POETS PLACE
February Edition 2024
As the skies turn black, and the sun tries to break through, we are haunted by the threats of the loss of democracy, as we once knew it. Our country is in a quagmire of political brouhaha. The regression of this country’s female right of choice is in the ring of fire. Will our chances of fending off criminals in our government ever come to pass since one is about to be re-elected? Has our country lost it’s way towards respecting our neighbors right to freedom and justice? People (not all of course) are so cruel and disgusting. They are lost in the hatred that was fed to them in their family of origin. Generally speaking, I am not very optimistic about our secured freedom in this country. Will I run or fight if I am attacked? Physically or mentally? I currently feel under siege and helpless to defend myself. I am actually ready to flee this country for a spell. I am so pissed off at the way we are behaving towards each other. Thank goodness we have a private space here on POETS PLACE to share our thoughts and feelings. Let’s hope that our right to free speech is not taken away. Let there be peace. Please.
Love, Linda
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 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
Only a dream
By Emily Kupinsky
I dreamed of us, Love
when our bodies were still new
when hands guided hands
and feet tickled feet
and whispers were made
and lips were so sweet
Let me always remember us
This way
Emily Kupinsky is a resident artist at The Hive Gallery in Los Angeles, if she were a Superhero, her name would be Dyslexia
DON’T LET IT
By Mary Cheung
12-31-23
3:30 a.m.
Like a character in a Hayao Miyazaki film,
it can transform you,
Slowly turning you into an unrecognizable lump...
As a preview I see the transformation in my brother.
The hate, the discontentment is turning him into an ogre.
A mountain of bloated misery that is pushing his body outward, expanding in size.
I can barely recognize him, I am saddened by what I see.
He doesn't recognize what has happened to him.
And I feel it eating away at me.
He wears his misery like a coat.
Sticking to his skin, burrowing deep inside.
Lives and breathes as what use to be him.
Makes me want to cry...
The person I used to recognize is gone.
And it saddens me so.
Fighting it seems futile.
Maybe I just have to let it go??
And maybe if I were Gandhi and I had the time, the temperance,
To wait it out; then I could try.
To save his soul, that doesn't think it needs saving.
This is why he doesn't even try.
And if I had the patience to hear him out, to help him out,
to finding his path again and heal....
Then I could get my brother back again and make it all real.
But I am not him and neither are you. How lost a soul is he?
And I haven't the right tools to gauge.
The fight that is needed, the war I would need to wage.
To save his soul.
His light that died out,
the love that went cold....
I saw the malignant flash upon your face.
As it tried to latch itself onto you,
Those few moments was all it took,
You were no longer the sister that l knew.
This version pulsated with anger and hate.
Threatening to turn you into that blob.
Thank you for listening and that made the difference,
of why your humanity would never be robbed.
Don't let it.
If I were a mirror,
Then I could reflect back, and you'd see.
What tried to take over you,
as it delighted and clasped his hands in glee.
As it was able to sow the seed,
the tiniest of hope that it could stir up.
The misery it could create.
Clapped in delight and vibrated with dark energy and hate.
Another soul, lost...
Don't let it.
Being the eldest,
You felt it your duty to try.
To bring all of us together,
Hope and love the reason why.
And to those of us who have reciprocated, in kindness and with love.
Gave you protect against the creature.
Who desired to latch onto you,
And wear you like a glove.
Don't let it.
And you won't,
That I can now see.
Because you chose us, as your armor.
And your mom's hope and tenacity.
And you refused to give up on one of your siblings.
You continue to try,
despite the challenge set before you.
That version of him was a lie.
You try to heal and bring the family back together,.
Why not? Hope to you is boundless and free.
Before we were shaped by Hate,
discontentment and misery.
To before, this thing before you.
To that happy healthy childhood,
that was forgiving, loving, kind and great.
It's hard, I know, to walk away.
But… it's not too late.
Because they are a part of you.
You showered with love and gave and gave and gave.
It's impossible to not to want to try...
Yet sometimes,
That’s all that you can do.
Walk away.
And let that part of you die...
And hope that someone, someday.. something else be their cure.
So that whatever poisoned him, can meet its demise.
Only then can they break the shell.
That snuffed out who they were inside.
Maybe there is no happy ending here.
And well maybe...
that'll just have to be fine.
Mary Cheung is a multi-disciplinary artist. She has been creating art since she was young. Grew up the youngest in a family of eight. She came to America at the age of 2 and grew up in San Francisco. Attended American school during the day and Chinese school at night.
Mary has an AA degree in Fashion Design and a Best Costume Design Award from the NAACP. She often creates costumes for her art narratives and creations. Sometimes building the sets as needed.
Mary was the Producer for the Santa Rosa Spring Festivals 2011 and 2012 which incorporated live performances and festival games.
She produced the EVOLUTION Music and Arts event in 2013.
LUSCIOUS, Music Art, Live Body paint Art Event IN 2014 followed by
OPEN FLOOR IMPROV EXPERIMENT whose purpose was to engage the community, encourage local business growth and artists involvement. Her real passion and drive come from being able to engage the community while bringing hope, healing, joy, and human connection.
It is her goal to be able to continue to do this while making an impact on society’s values and thinking.
“I hope that I can be a role model for others to find their own true voice in life through my art."
these nightmares
by linda m. crate
despite the amount of people
in the world,
often i feel alone;
always an outsider
even in my own bones—
no one knows how to
hold me or love me right,
no one appreciates my magic
in a way that is pleasing
to me;
always they wish me tamer
instead of loving my wilds
as they were meant to be loved—
i reach out, sometimes,
only to hear my own echo;
i wonder if i will ever find
this tribe people say is mine—
are some of us destined to
be alone forever?
i don't want to be, i enjoy silence
sometimes but not indefinitely;
wish some sun soul would burn
through all this darkness in my mind
so i could see my dreams instead
of these nightmares.
Linda M. Crate (she/her) is a Pennsylvanian writer whose poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She has twelve published chapbooks the latest being: Searching Stained Glass Windows For An Answer (Alien Buddha Publishing, December 2022). You can find more of Linda's works here: https://www.facebook.com/Linda-M-Crate-129813357119547
"Secession from the Sea”
By Victoria Ester Orantes
He was an ocean, she was a cliff,
And at her person, away he chipped.
Consistent barrages on sacred land,
What choice left but to strike an avalanche?
Her sedimentary thinking and her sentimental disposition,
Virle yet effeminate tides deem it feminine invalidism.
The miscue of a woman’s meekness, ongoingly denounced for weakness,
Consequently, her barrier of boulders is his warranted sequence
Now tides know, the limestone body is absorbent as well as it is durable,
But acidic seas she will not endure, and so, live the landslide of her plateau
The self-respecting limestone facade, as proven with time, is a master of goodbyes,
It matters little to her if it was a love as near as shoreline and the sea tide.
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.
Ode to Drowning Tree
By Theodore Hoppe
In somber shades of sorrow's grasp,
I witnessed nature's tearful gasp,
A tale untold, a mournful sight,
A tree adrift, consumed by plight.
Once vibrant leaves, a vibrant green,
Now drooping low, no life between,
Its branches, once stretched towards the sky,
Now bowed in pain as time flew by.
The roots, once anchored firm and strong,
Now tangled, lost, where they belong,
Embraced by waters, cold and deep,
The tree did weep, its soul to keep.
As gentle whispers filled the air,
I heard its plea, a heartfelt prayer,
"Release me from this watery tomb,
Restore my life, let hope resume."
The river's current, swift and cruel,
Carried the tree, a silent duel,
Struggling against the raging tides,
A valiant fight as hope subsides.
And as I stood on distant shore,
My heart grew heavy, feeling more,
The anguish of that drowning tree,
Reflected all that's lost to me.
For in its plight, I saw my fears,
The weight of life, the flow of tears,
Each droplet fell, a mournful plea,
For all the dreams that couldn't be.
Oh, tree of sorrow, drowned in woe,
Your story lingers, haunting, slow,
A reminder of life's fragile hold,
And dreams adrift, forever bold.
May we find solace in your plight,
Learn from your struggle, seek the light,
And though you drown, your spirit free,
Shall dance again in nature's glee.
Theodore A Hoppe currently lives in the sleepy village of South Hero, Vermont (where ice fishing is still practiced, but only in the wintertime), and spends time in Los Angeles atop Baxter St, enjoying the warm sunsets and an occasional cocktail. His interests include neuroscience, complexity and chaos theory, and AI.
My Lover
Anna C Broome
Sleeps
While I
Watch
Lightning
Light
Leave
The darkness
Of his
face(s)
Our shadows
On
The wall
Look
Like
Doves
But he
Is far
From here
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.
BE KIND TO STRANGERS
By Peter Yates
Be kind to strangers,
who never let you down,
and think they do not know you.
But of your friends beware.
The ones who say they know you,
who stab in the back not to look in the eye.
To whom you show the space
between the ribs,
the secret place
where hurt can dig a pathway to the heart.
Fear not the faceless felon,
boogie man, nor roving band.
Every time, the story tells us,
clenched around the blade which fells us
will be found a friendly hand.
Be kind to strangers,
Who do not fail when you succeed,
and will not find you wanting
when you fail to fill a need,
who envy not your luck
and will not flee from your misfortune,
who always ask for nothing
yet are grateful to receive.
So be kind to strangers,
who never let you down,
and think they do not know you.
But of your friends, beware.
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.
RAIN
By Summer Reese
I’ve always hated rain
I know you’re not supposed to, but I do
I have my reasons, it’s personal
I know it’s good for us, I know we need it
I thank God for it, I remember to be grateful
I know it grows our food
I know we’re in drought without it
I know we’ll all blow away in the wind eventually, if we don’t get it
I’m grateful, I’m always grateful
But I have to remind myself
And I’m so glad when it stops
So grateful when the sun comes back out again
Relieved not to be cold, and wet, and miserable
I grew up cold, and wet, and miserable
Also hot, and sweaty and thirsty, and sunburned
But it was still better to be warm than cold
But the money season was when it was cold
And we were broke in the summer, when it was too hot anyways
The Fall signaled the beginning of money again, of the holidays
Of hard work outdoors, but a living
I hated working outdoors, but that’s where I grew up
On a street corner, in the cold, at night
On a street corner, in the heat, in the day
In front of glass, with customers staring through
In front of glass, at night ,when it was cold and the paint wouldn’t dry, but no one was there
On a street corner, three days straight, sleep in the car a little, eat on the corner
Hands, cold, wet, sore, skin red and hurting, working as fast as you can
Remember to smile, “She could sell ice cubes to Eskimos”, that was what was said about me
I was so pretty, so nice, so helpful, I made great tips
My mother had flown through the windshield of a car a few months earlier with her head
She couldn’t carry the buckets of water a few dozen yards from the faucet to the corner
So I did, I was seven, they were heavy and it was hard, but I reminded myself that she couldn’t do it
She had been paralyzed before, when I was three years old, I was there when it happened
She was making a chicken salad and choked on a piece of celery
She bent over coughing, her back snapped and she couldn’t straighten up
It was six months before she could walk again
It was an old injury that had been reactivated
Her x-rays showed her back had been broken when she was about twelve and had not healed properly
She was twelve when her mother stood on her back and told her to “get up”, while beating her
My mother dragged herself up the stairs of P.S. whatever it was in New York City for the next few months in agony, never saying a word, as she recovered from what turned out to be a broken back
But back to my childhood, and the rain and the cold, and my mother, working to stay alive somehow
Summer Reese is a writer, artist, performer and producer. She is an award-winning journalist, and former Board Chair and Executive Director of Pacifica Radio. She began writing and performing her own work at age thirteen, was a member of Gray Pony, and has performed at City Stage, Beyond Baroque, Los Angeles Contemporary Exhibitions (LACE), Los Angeles Theatre Center, and Crossroads School, among others. Her artwork has been exhibited at LACE. Her writing has been published in Mo’Cheese, an anthology; and Behind the Lens. She served as an officer on the board of Ebony Showcase Theatre. She has worked as a paralegal; run a state-wide ballot initiative; been a life-long political activist; and worked in art, theater, publishing, film, television, radio, music videos, and video game voice acting. She is a fifth-generation Californian, born in San Francisco to an artist and activist mother from New York City. She has lived in and around Los Angeles since she was a child in the 1980’s, and splits her time between her homes in South Los Angeles and the High Desert. She is the single mother of a college student son, and has two cats, two dogs and a tank of fish.
Rivers and Stars
By Cindy Rinne
Did you hear my voice when I was birthed of inner earth fire? Instinct to seek you on the glass sea before the moon sang the tides? Stepping stones formed the shore. One day our son will dwell here. I danced as the heartbeat of creation. Remember before we were a princess and a pirate, a nomad and a wanderer, even a phoenix and a dragon? We were celestial beings separated from each other by a dewy cosmic river which sparkled like forsythia. 7th night. 7th moon. Once a year we kissed in other worlds. You didn’t always make it across the bridge to reach me. I should be used to you being gone as you now retreat into illusions. A melancholy grief. Then I glimpse your bright gaze, feel your touch, and know you hold my tears. You whisper like forest breezes in pine tree voices of desire. Rain washes away longing. I will always grasp your hand even in the shadows of Sheol. My fire lights the outlines of your face, your body – a combustible embrace that births a galaxy.
Cindy Rinne is a poet and fiber artist living in San Bernardino, CA. Pushcart Award nominee. Her poems appeared in literary journals, anthologies, art exhibits, and dance performances. Author of Dancing Through the Fire Door (Nauset Press), The Feather Ladder (Picture Show Press), Words Become Ashes: An Offering (Bamboo Dart Press), and others. Her poetry appeared in: The Closed Eye Open, Verse-Virtual, Mythos Magazine, Unleash Lit, swifts & slows, Lothlorien, and others. www.fiberverse.com.
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 at a living room near you!!!!
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 her last seven years of employment 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/