POETS PLACE
AUGUST EDITION 2023
Hello POETS PLACE fans! Thank you all for joining us! To our readers and contributors, we really appreciate that you are reading the column and submitting your words and art as well as sharing the column with your friends and to social media. The column has been gaining momentum on various platforms, and we continue to host everyone who submits. Thank you for your continued supports and interest!
On the silly side of things, here is a piece I wrote awhile back….
Enjoy!!!
Love, Linda :0)
Favorite Person
Story Joe Frank might like
By Linda Kaye 2021
It’s Passover and you want to invite your favorite person to the Seder but it’s unfortunate that this person is disliked by all the people in your life due to their disgusting habit of gargling their wine at the table. But.. because you like this person for all the intelligent conversations you’ve had in the past discussing the origins of addiction and the lust for the latest fashion trends, you decide that the relationship is worth the family dissension. When the dissenting family members do come for the Seder they are asked to wear earplugs to block out the sounds from the favorite person’s gargling of the wine- they balk refusing to wear the earplugs, stating it’s against their better judgement, and begin to terrorize the Seder table smashing the Seder plate and throwing the bitter herbs all over the walls in bad taste. And, despite the fact that people are starving in countries all over the world, people that they are not familiar with or care about is of no concern to them. When the host arrives with the brisket that was cooked for hours at the house of the favorite person’s grandma from Russia everyone stops their destructive acts and bows to the meat- they become silent knowing that it is this offering that has been a long-standing tradition since the birth of the first Jew (not really) and that brisket is worshiped by the American Jews as a gift from God. As everyone stands and bows to the meat, Elijah enters, Elijah Goldberg that is, and begins to recite from the Haggadah. Elijah, who has a little resemblance to Jesus Christ, with long wavy brownish hair, then begins to take off all his clothes because he too loves the favorite person and wants her to be his wife, so he believes if she witnesses his lean muscled body clean shaven and slick with the oils from the olive trees in Israel, she will accept his plea of lasting love. The crowd of onlookers also begin to remove their clothing not wanting to offend the host assuming this is the new and acceptable practiced ritual of the Passover Seder. As everyone is now naked before God the music rises to a full pitch so loud that the neighbors begin to pound on the doors screaming at the top of their lungs to shut up! This interference doesn’t bother the naked Seder guests and they charge out the door knocking over the neighbors screaming with the delight still naked as a jaybird raising cain down the street. The neighbors who are appalled at the spectacle join together and form a gang of hellions deciding that they must put a stop to the disgusting behaviors of this house. They decide to burn it down. When they get their torches and enter the house screaming of hate they come upon Elijah and the favorite person naked and having hysterical raucous sex in the middle of the trashed Seder table. The neighbor’s see the sex scene as a sign from the heavens that Jesus has returned and they too want a part of the sex act. As they begin to undress and approach the couple they inadvertently start a fire with the torches they are still holding which has caught the table cloth by accident. As flames begin to encircle Elijah and the favorite person the neighbors begin to chant “fuck her fuck her fuck her!”
And because they believe Elijah is Jesus they quickly pull them out from the flames. When the couple emerges from the flames, their sex trance is broken and they reach for the knives on the table and begin to bludgeon the neighbors to death. As the fire continues to rage the host returns with the brisket holding it over the heads of Elijah and the favorite person reciting “with this brisket you will live happily ever after in the eyes of God” but the couple no longer in their sex trance are not believing that the brisket has magical powers of seduction begins to bludgeon the host and departs. As the flame engulfs the house along with the chard host and neighbors, the fire department arrives. What they see are visions of briskets past and the denizens of Jewish grandmas floating around the sky over the house chanting “fuck them fuck them fuck them!” The firemen fall to their knees praying to the brisket grandmas hoping that they will not be sacrificed since they have not been circumcised. To their surprise and astonishment the fire magically goes out smelling like chard brisket over done and not to their liking they get off their knees and leave disappointed.
poof!
By jerry the priest
Could have hovered over social media, I suppose
and some conversations there, but
I felt more like writing
Something in the air, a kind of moist expectancy
a ‘just-about-to-pop’ness in the framework
Could have cooked something, I suppose
instead of buying that burrito
but I felt more like writing
At the gallery tonight I saw lawn darts
the size of firetrucks
Poems are floating out of me
like sugar in evaporation ponds
Could have phoned home to tell them
even though I just came from there
but I felt more like writing
That burrito was no good anyway
who puts coleslaw in a ma-frickin’…
Could have thought a bit too much about
that genius Colombian shaman girl
But I felt like putting words down
We’ll be rehearsing soon enough for
some kind of bluesy showdown
she has a boyfriend anyway but
he’s no match for her, I
Could have unpacked my suitcase
and organized the closet, I suppose
but I felt, just, I dunno
It’s not like I have a choice about these poems
they’re jumpin’ out deep archaic wells, putting
hesitation in a deep freeze
It’s not a chemical imbalance, or
if it is more compounds please.
Pheromones, yeah it’s a blessing
to secrete these.
Could have been a giant sequoia emitting
mad battalions of ozone, but
I felt more like writing
It’s the lazy man’s version
of spoon bending
Why PURSUE anything when you can
just kick back and paint fleurs de lis
on grammar school lunch pails
with or without eyelids?
There’s no portal writing can’t summon
so write through walls. Careful though
Lest you find yourself with no choice
but to write your way out of a door jam
Which is a bit disingenuous, in any case:
words are illusions also.
jerry the priest, legal name Jerome Dunn, has been creating material for exhibition, publication and live presentation since 1979, when he studied experimental music at the University of Redlands. A vocal performer since early childhood, his formal study of music began with his first trombone lesson in 1967.
Essays, poems, stories and illustrations have appeared in Coagula Art Journal, La Quadra, the Nervous Breakdown, Bombay Gin and others, and his guitar/vocal/ trombone work and lyrics are featured on Cheap Disaster (’92), Stark Aloe Vera (’95), and Lovely Children (2011).
He holds a BA in Performance Studies from Naropa University, and an MFA in Theater Directing/Production from California Institute of the Arts.
Sonnet 1.
By ChampionElCid
O have you heard of the Goddess of song?
Who blesses us with melodies so sweet.
She sings each note perfect, she's never wrong
And blessed with beauty from head to feet
Her raven locks flows freely in the air
Her topaz eyes shine brighter than the sun
Her heart is full of compassion and care
Her smile brings joy, where before there was none
Ah! but all these beauties are but for show
When she doth sing true beauty is unleashed
That it might banish misery and woe
And allow for laughing to be increased
Then be aware for when her song you hear
Give into love, and let your heart not fear
"ChampionElCid lives in Los Angeles, he currently works four different jobs so doesn't often have the time he'd like to write. When he was young he read Don Quixote for the first time and that book left an impression on him. He was later learned of a real life Spanish Knight named "El Cid" who embodied many of the ideals that Don Quixote strived for.Thus he decided to take that name when creating a profile on the internet and that name has stuck. You can see more of his poems and thoughts on things on his Deviantart profile. Thank you for this opportunity, I hope I continue to impress you..."
Threads
By Jenni Otero
The spine of the book
Has been broken
It’s joints are tired
The hard frame cover
Just a single piece
Frayed pages
Smudged and soiled
Where dreams were an archetype
Text a bridge to the universe
The toner had shed tears
And the chapters
Have no numbers
But the threads
Keep it tied
Bound tightly
Do not throw me away
In your hands
New chapters with
No numbers
With new threads
New pages frayed
Are torn
Same book
The spine is broken
But the threads are tight
Do not throw me away
Jenni Otero, a punk NELA native, is a versatile videographer, photographer, and editor who creates high-quality videos using her iPhone, defying conventional camera norms. Notably, she won multiple film festivals for Best Poster and Best Music Video at LA Punk Film Festival for Tijuana punk band DFMK. With Culinary Arts and Psychology degrees, she incorporates psychology into her art and videography by studying body movements and sound. Over 100 musicians use her videos and photography for concerts and social media. Despite lifelong illnesses and being Autistic, Jenni's love for music and dancing remains unwavering.
WHY?
7-10-23
9:47 a.m.
By Mary Cheung
Why?
Force, Tear.
Rend asunder.
Bomb, explode,
Shredded bodies,
Blood splatter.
Chaos, Death.
Snuff out.
Piled up bodies.
Crushed and flattened.
Metal end,
Organic matter.
Why?
The fight for land
That you've razed.
No longer good.
Contaminated, like your mind.
When will it end?
How much destruction?
Before it stops?
A crazed kid playing war,
To take what he hasn't got.
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”.
Nancy Molloy
By Michael D. Meloan
George Papoulis had just graduated from UCSB with a degree in history. He moved back in with his parents to figure out what was next. To welcome him home, a small dinner party was organized. George’s father was an education professor at USC.
The party was cover for a plan to introduce George to Nancy Molloy. She was one of his father’s star students—a vivacious and charismatic young woman who seemed to know where she was going. His parents thought she might be a good influence.
George first put on a tight white tee to show off his muscles. He flexed in the mirror, then frowned. Next came a light blue Oxford cloth long sleeve with button-down collar, brown polyester slacks, and worn Jack Purcell sneakers. He quickly ran a comb through his scraggly long brown hair and headed downstairs.
Nancy sat in the living room sipping white wine with his parents. It was not a dinner party—it was only Nancy. She stood when he appeared. Her black hair was in a pixie cut, with alabaster skin, grey eyes, sculpted features, and a beaming smile. George was momentarily speechless.
Thrusting out his hand, “Hello, Nancy.”
“Great to meet you, George,” she said, shaking his hand.
They sat down and George’s mother poured him a glass of cabernet.
“Your father tells me that you’ve graduated, George. What are you planning to do next?” Nancy asked.
George paused. “I’ve been thinking about the Peace Corps, in the Central African Republic. That’s one of the poorest countries on earth. I think I could really make a difference there.”
“That’s wonderful, George. A beautiful plan,” said Nancy.
“I had no idea,” George’s mother blurted out.
“Nancy is working on a master’s in special education. She wants to work in South LA after graduation,” said his father.
“Impressive,” said George, taking another big drink of red wine.
“Let’s have dinner,” George’s father interjected.
George’s mother served a Greek feast, with chicken gyros, traditional salad, and a variety of plump olives.
George had always tried to keep is Greek roots at arm’s length, but Nancy seemed to embrace it with enthusiasm.
“I was on Mykonos for three weeks last summer with a girlfriend. It was fantastic! We read books on a nude beach, the water was crystal clear, the food was amazing. It was a bit of heaven!”
The whole family beamed.
After dinner, they sat in the living room drinking coffee.
“This has been delightful,” said George’s mother.
“I agree,” said Nancy. “It’s been great getting to know you all. My day is pretty open tomorrow. If George would like to follow me up to my place in Silverlake, I could show him my extensive record collection.”
She winked at George’s father. His mother’s eyes widened.
George’s throat tightened; his mouth became dry. She was perhaps his ideal woman. But this was too fast. He wasn’t ready.
His parents were silent.
“Umm, that sounds good,” George finally said, forcing a weak smile.
“Ok, we’d better head out. I’m at 1867 Webster, in case you lose me on the way up.”
“Let me just jot that down,” said George, fumbling for a piece of paper.
Soon, his decrepit VW Bug was following her Fiat 124 convertible up into the Silverlake hills. While driving, he thought about the Peace Corps. He had no intention of ever doing that. But the truth was, he had no idea what he was going to do. He had been a mediocre student. There weren’t many options.
He managed to stay on her tail the whole way. Finally, they arrived at her tiny hillside bungalow. The streetlights were out. It was pitch black.
As soon as they got inside, she pulled out a baggie of grass and a pack of Zig-Zag Wheat Straws. Then she rolled three tight and perfect joints. After taking a big hit, she passed it to him. They smoked it down to a roach, with little conversation.
George had only smoked a few times. It usually made him feel disoriented and unwell. This was one of those times. As he zoned out, Nancy began to slowly disrobe. First, she crossed her arms and grabbed the bottom of her black nylon blouse. Then it was over her head and tossed onto the coffee table. Her white champagne glass breasts were visible, with pert erect nipples. It took his breath away. With an impish smile and twinkling eyes, she unbuttoned her maroon and black striped bell bottoms, then slid them over her hips. It was down to a sheer white pair of almost translucent panties. Hooking her thumbs over the waist elastic on either hip, she slowly slid them down.
George was dumbstruck by what he saw. A massive black bush. The biggest he had ever seen.
“Wow…” he finally uttered. “That’s quite a bush. I can’t see the forest for the trees.”
Nancy’s eyes flashed with anger. In a split second, she seemed like a different being.
“I won’t tolerate body shaming! I thought you were more enlightened than that. Get out! I mean it! Get out!”
George felt like crying. “No Nancy, No! I think I love you! I want to marry you!”
“Marry me! You barely even know me! Are you crazy?!”
“Just give me another chance,” he said, with puppy dog eyes. “Please.”
She sighed. Exasperated.
Then she took him by the hand and led him into the bedroom.
George was unable to perform. She finally dozed off as he lay staring up at the ceiling for hours. Then he silently dressed and snuck out at 4:00 am.
One year and one month later, he was diagnosed as schizophrenic and hospitalized for the first time. Later he became a history and civics teacher in South LA. Nancy Molloy joined the Peace Corps in Africa and became a mistress of Idi Amin Dada.
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.
spilt blood on half moon bay
By Jeff Chayette 2022
a little dab ‘ll do ya
brylcreem swagger aviators
a muscle beach dream boat
daddy o ready to go
white cross speed trips
ready to rip
check out that wax job
feel that shine ladies
Get close up and take the ride up highway one
the waves are crashing
bill haley’s comets are rockin’ round the clock
close up shop lets drive into the night
I’m feeling so tight so right
let’s get outa sight and watch the sun set on half moon bay
before the end of this mid summers day
the longest day the shortest night
come on gals grab your bags
we’ll be in big sur by morning
winding roads howling winds twisting turns
the gals were popping dexies drinking whiskey getting frisky
mr sal brylcreem poster boy di crespo
skating on the razor blade
failing to appear
debt welching
shop lifting
cheap thrills
easy chill
lead foot
freshly waxed
shiny boat
running stop lights
fear was a dear in the headlights
fraught night fright
the bloom of jasmine filled the air
tires squealing
gals giggling
hair pin turns
axles creak squeak shrieks
as glass breaks earth shakes
beer barrel polka as she rolls down the cliff
their lives adrift in outer space race to the moon
who was this goon goomba mama’s boy
such a pretty face
disgraced disfigured women
crumpled metal salty air gulls scream
the moon reflects in a puma’s eye
she growls sniffs fresh blood human carrion
sal di crespo crawled out took a step
I can walk I can breath I’m gonna leave
never gonna stop keep moving till I drop
drop it like a rock
numb from shock di crespo staggered toward the sea
Jeff is a multi award winning artist / designer / animator. He has won a national Emmy for his work on CBS / Time 100 People of the Century, rendering several portraits that were used for giant magazine covers on the award winning set design. He has also won Promax / BDA awards for his design and animation work on promos for CBS2 and KCAL, as well as two CBS Eye on Excellence awards and two LA Regional Emmy awards.
Showing talent for art in his youth, Jeff was seduced by the theater, and spent his twenties pursuing a career as an actor musician. In his next decade he went back to art classes, while working at a commercial production company, and started doing shooting boards for the company’s directors. He has had paintings exhibited in a National juried show at the Brand Library Glendale and a solo exhibition of monotypes at a downtown gallery. He has designed movie posters for top design firms, designed, animated and produced television graphics for cable networks, Hallmark and FX as well as CBS. In addition, Jeff has designed websites and created movie opens for independent films and documentaries.
He is married to illustrator / graphic designer Miho Harada. They have two beautiful children
By Winfred Taylor
This prayer for you I sent
as you breezed throughout the usual day
Not knowing for your sake I set aside
These prayers on which your day would ride
A selfless passion of pain throughout
as you have not one faint idea what I've set out
To wishing on unbuilt bridges and trust
Far reaching mistakes that turn to dust
In the mirror, worn, such blessings reflect
The profound appeal and sincere respect..
For friends, no more, shall I take for granted
The entities that heartfelt wishes granted
So be it my love myself be true,
as I wish ten thousand times more for you
Your path in its brightness you may achieve
the greatest of heights past stars and trees
My face and form perhaps not determined
in The poetic
Moment of time
Yet surely as rivers flow sideways and life remains a highway
know this. As the truth is mine
To share my love is to share myself
as happiness rushes to follow
In all the shadows come clean
when rays of truth are seen
To have shredded
the best of sadness to growth.
This day has risen to retreat
yet quite as surely As every soul pleads
You shall know the blessing set forth and be drawn to every dream that which can only come true
This and so very much more is all I'd love for you
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”.
Judgment Day
By Elizabeth Estrada
can I be late to judgment day?
or will that be added to my list of sins?
my words spill out like the gust of wind you barely felt because you were distracted Understood.
Age of Disenchanted People digesting excess stimuli
I check my phone quickly at the table
picking it up every minute need to quit it
Psychologically addicting
Reward system in brain wants me to keep clicking and clicking
Like a kid licking ice cream don’t want it to end yet it’s melting feeling numb I succumb to the wobbly peace and imbalanced chaos
My reality is a seance Sometimes with the person in the mirror Real reflections lacking purposeful change
But at least I exchanged likes and comments
It’s Monday I’m swiping Tuesday texting Wednesday checking Thursday notifying Friday frolicking through fictitious realms
It’s judgment day and I’m late because I wanted a coffee filled with 15 grams of escape topped off with cream that masks the bitter taste of my current state.
I got a text with no sound
do not disturb is on yet somehow I feel disturbed, that's odd.
Like lights flickering in my body
I need to center myself but the patience to meditate is slipping from my fingertips So I add glue just to peel not to use
I thought I was doing better Like more secure without society's supposed cure
But it seems like I use all these things around me to cover up the void I’m drowning in.
It’s judgment day and God is reading my sins
One of them is being late
And another is
Not wisely filling my plate
The commodity of time is something I don’t wanna waste
especially on quick dopamine fixes that will leave me feeling
Vacant and Absent of the sacred
Need to sit In the empty basement of my mind But the stimuli latches And now I’m craving quick dopamine patches
Want to ground And sit And ground And sit And ground.
Get lost in the nothingness
Be present in the Universes presence
choosing to inhale Gaia’s incense I exhale my manufactured mental agitation
It’s judgment day And God is giving me another chance to feel alive in her creation.
Elizabeth is a multi-disciplinary artist from the San Fernando Valley. She specializes in painting and spoken word poetry. Her poems are inspired by the beauty and mystery of life. Her work includes themes of sexuality, vices, self empowerment, spiritualism, and more. You can find her on Instagram @wrapperliz.
A Retrograde Heart
By Ronald G. Carrillo
A damaged heart splintered
But mended with scars from her past
She no longer bleeds but is haunted
Her pulse quickens as his memory appears
Purple vapors of regret and disillusion
Love’s waters can be like a flood
Overflowing the heart’s banks
Then seasonal droughts that distress her valves
Affecting all areas of her activities
At last cherubic rains fall to her parched heart
Holy blood pumping waters to revitalize her soul
Like the Red Nile enriching the Egyptian earth
New birth pangs of love increase her heart beat
The retrograde heart in repose
Her Los Angeles hibernation will compose
Poetic protection and rest
Reset and cultivate a new zest
Greedy moon of solitude
No longer to cast her light
Upon my retrograde heart
I weep in dreamscape
I dream with widow tears
I sleep with loneliness
Senior fears fill my pillow
Back to the garden
Green healing
God particle feeling
My seeds being released
Survivor of Paradise lost
The prodigal son coming home
The pristine of green carpets my feet
Eden bound from Sheol
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.
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
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/