POETS PLACE
JULY 2022
Sometimes all the closure you get is a kick in the ass! I have been putting off starting July’s Poets Place edition because I was afraid to open up the pandoras box located in my head for fear of unleashing massive amounts of hate towards our country’s supreme bigoted racist misogynistic court. What the f is happening to our country??? My friend mentioned to me that the turning over Roe V Wade and other horrific reversals of women's and gay rights have been in the making since the republicans found their way in through Trump. By having Trump put in their bombastic cronies into the supreme court to rule as they say was always their plan. Like minded Americans want their republican heads on a plate right now! We the people can make demands and protest protest protest. But how likely will those demands be considered? We are in serious trouble and my hopes remain stifled. The best I can do right now is to offer a forum for writers and poets to speak their truths. I quote Ronald G. Carrillo from his poem Triad, I feel his pain, that “Democratic bruises of infidelity and injustice” have permeated our souls. I pray things will be better…some day…
And now poetry and stories from you.
America, land of the free?
by Linda Kaye
America, land of the free? Home of the unjust?
Curtains pulled and borders closed
Do we still belong?
Is our status revoked?
Are we still citizens of the United States?
Have we changed the declaration of independence?
Do we wipe out generations of immigrant existence?
If forms of government become destructive do we have the right of the people to alter or abolish it?
Don’t we have a right to freedom?
A right to equality? Freedom from slavery? Freedom from gun carrying, destructive and homicidal maniacs? Freedom from torture or degrading treatment? A right to recognition as a person before the law?
Or are we just dreaming.
Who is watching the country’s store?
We the people of the human race in order to form a more perfect humanitarian world demand justice and tranquility promoting general welfare securing the blessings of liberty and freedom to everyone
regardless.
E pluribus Unum
One nation under God indivisible with liberty and justice
For all
Really???
Moon Poems
by Aleka Corwin
Do you remember
that full Moon
Over bright white
Fields of fresh snow
Encircled by black woods,
we strapped on
Cross-country skies
swooshing, swooshing
Across New Hampshire
Winter silence
Carving deep grooves
Seeing our own shadows
In the moonlight?
2)
Do you remember
Dancing under the full moon
In the soft grass
On the Kona Coast
At that great hotel, the Orchid Princess?
The only time we ever got
Stoned with our daughters
The four of us laughing and dancing
With the moonlight shimmering
On the ocean
keeping us company?
3)
The Blood Moon:
The shadow of the Earth
moves across the face of the Moon.
We are on the rooftop
Of the Bendix Building in
Downtown L.A.,
Watching two dancers
crawl and cavort in the
dark soil of earth art
created by an artist from UCLA.
Mysterious, hypnotic, the full
Moon behind them blots out
for just a moment
with a red halo,
a sacred moment,
we catch our breath in wonder:
Then a sliver of our Moon
Slowly re-appears.
Aleka Corwin is a poet, journalist, artist, set decorator for film and theater, mask and puppet maker. She has been published in The Viral Voices Anthology. Ebell Magazine and Women In Film and has told stories at The Moth. She publishes annual Artist’s Calendars about travel and food which are in private collections and the Los Angeles Downtown Public Library permanent collection. She is married to writer Bill Ratner and is the mother of two grown daughters. Having raised children, dogs, cats, and an iguana, she is down to the last family cat. She teaches Parent/Child art classes and adult workshops in Los Angeles.
Make Light to Me
By Victoria Ester Orantes
Make light to me my majesty.
Deliver me delectation.
Converge without caress
Your discarnate deference.
Riding upon the waves of mind,
The greatest gift to give is time.
Prismatic essence to be true.
Freedom is found in loving you.
Warmth that widens a wild rose.
Love is not to lust, but to know.
Victoria is 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. Though her degree is in fashion design, as her previous aspirations were to be a costume designer, she chose to reconnect with her love of visual art after a tumultuous year in 2018. Since then, Victoria’s art has been featured in local NELA establishments, art-walks, and recently Shoutout LA magazine. Part of what keeps her motivated is embarking on solo road trips where she finds kindred spirits and new homes for her art. She is an upcoming artist who has the vision of rousing the healing power of painting with her community through the distribution of her soulful artwork, that also features original poems, and providing a community canvas in her mobile boutique to awaken the artist in everyone.
The Visitor
By Michael D. Meloan
I had been tweaking random number generators for slot machines in the basement of the Wynn/Encore complex. Steve Wynn’s CIO wanted new algorithm strategies. Too many slot addicts were heading to North Las Vegas where the odds were better. I created a Java Virtual Machine as a testbed and went to work modifying code and running simulations. When I finished at 4 am, I went out for breakfast at Encore’s 24-hour café.
On the way back to my apartment, while heading toward the freeway, I rolled along Industrial Road in my ancient Citroën DS, just as the sun was coming up. A man with a shaved head, black tee shirt, and polyester slacks stood in front of a storage locker with the corrugated metal door open. He gazed at me intently for a moment, then held up his hand, indicating that I should stop. His gaze was riveting. I slowed the car, then pulled over in front of the locker.
“Thank you for stopping,” he said, in calm voice, with a slight accent that I couldn’t place. “I have something to show you. His eyes were ice gray.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Difficult to succinctly explain--a bit of technology that I think you will find intriguing.”
I was wary, but somehow, I couldn’t turn and walk away. Slowly I followed him inside the locker. He turned on a light, then slid the metal door all the way down to the concrete floor. Black plastic boxes were stacked up against the wall. A simple wooden chair was positioned in the middle of the room.
“Please sit down,” he said with a smile, opening his palm to the chair.
I hesitated, then sat. He opened one of the boxes and withdrew a sleek helmet with a dark metallic polished sheen.
“If you would be so good as to put this on, I can guarantee you an interesting experience.”
“What kind of experience?” I asked.
“The kind you have been waiting for,” he replied with an impish smile.
At this point, I wanted to flee. But I had been in a strange personal space. No significant relationships. Grueling long hours coding. Reading deconstructionist philosophers. Hiking around Red Rock Canyon when it wasn’t too hot. I was ready for something.
He carefully put the helmet in my hands. It was light.
“What if it doesn’t fit? I have a very large head,” I said.
He smiled. “It will accommodate any head.”
As I placed it over my cranium, the helmet seemed to come alive. Expanding mysteriously as I moved it onto position, then contracting without a sound to create a snug comfortable fit when it was in place. I had never seen technology remotely like it.
“If you will close your eyes, we can begin. Relax. It will be a thoroughly pleasant experience.” Something about his voice and manner led me with absolute certainty to believe that he was telling the truth.
For about thirty seconds, I experienced nothing. Then I began to see vague hues of indigo and the rise of geometric shapes— polydodecahedrons, like a geodesic dome, with throbbing blue nodes at each juncture. These geometric forms increased in complexity and resolution to form the vision of a futuristic metropolis. The images were rendered with crystalline clarity. Monolithic corridors of buildings criss-crossed by green parkways. People strolling below. And suddenly I was part of a stream of levitating humanity traveling along a virtual highway. Thousands of people surging through the air, in effortless flight. It was exhilarating and unfathomable. Then I was inside a shimmering grotto. Everything made of light. A solitary man stood about twenty feet away with his back turned. He faced me. It was the man who had given me the helmet. He spoke telepathically.
“I’m sure you have many questions. And I know there is much worry. But be reassured. The future is safe. As long as you follow my instructions.”
I nodded.
“At 10 PM, one week from now, stand beneath the large animation screen at MGM. Affix your eyes at the lower left corner, for one minute.
Make certain you fulfill this request.”
He approached and put his arm around me reassuringly. Then he rapped between my shoulder blades. It was jarring and transported me into a state of near panic. I felt disoriented and momentarily lost consciousness. As I slowly regained awareness, I was gifted with Akashic understanding. As if every question had been answered, and all knowledge was mine. But then, as if rising from beneath the water, the state of gnosis began to fade. When I came to, I was alone in the storage locker. It was completely empty, except for the chair. No sign of the visitor or any of his equipment. Much time had passed. The sun was down. I staggered to my car and drove home in a daze.
One week later at 10 PM, I stood on the sidewalk gazing at the lower left corner of the MGM Jumbotron. A few minutes passed—nothing. Then, a spiraling square pattern began. It flashed stroboscopically, in both clockwise and counter-clockwise patterns. Dizzying. It began flashing as a block of white and black, almost like Morse code. After about two minutes, it ended.
I stood there. Waiting for something--a profound change of state. But I felt nothing. As I continued to gaze at the screen, no further data appeared.
Slowly I navigated along the sidewalk among throngs of tourists sipping tall fluorescent drinks from long straws. Then I got in my car and drove back to my apartment near UNLV.
Ever since, I’ve been watching for the visitor. Hoping to see him again. Waiting for my destiny to unfold.
Michael D. Meloan’s fiction has appeared in Wired, Huffington Post, Buzz, LA Weekly, Larry Flynt’s Chic, 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 National Public Radio syndicate. His Wired short story “The Cutting Edge” was optioned for film. And he co-authored the novel The Shroud with his brother Steven. For many years, he was a software engineer. In addition, he does killer karaoke.
just a beautiful dream
by linda m. crate
maybe it's better
you're gone,
we're both different
people now;
you learned to live without me
and i am sitting her telling the
gods and anyone who will listen
of how i miss you—
i know it's my fault that you're gone,
but it doesn't make me miss you any less;
sometimes my mother asks me
about you even still
i don't know what she expects to happen
as if one day you will wake up and need
me again—
i admit i had a dream once we were reconciled in
a place where white roses curled their petals around
every corner, and tea was set upon a white metal table;
as we sat in puffy white chairs sipping upon tea—
i woke up happy until i realized it was just a beautiful dream.
Linda M. Crate's works have been published in numerous magazines and anthologies both online and in print. She is the author of ten published chapbooks, four full-lengths, and three micro-chaps. She has a novella, also, called Mates (Alien Buddha Publishing, March 2022).
SACRED FLOWERS
By Eduardo Cueto
For Evangelina Correa
I write as your eyes
like sacred flowers
blossom before me
like the righteous sun
as I imagine your hips
undulating
and reciprocating
true love
as my pen runs dry
upon the pages
of your light skin
as if we were immortal
as if your exquisite
and divine legs
wrapped themselves
around my poetry
that seeks
your omphalos
and your revolutionary
bed upon my bed
and your tight lips
floating in the heavens
like a painting
like a sonnet
and like the birds
chirping harmoniously
as we make love
for love
is the manifestation
of you within me
and I within you
a la sacred relics
and sacred memories
blossoming
exponentially
until we become one
and until our oneness
gives birth
to the ambrosia
of our exsitential selves
seeking true beauty
seeking true beauty
Eduardo Cueto, graduate of the University of California, Los Angeles, (UCLA), with a Bachelor of the Arts in English, and a Creative Writing emphasis, Eduardo Cueto has taught literature, rhetoric and composition in such universities as the Euro-American Institute of Technology (EAI-TECH) in Sohia Antipolis, France, and the University of San Pablo - Tucumán, in Argentina. In addition to teaching, Cueto has also had a career as a classical ballet dancer working for such choreographers as Alonzo King, John Neumeier, and Mats Ek, in Lines Ballet from San Francisco and the Hamburg Ballet in Germany. Currently, Cueto is writing screenplays and directing and producing independent film projects.
Neverthess
by daniel j.schack.
normal.adjust. to what. I'm out of control.I'm out of control. Its good for my soul.its good for my soul. Me oh my oh.me oh WO oh. Oh my god,I must be psycho. I'm Dan Dan the psycho man. Dan Dan the psycho man.do the can can. I don't care what other people think. I don't care what other people think
.I don't care what other people think. I think other people stink. When you learn how to act human then you will be treated with respect. Respect. What is human? Could be almost anything you want it to be. Fortunately or unfortunately. Nevertheless. They get you with the word.the word is love. Sucker! Who are they? Us. Who's a sucker. You're a sucker. I'm a sucker. We are all a bunch of suckers. Some more. Some less. Nevertheless. Is there love. I suppose.it means leave me alone. Your always alone. More or less. Some more .some less.neverthess. welcome to the wonderful world of stupidity. Is it you? Or is it me? Anyone's guess. Nevertheless. There's money in intelligence. Oh,yes. There's money in stupidity too. Oh,yes. There are more important things than money though.aren't there? Yes. Then again.nevertheless. nevertheless.nevertheless.nevertheless. we have all heard nevertheless.we have all said nevertheless
Will there ever be a time when you can ever say never to nevertheless? Never. I guess. Nevertheless. After all.only human and we have all got bad taste. Some more.some less. Nevertheless. I guess. Why? Because. Written in 1986 when I was 22.
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.
ON MY MIND
4-25-22
6:48 a.m.
By Mary Cheung
It's all new and I can't get you out of my mind.
You've got me hooked.
My dreams are all booked.
With images of you...
I fantasize about what's underneath,
your name, your exterior, your clothes.
Your lips upon mine.
Igniting a fiery trail..
.. making me burn.
I can't get you out of my mind..
Your voice is like velvet,
Vibrates against my throat.
Rumbles on like a freight train.
I want to wear you like a coat.
Against my Skin with nothing.
But my desire, licking, soaking it in…
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
My vagina is de-colonized
Your shit is finalized
My womaness is magical real
It's not your perversion of laws to steal
My womb is exploding, as it swells with the sea
My eyes are open, I will not flee
While the Goddess sighs
Overturning Roe vs. Wade feels like sci-fi
Back alley abortions
Resulting in death and explosions
There is gross negligence in your refusal to acknowledge the evidence
The truth is in the anatomy, solid in the remedies
What's left? Plan B?
Will it be the only currency?
You traffic in oppression and control
It will not invade heart and soul
You will be stripped of patriarchy
Once again we will make history
Our bodies, our agency
Our humanness, your oversight
Our rights dismantled
Emotions manhandled
We are not a collection of body parts
Uprising, resistance, global boycotts
Misogyny, a crime
Deficiency of humanity in overtime
You sit there in your black robes
Festering in your conspiracy
My uterus is in revolution
Strength, courage, resilience is the solution
The universe has a plan
Look at me, I will stand
The divine radiates in me
Don't fuck with what is free
There is poetry in our synergy
You will not suppress our energy
We Feminize, to organize
You make judgements to minimize
We take to the streets
Sacred ground beneath our feet
We rise, we rise
You will hear our cries
As we raise our fists to the skies
Times up pendejos
You will not own this being
This is my voice
This is my choice
G. Billie Quijano-Feminista, Pro Choice, Pro Voice. Poeta, Artista. Instigator of Beauty. Bruja. Hija de East Los. The landscape of my childhood were elements of L.A. urban life. Cool concrete, vibrant colors. Sounds of girl groups and lowriders. In the background, records of Trio Los Panchos and John Coltrane playing. Remnants of Mexico. Surrounded by calla lilles, cactus, sunflowers and bird of paradise, like they were singing. My neighbor Rafael's rooster was my alarm clock. Olvera street was my playground. Saturdays breakfast was the delicious aromas of menudo, carnitas and freshly made tortillas de maiz from our local tortilleria on Whittier Blvd. My work is a humble way of keeping my ancestor's traditions, history and vision alive.
Las Vegas On The Potomac
By Richard Q. Russeth
The Las Vegas sun blazes apocolyptic sadness. We swim in pools filled with water that never fell from these cobalt skies. At night, it's a desert of castaways awaiting rescue under a neon sky powered by the death of faraway others. It's the last place to find the last thing you'll ever need. When dusk slithers onto the Strip, trading cards with photographs of nude women are handed out. Buy, trade or sell. Last week, the pit bosses at SCOTUS pooled their misogyny and bought a complete set of all 167,000,000 cards. They are betting no one will call them on it.
Go all in.
Richard Q. Russeth is a poet, baker, conjuror, photographer and Attorney. He is found on Instagram @rqrusseth and @slowmoonbakery. Also www.richardqrusseth.com
Triad Poem
By Ronald G. Carrillo
1. We reap as sowers
We inherit our actions
We manifest our consciousness
Our karma is alive and ever developing
Where there is regret and sorrow
There is also hope and opportunity
Growth is being truly human
Stagnation is indoctrination to the mainstream
The American dream is a scam
Magic beans a pyramid scheme
Keeping us enslaved and not fully awake
But in a dreamscape waiting for something to fulfill us
We are running after a fake prize
Like greyhounds chasing a mechanical lure
The goal to be in the chase but never realize a catch
Mass illusion like subliminal commercials
Like a paper constitution of deeply inspired words ONLY
Fourth of July celebrants waving a small red, white and blue
Flag of fifty stars built on the scars of slaves
Recall the plaintive voice of Frederick Douglass in 1852
“All men” did not include his people
Unalienable rights precious yet denied with chains and servitude
A false statue of liberty made of stone
Bleeding our hopes to the bone of injustice
But we keep running to be free all good Americans
Yet not realizing we are still enslaved and traumatized
We suffer at a DNA level waiting for freedom
We redline and build a wall at our southern border
The message is clear YOU are not welcome here
We seek happiness despite our inherent fixed system
We have public and private schools
We have a rich and poor caste system
For those who can pay to beat crime
And those that are unable to buy their justice
Divide and conquer over and over
This cancerous division is now in stage three
2. The lions of Daniel’s time
They invade my dreams but I am not injured
But I witness a violence and savagery to come
I fear the racial karma of this nation
Will bring terrible repercussions before we can heal
America is tearing herself apart unable to abide
By her own guiding doctrines of constitution for the nation
Her fringe diseased white supremacist half seeks blood
Rather than reason or any sort of compromise
Their eyes live in the past of Dixie, cotton and masters
Their gangrene of sin and evil
Are harbingers of death and disaster
3. Los Angeles downpour of tears
Her rain not restrained
Drought hearts constrained in democracy’s pain
Senate hearings while a nation comes apart
Loose gun control killings in the heartland
Inflation running rampant as sacred laws now repealed
Stage four of this cancerous death now deeply invasive
The White House, our capitol and the presidency itself polluted
The nation remains under predominantly white men’s control
Yet a fringe fanatical white citizenry fears full inclusion
For its becoming more populous brethren of color
Fear and fever spread like a pestilence of civil disobedience
The founding fathers were wealthy British plantation owners
This precedent set in motion future cracks in our constitution
America’s sorrow
Her decline rupturing from the inside of a corrupted history
Her founding principles although groundbreaking on paper
The blessings of liberty were rotted on the vine of exclusion
The constitutional wine of a more perfect union
Did not produce the fruits of justice and tranquility
That immigrant foundation that built her
Its immigrant diversity now a lightning rod
For division and ruin in her false fabric of democracy
Are her stars and stripes to be dispersed throughout the universe
A failure for a species that could not love one another
Coda: Red so much blood spilled
The nation’s crimes as tall and widespread
As her spectacular skyscrapers
Blue dishonor and disrespect of all our people
Democratic bruises of infidelity and injustice
White is not our skin color but rather our innocence
And hope in this still fledgling and faltering democracy
The brilliance and talent in this nation can revive liberty
Two centuries four decades and six years
We are still perfecting ourselves with all our faults
But with acquired knowledge and new skill sets
And hopes for the generations that can realize
Those constitutional ideals on paper and make them live
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.
The River of Life - short screenplay - Synopsis:
Original short screenplay, based upon actual event, by Adrian Brooks Collins.
1998.
After the spirit Aaron visits his respective future parents; he consults with his guides on the astral for reincarnation final approval. Approval is denied for “unstable parental candidates” and this forces Aaron to invoke free will. Meanwhile his future mother Portia visits a psychic Magdah who relays a message from Aaron as being the spirit of her future child. Magdah also foretells of Portia meeting a man for companionship.
Once Portia meets this man, Gabriel, by “happenstance” she confides in him. When Portia conceives and Gabriel abdicates his paternal duties; Portia is forced to take drastic measures and terminate the pregnancy.
Magdah meets a depressed Portia in passing and delivers a message from Aaron, now safely returned to the astral. Aaron confirms he is fine and knew the chances weren’t in his favor, but that she should feel neither shame not guilt. This lifts Portia’s spirits. Later realizing his mistake Gabriel begs Portia for forgiveness and they rekindle their feelings for one another…
Adrian Brooks Collins Growing up in Idyllwild, CA. (1971-‘83) as a gay, mulatto, creative artist, pianist, inventor under the unfaltering gaze of mentally imbalanced mother was torture. I was denied formal education (including a full scholarship to Elliot Pope Preparatory) friends and social gatherings in order that I may ultimately serve only her. At fourteen, before entering a tumultuous year in foster care, I made a promise to my soul that come what may I would see my films realized.
I have attended four writing groups and two formal creative writing classes, sporadically over thirty years with the churning sense that something big would eventually erupt.
I’ve been a story teller since childhood and have completed three feature length screenplays; two true crime thrillers: The Carriage House and Idyllwild Under the Spirit of Tahquitz (JuntoBox Films 1st place contest winner 2013 - about my serial killer neighbor John Michael Hale “Cowboy Mike”) one family film* and one short screenplay (attached) since 1998.
To date I have two feature film screenplays optioned (budget $5M per) with Cineville of Santa Monica, the second based on my authored, illustrated and self published children’s book *Jamylah and the Giants. (Dragonflytotembooks.com) Chronic, extreme tinnitus has challenged me since 2010, though I prevail. The universe conspires to support our endeavors.
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 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 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