POETS PLACE
OCTOBER 2023
Hello everyone! October is the start of the fall season bringing cooler temperatures and new energy to compose artistic endeavors. The world is a magical place. Full of love and potential peace. Once you let go of Pandora’s box, everything will be hunky-dory. Says me! Although I say this with love, I know the world is often a treacherous place. I consider myself woke, at least enough to navigate my inner sanctum and a few miles around me. LOL. We cannot live in fear. Fear creates a devastating anxiety that produces waves of cortisol, which can stymie any creative juices that might otherwise flow freely. So… then why entertain fear? Do we know how much time we have on this earth? Does that thought create fear of the unknown? That mysterious realm out of our reach of control. Oh my, that feeling of a lack of control!!! Ek!! Once that feeling is activated, do you have the tools to quell its destination? Alter it’s journey? Re-direct your fate? Press the save yourself button? We all have the tools to relax, we just need to practice using them. First you must recognize the symptoms you experience when they, normally stress, are activated. Simply allow the negative thoughts to pass through your brain and out the other side without entertaining them. Sound easy? It is, once you’ve practiced and mastered the skill. Writing is one of those skills that helps us to find peace within ourselves. An outlet to vent our innermost thoughts and anxieties without shame or judgement of retaliation. A place to create stories and poems of love and lust. I feel blessed to be able to share your writing and art here on POETS PLACE!!! Thank you all so much for your continued contributions!!!
Let’s get on with the show!
Pressing Berries
BY Carolyn Weathers
Outside, the breeze
and flowered berries
lifted by the breeze.
Inside, you and me
on the ambrosia bed.
I lift your gown
as breezes lift
the plush buds.
We press. Our soft skin,
rich lips,
adhere like wild honey.
We, the fleshy berries
pressed till sweet juice
seeps from the grain.
We, the sweet, meshing
flesh and essence
press.
Our stunned eyes and senses,
dazzled by clarity,
watch our grooved souls lock,
as one who, peeling, pressing,
manifests the pithy berry
to its deepest seed.
Carolyn Weathers is a memoirist, poet, ex-publisher, and retired librarian with the Los Angeles Public Library. She has published three books—two memoirs and one book of short stories. Her writings and poems have appeared in numerous anthologies and online publications. She lives in Long Beach CA.
Terrestrial
By Don Kingfisher Campbell
Thanks for the sun setting
How the red aura settles
On the dark mountain range
And far below the silhouettes
Of buildings lit with signs
And traffic lights multiplicity
Closer still homes rest on
Their concrete foundations
Supported by packed earth
And cars in the driveways
Also parked by the curbs
And sidewalks between them
A woman walks her dog
A man steps into his vehicle
Each their separate ways
Then the cracks in the street
The cooling air flowing
Over all, over all, over all
Don Kingfisher Campbell, MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University Los Angeles, taught Writers Seminar at Occidental College Upward Bound for 36 years, been a coach and judge for Poetry Out Loud, a performing poet/teacher for Red Hen Press Youth Writing Workshops, L.A. Coordinator and Board Member of California Poets In The Schools, poetry editor of the Angel City Review, publisher of Four Feathers Press, and host of the Saturday Afternoon Poetry reading series in Pasadena, California. For awards, features, and publication credits, please go to: http://dkc1031.blogspot.com
THE SPIRIT OF BIZARRENESS
By Olga Volozova
-What would you prefer, miss?
This hat carries the Spirit of Graveness,that one the Spirit of Grievance...
- I'd choose the Spirit of Bizarreness, please.
The one with jazzy, busy zigzags bruising through the blizzard,
the blizzard of sneering faces and little evil tongues.
yes, spotted with a few drops of the maniacs' brew
boiled in a brazen bronze jug full with foolish gossip
sprinkled with some glitter fallen from the
dancing old hissing dames' legs and lips
I'll wear this hat to summon you,
with its Spirit of Bizareness, to summon you,
from the place where you've gone,
you, who made your way through the same route,
through the mirky glances of the same shallow folks I am dealing with,
you just smiled your smile,then you were gone.
I'll ask you, how did you manage
to relieve their angst and be safe,
and bring the blessing into their narrowed eyes
You'll tell me, it's easy.
It's just wearing your outfit and wondering at every step you're making.
It's a party where you have to play your pretty part, and you're fine.
And you're so right to have chosen this lovely hat, honey dear.
Olga Volozova I wrote only three poems in English language after my husband David passed in 2008...
Also, after he passed, I switched in my activities to doing more painting, especially oil painting.
And I started exhibiting around, in L.A. and on other continents, and joined LAAA. Before painting, I used to be involved in animation (after getting my M.F.A. in animation from UCLA) and in making graphic novels and picture books, and though I am not doing much animation now, I still try to go on with making books. My stories are on the fantasy/fairy-talish side of the brain.
THE REVELATION OF HER EMBRACE
By Giulio Magrini
When I was a small boy
I played in the Sharpsburg mud
I decided it would be a good idea
To kiss my mother
She was doing the wash
By hand
In the back yard
I pulled at her dress
She picked me up
And kissed me
She didn’t mind
My muddy hands
Over her clean white dress
Today my heart beats
In remembrance of those days
And the memory and wonder
Lifts me still
To a never-ending resurrection
Her love conquers the mud of eternity
In these years she has never let me go
All I need to do is remember
And I am safe in her arms
Giulio Magrini is a writer from Pittsburgh PA and is the author of The Color of Dirt, which is an anthology of his poetry and flash fiction over fifty (50) years. He enjoys performing his written work and states, “We have put our hands in the dirt, and sanctified each other”
HOME MOVIE
By Peter Yates
I watch my dreams
projected on to you
covering your nakedness
I seek your skin
but only touch myself
Bouncing back your hopes
my surface trembles
Returning what you gave
Unchanged
still warm
Lovingly we live
to serve each other
Embracing
Sharing deep reflection
Two mirrors lying face to face
encompassing infinity
Peter Yates In venues ranging from Lincoln Center and Italian State Radio to the art clubs of Salzburg and the wilds of Los Angeles, Peter Yates has produced over a thousand events as a composer, guitarist, writer and multimedia artist. His interest in things not done has led to a puppet opera about the Watts Towers, a DVD ghost-town opera, and several books of satire and philosophy. His activated teaching includes years on the music faculties of UCLA and Cal Poly Pomona.
Double Vision
by Daniel Schack
Perhaps, we all fight back, at some point, against possibly anything. Are a lot of people out there stupid or just plain assholes? Let's face it. Probably both. Oh well.
daniel schack poetry can be seen on poetrysoup.com and has good verse and drawings on his facebook page. peace.
The Ten-Year Plan
By Michael D. Meloan
My parents wanted to meet my new girlfriend, Chrissie, so they invited us for dinner. During the meal, Chrissie related that her mother had a serious case of wanderlust. They drove all over the US together when she was a little girl. Starting out in Rhode Island, they roamed the country, moving to Florida, Texas, Oklahoma, and then Arizona. Her mother worked as a file clerk, typist, motel maid, almost anything.
“She always said that she was ‘made for something bigger than this.’ So she’d quit her job, and we’d just move on. Sometimes when money ran low, we had to sleep in the car at truck stops. Finally, my mother ended up in a mental institution, and I had to go live with my aunt in Lawrence, Kansas.”
Silence
“I’ll get dessert,” my mother said.
After dinner we drank glasses of port on the balcony while watching the moon behind high wispy clouds.
“Lately I’ve been asking all my USC business students to write about their most influential educational experience. What was that for you?” my father asked me.
“That’s easy—The International School of Torino in Italy. That was the most transformational time.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Because we were in an exotic environment and it was so intense. The schoolmasters pushed us to the limit. Experiences like that burn themselves into your psyche, for better or worse. You do feel like you’re really living.”
“And what about you,” he asked Chrissie.
“Seeing the Grateful Dead at Red Rocks in Colorado. I’ve never felt more connected to humanity and God than I felt during that concert.”
My father exuded a puff of air. “The Grateful Dead is a rock group, right?”
“They’re the greatest rock band of all time. They’re more than a band, they’re a community. They’re a way of life! I quit my job once because my boss wouldn’t give me time off to see a Dead show in Phoenix.”
“I can’t imagine losing a job over a rock concert, but I guess it takes all kinds,” he said.
“Do you have a 10-year plan?” he asked Chrissie.
“Uh, no. Well…I plan to be a famous recording artist in 10 years. Is that a 10-year plan?”
“No, absolutely not. A 10-year plan is about process. You have to map out a strategy, with milestones and sets of incremental goals, and ways of accomplishing those goals. You have to visualize your success every day. Feel it in your bones. It has to become part of your blood, part of your DNA.“
“Wow, that makes some sense,” said Chrissie thoughtfully. “I’d never really considered all that.”
“I’ve been asking for Mike’s 10-year plan for quite some time. But he still hasn’t given me one. When am I going to get that?” he asked, glancing over.
“I’m still mulling it over,” I said, while looking at my watch. “It’s getting late, we need to head out.”
On the way home, Chrissie talked about my father.
“At first, I thought your father was sort of a dork—a generic Mr. Businessman type. But he has some wisdom. I think you should do your 10-year plan. He might be right. If you don’t know where you’re going, you might end up in Bumfuck, Idaho.”
“Ok, here’s my 10-year plan: I will meditate, find ways to create, be kind to people and animals, and occasionally pirouette through the stars.”
“Ok, you win. Fuck your dad,” she said. “Let’s smoke a joint.”
Michael D. 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. Currently, RUP press in Germany has released his memoir/novella PINBALL WIZARD.
Poema
By G. Billie Quijano
La Playa proved to be a vortex of love
It is written in the codices, herein above
La Bruja Magica entwined with the Sirenas of the sea
Flores, salvia cartas, all medicina for the we
The sun sings and we are all free
The waves spoke, ebb and flow
Peace and healing made our hearts aglow
The rays signal growth and intention
Radiance and divine flowing in ascension
The universe released it's golden ribbons
Dreams attached and guidance given
Third eye opens, intuition a gift
It is written in the antepasado's glyphs
What we release
In the end there will be a feast
Please accept our humble offerings
We are coming to the finale of suffering
We are adorned with golden wings
There will be many new beginnings
La Mariposa flys in high vibration
Abrazos, besos, intentions, illuminating
G. Billie Quijano-Poeta, Assemblage Artist, Photographer, Instigator of Beauty. Mestiza born in the corazon of East Los. Recently I spent some time with Linda. I have been going through some changes. Changes affecting my mind, spirit, body and soul. We both shared so much over Thai food. I felt safe and comfortable revealing life experiences. I respect and admire her many talents. She listened to me with an open heart. Very soon I will be traveling to Mexico to feel the embrace of her waves. The beginning of the next transformation.
Learning What I’ve Known
By Winfred Taylor
Turned around and there I find
The steps that led me out of mind.
Looking forward to looking back
As I'm circling around my very tracks
Not knowing enough to recognize
That all my paths have realized
The many goals and dreams I've found.
Mistaken shady trees for solid grounds
Been followed closely by others leading
up to where I was in the past succeeding.
I thought I had wandered helplessly
I just didn't know and refused to see.
From what I thought I understood
My life had no purpose and I was no good.
Yet thinking for just a minute maybe a year or few
Those words weren't mine the feelings weren't true
So I turn back around to see the path is now clear
Of all the many steps it took just to get me here
And all the happy times put aside
For the turmoil and lack of resource inside
I quietly ,softly pray for manifests
For absolutely nothing more
but for simply nothing less
Winfred Taylor, says, “I have and still equate creativity to healing and expressive language”. Born in Dayton Ohio, raised in the suburbs. Both parents had southern roots with a Christian foundation. “I believe some of what I do is both interpret and reconcile feelings and situations both old and new. I have done creative writing and poetry from an early age. I found that I could not immerse myself enough in life and the arts. Studying piano, joining choirs, doing athletics, crocheting, making jewelry, sewing, theater, ceramics, cooking, photography, weaving, gardening, and more. Schooling was with an Ohio business school then art school at the University of Washington, Seattle. Only recently making the move to California, I continue to follow inspiration and gain many new insights to life”.
We’re Not In Kansas Anymore
By Richard D. Tucci
It was a quiet peaceful field outside the town of Hunter, Kansas. The amber stalks of grain waxed and wained with the blowing wind.
Desolate and deserted, the sun lay low in the sky casting an odd glow on an unremarkable evening, except for one unexpected visitor.
No one noticed the massive, emerald green hot air balloon as it rapidly descended from the sky. Though no one was there to see it, the balloon’s sole occupant bellowed a hearty scream as it sped toward the ground, crashing into the dirt, and splintering its wicker basket into two.
The balloon’s passenger was thrown through the air, luckily landing in soft soil. He breathed heavily, trying to slowly get his bearings.
Unfortunately, his leg was caught in the hemp rope that secured the silk balloon, and as the breeze picked up, the balloon began to drag our passenger across the empty field, shouting and cursing all the way.
When the breeze finally stopped, our wayfarer was able to untie his leg and stumble to an upright position. His moustache and beard now dribbling mud onto his green suit.
He looked around, not knowing where he was.
Out of the distance, he could hear a fierce rumbling, almost like a pack of horses, or an angry god.
Out of the distance he could see a dust cloud furiously approaching.
“Oh dearest me,” he said to himself with a thick drawl in his voice, “Out of the vexing frying pan and into the fire.”
The roaring became more thunderous as it approached, when finally, over the hill, he saw a bright red box of a vehicle with HUMMER spelled out on the front. The car came to a sudden skidding halt just feet away from him.
The door opened, and out stepped an extremely tall and thin man with high snake-skin boots. His forehead domed out in a white curve, and his two eyes were deeply sunken in his head. He was clean-shaven, pale, with a look of sternness and asceticism, appearing almost as a professor; his shoulders were hunched and rounded from much studying. As he walked, he slowly swung from side to side in a curiously reptilian fashion. “It appears that my calculations, simple as they were for myself, were of course, correct.” He said with a soft, precise fashion of speech as he peered out with great curiosity in his puckered eyes.
Our green-suited traveler, looked at him curiously, and said, “I don’t know what kind of horseless carriage that is, but I can tell your origins are far from here.”
“No,” replied snake skin boots with a posh British accent, “but based on my arithmetic, neither are you.”
“Well, to tell you the truth, I’m not really sure where here is. Now, would you be so kind as to direct me to the nearest outpost where I may hawk my wares? Perhaps I can provide my services to you, for I am a wise and powerful man.”
“You happen to be in Hunter, KS. And what services might your wise and powerfulness provide?”
“Why Behold! I am Oscar Zoroaster Phadrig Isaac Norman Henkle Emmannuel Ambroise Diggs, the Great and Terrible!” said the little man, in a trembling voice, with a proud and broad posture.
“Yes, I’m sure you are, and I am Professor James Moriarty,” said the man sternly and coldly, “but based on your clothes and means of transportation, you should also be aware that you are in the year 2021. June 21st to be precise.”
“Oh… dearest me. It was a great mistake my ever leaving my Throne Room. So many years have passed for my little humbug self.”
“I’m intrigued to hear what those years may entail, Mr. Diggs.”
“Well, Mr. Diggs, if you would like to accompany me, I have a proposition I would like to make to you, concerning your unique abilities.”
“What abilities would that be?” he asked sceptically, “I am nothing more than a humbug who has spent most of his life making belief.”
“Oh, I think you’ll find that after returning to this realm, you have quite a bit to offer.”
Richard Tucci is a writer and Creative Director with GreaterAndGrander.com As a graduate of USC, he studied under Oscar winning writer Seth Winston, and has a passion for education and communication, including serving as a teacher at Washington High School in south central Los Angeles. He’s written and published articles which has garnered tens of thousands of reads from people all over the world, including publishing in DSTL’s Art Block Magazine, Tongal, and sold a concept to TNT and Warner Media. In his spare time, he creates art and YouTube videos focusing on puppets, science, exploration, politics, filmmaking, and Los Angeles local updates.
Decades of Absence
By Ashley Resurreccion
It took me 20 years to figure out
These decades of your absence
Filled me with dread
Drained me of intimacy
And burst volatile emotions
When I least expected them to
To learn neglect aversion and silence
are all forms of communication
Not moments to wait
For love and care
To be reciprocated
I learned to adjust my life
To your absence
To fear those who promised safety
Instead of embracing those
Who freely, truly choose
To accept me as I am
So when you came into my life
Without warning
Expecting me to be
Someone looking up to you or
Dropping unshared expectations or
Unwilling to create friction in the shadows
I may have cried or
Stuttered from the shock or
Felt shaken
The same way I did when you first left,
But I knew better and collected myself
Since it's over now
I can decide to let go
And declare
I never needed you at all
Ashley Abigail Gruezo Resurreccion (siya/they) is a second-generation Filipina Asian-American, certified 200-Hour Yoga Teacher, and Returned United States Peace Corps Volunteer (Thailand 130) who graduated from Seton Hill University as a MA Art Therapy with a Specialization in Counseling. Twitter @twiischibis x Wordpress.com/Twiichii
Their previous work promoted mental health wellness and educational sustainability with Project DATE, The International Child Advocacy Network, Self-Discovery Through Art, Art Expression Inc., Project Art Pittsburgh, and Upward Together Los Angeles.
Deforestation of Indifference
By Victoria Ester Orantes
She’s been changing, and it feels like dying
The softest parts of her, calcifying.
O’ how the bitter burly bark,
Nearly coats a virtuous heart.
If it were not for self-awareness,
All her goodness would have long vanished.
Consciousness is the only savior,
To the apathetic disorder.
And so comes the essential occasion,
To cure what’s ill, her deforestation.
Laceration- to reestablish truths,
Peeling away to find herself anew.
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.
Blues
By R. G Carrillo
My Los Angeles eyes searching the blue skies
My youth a pristine green
Innocence lost now azul
A beguiling moon dispensing her perfume
His eyes were brown my thoughts were blue Suffering pronouns in a blue vocabulary
Blue ballads and cigarette smoke from Birdland A white wedding gown on a storefront mannequin Something old and something blue
The red and white mixed with the blue
Lady Day singing of “Strange Fruit”
Paying dues and jazz
Blue memories attached to black bodies
I got the blues
Just reading the news
Those deep Coltrane blues
In all their hues
Uninvited blues
No money blues
Drinking alone blues
Those dirty dishes blues
Drawn shade blues
Afraid of the devil blues
Apocalyptic save my soul blues
Get me out of jail blues
The running out of time blues
Pale blues ascending from the ashes
I collect the clues and begin to recover
Miles of blues and a trumpet refrain
Piano notes that call my name
Jigsaw blues from a Tendaberry girl
Direct my spirit toward heaven
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.
Sonnet # 1
(For William Carlos Williams)
By, Anna C Broome
2023
I slipped into love with a dead poet doctor
During a bedridden Spring
His words numbed my lips,
Tickled my tongue
And trickled down my throat
Like the juice of a cold sweet plum.
His lines embraced like long lost lovers
Once separated by sour traditions
And gray concrete tombs.
Goodbye to dancing daffodils
And a Romantic who sang to himself until Dawn.
My heart belongs to a red wheelbarrow
Where so much depends
Winter Spring transcends.
Anna Broome is a Los Angeles published poet
and producer of the monthly free-to-the public performance art show, The Anna Broome Room for the passed ten years and the Solo Concert Series, The Broome Closet. She earned two bachelor’s degrees: Creative Writing, Poetry and English Literature and Language with an emphasis on British and American Romantic Poetry from the University of North Carolina at Wilmington where studied under Pulitzer Prize for Poetry nominee, Michael White. Her first book of poetry, Orthodox Bats was published in 2019. Her second book, Sex Ed: A Prerequisite at Columbine was published this year by Four Feathers Press. Her first novel, A Full Sun is due out in 2025. And first collection of novellas the following year.
TIMES ARE A CHANGING
6-5-2023
2:55a.m.
By Mary Cheung
2 mths ago, I could barely keep you out of my thoughts.
And now, I can't even remember your name.
I'm still hoping to find love,
But I'm just seeing how it's all just a game.
The one where I don't know all of the rules.
And players make up guidelines as they go.
They're telling me one thing.
But they're actions are telling me, no no.
So is it all pointless, if it's a game that can't be won.
The odds are stacked, but not for me.
Scary unknown situations, it's no longer fun.
But I keep hoping, that maybe today things will change.
Hey, in my gut I know it's time to ditch it.
And reclaim my life and to not do the same.
Of counting on a magical online website fairy .
To grant my one and only wish.
To find my needle in a haystack.
That rare and exotic dish.
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”.
WHY I CAN’T WRITE A POEM ABOUT MY GRANDDAUGHTER
By Jefferson Carter
because all those
besotted poet-grandparents
have said everything there is to say
about a child’s child.
But what’s that
staggering down the hall
like “a drunk sailor,”
like climate change
(in the best sense of the word)?
Jefferson Carter’s work has appeared in journals like Barrow Street and Rattle. Chax Press (Tucson) published his ninth collection, Get Serious: New and Selected Poems, which was chosen as a Southwest Best Book of 2013 by the Tucson/Pima County Public Library. Diphtheria Festival (Main Street Rag Publishing) is still available through his website: jeffersoncarterverse.com Carter has lived in Tucson, AZ, since 1953 and taught composition and poetry writing full-time for 30 years at Pima Community College. Currently, he’s a passionate supporter of Sky Island Alliance, a local environmental organization.
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 This video was accepted into the Ontario Museum of History & Art show “We the People” Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow. February 2- April 16, 2023. So honored!!
And… 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
20 Years Left is now a short documentary!!!! Screening October 7th. with the www.hpifilmfest.com
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
http://voyagela.com/interview/daily-inspiration-meet-linda-kaye/https://
shoutoutla.com/meet-linda-kaye-poet-poetry-and-theatrical-producer-filmmaker/