POETS PLACE
JULY EDITION 2024
Write or wrong we are here write now. Are we living our best lives? Contemplating our best life? Where are you now? Are you in it to win it? Can you put your head down every night and claim you did your best today? One of the ‘Four Agreements’ by Don Miguel Ruiz, says, “always do your best” purports that if you do your best, regardless of how you feel, even if you are not doing well, that you still did your best, you win. Our lives are full of daily challenges as well as blessings. How we view life can either heighten or destroy our happiness quotient. Is the glass half full or half empty? I met a homeless guy with no hands when I worked at Hollywood Presbyterian hospital as an ER social worker in the early 2000’s. I realized then that I had nothing to complain about.
I am blessed to be able to write, think, compose, create art, play with my friends, eat, drink and travel. Thanks to all of you, we have this column to share anything we want to share, without judgement.
This month is jammie packed with poetry, stories and more. Please take a look!!!
Love, Linda :0)
The low end of good
By Linda Kaye
Good is a profitable commodity cherished, relished by the masses
Good is measured by how one feels at any given moment or a taste that appeals to the senses
If you are at the low end of good, you probably are just eeking by
barely standing, somewhat happy, making or not making a living, getting laid infrequently but occasionally having sex
Some sex is better than no sex
The sense or perception that something is good, is personal, experiential
As the saying goes, one man’s floor is another man’s ceiling
One man’s garbage is another man’s treasure
The low end of good, just simmers barely above the surface
It's reach turning tricks to gather enough muster to carry on in the life less traveled
Grand Central Market
By Elizabeth Silk
August 22, 2022; July 24, 2023
We’re all here
Moms and teens and grands
Chairs pulled round a table
Waxy papers bloom from takeout boxes
In the shade of Grand Central Market
Kids toddlers carbed out on
pizza tacos soda
blankly stare
Bass and drums rumble the air
Chests thrum against metal chairs
Chatter ripples over heat waves
We are in it together
Breathing bad air
With satisfaction
In shallow breaths
Under aqua umbrellas brisk and perky
Like kites about to fly off over the hot wind
Pigeons stalk crumbs
Not about to fly off
A sunbright wall faces us
Its mural faded to Egyptian pastels
Blue block H E L O spaced between
Boarded windows
Since I, Elizabeth Silk, moved to Los Angeles in 2021, I have enjoyed writing poems about Downtown LA, where I live. “Grand Central Market” is one of the first of those poems as well as one of the first landmark settings that I enjoyed.
"Assist Yourself In Life”
By Lida Parent Harris
You're a moon-streamer, a love-gambler.
A pocket of fresh paint to spray onto the walls.
Take up your means, functioning dreams, and have a go
for life is its own show.
Read all the books, teach the valuable lessons, fight hard not to win, but leave a lasting impression.
Find courage to grow out old truths, and find the joy you see inside of you.
Be thankful, be intentional,
and always tip your server.
Thank you.
Lida was born in Inglewood, CA, and raised in Chatsworth, Ca. She spent her childhood enjoying a good book, drawing, and writing her own stories. Always a quiet student, Lida thrived in the world of Literature and Art.
At age 17, Lida began Journaling, and writing her first drafts of poetry. She graduated from El Camino Real High School, and went on to care for adults and children with disabilities.
Lida continued her love of writing poetry well into her twenties. She began submitting to newspapers, and collections of work.
Her writing career began in 2001 when she began attending Open-mic events in the San Fernando Valley. She met wonderful friends in a coffeehouse, and soon her life and world opened.
Lida attended Community Literature Initiative instructed by Hiram Sims. It was a writing course at USC which gave her new roots.
Her first book of poetry was published in 2015, by World Stage Press. She enjoyed performing in new venues, and creating her own shows called Lyrical Flames, in 2014.
Since then, Lida has performed her poetry in Las Vegas, Chicago, Santa Monica, Long Beach, North Holland, ArtShare LA, Leimert Park, Grand Park, and The Los Angeles Times Book Festival.
Lida is currently a mentor and dedicates her time to teach poetry for adults for The Los Angeles County Department of Mental Health. She is also taking Drumming and writes song lyrics for new realms of creativity.
a fading song into flames
by linda m. crate
independence day is
coming up,
but i see no reason to
celebrate;
they are taking away
our freedoms one by one—
rights aren't meant
to be fought for,
they're meant to be had;
i know there will still
be fireworks and displays
of patriotism but i don't know
if i believe in this country
anymore—
when i was little they promised
me a world much better than this one,
a fading song into flames?
that wasn't what they promised me,
i want the world that i dream of
lush and green with promise;
where there's a place at the table for
everyone and poverty doesn't exist.
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). Linda has four full length poetry collections and a photography collection book. Linda is also the author of the novellas Mates (Alien Buddha Publishing, March 2022), Managing Magic (Alien Buddha Press, September 2022), and The Queen's Son (Alien Buddha Publishing, December 2023). Her first short story collection King Quinlin (Alien Buddha Publishing, March 2024) was published this spring. Her debut haiku collection in these ancient veins was published quite recently (Alien Buddha Publishing, May 2024).
Treasure Hunt
By Mona Jean Cedar
Everybody’s Searching – for their Visions in the sky.
Hoping, Wishing, Craving, Wanting .
so Afraid to Die.
Not Trusting their Emotions,
or Following – their - dreams,
just Mindless Repetition, Unaware of the Full Scheme.
It’s just:
WorkWorkWorkWorkWorkWorkWorkWorkWorkWorkWorkWork &
RushRushRushRushRushRushRushRushRushRushRushRush &
Every-Year’s the Same thing, Every-Year’s the Same thing, &
I can’t Stop, no Stopping, I don’t Know how to
Stop!
So just Relax & Give – In,
& Allow Life to Happen.
No Controlling or Forcing,
just Accepting Gifts Given.
for Gifts, they Flow Freely; Gifts are Given-from-heaven
For the Heart and the Healing
To Strengthen the Soul; You Know
Heaven wants to Help you; Uphold you Forever.
Like it Has – Been for Millennium,
Moving Heaven and Earth,
Orchestrating the Universe
in the Creating of You.
Waiting for You to Assume
Your Rightful Role
and this Role…? is Simply You
You Know You Don’t Need
All the Crap that they Feed - you
the Cars or the Bars, the Cash,,, it’s All Trash.
That Bullshit Become Your Burden.
You’re so much Better Than that.
Cherish Yourself; You Are As a Pearl.
Precious in Your - Self – ness
Shining; Needing Naught.
Know! Pearls Need Not Seek for They themselves are Sought.
Your Longings will Lead – you
Your Passions will Pull- you
in Pursuit of your Muse,
you can Never Lose
the Treasure is with-In you,
the Hunt with-In Your Heart.
Mona Jean Cedar has been composing poetry and choreographing dances with American Sign Language for over twenty years. She is RID certified American Sign Language (ASL) interpreter, has an AA in Dance, a BA in Deaf Studies from CSUN, attended The National Theater of the Deaf, and the Julliard School in NYC for Theatrical Interpreting on Broadway. With her musician/circuit bending husband they have performed at Burning Man, in Europe and all around the USA. Presently she is the resident interpreter for the National Poetry Slams and a co-founded of ASL Cabaret – a celebration of ASL performing artists!
When I die before you.
By Ed Burgess
5/13/24
When I die before you
Although I shouldn’t
You better show up
You better cry
As they stare you down
You better put up your dukes
Kick ass and take names
Defend me in the eternal sleep
Put the gold pieces on my lids
And tell them all to FUCK OFF
There is no shame in this thing of ours
This Cosa Nostra
This offer we can not refuse
That we have loved
More than we deserved
We have held on
And let them all know
When I die before you
They are standing in the presence of Love
Ed Burgess is an artist, poet and good guy. He has lived and worked in Los Angeles for over twenty years. Follow him on Instagram @pasteywhyte
AN ARTIST
6-7-24
3:35 a.m.
By Mary Cheung
We create, because we must,
It's the oxygen we breathe .
You don't need to tell your heart to pump.
It just does and so must we.
It's our meaning to life.
What better ode can we give.
To mother nature, to celebrate,
To feel alive, to be alive...
Sometimes it feels like a switch is turned on.
And the lens over my eyes....
The one that tells me how I should perceive,
How I should receive...
The bounty that is before me.
I see a door in a certain place,
in a certain light..
and I know what the story is,
that must be told.
As I walked up the stairs,
with the crumbled walls caked with time and the life it's lived...
I saw angels afloat.
And they beckoned and welcomed all who passed this way.
And we humans,
with both feet planted on the ground,
refused to be nailed down,
to live this ordinary life.
We were meant to be extraordinary.
And to gift the world with a feast for their eyes and ears.
We, were meant to make a difference,
to challenge, to bicker and debate.
We were meant to"shake" things up.
So that you might waken from your slumber and then begin to live...
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."
Madness (May 2024)
By R. G. Carrillo
I am madness
Flying in the upper Atmosphere
I am madness
Hidden in silos
I am madness
Under the oceans
I am madness
In North Korea
I am madness
In the nuclear
Football
I am madness
In the Kremlin
I am madness
At the Pentagon Grotesque killing Genocide
Of the highest
Order
My brain
Technologically advanced My reasoning autistic
I am madness
That pervades
Young soldiers
Betrayed to die
For their countries
Lies
I am madness
I pervert
The human soul
My trinity
Is greed and power
I am madness
Apex insanity
Mass assassin
I am madness
In the six minute
Decision of POTUS I am madness
In a possible Misunderstanding In an erroneous System malfunction That results
In millions
Then billions
Of lives killed
I am madness
In Putin’s paranoia I am madness
For China’s Ambition
To become
The number one Superpower
I am madness Because there Are no winners
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.
TEN Reasons to HATE Jane Eyre by, Charlotte Brontë
By Anna Broome
10. The wrong people die. Realize that killing all the nice people makes the walking corpse Mr. Rochester seem all the more amiable despite his obvious cruelty to his wife resulting in his blindness and crispy body at the end of the novel.
Mr. Reed: Jane’s maternal uncle whose death is the reason all the hell happens and the novel continues.
Helen Burns: Jane’s best friend at school and the only person nice to her until her residency at Thornfield Hall.
Mrs. Reed: Yes, I know she is the best but that is my point. I would have hated Jane, too. And, hey, she is only looking out for her own charming daughters.
Bertha Antoinetta Mason: A lovely and charismatic woman deemed insane and locked in the attic like a savage beast by her husband, our heroine’s love interest.
9. The wrong people live.
Jane Eyre. Jane Eyre is so desperate to marry the one-handed ape of the novel, even retorting when Mr Rochester asks,’ "Am I hideous, Jane?", he asks. “Very, sir: you always were, you know” she replies.’ This is disgusting to me on many levels. This is the woman who marries the man who is a cad and now a repulsively deformed cad. At first glance this may appear to be romantic but as we know this is a Victorian novel and therefore a monster novel, so beware!
Mr. Rochester: Is it not enough that he locks his wife, whose real name is Antoinette Cosway by the way, up in the attic like a beast driving her mad, which presents evidence enough that she is mad. He married her for her money and then claims he never loved her and locks her away. Ohhh, he keeps her close mind you. This sounds like age old misognomy to me. Now, Edward isn’t finished quite yet. He also uses Blanche Ingram to make Jane jealous. Sure she is a socialite but does Edward know of the money Jane is to inherit? And let’s not forget Adele...a bit pedophilic? Also, I love that Wikipedia describes him as a Byronic hero. AHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa ah ah ah haaaa.
8. The Beginning. The abuse is intolerable. It is definitely designed for contrast one would hope but a contrast that doesn’t really come until the end? And so number 7.
7. The Ending. The contrast we wait for throughout an entire novel are pinned down in our brains by splinters of kindness from a friend who will die at school and various servants who are presented to be on “Jane’s level” hardly gratifies as the big prize at the end is the torched, one-handed, blind cad, who she is so lucky to have found in the end to be her true love. (It works out that the first wife is now dead.)
6. The Middle. Where is Jane Austen when you need her? In the novels of Jane Austen, yes, there are monsters as contrast as well as a seemingly direct attack on the Byronic hero pledging a love for neither Neo-classic nor Romantic extremes, BUT the Bronte woe is a degradation saga presenting horror in human nature as a constant even as the heroine through her weakness to defend herself and her devotion to just survive is both a perturbation to read and an unreliable way to present reality through fiction.
5. Character names as metaphor. Jane Eyre. Let’s start there. It is obvious isn’t it, Morrissey? I am the sun and the heir or is I am the sun and the air. Anyway, you get it. The Lowood School. The belief that hardship builds good character. Thank you say all the children, Charlotte since I think she actually agrees with this since the torture never ends and seemingly neither does Jane’s character building. Ahh, Miss Maria Temple who of course marries the Reverend Naysmith. Naysmith is a Naysayer? I think so, and oh, did he come between you and Miss Temple, Jane? Miss Temple must have high moral standards. Close to godliness I should think. In Austen, at least, the metaphors are fun.
4. The Lie. Jane Eyre: 'I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will.' Free will you say. Even though you return to a man with expectation of servitude, you buy no way are conditioned by your upbringing? Love the free will, Jane.
Another example:
“I care for myself. The more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself.”
And, yet…
“I have for the first time found what I can truly love–I have found you. You are my sympathy–my better self–my good angel–I am bound to you with a strong attachment. I think you good, gifted, lovely: a fervent, a solemn passion is conceived in my heart; it leans to you, draws you to my centre and spring of life, wrap my existence about you–and, kindling in pure, powerful flame, fuses you and me in one.”
What happened to yourself, Jane?
3. Popularity. Especially movie adaptations. No, Hollywood never gets it wrong. Not that there is a right. A rewrite perhaps. No. Never mind.
2. That it has to end. Why end this, Charlotte? The only readers this could possibly enchant in the most disturbing of ways is the masochist. The story doesn’t have to end here. Although we can imagine their horrible life together certainly not hand in hand but perhaps blindly in love with a burning desire, you still could have continued to write that future for those who intend to torture themselves delightfully reading this novel.
1. That it had to begin. Need I say more? Okay. In a nutshell. Bring on the Moderns. There are meaningful, enjoyable, relevant Victorian novels. This is not one of them. Where is the science? Where is the break from god? Yes, yes Emily Bronte wrote No Coward Soul is Mine, but is Jane Eyre a heroine? I think she is a disaster coaching tolerance of evil, shame in self-confidence, ambivalence toward misogyny and torture and the most absurd of false-happy endings. I will end with a quote from Jane Eyre as I feel I can now leave this novel where it belongs in the trash past of bad reading experiences.
“Reader, I married him.”
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.
One Summer and a Million Years Ago…
By Brad Bryan
A scaly, reptile digs its claws deep into a petrified, coral beach, worn smooth by the surge and ebb of
100 million tides.
Salt explodes from its nostrils as it expels the buildup from its blood! It turns its body broadside to the warming sun.
It’s reptilian mind conjures a thought.
What can one scry about its being?
It is thinking of eating algae. An organism so primitive it lacks sentience… or does it?
Certainly iguanas are conscious, but what about the algae that sustains it?
Is it eating trace amounts of consciousness?
Is there an emotional continuum that stretches down past mankind’s awareness, into the emotions of the all creatures throughout the systematic classification of life?
Resonating molecules express themselves as organic sensations in fragments of being, in algae, bacterium or DNA. Perhaps this sensuous journey penetrates deeper still, into all matter … rock, air, the ether.
The unified, phantasmagorical whole may be barely recognizable in its fundamental interrelated parts.
Life is not a mystery to be solved, but a Reality to be experienced.
Brad Bryan
I am not so much a poet, as one who has tried to live poetically.
I have worked in the motion picture business for 30 years, recording Sounds and dialogue.
I have traveled to the top of the great pyramid of Egypt and the ice of the Arctic Ocean.
Lucky to live in Los Angeles with so many creative people.
THE
SPLITROCK PLATFORM
by
Peter Yates
© 2024
pyates@ucla.edu
Across the waterfall that runs below the cabin sit two granite boulders separated by six feet of red rock whose spikes the local bare feet long ago memorized. The boulders draw the eye because they are clearly halves of what had been a single egg-shaped rock, ten feet in diameter. One half sits as it always had, with a vertical circular face where the break occurred. After the split, the other half rolled onto its dome-end, and for ten thousand years has presented its cut face skyward like a circular table. This affords a nice place to sit, once you trouble to climb up to its shoulder-high level. Bending over it is a lightning-split juniper whose scrub-brush needles filter the sun’s rays into a checkered tablecloth of light and shade.
Waterfalls in this canyon occur wherever the creek encounters a dike of iron-hard rock.
Against that red background, the grey boulder-halves are clearly erratic, dragged there by the last glacier before it melted in place. Ice must have held out under the egg before slushing away, triggering the split and roll.
While tooth-brushing in the cabin bathroom, there’s not much else to do but look across at the stones. A relationship develops. Contemplation moves from the question of their origin to the tragedy of their separation — their lying so near to each other, yet so far from how things were when they were together, before their icy journey into a warming future ended in divorce.
Thoughts gather in the mind. I put down the toothbrush. That spiky gap between the table-half and the vertical-half cries out to be bridged. Rejoin the halves! — with a platform, a trim seat for waterfall-viewing, picnicking, making-out, drug abuse, and access to boulder-tops. The installation will be an inevitable completion, a renewal of granitic vows.
Also, it will look cool. I sketch various designs, some roofed and elaborate.
I settle on the simplest — a six-foot-square of 2x6 planks supported by a frame of 2x4s.
Seven yards beyond the splitrock is the far creekside road. Three hundred yards down toward the lake hums a fire station staffed by trainees. In a small mountain community, word of any boulder-gap measuring would get around. This canyon is Forest-Service land, scrutinized by agencies prohibiting alterations, extra structures, or disturbance of natural formations. Things will have to be done at night. But even night can’t plug a fireman’s ears.
At full dark, after the last sport vehicle has crept down the road to the casinos, I quietly perform the necessary measurements. The boulder-gap forms a six-by-six-foot square, as though designed by winter-god for standard-dimension lumber. Six feet, divided by five-and-a-half-inch finished widths, equals thirteen 2x6s. Those and the framing, and that’d be about it. I snap my metal tape back into its case and pick my way back across the canyon.
Next afternoon, the contraption is taking shape on the cabin deck. For ease of on-site installation, I pre-drill nail holes into thirteen loose planks. I cross-brace the frame with mahogany beams cannibalized from a decorative outrigger canoe plucked from over a sister’s chicken-ranch swimming pool.
Her nephew Bones approaches.
“What’re you making?”
“Baking a pie.”
Once installed, unless something is done in advance to protect it, the pie will be consumed by the Forest Service. I thin a batch of latex and slap it on, a skein of white lending a touch of winter.
“Bones — I need you to carve something.”
“Where?”
“Here on the front of the frame.”
During last century’s settling of the watershed, Nathan Gilmore ran a flock of angora sheep up to the high lake that bears his name. Sheep? John Muir called them four-footed locusts and got them banned up here in the wilderness.
Carving done, the frame is roped to the slippery roof of the available Prius. We wait for night.
From the cabin deck, through a walleyed pair of binoculars scavenged from the mud-skirts of the Salton Sea, Bones scans the waterfall, probing the dark.
“I see lights.”
“Where?”
“Right at the top of the falls.”
There they are, four or five of them, dancing bright.
“Whaat? Who could that be?”
We wait. Twenty minutes. Still the lights, dancing. Bones hands me the glasses.
“I’ll go check it out.”
Twenty more minutes. Bones ascends from the dark canyon to the deck.
“Entymologists.”
“What?”
“Yup. Sampling waterbug hatchlings.”
“You mean — we work for days, only to choose for our strike
the one night those buggers decide . . .”
That night and the next are ruined by science. During the day, walkers on our side of the canyon pass our dirt driveway on their way down to the lake. Their heads turn. Do I detect suspicious glances? I’m sure of it! — straight at the Prius and its rooftop apparatus. Over at the splitrock, once we get the platform in place, the connection will be clear enough.
I saw that thing across the creek. (point) Up at that cabin —
right over there . . .
Night three, and all is clear. We creep the car with its tophat cargo down our road, over the lake-bridge between the chapel and the Washoe camp, and up the far road to the firehouse with its security lights and camera apparatus. Nothing to do but encourage the car’s innocent manner as we motor through, pass again into darkness, and ascend to the erratic rocks.
Safely arrived, we unload the frame, carry it shoulder-height over the spiky minefield — the last defense of the redoubt — and flip the thing into place.
“Kachung!” . . . “kachung! . . . kachung!
We freeze. Noisy job, but a good fit. No sound from the firehouse. After chocking the frame-feet with rocks, we ferry the planks. Planks in place, nails at attention in their predrilled pilot-holes, hammers in hand, the telltale moment arrives — for a little hammer-concert, our touch of night-music in the canyon amphitheater. We look into each other’s eyes, nod, and go for it.
“BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM! ! ! ! !
Into sport-Prius, down through camera-checkpoint, over lake-bridge, up cabin-side road, into drive, out of car, down to cabin, casually onto deckchairs, feet up on cliffside bench, eyes across canyon into darkness . . . sweet darkness . . . uninterrupted.
Until dawn’s revelation of the Splitrock Platform and its granite siblings, joined at last — again — as one. Weather-grey, our historically-labeled replica of an imaginary Nathan Gilmore fall-side folly looks untouched since pioneer times.
Days pass. No one seems to notice. Tourists park and walk to the falls, but without any stopping to sit, no marveling at any rightness of being, no show of appreciation for access to any rock-circle table with its o’er-arching, shading juniper.
Did we blend it in too well? We climb down, cross the creek, and try it out. A joy! — every aspect performing its meant, unnecessary service. Odd though . . . from the platform, the roaring waterfall cannot be seen. Instead, framed by grey granite is a view of the cabin and its bathroom window. The necessary question is obvious.
I wonder who could have had the notion to put this platform here?
Over time, usages are detected — jumping boy, picnic, diaper change — wholesome activities raising the question of what might eventually occur at night, or in the off-season. Might we have installed an attractive nuisance?
Winter comes, goes. Spring again. Surely the Forest Service will have ripped it out by now. But no. There it is! Greyer.
Sun brightens the day. Equipped with a kit of sandpaper and paint stripper, I head down to check it out.
The trunk of the juniper is stitched with carved initials, the usual was-here stuff. Marker-ink spangles the platform’s front. Neon-red spray paint blights a plank. But nothing on granite, as though higher thoughts had stayed each scribbler’s hand.
I sand the plank-paint down to a ruddy stain. Across the thirteen plankboards, a few scratches and inklings of graffiti look okay in the crosshatched shade.
A fine place to sit, if you trouble to stop by.
Splitrock Update
Four years on, and the platform is seeing increased use. The thing has taken off. You can scare it up online. Parties of up to 20 are spotted posing on and around it.
After decades of watching photographs being taken of the falls, it’s some kind of achievement to be seeing cameras pointed the other way.
Unanticipated loads have led to an interesting mode of failure. Apparently only a few nails with ‘take’ had supported the platform’s front 2x6. Ten people on the thing and that would be 1600/4 = 400 pounds per corner. Add a boom-box and some jumping around, and it was a potential disaster.
Repair will be by trial and error.
Tourniquet clamps fail to do much. Failure extends to ropes, wires and cords. Hmm. What might work is to sister a vertical 2x6 under the split, hard against the 4x4. By making the new piece a couple of inches longer than the exposed portion of the 4x4, and lifting the whole corner onto it, it might be possible to sledge the platform down from above, taking advantage of the ground to produce the needed compression. Predrilled holes and more nails could do the rest. Loads would be carried directly to the ground.
Early one evening, with falls-goers still scattered about, I set my sledge to work. Bam! So far so good. Bam! Bam! Just a wee bit more and we’re there. Bam! Bam! Bam! From behind sounds a male voice.
“Sir?”
Busted? . . . I shrug it off. Bam! Bam!
“Sir?”
Female . . . I turn around to see a tourist couple in their 70s.
The woman continues.
“What can you tell us about the history of the site?”
I spin some stuff about Nathan Gilmore, sheep up the canyon, the namesake lake, my volunteer work for the Historical Society, and the geology of erratic boulders. The man takes a turn.
“How did the rock split?”
I give them the melting-from-under hypothesis, finishing with the ten millennia. They nod attentively, proffer thank yous, and tilt away across the spiky red ground.
Bam! Bam!
There. The split is healed. Imperfect, but adequate.
I return to the cabin and look back across the canyon to see a family of four assembling for a photo on the structure, innocent of its new security. Crossed shins shine like Xs across the divide. The dad snaps the shot. All climb into a black Tesla and whisper down the hill.
One week later, a new presence at the site is detected — a trail of ashes, 12-18 inches wide, along the entire circumference of the boulder-platform complex.
The reason for the ash-spreading, or who might have done it, is a puzzle. A ritual exorcism of Gilmore’s ghost? The material has a cold-barbecue texture. That’s a lot of barbecue, if that’s where it all came from — maybe ten loads of ash, to make 70 feet of trail. Did they truck it in special?
We’ll never know.
Just as, usually, we never know how, or by whom, a project is enjoyed. The ashes encircle, for me, an exception. Gazing out the bathroom window, toothbrush in hand, or sanding away the words MAMMOtH gRINdeR, I think I know.
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.
71 Journeys around the Sun
By G. Billie Quijano
I am Love
I am Connection
Geography moved my soul
Rhythms ignited by Heart made me whole
Operas of dew rolling off my Lotus
The Cosmos took notice
Creative force infusing my DNA
Poetry, camera, paintbrush, my essay
Channels of Love
Vibration connoisseur
Dreams and yearnings
Stirrings, urgings, things and wings
Realignment of truth
La Vida Loca, flow and smooth
Major Tom to ground control
Bowie sang my soul
Maya said to me “Phenomenal Woman”
The declaration of the Siren
Iridescent metamorphosis
Wisdom and age, recipe for fearlessness
Reservoir of lust
Mystical union
A chance of trust
Right of touch
An act of attention
Intentions, dimensions
Electrical currents igniting the sea
My soul in tact, never to flee
Artistic alliance with creator
Forceful wisdom of nature
Resolving trauma and anguish
Free language, emotions tranquil
A thirst for what is around me
My third eye to see
Autobiographical element
Experiment, sentiment, development
I am Love
I am Connection
G. Billie Quijano-Mestiza, Poeta, Assemblage artist. After a few months I was moved to write and submit. I got to spend time recently with Linda Kaye and felt invigorated to create. It’s a wonderful gift to have friends who love and support us. This is a month of celebration. I celebrate me.
Poem
By Kassi Crews
My mini watermelon such a round surprise
Your momma’s belly is busting at the sides!
Ready or not here you come
Making us laugh, sing and hum
Rum me dum dum beat on a drum
You’re full of sunshine with magical green thumbs
Growing, evolving and forever changing lives with your bright brilliant light!!!
You shine towards the sun as you tune into life.
You’ll love, laugh and live an abundant adventure here on earth
A wonderful masterpiece journey with your added nice spice!!!
Kassi Crews is an entertainment industry veteran and a consummate storyteller. Her early studio career began at Cannon Films, famous for action titles like Jean-Claude Van Damme’s “Bloodsport,” Chuck Norris’ “Delta Force” and Sylvester Stallone’s “Cobra.” Crews became an industry leader in Hollywood post-production as the Vice President of Digital Jungle where she oversaw the day-to-day operations and served as producer on an endless list of film and television projects. Most recently, Crews lead multiple post-production teams at Fox and Walt Disney Television, overseeing the workflows of all television for FX Networks including “The Americans,” “Fargo” and “Pose.”
Crews has produced a variety of critically acclaimed independent features, “Broken Memories,” “God’s Ears” and “A Better Place” as well as directed live shows for the theater. She is a member of ATAS, NAB, NAPTE, PROMAX, NATPE, and SAG; holds a Master of Arts from CSU Fullerton and a Bachelor of Arts with Honors from UC Santa Cruz.
The Re-Enactment of
By Don Kingfisher Campbell
The Revolutionary War has begun
Pistol shots repeat into the air
M-80 booms nearby scare
Skyrockets sizzle then fizzle
Below the din on city streets
Safe and sane fireworks add
To the low-level smoky haze
Tonight spool out the water hose
Douse those spent charges
Go to bed and get under cover
The next morning gather
All the cardboard and plastic
Toss everything into the rolled
Waste bins because in our
Neighborhood it happens
Coincidentally this 248th year
To be trash day, is that a blessing
Upon this stretch of a United
State of America with a Spanish
Name for a region and a Turtle
Island on which we now reside
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
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 Los Angeles 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/