POETS PLACE
AUGUST EDITION 2024

Hello fellow poetry and writer enthusiasts!!! It is August and the Olympics are in full swing in Paris! The opening ceremonies were spectacular and shined a light on the world. Let us enjoy these amazing athletes and bask in their glory for just a moment. Dissolve into the bliss of greatness before our eyes. We can and hopefully we will, some day be blissful. My heart races almost everyday now with the constant threats to our democracy. I cannot fathom that in our country, there are those who would wish ill to women, immigrants, people of color, and anyone who has a different faith or belief in their choice of worship. I am continually trying to stay away from the political arena to avoid listening to the lies that are spewing out of the mouths of many. They are not the majority and I hope the majority can still rule. Cross our fingers.

This month hosts poetry and prose from many of you. I feel blessed that I can host anyone who wants a voice to share to our readers. AND for those of you who read until the end, I have inserted this month in my bio my recent film 20 Years Left! A short documentary that achieved an Honorable Mention at the Highland Park Independent Film festival!!!

Thank you all so much!!! Enjoy!!

Love, Linda :0)

The greatest secret on earth
By Linda Kaye

Is the one never told

hidden beneath it’s crusty heart squelched suppressed collecting dust

driven mad by years of neglect left to dwindle and turn into lies

It’s a cover-up for diplomacy protecting the world from annihilation

Once it’s out of the bag relationships implode

Secret truth missiles are shot into the hearts and minds of others causing an instant impact of death of their denials

Forever undone by the greatest secret on earth

your open heart
by jerry the priest

is not an achievement

for which you could expect

to receive validation, because

your open heart

is not about you

neither is it

an objective

to be pursued,

as if you'd ever profit

by chasing what is

already yours

your open heart

is an option, nothing more

it is no less sacred

than your own breath,

and no less constantly

flowing

it is not for acquiring

but for igniting

for sharing

not for hiding

love is not a riddle

It cannot trip you up

or rip you up, or open

or off

love is too little seen

and too often spoken

all you need do to
coax it into the open…

IS RELAX!

What has 6 vowels, 7

consonants, and comes

with a lovely guarantee?

y o u r

o p e n

h e a r t

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’s lived and taught in Katmandu Nepal, Istanbul Turkey, Boston Massachusetts, Boulder Colorado, Portland Oregon, San Francisco/San Leandro/Los Angeles California, and written in Banaras, Bodhgaya, Konya, Damascus, Petra, Jerusalem, Mexico City, San Cristobal de las Casas, Antigua, Buenos Aires, Seattle, New Orleans, Chicago, Denver, Santa Fe, Bar Harbor, Vancouver, Halifax, Atlanta, Asheville and Manhattan, among other locales.

"Dragonfly Messages”
By Lida Parent Harris

It isn't that it's life is a trickery, or being mocked by life and it's foolery.

It's playing the harp of an emerald dragonfly, to stoke your saddened tears.

She tells you to keep moving, Never fooling or wandering in place.

You have love to fulfill, and gifts to reveal, besides are the talent is near.

Don't get too comfortable when she buzzes by,

just stay on the road, the path is aligned

for all the joy your heart is ready to make, and the dragonfly you're seeing is here to take it's place.

Give you the nod to move on,

and a jingle of the bell how you're doing it so well.

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 2001when 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.

danza mexica
by nadia cristina

i learned there was water there

because i spilled it

learned there was fire there

by getting burned

tonguing the wound

the black nothingness

until it is filled

is it possible to spin

fast enough to fly?

away from pain

away from plunder

to a blue river

where my ancestors

have always been

black crow hair in sunlight

lifting woven baskets

speaking to fish

in their own tongues

my wish for flight

is a prayer for transcendence

to know my cultures

as if they were passed to

heart to heart

rather than running

backwards across

time

an olympian

a detective to my own

life

breadcrumbs + clues

+ scraps

on my knees

everything becomes a

prayer

for what was taken to be

returned

land

back

culture

back

can i know what it’s like

to have

in the first

place?

know it as simple

inheritance

like the pit of a

stone fruit

that births

a new flower

a new fruit

again + again

the sound of ayoyotes

seeds of vibration

for new generations

conch-shelled

cosmos

unfurling

nadia cristina martinez ismail is a poet across media. Their work can be found online at angelbabe.me

Imagine
By Anna C. Broome

And when one of you falls

The lowest within each of you falls

And in your heart

That day does not meet your needs

All may see the flowers

But no one will be free

For as one is mourning

The divine is dead between the greatest of people

Wastefulness cannot be justified

As submissiveness shown

And as a grave is dug

Many hands dig a million miles down

Claim your rights

State your claims

Fight your battles

Reject vexation

For the world always has been as it is

Due to the sameness of living

Lean far, be grown,

See the points of action

Store your refugee outside your pocket

Don’t use me as your excuse.

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.

Laughing and Crying
By ChampionElCid

I'm laughing at the state of the world today,

I'm laughing at the leaders and everything they say

I'm laughing cause they're stupid, their speech is so absurd

I'm laughing when I hear them talk, I laugh at every word

I'm crying at the state of the world today

I'm crying because people seem to have lost their way

I'm crying cause they spew hate, at people they don't know

I'm crying cause they help to bring, about our state of woe

I'm laughing at the politicians, whenever they tell a lie

I'm laughing as they seem to think, it's something we will buy

I'm laughing at the idea, that what they think is true

I'm laughing because honestly, it's really nothing new

I'm crying when I hear someone say that they believe them

I'm crying cause I know that means we really are that dumb

I'm crying cause there are so many, who think just like they do

I'm crying cause not long ago, they tried to stage a coup

I'm laughing at people, who believe the word of god

I'm laughing cause they don't at all, seem to find that odd

I'm laughing when they live by rules, that really makes no sense

I'm laughing cause I can't believe, they really are that dense

I'm crying when those same people, use their beliefs to rule

I'm crying cause they think it gives them the right to be cruel

I'm crying cause there are so many, who believe this lie

I'm crying cause they want to see, so many people die

I'm laughing at the theories, that some people believe

I'm laughing at how easily, they are to deceive

I'm laughing cause it's so absurd and obviously not true

I'm laughing cause I can't believe, they have that point of view

I'm crying when politicians say that those beliefs are fact

I'm crying when they say that this is why we must react

I'm crying when they make new laws, based upon this lie

I'm crying when these new laws, mean democracy might die

If I'm being truly honest, I cry more than I laugh

And I think I do it mostly, on the world's behalf….

"ChampionElCid lives in Los Angeles, he currently works four different jobs so he 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 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…"

To Pee or Not to Pee
by
Peter Yates

Lenny Bruce divided mankind into two groups — those who piss in the sink, and those who don’t. He said this to amuse, but when Stone and a duo partner were enduring rigors of the road, sharing cheap rooms to keep costs down, and trying to keep off each other's nerves, it took on deeper implications. Nobody, not even the most likeable person, is rational about all things, least of all in matters of personal hygiene, which even in our modern age can be dictated by superstition. This much Stone knew. He had to keep idiosyncrasies in mind if difficulties were to be avoided. And his best intentions would be tested.

One night, early in the trip, with jet lag upon him, he tossed one last time in his bedsheets and realized that unless he responded to the tickling, teasing signals emanating from his bladder, he’d never sleep again. Straining his eyes in the dark, he looked over at his roommate's bed. The guy was sleeping like a baby, relishing each unconscious moment. Stone contemplated the door. Beyond, across a stone floor, through two more sets of doors, up a dark flight of uneven stairs, was the toilet. He glanced around the room. Six feet away, at the foot of the roommate's bed, was the sink.

Deliberately, responsibly, he considered the step-by-step process required for a trip to the john – the pulling on of pants, so as not to frighten other occupants of the hotel, the tiptoeing across the cold floor, the attempting to deal silently with the double doors, each warped in its own way, each requiring its own abracadabra before groaning open. To handle the doors, he might have to turn on the light. With this thought, he paused. He'd hate to risk waking anyone. He decided to ignore his need. Pulling a pillow over his head, he rolled over with renewed determination. His bladder, pressed against the mattress, ballooned with pain.

The sink at the foot of his roommate's bed was only a few feet away. The roommate breathed deeply and evenly. Seriously, Stone thought, he really shouldn't disturb him — With this jet-lag, the fellow would never approach that state of oblivion again. Tomorrow would be hell for him — and for me, having to deal with him. Stone studied the sleeping form. Does he, or doesn't he? Lenny, give some guidance here. If he caught me in the act, so what? How prudish could he be? His useless wondering was interrupted by another poke from below decks. He glanced at the sink, so near, so easy, so reasonable. The bladder egged him on.

But, he hesitated. You never know about people — you just can't tell what might set them off. Damn them — the idiots confuse the proximity of tap and drain with a similarity of function! But after more thought, he admitted that, technically, they were right — there was a relationship between what goes down and what comes out. In his mind he constructed the mechanism. Waste water, upon entering the drain, joins waters and effluvia from drains throughout the hotel, perhaps even from the toilet upstairs. These, in turn, join products from other drains. Teaming up in sewers under the street, they race underground to creeks, rivers, bays and treatment plants. In a great wave, they arrive at the ocean. There, after some time during which they are swallowed and excreted by any number of fishes, they are evaporated into clouds, blown about, and sent down again as rain over some chance country — into rivulets, streams, creeks, rivers, into pools, lakes, reservoirs, into aqueducts, tanks, pipes, and faucets, and ultimately, perhaps, even into this very same hotel-room sink.

He realized the ridiculousness of this I'm-a-Little-Raindrop story. The evaporative turnover time of the world's oceans is, after all, two million years. With all the thought of running water, now he really had to go. Jesus! — if he or any of his righteous ilk were to take a glass of water from the tap, how would they know what other functions their quenching beverage might previously have served? The local reservoir is a giant cesspool! The connection is there. Even so, idiot that the guy was, Stone didn't want to trouble him with any groaning doors or noisy flushing from upstairs. Listening enviously to steady breathing, he decided, out of considerateness, to go for the sink.

Quietly, he rose. He headed toward the beautiful porcelain fixture. Treading softly, he approached the end of his bed. His bladder squirmed in anticipation, celebrating the excitement of the moment — the intoxication of imminent taboo-violation. It gloated as he stifled a giggle. He fought his fear of stumbling in the dark and filling the room with noise. In the half-light from the window, the sink gleamed invitingly. Finally, perfectly, at the point of bursting, he reached it, without a sound.

Soon things were going well. He strained to hold back the eager stream as it jetted at the target of the drain. Failing at this, he tried to mute it by angling it against the slick vertical side of the bowl. Not a whisper from the bed behind him. Good job, he thought. But congratulations were premature. He'd hardly got going, had only begun to grin with relief, when a chortling sound, soft at first, then louder, emerged from the drain. Behind him, bedsheets rustled, followed by a loud sigh. He considered aborting in midstream, but abandoned the painful notion. From within the wall, pipes began to gurgle. The roommate stirred again. In vain Stone tried to choke the flow. The drain laughed louder, seeming to enjoy his predicament. Panicked, he reached for a cup on the sink-stand, grabbed at the faucet handle, and flooded the sink with water to mask the swelling chorus of the plumbing. My back is to the bed. I'm only slightly on tiptoe. He'll think I'm getting a drink. Making explanatory gestures with his back, he lowered the cup into the basin, taking care in the darkness to try to choose the correct stream. The cup grew heavy in his hand. It was impossible to avoid the impression that he was at the doctor's office, filling a sample. Is it my imagination, or does it feel warm? He raised it to his lips, making more I'm-only-having-a-drink motions. Fighting back a moment of doubt, he tipped the cup and poured the contents down. The roommate coughed and turned on the light. In the mirror above the sink, Stone saw himself drinking calmly. The liquid felt good as it streamed down his throat — he had been thirsty, after all. He swallowed eagerly and was struck by the absurdity of his simultaneous needs to take in and to expel. The fluid poured down his throat and seemingly straight out into the sink below, in a continuous stream. He was a human tube. In a flash, he rethought the connection between faucet and drain — right now, the connection was him, a weird bypass in the raindrop's journey. The roommate fumbled with the clock bedside his bed. The light went out. With a grunt, the roommate turned over. The last drop from the cup trickled down Stone's throat. Below, after a slight delay, his output eerily came to a halt. He replaced the cup on the sink-stand and settled back on his heels, making sounds of slaked satisfaction. He allowed the tap to run a little extra, shut it off, and began groping his way back to bed. His eyes were newly dark-adapting, unable to see a thing. He slammed his toe into something, swearing automatically at the stab of pain. The roommate grunted again. Lying back in bedsheets, Stone wondered if the poor guy would be able to get back to sleep. At least, he reflected, he hadn’t had to listen to the double doors. He meditated for a while on the thought of what a considerate traveling-partner the fellow was fortunate to have. With a last sneer at his chastened bladder, he dozed off.

Later, drifting out of a fitful sleep, he became aware of a sound like laughter in the room – first a chortle, and then, louder, a gurgle. In the half-light from the window, he made out the cause. It was only the roommate, standing at the sink, drinking a glass of water. Who would have known? he asked himself, as he reached to turn on the light.

pyates@ucla,edu

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.

The Anomaly
By Ed Burgess
7/30/24

Intelligent Artificial

A stain on a white shirt

An anomaly

Not standard

Not perigee

but anomaly

perihelion around the sun

We orbit each other

And when we are close

the angle is an anomaly

we deviate and rotate

Normal and expected

Intelligent Artificial

Not the boss of me

Here at the apogee

As far from you

And the Sun

As I can be

A black whole of creativity

The anomaly

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

Poem
By Kassi Crews

Jumping jacks you’re now a new size pack

Jack fruit is from the fig tree family

With ancient mystical secrets helping our bones, blood, proteins, iron and eyes

More for you to see my darling as you grow strong and independent ready to meet the world.

As you slip out of momma’s womb the world awaits your arrival

You are the magic this world needs for our survival

With all wisdom and ancient secrets rolled into you now… your soul is ready to shepherd in our revival for our tribal

Grateful for your arrival

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.

Architect Creator
By RG Carrillo

Architect creator

Out of the dark

Into beauty

Light of consciousness

Soul mate searching

Twin flame identity

Remade my spirit

Fractured biological origins

Sobriety recovery healing

Absorbing maturing

Developing gratitude

Restoring innocence

Pacing my journey

Release me from

Biased judgment

Breathe in freedom

The scales

Of justice

No longer blind

Elitist greed

Red in blood

Blue in depression

White no longer pure

We move unsure

In democracy

Music and poetry

Keep me sane

Politics in America

A quicksand

For the common man

Sinking the middle class

The justice scales

Swinging wildly

In the wind of division

Mid-life national crisis

Right leaning narcissism

Left leaning

Voice of reason

When will liberty

Balance her scales

Find her middle ground

A fork in the road

Heal hope highway

Unite the people

Do not divide

The American people

Bring back

Common sense

Disagree with respect

Do not turn

Republicans and Democrats

Into the Hatfields and McCoys

One nation under God

We are not clans

Fighting with clubs

Throwing rocks

On the other side

Plenty of fault

To go around

Wise words

I hang onto

So simple

Rodney King

Turning the other cheek

After being beaten

By the police

“Can’t we all get along?”

Such grace and dignity

Taking the high road

Choosing not

To lower his

Human spirit

Rising from the ashes

Take heed

We are a great people

We do not need

To be made great again

Stand firm

On our constitutional

Principles

I see light

At the end

Of the tunnel

My glass

Is still half full

Love to all

Spread kindness

Plant the good seed

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.

Two ladies
By Christine Bullard

One arrived by train from France

The other by plane from Croatia

They met at their lodging destination

Both were filled with ecstatic enthusiasm

To explore the passionate city of Barcelona, Spain

Together, these two women came to

seek adventure in a foreign country

The weather is hot. The pool is too cold.

The sea is tempting. The wind is tempestuous.

Each day they walk for miles absorbing the essence of the city

The art, cuisine, wine, people, churches, taxis, and flamenco dance

They explore the architecture and design of Gaudi's works of art

Magnificent intricate buildings such as Casa Batilò to Basilica de la Sagrada Familia

In the end, Guadi was hit by a tram and died alone. Nobody knew who he was dressed in rags

I wonder as he was dying in his hospital bed if his Catalan pride was true to the end

The sun shined, birds chirped, and the sounds of tourists overloading the city remained exuberant

As does the friendship between these two ladies

Friends for over 20 years, children have grown, lovers have come and gone, and their friendship continues to grow luxuriant

There is safety, respect, and love in this friendship. It is cherished. It is recognized. It is not taken for granted.

Christine Bullard is a native Angeleno from Highland Park. She is an architectural photographer, as seen in Dwell and other publications. She's a Los Angeles licensed realtor, and co-founder of The Garden Co-op Nursery School. In 2023 Christine became an Italian citizen and is living a digital nomadic life traveling throughout Europe.

Cultural Appropriation
By Don Kingfisher Campbell

Oh oh, CaLoki, you suggested

making the November theme for

Four Feathers Press online edition

Dia De Los Muertos, isn't that...?

Not as bad as performing songs

from another culture like Paul

Simon did on Graceland, and,

now that I think about it, Me And

Julio Down By The Schoolyard.

Don't even mention Genesis!

Yikes, am I not allowed to order

my beloved bean and cheese

burrito anymore? And I just

bought dumplings at the 168

Market on Valley Boulevard

and nobody stopped me

except to say Shi Sheh.

You know why I got them,

my wife is from Dalian, then

adulted in Sanya. Is getting

married the ultimate C.A.?

Wait a minute, I'm writing

this poem in English. Talk

about colloquial acquisition....

Don Kingfisher Campbell, MFA Antioch University L.A., taught at USC and Occidental College Upward Bound, board member California Poets In The Schools, publisher Four Feathers Press, host of the Saturday Afternoon Poetry reading and workshop series in Pasadena, California. For awards, features, and publication credits, please go to: http://dkc1031.blogspot.com

The Litanies of Satan
By Charles Baudelaire
Translated from the French by Alex S. Johnson

Oh you who are the most wise and handsome of all angels

Divinity betrayed by fate and deprived of just praise