POETS PLACE
March edition 2022
Here we are in March with madness still permeating the nation and the world!!! March also hosts mental health awareness month. How can we not be aware of our mental health, it smacks us daily in the face like a swarm of mosquitos gnawing at our face. The constant numbing of deliberate threats of war, purses and burns our throats as it leaves the sour taste of rotting fruit in our gullets, its course races as an inflamed piranha in one’s anus once it passes through the coiled tracts of the colon. This impending war resonates like an unpleasant culinary gastroenterological warfare in my gut. A frequent visitor pounding on my stomachs door. We are constantly victimized by the state of our country’s decisions, quelling our thoughts and tricking us to believe that we have a proactive president and an honest government that can and will lead us through this mire. Yeah, will they really protect us? It’s a calamitous diet of sick, unhealthy people serving the best interests of their people. Hey wait! I didn’t order that plate? In whose interests are they (?) really serving? It reeks of a putrid stink that we cannot get rid of no matter how many protests and chemical defoliants we use to strip them of their damaging devisions and decisions. They (?) march on like ants that refuse to be destroyed with the best chemical exterminates. As we continue to float in the vats of Republican formaldehyde concoctions to keep us alive while they destroy our world with climate denying rhetoric, we power on and fight the good fight, albeit blindly and without democratic control.Their wimpy supports allowing us to spiral down into the abyss of depression, clinging to the frayed ropes with our deployed feelings of helplessness. Gee whiz.
Linda :0)
And now…
FRANZ FERDINAND
MEET VLADIMIR PUTIN
By Richard Russeth
In drenching rains and rivers rising,
the angels of love retreat along the path
by which they’ve escaped before -
yet still returned in time to bloom spring.
But my heart tells my eyes
this way may be lost,
and panic begs for time.
Drums and fifes remember all the old scores,
but are never brought to account.
This is no new madness nor even history,
we’ve been in these trenches before.
A tsunami of extinction gathers
just beyond the horizon;
nothing’s so contagious as war.
The mistake is in thinking hell is heaven sent,
forgetting it is us who raise the revival tent;
Franz Ferdinand is preaching again
and any poor excuse
will suffice for salvation.
Gazing through February rains at the forest edge,
a small hope flickers in this morning darkness,
for not a despot alive will outlive
the hedges there waiting to bloom
or the sycamores standing with them,
framing the sunrise
for a hundred years
yet to come.
©NO HABLE ESPAÑAL
By: IE Carlo
29 May 2018
No hable español ni de agua en Flint Michigan
No hables del crimen ni de las atrocidades escolares ni tampoco de la sangre de los estudiantes murto por medio de los tiros al blanco
No hable de las calles de Chicago ni de negros desproporcionadamente matados por ser negro
No hables español porque si lo hablas eres un animal sin educación dicho por un presidente que no sabe quién es quién, ni de letras, ignorante y estúpido, criando disgustos por medio de ‘FAKE’ news
No hables español especialmente si tu piel es de color negro
Si eres negro y hablas otro idioma en este país eres considerado un elitista
Entonces, ¿cuál es el problema?
Una amiga lo puso en su propio respectivo:
“Son escrófulas monstros-humanos personas, sin conciencia, sin escrúpulos, de lo que es vivir una vida tranquila sin odio, sin maldad.”
Paz en Vida Amigos, Familia…
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
WHO AM I?
By Mary Cheung
Who am I,
She’s forgotten that’s all.
Too much noise, distorting me
Now I can’t recall.
Deep down in my bones and rooted in my core.
Who I am, and the faith in myself,
This,
I must restore.
Lost my confidence from others influence.
Everyone telling me…
Who I should be and How, I should act.
Wearing down, my resistance.
Once upon a time I had dreams of my very own.
Unfettered by other voices.
The road was clear to me,
There was no other choices.
So Who am I now?
Do I even know ?
Pulled in every direction,
it’s gotten out of control.
If I can stop, the fear of acceptance.
The fear of approval..and needing your love.
Than I can burn through the fog surrounding me.
And kill all this negativity stuff.
I’ll have the chance to think..
What is my one life worth?
How should I live it before it all ends?
Maybe than I’ll finally remember.
Who I am …
And begin my life all over again.
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”.
Poem
By G. Billie Quijano
Love, respect and honor womyn in all of her universal form...
Her grace...
Her intellect...
Her beauty...
Her body...
Her poetry...
Her artistry...
Her Brujeria...
Her Feminism...
Her age...
Her vision...
Her warriorness...
Her sensuality...
Her allure...
Her Goddessness...
Her wisdom...
Her intuitiveness...
Her medicine...
Her cosmic energy...
Her clarity...
Her humor...
Her ruby red lips...
Her strength...
Her courage...
Her survival...
Her renaissance...
Her dignity...
Her meditation...
Her spirituality...
Her vivaciousness...
Her pride...
Her solidarity...
Her value...
Her sacredness...
Her playfulness...
Her voice...
Her love...
"I will have my voice:Indian, Spanish, White. I will have my serpent's tongue-My woman's voice, my sexual voice, my poet's voice. I will overcome the tradition of silence"-Gloria E. Anzaldua
As a poeta, I am a rhymer at heart. I love the rhythm of all styles of poetry. When I was a child, I was introduced to Ella Fitzgerald, Queen of Scat. It evolved into adoration for Al Jarreau. Jazz is pure poetry. The Last Poets created word vibration. It gave birth to Rap. Sor Juana Ines, Audre Lorde, Maya Angelou and Gloria Anzaldua, amongst others, helped form my journey into feminism and poetry. This month's submission will not have rhyming. Just wanted to be a provocateur of thought. In honor of mujeres all over the world, my words.
Poetry, peace, love and solidarity for our sisters and brothers in the Ukraine.
G. Billie Quijano-Hija de East Los. Poeta, Mestiza, artista, instigator of beauty.
Dan “Bone” Weinstein
17 November 2021 by Jeff Chayette
Daniel Bone king of the dixie trixie whiskey land
bong man bone man educated musical historian
yeshiva valedictorian Danny Boy Weinstein
never late to the gate and never straight
curly haired gravel voiced like Hot Lips Page
Danny swung to his own parade
whatever musical tricks were needed he delivered
his quill pen swathed the grand staff with dexterious craft
glorious harmonious notes arrangements without constraints
his musical mind on overdrive without a stop
until a dark skinned beauty whispered in his ear
a grace note
his equilibrium was knocked off it’s axis
he hovered at the foot of the stage tall and lean
high as usual nothing new for the rasta Jew
always puffed a few
hanging fly we don’t know why on this swinging night
Daniel Bone fell out of sight
tipped right over like a circus clown
and hit the deck like a drunken wreck.
love theme from Spartacus
birds swirling round Danny’s head
a Tex Avery looney toon
never got this high and tight
was mr dependable another expendable
he got a whiff of her perfume it filled the room
and brought him to like smelling salts
caramel sweet tones almond eyes and a smile bright
told Danny it’s OK tonight no shame on your fame Daddy-O
I’m your biggest fan slipped you up
tripped you up
so I could make you my butterfinger
take you home and we will linger
don’t worry bought that bump on your head
your lips were spared and all is squared
they love you dan now you’re my man
his head was spinning he liked them wild
but getting tripped up was not his style
he was in a trance that trombone in his pants
screamed dance dance dance
this lady bird has set the nest ready to put you to the test
tonight’s the night the script is written
an accidental fall on swing dance night
changed the course for Swinging Dan the family man
Jeff Chayette has lived and loved for 4 decades in Los Angeles.
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.
March Winds (in short verse)
By Ronald G. Carrillo
A. The gospel girl of Tendaberry
Windswept in her blues for a captain man
With tomcat feet leading her to confession
On the streets layered in holy pigeons
New York City was her musical religion
Where the firecrackers of her fury were set to song
Her Samson hair gave her a woman’s patience
During a Winter interlude of spicy romance
Fearless in love she took a slow train
During that season of cocaine
A lavender forecast until that whistle of her freedom blew
One child left to cradle and wash away her dormant blues
B. And what if it’s to be there are no arms around me
And what if it’s to be that love never finds me
What if my senior years are solitary
And what if it’s to be all illusionary
A big fairytale with a real ending
Sending me more into myself and my writing
Willing to share my artistic space
Still holding an Ace but waiting for a King
C. We are moving backwards
Once again becoming savages
Technological Neanderthals
Our advances have only pronounced our worst traits
Finding easier ways to kill and hone our greed
Survival of the fittest and gluttony of our ages
Despite a long history our priorities are primitive
Our glass ceiling is in the gutter
No wonder there was a flood
The human genome is flawed
Is there no God particle
Truly there is but the seats of power are occupied by asses
These donkey men are destroyers of this world
Wanting the lion’s share of everything
They swarm like locusts eating all of humanity’s harvest
D. Youth now in my rearview mirror
Middle age gone too soon
These senior days are my nirvana
But I find myself still waiting for you
Cruel Eros jilted blue skies of lies
Love stilted in the fairytale marshes of illusion
The muses of poetry rescue and settle me
Flirting with the world and growing
So comfortable in my senior skin
Every day a win-win
E. She is in her full bloom
The perfume of her femininity so fragrant
A young woman blossoming right before my eyes
Youth’s beauty so fair and alight
She is ripe like an apricot
She walks in Camelot
Her womanhood in perfect balance
Her grapes pulled from the vine of chastity
Her bouquet unique savory and sweet
F. Poets choose their words sometimes in absentia
Automatic writing appearing on their pages
Messages being received from the sages
Being the messenger is a gift and a spiritual lift to the soul
Laura sweet Tendaberry girl of gospel and heartache
Songs of desire that set my teenage imagination on fire
Songs of sorrow that were a warning of what might come
Surry and picnic as cherry blossoms flurry down
What kind of lover could he be
Simple but alluring like Stanley K
I could not resist his passion calls
Like Stella I fell while Belle Reve was lost
The spirit of Blanche flashed before me as I descended
Bringing me to my knees and losing my vision of heaven
G. When I look at your city skyline view
Even though I can see the gray of your sky
It’s the shine and radiance I see in your countenance
Your citadel beauty is young and angelic
Not like your decadent eastern sister of Manhattan
Her image looms large still but has been tainted
This nation’s good angels are at your beck and call
Her manifest destiny fulfills her continental family tree
From your Elysian fields in the east
Overlooking Chavez Ravine and Chinatown
Your music center complex and fountains
The stainless steel skin of your Disney Hall
Shimmering in the Los Angeles sunlight
Reflecting bright modern vogue architecture
And your west coast point of view
From surfer culture to gangland chic graffiti logos
That dot your city complexion
Like geographic exclamation points
That I can read and interpret like my own breath
City of my birth embrace your child
I continue to walk with you through your changes
My own rings can be related to your history
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.
Big Aeroplanes
By Theodore A. Hoppe
There were dreams
that all had wings
I flew them like a kite
They came to me
in the evening
and left before daylight
the rest is complicated
so foggy and so dense
There is no house
no dog, no swing
No white picket fence
Between the sheets
the darkness
is everything I own
a tired lump of flesh
so naked and alone.
The dreams have turned
to memories
it's there that we still dance
I drink some wine
and smile...
fixed, as if in a trance
Yes, I do still think of you
every time it rains
every time I hear that song
or see big aeroplanes.
Theodore A. Hoppe enjoys life in Vermont beside a temperamental brook but has managed to spend a considerable amount of time in Los Angeles in the last ten years. When he is not sculpting the landscape one might find him practicing the piano, making art, or writing an occasional poem.
Just Before He Croaked
By Joe Kevany
I was there but didn't know it, just before he croaked
2 weeks earlier in his split-level unit
if his floor was any indication he was already turning into dust
We feasted on Gus' chicken as I squinted at the live action SC hoops
from his dad's old tv
Living trusts, Vanguards , and Wellingtons, annuity shamuity
We gotta game goin' on here !
Oh, thanks you most gracious host, I'll take you up on that orange Gatorade.
Indulge me as I rap 'Dear Santa'
I know you like when I say, ' I'm still your little soldier'.
But you are pure improv baby,
like the time you were jivin' with the Mamasan
I could see YOU drop the mic
Like those old Academy days at the University of North Vermont
when you paced those ancient hallways practicing your lines
Oh, landlord messin' with you again?
Tell me one more time and I'm gonna advocate 4 u Homie
cuz you gotta give people sheet music for their tonteria
and there's your sunroom to the right, at night
brimming with potential, an exercise bike ? some weights ?
no clue within 7 days you'd be slumped at that glass table
in what became an ad-hoc powder room
taking your final breath
like what's-his-name who wrote his first novel at the age of 78
I was there but didn't know it
just before he croaked
Dedicated to Ray Woodson ( 1960-2021 )
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.
One word
By Daniel Schack
There is perhaps only one word that best describes the increasing decreasing and barbarically hypocritical absence of the truest reality of love in our present world. death.
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.
Thanks for joining us! We will continue to host writers and poets of all genres.
Hang in there y’all!!!
Love, Linda Kaye :0)
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 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 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 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