you fully reach your potential with the knowledge and respect that it came from your own passions and heartfelt, honest choices. That, I believe, is our responsibility to human kind. Self-actualization is defined in psychology, as the achievement of one's full potential through creativity, independence, spontaneity, and a grasp of the real world. Are we all capable of achieving this? Is this only relative in the context of our own personal environment? What about the people who have lost their freedoms? How do they self-actualize? When we are personally confronted with those who do not have the same freedoms as ourselves, and are given the opportunity to help, and teach, and share our gifts of wealth and knowledge, I hope you do. Because that show of altruistic kindness can potentially alter someone’s course, possibly towards attaining self-actualization. Sharing the love that we have been blessed to experience can be life changing.
And now we share the gifts of poetry and storytelling…
Love, Linda
IN GRATITUDE OF LOVE
By:IE Carlo
11 August 2022
“…only you cared when I needed a friend
Believed in me through thick and thin…this poem
Is for you filled with gratitude and love”
For you have brought peace from within to
This other celestial soul
If only you could touch my soul the way you touch
My heart my hand
A feeling of intense awareness of the self
A feeling so much more than words can ever express
Need you look at my rostro, my eyes
That touch you’ve grown accustomed to, I’ve become accustomed to is there
And if ever we were too part
know this love will still burn from within
For it travels with us no matter where we may go
Deep in its meaning is this love, for it lingers with anticipation
Of touching you again
For every new day brings with it a new beginning…
…only you cared when I needed a friend, believed in me
Through thick and thin, this poem is for you filled with gratitude and love…”
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
MY TURN
10-21-22
11:56 pm
By Mary Cheung
It's my turn,
My time to shine and grow.
No commitments and nothing to hold me back anymore.
No children to raise, lunches to pack.
No homework to help work on.
No dr appts to head out to.
No girls scout trip functions.
No school events to attend.
No playdates to arrange or host.
No dinners and meals to make but my own.
No staying up late or round the clock playing nurse to my kids.
No life that is centered around theirs.
It's my turn.
I can finally attend to my needs.
The physical and the mental.
The lazy or boring days if I so choose.
The hectic art filled days just because I can.
The late night binge fest, just because I can.
The leaving the house work and clean up to, "ehhh, maybe I'll get it tomorrow"
Yup, it's my turn.
Time to get busy living my life, my way.
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”.
Alone is an Illusion
By Victoria Ester Orantes
Alone is an illusion seems like an insult to say,
When looming reclusivity has been real everyday.
Tenebrosity is often the source of a birth.
Afterall, do not seeds flourish in darkness of earth?
You have been planted; for a time you must be alone.
Learn to live in love; the sun will summon you home.
Skyward from the depths your stem will reach.
Lead with faith; lithic soil will breach.
When the time is true, you’ll find all that you've sought.
Kindred spirits await at the mountain top.
Victoria was born and raised in Los Angeles, California. She is the owner and operator of the first 1966 Volkswagen Beetle boutique, V.E.O. Visions, where she sells her original art, original jewelry, hand-painted clothing, and curated $5 thrifts. Victoria’s art has been featured in local NELA establishments, art-walks, and recently Shoutout LA magazine.
Make America (____________) Again?
By Ronald G. Carrillo
Cancerous hearts made of nicotine and tar
Drips the blues from an absent muse
No longer able to see the stars
Cacophonous guitars refuse to play in harmony
The world falls apart in every way
DNA cousins at war instead of loving brothers
The Doomsday glacier about to fall
Two disgraced presidential hooligans still scamming
One now out of office spreading an incredible lie
Guided by his sick ego for attention
The other risking war for a by-gone degree of greatness
Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum humming the same political song
Rogue masculinity devoid of empathy
Covid strains mutating creating a global plague
Building nuclear instead of a truer consciousness
False religions still controlling the masses
Pedophile priests hiding in Vatican mansions
Hollywood mogul perverts facing years of crime
Strange times as the pendulum of time swings
To extremes cutting off monster heads that do not bleed
A hornets’ nest of white nationalistic trouble
But upheld in the White House by Republican dysfunction
Holding the party line in a sick loyalty to authoritarian rule
Congressmen and women more focused on their political lives
Disregarding their oaths of office and unable to develop a spine
Constitutional erosion blowing away democratic ideals
The winds of political collapse in the making
Baking poisonous bread for public consumption
Giving into our worst fears and the bad angels of our humanity
Insanity upholding the red, white and blue
Make America right again heal the nation
She has gone off her democratic rails
Make America just again she fails her people
The evidence for an indictment is plentiful
Make America continue developing toward a more perfect union
Greatness is empire and ego building
Make America great again was a campaign lie
Such lies and shallow beliefs brought down Alexander the Great
And so many supposed others in their brief period in the spotlight
If we do not embrace our strength in diversity we too will perish
Our republic will come apart
Its red, white and blue stitching is already undoing
Racial infighting will end our prosperity and domestic tranquility
White nationalists are focused on the wrong scapegoat
Misplaced hatred and a lack of empathy spawn violence
For a power group that feels now they are being outnumbered
And losing their place at Uncle Sam’s table
Ego and gluttony when there truly is enough room at the inn
Proud boys who feel they are losing their political toys
Oath keepers not promoting the general welfare
And unable to secure the blessings of liberty for ALL Americans
Tantrum patriots of the lowest regard for their democracy
Spewing hatred and violence that goes against everything
They are trying to save like evangelicals who love the sinner
Supposedly but hate the sin no win only judgement
Make America democratic and constitutional again
Not red states not blue states not “white only”
Not exclusive make America inclusive again
Make Americans dream again
Coda: “Being great again” are pretty but shallow words
Hollow political breadcrumbs to get votes
Leading a sheepish constituency in his/her view of greatness
Great being measured by the vision of that political seeker
I want depth in my democracy supported by strong foundational ideals
Being great is temporary but the depth of a democracy
Is built on strong beliefs in freedom and liberty for all
Being great is fool’s gold and usually a one trick pony
Democracy should be a cavalry utilizing all its citizens’ talents
A full skill set of potential not just some pompous wizard
Calling the shots with scarecrows trumpeting the hero’s voice
A return to sanity and valid true choice in our vote
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.
God bless America
By Daniel Schack
Having received the American history award in 1981 I can honestly say one needs to know only 3 things to win it hands down. these are, it stinks, it always stunk, and will probably continue to stink. just live your life the best you can and try to love life and people as much as you can. oh well life is hell. swell.
The poet ,daniel schack can be seen on poetrysoup.com and his art on tumblr adanthemanworld.daniel schack is 57 and is a high school grad. With 3.5 years of college.peace.
Beginners
By Michael D. Meloan
Lorrie Logan lived next door. She had flaxen hair, freckles, and little gingham dresses. One day, I asked if I could carry her books home from school. I’d seen some other boys do that.
She paused, then said, “Ok.”
While walking, I had no idea what to say. My mind was a blank.
Finally, I asked, “Do you like ‘Runaround Sue’ by Dion and the Belmonts?”
“I don’t know what that is,” she replied.
As we arrived at her house, she paused, “My mom’s car is not in the driveway. But I have a key. Do you want to come in for a minute? Um, for a glass of lemonade.”
“Ok,” I said.
There was a note on the fridge. “Honey, had an emergency errand. Back as soon as possible. –Mom”
“Gone again,” said Lorrie, as she removed a carton of lemonade and poured two tall glasses. Then she clinked hers against mine and took a big drink. We sat down at the kitchen table. Again, my mind was a blank.
Suddenly Lorrie got up and left the room. She returned wearing one of her mother’s silky black dresses and a pair of red high heels. The dress was way too long, but she held it up while she walked. And the shoes were too big, but she clomped around in them anyway.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“You look great,” I replied.
Then she disappeared again and came back with lipstick, makeup, and a small mirror. While I drank my lemonade, she used a brush to smear black goop on her eyelashes. Clumps were on the ends when she blinked. Then she drew around her eyes with a big black pencil. And finally she pushed her lips out and smeared on bright red lipstick. It was messy and didn’t seem right. She looked into the mirror and frowned.
“How do you like it?” she asked.
“I like it!” I said. And I kinda did.
“Have another lemonade,” she said. “I’ll put on some music. My mom likes a song called Swing Swing Swing, she plays it over-and-over.”
As it started up, there was a lot of energy--drums going crazy and wild horns.
“Let’s dance!” she said, pulling me by the hand into the living room.
Holding up her dress, she twirled around to the music and threw her hands up in the air. I had never danced before, so I tried to follow her moves. It was fun. When the music ended, she came toward me and kissed me on the lips. I could taste the lipstick. As she was walking over to the hi-fi to put on another record, the front door flew open. Her mother was suddenly in the room. Wearing a tight white skirt, heels, blouse with a v-neck, and the same red-red lipstick.
“What the hell is going on here?! Take off that makeup for God’s sake! Who is that boy?!”
But before Lorrie could answer, her mother ran into the bathroom and came back with a wet washcloth. Then she angrily grabbed her arm and started scouring. Lorrie sobbed. Her face was a smear of red and black.
“Mike likes me this way,” she whimpered.
Her mother turned to me. “You! Go home! Now!”
With my head down, I slunk out the door, hoping she wasn’t going to call my mother.
The next day at school, I saw Lorrie. When we made eye contact from across the playground, she looked away.
A few weeks later, I heard my parents talking. My mother said the Logans were getting a divorce. Lorrie’s father always looked angry, with a flattop and a cigarette in his mouth.
The day the moving van came, I walked outside. Lorrie was standing in the front yard. This time when we made eye contact, she didn’t look away. Just as she opened her mouth, about to speak, her mother came out of the house. Lorrie turned her head. Then they got into a Plymouth Barracuda and drove away. For just a second, Lorrie looked back.
Michael Meloan's fiction has appeared in Wired, Huffington Post, Buzz, LA Weekly and in many anthologies. He was an interview subject in the documentaries Bukowski: Born Into This and Joe Frank: Somewhere Out There. With Joe Frank, he co-wrote a number of radio shows that aired across the NPR syndicate. His Wired short story "The Cutting Edge" was optioned for film. And he co-authored the novel The Shroud with his brother Steven. This fall, RUP press in Germany will release his memoir/novella PINBALL WIZARD.
Thoughts on Heroes--Real and Otherwise--at Veteran's Day 1986
By Marilyn Fuss
Last Spring, when our family traveled in France, the fallout from Chernobyl passed us by, we read. There was also a short hiatus after the worldwide violence of March and April, and before the most recent terrorist atrocities. We felt a little charmed when we arrived in the Champagne district. So many folks we saw had a pink glow from the regional and iconic specialty--tables in even the simplest cafés had pails of ice with sunken green bottles. La Vie en Rose, Champagne, and the countryside and Reims Cathedral that time of year was all it was fabled to be.
When entering the Argonne Forest and Verdun, we were awakened out of our hedonism by reminders of World War I. There were markers, memorials, and an
unspeakably large ossuary. This was the Great War whose Armistice on November 11 we celebrated until 1954, when the holiday was expanded to recognize all veterans.
Seventy years ago, 800,000 men died in battle in the region. Evidence of war is easy to come by in Europe. Yet all around Verdun, the bunkers and deadly trenches
were covered with forest and dense fields. The earth itself showed renewal--most of the rolling landscape appeared intact. Rich verdure even smothered those war
markers which must remain, lest as the adages go, we forget and repeat our history. The land is as close to a jungle as it could be, given the cool temperature of Eastern France [!] even in late Spring. My thought then was that Chernobyl [site of a different set of ancestors as well as the nuclear power plant], whose initial fires were still being put out as we gazed by the Meuse River, will have no such second chance. The earth will not recover if a nuclear war should occur, and with arms limitation agreements just squelched in Reykjavik!
Shell-pocked buildings in the cities of Lorraine and Alsace are also not as resilient as the soil nearby mentioned above, and they spoke of the Second World War. Outside of the South, we don't have many such wartime damage reminders in the U.S. There are the people we have lost to battle in wars far away, but our most concrete examples are in the news and via Hollywood. Rambo, that veteran of a recent jungle war, was a hot topic last Spring in France, as much as he was here. People there did not appreciate Sylvester Stallone's public announcement that he would forego the Cannes Film Festival for fear of a terrorist attack. A few days after Rambo's alternate had made his sensational statement, my husband's French cousin Daniel said wryly over lunch, "Stallone, Rambo, does not come to France. He is afraid. But you are here! You are the heroes." He echoed my own satiric thought, although we were less likely to be targets of terrorism than Rambo. This incident notes the role in world consciousness of a current war hero archetype, real or not. It also introduces Daniel Handfus.
Daniel is cynical, in a good-natured way, about the vicissitudes of politics, with good reason. He is representative of another kind of wartime survivor, a Jewish man whose life was interrupted for five or six years during World War II. Having spent a year or so hidden in a home with a righteous French family not his own, and losing part of his family to the Nazis, he waited out the rest of the war as a farmer, under an assumed name in the Île de France (called île, or island, because since it surrounds Paris, it has always been a distinct agricultural and cultural hub). Daniel's type of veteran did not have the option or even any of the few rewards, of being a soldier, though he did share the risks.
It is soldiers whom we honor this week and month, both for the bravery many displayed and (like refugees) for that concession of years of time in their lives.
Those who are dead or disabled physically and emotionally were affected permanently. For other veterans the more temporary gaps in their lives, and all those lost periods meant or might have meant, are something which the rest of us need to appreciate, whether by admiration or merely reckoning. They went instead of us, no matter what their reasons for going to battle were, and no matter how we feel about those wars. This country was engaged in them, and most of us did not have to go and risk everything. We may consider the many possibilities of what they gave up, and credit them for that. And if we contemplate and visualize trauma and sacrifice of past wars, can we summon that reality to prevent the country from involvement in battle again?
A former teacher and go-fer, Marilyn Fuss has spent most of her life in Los Angeles, appreciating as many of its details as she can, and working to have a safe country to live in.
Como Vuelve El Amor…
By G. Billie Quijano
Divine departure
Ancestral blood ignites
Your translucent glow in flight
You return
You never left
Grief and joy beating beneath my breast
Reverence of intuition and memory
No need for translation
My journeys path, flowered with golden glitter
Souls connected, cosmic transmission
The whispers of marigold petals
Flirting with the winds
Ancient metamorphosis of thought
Galaxies of stars dancing in dreams
The fragrance of your smoldering copal
Your footprint in my DNA
Your traumas and victories
Bridled on my shoulders
I survive, history revived
The ritual of passage and return
My heart eternally yearns
The vibrato of Mariachis await you
Nectars to be imbibed
Pan dulce to delight
We are your audience
As we watch you dance the dance of time
G. Billie Quijano-Hija de East Los. Natural Creative, Photographer, Watercolorist, Assemblage/Textile Work. Bruja, Poeta, Instigator of Beauty, Mestiza.
The landscape of my childhood, my classrooms were elements of urban life, cool concrete, vibrant colors and sounds from a place I love, prepared me for my life as an artist.
My ancestors surrounded me with calla lilies, majestic cactus, sunflowers and bird of paradise. My neighbor Rafael’s rooster was my alarm clock. Trio Los Panchos played the soundtrack. Olvera street was my playground. Saturday’s breakfast was the delicious aromas of menudo, carnitas and freshly made tortillas de maiz from the local tortilleria on Whittier Blvd.
My heroes are the hard working, courageous street artists all over the world. My work is a humble practice of keeping tradition and history alive.
My wish is to share my art, a desire to make a connection and contribution. To maintain beauty and balance in the universe. I want to evolve and participate in the cultural rhythm of the streets and beyond.
10 Steps to a Happy Thanksgiving
By Jennie O
Step 1 includes clean shoes and sox.
Step 2 can’t be too far, but maybe shoot a bird?
Step 3 smoke a joint and snort some coke it will be a long night.
Step 4 is clearing some space to hide the bodies under the cornucopia and then check their wallets.
Step 5 and I don’t know why we cheers each year.
Step 6 she’s not your mom so don’t be shy to give her your package early.
Step 7 avoid uncle Mike because that isn’t candy in his pocket .
Step 8 is not that far, say you’re going to go say hi to the neighbors and disappear for an hour.
Step 9 look at the clock and think, this is almost over and then check the medicine cabinet for the real THANKS to thanksgiving.
Step 10 is great, take your families hand and give thanks your weren’t apart of the slaughter of native Americans, but we all kinda were.
Jennifer Guillermina Otero Aka Jenni "O" is 43 years old and a native of North-East Los Angeles, where she still resides with her mother and boyfriend. She has a degree in psychology and the culinary arts and is a certified life coach. Her hobbies include photography, videography, creative writing, dancing, and making people laugh. She is an Ex Jehovahs Witness activist and has the largest Ex Jehovahs Witness only Support Group in the world. Currently, she is making a webzine for her brand, Punk Slut as well as writing her memoirs.
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 producesa 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 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
Most recently, 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
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 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