POETS PLACE
AUGUST EDITION 2022
This month, as every month, we host writers from everywhere. Anyone who wants to submit work can and do. We are fortunate to be a publication that doesn’t discriminate. Your words matter, not your celebrity status. You are celebrated for your courage to speak your mind and share your words of wisdom and creative art. All we have is this moment. The here and now. A precious gift that we give to ourselves is to take advantage of what we have, now, not tomorrow. For tomorrow many never come.
So grateful for you all XXXOOO
Keep on submitting!!!!
Love, Linda :0)
Jazz Composition
By Linda Kaye
I feel like my life is playing out like a jazz composition sometimes with strong rhythms, and lustful sounds caressing a soul fueled heart with improvisational strings tugging and pulling on the once solid notes harking and cajoling the structure of my life‘s music
Luckily the cacophony of surrounding sounds of human kindness permeates, often cracking my head space and drowning out the incessant drone of negative head chatter
mind matter
laughter of the serious kind
What resonates most though is the unintentional witness of life’s constant jokes at my expense
the hardy haha of bodily decline mental exhaustion the tick tock of time masticating in my mouth unable to spit out words of wisdom once rolling off my tongue with ease and intellect.
Mind constantly wandering off towards the sea of abysmal dread seeking refuge on the floundering ship that floats by with no more space for the elderly the aged the almost there but not yet ready to drown.
What’s left is a sticky mess of ugliness the harsh realities that time is definitely of the essence an out of control out of body handiwork of chance.
“So ya’ wanna be a rocker. Study the moves. Jerry Lee Lewis. Buy some blue-suède shoes. Move yer head like Rod Stewart. Put yer ass in a grind. Talkin’ sock it to it, get the image in line. Get the image in line, boy. The fantasy rhyme.”
The Tooth of the Crime Sam Shepard
The Ghost of Sam Shepard
by Jeff Chayette
15 October 2020
jelly jam slam
don’t scram
just belly up to the bar
you rock n’ roll star
the dwarf stood tall
pulled her skirt up high blouse down low
bop hopped on the stool as white Russians
in shot glasses
lined the bar
the man
sam be damned shepard
ordered drinks all around said
why staring
sit down clown
don’t frown
you’re welcome
hear
there
and everywhere
dumb ass
line from a Beatles song
it won’t be long
I’m a loser
the blues you choose
the blues you made
those shoes ain’t suede
shake your ass
parade
shade the dawn
tend the coals
our father’s rage
has taken stage
trade for blood
our old Kentucky home
natives dance on
Daniel Boone’s
bowie knife
Andrew Jackson’s tribal raids
America’s stain is plain
as acid rain
on golden crops
spoiled rotten
from the coal mines of Kentucky
to the California shores
bobby mc gee and me
our ancestors molestation
endless devastation
of natives riches
blood spilled
nerves frayed I cannot rest
there is no test of shame
no primal scream to wake me
from this dream of barren waste
as Elliot said
“here we go round the prickly pear
the prickly pear in the morning”
pain in my voice
the voice of fathers fathers fathers
I look at the land
say what have I done
what have we become
the land of dumb
this cannot be
my eyes can’t see
the glory of the coming
of the lord
knock down these boards
mystic truths have roots
I spoke for the earth
the wheat
the street
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. Recent Emmy winner for Best Short promo!!
parasols
By Devin Murphy
They
built the empire state building in 14 months
tore out the LA streetcars slowly
and they’ll find use for parasols indoors before
everyone on the sidewalk gets one when the sun drags across the
top of your scalp like sandpaper scraps
and
breath is hot like
microwaved tupperware
they’ll sell better sunshine indoors
they’ll sell galoshes in the flood when the ground has gone too long
without being wet
and the skin has formed of
oil and pollen and hair
I will watch gravel clouds break into
hazel rain turn
to overflow turn my
shoes
into colonies of
living things and all around me
the residue
will linger with a dull sheen of the
dish soap
that clogs your pump and shoots at
you
I will recall the moments over
decades
I felt powerless when we cried for
a roof
and they sold us each an umbrella
cheap and fragile from narrow brown boxes
on rusting ships crossing oceans
and
long after it’s too late
when disaster is upon us like spam calls
someone will ask why, and
we’ll be
the ones left
to
tell a story, crowned in thorns
our generation of declining standards
and
free markets
not old enough to make the change not young enough to be
freed from blame sick, shuffling, hot
we will carry that for you pariahs in
this world of your making
©Devin Murphy, 2022
Devin Murphy has been described by acquaintances as “a team player.” When pressed for comment, Devin responded “I love the well-wishers, but they’re selfish little freaks.”
Those possessing familiarity with the matter confirm Devin last played organized sports in 2002, his season ending with a “middling AF” [sic] .600 average.
Currently, Devin is living in a jungle in the ocean. Contact DevinPMurphy@gmail.com for poetry samples, video + audio arts, and publication requests.
Cariño Cochineal
By Victoria Ester Orantes
At last she was the choicest burgeon of the mēde
Alas, verboten cultivators, you chose me
A genuine venture
For closeness to quench her
An appetency for adjacency
Deserted despite her sincerity
Sublime streams inadvertently ebbed away
Marshy water nourishment, a piquant plague.
Biological necessity
May veracity bring harmony
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.
Sleazy sally
By Daniel Schack
No if, and, or buts. delightful, though somewhat demented love song I wrote in 1984 at age 20.
Let me tell you about sleazy sally.she wants to be everyone's pally.just deposit 30 dollars in her slot, and sally will give you everything she's got. Sally says, oh oh oh oh oh. Do it fast or do it slow. Oh.oh.oh.oh.oh. hello Joe, let me give you a blow. I want to marry sleazy sally.cause I love her so. Sleazy sally.she's all right.I tried her just the other night.sleazy sally.she can put up a fight, and after years of working, she's still tight. Oh.oh.oh.oh.oh. marry me sally.I love you so.oh.oh.oh.oh.oh. I'm begging.I'm pleading.please don't go. I want to marry sleazy sally, cause I love her so. Me and sally married just the other night. But she still works on the side.she's got her pride. She enjoys her job, with her johns and her bobs.but she's mine for free.for eternity. Dilly dally in the alley with sally.dilly dally in the alley with sally.dilly dally in the alley with sally.sally.sally.sally.
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.
GRATITUDE
7-24-2022
6:09 pm.
By Mary Cheung
Gratitude ,
You know that feeling you get that starts inside you?
Somewhere around your chest?
You feel a warmth expanding..spreading through your veins,
And you can only guess.
The trigger for that feeling,
set off by a person.
Action, reaction, something magical and it's not stress.
How a simple act of kindness,
or thoughtfulness... can leave you on cloud 9....
Yes, you gave me a gift and it's left an impression on my soul.
Filling me up and feeding me for days.
And I'll never hunger again because your actions fulfilled me just so.
So that's what gratitude feels like...
You planted this seed, and it's dying to be passed onto to someone else.
Share that feeling and save them from starvation, deprivation, the lack of love and kindness too.
I can only image now what a world can feel and look like.
One where hungers been abolished, of your mind body and soul.
And it all started with the simple act of you....
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”.
LIFE, ONE OF THE LAST THINGS OF LIVING
By: IE Carlo
30 July 2022
In this world living is not life
Living is just breathing in and out
Living is nothing without life
For life gives living its vigor
Its either
Life is he/she who has reason and purpose accepting all things to enter
Giving life joy of excistance
The smells, views, feelings of that panarama of life,
Like that of a beautiful landscape painting of yore
We make too much of life
Making living the thing, is the thing
Life is all things happening that happened
Living is all those moments of life that make the total of life
So that moment is the thing; “That’s living Life”.
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
Lansing
By Michael Meloan
After flying all night from LAX to Heathrow, my brother Steve and I arrived exhausted at the Reese Hotel in the King's Cross neighborhood. The exterior was dirty brick with black wrought iron railings and a narrow white door. It was more a youth hostel than a true hotel. We were greeted by a rotund older woman with curly close-cropped grey hair and wire-rimmed glasses. She tersely introduced herself as Mrs. Reese, inspected our passports, then copied our information. After paying cash up-front, we were shown to a room. The hallways creaked and sagged; everything was stale and musty. She opened a door, revealing two young men, wearing slacks and white shirts, sitting on narrow beds. It was a large room with two more beds on the other side. The men stood.
"Hello, I'm Charles," said the first, with an accent I couldn't immediately place.
"And I'm Tony," said the second, with a straight-up English delivery.
Steve and I quickly introduced ourselves.
"Cheers then," said Mrs. Reese. "Breakfast at 7:30 sharp. If you miss it, then you've missed it." She turned and left the room.
Steve placed his guitar case and battery powered Pignose amp in the corner. We arranged our canvas duffle bags next to the guitar, then sat on our beds. It was 9:30 pm. There was an awkward silence.
Tony spoke first. "So, you've come to London to be discovered as pop stars?"
"We're software coders at home,” I said. "But we've come to London to busk in the Tube tunnels…and maybe be discovered as pop stars."
Tony and Charles both laughed.
“Well, let's hear a bit of what you've got. Play us a song," said Charles.
Steve took out his guitar. I sang "Psycho Killer" by Talking Heads, while he played.
Then Charles picked up the guitar. "I'm an accountant, from Johannesburg, South Africa, on loan to the London office for six months. I'm going to play a traditional folk song, originally sung by Ndebele men traveling by steam train from their homes in Zimbabwe to work in the South African mines. It’s called "Shosholoza."
He sang in a high register with striking authenticity. His delivery was unaffected by rock influences. And his guitar work was precise, with complex picking structures and clean fretwork.
"Wow," Steve and I both said, simultaneously.
Then the door flew open. It was Mrs. Reese. "Lights out lads. And no more music. Working people need their sleep. G'night."
"That old biddy is a pain in the arse," said Tony.
We all laughed.
Charles and Tony were both up at 6:30, knocking around the room. Charles put on a cheap-looking dark blue suit, combed his short brown hair, and quickly used an electric razor. Tony's preparation was more elaborate. He stood in front of the mirror in white briefs while blow drying his dirty blond mop. He was rail-thin with alabaster skin. Then he applied cologne, and went over his black suit with a lint roller. There was a United Airlines pin on the lapel.
"I'm a ticketing agent at Heathrow," he said. "But my dream is to move to Lansing, Michigan."
"Really," said Steve. "Why Lansing?"
"In The States, you can reinvent yourself. The UK is too locked-in. I want to rise from my ashes."
We all nodded.
"Also," he continued, "I want to drive an Oldsmobile 88. Lansing is where they make them. I might even get a job at the factory. Or maybe in marketing. Who knows? Anything is possible in Lansing."
Again, we nodded.
"Well gents, I'm off," Tony said as he put on his suit jacket and left the room.
I paused and poked my head out the door to make sure Tony was gone.
"I hope he won't be disappointed when he gets to Lansing," I said. "It's hard to imagine that Michigan is the answer."
"He's never going to Lansing," said Charles. "And he's not a ticketing agent at Heathrow. A stewardess passing through gave him the United Airlines pin he wears. The truth is, he's on the dole and plays darts all day at a pub just down the street. Mrs. Reese told me that he's taking some sort of psychiatric medication. But Lansing is what keeps him going day-to-day. The fantasy of driving that big Oldsmobile along a wide American boulevard."
Then Charles lit a cigarette. "I have to be off."
He shook both of our hands and was gone.
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.
Abuelos Míos
Vibiana Aparicio-Chamberlin
I searched the place in Sonora for my Yaqui great grandparents. So in November 1970, I traveled through northwest Mexico, from Nogales at the Arizona Sonora border to coastal Bahía de Kino, then east to Hermosillo in central Sonora, the birthplace of my mother’s grandparents Ignacio Carrasco, Micaela Ochoa, Luis Luna and Sacramento Marquez. An old guidebook led me to the oldest cemetery in the city.
This campo santo in the middle of the bustling city of Hermosillo, looked forgotten and pitifully small, a half block at the most. The gatekeeper told us that some of the burial plots were moved to other cemeteries outside of the city. The two major streets traversed this historical cemetery and therefore destroyed it. All marble and stone sepulchers were moved except for a few. Some sepulchers remained, but the hundreds and hundreds of the common plots were simply covered over with asphalt. I cried when I saw the few fallen over wooden and iron crosses.
Plots were unmarked. These gravesites contrasted with the handful of remaining monumental pillared and marble towered tombs that belonged to the founding wealthy Mexican
families. I mused as I saw the cruel reality of poverty’s fate. Are these influential and affluent upper class Spanish and Mexicans to be the only abuelos eternally remembered? Will the common mixed mestizos–of native, Iberian and African heritage people, like my ancestors, be brown blown about dust to be trod upon. No, abuelos mío’s. You are not forgotten. To you, I dedicate this poem.
Gente pobre
Sin sepulcro
Sin flor
Destitute, without tombstone, without marigolds
the poor lie not in that gilded
cemetery, marbled and encircled
with wreathes of paper and silk flowers.
Those pillared concrete monuments
on Calle Yanez–
Are they to be the monuments
forever eternalized?
From your seeds, come my Chicana self
abuelos mió’s
searching like the wandering
Aztecs and Tarascans for your Texcoco
searching like the Yaqui Yoemem
for truth in the talking tree.
Your sons came to Arizona, Texas,
New Mexico, and California–
searching, bleeding, giving birth
to Chicanos still
searching for Aztlan.
You are not forgotten.
Vibiana Aparicio-Chamberlin was born in Boyle Heights, East Los Angeles. She taught drama
at 32nd Street School and Special Education for over twenty-two years in The Los Angeles
Unified School District. Chicana On Fire, Ignited by the 1970’s East L.A. Chicano Protest Movement is her current debut poetry book. Vibiana is the author and illustrator of Mi Amor, a Memoir of poetry and stories about her mother. Her writing appears in Beyond the Lyric Moment, Inscape, The Altadena Poetry Review, The Southern California Haiku Anthology, Flor Y Canto USC, Dismantle, and The Phi Kappa Phi Forum. She studied creative writing and art at Immaculate Heart College, University of Southern California, VONA, Self Help Graphics and Art, The Idyllwild Summer Writing Institute and at Antioch University. Aparicio-Chamberlin is the founder and director of the first Chicano street teatro in the US, El Teatro de los Niños. Vibiana continues her family’s storytelling tradition by retelling La Llorona as one of her poems in Chicana On Fire based on stories told to her by her mother, Chabela Luna Aparicio, a Mexican Yaqui storyteller.
The attached narrative poem Abuelos Míos is in Chicana On Fire.
Chicana On Fire, Ignited by the 1970’s East L.A. Chicano Protest Movement, Bambaz Press, 2022 is her debut full-length poetry collection. ISBN: 979-8-9857696-0-9
The Huntington Library and Gardens Store and Amazon.
Abuelos Miós ©
Vibiana Aparicio-Chamberlin vibi@sbcglobal.net
Homage to my Youth in Song
By Ronald G. Carrillo
Slept in my Bowie T-shirt
And woke up in a Moonage Daydream
I was an Elemental Child with Marc Bolan
Before I grew my Beard of Stars
I stood In The Court of the Crimson King a gentle Moonchild
It was my Epitaph to observe a 21st Century Schizoid Man
Talking to the Wind in the Wake of Poseidon
Commingling with Cadence and Cascade then I had to leave
Sugar Mountain with a Cinnamon Girl
I was On The Losing End Down By the River in a Déjà vu
I Had a King and now I Think I Understand Blue
The Priest came in a Big Yellow Taxi
And that was The Last Time I Saw Richard before Woodstock
He was playing For Free to only a Coyote and a Black Crow
Another Communication Breakdown as you Ramble On
Leaving me Dazed and Confused out on the Gallows Pole
Of love unable to find my way back to your Stairway to Heaven
I Never Meant to Hurt You but The Confession I now make Mr. Blue
Is Upstairs By A Chinese Lamp my Sweet Lovin’ Baby
I have lost My Innocence in this Crazy Love so now I retreat
To find some Mercy on Broadway looking up at that Man in the Moon
And When I Die The Man Who Sends Me Home
Will still be my Companion for another Coffee Morning
Such a Handsome Devil was he that I became The Boy
With the Thorn in his Side because I was Girl Afraid
Then This Charming Man told me Meat is Murder
Never Had No One Ever Well I Wonder if I am Still ill
Louis and I We Used To Know all the Reasons For Waiting
And that there would be A Time For Everything
Even A Song For Jeffrey My God if it were Up To Me
Just Won’dring Aloud I’d go Back To The Family
With You There To Help Me it would be a New Day Yesterday
Or become A Passion Play Skating Away on the Thin Ice of a New Day
But Nothing Is Easy Help it’s been A Hard Day’s Night
Wish Me Well for In Held Twas In I by glimpses of Nirvana
There is Too Much Between Us Still There’ll Be More
On this Pilgrims Progress toward a Crucifiction Lane
(These artists/musicians of now vintage Rock and Roll
sustained and nurtured my Soul. I took early direction from
all of them in those early days of finding my own poetic voice.)
Thank you David Bowie, Tyrannosaurus Rex, King Crimson,
Neil Young, Joni Mitchell, Led Zeppelin, Laura Nyro, The Smiths,
Jethro Tull, The Beatles, Procol Harum and so many more. Also
celebrating my 50 year high school reunion class of 1972: “Who
Knows Where the Time Goes” by the great songstress Sand Denny
of Fairport Convention fame. Fun fact this song was the B-side of a
single then the title track of her album both released in 1968 the year
I started high school.
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.
By Jane Cantillon
What I know for sure is that the longer the years peel away like a clear clean onion skin, the less I know. I keep walking, proudly with my head held high, pretending I know more. Now at five feet and five inches shrinking closer to the ground while my head seems further in the fog, my body complains a lot more, too. “Where are we going?” whispers my achy feet. How much longer can I carry you? murmurs my tired legs. “I don’t know but be patient”, I say lovingly, “you too shall pass.”
Then I wonder how many more people will I say goodbye to before they throw a going away party for me? Year 2020, vision is blurred in teardrops and uncertainty and I’ve cheated death so many times that it wants it’s money back.
What I know for sure is when I see hungry people living under the sky blue tarps that that my heart grows so heavy I think I need a basket to carry it and I would like to serve it like a Valentines cake to some, and collect it back from the greedy ones in the tower that I have turned my back to.
What I know for sure is now the sun will rise again though, like me, Mother Nature’s hot flashes are growing more violent and unpredictable. She’s been irritated at the arrogance and entitlement of the scrappy human beings misusing her wondrous resources. I try to show a somewhat angry Mother Nature the same love she gives us everyday before she takes the sun back from our children.
What I know for sure is that authentic love has guided me through my life and has never let me down. When I feel so overwhelmed with gratitude for my life, my family, my friends and my four-legged love machines, that is what I know for sure that love is my own private heaven.
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.
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 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, 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