August Poet's Place - Deep Summer Edition

August 03, 2022

POETS PLACE
AUGUST EDITION 2022

This month, as every month, we host writers from everywhere. Anyone who wants to submit work can and do. We are fortunate to be a publication that doesn’t discriminate. Your words matter, not your celebrity status. You are celebrated for your courage to speak your mind and share your words of wisdom and creative art. All we have is this moment. The here and now. A precious gift that we give to ourselves is to take advantage of what we have, now, not tomorrow. For tomorrow many never come.

So grateful for you all XXXOOO

Keep on submitting!!!!

Love, Linda :0)

Jazz Composition
By Linda Kaye

I feel like my life is playing out like a jazz composition sometimes with strong rhythms, and lustful sounds caressing a soul fueled heart with improvisational strings tugging and pulling on the once solid notes harking and cajoling the structure of my life‘s music

Luckily the cacophony of surrounding sounds of human kindness permeates, often cracking my head space and drowning out the incessant drone of negative head chatter

mind matter

laughter of the serious kind

What resonates most though is the unintentional witness of life’s constant jokes at my expense

the hardy haha of bodily decline mental exhaustion the tick tock of time masticating in my mouth unable to spit out words of wisdom once rolling off my tongue with ease and intellect.

Mind constantly wandering off towards the sea of abysmal dread seeking refuge on the floundering ship that floats by with no more space for the elderly the aged the almost there but not yet ready to drown.

What’s left is a sticky mess of ugliness the harsh realities that time is definitely of the essence an out of control out of body handiwork of chance.

“So ya’ wanna be a rocker. Study the moves. Jerry Lee Lewis. Buy some blue-suède shoes. Move yer head like Rod Stewart. Put yer ass in a grind. Talkin’ sock it to it, get the image in line. Get the image in line, boy. The fantasy rhyme.”
The Tooth of the Crime Sam Shepard

The Ghost of Sam Shepard
by Jeff Chayette
15 October 2020

jelly jam slam
don’t scram
just belly up to the bar

you rock n’ roll star
the dwarf stood tall

pulled her skirt up high blouse down low
bop hopped on the stool as white Russians
in shot glasses
lined the bar
the man
sam be damned shepard

ordered drinks all around said
why staring
sit down clown
don’t frown
you’re welcome
hear
there
and everywhere
dumb ass
line from a Beatles song

it won’t be long
I’m a loser
the blues you choose

the blues you made

those shoes ain’t suede

shake your ass
parade

shade the dawn
tend the coals
our father’s rage
has taken stage
trade for blood
our old Kentucky home

natives dance on
Daniel Boone’s
bowie knife
Andrew Jackson’s tribal raids

America’s stain is plain

as acid rain
on golden crops
spoiled rotten
from the coal mines of Kentucky

to the California shores
bobby mc gee and me

our ancestors molestation

endless devastation
of natives riches
blood spilled

nerves frayed I cannot rest

there is no test of shame

no primal scream to wake me
from this dream of barren waste

as Elliot said

“here we go round the prickly pear

the prickly pear in the morning”

pain in my voice

the voice of fathers fathers fathers

I look at the land
say what have I done

what have we become

the land of dumb
this cannot be
my eyes can’t see
the glory of the coming
of the lord
knock down these boards

mystic truths have roots
I spoke for the earth
the wheat
the street

Jeff Chayette has lived and loved for 4 decades in Los Angeles.

A multi-faceted artist who attended Art Center College of Design In Pasadena, Jeff has worked on stage, television and films.

His design work has been peer recognized with National and local Emmys, CBS Eye on Excellence and Promax BDA awards.

His current poems are reflections on past and present life in Los Angeles through the eyes of the pandemic. Recent Emmy winner for Best Short promo!!

parasols
By Devin Murphy

They
built the empire state building in 14 months

tore out the LA streetcars slowly

and they’ll find use for parasols indoors before

everyone on the sidewalk gets one when the sun drags across the

top of your scalp like sandpaper scraps

and
breath is hot like

microwaved tupperware

they’ll sell better sunshine indoors

they’ll sell galoshes in the flood when the ground has gone too long

without being wet
and the skin has formed of

oil and pollen and hair

I will watch gravel clouds break into

hazel rain turn

to overflow turn my

shoes
into colonies of

living things and all around me

the residue
will linger with a dull sheen of the

dish soap
that clogs your pump and shoots at

you

I will recall the moments over

decades
I felt powerless when we cried for

a roof
and they sold us each an umbrella

cheap and fragile from narrow brown boxes

on rusting ships crossing oceans

and
long after it’s too late

when disaster is upon us like spam calls

someone will ask why, and

we’ll be
the ones left

to
tell a story, crowned in thorns

our generation of declining standards

and
free markets

not old enough to make the change not young enough to be

freed from blame sick, shuffling, hot

we will carry that for you pariahs in

this world of your making

©Devin Murphy, 2022

Devin Murphy has been described by acquaintances as “a team player.” When pressed for comment, Devin responded “I love the well-wishers, but they’re selfish little freaks.”

Those possessing familiarity with the matter confirm Devin last played organized sports in 2002, his season ending with a “middling AF” [sic] .600 average.

Currently, Devin is living in a jungle in the ocean. Contact DevinPMurphy@gmail.com for poetry samples, video + audio arts, and publication requests.

Cariño Cochineal
By Victoria Ester Orantes

At last she was the choicest burgeon of the mēde

Alas, verboten cultivators, you chose me

A genuine venture

For closeness to quench her

An appetency for adjacency

Deserted despite her sincerity

Sublime streams inadvertently ebbed away

Marshy water nourishment, a piquant plague.

Biological necessity

May veracity bring harmony

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.

Sleazy sally
By Daniel Schack

No if, and, or buts. delightful, though somewhat demented love song I wrote in 1984 at age 20.

Let me tell you about sleazy sally.she wants to be everyone's pally.just deposit 30 dollars in her slot, and sally will give you everything she's got. Sally says, oh oh oh oh oh. Do it fast or do it slow. Oh.oh.oh.oh.oh. hello Joe, let me give you a blow. I want to marry sleazy sally.cause I love her so. Sleazy sally.she's all right.I tried her just the other night.sleazy sally.she can put up a fight, and after years of working, she's still tight. Oh.oh.oh.oh.oh. marry me sally.I love you so.oh.oh.oh.oh.oh. I'm begging.I'm pleading.please don't go. I want to marry sleazy sally, cause I love her so. Me and sally married just the other night. But she still works on the side.she's got her pride. She enjoys her job, with her johns and her bobs.but she's mine for free.for eternity. Dilly dally in the alley with sally.dilly dally in the alley with sally.dilly dally in the alley with sally.sally.sally.sally.

The poet ,daniel schack can be seen on poetrysoup.com and his art on tumblr adanthemanworld.daniel schack is 57 and is a high school grad. With 3.5 years of college.peace.

GRATITUDE
7-24-2022
6:09 pm.
By Mary Cheung

Gratitude ,

You know that feeling you get that starts inside you?

Somewhere around your chest?

You feel a warmth expanding..spreading through your veins,

And you can only guess.

The trigger for that feeling,

set off by a person.

Action, reaction, something magical and it's not stress.

How a simple act of kindness,

or thoughtfulness... can leave you on cloud 9....

Yes, you gave me a gift and it's left an impression on my soul.

Filling me up and feeding me for days.

And I'll never hunger again because your actions fulfilled me just so.

So that's what gratitude feels like...

You planted this seed, and it's dying to be passed onto to someone else.

Share that feeling and save them from starvation, deprivation, the lack of love and kindness too.

I can only image now what a world can feel and look like.

One where hungers been abolished, of your mind body and soul.

And it all started with the simple act of you....

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”.

LIFE, ONE OF THE LAST THINGS OF LIVING
By: IE Carlo
30 July 2022

In this world living is not life

Living is just breathing in and out

Living is nothing without life

For life gives living its vigor

Its either

Life is he/she who has reason and purpose accepting all things to enter

Giving life joy of excistance

The smells, views, feelings of that panarama of life,

Like that of a beautiful landscape painting of yore

We make too much of life

Making living the thing, is the thing

Life is all things happening that happened

Living is all those moments of life that make the total of life

So that moment is the thing; “That’s living Life”.

Ismael (East) Carlo, poet, actor begins on the streets of East Harlem, el barrio whose monica of “East” happened due to others not being able to pronounce the name, Is-Ma-El…

East, considers himself more a storyteller than a poet, although at times he gets lucky and poetry emerges from his stories...

For more about East, visit IMDB. Paz en Vida

Lansing
By Michael Meloan

After flying all night from LAX to Heathrow, my brother Steve and I arrived exhausted at the Reese Hotel in the King's Cross neighborhood. The exterior was dirty brick with black wrought iron railings and a narrow white door. It was more a youth hostel than a true hotel. We were greeted by a rotund older woman with curly close-cropped grey hair and wire-rimmed glasses. She tersely introduced herself as Mrs. Reese, inspected our passports, then copied our information. After paying cash up-front, we were shown to a room. The hallways creaked and sagged; everything was stale and musty. She opened a door, revealing two young men, wearing slacks and white shirts, sitting on narrow beds. It was a large room with two more beds on the other side. The men stood.

"Hello, I'm Charles," said the first, with an accent I couldn't immediately place.

"And I'm Tony," said the second, with a straight-up English delivery.

Steve and I quickly introduced ourselves.

"Cheers then," said Mrs. Reese. "Breakfast at 7:30 sharp. If you miss it, then you've missed it." She turned and left the room.

Steve placed his guitar case and battery powered Pignose amp in the corner. We arranged our canvas duffle bags next to the guitar, then sat on our beds. It was 9:30 pm. There was an awkward silence.

Tony spoke first. "So, you've come to London to be discovered as pop stars?"

"We're software coders at home,” I said. "But we've come to London to busk in the Tube tunnels…and maybe be discovered as pop stars."

Tony and Charles both laughed.

“Well, let's hear a bit of what you've got. Play us a song," said Charles.

Steve took out his guitar. I sang "Psycho Killer" by Talking Heads, while he played.

Then Charles picked up the guitar. "I'm an accountant, from Johannesburg, South Africa, on loan to the London office for six months. I'm going to play a traditional folk song, originally sung by Ndebele men traveling by steam train from their homes in Zimbabwe to work in the South African mines. It’s called "Shosholoza."

He sang in a high register with striking authenticity. His delivery was unaffected by rock influences. And his guitar work was precise, with complex picking structures and clean fretwork.

"Wow," Steve and I both said, simultaneously.

Then the door flew open. It was Mrs. Reese. "Lights out lads. And no more music. Working people need their sleep. G'night."

"That old biddy is a pain in the arse," said Tony.

We all laughed.

Charles and Tony were both up at 6:30, knocking around the room. Charles put on a cheap-looking dark blue suit, combed his short brown hair, and quickly used an electric razor. Tony's preparation was more elaborate. He stood in front of the mirror in white briefs while blow drying his dirty blond mop. He was rail-thin with alabaster skin. Then he applied cologne, and went over his black suit with a lint roller. There was a United Airlines pin on the lapel.

"I'm a ticketing agent at Heathrow," he said. "But my dream is to move to Lansing, Michigan."

"Really," said Steve. "Why Lansing?"

"In The States, you can reinvent yourself. The UK is too locked-in. I want to rise from my ashes."

We all nodded.

"Also," he continued, "I want to drive an Oldsmobile 88. Lansing is where they make them. I might even get a job at the factory. Or maybe in marketing. Who knows? Anything is possible in Lansing."

Again, we nodded.

"Well gents, I'm off," Tony said as he put on his suit jacket and left the room.

I paused and poked my head out the door to make sure Tony was gone.

"I hope he won't be disappointed when he gets to Lansing," I said. "It's hard to imagine that Michigan is the answer."

"He's never going to Lansing," said Charles. "And he's not a ticketing agent at Heathrow. A stewardess passing through gave him the United Airlines pin he wears. The truth is, he's on the dole and plays darts all day at a pub just down the street. Mrs. Reese told me that he's taking some sort of psychiatric medication. But Lansing is what keeps him going day-to-day. The fantasy of driving that big Oldsmobile along a wide American boulevard."

Then Charles lit a cigarette. "I have to be off."

He shook both of our hands and was gone.

Michael 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. This fall, RUP press in Germany will release his memoir/novella PINBALL WIZARD.

Abuelos Míos

Vibiana Aparicio-Chamberlin

I searched the place in Sonora for my Yaqui great grandparents. So in November 1970, I traveled through northwest Mexico, from Nogales at the Arizona Sonora border to coastal Bahía de Kino, then east to Hermosillo in central Sonora, the birthplace of my mother’s grandparents Ignacio Carrasco, Micaela Ochoa, Luis Luna and Sacramento Marquez. An old guidebook led me to the oldest cemetery in the city.

This campo santo in the middle of the bustling city of Hermosillo, looked forgotten and pitifully small, a half block at the most. The gatekeeper told us that some of the burial plots were moved to other cemeteries outside of the city. The two major streets traversed this historical cemetery and therefore destroyed it. All marble and stone sepulchers were moved except for a few. Some sepulchers remained, but the hundreds and hundreds of the common plots were simply covered over with asphalt. I cried when I saw the few fallen over wooden and iron crosses.

Plots were unmarked. These gravesites contrasted with the handful of remaining monumental pillared and marble towered tombs that belonged to the founding wealthy Mexican

families. I mused as I saw the cruel reality of poverty’s fate. Are these influential and affluent upper class Spanish and Mexicans to be the only abuelos eternally remembered? Will the common mixed mestizos–of native, Iberian and African heritage people, like my ancestors, be brown blown about dust to be trod upon. No, abuelos mío’s. You are not forgotten. To you, I dedicate this poem.

Gente pobre

Sin sepulcro

Sin flor

Destitute, without tombstone, without marigolds

the poor lie not in that gilded

cemetery, marbled and encircled

with wreathes of paper and silk flowers.

Those pillared concrete monuments

on Calle Yanez–

Are they to be the monuments

forever eternalized?

From your seeds, come my Chicana self

abuelos mió’s

searching like the wandering

Aztecs and Tarascans for your Texcoco

searching like the Yaqui Yoemem

for truth in the talking tree.

Your sons came to Arizona, Texas,

New Mexico, and California–

searching, bleeding, giving birth

to Chicanos still

searching for Aztlan.

You are not forgotten.

Vibiana Aparicio-Chamberlin was born in Boyle Heights, East Los Angeles. She taught drama

at 32nd Street School and Special Education for over twenty-two years in The Los Angeles

Unified School District. Chicana On Fire, Ignited by the 1970’s East L.A. Chicano Protest Movement is her current debut poetry book. Vibiana is the author and illustrator of Mi Amor, a Memoir of poetry and stories about her mother. Her writing appears in Beyond the Lyric Moment, Inscape, The Altadena Poetry Review, The Southern California Haiku Anthology, Flor Y Canto USC, Dismantle, and The Phi Kappa Phi Forum. She studied creative writing and art at Immaculate Heart College, University of Southern California, VONA, Self Help Graphics and Art, The Idyllwild Summer Writing Institute and at Antioch University. Aparicio-Chamberlin is the founder and director of the first Chicano street teatro in the US, El Teatro de los Niños. Vibiana continues her family’s storytelling tradition by retelling La Llorona as one of her poems in Chicana On Fire based on stories told to her by her mother, Chabela Luna Aparicio, a Mexican Yaqui storyteller.

The attached narrative poem Abuelos Míos is in Chicana On Fire.

Chicana On Fire, Ignited by the 1970’s East L.A. Chicano Protest Movement, Bambaz Press, 2022 is her debut full-length poetry collection. ISBN: 979-8-9857696-0-9

The Huntington Library and Gardens Store and Amazon.

Abuelos Miós ©

Vibiana Aparicio-Chamberlin vibi@sbcglobal.net

www.artediosa.com

Homage to my Youth in Song
By Ronald G. Carrillo

Slept in my Bowie T-shirt

And woke up in a Moonage Daydream

I was an Elemental Child with Marc Bolan

Before I grew my Beard of Stars

I stood In The Court of the Crimson King a gentle Moonchild

It was my Epitaph to observe a 21st Century Schizoid Man

Talking to the Wind in the Wake of Poseidon

Commingling with Cadence and Cascade then I had to leave

Sugar Mountain with a Cinnamon Girl

I was On The Losing End Down By the River in a Déjà vu

I Had a King and now I Think I Understand Blue

The Priest came in a Big Yellow Taxi

And that was The Last Time I Saw Richard before Woodstock

He was playing For Free to only a Coyote and a Black Crow

Another Communication Breakdown as you Ramble On

Leaving me Dazed and Confused out on the Gallows Pole

Of love unable to find my way back to your Stairway to Heaven

I Never Meant to Hurt You but The Confession I now make Mr. Blue

Is Upstairs By A Chinese Lamp my Sweet Lovin’ Baby

I have lost My Innocence in this Crazy Love so now I retreat

To find some Mercy on Broadway looking up at that Man in the Moon

And When I Die The Man Who Sends Me Home

Will still be my Companion for another Coffee Morning

Such a Handsome Devil was he that I became The Boy

With the Thorn in his Side because I was Girl Afraid

Then This Charming Man told me Meat is Murder

Never Had No One Ever Well I Wonder if I am Still ill

Louis and I We Used To Know all the Reasons For Waiting

And that there would be A Time For Everything

Even A Song For Jeffrey My God if it were Up To Me

Just Won’dring Aloud I’d go Back To The Family

With You There To Help Me it would be a New Day Yesterday

Or become A Passion Play Skating Away on the Thin Ice of a New Day

But Nothing Is Easy Help it’s been A Hard Day’s Night

Wish Me Well for In Held Twas In I by glimpses of Nirvana

There is Too Much Between Us Still There’ll Be More

On this Pilgrims Progress toward a Crucifiction Lane

(These artists/musicians of now vintage Rock and Roll

sustained and nurtured my Soul. I took early direction from

all of them in those early days of finding my own poetic voice.)

Thank you David Bowie, Tyrannosaurus Rex, King Crimson,

Neil Young, Joni Mitchell, Led Zeppelin, Laura Nyro, The Smiths,

Jethro Tull, The Beatles, Procol Harum and so many more. Also

celebrating my 50 year high school reunion class of 1972: “Who

Knows Where the Time Goes” by the great songstress Sand Denny

of Fairport Convention fame. Fun fact this song was the B-side of a

single then the title track of her album both released in 1968 the year

I started high school.

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.

By Jane Cantillon

What I know for sure is that the longer the years peel away like a clear clean onion skin, the less I know. I keep walking, proudly with my head held high, pretending I know more. Now at five feet and five inches shrinking closer to the ground while my head seems further in the fog, my body complains a lot more, too. “Where are we going?” whispers my achy feet. How much longer can I carry you? murmurs my tired legs. “I don’t know but be patient”, I say lovingly, “you too shall pass.”

Then I wonder how many more people will I say goodbye to before they throw a going away party for me? Year 2020, vision is blurred in teardrops and uncertainty and I’ve cheated death so many times that it wants it’s money back.

What I know for sure is when I see hungry people living under the sky blue tarps that that my heart grows so heavy I think I need a basket to carry it and I would like to serve it like a Valentines cake to some, and collect it back from the greedy ones in the tower that I have turned my back to.

What I know for sure is now the sun will rise again though, like me, Mother Nature’s hot flashes are growing more violent and unpredictable. She’s been irritated at the arrogance and entitlement of the scrappy human beings misusing her wondrous resources. I try to show a somewhat angry Mother Nature the same love she gives us everyday before she takes the sun back from our children.

What I know for sure is that authentic love has guided me through my life and has never let me down. When I feel so overwhelmed with gratitude for my life, my family, my friends and my four-legged love machines, that is what I know for sure that love is my own private heaven.

Multi-talented Jane Cantillon is an Emmy-nominated producer, working in daily television for over 24 years. More recently, Cantillon been an improvisational creative writing and arts facilitator who hosts private salon-type workshops and retreats in Los Angeles and Joshua Tree. Designed to help non-writers and artists manifest their dreams through sharing their work, she creates unconventional prompts that develop into moving stories. She also conducts art and music therapy at various assisted living facilities in Los Angeles. Cantillon also fronts an original rock band backed by her husband called The Dick and Jane Family Orchestra, and she produced and directed a critically acclaimed documentary called "The Other Side: A Queer History's Last Call".

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

Most recently, 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

https://youtu.be/GT1D5k2EeKU

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.

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

https://shoutoutla.com/meet-linda-kaye-poet-theatrical-poetry-producer-retired-social-worker-and-professor/

It's July! Here's Poet's Place!

July 05, 2022

POETS PLACE

JULY 2022

Sometimes all the closure you get is a kick in the ass! I have been putting off starting July’s Poets Place edition because I was afraid to open up the pandoras box located in my head for fear of unleashing massive amounts of hate towards our country’s supreme bigoted racist misogynistic court. What the f is happening to our country??? My friend mentioned to me that the turning over Roe V Wade and other horrific reversals of women's and gay rights have been in the making since the republicans found their way in through Trump. By having Trump put in their bombastic cronies into the supreme court to rule as they say was always their plan. Like minded Americans want their republican heads on a plate right now! We the people can make demands and protest protest protest. But how likely will those demands be considered? We are in serious trouble and my hopes remain stifled. The best I can do right now is to offer a forum for writers and poets to speak their truths. I quote Ronald G. Carrillo from his poem Triad, I feel his pain, that “Democratic bruises of infidelity and injustice” have permeated our souls. I pray things will be better…some day…

And now poetry and stories from you.

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 gun carrying, destructive and homicidal maniacs? 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

Really???

Moon Poems
by Aleka Corwin
Do you remember

that full Moon

Over bright white

Fields of fresh snow

Encircled by black woods,

we strapped on

Cross-country skies

swooshing, swooshing

Across New Hampshire

Winter silence

Carving deep grooves

Seeing our own shadows

In the moonlight?

Do you remember

Dancing under the full moon

In the soft grass

On the Kona Coast

At that great hotel, the Orchid Princess?

The only time we ever got

Stoned with our daughters

The four of us laughing and dancing

With the moonlight shimmering

On the ocean

keeping us company?

The Blood Moon:

The shadow of the Earth

moves across the face of the Moon.

We are on the rooftop

Of the Bendix Building in

Downtown L.A.,

Watching two dancers

crawl and cavort in the

dark soil of earth art

created by an artist from UCLA.

Mysterious, hypnotic, the full

Moon behind them blots out

for just a moment

with a red halo,

a sacred moment,

we catch our breath in wonder:

Then a sliver of our Moon

Slowly re-appears.

Aleka Corwin is a poet, journalist, artist, set decorator for film and theater, mask and puppet maker. She has been published in The Viral Voices Anthology. Ebell Magazine and Women In Film and has told stories at The Moth. She publishes annual Artist’s Calendars about travel and food which are in private collections and the Los Angeles Downtown Public Library permanent collection. She is married to writer Bill Ratner and is the mother of two grown daughters. Having raised children, dogs, cats, and an iguana, she is down to the last family cat. She teaches Parent/Child art classes and adult workshops in Los Angeles.

Make Light to Me
By Victoria Ester Orantes

Make light to me my majesty.

Deliver me delectation.

Converge without caress

Your discarnate deference.

Riding upon the waves of mind,

The greatest gift to give is time.

Prismatic essence to be true.

Freedom is found in loving you.

Warmth that widens a wild rose.

Love is not to lust, but to know.

Victoria is 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. Though her degree is in fashion design, as her previous aspirations were to be a costume designer, she chose to reconnect with her love of visual art after a tumultuous year in 2018. Since then, Victoria’s art has been featured in local NELA establishments, art-walks, and recently Shoutout LA magazine. Part of what keeps her motivated is embarking on solo road trips where she finds kindred spirits and new homes for her art. She is an upcoming artist who has the vision of rousing the healing power of painting with her community through the distribution of her soulful artwork, that also features original poems, and providing a community canvas in her mobile boutique to awaken the artist in everyone.

The Visitor
By Michael D. Meloan

I had been tweaking random number generators for slot machines in the basement of the Wynn/Encore complex. Steve Wynn’s CIO wanted new algorithm strategies. Too many slot addicts were heading to North Las Vegas where the odds were better. I created a Java Virtual Machine as a testbed and went to work modifying code and running simulations. When I finished at 4 am, I went out for breakfast at Encore’s 24-hour café.

On the way back to my apartment, while heading toward the freeway, I rolled along Industrial Road in my ancient Citroën DS, just as the sun was coming up. A man with a shaved head, black tee shirt, and polyester slacks stood in front of a storage locker with the corrugated metal door open. He gazed at me intently for a moment, then held up his hand, indicating that I should stop. His gaze was riveting. I slowed the car, then pulled over in front of the locker.

“Thank you for stopping,” he said, in calm voice, with a slight accent that I couldn’t place. “I have something to show you. His eyes were ice gray.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Difficult to succinctly explain--a bit of technology that I think you will find intriguing.”

I was wary, but somehow, I couldn’t turn and walk away. Slowly I followed him inside the locker. He turned on a light, then slid the metal door all the way down to the concrete floor. Black plastic boxes were stacked up against the wall. A simple wooden chair was positioned in the middle of the room.

“Please sit down,” he said with a smile, opening his palm to the chair.

I hesitated, then sat. He opened one of the boxes and withdrew a sleek helmet with a dark metallic polished sheen.

“If you would be so good as to put this on, I can guarantee you an interesting experience.”

“What kind of experience?” I asked.

“The kind you have been waiting for,” he replied with an impish smile.

At this point, I wanted to flee. But I had been in a strange personal space. No significant relationships. Grueling long hours coding. Reading deconstructionist philosophers. Hiking around Red Rock Canyon when it wasn’t too hot. I was ready for something.

He carefully put the helmet in my hands. It was light.

“What if it doesn’t fit? I have a very large head,” I said.

He smiled. “It will accommodate any head.”

As I placed it over my cranium, the helmet seemed to come alive. Expanding mysteriously as I moved it onto position, then contracting without a sound to create a snug comfortable fit when it was in place. I had never seen technology remotely like it.

“If you will close your eyes, we can begin. Relax. It will be a thoroughly pleasant experience.” Something about his voice and manner led me with absolute certainty to believe that he was telling the truth.

For about thirty seconds, I experienced nothing. Then I began to see vague hues of indigo and the rise of geometric shapes— polydodecahedrons, like a geodesic dome, with throbbing blue nodes at each juncture. These geometric forms increased in complexity and resolution to form the vision of a futuristic metropolis. The images were rendered with crystalline clarity. Monolithic corridors of buildings criss-crossed by green parkways. People strolling below. And suddenly I was part of a stream of levitating humanity traveling along a virtual highway. Thousands of people surging through the air, in effortless flight. It was exhilarating and unfathomable. Then I was inside a shimmering grotto. Everything made of light. A solitary man stood about twenty feet away with his back turned. He faced me. It was the man who had given me the helmet. He spoke telepathically.

“I’m sure you have many questions. And I know there is much worry. But be reassured. The future is safe. As long as you follow my instructions.”

I nodded.

“At 10 PM, one week from now, stand beneath the large animation screen at MGM. Affix your eyes at the lower left corner, for one minute.

Make certain you fulfill this request.”

He approached and put his arm around me reassuringly. Then he rapped between my shoulder blades. It was jarring and transported me into a state of near panic. I felt disoriented and momentarily lost consciousness. As I slowly regained awareness, I was gifted with Akashic understanding. As if every question had been answered, and all knowledge was mine. But then, as if rising from beneath the water, the state of gnosis began to fade. When I came to, I was alone in the storage locker. It was completely empty, except for the chair. No sign of the visitor or any of his equipment. Much time had passed. The sun was down. I staggered to my car and drove home in a daze.

One week later at 10 PM, I stood on the sidewalk gazing at the lower left corner of the MGM Jumbotron. A few minutes passed—nothing. Then, a spiraling square pattern began. It flashed stroboscopically, in both clockwise and counter-clockwise patterns. Dizzying. It began flashing as a block of white and black, almost like Morse code. After about two minutes, it ended.

I stood there. Waiting for something--a profound change of state. But I felt nothing. As I continued to gaze at the screen, no further data appeared.

Slowly I navigated along the sidewalk among throngs of tourists sipping tall fluorescent drinks from long straws. Then I got in my car and drove back to my apartment near UNLV.

Ever since, I’ve been watching for the visitor. Hoping to see him again. Waiting for my destiny to unfold.

Michael D. Meloan’s fiction has appeared in Wired, Huffington Post, Buzz, LA Weekly, Larry Flynt’s Chic, 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 National Public Radio syndicate. His Wired short story “The Cutting Edge” was optioned for film. And he co-authored the novel The Shroud with his brother Steven. For many years, he was a software engineer. In addition, he does killer karaoke.

just a beautiful dream
by linda m. crate

maybe it's better

you're gone,

we're both different

people now;

you learned to live without me

and i am sitting her telling the

gods and anyone who will listen

of how i miss you—

i know it's my fault that you're gone,

but it doesn't make me miss you any less;

sometimes my mother asks me

about you even still

i don't know what she expects to happen

as if one day you will wake up and need

me again—

i admit i had a dream once we were reconciled in

a place where white roses curled their petals around

every corner, and tea was set upon a white metal table;

as we sat in puffy white chairs sipping upon tea—

i woke up happy until i realized it was just a beautiful dream.

Linda M. Crate's works have been published in numerous magazines and anthologies both online and in print. She is the author of ten published chapbooks, four full-lengths, and three micro-chaps. She has a novella, also, called Mates (Alien Buddha Publishing, March 2022).

SACRED FLOWERS
By Eduardo Cueto
For Evangelina Correa

I write as your eyes

like sacred flowers

blossom before me

like the righteous sun

as I imagine your hips

undulating

and reciprocating

true love

as my pen runs dry

upon the pages

of your light skin

as if we were immortal

as if your exquisite

and divine legs

wrapped themselves

around my poetry

that seeks

your omphalos

and your revolutionary

bed upon my bed

and your tight lips

floating in the heavens

like a painting

like a sonnet

and like the birds

chirping harmoniously

as we make love

for love

is the manifestation

of you within me

and I within you

a la sacred relics

and sacred memories

blossoming

exponentially

until we become one

and until our oneness

gives birth

to the ambrosia

of our exsitential selves

seeking true beauty

Eduardo Cueto, graduate of the University of California, Los Angeles, (UCLA), with a Bachelor of the Arts in English, and a Creative Writing emphasis, Eduardo Cueto has taught literature, rhetoric and composition in such universities as the Euro-American Institute of Technology (EAI-TECH) in Sohia Antipolis, France, and the University of San Pablo - Tucumán, in Argentina. In addition to teaching, Cueto has also had a career as a classical ballet dancer working for such choreographers as Alonzo King, John Neumeier, and Mats Ek, in Lines Ballet from San Francisco and the Hamburg Ballet in Germany. Currently, Cueto is writing screenplays and directing and producing independent film projects.

Neverthess
by daniel j.schack.

normal.adjust. to what. I'm out of control.I'm out of control. Its good for my soul.its good for my soul. Me oh my oh.me oh WO oh. Oh my god,I must be psycho. I'm Dan Dan the psycho man. Dan Dan the psycho man.do the can can. I don't care what other people think. I don't care what other people think

.I don't care what other people think. I think other people stink. When you learn how to act human then you will be treated with respect. Respect. What is human? Could be almost anything you want it to be. Fortunately or unfortunately. Nevertheless. They get you with the word.the word is love. Sucker! Who are they? Us. Who's a sucker. You're a sucker. I'm a sucker. We are all a bunch of suckers. Some more. Some less. Nevertheless. Is there love. I suppose.it means leave me alone. Your always alone. More or less. Some more .some less.neverthess. welcome to the wonderful world of stupidity. Is it you? Or is it me? Anyone's guess. Nevertheless. There's money in intelligence. Oh,yes. There's money in stupidity too. Oh,yes. There are more important things than money though.aren't there? Yes. Then again.nevertheless. nevertheless.nevertheless.nevertheless. we have all heard nevertheless.we have all said nevertheless

Will there ever be a time when you can ever say never to nevertheless? Never. I guess. Nevertheless. After all.only human and we have all got bad taste. Some more.some less. Nevertheless. I guess. Why? Because. Written in 1986 when I was 22.

The poet ,daniel schack can be seen on poetrysoup.com and his art on tumblr adanthemanworld.daniel schack is 57 and is a high school grad. With 3.5 years of college.peace.

ON MY MIND
4-25-22
6:48 a.m.
By Mary Cheung

It's all new and I can't get you out of my mind.

You've got me hooked.

My dreams are all booked.

With images of you...

I fantasize about what's underneath,

your name, your exterior, your clothes.

Your lips upon mine.

Igniting a fiery trail..

.. making me burn.

I can't get you out of my mind..

Your voice is like velvet,

Vibrates against my throat.

Rumbles on like a freight train.

I want to wear you like a coat.

Against my Skin with nothing.

But my desire, licking, soaking it in…

Poem
By G. Billie Quijano

My vagina is de-colonized

Your shit is finalized

My womaness is magical real

It's not your perversion of laws to steal

My womb is exploding, as it swells with the sea

My eyes are open, I will not flee

While the Goddess sighs

Overturning Roe vs. Wade feels like sci-fi

Back alley abortions

Resulting in death and explosions

There is gross negligence in your refusal to acknowledge the evidence

The truth is in the anatomy, solid in the remedies

What's left? Plan B?

Will it be the only currency?

You traffic in oppression and control

It will not invade heart and soul

You will be stripped of patriarchy

Once again we will make history

Our bodies, our agency

Our humanness, your oversight

Our rights dismantled

Emotions manhandled

We are not a collection of body parts

Uprising, resistance, global boycotts

Misogyny, a crime

Deficiency of humanity in overtime

You sit there in your black robes

Festering in your conspiracy

My uterus is in revolution

Strength, courage, resilience is the solution

The universe has a plan

Look at me, I will stand

The divine radiates in me

Don't fuck with what is free

There is poetry in our synergy

You will not suppress our energy

We Feminize, to organize

You make judgements to minimize

We take to the streets

Sacred ground beneath our feet

We rise, we rise

You will hear our cries

As we raise our fists to the skies

Times up pendejos

You will not own this being

This is my voice

This is my choice

G. Billie Quijano-Feminista, Pro Choice, Pro Voice. Poeta, Artista. Instigator of Beauty. Bruja. Hija de East Los. The landscape of my childhood were elements of L.A. urban life. Cool concrete, vibrant colors. Sounds of girl groups and lowriders. In the background, records of Trio Los Panchos and John Coltrane playing. Remnants of Mexico. Surrounded by calla lilles, cactus, sunflowers and bird of paradise, like they were singing. My neighbor Rafael's rooster was my alarm clock. Olvera street was my playground. Saturdays breakfast was the delicious aromas of menudo, carnitas and freshly made tortillas de maiz from our local tortilleria on Whittier Blvd. My work is a humble way of keeping my ancestor's traditions, history and vision alive.

Las Vegas On The Potomac
By Richard Q. Russeth

The Las Vegas sun blazes apocolyptic sadness. We swim in pools filled with water that never fell from these cobalt skies. At night, it's a desert of castaways awaiting rescue under a neon sky powered by the death of faraway others. It's the last place to find the last thing you'll ever need. When dusk slithers onto the Strip, trading cards with photographs of nude women are handed out. Buy, trade or sell. Last week, the pit bosses at SCOTUS pooled their misogyny and bought a complete set of all 167,000,000 cards. They are betting no one will call them on it.

Go all in.

Richard Q. Russeth is a poet, baker, conjuror, photographer and Attorney. He is found on Instagram @rqrusseth and @slowmoonbakery. Also www.richardqrusseth.com

Triad Poem
By Ronald G. Carrillo

1. We reap as sowers

We inherit our actions

We manifest our consciousness

Our karma is alive and ever developing

Where there is regret and sorrow

There is also hope and opportunity

Growth is being truly human

Stagnation is indoctrination to the mainstream

The American dream is a scam

Magic beans a pyramid scheme

Keeping us enslaved and not fully awake

But in a dreamscape waiting for something to fulfill us

We are running after a fake prize

Like greyhounds chasing a mechanical lure

The goal to be in the chase but never realize a catch

Mass illusion like subliminal commercials

Like a paper constitution of deeply inspired words ONLY

Fourth of July celebrants waving a small red, white and blue

Flag of fifty stars built on the scars of slaves

Recall the plaintive voice of Frederick Douglass in 1852

“All men” did not include his people

Unalienable rights precious yet denied with chains and servitude

A false statue of liberty made of stone

Bleeding our hopes to the bone of injustice

But we keep running to be free all good Americans

Yet not realizing we are still enslaved and traumatized

We suffer at a DNA level waiting for freedom

We redline and build a wall at our southern border

The message is clear YOU are not welcome here

We seek happiness despite our inherent fixed system

We have public and private schools

We have a rich and poor caste system

For those who can pay to beat crime

And those that are unable to buy their justice

Divide and conquer over and over

This cancerous division is now in stage three

2. The lions of Daniel’s time

They invade my dreams but I am not injured

But I witness a violence and savagery to come

I fear the racial karma of this nation

Will bring terrible repercussions before we can heal

America is tearing herself apart unable to abide

By her own guiding doctrines of constitution for the nation

Her fringe diseased white supremacist half seeks blood

Rather than reason or any sort of compromise

Their eyes live in the past of Dixie, cotton and masters

Their gangrene of sin and evil

Are harbingers of death and disaster

3. Los Angeles downpour of tears

Her rain not restrained

Drought hearts constrained in democracy’s pain

Senate hearings while a nation comes apart

Loose gun control killings in the heartland

Inflation running rampant as sacred laws now repealed

Stage four of this cancerous death now deeply invasive

The White House, our capitol and the presidency itself polluted

The nation remains under predominantly white men’s control

Yet a fringe fanatical white citizenry fears full inclusion

For its becoming more populous brethren of color

Fear and fever spread like a pestilence of civil disobedience

The founding fathers were wealthy British plantation owners

This precedent set in motion future cracks in our constitution

America’s sorrow

Her decline rupturing from the inside of a corrupted history

Her founding principles although groundbreaking on paper

The blessings of liberty were rotted on the vine of exclusion

The constitutional wine of a more perfect union

Did not produce the fruits of justice and tranquility

That immigrant foundation that built her

Its immigrant diversity now a lightning rod

For division and ruin in her false fabric of democracy

Are her stars and stripes to be dispersed throughout the universe

A failure for a species that could not love one another

Coda: Red so much blood spilled

The nation’s crimes as tall and widespread

As her spectacular skyscrapers

Blue dishonor and disrespect of all our people

Democratic bruises of infidelity and injustice

White is not our skin color but rather our innocence

And hope in this still fledgling and faltering democracy

The brilliance and talent in this nation can revive liberty

Two centuries four decades and six years

We are still perfecting ourselves with all our faults

But with acquired knowledge and new skill sets

And hopes for the generations that can realize

Those constitutional ideals on paper and make them live

The River of Life - short screenplay - Synopsis:
Original short screenplay, based upon actual event, by Adrian Brooks Collins.
1998.

After the spirit Aaron visits his respective future parents; he consults with his guides on the astral for reincarnation final approval. Approval is denied for “unstable parental candidates” and this forces Aaron to invoke free will. Meanwhile his future mother Portia visits a psychic Magdah who relays a message from Aaron as being the spirit of her future child. Magdah also foretells of Portia meeting a man for companionship.

Once Portia meets this man, Gabriel, by “happenstance” she confides in him. When Portia conceives and Gabriel abdicates his paternal duties; Portia is forced to take drastic measures and terminate the pregnancy.

Magdah meets a depressed Portia in passing and delivers a message from Aaron, now safely returned to the astral. Aaron confirms he is fine and knew the chances weren’t in his favor, but that she should feel neither shame not guilt. This lifts Portia’s spirits. Later realizing his mistake Gabriel begs Portia for forgiveness and they rekindle their feelings for one another…

Adrian Brooks Collins Growing up in Idyllwild, CA. (1971-‘83) as a gay, mulatto, creative artist, pianist, inventor under the unfaltering gaze of mentally imbalanced mother was torture. I was denied formal education (including a full scholarship to Elliot Pope Preparatory) friends and social gatherings in order that I may ultimately serve only her. At fourteen, before entering a tumultuous year in foster care, I made a promise to my soul that come what may I would see my films realized.

I have attended four writing groups and two formal creative writing classes, sporadically over thirty years with the churning sense that something big would eventually erupt.

I’ve been a story teller since childhood and have completed three feature length screenplays; two true crime thrillers: The Carriage House and Idyllwild Under the Spirit of Tahquitz (JuntoBox Films 1st place contest winner 2013 - about my serial killer neighbor John Michael Hale “Cowboy Mike”) one family film* and one short screenplay (attached) since 1998.

To date I have two feature film screenplays optioned (budget $5M per) with Cineville of Santa Monica, the second based on my authored, illustrated and self published children’s book *Jamylah and the Giants. (Dragonflytotembooks.com) Chronic, extreme tinnitus has challenged me since 2010, though I prevail. The universe conspires to support our endeavors.

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 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 and Zweet Café in Eagle Rock. 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

https://thehollywoodtimes.today/20-years-left-new-show-performance-poetry-music/

20 Years Left youtube live stream 2/19/22

https://youtu.be/GT1D5k2EeKU

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

https://shoutoutla.com/meet-linda-kaye-poet-theatrical-poetry-producer-retired-social-worker-and-professor/

June Poet's Place! I See Summer! I See Summer!!

June 05, 2022

POETS PLACE
June Edition 2022

So here we are at the start of Summer. Looks like it will be a hot one. One of the ideas for this months column was to reflect on how one curates happiness. Lately, we have been in a constant state of stress with the spate of gun violence producing tragedies and lotsa death left and right. So, how do we continue to curate our happiness in the depths of despair?? Or, maybe you/we are in a state of denial. Denial can sometimes be a healthy form of getting through the day. How I curate happiness for myself is simple: 1. maintain daily relaxation practices 2. deep breathe often 3. love and accept myself 4. always dress up 5. organize and prioritize 6. don’t weigh myself 7. shop and buy art 8. attend to my friendships 9. stay involved with artistic projects 10. garden.

Life is relatively simple. It’s you that makes it hard for yourself. There’s been a whole lot of somethings to emotionally deal with lately, so that nasty feeling of helplessness creeps in and fucks with our heads. If you know what calms you and makes you happy, channel that daily. Tape those words on your fridge or your computer and make those words your mantras. Narrow your world so you have a healthy bubble to keep you safe. If friends have not shown up for you, then kiss them goodbye with a loving hug and say vaya con Dios! We can choose who we want to spend our precious time with. Life is a gift, share it with those you love and who love you.

With Love, Linda

And now, stories and poetry from you xxxooo

The Slime In All Of It

By. R. S. Rocha
(1944-May 21, 2022)

In memorandum- this poem was sent by his loving friends, Joanne Payne and Marilyn Fuss, who also shared a poem in today’s column. It was his last poem- Ronald read many of his poems over the years at my poetry shows.

Skimming stones

Flying Drones

Ancient and the new

Shocking to the gods

The now has come askew

Mad man in the castle

Public minds wrestle

No logic from the

Bald red-comb-over

An immoral mind

In full disclosure

There’s a crime

In all of this

I can’t capture

The slime in all of it

Trying to stop the Tic Toc in the towers

China wouldn’t give him

Golden showers

Campaign filled with glitches

He’s just another

One of Putin’s bitches

Rise up

Stop the rising tide

Help the nation stay alive

Punch a wooden spike through it

Put an end to the four-year violence

Put an end to it with a mallet

We can kill him with the ballot

Ronald Stephen Rocha, known to his family and close friends as Dusty, was a loving, passionate father, husband, writer, poet, and civil rights activist who passed—somewhat unexpectedly—on May 21, 2022 at age 77.

Ronald was boisterous, outspoken, loved to laugh, and never gave anything less than the entirely of his effort. His hobbies became passions and his passions became obsessions.

He was born in Los Angeles to Victor and Margherita Rocha in 1944, the youngest of their four children. His father was drafted before he was born and was killed in the war shortly thereafter. Having never met his father left an indelible mark on him, which would lead him on a quest through France and Luxembourg where he would discover secrets about his father’s final days.

As a career, Ronald worked as a peace officer. A Mexican American, he found himself passed over for promotions in favor of white candidates leading him to sue—and win—two consecutive lawsuits against the Marshals Department where he retired as a lieutenant. Along the way he became actively involved in civil rights groups where he rallied and made many lifelong friends.

Ronald’s greatest passion, however, was English, and it was always his goal to be remembered as a writer. As a masters student he devoured everything from Chaucer to Joyce to Bukowski, keen as ever to develop and hone his personal voice. Later in life he published several poems and wrote a novel based on his travels in Puebla, Mexico, which he was editing when he died.

Ronald is succeeded by Laurie, his wife of forty-five years, as well as his four children, Ingrid, Ronald Jr., Christian, and Daniel—all of whom love and miss him dearly

Looking back
By Linda Kaye

Looking back, remembering and reflecting in my old bedroom in the San Fernando Valley, circa 1960’s. Thinking, what did we know then? What could have determined the journeys taken

the doors opening

the hearts broken

the pain experienced

sour fruit ripening

stomachs churning

people always starring

family disappearing

skin peeling

At an age when the world is the size of your fist, you still dream big. Maybe it’s an unrealistic dream, or just a cloudy vision of something heroic, or just imagery of putting on some fancy lame’ pants and sparkly rhinestoned high heel shoes that allows a larger view of the world

Maybe just enjoy a puddle of creativity

a slice of love and acceptance

write a string of hits that nobody ever heard

Mental weather report
By Daniel Schack

There are lots of less true minds in this world now and lots more mindlessness.

The poet ,daniel schack can be seen on poetrysoup.com and his art on tumblr adanthemanworld.daniel schack is 57 and is a high school grad. With 3.5 years of college.peace.

INCUBUS
12-29,14
12:31 a.m.
By Mary Cheung

It paces back and forth,
Locked, in a cage of bone and skin.
The Scent of lust and desire,
Passion and fire,

Obscures my thoughts.

I cannot think....
   my insides turned out,
Throbbing, hot, liquid,
   starts to seep out.

Feelings of yearning,
   and fragrant with desire..
An ache that lives,

   just below the surface and alive
     with a buzz.

My mind is blown,
    my vision lost,
In a haze
    of pale
      blue
        fire.

You burn me
   and yet I still,
      want,
         more.

The electricity,

the energy,

crackling on my skin.

I want to drink it,
   I want to roll in it,
     and drown,
        from within.

I drift to insanity knowing,
That a single breath from you,
will push me over the edge,

Wanting, waiting...
   I'm left holding,
     my breath .

It scares me ,
and it should ,
The things you inspire in
   me.

I just want to be consumed by it,
and burned
by
your fire

Our Hearts in Crisis
By Ronald G.Carrillo

Our hearts in crisis

Held hostage from maniacal devices

And Americans who’ve lost their way

Exchanging hearts for guns

Why must there be one number one superpower

That country will only have a limited time in the sun

A brief period then be replaced by another

Then another with possible wars and countless casualties

This system is outmoded and no longer serves our humanity

Why not unite our global strength for the common good

Of all the world’s people – a global village of intent

This intra-species warring is primitive

Why are we historically destroying one another

It is idiocy and counterproductive for moving us forward

It is not red, white and blue, Russian bear or Communist China

We must recognize we are but one race not warring tribes

John Lennon planted the seed for us to Imagine

That all we need is love for one another

Why not gather our best doctors, scientists, teachers

The best of the best to promote optimal human progress

No more the one percent with the lion’s share

No more wealthy elites

No more royals

No more Vatican wealth and pedophile priests

No more evil and greed hiding in the shadows of democracy

No more judgements of our cultural or racial differences

Development and maturity will rule the day

And the people are ready for the next level

The warmongers, the brutes, the bullies

Will die out and become extinct

What are we waiting for

It is time to pull together

It is time for the people to unite

And demand all world leaders to think globally

World class education, health care for all citizens

Financial support for cutting edge medicine and science

Technology for all people and updated infrastructure for all nations

Global thinking for global problems

A collective governmental form of leadership

Using our best and brightest for living standards of the highest order

Our hearts in crisis beyond the blue

Guns sounding their vengeful dues

And blood dripping from their barrels of insanity

Draining us the bystanders of our humanity

We must rid ourselves of a master servant mentality

No more slave species and supposed elite rulers dominating

Why are we held in this constant state of fear

Most of that fear owned by those unwilling to relinquish any power

The royals, the super wealthy, the blue bloods

With a self-entitled elitist complex of hoarding

There is plenty of good China dishes and silverware to go round

Conflict with neighbors and the West leading the way

Uncle Sam’s hands are not clean and the democratic republic

Cannot hold its crooked course of playing dirty world cop

Compromise and sharing this planet’s resources is possible

No more dictatorial thugs

No more democrats and republican infighting for scraps

While the masses are held in economic slavery

Slaves to our 8 to 5 jobs

Slaves to our mortgages and interest rates

Slaves to our credit cards

Slaves to student debt

Slaves to addiction

Slaves to apathy

Slaves to guns

Slaves to public murder

Slaves to republicans and democrats

Time to clean house again

The Spirit of 1776 stirring in the red, white and blue

Air of freedom releasing a second independent breeze

Our hearts in crisis beyond the blue

Murders being treated like the flu

Not subdued just another obstacle on our plates of apathy

Discontent and tears spent then lives forgotten

Round and round we spin like dead leaves in the wind

These hearts unable to heal

The heartless seats of power lacking the will

To show normal heart beats

Remembering the horror of Uvalde, Texas May 24, 2022

Poem
By G. Billie Quijano

The burglary of children's souls

Raging gun owners, unwhole

The weight of life

Seized in seconds

Enveloped in your strife

This unbearable grief

Will not erase our dreams

Tears flow in rivers and streams

You pray on the altar of AR-15's

Your response was obscene

Sanctuary of schools

Disrupted by gunfire

Countless acts of evil will backfire

Your villainous hearts

The void of consciousness

Leaves blood on your hands

Non violence is the counter plan

Laughter and glee never to be heard

Their innocent voices

Your concern is so absurd

Today they will not dance

They will not sing

Not looking forward to wearing that ring

Stories will be memories

Kissing the waves and the seas

On this earth their imaginations will never soar

Our babies in the cosmos free to explore

Answer me!!!

How many futures will be stolen?

Your guilt will never be free

We will move from darkness to light

You cannot hide your wrongs

Us, empowered with the fight

Well, how many more?

How many more?

G.Billie Quijano-Hija de East Los. Poeta. Artista. Bruja. Instigator of beauty. Love and peace for the children of Uvalde, Ukraine and Syria. Healing and light for the survivors. Ni Una Mas

Nutrition for the Baby in Me…
By:IE Carlo
18 June 2021

A baby, the most precious of life’s reward. Neutricain is not just food, it’s food for the entire being of a baby. A baby gives its bearers a will of continuance, it anchors the self of the bearer. It gives creativity of achievement to grow and gives the baby a model of which to grow with.

All this from a layman's point of reference. I am a man so my point of view is just that, but a point of view with awareness. I had a mother who lived to the age of 92. The last couple of years were a little difficult having to do with a fall on the hip that incapacitated her. Mother was an active woman, she’d mop the floor, clean the shutters, wash down the porch, bathe the dog, cook the meals, and watch novelas. She was funny, we’d sing songs, we’d dance, she’d tell dirty jokes.

I asked her about her childhood. She wrote me a letter telling me of this, her story: How she was a tomboy growing up. She’d like to climb trees, throw rocks, play marbles with the boys, and win all their marbles. You see, she wore no underpants, so of course they lost their minds, marbles and the will to win.

She liked a little gossip as well, maybe a lot of gossip! But in most cases it was with us at home, maybe she was protecting us from that that was happening around us?

She had but a six grade education, but she had great penmanship, read her newspaper, could add and subtract; taught me to read in Spanish, and stressed education, yet never participated; from what I can remember education was a sort of practice of ‘that’s on you’! Wrong? Who knows?

She told me of her romance with my father, how happy she was, and how much of a woman she felt when she got pregnant with me. She said she would sing all day long, rubbing her stomach, always aware of where she stepped. She was seventeen at the time. Strong woman she was, big gluteus maximus, 5’9” tall. Dark healthy brown skin. Eyes full, nose short, voluptuous lips, hair of that of a black woman. A woman of character, yet full of life and laughter. Serious? you didn’t want to know! Our home was always full of friends and family. Many of our family friends were gay, they were welcomed by all in the family.

She told me of my childhood, being the first born of the entire family. I was a star, lol. I asked her what she fed me as a baby. At the time of birth from what I know, there was a product called pablum. She said that was s--t. She’d take a green plantain, split it open, cut it into wedges and place it in the sun, then she’d place these dried wedges in the pilon (malet), pound it into powder, boil the milk of the goat, add a little sugar and feed it to me. Orange juice from the garden, papaya, viandas, mangos, bananas, all from the garden. Aside from the fact I was being fed from her breast until I was three years old.

So here I am today 79 years old. Like all of us at sometime or other we will feel our age and that of the consequences of our age. But one can’t allow oneself the luxury of giving into that of old age. Some may have all the genes of sickness in them, and that’s the way it just is! Others have a will to live on by way of routines, food intake and exercise.

I make things a little difficult for myself, which is the way I maintain a healthy attitude, and spirit. I place things up high that I may need, so I have to stretch to retrieve them. When I shower I reach down to my toes making me bend over. I walk to the supermarket, I walk to the post office. I walk to my favorite restaurant, or I walk the beach, yeah I’m one of the lucky ones, and give to beautiful dreams; and because of it I give myself the awareness of this beautiful life I lead. I’m sure that sometime in this existence things will change, I’ll deal with it as best I can when that time arrives. In the meantime I listen to, Chuck Mangione’s, “Land of Make Believe”, and the Average White Band, “If I ever Lose This Heaven'', the Four Tops, “Still Waters”, Louis Armstrong, “What a Wonderful World”, y El Gran Combo, “Las Hojas Blancas Siguen Callendo”. For now I’m taking a walk. Happy Fathers Day

Ismael (East) Carlo, poet, actor begins on the streets of East Harlem, el barrio whose monica of “East” happened due to others not being able to pronounce the name, Is-Ma-El…

East, considers himself more a storyteller than a poet, although at times he gets lucky and poetry emerges from his stories...

For more about East, visit IMDB. Paz en Vida

Prison Dad
By Jenni O

The first rule is “you never talk about family business,” which is another way of saying “snitches get stitches”.

I could not have been older than 12 years old and it was a school night and I was out with my parents and my father's friends at a restaurant. I was the only kid, as always, at these dinners. The TV and the school tell you, “don’t get in the car with a drunk driver” and to get help when situations like this arise. All his boys were telling him not to drive, but no one would take away his keys. That’s how it always went. I told my mom the enforcer, if I had to get in the car, I would call for help. She told my dad the shot caller, then the shanks from him and her came out. I still see that phone booth phone in my head and thought about what all the repercussions would be, if I challenged to commit that ultimate offense and be a rat. I looked at the waiters and other people around me that could help and guard me protect me because they could see this guy was going crazy.

I had broken the first rule and I would have to wait to get to the confines of our home to receive my punishment. I don’t remember the drive back, but I know it was frightening. As soon as the clank of the front door closed the screaming started. I was now on their turf and I would have to try to fight back because this was where I would be confined since birth. I wasn’t in a position of command and but I tried to argue back because I was a favorite child of my fathers and my brothers never had to go to these things and were at their friend's house getting in their visitations. I wasn’t allowed visitations to other homes with kids and I had always been supervised.

I don’t know what I said, but it pissed off the shot caller and I knew he was coming after me. I ran to my room fast, and tried to close my door with him fast behind me.

My dad now was the Enforcer and my mom was now a victim. She was crying and yelling on the other side of the house which she confined herself to. I didn’t get the door fully closed when my dad used his physically fit 230 6 ft body to push the door open. I used my body with my feet against a column that was between me and the door to try and push him and the door closed.

His voice changed in to a childlike voice and said “little mommy let me in” as he pushed his head and hands between the door and the door closing. I could see his face. His eyes were red and with bulging out. I screamed for help, that I knew would not come.

“I love you little mommy. Why are you doing this?” he said.

This was a different face on him and I had seen all his faces. This face was not one that was going to punish me with a fist but most likely his dick. His hands grabbing at me while talking in that childlike voice and his eyes looking at me like I was a meal. My mom had told me he had raped someone before and she got him off, but that was when he was in his 20’s. I continued to scream for help and he continued to talk to me in that childlike voice and push the door open.

“Little mommy, why are you doing this to me?’

I was strong for a little girl and was able to get his head, arms and hands out from being wedged between the door. He turned the door knob so I could lock it, but I was faster. When I heard the clink of the lock, I still kept pushing the door shut in fear. The enforcer came crying and took him back to his side of the cell.

Jennifer Guillermina Otero Aka Jenni "O" is 43 years old and a native of North-East Los Angeles, where she still resides with her mother and boyfriend. She has a degree in psychology and the culinary arts and is a certified life coach. Her hobbies include photography, videography, creative writing, dancing, and making people laugh. She is an Ex Jehovahs Witness activist and has the largest Ex Jehovahs Witness only Support Group in the world. Currently, she is making a webzine for her brand, Punk Slut as well as writing her memoirs.

For LA Art Magazine
1973—Los Angeles had the First Legal Gay Pride Parade
A true story based on the book:
MORRIS KIGHT - HUMANIST, LIBERATIONIST, FANTABULIST: A Story of Gay Rights and Gay Wrongs (Process Media/Feral House)
By Mary Ann Cherry

1970 was a time when homosexuals would be criminalized if they walked down the street holding hands. Meanwhile, in Los Angeles, three men who had nothing in common except their deviant sexual secrets decided to have a parade.

It was an inconceivable undertaking. It was also very dangerous.

An irrepressible ringmaster, Morris Kight was already 50 years old when he and his friend Bob Humphries, a few years older and an unapologetic hedonist with an insatiable appetite for boys, booze, and gambling (in no specific order) decided to have a parade. They invited Reverend Troy Perry, the handsome 30 year old ordained Baptist preacher who wore a priest’s collar and commanded respect. They agreed that the parade had to be legal. It had to be legal to advance the validity of the homosexual existence.

They began to organize a gay themed parade called Christopher Street West, all the while still doing their other works for gay liberation. Kight was a busy antiwar activist and ran an underground bail fund and a not-for-fee counseling for gay runaways and rejects. Humphries founded and ran the United States Mission and the Church of the Androgyny. Perry was already a busy activist as well as founding the Metropolitan Community Church, a gay affirming ministry that was growing quickly. Between the three of them, they certainly had the makings of a grand parade.

Kight filled out the parade permit application and Humphries paid the $50 fee. Immediately alarms went off throughout the police department. All the principals listed on the application (Kight, Perry, Humphries) were summoned to a hearing before the police commissioner. Troy Perry, in his priest’s collar and speaking his smooth southern drawl, stood before the commission, representing the gay community After some grandstanding on both sides, the commission decided to grant the permit with a few onerous restrictions including a $1,500 bond to cover the cost of additional police officers and liability insurance to cover property damage in the inevitable riot that would ensue in event of a gay parade.

The ACLU was called and a restraining order was filed against the LAPD.

Plans for the parade continued. Flyers, posters, and press notices went out - always stressing “peaceful and nonviolent.” Tulle was being cut, pounds of confetti were being purchased, and large banners were printed. People were coming from out of town and costumes and floats were being constructed. Legal or not, something would happen on Hollywood Boulevard on June 28.

Opposition to the parade wasn’t just from outside the nascent gay community. Kight received death threats. Many gay people felt safe in the closet, they were convinced that they’d be beaten or killed if they marched in a parade.

Finally, two days before the scheduled parade, the California Superior Court heard the case. The judge was appalled at the Los Angeles Police Department and cited the obvious constitutional guarantee of freedom of expression. He ordered the parade permit be issued without conditions. “These are citizens,” the judge said, “they are tax payers and they don’t have to pay extra money to have a parade. I don’t care if you have to call out the National Guard, you are to protect these people. They can have their parade.”

And what a parade it was.

When the story of twentieth-century heroes is written, let the people who marched down Hollywood Boulevard in the first Gay Pride parade be remembered. No one knew what to expect when the metaphorical closet door was blown off the hinges. It could have been a riot or worse.

The afternoon of June 28, 1970 did not disappoint. 1800 participants and 35,000 spectators peacefully followed a prescribed parade route.

From the beginning, there was nothing sedate about gay lib. Floats and marchers were wild, dramatic, humorous, unapologetic and a bit irreverent. There was a woman on a horse, a Tarzan with a five-foot boa constrictor, a raccoon and a monkey, two men walked sheepdogs and carried a sign that read, “Not all of us walk poodles.” A few duchesses, butch types, leather-clad motorcyclists, and quite a few “transvestites,” the press reported. There was a “Homosexuals for Ronald Reagan” float and another, “Heterosexuals for Homosexual Freedom.” And then there was a supersized Vaseline jar (the following year this was accompanied by an oversized “cockapillar”).

It was a historical march, starting at McCadden Place and moved east on Hollywood Boulevard and then south on Vine. It changed the course of history. The LAPD was ready for a riot. Instead they got a traffic jam.

The parade ended at Selma and spilled into an impromptu mingling in the street, a bit of disorder, pandemonium, sweet frenzy and excitement, a “mill-in,” the hippies would call it.

Even the biggest naysayers had to concede that the parade was “electrifying.”

Every year since then, with the exception of 1973 and Covid cancellations, there has been a legal parade and celebration of Gay Pride. Now Pride is celebrated in every major city in the world and many towns off-the-beaten-trail. No matter where, every Gay parade is bright, fun, and a bit wild.

And most importantly, it is always nonviolent.

Happy Pride Month!

In celebration of GAY PRIDE MONTH, get your copy of the biography of gay-rights trailblazer, Morris Kight, co-founder of Gay Pride.

There will be a reading and book signing of the biography: MORRIS KIGHT - HUMANIST, LIBERATIONIST, FANTABULIST: A Story of Gay Rights and Gay Wrongs (Process Media/Feral House)

Thursday, June 23, 2022, from 6:00-8:00pm at Small World Books in Venice 1407 Ocean Front Walk, Venice, CA 90291.

For more information call (310) 399-2360 or visit https://maryanncherrywriter.com.

Mary Ann Cherry has a wide-ranging background which includes television and film production as well as creating and maintaining the historical archives for the AIDS Healthcare Foundation. Cherry befriended Morris Kight during his last decade and with his blessing, she began researching and writing his biography. The Mary Ann Cherry Collection in ONE Archives at the USC Libraries includes all the Kight research and ancillary materials.

The first gay demonstration in Los Angeles (Jim Hansen and Morris Kight outside of Barney's).

1970, the first Christopher Street West parade down Hollywood Blvd, co-founder Bob Humphries and Morris Kight (also co-founded by Rev. Troy Perry, not pictured).

MANHUNT
--by Amy Fogerson
April 2, 2021

Helicopters circle overhead

So close they rattle the windows.

Sirens crescendo and diminuendo

As police cars circle the block.

A text from our building management

Reports a gunman in a nearby apartment

Two blocks away.

I imagine him stuck in the stairwell,

Whatever anger or fear or hunger

That caused him to take a gun

And wield it to achieve some aim

Now overwhelmed by the knowledge

That he is the subject of a manhunt.

Surely he knows he will be caught,

That this bad day can only get worse,

That his decision has started a cascading

Series of actions and events

That will change his life forever.

If a bird flew from my balcony to that building

It would cross 2 swimming pools, a tennis court,

And a lushly landscaped courtyard.

An oasis of calm in this urban center.

Not so calm now,

As the whirring blades drown out the birdsong,

The sound of one neighbor swimming laps,

And another neighbor practicing Rachmaninoff

On her grand piano.

And I imagine that man,

His heart pounding so loudly

He can barely hear the helicopters.

I imagine his thoughts racing

As he wonders how he got to this place,

Which moment of this day was the one

Where a choice he made turned his future

Into something frightening and violent.

I imagine the hopelessness he must feel

Knowing that the only choices he has now

Are bad ones.

Knowing that he is alone in that stairwell

With no one to help him.

That he has written the next chapter

Of a book he doesn’t want to read.

I wonder whether,

If he had had access to a swimming pool

Or the ability to lose himself in Rachmaninoff

Or even a moment hearing the singing of birds,

He would be in that stairwell

Holding a gun

Waiting for the helicopters

And more guns.

Amy Fogerson has made her living as a classical and session singer for more than 30 years. In addition, she works part-time for Street Symphony, an organization that brings collaborative musical events to Los Angeles’ Skid Row and incarcerated communities. She has written poetry sporadically for years; the COVID-19 pandemic quarantine provided the time and mental space to focus more deeply on the art form.

Brief Flights
By
Marilyn Fuss
April, 2016

A trinity of wrens, one at each point, fled the cross on the church next door

to make way for the Regular, a crow who delighted us at that station--

the FOREVERMORE raven,

above the hammered tin backing of the Mission Revival pediment,

beside the spire thrown in for good measure by an eager architect,

over the composition shingles where Toby the cat cried himself silly for an hour once,

before he found his way down the graduated holy roofs

to storage shed and service counter,

preventing a call to the fireman.

A former teacher and go-fer, Marilyn Fuss has spent most of her life in Los Angeles, appreciating as many of its details as she can, and working to have a safe country to live in 2021.

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 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 and Zweet Café in Eagle Rock. 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

https://thehollywoodtimes.today/20-years-left-new-show-performance-poetry-music/

20 Years Left youtube live stream 2/19/22

https://youtu.be/GT1D5k2EeKU

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

https://shoutoutla.com/meet-linda-kaye-poet-theatrical-poetry-producer-retired-social-worker-and-professor/

May We Have Some Poetry Please. Poet's Place for May.

May 09, 2022

POETS PLACE

MAY 2022

It’a May! What’s in store for us in May of 2022? Well, for one thing, women are about to lose their rights to make decisions about whether they can safely and legally receive abortions when a child is unwanted. Hard to imagine that we are being jettisoned back to those dark ages. So I just breathe deeply. There are just some things we have no control over. Literally. To our dismay.

On another note. Some interesting facts about the month of May: 1. The month May was named for Maia, the Greek goddess of fertility. 2. In any given year, no month ever begins or ends on the same day of the week as May does. 3. May's birthstone is the emerald which is emblematic of love and success. And 4. May was once considered a bad luck month to get married. Okay. So don’t get married in May, but if you do, don’t accidentally get pregnant because, some asshole, May tell you you have no rights to abort a fetus, that you have to carry the baby to term and then what?? Not the right time?? Too bad. Raise a child you are not equipped to take care of? Can’t afford? Was impregnated by a rape? Again, too bad. Can you imagine carrying a baby to term, spending 7-9 months caring for that baby and then relinquishing it to another? How distressing and challenging that whole experience puts on an individual?? Just having an abortion in the initial stages of gestation is hyper emotional and devastating enough, let alone giving up a full term human being. I have witnessed and assisted many women in my social work career, mostly young, often teens trying to make up their young minds to give away their babies. Some nurses and doctors will shame them in the obstetrics units telling them how horrible they are for not accepting “GODS child” when all they did was to have made the mistake of having unprotected sex and getting pregnant. Their future lives teetering on that ignorant mistake. I have counseled countless women and teens about their options and choices. Now what are the social workers going to say to the teenager whose father sexually molested her and now she is pregnant. Good luck with that??? It’s so fucked up.

And now some poetry …

Linda :0)

Pretty don’t mean happy
A soliloquy
By Linda Kaye

Pretty don’t mean happy

Pretty happy

Happy mostly

Pretty sometimes

Sometimes not too happy although feeling pretty helps to feel good

Feeling good is key

Having a key is freedom

Freedom to feel pretty is key

Pretty don’t mean happy

Pretty happy

Pretty sometimes and

happy mostly

is key

Human Capital?
By Randi Lavik

I had been wondering about whatever this HR/AI/Corporate Global Conglomerate Metadata Newspeak term meant for a few months now, and was seriously afraid to look it up. For the purposes of this piece, and more importantly, as a means to educate and inform my fellow beloved Angelenos…

…you know, #Science!

The Oxford Dictionary definition is cited below:

Human Capital

hu·man cap·i·tal

/ˈ(h)yo͞omən ˈkapədl/

noun

“The skills, knowledge, and experience possessed by an individual or population, viewed in terms of their value or cost to an organization or country.”

Oh boy. Worse than I thought. Worse than ‘Monetization’ even.

Let’s see how we rate, hmm? I love a Quiz! I’ll start…

Skills: Nervy. I make a lot of people happy by sharing musical joy.

I’ve saved two lives?

Knowledge: TMI. Be careful what you wish for, Sis.

So many showbiz biographies. So much schooling. So much information disseminated.

Curiosity literally almost killed this kittycat, four times, at least. Connections, achievements, trivia, disappointments, facts, lyrics, lies, loss, relationships, stacked in cabinets full of files in a massive file room in my noggin, keeping me up nightly.

I was almost a Librarian. I can’t pick up a book and relax ever since.

Kids sprouted and blooming, doggie happy, so these days I think about work 24/7.

Experience: It got me here, for better or worse?

Stupidly cared and trusted mediocre men, in the name of love.

Gratitude keeps me going.

Value: Subjective; constant debate, both internally and externally.

[Extra Credit: Part A: Value System

Short Answer: Quite different than most, whew! It sure ain’t monetization].

Cost: Everything. More than. Be careful what you wish for Sis, Part II.

Organization: Designated family fuckup.

Country: It’s one hot mess. I love it like family. I long to love it from a distance too.

Volunteer/Writer/Supporter of The Arts/Humanist Randi Lavik was born in Inglewood, raised in West LA and Downey, and once got a standing ovation in the Second City Writer’s Room, on the first day of class. She recently mouthed off to Conan O’Brien on Twitter, and made the South Korean news as a result. In addition, Lavik is a Spotify Presenter (BTS7 Podcast, Season 1, www.snippet.fm/shows/bts7) with Co-Host AAPI Activist Sylvia Park and a Volunteer FM Radio Producer and Host in Laguna Beach (The Drop, Friday Nights, www.kxfmradio.org).

A Sensible Conjecture
-- Stephen Buhler

Reflect we on the likelihood this day
Was born to us a child who would be styled
“Sweet swan of Avon” in his after years.
Alas! We know not with firm certainty
When William Shakespeare truly shuffled on
This mortal coil – the Stratford records note
“Gulielmus” (William) was so christenéd,
The son of one “Johannes Shakspere” (John),
On April twenty-sixth. Nativity
Into this solid flesh was no precise
Concern for either clerk or chronicle
Within the walls of Holy Trinity.
A later clerk, near Lincoln, Lancaster
(O Pioneers! with place names redolent
Of geographic Anglophilia),
Confesses that the twenty-third is but
A sensible conjecture, no plain fact
As far as when to celebrate Will’s day
In accents like the Bard’s and festivals
Of pomp, and triumph, and much reveling.
E’en so: by Harry, England, and Saint George
(Whose feast this fairly is) let us applaud
The inexhaustibility of Will,
Whose date of birth must needs remain, much like
His plays and poems, open to surmise.

Stephen Buhler teaches at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln and performs with the Americana-and-More group Tupelo Springfield.

The Rape of a Tear…
By G. Billie Quijano

I once lost my soul in the moon

The conscious rhythm of the conscious crime

Against my unconscious thigh

His swell did not make me swoon

My little hands grasping for the moon

I was so young

My praises had not yet been sung

Azul caressed my thoughts

That prepared my slumber and dreams

How easy those clouds moved

What do these words mean?

Depression comes and goes

How do I slow down the flow?

I am restless

But nevertheless

I survived

My life revived

My am the divine design

I am glitter and dust from the bones before me

I glide between the raindrops and the trees

My flor is in revolution

Fearlessness is the solution

The universe has a plan

So I need to take a stand

There's no bullshit here

When lipstick wasn't enough

Joy started showing up

My heart, my rage, my tears

All of it taking a knee

My soul, my spirit refuses to exist in fear

Now my heart explodes with glee

Warriors truth will prevail

Oceans of poetry

Imagination will not stale

No more raping of tears

Patriarchy is extinguished

There's no way around it, you will hear

G. Billie Quijano-Hija de East Los. Poeta, Mestiza, artista, instigator of beauty.

LET GO
3-29-22
8:13a.m
By Mary Cheung

Let go, let go

Release the hands you've held onto since birth.

Let go, let go,

Of the breathe you are holding in anticipation of your up coming lost.

Make room, make room ,

In you heart to expand from joy of hearing bout her daily adventures soon..

Just trust, just trust,

That they'll remember all that you've taught them and more.

Accept, accept,

That as sure as the rising sun and nightly moon...

Change is coming

Just breathe, just breathe..

You'll adapt and become something else soon.

Graffiti Street Verse
By Ronald G. Carrillo

Stop greed and violence in all politicians

Raid the Vatican to solve homelessness

Open the Vatican archives to the people

Where are the giant skeletons

Inter-dimensional beings mingling with Earthlings

Deals made Mafia style US Congress

Hatfields/McCoys – Capulets/Montague's – Democrats/Republicans

The slave/master mindset still in our fossil record

Cruelty condemned to be a fool/Kind and refined in the sunshine

Greedy from a seedy pool of fools

Violence violates to the highest degree

Self-actualized verbalized conceptualized

The garden breathes – Smell her aroma

Civilization has evolved technologically but remains savage

I am strong and grateful in kindness

Put-in Put-OUT

No effort to mask the insanity of DC during COVID-19

Elevate the global consciousness – you’re next!

Purify your being in mind and heart – STOP all Killing that is the true path but not religion.

Manhood blooming on a street corner in Glendale

The heat of desire only memory now extinguished

He was erect but hardly hard

Hurry down – Surrey- picnic – gospel – learning Nyro dialect!

The common man only a slave species – awaken!

Your enigma has haunted me purple figure of my innocence

D.C. & NYC are America’s Sodom and Gomorrah

Put-in/Bi-den/Jin-Ping no harmony – these dudes can’t sing!

Remove this cup from me: I have lost faith in prophets, Popes and politicians

Divide and conquer utilizing fear and religion

Religion is not God but collective control through FEAR!

Jesus was a great achievement of deceit

Do right by the people American Congress

Poets are natural observers of their environments not watching the birds but their own species

Pieces of your heart in places in my heart

A lone thought suspended in a sunbeam

Climate deniers will have a special place in hell -

they will burn with their oil

Capitalists’ priorities will ALWAYS be money first

EVEN at the cost of human life

Capitalist money can buy off CongressMEN!

Shame on Exxon for not doing the right thing!

Science versus capitalism no contest – Science will lose!

Creating doubt when scientific fact and data are becoming even more certain that is how insane capitalism is becoming.

Truth and the people lose against Big Corporate Money!

We will choke on Koch propaganda!

Save the planet NOW – Protect the grid

Five decades on phantom fairies imprint hearts and minds

The impact of Nyro a musical landslide of emotion and song

Orgiastic plastic addicts drowning in drastic fanatical behavior

FREE energy now

Cancer free America from politics to health

Immigrants have ALWAYS been the fertile soil of growth and invention

The more I learn about our history the more I am appalled

The news should have a daily report of spontaneous kindness

A Man of Quality Must
Un Hombre de Calidad
By:IE Carlo
16 April 2019

A man of quality must have

had and read books

Add that to the beating of the heart, wepa

Un hombre de calidad

Ha tenido y leído libros

Añada eso a el ritmo del corazón, wepa

A man of quality

Has friends

Now there’s a song for many

Un hombre de calidad

Tiene amigos

Ah! Ahí hay una canción para muchos

A man of quality

Loves music while standing still

Un hombre de calidad

Goza la música estando quieto

A man of quality

Has curiosity

Not using one's brain is a terrible thing to waste

Un hombre de calidad Tiene curiosidad

No usando el cerebro sería un gasto terrible

A man of quality

Has patience in all things human and beyond

Un hombre de calidad

Tiene paciencia en todas cosas humanas y más allá

A man of quality

Has integrity since it's not that difficult, being its yours for the asking

Un hombre de calidad

Tiene integridad

No es difícil, ya que es de usted solamente por preguntar

A man of quality

Has empathy for others since it's so very human

Un hombre de calidad

Tiene empatía por otros, ya que es tan humano

A man of quality

Being loyal is caring for others beyond their ability to loyalty

Un hombre de calidad

Es leal y bondadoso más allá de la habilidad de otros serlo

A man of quality

Having a conscience opens the path to recreate all things now and in the future

Un hombre de calidad

Tener una conciencia abre caminos para recrear todas las cosas ahora y en el futuro

A man of quality

Having courage does not mean to fight but to know when not to fight

Un hombre de calidad

Tiene valor, no de pelear, sino saber cuando no pelear

A man of quality

Has manners that makes the meal taste much better

Un hombre de calidad

Tiene modales que, hace la cena mucho más agradable

A man of quality

Has respect to all things present

Un hombre de calidad

Tiene respeto por todo presente

A man of quality

Has character of the self

Un hombre de calidad

Tiene character de su persona

A man of quality

has morality

Un hombre de calidad

Tiene moralidad

A man of quality

Has compassion and loves animals

Un hombre de calidad

Tiene compasió

n y amor por los animales

And dances the mambo..

Y baila el mambo

Ismael (East) Carlo, poet, actor begins on the streets of East Harlem, el barrio whose monica of “East” happened due to others not being able to pronounce the name, Is-Ma-El…

East, considers himself more a storyteller than a poet, although at times he gets lucky and poetry emerges from his stories...

For more about East, visit IMDB. Paz en Vida

Thanks for joining us! We will continue to host writers and poets of all genres.

Love, Linda Kaye :0)

Please submit your written work to: lindakayepoetry@icloud.com and include a short bio.

Linda Kaye writes poetry, curates poetry, 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 and Zweet Café in Eagle Rock. 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

https://thehollywoodtimes.today/20-years-left-new-show-performance-poetry-music/

20 Years Left youtube live stream 2/19/22

https://youtu.be/GT1D5k2EeKU

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

https://shoutoutla.com/meet-linda-kaye-poet-theatrical-poetry-producer-retired-social-worker-and-professor/

April Poet's Place!

April 04, 2022

POETS PLACE

APRIL 2022

The slap heard around the world!!!! Yes. We are human beings with a wide spread array of human emotions, most often guilt, that can be triggered by a sense memory. Such as seeing a familiar dog on the street, which triggers a loss about the family dog who was lost in the woods on that last family outing, “who was supposed to watch her last?” Uncontrolled emotions can often spark irrational feelings and subsequent rash behaviors that scare the soul. And sometimes scare the bejesus out of others that are caught in their wrath path.They are reactionary. Many of us humans, act on our emotions before we have a chance to process what we just heard, or misheard, as an attack, an affront to our personhood. If Will Smith took a deep breath before he reacted violently to what he believed was an affront to his wife, he may have allowed his anger to sit still a moment. That momentary reflective breath, could have helped him to see things from a different perspective- But alas, too late. Life changed in that instant for him. If you have a gun in your hand, well…

And then there is this….

“The invasion of Ukraine has created a humanitarian disaster for its people, the entire world is facing the greatest threat in history: a large-scale nuclear war, capable of destroying our civilization and causing vast ecological damage across the Earth.” From the open letter by 16 Nobel laureates including the Dami Lama.

I have written in the past about the dangers of repression. How repressed thoughts and feelings become inflamed distorted toxic goo that can infiltrate the mind and cause reactionary behaviors. Um well.. Putin? What is he repressing? A friend of mine mentioned maybe he is a closeted homosexual? “Repression is a key concept of psychoanalysis, where it is understood as a defense mechanism that "ensures that what is unacceptable to the conscious mind, and would if recalled arouse anxiety, is prevented from entering into it." According to psychoanalytic theory, repression plays a major role in many mental illnesses, and in the psyche of the average person.” Wikipedia

And how does one deal with anxiety? Well that's a personal choice. Putin is expressing his anxiety through its worst form- violence directed towards others. Dictators need to release their inner toxic ideologies. Once a narcissist rises to power, as sadly exemplified by such notable dictators as Adolf Hitler, Mao Zedong (or Tse-tung), Josef Stalin, and Pol Pot, their fear of exposure rises to an extreme level of paranoia. They become driven by an irrational fear of the fate that could befall them if they are exposed as their worthless true self. Oh yeah. Linda :0)

And now, April poetry for the soul!

Killer within (for Putin)
By Linda Kaye
(first published in my chapbook Teetering on the edge of the emotional cliff)

Picture someone scary hidden inside your soul

a haunting creepy feeling

ghoulish sour and foul

afraid to delve too deep? unlock the monster that's asleep? Or lurks with unsavory peeps?

Open up the window reveal yourself behold unleash your killer instinct unmask uncloak be real!

Uncover that you're someone something scary

evil

don't squeal

imagine that you're someone

dark deceiving and stank

reviled reclusive repulsive allowed to kill to shank

to defile

to humiliate

and rape

No escape

A powerful thrill engulfs you

starving for some blood you realize you are manic

decompensating thoughts

searching for some action

some excitement horrifyingly distraught

an uncontrolled thirsting is gnawing through your bones

sentencing a ménage of mayhem

the remains covered in stones

that night a miracle happens you wake up all sweaty and hot

your hands sticky and wet

your head stained with guilt

the shame bubbles over like sloppy burning champagne

the dream disgusts and shatters you

your sleep forever disturbed

FIGHT
By Mary Cheung
2-9-2020
10:57 a.m

I write this for a friend who is battling cancer...

Your a fighter,

Armed with designer stylish clothes and fabulous shoes.

Your sly impish smile disarms your opponents .

They never saw you coming, yes that's true.

Your energy and spirit dominates.

They won't take you down without a fight.

Life's too precious ,

Nothing can hold you down,

Try as they might.

The dips and the lows,

Are eclipsed by the highs and it shows...

In the life that you've built and the love that

follows you.

You only need to reach farther than your phone.

When life deals you the blues.

Yes you're a fighter,

Don't let age slow you down.

Your spirit and will is stronger still.

Let love surround you in warmth all around.

Words n’ Wine
By lee boek

I took it in hand

As from the bottle wine took flight

Words flowed, and with a sponge

I soaked them up

And squeezed it tight

Into my glass

Swirled them

Drank them

Head swimming

Me Spinning ‘round

Still talking and writing them down.

Lee Boek: Artistic Director/poet

An integral part of Public Works Improvisational Theater Company since the 1970s, Lee took over as Artistic Director of the company in 2001 after founding member Marlene Rasnick’s passing. The California native, born in 1941, has had successful careers as a Fundamentalist Evangelist preacher, radio host, actor, writer, producer, union organizer, husband, father, grandfather to many & champion for the under-served & wronged. A staple of the Silverlake arts community, Lee continues to be on the forefront of accessible, socially-relevant performing arts productions

Thoughts
By Daniel Schack

Imagine a future where it is illegal to have a personality or a mind.

The poet ,daniel schack can be seen on poetrysoup.com and his art on tumblr adanthemanworld.daniel schack is 57 and is a high school grad. With 3.5 years of college.peace.

death on the set
By Jeff Chayette 6 January 2021

6/8 time

dime bags and lines

dressing guessing rooms

which dress to choose

whose blues to lose

cocaine down the drain
cops on set time for regrets

a happy shoot gets the boot

we squirm and yearn
for bill evans’s waltz bliss

jazz time 6/8 6/8 6/8

bouncing off the walls

lighting screams

dresses tear

breast are bare

that’s not it cover your tits

back to places remove the traces

catch your breath

take two is set drop the bets

no time for lines

this is the scene of a crime in time

we lost our youth in the corner booth

swing me low

drink me high

if the powder’s dry

we might stay high

and live through this night of gruesome

fight and decadence

repentants waits at heaven’s gate

your life’s at stake

you’ve got one take

save it for the movies

time to regroup

the meter’s running

time is money

producer screams

where’s that harlot starlet

nymphet left the set

caught the train uptown

has not come down

the lines are dead

bill evans riffed

debby’s waltz tripped the time to 4

closed the door shot up more

where’s the girl

set’s in a whirl

acting coach smoking roaches

strangely unconcerned

masking controlling craving pacing

tracing her last steps

a broken strand of time

he broke the rule

lost his case

she screamed molestation

next stop police station

he grabbed her throat

ripped her coat

police swarmed in played jungle gym

on his back held the gun against his neck

said move we’ll shoot dug in their boots

your life’s at stake

you’ve got one take

save it for the movies

Jeff Chayette has lived and loved for 4 decades in Los Angeles. A multi-faceted artist who attended Art Center College of Design In Pasadena, Jeff has worked on stage, television and films. His design work has been peer recognized with National and local Emmys, CBS Eye on Excellence and Promax BDA awards. His current poems are reflections on past and present life in Los Angeles through the eyes of the pandemic.

On Living
with Elizabeth Kubler Ross
for a Long Weekend
at The Atrium Hospital
In Middletown Ohio
By richard q russeth

It’s something,

this being alive;

a beating heart

cures all.

Waking in

the middle of the night

and realizing the nurse

is not an angel

is a sweet revelation.

Accepting today

as your entire life,

go for a walk,

even if slowly,

and dragging

your IV pole.

It’s spring,

but it won’t last,

just like anything.

Blues
By Ronald Carrillo

I have carried these blues with me since

I discovered him his male charms saying nothing

I did not understand their meaning

I gave them a depth of value they were not worth

Only believing his words and what I thought

I saw in his eyes and felt in my empty heart

Those empty arms of his and me falling apart

A false disguise I surmised was love and affection

I expected continuity he expected more of me

A young heart unable to find warmth

But instead being molded for sin

Like being given gin instead of mother’s milk

I vomited on the formula but accepted the sustenance

Given me in increments until I succumbed

Still sucking the thumb of my youth

I write with my heart

He knew my skin but not my name

A fool’s game looking for love

Not forsaking the fairytale

But innocence maturing a heart enduring

Those first steps of romantic Spring

There were bright seasons but then the flood

Of HIV/AIDS came to reset Gay Liberation

No more separation joining the mainstream

A rainbow dream come true

Awakening the nation to extend emancipation

Degrees of acceptance in the democratic pecking order

The liberal zeitgeist of America arising out of the trumpet smoke

The conservative right no longer having a chokehold on power

Will this new breeze of freedom be ephemeral or mind blowing

My gay blues tempered with age and experience

But remain like the weather

Now however I can forecast their temperatures and movements

More rainbows in my sky

More smiles of maturity in my heart

Gone the defiles of men of little substance

I have built up my resistance through loneliness

Men are no longer primary in my life

A primary life is my necessity and goal

In my past I was never whole now I am architecturally more complex

I will always welcome support and be supportive

I move forward despite the blues

Now I sing them away as distant memories

Of who I used to be for they no longer have a hold on me

I have released them

Blue notes ascending to the sky

No longer falling like rain

Coda: We all have to navigate loneliness

In senior time the pitfalls more precarious

Isolation may be darker and frigid

My heart more accepting while the mind more rigid

These fears of couple conformity

When my solitary emotions rule

Invade my private space still

I move in the security of my poetry

With an open heart and strong will

Is It Possible?
By Congapoet

IS IT POSSIBLE?

That your fear can destroy you

That your want can destroy you

That your greed can destroy you

That your ego can destroy you

IS IT POSSIBLE?

That living in bliss can destroy you

That being ignorant of history can destroy you

That lying to yourself and others can destroy you

That looking the other way can destroy you

IS IT POSSIBLE?

That being self-centered can destroy you

That not being yourself can destroy you

That not allowing others to be themselves can destroy you

That not caring about others can destroy you

IS IT POSSIBLE?

That not allowing freedom of speech can destroy you

That destroying other people can destroy you

That destroying your planet can destroy you

IS IT POSSIBLE?

That not allowing other possibilities can destroy you

Conga Poet Plays Congas. Jams with bands. Caught the tail end of the 60’s. A Revolutionary man. Started poetry in 2009. The drums mixed. The Conga Poet found his niche. 2 poetry CD’s.15 YouTube Conga Poet videos.You can Google Conga Poet!!!

Thanks for joining us! We will continue to host writers and poets of all genres.

Love, Linda Kaye :0)

Please submit your written work to:lindakayepoetry@icloud.com and include a short bio.

Linda Kaye writes poetry, curates poetry, 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 and Zweet Café in Eagle Rock. 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

https://thehollywoodtimes.today/20-years-left-new-show-performance-poetry-music/

https://youtu.be/GT1D5k2EeKU

20 Years Left youtube live stream 2/19/22

Linda Kaye is a native Angelino 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.

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

https://shoutoutla.com/meet-linda-kaye-poet-theatrical-poetry-producer-retired-social-worker-and-professor/

March Poet's Place - Spring Springs!!

March 05, 2022

POETS PLACE

March edition 2022

Here we are in March with madness still permeating the nation and the world!!! March also hosts mental health awareness month. How can we not be aware of our mental health, it smacks us daily in the face like a swarm of mosquitos gnawing at our face. The constant numbing of deliberate threats of war, purses and burns our throats as it leaves the sour taste of rotting fruit in our gullets, its course races as an inflamed piranha in one’s anus once it passes through the coiled tracts of the colon. This impending war resonates like an unpleasant culinary gastroenterological warfare in my gut. A frequent visitor pounding on my stomachs door. We are constantly victimized by the state of our country’s decisions, quelling our thoughts and tricking us to believe that we have a proactive president and an honest government that can and will lead us through this mire. Yeah, will they really protect us? It’s a calamitous diet of sick, unhealthy people serving the best interests of their people. Hey wait! I didn’t order that plate? In whose interests are they (?) really serving? It reeks of a putrid stink that we cannot get rid of no matter how many protests and chemical defoliants we use to strip them of their damaging devisions and decisions. They (?) march on like ants that refuse to be destroyed with the best chemical exterminates. As we continue to float in the vats of Republican formaldehyde concoctions to keep us alive while they destroy our world with climate denying rhetoric, we power on and fight the good fight, albeit blindly and without democratic control.Their wimpy supports allowing us to spiral down into the abyss of depression, clinging to the frayed ropes with our deployed feelings of helplessness. Gee whiz.

Linda :0)

And now…

FRANZ FERDINAND

MEET VLADIMIR PUTIN

By Richard Russeth

In drenching rains and rivers rising,

the angels of love retreat along the path

by which they’ve escaped before -

yet still returned in time to bloom spring.

But my heart tells my eyes

this way may be lost,

and panic begs for time.

Drums and fifes remember all the old scores,

but are never brought to account.

This is no new madness nor even history,

we’ve been in these trenches before.

A tsunami of extinction gathers

just beyond the horizon;

nothing’s so contagious as war.

The mistake is in thinking hell is heaven sent,

forgetting it is us who raise the revival tent;

Franz Ferdinand is preaching again

and any poor excuse

will suffice for salvation.

Gazing through February rains at the forest edge,

a small hope flickers in this morning darkness,

for not a despot alive will outlive

the hedges there waiting to bloom

or the sycamores standing with them,

framing the sunrise

for a hundred years

yet to come.

©NO HABLE ESPAÑAL

By: IE Carlo

29 May 2018

No hable español ni de agua en Flint Michigan

No hables del crimen ni de las atrocidades escolares ni tampoco de la sangre de los estudiantes murto por medio de los tiros al blanco

No hable de las calles de Chicago ni de negros desproporcionadamente matados por ser negro

No hables español porque si lo hablas eres un animal sin educación dicho por un presidente que no sabe quién es quién, ni de letras, ignorante y estúpido, criando disgustos por medio de ‘FAKE’ news

No hables español especialmente si tu piel es de color negro

Si eres negro y hablas otro idioma en este país eres considerado un elitista

Entonces, ¿cuál es el problema?

Una amiga lo puso en su propio respectivo:

“Son escrófulas monstros-humanos personas, sin conciencia, sin escrúpulos, de lo que es vivir una vida tranquila sin odio, sin maldad.”

Paz en Vida Amigos, Familia…

Ismael (East) Carlo, poet, actor begins on the streets of East Harlem, el barrio whose monica of “East” happened due to others not being able to pronounce the name, Is-Ma-El…

East, considers himself more a storyteller than a poet, although at times he gets lucky and poetry emerges from his stories...

For more about East, visit IMDB. Paz en Vida

WHO AM I?

By Mary Cheung

Who am I,

She’s forgotten that’s all.

Too much noise, distorting me

Now I can’t recall.

Deep down in my bones and rooted in my core.

Who I am, and the faith in myself,

This,

I must restore.

Lost my confidence from others influence.

Everyone telling me…

Who I should be and How, I should act.

Wearing down, my resistance.

Once upon a time I had dreams of my very own.

Unfettered by other voices.

The road was clear to me,

There was no other choices.

So Who am I now?

Do I even know ?

Pulled in every direction,

it’s gotten out of control.

If I can stop, the fear of acceptance.

The fear of approval..and needing your love.

Than I can burn through the fog surrounding me.

And kill all this negativity stuff.

I’ll have the chance to think..

What is my one life worth?

How should I live it before it all ends?

Maybe than I’ll finally remember.

Who I am …

And begin my life all over again.

Poem

By G. Billie Quijano

Love, respect and honor womyn in all of her universal form...

Her grace...

Her intellect...

Her beauty...

Her body...

Her poetry...

Her artistry...

Her Brujeria...

Her Feminism...

Her age...

Her vision...

Her warriorness...

Her sensuality...

Her allure...

Her Goddessness...

Her wisdom...

Her intuitiveness...

Her medicine...

Her cosmic energy...

Her clarity...

Her humor...

Her ruby red lips...

Her strength...

Her courage...

Her survival...

Her renaissance...

Her dignity...

Her meditation...

Her spirituality...

Her vivaciousness...

Her pride...

Her solidarity...

Her value...

Her sacredness...

Her playfulness...

Her voice...

Her love...

"I will have my voice:Indian, Spanish, White. I will have my serpent's tongue-My woman's voice, my sexual voice, my poet's voice. I will overcome the tradition of silence"-Gloria E. Anzaldua

As a poeta, I am a rhymer at heart. I love the rhythm of all styles of poetry. When I was a child, I was introduced to Ella Fitzgerald, Queen of Scat. It evolved into adoration for Al Jarreau. Jazz is pure poetry. The Last Poets created word vibration. It gave birth to Rap. Sor Juana Ines, Audre Lorde, Maya Angelou and Gloria Anzaldua, amongst others, helped form my journey into feminism and poetry. This month's submission will not have rhyming. Just wanted to be a provocateur of thought. In honor of mujeres all over the world, my words.

Poetry, peace, love and solidarity for our sisters and brothers in the Ukraine.

G. Billie Quijano-Hija de East Los. Poeta, Mestiza, artista, instigator of beauty.

Dan “Bone” Weinstein

17 November 2021 by Jeff Chayette

Daniel Bone king of the dixie trixie whiskey land

bong man bone man educated musical historian

yeshiva valedictorian Danny Boy Weinstein

never late to the gate and never straight
curly haired gravel voiced like Hot Lips Page

Danny swung to his own parade

whatever musical tricks were needed he delivered
his quill pen swathed the grand staff with dexterious craft

glorious harmonious notes arrangements without constraints

his musical mind on overdrive without a stop
until a dark skinned beauty whispered in his ear

a grace note

his equilibrium was knocked off it’s axis
he hovered at the foot of the stage tall and lean

high as usual nothing new for the rasta Jew

always puffed a few

hanging fly we don’t know why on this swinging night

Daniel Bone fell out of sight

tipped right over like a circus clown
and hit the deck like a drunken wreck.

love theme from Spartacus
birds swirling round Danny’s head

a Tex Avery looney toon

never got this high and tight
was mr dependable another expendable

he got a whiff of her perfume it filled the room
and brought him to like smelling salts

caramel sweet tones almond eyes and a smile bright
told Danny it’s OK tonight no shame on your fame Daddy-O

I’m your biggest fan slipped you up
tripped you up

so I could make you my butterfinger

take you home and we will linger

don’t worry bought that bump on your head
your lips were spared and all is squared

they love you dan now you’re my man

his head was spinning he liked them wild
but getting tripped up was not his style

he was in a trance that trombone in his pants

screamed dance dance dance

this lady bird has set the nest ready to put you to the test

tonight’s the night the script is written

an accidental fall on swing dance night
changed the course for Swinging Dan the family man

Jeff Chayette has lived and loved for 4 decades in Los Angeles.

A multi-faceted artist who attended Art Center College of Design In Pasadena, Jeff has worked on stage, television and films.

His design work has been peer recognized with National and local Emmys, CBS Eye on Excellence and Promax BDA awards.

His current poems are reflections on past and present life in Los Angeles through the eyes of the pandemic.

March Winds (in short verse)

By Ronald G. Carrillo

A. The gospel girl of Tendaberry

Windswept in her blues for a captain man

With tomcat feet leading her to confession

On the streets layered in holy pigeons

New York City was her musical religion

Where the firecrackers of her fury were set to song

Her Samson hair gave her a woman’s patience

During a Winter interlude of spicy romance

Fearless in love she took a slow train

During that season of cocaine

A lavender forecast until that whistle of her freedom blew

One child left to cradle and wash away her dormant blues

B. And what if it’s to be there are no arms around me

And what if it’s to be that love never finds me

What if my senior years are solitary

And what if it’s to be all illusionary

A big fairytale with a real ending

Sending me more into myself and my writing

Willing to share my artistic space

Still holding an Ace but waiting for a King

C. We are moving backwards

Once again becoming savages

Technological Neanderthals

Our advances have only pronounced our worst traits

Finding easier ways to kill and hone our greed

Survival of the fittest and gluttony of our ages

Despite a long history our priorities are primitive

Our glass ceiling is in the gutter

No wonder there was a flood

The human genome is flawed

Is there no God particle

Truly there is but the seats of power are occupied by asses

These donkey men are destroyers of this world

Wanting the lion’s share of everything

They swarm like locusts eating all of humanity’s harvest

D. Youth now in my rearview mirror

Middle age gone too soon

These senior days are my nirvana

But I find myself still waiting for you

Cruel Eros jilted blue skies of lies

Love stilted in the fairytale marshes of illusion

The muses of poetry rescue and settle me

Flirting with the world and growing

So comfortable in my senior skin

Every day a win-win

E. She is in her full bloom

The perfume of her femininity so fragrant

A young woman blossoming right before my eyes

Youth’s beauty so fair and alight

She is ripe like an apricot

She walks in Camelot

Her womanhood in perfect balance

Her grapes pulled from the vine of chastity

Her bouquet unique savory and sweet

F. Poets choose their words sometimes in absentia

Automatic writing appearing on their pages

Messages being received from the sages

Being the messenger is a gift and a spiritual lift to the soul

Laura sweet Tendaberry girl of gospel and heartache

Songs of desire that set my teenage imagination on fire

Songs of sorrow that were a warning of what might come

Surry and picnic as cherry blossoms flurry down

What kind of lover could he be

Simple but alluring like Stanley K

I could not resist his passion calls

Like Stella I fell while Belle Reve was lost

The spirit of Blanche flashed before me as I descended

Bringing me to my knees and losing my vision of heaven

G. When I look at your city skyline view

Even though I can see the gray of your sky

It’s the shine and radiance I see in your countenance

Your citadel beauty is young and angelic

Not like your decadent eastern sister of Manhattan

Her image looms large still but has been tainted

This nation’s good angels are at your beck and call

Her manifest destiny fulfills her continental family tree

From your Elysian fields in the east

Overlooking Chavez Ravine and Chinatown

Your music center complex and fountains

The stainless steel skin of your Disney Hall

Shimmering in the Los Angeles sunlight

Reflecting bright modern vogue architecture

And your west coast point of view

From surfer culture to gangland chic graffiti logos

That dot your city complexion

Like geographic exclamation points

That I can read and interpret like my own breath

City of my birth embrace your child

I continue to walk with you through your changes

My own rings can be related to your history

Big Aeroplanes

By Theodore A. Hoppe

There were dreams

that all had wings

I flew them like a kite

They came to me

in the evening

and left before daylight

the rest is complicated

so foggy and so dense

There is no house

no dog, no swing

No white picket fence

Between the sheets

the darkness

is everything I own

a tired lump of flesh

so naked and alone.

The dreams have turned

to memories

it's there that we still dance

I drink some wine

and smile...

fixed, as if in a trance

Yes, I do still think of you

every time it rains

every time I hear that song

or see big aeroplanes.

Theodore A. Hoppe enjoys life in Vermont beside a temperamental brook but has managed to spend a considerable amount of time in Los Angeles in the last ten years. When he is not sculpting the landscape one might find him practicing the piano, making art, or writing an occasional poem.

Just Before He Croaked

By Joe Kevany

I was there but didn't know it, just before he croaked

2 weeks earlier in his split-level unit

if his floor was any indication he was already turning into dust

We feasted on Gus' chicken as I squinted at the live action SC hoops

from his dad's old tv

Living trusts, Vanguards , and Wellingtons, annuity shamuity

We gotta game goin' on here !

Oh, thanks you most gracious host, I'll take you up on that orange Gatorade.

Indulge me as I rap 'Dear Santa'

I know you like when I say, ' I'm still your little soldier'.

But you are pure improv baby,

like the time you were jivin' with the Mamasan

I could see YOU drop the mic

Like those old Academy days at the University of North Vermont

when you paced those ancient hallways practicing your lines

Oh, landlord messin' with you again?

Tell me one more time and I'm gonna advocate 4 u Homie

cuz you gotta give people sheet music for their tonteria

and there's your sunroom to the right, at night

brimming with potential, an exercise bike ? some weights ?

no clue within 7 days you'd be slumped at that glass table

in what became an ad-hoc powder room

taking your final breath

like what's-his-name who wrote his first novel at the age of 78

I was there but didn't know it

just before he croaked

Dedicated to Ray Woodson ( 1960-2021 )

Born and raised in Los Angeles, Joe Kevany is a retired LAUSD teacher with a lovely wife and three kids. While primarily a songwriter and front man for his band The June Gloomers, this is his first venture into the wonderful world of poetry.

One word

By Daniel Schack

There is perhaps only one word that best describes the increasing decreasing and barbarically hypocritical absence of the truest reality of love in our present world. death.

The poet ,daniel schack can be seen on poetrysoup.com and his art on tumblr adanthemanworld.daniel schack is 57 and is a high school grad. With 3.5 years of college.peace.

Thanks for joining us! We will continue to host writers and poets of all genres.

Hang in there y’all!!!

Love, Linda Kaye :0)

Please submit your written work to:lindakayepoetry@icloud.com and include a short bio.

Linda Kaye writes poetry, curates poetry, 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 and Zweet Café in Eagle Rock. 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

https://thehollywoodtimes.today/20-years-left-new-show-performance-poetry-music/

https://youtu.be/GT1D5k2EeKU

20 Years Left youtube live stream 2/19/22

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

February Poet's Place!

February 07, 2022

POETS PLACE

FEBRUARY EDITION 2022

Gung Hay Fat Choy everyone! ‘Gung hay fat choy is how Cantonese speakers wish you a happy new year—literally "wishing you great happiness and prosperity." The two-week celebration includes family and friends, feasting and fireworks, parties and parades. For more than 3,000 years, Chinese New Year was just what it sounds like—the beginning of a new year in the Chinese calendar’. And, how are we all doing in this new year? Are we moving forward towards a more prosperous and happier way of thinking about our options? Have you created or thought about creating your 1, 2, or 5 year vision board? What’s that you say? Psychology Today states that “a vision board is usually a collage of images that represent goals and dreams. It can include cut-out pictures from magazines and words that help inspire you to manifest your dreams and get where you want to go”. Where do we want to go? Do we really know these days? With all the inconsistencies in our current state of affairs, the lockdowns, the fears of disease and illness, the right wingers of doom and deception, how can we really plan for a future? By practicing Mindfulness we can achieve our goals and bring peace to our hearts. “Mindfulness is the practice of purposely bringing one's attention in the present moment without evaluation, a skill one develops through meditation or other training. Mindfulness derives from sati, a significant element of Buddhist traditions, and is based on Zen, Vipassanā, and Tibetan meditation techniques. Though definitions and techniques of mindfulness are wide-ranging. Buddhist traditions explain what constitutes mindfulness such as how past, present and future moments arise and cease as momentary sense impressions and mental phenomena”. Wikipedia. So what are you we waiting for??!!! Let’s start practicing how to stay in the moment. Find your inner Chi (energy) and breathe! Let’s GO!!!!

This month we host an array of poets with profound words and wisdom. Powerful, awe inspiring.

Enjoy!!!

Love Linda :0)

The Lefts Mental Death

By Linda Kaye

It happened just yesterday

it's happening now

witnessing destruction of the human connection

the permission to sacrifice our respect across

the world scape horror scape landscape of hate

opening up Satan's den releasing armies of untamed racists

unleashed sociopathic misfits

now joyously accepted and lauded as good right fearless might

The left's mental death hiding between the sheets gutless bystanders

it's a mistrial anyone can shame

who's to blame?

Shadow & Reflection

By Theodore A. Hoppe

Sitting at the river's edge

looking at the reflections on the water as the summer passes.

The realization of how this reflection

is a part of the everything,

part of the sunlight,

part of the river,

part of the plants and trees.

It is always present in the space that exists

between where these things meet.

What we perceive in any moment is only a part of the whole,

a part of what we call 'real.'

Or how "in the sunbeam 90,000,000 miles long"

there is also a part that is the shadow.

Gravitas and Frontal Lobe

By: IE Carlo

13 March 2021

Seriousness and importance of manner, causing feelings of respect and trust in others

So in essence one must have gravitas in life

It defines one and gives order to life and success

Gravitas is the x-factor that makes the difference in all things personal: the weightier something is, the denser it is, the stronger the gravity...it’s an attractive force!

Some have it down to a science, think Martin Luther King

The frontal lobes: are important for voluntary movement, expressive language and for managing higher level executive functions. Executive functions refer to a collection of cognitive skills including the capacity to plan, organize, initiate, self-monitor and control one's responses in order to achieve a goal

These are rules that must be cultivated and achieved for survival in a world full of the unexpected by choice or circumstances. Sounds like a character in a movie script.

Abstract thinking is a major part of this function such as Theory of Mind and empathy, including moral cognition and behavior; the mind, self, and society are fundamentally intertwined (Mead, 1934).

Its meaning can not be understated. The range of its meaning is vast, but not complicated: Seriousness and importance of manner, causing feelings of respect and trust in others. Solemnity, dignity, importance, and having depth in personality.

Aristotle in a discourse (I imagine) said: humans are political animals.

I am personally aware of the responsibility I’ve achieved giving me gravitas. Understanding the system I live under as a Latino- Hispanic. I will now coin the word, Latino-Hispanic as a moniker of inclusion. Latino-Hispanic of the Americas; “LaHis” of the Americas. It has a good sound to it!

To all those with gravitas of mind I salute you...paz sin fin

Ismael (East) Carlo, poet, actor begins on the streets of East Harlem, el barrio whose monica of “East” happened due to others not being able to pronounce the name, Is-Ma-El…

East, considers himself more a storyteller than a poet, although at times he gets lucky and poetry emerges from his stories...

For more about East, visit IMDB. Paz en Vida

IS THIS WORSE THAN DRUNK DIALING?

10-1-2020

3:23 a.m.

By Mary Cheung

3:23 a.m. and my resolve is weak.

Is this worse than drunk dialing?

I want to text you and engage.

Our witty and at times confusing conversations.

Text is the forum,

The stage we had set.

For our banters,

work related and witty remarks.

Sometimes I didn't get your brand of humor.

But engaging you in person was harder.

I got distracted by your magnetism,

looks and charm.

It was a train that never went to the destination that I wanted,

And carrying on was just hopeless. Bittersweet and futile.

So I had to give you up,

like a bad habit.

And now as sleep eludes me;

I reach out with longing to connect with you again.

Cuz I wonder how you are,

and where you’ve been.

And how you could've let me go without even delving in.

I was tormented by not knowing what our future could've been.

And the wanting,

for something to happen that would never come to be.

Strung out on you until I finally kicked it.

Accepted it was not meant to be.

All these months....

I was finally able to set free.

Disengage you from my life,

Cut you from my psyche.

But here I am and everything looks difference to me

At 3:23 a.m. you see.

Blinded by my wants and desires.

Logic and reasoning has been tossed aside,

kicked to the curb!

I find myself reaching for my phone...

to do what?

All I know is that I just want to reach out and touch you,

In the only way I know how.

Indecision leads to doubt,

doubt turns to confusion as to what I would even say.

I consider the words to write.

Then erase them in my mind.

I consider if it would be weird asking how you are and just saying "Hi".

I consider the time of day.

And thank goodness,

3:23 am just doesn't seem like a rational time to text you without seeming like a psycho.

I silently thank the early morning for saving me from making an ass of myself…….

Oda a Bell

By G. Billie Quijano

There is a mystery in the nucleus of a cell

In 1952, there was born a genius, Bell

She invited me to join the "Sisters of the Yam"

"Ain't I a woman", well si, I am

"All about Love", I am the divine design

I am an accidental bruja, there are eternal signs

My "Wounds of Passion" may subside

But they refuse to hide

"Killing Rage", keeps turning the page

There's life to re-arrange

Feminist palabras cause cosmic wavelength

We are unified in our strength

My poetry a vibration

Your wisdom touched a nation

"When Angels Speak of Love"

They sing your praises from above

Your brilliance fuels the sun

Because of you we all rise

Bell you "Rock My Soul"

I honor the journey of becoming whole

When it is all said and done

"We Real Cool"

Gracias for my initiation into your school

"I will not have my life narrowed down. I will not bow down to somebody else's whim or to someone else's ignorance"-Bell Hooks

G.Billie Quijano-Poeta, artista, instigator of beauty. Hija de East Los. Global citizen

"DEMO-CRAZY IN THE USA”

By Unitsi Ai, aka Austin Musick

What's the point? I thought.

What I write or wrote, years ago as I sit there thinking that life's a joke

And maybe it's better I die before going broke or worse

that glacier slides into the sea causing the tsunami that may just be

that final end, when the earth decides its us humans

turn to play the role of the dinosaurs.

As we ignore the fact that another election has come and gone

But nothings really changed except the faces in the charade of today's show

titled "Wag the Dog."

I've grown so tired of having to pick the lesser of two evils

When neither party truly has a plan in place for amends to make up

to men, women, and children that this so-called "free land" was built on the backs of.

"We gotta fight for our right..."

Two Parties both playing with our minds

Everything hashtagged and subsidized with their personal propaganda.

Meanwhile, step right up, line up here for the new Meta Verse my ignorant dears

We are here to interrupt this program to corrupt you with the newest distraction

of a new world attraction where you can level up via airwaves of satellite

All while Big Brother Corp calculates another way to infiltrate our subconscious minds

and score with each "please pause for advertising" ah but, wait!

There's still more!

Because while we're sure to be swooning in this pixel perfected lure of the new paradise

No one will remember to wonder "What's going on?" out there in the REAL outside

as we're too busy buying more, and more from the store of the fabricated reality of a society

that is based on nothing but take and no longer giving.

Unitsi Ai, aka Austin Musick, is a singer/songwriter, poet, writer, and actor living in the Los Angeles area with her daughter, two dogs, two cats and rabbit. She hosts a monthly show at Artbar/LA called "Chords and Comedy." She is represented by Artists Media Group. You can find her music and show schedules on her website at www.unitsiai.com

With love and gratitude,

Austin Musick

aka Unitsi Ai

Two Faces Has She

By Ronald G. Carrillo

America you’re like Bill Cosby

Black, successful, greedy, seedy

Rich having reached the dream then went off the rails

One face given to the people

Then another private darker mask

Crossing that respectable line into lawlessness

Fame then playing a terrible game with other people’s lives

Thinking you were above the law

Thinking your star status garnered you more

Felt you could take sexual advantage of the women around you

Others may have looked the other way

You were not swayed but morally corrupt

Ethically bankrupt and unclean

Your wealth bought you a slap on the wrist

For you were of that American elite so you thought

Rhymes with dump and so unsuitable to grace D. C

Your white micro-aggression is misplaced

With so many of your followers also suffering from white fragility

Subtle racism and rebel rousing in the Capitol

To overthrow Lady Liberty and democracy

Instead of building a wall why did you not repair

The country’s crumbling infrastructure so desperately needed

America you’re leaning way too right

Doubting your own democracy

Being so insulated and paranoid to keep your power white

Not red, white and blue and one nation under God

Is our constitution static or does it have some flexibility

To allow its governing principles application in current times

You do not fool at least half your people

And the other half are not ready for a change of the guard

Not trusting your own melting pot myth

A country built on the backs of immigrants

Seeking its bounty and liberty to breathe free

The Joneses are now trying to keep up with the Garcias

The Millers still resisting to be neighbors with the Williamses

Ito, Wong and Kim recognize him as authentically American

But the same compatriotism is not returned in kind

Especially in times of finger pointing and blame

Scapegoating immigrant Americans is easy pickings

The American pecking order is still white at the top

America but you can also be like Maya Angelou

Articulate, vastly creative & wholly American

Rising above her impoverished circumstances

Embracing the American dream like a butterfly

Able to reinvent herself and become an activist

She was seeking solutions and poetic harmony

Calling forth our best selves to leave the darkness of fear

To stand upon the rocks of America without shame

No blame all of us equal in life’s game of fools

Showing our true faces to God and country

Her voice alone echoed the strains of wisdom

She harvested from the labors and triumphs

Of being a black American woman who dug deep

And found in the red, white and blue soil of her spirit

Why so many come to the American shore

But let there be more light shining forth from Liberty

The Lady in the harbor has two faces

Beckoning those tempest-tost refugees to her shore

Those homeless huddled masses answering her call to the golden door

Her maternal welcoming arms lighting their way

But her silent lips what do they really speak

Come work for me and actualize my manifest destiny

Or build a new American life and be free

Is she saying the dream is real or build me cities of steel

This colossus Mother is she a nurturer or a slave mistress

America your allure cannot be denied

Martin saw it, felt it and lived it until it killed him

He dreamed for us not to be judged by the color of our skin

The red, white and blue secured unalienable rights for all

He dreamed that one day in this great country that judgement

Would solely be metered out by the content of our character

Martin spearheaded the actualization of the dream through peace

Many others of like mind followed and dreamed along with him

He stepped up like a Moses for his people

And challenged Pharaoh parting great divides

But he was never able to enter the Promised Land himself

Nor see the realization of the whole nation rise up

And put life to its creed of equality for ALL men and women

Martin died an American martyr

Not an American fully actualized citizen

What eventually was a huge humanitarian win came at a great cost

Our nation still swims in the tide of discrimination and divide

Nonetheless the dream remains like a chrysalis

Waiting to unfold its wings and be fully realized

Thanks for joining us! We will continue to host writers and poets of all genres.

Hang in there y’all!!!

Love, Linda Kaye

Please submit your written work to:lindakayepoetry@icloud.com and include a short bio.

Linda Kaye writes poetry, curates poetry, 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 and Zweet Café in Eagle Rock. 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 most recent project a rap music video in collaboration with Mary Cheung, “ERACE-ISM” can also be seen on youtube. https://youtu.be/NfrbveNUBgg

Linda Kaye is a native Angelino 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 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.

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

January Poet's Place! Happy Freakin' New Year 2022!!

January 05, 2022

POETS PLACE
JANUARY EDITION 2022

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!! WOW!!! We’ve completed another year!!! It truly has been a challenge, if I do say so myself. A super scary roller coaster ride that I rode daily! Never knowing from one minute to the next what challenge I/we will face to continue on the ride. My ride, your ride on OUR journey into the unknown! Fear is generated because of the unknown. Our job is to face those fears head on so they don’t take hold like a virus. Getting a daily boost of love from our compadres helps tremendously, it’s a cure to the illness. As John Lennon and Paul McCartney wrote, “A little help from my friends” always works. To get that love we need to reach out, make contact, shout out our needs to them so they are aware that you are in need of attention. Silent suffering doesn’t cut it. It just continues to allow the virus (negative thoughts) to fester, ruminating out of control and distorting the issues in our heads. When that process has been stimulated we have to recognize it immediately and stop its infectious nature by (add your process here). As I mentioned last month, when bummed I listen to music. It’s the greatest source of positive distraction in the world. Once I have been distracted from my negative thoughts, I can begin to heal and create! The very reason this column exists is to give a forum to you to share yourself in poetry, prose and in the stories you create. Keep ‘em coming folks!!!

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!

BIG Love,

Linda :0)

Expressions of the alter ego

By Linda Kaye

Expressions of the alter ego delightfully rears its awesome head

by laughing fortuitously

dancing graciously

striking a poetic pose

or sitting in repose

whether life like or still life

the alter ego is contagious, charming, with cadence decadence seductive relishness

a chutney of divine tastes

and succulent savories

or can be the petulant nasty uncle or unsavory snarky aunt

Expressions of the alter ego unlocks cavalier devilish behavior

a discontent of the state of affairs

laissez-faire laziness or unleashed anger

a rage sprouted from a hidden rebellious nature

to squash a litigious neighbor with a vengeance for spite

how contrite

Expressions of the alter ego often resembles the sexual proclivities of a Linda Lovelace character dabbling with the excursions into the forbidden realms of lust

your deepest darkest desires unleashed channeling the harlequin look and style of Jean Harlow the brashness of Bette Davis with the power of Madonna

don't you wanna?

Grandfathers

by Jeff Chayette 17 Feb 2021

far from the home I love

strains of tunes from Fiddler on the Roof

dropped fairy dust on rusty memories

of stories told that never grew old

who was this man who left a life behind

traveling blind in the stinking bowels of ocean liners

crammed with Jews given the screw

told to scram your lives be damned

your town was burned

all you saved were tools

tools of pride

tools of invention

tools of men

tools of conception

the sacred scrolls could not be saved

the temple burned

what was saved were the tools of his trade

a metal box crafted by hand

by a small stocky sturdy man

who carried his trade on his back

he could shape metal with his will

will his hands

wield his tolls

bend and shape from sheets of steel

a jewelry box a chair a desk

a craftsman of steel crafting inventions

inventions of identity

he would now be mr. brown renowned

hailing a call to Montreal

enthralled with brick stone crushed tricks

he worked and saved no digging graves

he followed sounds within his soul

he heard metal toil and passions boil

across the lakes of Michigan

a telegram from master craftsman faivel said

brown renowned come to town

this motor town of steel and wheel

will fill the faults our skills have taught

in prohibition is an exhibition

no bath tub gin to puke in sin

we’ll take our skills hone stills for whiskey, it’s less risky

the mob boss will pay the fare

you’ll find true love this town’s not square

your ticket’s paid for Tuesday’s train

Detroit’s a roar of motor sound and metal men who own the town

while machines banged engines

the men made stills for rye

and corn and barley wine

the pay was gold and coats of mink

not the route for torah boys

life necessitates when crying babies hunger waits

when child number four was born he could not stop and sired four more

bend and shape a cigarette machine

rotate towels in a tumble drum

each night he put his wife to bed

he brought companions for his head

a pack of smokes

a seltzer bottle

a jug of wine

to wash the day away

the legend says at break of day

all were consumed only empties remained

Jeff Chayette has lived and loved for 4 decades in Los Angeles. A multi-faceted artist who attended Art Center College of Design In Pasadena, Jeff has worked on stage, television and films.

His design work has been peer recognized with National and local Emmys, CBS Eye on Excellence and Promax BDA awards.

His current poems are reflections on past and present life in Los Angeles through the eyes of the pandemic.

Select Company: December 2021

By Ronald G. Carrillo

Select company to keep me safe

Romantic harbingers of love

That could blindside me coming into my own

Like hidden explosive land mines

Select company were my teachers

Fine educators of the high Arts

Role models specifically chosen

For I was on a path of freedom and creativity

Searching for common ground and reciprocal exclusivity

In designing my unique self through the Arts

But still desiring the muses of Eros to fulfill me

This search for love remained a mirage

Where were its well springs to satisfy my thirst

Where was its oasis to quiet my fear of loneliness

And steady my steps on this journey

Inspiration I was able to harvest for years and let some go to waste

But to find him that special one remained illusion

A confusion that I could not decode

And in my worst moments sabotage and self-delusion

He depended on the kindness of strangers

He collected small pieces of glass

That he held close to his heart

His select company became his Art

His Art became Americana and of high literate stock

But he was no longer able to sparkle and glow

He was all played out and only sexual distraction

And drink allowed him salvation from the blinding light of truth

Sugar was through with love and tired of the fuzzy end of the lollipop

She was fashioned in a blatant sexual way and the camera loved her

Blonde bimbo or blonde bombshell she dominated the screen

Select company would save then destroy her

First elevating her chosen craft then putting her in danger

Her iconic flying white dress immortalized her forever

She married Mr. Baseball and sang to a president and then was dead

She was objectified and sexualized

Because the public liked it hot

Joni drank a case of him becoming a silly romantic boring someone

In a dark café passing her time away behind empty bottles

She was sinking but couldn’t stop thinking of him

He was underneath her romantic thin skin

She wanted to skate away on a Canadian river

Instead she flew away like a black crow searching for shiny things

Besieged by coyote men and male charmers of the highest degree

But she still wanted to be free a seagull living in a cactus tree

Clouds in those blue Canadian eyes still not knowing

What life could be confusion love’s illusion and blue

A canyon lady for a time enjoying a brief domesticity

But her Art and music made her a tumbleweed

Where she would succeed and have the love of many fans

With a romantic life support that was casual

Like a leaky water spout dripping off and on

Providing constant lyrical muses and musical fodder

Only to become Billie Holiday’s lost daughter

A tender girl loved a tom cat man who kept running away

She learned the hard way to resist his devil charm

He was her captain her medication

Her chosen select company

Bringing her only temporary satisfaction

Then her addiction for him gave her the blues so bad

The chamber walls of loneliness came rushing in

Her bitter tears only filled the gutter of her sorrow for him

There was no more communication with her Mr. Blue

Cigarettes and ashes, cocaine, and those New York streets

Were a magical playground then turned on her

She hit her peak in nineteen seventy-one

She had maternal leanings and yearnings for motherhood

And the dream of Woodstock was now gone

So she left the city and bought some land

Hiding her heart and trying to forget that man

Confessing her pain going down in the flames of love

Her gospel heart would bring her back again

Like a virgin phoenix renewed in tender salvation

Such select company is my balm to cover the slashes

Love is like the stock market when it crashes

A risk of your heart

You win some you lose some

Are you in it for the long run

Or just a short-term investment

It may be bull market that will soon level off

Or a bear market that will burden your heart

But I am in expert company for they are my chosen support

Their Art brings me comfort and alerts me on this path

Not a pilgrim’s path but a wandering stranger in a strange land

An innocent changed and assaulted in losses and bad dreams

Memories and battle fields and romance with short in-betweens

He despaired in desire and eccentricities that could not save him

He wrote what he knew and suffered its consequences

Like a moth to the flame of fame it destroyed him

But he lives on in his fragile heroines of mystique and complexity

She persevered through unthinkable slings and arrows

Aimed at her character and ultimately her heart

But achieved at the highest levels of her chosen craft at great cost

A misfit till the end on the big screen where she still lives

The Saskatchewan maiden went through cloud changes

And seagull skies all the while deciphering men’s eyes

She could have married as a Canyon lady

But her freedom and Art were her real spouses

The Madonna from New York surried and picnicked

In lavender confession being sold on the music line

Telling thirteen tales that paved her way to Tendaberry

She loved her country in a time of war

Preaching her gospel of peace and women’s blues

How could she choose when her muses were so pure

Music was her serious playground

Geffen was pulling her out of her comfort zone

He was hungry for the money

She could not answer to two different masters

Select company was my treasure box of hard knocks

Opening up the locks to this young heart

Defining its mean streets and monsters

Select company were my road signs to Romeo

Steering me on long stretches of lonely highway and detours

Securing my faith in love despite its poor returns

Sweet times but many burns of judgement and poor decision

Total control created a loss of control and vision

Select company is still with me on this journey

My romantic muses acting like attorneys

I am the benefactor of select company sages

Ages now learning their ways and heeding their advice

Their experiential wisdom filling my pages

And helping me recognize virtue and side-stepping the vice

Select company for the Soul

An aged pot, a mixed stew

Nurturing and warm

Stemming from vintage rock and roll

Covering me from many a romantic storm

Choose wisely your compass sages

Aiding and giving their support

As we go through the stages of our lives

REMEMBER ME

10-12-21

2:33 a.m.

By Mary Cheung

Remember me,

We use to be married.

But no longer now.

I've long since been dead.

Remember me,

I'm one of 4 children, you raised and cared for.

Adorning us with love, knowledge and a shelter over our heads.

Remember me,

You built a house with your husband on a cul-de-sac. Where many memories of happiness and joy were spent.

Remember me,

You spent your whole life giving and giving without a single regret.

Remember me,

Family gatherings and dinners.

The glorious scent of the meals that we would share.

Remember me,

The parties and the people who surrounded you.

Each one present,

showing you how much they care.

Remember me,

The chocolates you would make.

And doled out your goods for everyone to share.

Remember me,

Your luncheon gatherings with your friends that are still here.

Remember me,

Easter dinners with friends and family,

Crowded around a table.

Loaded with food, joy and love,

heavy in the air.

Remember me,

It was just yesterday;

You drove your white car,

Rolling around running your errands and handling your own affairs.

Remember me,

I spend everyday with you still.

Reminding you of what's going on around here.

Remember who,

You are cuz there's no greater mom and of the life we share.

Remember who,

That person is family and religion, something you hold dear.

Remember who,

That person is.

I'm not ready to lose yet.

So please hang in there.

Remember why,

I'll keep reminding you.

Of who you are. You're still there...

Just lurking behind.

In the shadows.

Take me hand, I'll guide you.

Don't worry I'm right here

ZEN AND THE ART OF DOG-WALKING

By Stephen Buhler

The dogs are in the moment this morning;

I'm along for the ride but resistant all the way.

An expanse of exquisite (to them) aromas define their path.

Too many days I grumble against the cold,

Against their connoisseurship of bouquets

Surpassing that of sommeliers.

(“You detect and appreciate Cats' Piss?” they scoff;

“Try Deer Scat for a revelatory experience.”)

But when I let their leashes lead me,

I rest content in their meanderings

And, yes, their movements.

If my mind wanders toward remembrance of walks past

Or it anticipates rewarding these two

Or it works toward composing what may be a poem

Such as this, I stop wishing us back inside the house

As this moment still remains theirs.

May future presents with them –

My subtle, sniffing, mostly silent Zen masters –

Sometime be mine as well.

Stephen Buhler teaches at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln and performs with the Americana-and-More group Tupelo Springfield.

Poem

By G. Billie Quijano-Mestiza

The New Year is upon us

Cadence of thought

Too many emotions that can't be bought

The rona tried to steal precious memories

It remains in the shadows

This last year full of struggle and strife

We go forward

Cause we have much life

Fear is not a road map

Joy on the rise

The wisdom of the ancients assures us healing and elegant enlightenment

Awe, knowledge, intuition, astonishment

Imaginations soar

I can hear our heartbeats roar

Radiate love

Passion, artistry will never be tamed

Dreams will manifest

We are eternally blessed

We are adorned with golden wings

There will be many new beginnings

Poetry, a vibration away

See the alphabet strut and sway

So here's to you, Auld Lang Syne

Let the divine in you, shine

G. Billie Quijano-Mestiza, Hija de East Los. Poeta, artista, instigator of beauty.

Thank you Linda and thank you to all of the poets who bring brilliance every month and make the world a better place. Be safe, be well, be loved.

Thanks for joining us! We will continue to host writers and poets of all genres.

With great hope for a healthier future!

Love, Linda Kaye

Please submit your written work to:lindakayepoetry@icloud.com and include a short bio.

Linda Kaye writes poetry, curates poetry, 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 and Zweet Café in Eagle Rock. 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 most recent project a rap music video in collaboration with Mary Cheung, “ERACE-ISM” can also be seen on youtube. https://youtu.be/NfrbveNUBgg

Linda Kaye is a native Angelino 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 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.

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

December Poet's Place Has Arrived!

December 01, 2021

POETS PLACE
December 2021 Edition

Poetry is a wild ride in my book. I never know where a piece will take me. It has to do with the crazy, uncontrolled thoughts in my head that whirr around, sometimes causing great discomfort especially when its a tune I don’t want to hear!!! There’s usually a dire need to expel what’s inside my head, hopefully on to paper or computer and often in front of an audience. My brain sounds and feels like those song mash ups currently flooding the music craze of pop stylings of this generation. At times familiar, yet often agonizing, my head banging furiously to the incessant techno beat-throng throng throng. It’s highly possible that my lifetime listening exposure to loud vibrations of heavy metal and almost all genres of music has created zillions of musical synapses, a constant symphony magnified of musical mash ups. In my head I hear music ranging from David Bowie, Bjork, Beatles, Stones, Led Zeppelin, James Brown, Ray Charles, Ella Fitzgerald, Aretha, Blondie- aaaghhh…I simply cannot list all the sounds in my head! Hum a tune and I will follow up with my head version of the chorus! “We’re gonna dig potatoes. We’re gonna pick tomatoes”. A veritable library of sound!

It’s all good.

This month hosts poets from all over the country of Cali. And as far away as Puerto Rico and Ohio! You guys are a blessing to me! Thank you for keeping Poets Place alive with your words, your stories and your rhythms of the heart. Keep em coming!!! XXXXXXX

Super big love,

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!!!

Enjoy!!!

Linda

Life, What a Risk

by Linda Kaye

Nov 2021

Life, can be risky. Plain and simple. Authentic living in life, means exposure. A risk of being revealed. Outed before your peers. Possibly humbled or humiliated.

Life lived safely equals suppression

You represent what you can, maybe only share the edited version of self, the depressed dark and sometimes the illuminated enlightened light, and only give up what you can safely, defensively expose.

Bottom line, It’s all up to you to take the risk.

And the risk is very personal. That’s why it’s so scary

the risk is risky.

The risk will demand commitment, intention and require follow through

to face fear

ignore judgment

squash resentments

inhibit jealousy and lust or

exhibit jealousy and lust

Maximum risk? Well now you’re talking! Taking the deep dive into the unknown-oh boy!

Takes huge cajones. Chutzpah. Mazel.

Life requires that you live it

it means you’re alive so you need to live it to its

fullest

that’s what I said on my website suck it dry. Life. Suck it dry.

Sara Sylvia Simpson Sloan
by Jeff Chayette 8 November 2021

Signs adorned the highway

“Virginia is for Peanut lovers”

green everywhere

blue grass

rye grass

tender grass

gas stations

speedways

station masters

speed traps

drunken rats

3 generations of Seventh Day Adventist

lived in the Belco Motor Court and Restaurant

on the outskirts of Emporia a quaint berg of six thousand

gun loving motor crazy Christian enthusiast

god

guns

gas

don’t tread on me flags fly

police force lays out speed traps to keep the schools running

the streets clean you can chew but you can’t spit on our streets

the vegetarian cult at the Belco Motor Court praised Jesus

and the holy communion of peanut oil adorned on the foreheads of the children

Harold Everett Simpson the III

led the congregation of the Everett Simpson clan

cousin loving

sisters brothers

white stripes

paid for the rites of endless motor nights on route 301

holding guns for twenty years

the end days are near

our congregants do not fear

the queer

the jew

the free style rapper

the trans

the bi

the mixing of the races

will destroy what plans were God’s creation

Harold Everett Simpson Sloan, the great grandson of H.E.S. the III

studied taxidermy, specialized in song birds

downy woodpeckers

mourning doves

blue jay

hermit thrush

meticulous and never rush

the bird museum graced their spiritual prison

graced their hate

with sweet veneer

outsiders had no idea what sick plan

was being cooked in the kitchen of the Belco Motor Court

Tufted Titmouse, Carolina Chickadee delivered to the Sunday’s nest by Cooper’s Hawk

a heavenly avian decor adorned the joint

no meat or foul on the plate

potatoes, red beans, greens, and home grown wheat

life appeared so sweet

the trick of the sick

Sara Sylvia Simpson Sloan bit her tongue

her thoughts would not be shared in the family square

told the handsome visitor

beware

take me from here if you dare

he blinked shook thought what a kook

lord this is so cliche

I’m too sophisticated for this country lady

the dudes are creepy all right

I bet they tie her up at night

she stared right through him

cold unblinking

what is she thinking

she passed a note

sweet sixteen and never been kissed

don’t be stupid what have you missed

the sign post

potato roast

cornbread toast

I will die here fried in peanut oil

while they enact Job’s boils

on my skin to purge my sin

the second coming and I am running

with or without you handsome man

are you my hero or just another zero

passing through Emporia dodging speed traps

Smokey and the Bandit, that’s your gambit

you think you’re Nicholas Cage

caught on stage with an Orchid Thief

look in the mirror

who do you see

the frightened boy with matchbox toys

take me

meet me outside behind mile marker 33 off highway 301

I’ve got the laundry duty

once the washer starts I’ve got an hour before they’ll miss me

don’t smile

wink

scowl

blink

wipe your face and leave no trace

Sara grabbed the dinner linens and disappeared

clammy sweat

a jaundiced glow

shook the mustached stranger’s countenance

dine and dash

where is my check

he croaked

guzzled water gasped for air

gathered himself

what just happened

damn the Jesus chick was sweet

he paid his bill tucked in his shirt

grinned from ear to ear

what is there to fear

he grabbed his hat and swaggered out into the night

looked at highway marker 32

just one mile down the road he’ll wait for her

a movie reel spun in his head

Farley Granger that’s my man

femme fatale be damned

male cliche led astray

“butteries and zebras”, little wing played on Spotify

looks like a nice night to die

Jeff Chayette- has lived and loved for 4 decades in Los Angeles.
He is a multi-faceted artist who attended Art Center College of Design In Pasadena, Jeff has worked on stage, television and films.
His design work has been peer recognized with National and local Emmys, CBS Eye on Excellence and Promax BDA awards.
His current poems are reflections on past and present life in Los Angeles through the eyes of the pandemic.

The Whale’s Tale
By Lee Boek, Marlene Rasnick and Sharon Stricker
And a poem from the Creole of Paule Barton

It’s Spring

Time to go see…..

The Whales

Poshen’s daughter

The one that isn’t disinherited

Gets tickets

Can you imagine how much time getting on the van takes?

“Going out to meet the moon whales”

How hard it is to move your buns when you’re 90 years old?

It’s tme

A quick drive down to San Pedro

Then Disembark

The van……..and….walk….led….by…Lena

The Queena….Sloooow!!

“High in the round fruit trees we saw them passing under the moon”

Some believe she walks so slow on porpoise

I question her locomotion

“The manta rays lined up to slowly flap their wings…..”

All the way to the ticket window

“Then we floated out on the manta waves”

Out to the boat itself

Time…..”There was no time we were happier.”

But, on time

The Boat Disembarks

Out to sea, the rocking rolling boat

The churning, yearning sea

“Whales Look!” Look Daddy,

“I vant to go up top and look at the Vales”

(blow the sound of a whale)

“Look, over there ! Vales! Vales!”

“I have not died too young”

When Jacob and I go downstairs into the bottom of the boat where

The others are sitting in front of the big bay window looking out at

The Sea

There is one person

Ruby

Laying

Face down and Sea Sick

Suddenly, The sea is alive

Schools of Fish

Whales, Dolphins, Porpoises, mantras, sea lions

Pelicans and Flying Fish,

All right in front of the window leaping and cavorting

Playing and gurgling

We see it All! We All see it

Life

“I floated out in the wood boat I was born in fifty years ago”

“When the moon whales were swimming here”

Crustaceans to octogenarians, a message from Davey Jones’ Locker

“Ahoy Mateys!”

“Don’t be crabby you little shrimp.”

Lee Boek: Artistic Director/poet

Unconditional
By Mary Cheung
1-4-2021
9:46a.m.

Unconditional, unselfishly, and without limits.

You give everyday.

Your quiet looks, your love, your joy;

In your own special way.

15 years ago, we took a trip to go and "see" a dog.

Unsure if we would be going home with one.

Uncertainty being the only cog.

Prompted by Riley and the desire to have a pet.

Boy you were such a gift,

a rare treasure and then some.

For a year you didn't make a single peep.

You were very shy and quiet.

Afraid to be yourself and scared of riding in cars.

Throwing up every time you got in for a ride,

Even if it wasn't too far.

Gradually we earned your trust and we gained your confidence.

The first time I heard a bark.

I was surprised to find it came from you!

I guess that means we are your family now.

You barking to defend your castle was my clue.

Over the years many many adventures were had.

Hikes to mountaintop and waterfalls.

Trips to the beaches, coming home full of sand and dirt!

Great fun to be had by all!

You put up with the Halloween costumes I made.

Leprechaun, Bat, Superhero,

Ufo and Rapper.

You made it all look good!

Even though wearing them didn't make you any happier.

I was always sad we couldn't take you on our long summer trips.

So you were left home alone with a sitter.

Returning home was always heart warming and scary,

not know if there was anything important that we had missed.

So now covid was a blessing,

the fact that we spent all year alone with you.

And got to remember what a treasure you are.

Always there to dole out love,

comfort and happiness,

never straying too far.

I scares me to see how you are aging.

and really needing that special care.

When I call you, you don't hear very well.

And seeing your eyes clouds over to complete blindness...

Well that's my own personal hell.

So daily attention to give your life quality,

vitamins, good food and exercise.

We hope to extend it by far.

Seeking out information and professionals advice is on par.

So I don't know if you know, what you mean to us.

You keep the loneliness and sadness at bay.

Remind us of the simple pleasures in life.

hopefully for a much much longer way.

I love you lucy, I hope you understand what I say.

I'll try to be worthy of your love.

The same one you give me every.... single... day.

How old are you.
By Ed Burgess

How old are you

You will be asked

Again and Again

What’s your DOB

On paperwork

Over the phone

On line

In the dating app

At every corner

At every turn

How old are you today

Old enough to know better

Old enough to leave the past behind

Wisdom is wasted on the old

And youth is wasted on the young

How old where you

When you conquered the fear

And had your day in the sun

Or when you fell in the hole

And tasted blood under the moon

All these days

Made us who we are

We are here to celebrate them all

Every day, Every day, Every day

Into eternity

That’s how old I am

How old are you.

Ed Burgess is an artist, poet and all around bon vivant. He has lived in LA for 20 years and is an active member of the art community. He has exhibited his artwork in many galleries around Los Angeles. Although he writes poetry he sometimes reads it publicly.

Homie Never Had a Chance ( to redeem himself )
by Joe Kevany

Homie never had a chance to redeem himself

They say he was a bad actor, always searchin' for a style

His pants were gangster, his shirt was hipster

and on his chin a 'food Manchu' with not a hint of guile

spends his days minin' the ruts, no ifs, ands or cigarette butts

He was last seen eatin' street tacos usin' a ragbox for a table

and was mixed up for an ex-narco, tipped off by an invisible label

What's the use of skippin' breakfast if you eat a double lunch ?

While some cases are closed with a mere prayer and a hunch.

Somehow he knew this wasn't gonna be another flashlight therapy session

delivered in solemn shades of blue non-passive aggression

but...homie never had a chance to redeem himself

it may be true he had some more bad to do

but, the tip of a finger was judge and jury of some tenured deadringer

who unleashed his badge of fury

spent more than a couple of nights checkin' the Homicide Report

just to see if he was there or some like minded co-hort

Until it took one leaky faucet to drip on up to the top

and shredded cliches like pullin' a tab from an old can of soda pop

as walking scapegoats with their suitcase of bad choices

only really liking the sound of their own voices

Meanwhile no ward of the state slash slammer student of the month

or jailhouse Bible school teacher's pet

No Ted Talk spewin' Moth-like cautionary tales drippin' with sincere remorse or regret ..cuz..

Homie never had a chance to redeem himself...

WHEN THE NIGHT GAINED ITS STARS
By Richard Russeth

There is the sadness of flowers of course,

when they throw their seeds to the wind

and nothing is there to hold them,

no angels or sun or rain.

There is the suddenness of loss -

as when a friend dies

that you’ve been meaning to call

but then you get the news

and everything is broken glass.

There is that place where love and hate intersect,

that sniper’s dream, that place where

you can never run fast enough

and everything is far.

There is the dream that ends with an alarm.

And another that ends with eternity.

And another that just ends, and you realize

the sunrise ever does not wait.

There is hopelessness of course. Always that.

The wonderment of God, and what does this mean,

and why does life hurt so much

when all you did was open your eyes

after a journey of blood and stars and months.

There are times when only bare trees make sense,

only clocks have time, only babies have hope,

the impossible cost of truth is revealed,

forgiveness is given, and the trees bloom

with a passion born of forgetting

that they’ve done it a hundred times before.

But we are given this life

for remembrance of that moment

when truth had a beating heart,

for when all that was thought lost was found,

and the night gained its stars.

Sweet Man in a Time of Thanksgiving
By Ronald G. Carrillo

I am hungry for a sweet man

A cinnamon colored horchata drinking dude

Who’ll lift my mood from gray skies to blue

A Louisiana gumbo man with a jumbo personality

Who doesn’t ride that streetcar of desire

A barrio brother raised in the hood

Who speaks Spanish in bed

Whose whispers and tongue get into my head and heart

A Korean American man with kimchi on his breath

A spicy Asian fusion man who eats burritos in the Pico-Union

I am hungry for an Autumn man with no dead leaves

Who will fall heavy for me

I want a champurrado complexion man

Who doesn’t have to suntan

Whose love making is as spicy as his chile colorado

Un hombre que esta enamorado conmigo

Un papi dulce que yo soy su mijo

I want a tamale tasting man with big hands

A Jose Feliciano man who serenades me a-la “Sabor A Mi”

I want a mariachi singing man sin mentira y de puro macho

Don’t want a down low type of man

No time for a black brother scam of my heart strings

Let me drift in your African roots that will mingle

With my cultura and south of the border sensibilities

We have virilities that go back centuries

I want an incense burning long-haired Summer of Love man

Who grows that good San Francisco bud

Who talks Castaneda and plays guitar like Paul Kossoff

I want a “Nights in White Satin” kind of man

That Sunday kind of man with a Friday night kind of love

A sweet honeymoon type of man

Till death do us part for the long haul man

Oh how I will love you through the seasons

I want that Daddy man that is so manly it makes me cry

A bearded hipster man with a masculine gait

A make me wait kind of man that likes to hold hands

A hard working muscular kind of man

His perspiration a sweaty musky smell of desire

A come on baby “Light My Fire” the extended long version man

I want that “Where’s That Rainbow” man

That Barbra Streisand sings of the younger twin brother

Of “The Man That Got Away” that eluded Judy Garland

Laura Nyro’s Eli man a tom cat slipping out the window

No not that man I know too well a city faker

He’s got the dream but no fuel or takers

No Joni Mitchell blue man that I used to drink a case of

My Frank-in-sense a very young man

My high school sweetheart purple and white

With cherry red lips that made me ache for his candy

Yes I want that man I never had

A real step up to the plate man

That no nonsense never arriving late man

With long kisses and sweets in his hand for me

I want a no more war man who wears camouflage fatigues

I want a red, white and blue man

Balls to the wall, a constitutional man

Who knows all the ugly American history

But still feels in his bones this is a great country

A salt of the earth man with great dignity

I want that Cat Stevens kind of man

The one on the back cover of “Tea For the Tillerman”

Vocalizing his manly pain in a son for his father

I want that send me yellow roses chivalry man

My December boudoir man who will love me timelessly

A Winter man in flannel and timberland leather boots

Of course I want a Chicano man from Lincoln Heights

Who knows my young geography and history

An East Los man with bravado baby

Who wears Tres Flores in his mane of thick hair

I want a great cook of a man

A good looking man in an apron con ganas

Who knows how to grill a steak medium rare

I want a rancho man who can ride a horse

A burly brown man that cooks his meat under the ground

I want a cowboy man that looks studly in his chaps

“That someday” soon rodeo man of Judy Collins

A keeper Western man that lets me polish his boots

I need a book reading man who can read my thoughts

A man who likes to talk about the big and small things

I want a nopales eating man from Mexico

With a Nahuatl name who represents his indigenous culture

I want that man who is my best friend

Who drinks coffee with me every morning

That man who is my bookend

A self-starter man who stirs good things up for two

A lad from Liverpool, a punk from Manchester

Who recites Shakespeare and Morrissey from memory

I want a hipster Hispanic man who loves the Smiths

Who takes me record shopping at Amoeba

I want that blues in the night man

Waiting for a cool train in vain like a rolling stone

Traveling miles and drinking champagne

I want a “Gonna Take A Miracle” man

Who sings me “Ooo Baby Baby” in his falsetto

I want a gentle man with dark mysterious looks

My senior man who recommends good books

That makes a spicy guacamole and bakes his own bread

I want that all American true melting pot man

With deep dreamy blue eyes and no disguises

And a deep masculine voice that makes my head spin

I want a do right kind of man

That knows just who I am

I want into that romantic dream

I want out of this stale reality that is too mainstream

I’ll take a big slice of his apple pie

But when he cries I’m mystified

Sometimes the hurt is too deep

Despite the lies he has felt pain

Despite the red, white and blue of it

Whatever he knew of it I could not fix

It’s complex, it’s cruel and all I could do

Was be beside him and try to bear some of the weight

Future man with your golden tan of serenity

Propose to me in senior time

Johnny Angel has appeared to me in his maturity

Let’s seal the deal in security

Exchanging vows of authenticity

And bands of freedom minus the publicity

A POETS BEING
By: IE Carlo 1July 2021

A poets being is one of delight and yet
Of deep thoughts of that being in their being
For it acknowledges that of their deepness of thoughts
It allows the poet to uncloud its mind of thing mundane
A reflect on that of their inner being that speaks and yet can not be heard by others, all others will ever know are words that at times hide the message being told for poets need not explain, you either except or not! In most cases what the poet is relating is their thoughts and if it attracts your being they have accomplished nothing, it now belongs to you the listener, the observer, you now own it.

Ismael (East) Carlo, poet, actor begins on the streets of East Harlem, el barrio whose monica of “East” happened due to others not being able to pronounce the name, Is-Ma-El…
East, considers himself more a storyteller than a poet, although at times he gets lucky and poetry emerges from his stories...
For more about East, visit IMDB. Paz en Vida

The New Dance
by Jane Cantillon (1992)

Your firm body dances against

the Odyssey’s rainbow lights.

Siren’s scream while the disco ball

reflects on black lights, blue eyes and sweat.

Tides of sweat roll down.

Eyeball sockets darken then eclipse.

You smile and dry folds pull back to reveal

perfect teeth.

I realize you’re another ghost

of a friend.

A generation later we hide

open sores like open-toed shoes.

Your big features shrink back,

gray like our cigarettes at 4am

up all night after Rage and Circus.

You dance into the hot season

but stop before the shorter, cooler days.

Death unfolds in a blush, a fever.

I recognize you. I miss you.

You are my new holy man.

Death, you are the new dance.

Thanks for joining us! We will continue to host writers and poets of all genres.

With great hope for a loving and accepting future!

Love,

Linda Kaye

Please submit your written work to:lindakayepoetry@icloud.com and include a short bio.

Linda Kaye writes poetry, curates poetry, 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 and Zweet Café in Eagle Rock. 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 most recent project a rap music video in collaboration with Mary Cheung, “ERACE-ISM” can also be seen on youtube. https://youtu.be/NfrbveNUBgg

Linda Kaye is a native Angelino 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 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.

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

November Poet's Place has Arrived!!

November 05, 2021

POETS PLACE

NOVEMBER 2021

Holidaze Poetry

I feel like my life is playing out like a jazz composition going round and round sometimes with strong rhythms, with a lustful soul fueled heart

and improvisational strings tugging and pulling on the once solid notes harking and cajoling the structure of my life‘s music.

Luckily the cacophony of surrounding sounds of human kindness permeates, often cracking my head space and drowning out the incessant drone of head chatter

mind matter

laughter of the serious kind.

What resonates most though is the unintentional witness of life’s constant jokes at my expense

the hardy haha of bodily decline mental exhaustion the tick tock of time masticating in my mouth unable to spit out words of wisdom once rolling off my tongue with ease and intellect.

What eludes is a sticky mess of ugliness the harsh realities that time is definitely of the essence an out of control out of body handiwork of chance.

By Linda Kaye (ya, it’s me)

This month hosts poets who continue to shine in our hearts, tickle our imaginations and open our souls to their thoughts and feelings.

NOT A BOX
4/3/21
8:05 a.m.
By Mary Cheung

You tried to put me in this box.

But it just ain't me

It didn't fit, never been.

I'm not a shape that you can just see.

Fluid and evolving, never quite what I seem.

How can you decide from my packaging.

What, I shall be??

Often misunderstood, misinterpreted.

Until you actually take the time,

To delve a little bit deeper.

Peeling back each layer, revealing what you might find.

Oh it's worth it, I can assure you.

I'm the rare gem you will find.

The one in a million that's eluded you.

Only this time, I'll be yours and you are mine.

Acronyms don't fit me. I'm not a box, circle or square.

I'm just me,

Take the time to find out, you might care and like what you see.

So let yourself be swept up, in the whirlwind of my life.

Join me and discover, there's more to life than hard work, misery and strife.

We can color the pages together,

In between the lines.

Your hand clasped in mine,

Both partners in crime.

Antepasados
By G. Billie Quijano

The elegance of memory

Causing pause in my dreams

Sublime energy of ritual and ceremony

My love floats on moonbeams

Their brilliance shines upon the cosmos

Grief eternally present

The weight of iridescent tears

In symphony with La Sirena's waves

Endless poetry in the hemisphere

La Monarcha swaying and swooning to the rhythm of the ancients

My soul no longer in fragments

Wisdom in their passage

Billowy smoke of a candle

Eternally grateful for courage

The sweet vibration

Corazon pulsation

Please come and drink with me

I welcome you with joyful glee

We will dance the dance of time

I know that the beyond, is where you will always be

G. Billie Quijano-Poeta, mix media artista, photographer. Hija de East Los. Mestiza. This poema is dedicated to my ancestors who were artists, brujas, farmers, soldiers, zoot suiters, revolutionaries, world travelers and curanderas. I am blessed with their love, wisdom and brilliance. They are in my heart and in my dreams.

Muse
by Ronald Carrillo

I am his muse

He used my form

He is very aware of me

Choosing his words carefully

He loves me poetically

I feed his ideas daily

We are an undisputable team

He supplies the word constructions

He molds me boldly like a sculptor

Chipping away here then there

Adding subtracting restating refining

Leaving space for my unique design

Until he feels closure and completion

I am faithful and tend to him well

I make it possible for him to work

He often clothes me in red, white and blue

Sometimes he delves too deeply in the blues

Of her liberty that he feels are without justice

He is often disappointed in his America

But knows she must grow and undergo her changes

Like a lost child he observes her

Like a wandering stranger he is perplexed in her direction forward

Like a wanton woman he wants to save her

Just as he himself is complex and ever evolving

He lives within her laws and borders

He writes about her multiplicities

Her greedy financial eccentricities

Her divisive cultural diversities having their long difficult history

And now things are once again

Reaching toward an ugly racial dichotomy

Still he holds his faith and admiration for her

I am his artistic sounding board

As he forms me usually with rhyme

He loves alliterations and a clever turn of phrase

He finds dark inspiration in his own origins

He was orphaned and needs to understand why

This upset the dream and created a crack in his foundation

His religion brought him solace for a time

Until he rebelled and became a disciple of rock and roll

That was when he discovered me as his artistic muse

Music and the Arts fused for him to seal that crack

His use of font or layout design is always kept simple

He lets it all be told in the sacred word

Like the flight of the majestic hummingbird

He spices his poems with nectar and floral aromas

To be enjoyed and savored flitting from word to word

It Was the Best of Times By: Charles Dickens

...it was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing...

If I Were A Woman
By:IE Carlo

If I were a woman, first would come my age, for how else would I be able to answer this question? My age is that that has caused me to to think of this, “If I Were A woman”?

If I were a woman, as a woman of age, I would now be enlighten to see life in its entirety, and as a man to see what it is to be a woman. If I were a woman, my gray hair, my wrinkles would be nothing more than a testament to that of being a woman, an enlighten woman, for as a women I would be made from the universe of thought and wisdom, intuitively, we are!

If I were a woman I would demand respect without demanding respect, for we are courageous, fearless, daring, and at times to a fault! Respect for a woman is different than that respect for a man. Real men would see this in us, for we bring that

universe of thought to them, we give them cause to think, real men that is! If I were a woman, I’d produce life in eternal. We women have earned this via struggles of knowing we are of this universe, we belong side by side with men, real men that is, and still want the caresses of a man who acknowledges our being as equals, to be treated with respect, yet as women, for we are not men! If I were a woman: because our feelings run deep, some with tears, some with anger, but mostly patients of our understanding, of that of our counter parts! Yes, our counter parts who mostly act out of deep fear of our understanding. Some think of winning and losing, if I were a woman you’d win when you allow yourself to hang with us, as we do when we hang with you!

If I were a woman: I’d look for that courteous in a man, for your courtness gives us pause to reflect of our love for you, your treatment of our person, making us equal, If I were a woman laughter would be the common denominator, even when troubles arise. If I were a woman I’d love because we love with compassion, and treatment with care. If I were a woman: I’d look to depend on myself, yet if with a man, I’d seek his advice in things, there is also much to gain from a man who understands the processes of living in a so called, man’s world. He would be my equal, yet my lover as well...in this my love for man would be unconditional giving my all and still retaining my individuality, for that is what would give my relationship meaning and confidence of continuance.

If I were a woman: I’d seek happiness above all else, my search would be long, and yet, and because I am a woman, that search would not be that long! As they say; I have prerogatives, if I were a woman I’d laugh at this!

If I were a woman...

Ismael (East) Carlo, poet, actor begins on the streets of East Harlem, el barrio whose monica of “East” happened due to others not being able to pronounce the name, Is-Ma-El…

East, considers himself more a storyteller than a poet, although at times he gets lucky and poetry emerges from his stories...

For more about East, visit IMDB. Paz en Vida

Find our Way
By Carrie Gordon

I still believe, tell me will you still believe?

And if we still believe...can we find our way?

Ethos in the air,

with rights and wrongs to spare,

divided in our union,

where do we begin?

Well, if I still believe, tell me will you still believe?

And if we still believe...can we find our way?

Like a deer in the highlights

Frozen still with fear,

The winds of change will lift us up,

the rising time is near.

Well, if I still believe, tell me will you still believe?

and if we still believe, we can find our way...we can find our way.

Carrie Gordon usually works in mixed media with pastels, acrylic and digital art. Her work has been shown at various locations in and around Southern California in both solo and group shows including: LA Live Arts , Eagle Rock Center for the Arts, Carter Sexton Gallery, Sawhorse Gallery, Cypress Art Tunnelwalk, Portfolio Gallery, Zweet cafe, Ten Feet: Art meets the River walk, Withlove LA, the Blue Line Arts Museum in Sacramento, Eden Gallery in Loudonville, New York and Middle Ridge Gallery in Idyllwild

Damaged Boys Jaded Days
By Jeff Chayette
31 March 2021

down the hill at east end of the junction
the festival headliner dropped the mic

chuck E”s in love and signs all over town shouted “no glove no love” the sites and sounds of the neighborhood; too cool for school

this is the stuff they don’t teach fools

the forbidden fruits the spike heeled boots dog collared boys police batons

lithium freaks wandering loose

the little boy spied with his glass wandered loose and stole the juice

madness alley crazy aunt sally
stopped her meds and stripped the beds

hollywood stand-in uncle tim places bets that don’t come in

the half way house upstairs was full of creeps on a losing streak handsome Vinnie lifting weights

pulling straights calling cops taking shots

dutiful Doug sweeping secrets under the rug
raging ruby hated men the meds left her feeling dead

her partner Judy was a bore the group of four never locked the door

auntie’s nephew Justin had his telescope climbed the tree played private eye

watched the scenes that scarred his soul

the porno shoot gay bondage games
filled him with shame; he wet the bed he could not stop

what did he see that made him pee

he searched the trash and saw the proofs men in chains never drew the shade

picture windows filled with light

bad brad braverman chased the boy come hear don’t fear

he ran back home and could not speak snuck out at night and stared in fright

at flood lights from the second floor risky sex that lead to death

he searched the trash and saw the proofs
he searched the trash and saw the proofs

he searched the trash and saw the proofs

Jeff Chayette- Poet

Thanks for joining us! We will continue to host writers and poets of all genres.

With great hope for a loving and accepting future!

Love,

Linda Kaye

Please submit your written work to:lindakayepoetry@icloud.com and include a short bio.

Linda Kaye writes poetry, curates poetry, 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 and Zweet Café in Eagle Rock. 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 most recent project a rap music video in collaboration with Mary Cheung, “ERACE-ISM” can also be seen on youtube. https://youtu.be/NfrbveNUBgg

Linda Kaye is a native Angelino 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 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.

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

October Poet's Place!

October 06, 2021

POETS PLACE

October edition 2021

Hello writers and readers!! Here we are with another edition of Poets Place. Truly a blessing. It’s a place where you can pretty much say whatever is on your mind. Your profound words continue to fuel our souls, and quench our thirsty desires for adventures into the arenas we are most curious to explore and to devour. Word by word.

As a relatively new writer to this forum, I am learning from all our contributors how a well-written piece should flow, spark interest, send prolific messages and carry us with you on your journey. It takes a lot of practice and a perseverance to challenge yourself daily. Not only to write down your observances to your truths, your personal perceptions, but to write them with your hearts. You are not intimidated by others’ brilliance, you are courageous and gifted. We are only to be illuminated by your light.

I truly give thanks and blessings to all of you who contribute to my journey.

Love,

Linda :0)

Hurricane Sandy
By Linda Kaye

October 30, 2012

out of the shadows in a dream a dark devastating message was sent that revealed a token

a key that exposed a heart

a chest left barren although

filled with resounding regrets

20 years after the fact the ghost an apparition the likeness of Sandy a mother lost early in life from the pull of lust filled debauchery

the aftermath of silly narcissistic choices

leaving the earth with no rhyme no reason no excuse just treason

was it the season of the witch? that pummeled the eastern seaboard with ferocious massive anger humiliation and histrionic greed and gluttony? destroying the homes of her people that represented the harsh restrictions

her parent’s expectations

from an old world village of collective thinking

and cultural beliefs

made perfect sense for the American born child of the 50s the #MeWantEraOfSelfishnessMeOnlyWorldOfSexDrugsAnd of course rock ‘n’ roll

to destroy the very land that gave her birth, and freedom

And free love. It was the guilt that created this hurricane. All evidence destroyed.

“Places in the Pack”
By Stephen Buhler

We read books aloud at night.

We read Joe Ide. To stay connected with soCal.

We read Anthony Bourdain. To touch as well as taste more of the world.

We read Mary Oliver. To realize more deeply our place in nature.

We read Tyeimba Jess. To inhabit more deeply our past, our present, and our music.

We read Hilary Mantel and Maggie O'Farrell and Jane Austen and Timothy Schaffert. To rethink what we thought we knew, to absorb what permeates and inspires the past.

The dogs are delighted with storytime. They settle on the bed and listen. They do not sleep.

They try to tell us that their ancestors were drawn to the fires of our ancestors for several reasons.

Light for safety.

Heat for survival.

Cooked food for savor as well as survival.

But they were also drawn to human voices, sharing stories.

The voices of the bard and the prophetess; the voices of companions.

Bird song and cicada call are essential. Stories may seem superfluous.

Communities are not – and are sustained or wounded by stories.

The dogs sigh contentedly and hint that they, too, are nourished essentially.

Thanks to these stories, as well as food and light, we have well-earned places in the pack.

Stephen Buhler teaches at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln and performs with the Americana-and-More group Tupelo Springfield.

My Hero
By Jennifer Bouchard

 My Knight in Shining Armor When you shook me off your horse with emerald green fire I fell from grace Became like the Hulk Cloaked in Goddess Power Now my system reboots nightly at lightning speed Ascending light codes Growth spurts accompanied with 3 am astral travel

Leading to the ultimate point of location The United Status Chisel my curves into thirst traps Prop Me Up On My Throne Slap a filter on my selfie and call me Queen Status The danger of sitting above is I put My Hero below me like When Lucifer was rejected by God The pain Hardened him into an entity of fear and hate Seducing the planet away from love consciousness Domination ruling We all have the tools to build magnificent palaces Put our gifts together Our heads and hearts together Sparking a mass exodus The tower falls The dust clouds quake the earth As we shift Relax back with faith Trust the process Knowing soon We arrive on better days I never feel lost in the dark Ha I live in a land of a billion stars Lighting the midnight sky We all live under the same sky We all have a right to shine In a manner that makes our soul fly

Jennifer Bouchard is a poet/actress residing in Los Angeles. Being a abuse/sexual
assault survivor, the majority of her writing revolves around her healing process.
Jennifer recently performed a piece at Healthy Housing Foundation’s slam event,
The La Dream. She also recently self published her first collection, White Helmet.

The Rape of a Tear...
By G. Billie Quijano

I once lost my soul in the moon

The conscious rhythm of the conscious crime

Against my unconscious thigh

His swell did not make me swoon

My hands grasping for the moon

I was so young

My praises had not yet been sung

Azul caressed my thoughts

That prepared my slumber and dreams

How easy those clouds moved

What do all these words mean?

I survived

My life revived

Depression comes and goes

How do I slow down the flow?

I am restless

But nevertheless

I am glitter and dust from the bones before me

I glide between the raindrops and the trees

My heart, my rage, my tears

All of it taking a knee

My soul, my spirit , I am told has always been free

And still I can breathe

My Flor de Vida is de-colonized

And your shit is finalized

It's beauty is magical real

It is not for you to steal

My time is now

Don't be a fool

I no longer put you up on that stool

My dreams are no longer of you

My chocha is in revolution

Strength, courage, resilience is the solution

The universe has a plan

Look at me, I will stand

Theres no bullshit here

When lipstick wasn't enough, joy started showing up, not fear

I am stunning

And oh I loathe your cunning

The divine radiates in me

So don't fuck with what you can't see

I glide between the raindrops and the trees

My warrior's truth will prevail

My words will not stale

There will be no pussy grabbing

No assaults on my soul with your stabbing

Times up pendejos

No more raping of tears

Patriarchy is extinguished

Theres no way around it, you will hear

15% of children will be sexually abused before the age of 18.

90% will know their abusers.

1 out of every 6 women in the U.S. have been victims of attempted or completed

rape in her lifetime.

When I was considering what to submit for this current issue, I thought about composing a poem honoring the 20th anniversary of 9/11. No hesitation it is an important event. But after hearing the news that R. Kelly was found guilty on all counts of sex trafficking, I felt compelled to share this with you.

I am an incest survivor. I was made a statistic of sexual assault. I know what it is like not to be heard, not to be believed. I am grateful and humbled that I can channel some of my life experiences creatively.

G. Billie Quijano
Poeta

Composing Between the Lines
By Ronald G. Carrillo

Prelude: Composing between the lines of adversity

Post George Floyd blood flows in our poetry

Still masked up and vaccinating but some not

And caught up in a covid controversary

Capitalism needs to be realigned

With a renewed red, white and blue reading of our constitution

Composing on the lines I begin a new verse

Unrehearsed I put raw thoughts down

Always in 12 size font and Arial black style

This combination brings harmony to my page

Then my composition may stray to rhyme

That is coding between the lines of my message

An alliteration that spices up the poetic string

A particular phrase that then is evolved for deeper meaning

They were hurting one another

But each hurting for love from each other

Or just some line coming out of the blue

There to provoke, intimidate, highly speculate and add drama

He stood erect but was hardly hard

And a third gear of composing the sacred word

That being working the poetic architecture

To go outside the lines of my composition

To possibly put the reader in a temporary uncomfortable position

To veer off course and to go into deep paradigm shifts

That might lift the consciousness of the reader

So the poet will write utilizing all these devices

To bring the fragrance of the rose to his page

To speak of love that can be sweet then go bitter

To objectify the appearance of shifting clouds in the sky

To examine the color blue

Or vent, analyze, repent, confess those blues of the soul

To broaden his of her rings of experience

Add to the shade of their life patina

Embellish, contest, express, languish in a feeling

The wordsmith draws from his developed vocabulary

To bring poetic life to the page

To produce something fine and good

Like a carpenter working with wood

His medium is the naked word

Disjointed until like legos they take on the form

Of his mental blueprints

He sculpts the words until he has a final product

We paint our verbiage with broad and fine strokes

The poet can be excessively detailed

Or brevity can accomplish his or her thought process

A verbal rainstorm of just drops of wordlets

I am married to the sacred words

They are my constant companions

Spouses of my feelings for this world

They puzzle me in crosswords

They can intimidate me in the bible

They can be novel in a novel

They are visitors that appear out of the blue

They can bring me to tears

They can be enthralling

Some are so stunning they shine

Others are dull but still tow the line

They can be invented but still maintain feeling

I find many in lyrics so they also have their musical side

Some are strictly American

Many have a Chicano essence

I am still honing this craft of words

I can bend many of them to serve my poetic design

To bring a finer meaning to my emotions

To define my ideas on subjects or themes of my interest

These words are my allies

We write the good fight

We uncover truths

We explore the mysteries

Like an archaeologist I dig and brush away the dirt

Of my word until it is museum ready

The unreal reality manufactured for the masses

Can be revealed through the Arts

Artists are the canaries in the coalmines

We can uncover truths that are below the surface

My poetic vocabulary is ever expanding

Demanding for air and ink

To be released to unveil diversity

Multiple opinions, food for thought and discussion

Sometimes just a mere observation

Something maybe obvious but overlooked

Or one of nature’s gems

I continue learning and yearning to reach higher ground

I try to be fully present but do not object

To short wanderings as a present to remember my past

Memories are reflections and stepping-stones to where I am

Words are a poetic present to keep me in the present

Delicious desserts that sometimes desert me in a desert reality

They can change my mood as soon as I begin to compose

I trust my instinct and choices

As I assemble my poetic architecture

(I would be amiss if I did not thank fellow poet G Billie Quijano for

her seed of inspiration in writing this poem)

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.

She’s a Drama queen
By Carrie Gordon

 Perhaps the best you’ve ever seen.

Wearing her heart on her sleeve Emoting like Bernhardt before the third act reprieve.

Like Mack with his knife just waiting for his chance

She sharpens her wit and readies her stance

While the rest wait silently for Godot to appear this queen orates loudly for all who are near.

Proscenium or thrust, black box or in the round She embraces the moment to tear the fourth wall down.

Monologues and epilogues that always bear repeating With the pounding of her fist, her chest she will be beating.

She basks in the limelight as the center of attention, recharging while emoting, loves the thrill of intervention.

Sit back and hold on to her roller coaster ride. A myriad of moods stretching oh so far and wide!

Carrie Gordon usually works in mixed media with pastels, acrylic and digital art. Her work has been shown at various locations in and around Southern California in both solo and group shows including: LA Live Arts, Eagle Rock Center for the Arts, Carter Sexton Gallery, Sawhorse Gallery, Cypress Art Tunnelwalk, Portfolio Gallery, Zweet cafe, Ten Feet: Art meets the River walk, Withlove LA, the Blue Line Arts Museum in Sacramento, Eden Gallery in Loudonville, New York and Middle Ridge Gallery in Idyllwild.

Truly alive or haiku of a trubluju
By Daniel Schack

Sadness is strength.sadness is love.sadness is gladness.and more sadness is hope and more strength,but never boistress.footnote.although much absolute humanism,respect,and survival come down to dollars and cents and sense.we should not and must not degenerate into an animalistic and cannibalistic society.is this where we are going.I don't know either.

The poet ,daniel schack can be seen on poetrysoup.com and his art on tumblr adanthemanworld.daniel schack is 57 and is a high school grad. With 3.5 years of college.peace.

Thanks for joining us! We will continue to host writers and poets of all genres. Everyone is welcome!!! No experience necessary!

Love,

Linda Kaye

Please submit your written work to:lindakayepoetry@icloud.com and include a short bio.

Linda Kaye writes poetry, curates poetry, 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 and Zweet Café in Eagle Rock. 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 most recent project a rap music video in collaboration with Mary Cheung, “ERACE-ISM” can also be seen on youtube. https://youtu.be/NfrbveNUBgg

Linda Kaye is a native Angelino 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 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.

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

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September Poet's Place

September 04, 2021

POETS PLACE
SEPTEMBER 2021

September is here and we are still trying to figure out how to cope with the hoards of anti anti’s in all arenas. Trying to deal with the belligerent denials for the abuses that contribute to climate change, infectious diseases, racial inequality and why many people are not nice to the human race, well frankly, seems almost futile. And it does feel like a human race to understand how people can actually deny what’s going on in front of our faces!! I cannot wrap my head around all this. Can you?? What keeps you going? When I feel down and depressed I turn on music!!! There is an immediate change in mood and atmosphere that can twist and turn around the despair that haunts the soul. Listening to music is much better than taking drugs (well) most times. Ha! So what gets your groove going? And, better yet, how can we get back into the groove of sharing the love and respecting others’ differences? Well… Poetry can help because it unleashes the inner angst, the negative disturbing thoughts that paralyze our ability to function in a positive mode. Writing helps us to literally let go and confront those demons. Throwing them up onto the paper! Swoosh!! Writing ‘unsent’ letters to people or corporations that anger us helps us to let go of those feelings that contribute to our depressions from the helplessness to change them or their behaviors. IT DOES WORK! Try it sometime. As a retired social worker and behaviorist, I have learned the tools to combat those feelings as I’ve mentioned above. We all need help sometimes to help us get out of the funk. Use your words! Get out of your head! The constant rumination of negative thoughts in the mind can distort reality to the point that we begin to believe the distortions!!! So, let’s keep on writing!! Send in those powerful words so we can share them and help boost others who may be hanging on the precipice. We/they need you!!

Enjoy this month’s offerings from a splendid cast of amazing writers!!!!

LK :0)

When it happens to you
By Linda Kaye

When it happens to you that's when you pay attention to the festering wound, the bleeding sore that was burned by that opened door when the orange haired freak came crashing through

Don’t you remember?

When it happens to you, your heart beats faster, the walls come smashing down and that once protected denial cracks revealing that the worlds are colliding and the drought doesn't subside so all your plants are dying, and the wood is rotting, the intense heat fuels the paint to peel off revealing years of neglect like your face did that time which no cream could heal once the last facial peel came off with the dead skin of masterful repression

Good lord

When it happens to you do you feel obliged to respond that you knew all along about the deaths in Cambodia, and Syria, and South-central LA?

What happened to you all those years before when Disney was King?

Coca-Cola reigned supreme; and movies guided our choices as the TV hosted specials deliciously delivering reality on a plate, a guiding light, the bold and the beautiful decadent delight? That’s right.

When it happens to you and so close to home that your guard was let down and your words spoke the truth that your hatred was real towards the sins of your kind and the rug was pulled out and you fell down the hole that unlocked all the pain that you suffered in life from the marriage that was planned by the culture that was wronged with no clues from the dead

So, when it happened to you, you were left all alone to decipher what's just without forethought or might

You just left it to rot with all the others that night

GHOSTED
By Richard Russeth

Salt falls from the sky,

the wounded feel its sting.

When I was wounded, I was

the age of that Vietnamese girl

made famous by the picture of her

running nude and screaming

down a dirt road in the countryside

after we napalmed everything and her.

Not that she wanted it,

but the entire world was hers,

and she might have wanted it

if someone had told her it was hers,

but we left and left them all behind.

We leave. Each and all of us.

We have ghosted whole nations

and lovers alike, and left them bleeding into

the sea or desert or each other.

We learn early that it is easier to move on

than fix what we have broken

even when what is broken is us.

The Night Of Fires
By Brad Stubbs

Someone said

“Go west, young man.”

And we inspired by cliches,

With nothing better to do

Went to tame the savage land.

We traveled on roads paved in gold,

Blinded by a reflection

Of sunny days to come.

We made our homes in the valleys

And on top of the hills.

We turned out deserts green,

Installed cable and computers,

Purchased jewelry and perfume.

Talked about politics and sports cars.

We hired “illegal” immigrants

To care for the land.

And they did -

And it was good.

Suddenly

Without a whisper of a thought,

The night of fires began.

Ignited by the curious and confused,

But snatched from their tiny incapable hands

Like a parent scolding a child screaming

“I'll show you, young man!”

And it took less than 24 hours

To speak her peace,

While the landscape

Was left sucker punched

By a right hook to a bruised and broken

(But not unconscious) body.

For the mourning sun revealed

It's black and blue eyes

Swollen shut from the pain.

And through mine I see Jesus on the cross

Surrounded by flames,

Hear newsman and helicopters

Tap dancing on my brain.

I smell the barbecued remains of

Nothing's what it seems

As I sleep in the streets

Of fireman's dreams.

Brad Stubbs is a songwriter, a musician and a photographer with deep roots in the L.A. Arts & Music scene. He dabbles in free verse poetry as a respite from the restraints of traditional songwriting. He creates what he calls “docu-poems” which refer to real life events.

Rattling in My Head
By Mary Cheung

June 2021

4:56 a.m.

Floating on 4:56 a.m. in the limbo of b4 waking and dawn.

Shrouded in the darkness of my bedroom, silence all around.

My thoughts break the silence, begging to be heard.

So I must take pen to paper, or rather in this case, text to phone.

To write it all down, and give life to my thoughts b4 they die the early dawn.

Tomorrow I'll forget these early morning thoughts. They plague me and keep me awake.

I succumb to them and I jump up to a hot cup of tea as my companion.

But I want to tame these early morning revolts.

I want to lay down in silence and sleep.

I want to join the world in silent slumber.

Than celebrate along with the world the ringing of the day.

Sometimes I don't mind following along with the herd.

This is one of those times.

Shhh quiet now, slip back to sleep, let the warmth take over me and dream.....

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”.

Grey Sky and Creamy Coffee
By Ed Burgess

grey sky and creamy coffee.

white thighs, white sheets.

what have we done?

what have we not done?

the fresh brush of sun and wind.

scrub our hairy hearts to a glow.

grows to an ember.

then a flame.

again and again and again.

almost eternal.

almost not.

the sweet ecstasy between.

to be or not to.

yet the swell of the sea crashes.

on the shore again and again.

the river of cars flow.

the train horn blows.

time devours all things.

but not this scene.

in between.

grey sky and creamy coffee

white thighs, white sheets.

Ed Burgess is an artist, poet and all around bon vivant. He has lived in LA for 20 years and is an active member of the art community. He has exhibited his artwork in many galleries around Los Angeles. Although he writes poetry he sometimes reads it publicly.

Where Is Love: Summer 2021
By Ronald G. Carrillo

Where is love

Abiding, keeping,

What is love

Requited, committed

Falling in love

Losing control, filling my soul

Being in love

Feeling complete, swept off my feet, totally sweet

My winning Johnny

With his wolfish smile

Reels me in like a fresh catch

Utterly charming with his eyes shining

Endearing Johnny leaves me chocolate bars and kisses

Then out the door and see you soon wishes

Fairytales that have no regard for truth

Lovely children’s stories to be eventually rebuked

Insincere Johnny but still got a hold of me Johnny

What weakness in me draws me to him

Unreliable Johnny doing me wrong

Why am I attracted to that same old song of his

Men and trouble seems to count double for me

The chase without the love

Robs my spirit to expect very little

But still I am a believer in a true Johnny

There must be love

Mature and pure

Responsible but compatible

Common ground that’s solid and sound

Reciprocal but adaptable

Garden and plant well to last many seasons

There may be floods of anger

There may be droughts of emotion

But there’ll always be harvests

Replenish your spiritual soil for the long haul

Plentiful Johnny my garden honey

Let’s get to harvesting baby

A faithful Johnny by my side

At long last my game card has turned the tide

Love depleted

Companionship deleted

But the season has changed and my fields are no longer barren

My yield no longer fallow

Union of two

Communion under blue skies

Thanks for joining us! We will continue to host writers and poets of all genres.

With great hope for a loving and accepting future!

Love,

Linda Kaye

Please submit your written work to:lindakayepoetry@icloud.com and include a short bio.

Linda Kaye writes poetry, curates poetry, 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 and Zweet Café in Eagle Rock. 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 most recent project a rap music video in collaboration with Mary Cheung, “ERACE-ISM” can also be seen on youtube. https://youtu.be/NfrbveNUBgg

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: @lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

August Poet's Place!

August 05, 2021

POETS PLACE

AUGUST EDITION 2021

It’s hot! Muggy, yucky and full of grief and loss. Can someone just put on the brakes a sweet minute to catch my breath?? Dang, too much loss. If it wasn’t for the support and poetry from all of you, I’m not sure I coulda hung on much longer. Drowning. No kidding. Just full on struggle.

Poetry can soothe the soul and calm your anxiety, and it can also open up its floodgates of traumatic and depressing thoughts. Oh yeah. Truth be told. Word.

Paralyzed by loss
By Linda Kaye

Baring its ugly teeth

loss surprisingly hits hugely, quite deep numbing it’s victims

the shock remains initially intact penetrating beneath the surface smoldering

creating a guarded sense to protect its host

It forms a dull ache not yet festering just lingering contemplative

deciding its course

not able yet to find solace because the deceptive shock still exists

there’s an outer shell projecting appropriate behaviors decent enough to fool the onlookers

but just for a while

there’s a persistent gnarly tug in the gut a sickly feeling that reverberates throughout the body

It stings

trying to jolt the heart back to a consistent rhythm

needing a defibrillator shock

But no luck the dull ache remains sustained by the loss

of death

it’s permanence still exists

tears are beginning to form

filling up the empty caverns in the soul the one tear lingering in the corner of the eye waiting for the release just below the surface resembling a dormant volcano waiting for the catalyst to trigger the explosion which doesn’t come without the voicing of acknowledgement from some familiar face to unlock the floodgates that wash away the grief

temporarily, until the next loss surfaces and the hurt begins it’s paralyzing cycle once again

Raga
By Judith Terzi

There's no one sitting beside me. No one

in front. No one in back. There are no

rows, no siddurim––no prayer books––

stacked on tables in front of the sanctuary

doors this Day of Atonement. No eau de

parfum lingering between stained glass.

French roast the sole aroma. I'm listening

to a cantor on YouTube. Her voice is

nostalgia, it glistens, it's the end of drought,

our fires put out. It's a windfall of serenity,

pulse of astonishment. Now the rabbi's

perched on a boulder in mountains where

there is no fire. He's singing about the opening

of hearts. He's playing guitar. Over six feet

away is the cantor––this is a pre-recorded

portion. There's a bridge, a vigorous creek,

a waterfall. They're in casual clothes. Inside

the sanctuary they stand on either side

of the Ark in white kittels––a coincidental

distancing. The cantor smiles while she sings

words my father sang, his recitative rambling

through our house while he rehearsed, his

tremolos way too wavy for a child's patience.

His cantor's cap still lies inside my dresser

drawer, kittel given away long ago. Rocking

back and forth. I'm rocking back and forth

singing transliterated Hebrew on my screen.

Singing the English. I'm mesmerized by this

service: its relevance, compassion. Its panache.

Nothing is quite the same. Yet everything is.

Judith Terzi is the Author of Museum of Rearranged Objects (Kelsay) as well as of five chapbooks, Judith Terzi's poems have appeared in a wide array of journals and anthologies. Her poetry has been read on BBC Radio 3 and has received Pushcart and Best of the Net nominations. She taught high school French for many years at Polytechnic School in Pasadena as well as English and French at California State University, Los Angeles, and in Algiers, Algeria.

Life, a Fool's Errand
By:IE Carlo
23 June 2021

What is your objective in life, but to live!

Yet, it’s a fool's errand

For life even when pursuing a goal

Will still lead you to a worthless place, a place of no value

A fool's errand

Life is just that, life, the irony is how civilized

People make life a fool's errand

Smiles of riches, drawn faces of despair

Why? Should we ask?

What is it to own a twenty room house, a yacht, a plane, yet

Have no place to live in your being

Smiles of riches; laughter from artists

Art of living is not a fool's errand

But life without art ‘is’ an errand for fools

Shake, rattle, and row, and eggs migrate

I, You, the only survivors of more than over a million migrants in one shot

Born into a fool's errand

By those rich smiling faces who utilize our being and talents

As an artist I take life for granted and utilize it to my advantage knowing full well of those smiling faces and their ways of sending many on ‘a fool's errand’.

Summery: the phrase ‘a fool's errand’ is an undertaking that is doomed to failure because it is impossible ‘or’ frivolous in its nature...so, for me, not to take life for granted would be ‘a fool's errand’...Paz

Ismael (East) Carlo, poet, actor begins on the streets of East Harlem, el barrio whose monica of “East” happened due to others not being able to pronounce the name, Is-Ma-El…

East, considers himself more a storyteller than a poet, although at times he gets lucky and poetry emerges from his stories...

For more about East, visit IMDB. Paz en Vida

Fecund with Promise
By Lillian Doyle

My vision is static and it’s time to flee,

to slip out from under these ominous lights,

the colorful ads that cast red and blue shadows over my face.

Premises are why

and conclusions are what,

but there is no argument to be made.

Everything is funnier with a beer dribbled chin,

or in a quiet room-

doubled over, tight with laughter- where can we release it?

Follow the lurch in your stomach when you slam on the brakes-

your ears will ring; catch the call-

wonder seeks wonder and the road is fecund with promise.

Lillian Doyle is an artist and poet living in East Los Angeles. Lillian incorporates her poetry into zines and ambient music. Her work is self-reflective, ethereal, and inspired by the nature she grew up around. Last year she released her first ep and book "Legends".

A Goddess Looks Over Her Shoulder
By Lisa Montagne

A goddess without Love is
A shell emptied of its contents
A flower bereft of its petals
A single bird left behind when all others
Have gone extinct.

A goddess without Love is
A world without color.
Winter without fall
or spring or summer.

One day the Goddess looked over her shoulder and
Found Love wondering on a street corner.

The strength of a whole universe
Distilled in her gaze.

She became La Loba, mother Nyx,
Durga, Coatlicue, Radha once again.
She was Home.
is okay.

Lisa Montagne, Ed.D. A native of Southern California, Lisa Montagne, Ed.D., is a poet, writer, artist, and college English professor who specializes in online learning. She has read her poetry to audiences in Los Angeles, Portland and Tampa, including at the Beyond Baroque poetry center and for Writ Large Press and PenWriter America. She has been published by The Ear literary and art magazine, the Variant Literature Journal, Boomer Reviews, and Running Wild Press.

By G. Billie Quijano

As the pandemic is lifting, I feel like I am a lotus rising from the murky waters to meet the sun.

This last year and a half overwhelmed us with much grief to process. It seemed like it would never end, but we never gave up hope.

Thank the goddess I was able to channel my anger and grief through poetry. I was able to say goodbye to George Floyd and John Lewis. But I still have rage for the killing of Breonna Taylor.

Her murder like the murders of the women of Juarez are not just statistics. They are women who loved, laughed, danced and had a future of memories to make. Then comes another blow, Bill Cosby released from prison on a technicality.

It is the passion of La Corazon Feminista that will not allow them to be censored from our souls. They will not be mere shadows, but front and center in their narrative.

Their memory will echo our rage, grief, love and victories.

This is for you Breonna

Oda a Breonna
By G. Billie Quijano

Why is Breonna's womaness a crime that resulted in Femicide?
They were brazen in that act
And your assailants can never hide

She was innocent in her sleep
While her dreams swirled in the deep

Why was the color of her skin
Their win?

Her skin color was not probable cause
Yet they make their own laws

She gave service to other humans
Now we're in the streets movin'

They refused to see their crime through their hate
Their evil was the cause of her fate

Kentucky make no mistake
Our blood is not for you to take

Your decision not to indict
We will not resist the fight

How many kisses will be lost
Love always remains the cause

How many dances are painfully still?
Our rage is our will

Breonna you have graced the covers of O and Vanity Fair
Oh my goddess, at times its more than we can bear

Your sweetness will be missed
But your memory will persist

Breonna you have taken your place in the court of queens
Let our voices be heard

Let our anguish be seen
"Say her name"

Vanessa Guillen

Sandra Bland

Layleen Polanco

Riah Milton

Dominique Fells

Mujeres of Juarez

Ana Mendieta

“Progressive art can assist people to learn not only about the objective forces at work in the society in which they live, but also about the intensely social character of their interior lives. Ultimately it can propel people toward social emancipation”. Angela Davis

G. Billie Quijano

Gracias Angela. My life as an artist has liberated me, my mind, body and soul. Expression is boundless, color eternal. Art ignites movements. We are citizens of the collective consciousness. This month I am submitting 2 poems. This mine and Frida’s birthdays. We share a cosmic connection-East Los to Coyoacan, Mexico. Angela, Frida, Dora Maar,Lola Alvarez Bravo, Sor Juana Ines, sisters, brothers, and yours truly are the faces of freedom.

Ode to Tennessee Williams
By Ronald G. Carillo

Tennessee exiting a fictitious streetcar of conformity
And walking to a shoe factory daily
Like giving blood after morning coffee
And a rough night of going to the movies and heavy drinking
His mother’s voice proclaiming rise and shine
Walk the line eight to five to stay alive
But he’d rather go to the moon of his imagination
Mother and sister on the ropes of existence
And the old man has escaped town handsome though he maybe
Now you hold the reins of your father’s discontent Tennessee
And also inherit his absent parentage
Becoming your father while hating your mother
But I recognize in you a brother of the highest regard
Going down in a sinking ship
So ill-equipped for dry land
You go through the disaster motions as long as you can
While getting drunk reckoning adventure from some faraway port
Writing poetry and stories during a pirate’s lunch
Gentlemen callers and bits of glass
Under the sliver of a silver slipper moon
Make a wish Mr. Williams and hope for success and happiness
Far off in the mist of memory Stanley hollers “Stella”
A banished Blanche DuBois retires to writing
For Romeos and wedding vows that will not arrive in time
I too must set sail as there is no rescue
Only cold sheets and sacred cows too many to disavow
Tennessee Williams and Miss Alma
Rising out of desire and smoke
Thick enough to choke any hope of love
But rising still to heaven to create great Art
Two souls forging yet breaking apart
The ancient original sin of Paradise lost
Tennessee channeling the great rivals
Dark and light and major and minor divisions
Our secular tendencies and those sacred traditions
A doubting Thomas but not quite a Judas Iscariot
Tennessee battling internal addictions
And external temptations but always observing human folly
Cruelty and male adrenalin facing off with fragility
The beaten down played out and escaping crisis
The lion unable to lie down with the lamb

Happy Mother's Day To Me
4-9-21
5:59 a.m.
By Mary Cheung

Where did the time go?
It all went by too fast.
You started out just as a thought.
Than as a tiny spot in my body.

All part of my plan;
a life to join in my party.
Oh wouldn't that just be grand!!

Committed now, of what my future will be.
I rolled with all the changes in my body.
I looked down one day,
and my feet I could no longer see.

Throughout morning sickness
and a steady widening of girth..
I readied myself to be a mother,
determined I'd prove my worth.

But no books can prepare you for what's ahead.
Even if you think you know it all.
Regardless we stumble and learn;
Hoping each decision was the right call.

All I can give you,
is my love, my experience and wisdom of past.
These 2 arms to hold you,
And promises of a love that would last.

I hope that my knowledge can help to lessen,
any hardships along your way.
I can only dream for you what I hope,
you might become one day.

I've guided and given all that I could.
Now it's up to you,
To create,
and to live it as you think you should.

Turn your dreams into existence.
Be the princess and the prince in your own tale.
I believe in you, your fierce determination.
Your passion as big as a whale.

Your whole life is ahead of you,
possibilities are boundless and more.
I can't wait to read your story.
It started the minute you walked out the door.

Wander off to far away lands.
I hope I've prepared you well.
One day you'll learn what I have.
And pass onto your children as well.

That a mother's love doesn't end.
No matter where you are.
It reaches those you love.
Whether near or far.

And that Mother's day is our new Christmas.
The gift that gives and never ends.
Eternal is my bond with you;
You are my life,

my love,

my friend.

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”.

Daniel Schack

To those, regardless of political affiliation or party, personal or religious philosophy, or gender or orientation, or ethnicity who are fake or phony. To say it bluntly, " I would rather spend time with a wh-re instead of a bore. The former has more character, most likely.

Thanks for joining us! We will continue to host writers and poets of all genres.

With great hope for a loving and accepting future!

Love,

Linda Kaye

Please submit your written work to:lindakayepoetry@icloud.com and include a short bio.

Linda Kaye writes poetry, curates poetry, 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 and Zweet Café in Eagle Rock. 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 most recent project a rap music video in collaboration with Mary Cheung, “ERACE-ISM” can also be seen on youtube. https://youtu.be/NfrbveNUBgg

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

July Poet's Place Has Arrived

July 03, 2021

POETS PLACE

JULY 2021

We can breathe again! Ahhh exhale. We are experiencing what is meant by Freedom. The release from the constraints of wearing masks. The ability to join in and hang out with others. To rejoice in the freedoms that this country has granted us, its sacred promise. The constitution guarantees freedom of expression, freedom of speech, and the right to assemble. “Freedom, generally, is having the ability to act or change without constraint. Something is "free" if it can change easily and is not constrained in its present state. In philosophy and religion, it is associated with having free will and being without undue or unjust constraints, or enslavement, and is an idea closely tied with the concept of liberty”. WIKIPEDIA. Liberty and justice for all. Here in America. But not everywhere in the world. There is no free speech in China.

We are lucky to live here and have the freedoms to share our thoughts about anything without the fears of imprisonment. Let us take this opportunity, with the respect of others who do not have those freedoms, to be grateful.

THANK YOU AMERICA! LAND OF THE FREE AND HOME OF THE BRAVE!!!

14
By Linda Kaye

It was the dawning of the age of Aquarius.

The unprincipled life of a baby boomer.

The juxtaposition of right versus wrong was meaningless in the age of promiscuity and the search for love within the context of an unsupervised teen.

Look out!

The blasting hormones of a love child meant the world was pretty much open and free to explore, anything, everything, without guilt or shame.

There was no rage against the machine just a rage against loneliness

The youth left to her own devices could do anything or nothing.

No one was watching.

An inexperienced, sometimes unconscious and omnipotent punk looking for something to fill the void could and was at times a dangerous combination.

The world was wide open. Scary and exciting.

Constraints were nonexistent then, but hey, it was the 60s baby! Free love! Hop on board. Take the ride. It’s a gas man! Just hang loose. Could be a blast! How do we sign up??

Jack up the stereo, roll and smoke a joint. As many as you like. At $10 a lid what could be better!

Unconscious to the political streams of consciousness lost in a sea of the ignorance of youth, too young to care, and no parental guidance, yahoo! Get down!

It was a personal measurement of freedom. Freedom to be you, whoever that was at 14. Freedom to find out.

A liberation from the norms of society since society was that other person’s thing. Its your thing now do what ya wanna do!! A timely mantra sung by the crowds of liberated youth.

To be blessed by the gods of rock ‘n’ roll! Now that's shaking!!

BANNED
June 23, 2021
6:51 a.m.
By Mary Cheung

My roots, my one time home.

I read how you are changing.

Forced to be something you are not.

By something less than democracy.

Dire consequences if you are caught.

Shouldn't, wouldn't, crushed and stomped down by the giant voice of unity.

Can't you see that your individuality is destroying our beautiful purity?

They don't want to see who you are really.

They don't want to hear your voice.

Fall in line and act right.

Be who we want, you really don't have a choice.

BANNED! How can you survive? When you are imprisoned for your thoughts?

It doesn't matter if you have wealth.

Even your freedom can't be bought.

How can you fly, when your wings are cut to the bone?

With razor sharp precision we can remove you,

a practice we have honed.

Your millions won't save you.

Because they'll still make sure you are dead.

Displayed for the world to see,

more effective than a bullet to the head.

Resurrected only by the power of the propaganda,

that it's good to be united under our way of thinking.

Slowly the ship that is democracy goes under....

Any freedom left is rapidly sinking.

And the only choice that is left,

the only life to be had.

Is our way or no way.

Don't worry you'll love it!!

So please don't be sad.

Sold on the bill of the life that you should want.

And if you think any different,

A concrete box awaits you.

A cozy cell where you can join the others,

No one else can save you.

Yes, the sleeping giant has awoken! Ready to deal with a harsh hand.

We'll tell you what you can think and do.

It must all meet our approval if you are to live on our land!

CCP, is our acronym, it's what we'd like to be called.

You no longer have your freedom.

Even though for years you have stalled.

Hong Kong is our bitch now.

No longer under the protection of the UK.

You no longer have a say.

Our, views and opinions are the ones that matter.

We have spoken, this is our way.

Are you willing to sacrifice your freedom, just to be heard?

I can't imagine you giving up your life,

Just so people can hear your word.

So moving forward into our shining new future.

We've set down our roots in your territory.

BANNED! There is no more individual, culture.

Ours... is the only story.

Grizzly on My Back 
By Valerie Larsen 

It’s gnawing again. It sneaks up on me. Right when I’m doing something mundane, Or something meaningful,

Or something in- between. Bam! There it is. In my mid- back. A reminder that I’m not free. That more is to come, My body is not my own. Soon, a grizzly’s paws dig in. Unbearable pain sets in. 11 on the scale of 1-10. Pulling my shoulders to my feet, Ripping my insides out with his claws. Agonizing, but I don’t cry out. I refuse to give the bear that satisfaction. A couch! A couch! Where’s a couch? As if no ambulance in sight, I must sometimes stand in pain.

But I won’t give up My life to the couch. So I walk. I exercise. I zoom. I join friends. And always, my pain comes along To remind me I’m not alone.

I go with God who hates pain As much as I do. So I ask to be healed.

But in the meantime, I have come to accept This shrieking inside. “Be gone, you! Leave me alone!” It is an animal I can’t control With pills or shots or exercise Or positive thinking. Sometimes short fixes work: Communal prayer, pills, the couch. I’ll take whatever works.

But the grizzly always grabs me Again and again and again. Yet a mustard seed of hope remains That one day, God will shoot That beast off me for good.

Valerie Larsen is a retired high school English teacher of 37 years teaching in California. She now writes poetry in a writing group in the San Gabriel Valley and spends time working out and volunteering at a house of prayer. She is a recovering alcoholic with 27 years sobriety and she laments, “hold my head high with that acknowledgment. I have had chronic pain, emotional traumas, and addiction as part of my life. I have written all of my life and as an adult, spirituality has intersected with pain in my very personal poetry. It has become a therapy for me as well as an art form”.

The Great Experiment
By Ronald G. Carrillo

Inalienable rights support all lives matter

Especially those denied these God given universal rights

Those famously penned by Mr. Jefferson

Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness uphold human dignity

American revolution and its accompanying independence

Kept the institution of slavery alive

Despite the great experiment’s best efforts

Our initial attempts in our declaration of independence

Were self-serving and at best only a lofty ideal

But still it was far reaching not quite peaking

Seeking our best short sighted immature political beliefs

Our nation’s history made certain that this separation of races

Of white rulers and chattel slavery was building the nation’s backbone

Believing black slaves were inferior however created a poison

In the young nation that was to incur serious consequences

And ill side effects for democracy and the great experiment

We are still perfecting this experiment after more than two centuries

Black citizens survivors of a slavocracy system

Black sufferers longing and still awaiting

For the completion of the American dream

These people mostly holding the candle of our constitution

Before the light of its founding principles are blown away

In the red, white and blue winds of hatred

We hold their words sacred still waiting for a true American harvest

Liberty’s manifest developing in the new Jerusalem

In God we trust but would his son have been welcomed in the south

On the cusp of a moral resolution or another revolution

Brothers we must be or mortal enemies to become

We can reach a higher level in this democracy

Stretch ourselves, believe in freedom, seek brotherhood

Realize the dream and re-energize all our people

Politically, morally, humanely retrofit the nation

The great experiment creation maturing or rotting

A half empty or a half full democracy

We are now meeting that fork in our road

Pick a side if not sink in the tar like the dinosaurs

Or soar from the ashes of slavery like a phoenix

Toward a new level playing field

Those who have not had freedom seek it with vigor

Even those amongst us treated the worst

Still believe in America’s best

And freedom’s slow motion delivery

Black civil rights has opened up the doors

For other civil rights movements that the founding fathers left out

Yet still black Americans are denied

Generations of slaves in waves born in this country

Know no other birthplace

Yet our black brothers and sisters persevere in their determination

For full citizenship and full respect

An American renaissance for all its people

Let us pray to realize the great American experiment

Cleanse our sin of slavery

From rebirth and resurrection

Direct our path toward a true humanity and salvation

Amen America rise again and lead the nations in righteousness

Coda: The woman carried a heavy load

She was pregnant with liberty

Her child was raised in privilege

He became wanton with greed and power

He maligned those who built his riches

He exploited his resources beyond their means

He was never satisfied but denied others their happiness

He suffered from gluttony

He injured his destiny and psyche

After many years some of his generations sought redemption

The sins of the fathers are inherited by the sons

The sons can chart their own way

New horizons abandoning the damaged past of our ancestors

And realizing at last the dream of the great experiment

America your best days can still be ahead of you

I see the glass of liberty and justice for all our people

More than half full like a rising bull market

The people now thirst for the waters of your true liberty

Show your mature constitutional identity in this 21st Century

Oda a Frida
By G. Billie Quijano

This is where the story begins

This is where I stand

This is how I see

I was born in the cosmos

Soy hija de Tonantzin, Coyolxauhqui and Ixchel

Poetry was written as I swam in their swells

I am a prodigy of the revolution

Vibrant colores de Mexico a solution

Colonization and patriarchy has a beginning and an end

It was always a question of when

My Mestizaje sangre washes over and baptizes me

The Indigenous dna was always free

There was a time in my life my life my heart was in fragments, my body broken

That occurrence will not be reduced to token

The sway of my skirts whisper brush strokes that only know truth

And the mirror will not be shattered

My soul will not be battered

My eyebrows furrow the likeness of lust, beauty and pain

This chapter in my life was not to feign

Los ojos de claridad ignites the rhythm of 2 heartbeats, but interrupted

And you left white pulque glistening on my inner thigh uncorrupted

I breathe you in every movement across my palette

I see you in every flor

Many times our words were dipped in war

My feet on the ground, my soul in flight

I am the red that ignites the heart

I an art

This is where the story begins

G. Billie Quijano

Gracias Angela. My life as an artist has liberated me, my mind, body and soul. Expression is boundless, color eternal. Art ignites movements. We are citizens of the collective consciousness. This month I submitted this poem, Oda a Frida to reflect our mutual monthly birthdays. We share a cosmic connection-East Los to Coyoacan, Mexico. Angela, Frida, Dora Maar,Lola Alvarez Bravo, Sor Juana Ines, sisters, brothers, and yours truly are the faces of freedom.

Thanks for joining us! We will continue to host writers and poets of all genres.

With great hope for a loving and accepting future!

Love,

Linda Kaye

Please submit your written work to:lindakayepoetry@icloud.com and include a short bio.

Linda Kaye writes poetry, curates poetry, 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 and Zweet Café in Eagle Rock. 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 most recent project a rap music video in collaboration with Mary Cheung, “ERACE-ISM” can also be seen on youtube. https://youtu.be/NfrbveNUBgg

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

It's the June Poet's Place!!

June 04, 2021

POETS PLACE

JUNE EDITION 2021

We’re open! Well pretty close to open. How did we get through all this chaos?? Wasn’t easy. Nothing is. We worked diligently at staying sane and safe. We followed the rules, well most of us did or we wouldn’t BE OPEN!!! Social distancing taught us how to be respectfully spaced from each other to allow for safe connections to be had. A standard that I hope remains, along with sanitation and continuing to wear a mask in public if you are ill and symptomatic.

June 2021 brings hope to our lives and validates that we can be resilient and power through the toughest of times. I am thankful that you all have continued to participate in this journey. You have shared your poetry and prose and you have hugged me through the barriers and the hurricane waves of sheltering in place. You are my saviors, my friends and my peers of hope and strength.

THANK YOU!!!!!

BIG Love, for reals, Linda :0)

BTW- I will be reading this published piece, Fools For Hope at the Arroyo Arts Collective’s closing reception of the same title June 19th 2pm at La Culebra Park in Highland Park, Ca. Check out the events page in this publication.

PLEASE JOIN US!!!

Fools For Hope
By Linda Kaye

Fools for hope

crow loudly for validation and encouragement

laughs hysterically for love

cries real tears for grief

and wishes for everyone to be kind

Fools For Hope will wait patiently for their turn

for justice

for democracy

for integrity

for sincerity thus-for prosperity

Fools For Hope will dust off their dirty knees after humiliation and continue to carry on

despite it all

Fools For Hope will continue to support and pray for the American way during times of crisis racism fascism and sociopathic narcissism

Fools For Hope are

Fools

For

Hope

it’s a necessary self medicating and positive process

individually wrapped in a healthy denial and sealed with a stamp of goodness

Don't Remind Me

11-16-2020
By Mary Cheung

Live music is becoming an old memory,

Slowly it slips away

Reluctantly it clings for new things, looking to pave its way.

My old friend,

of smoky rooms and dingy hole in the wall places .

I saw the Knitters play,

in an old Hollywood basement,

packed with bodies and sweaty screaming faces.

X at the santa monica civic.

Fleetwood mac on a massive stage.

Shriekback at the Variety Arts Center.

While Chris Issac rattles the

Greek auditorium cage.

There were many many more,

Live music,

to feed my soul,

adorned my eyes with visions,

Too kool to capture on a camera ya know.

Those melodies,

shoots into my veins,

Burns with fire,

too wild to be contained.

It lite me up inside, burning with unholy sin.

Until my outsides burned as bright,

as from deep under my skin.

High on life now from ur song.

Obliterates all problems,

There's no sadness,

there's no wrong.

It's becoming an old memory now.

That life is all but gone.

Artist scramble to find their audience,

And their outlets to perform.

Zoom it, slack it,

what other forms are there now?

Sludge of old memory;

Drips into a bright, shiny, plastic new form.

Distant,

foreign,

off a screen is where you now adorn.

Oh, what I wouldn't give,

To orbit in your space.

to be able to reach out and touch.

Scent and sight, fighting,

to occupy the same place.

Live music is becoming an old memory.

Like the old geezer who's been retired for the new.

High techy, cheeky, latest trend millennial,

yeah Covid..... I'm talking bout you!

Don't remind me,

this ain't over.

One day Live music shall return.

Life,

riding in on music,

It's not an "if",

but only a matter of "when".

Brown Eyes
By Lee Boek

Brown eyes

Invited me

Tomorrow

To Yesterday

A moment frozen

Forever

Just for the two of us.

They brought me

Back from the desert

To the well spring

To the garden

Of our love

Lee Boek, born and raised in the California Bubble, “first I was a teen-age evangelist whose ministry intersected with the civil rights movement while preaching in the southern United States. Then turning to the education I was warned never to get, to the anti war movement of the sixties, the environmental movement of the seventies and today. During this time I became a performer of satirical stories and sketches mostly based on my own life experiences. For the last nearly forty years I have been a member of and/or the Artistic Director of Public Works Improvisational Theatre”.

Journey of the Mind 
By Valerie Larsen 

Hello. My name is no one. And I think I’m invisible On your screen.

You can’t see me On your computer Zoom screen panel Because I’m blank. I’m gray, tedious, Mediocre, boring. I’m no one

You want to say hi to, Want to say bye to, Or want to hear from. I’m just no one.

But come with me at night time And hear the Spanish music In my room with no stereo on. Listen to the talk show—

But no radio is playing— And not enough meds are in my head. Hear all the different voices Vying in competition To hear from me now.

Or maybe if I don’t want To play with those friends, I can walk with a less broken soul I love to hear and see; Rejoice that I am seen and heard, And that we are both — real. Or I hear a friend on the phone— And treasure the goodness, The “realness” of this voice. Ah, to celebrate the genuine Fantastic tangible relationships I carry on with every day. Oh, the glory of reality. . .

THE BUG MAN
By Sarah Hunter

He introduced himself in his profile on Match.com as a “Renaissance man of Science.” What that meant, as it turned out, was that he was a pest control inspector for restaurants and businesses who hired him to kill bugs for an exorbitant price.

Here’s what happened: I responded to his dull, “Let’s chat” generic request on my internet dating service by asking him where he lived went to school, what he was interested in, and any other question which I thought might spark an imaginative reply. He replied by asking me to meet him at Starbucks for a cup of coffee. To the point, I thought, but maybe this man of bugs would be a testosterone-ridden hunk. Who knew?

I met him on a Tuesday at 5PM, a safe time, before the possibility of a dinner date and too late to get stuck at lunch in case of deadly boredom or physical grotesquery. The last one I had responded to said he was an architect who was building a winery on the Carmel Coast. Turned out he lived in a trailer in Alhambra and worked on construction crew, pounding nails. The only brush with a winery on the Monterey Coast was his collection of wood he’d stolen from a winery, which had collapsed some twenty years ago. Feeling safe, then, I appeared at Starbucks five minutes early, full of hope. Settling myself at one of the window tables; I awaited his entrance. He was on time. I admit to feeling a bit disappointed, but at least he was taller than I, male, and had rather attractive blue eyes under tortoise-rimmed glasses.

We talked about my job as a teacher at an East Los Angeles high school and my over a decade of sobriety. We talked about his job as a bug man. It was borderline pleasant enough. Besides, I was hungry to date; I admit it. So, based on his being my age (59), a single divorced male, college graduate and somewhat articulate, I agreed to set a second date to go to The Huntington Gardens’ Renaissance Faire, which consisted of music and poetry from costumed performers held on the picturesque grounds of the Huntington,

Showering in my favorite blossom-scented bath gel from Victoria’s Secret, I fluffed and powdered myself for my actual date with Roy. I pictured us sitting on the sloping summer lawn at the Huntington, laughing together, and sharing little witticisms, transported back into Elizabethan times. I would maybe share my favorite Shakespeare sonnets, which I loved teaching to my students every year. Frankly, I was a bit giddy.

It was a warm, perfect time of the day –almost sunset. Roy arrived on time again. I greeted him at my door in my purple silk top and long, flowered skirt. I’d set my hair, applied full make up and with all the extra care I had taken, looked good. He was dressed in tattered, torn blue jeans and a frayed gray t-shirt with armpit stains. On his feet he sported filthy, battered tennis shoes. Now gray, they were probably once white. Clearly, we weren’t on the same page.

“Oh, I blurted,” how are we going to get into a decent restaurant with what you’re wearing?”

The bug man replied, “To hell with any restaurant that won’t let me in with these clothes.”

You see, we had agreed to dinner after the faire. I was speechless.

“Come on, “ he said, “let’s go I’ve got the top down on my convertible. Let’s get going.”

“Could you put the top up? I just washed and set my hair, and I’m wearing contact lenses. The wind will disturb my lenses.”

“My son wears contacts, so you won’t be bothered. He rides with me all the time. Be a sport!”

“No,” I said, “this won’t work. I guess we’ll need to take my car.”

“Okay,” he chirped. “I can save gas money. We can take your car.”

Looking back, I should have booted him out the door at that moment, but as I said before, I was still curious and just didn’t know how to get out of the date gracefully. Besides, maybe some part of him would be like Jack Kerouac, a rebel drunken poet, or some eccentric with a beautiful heart underneath that callous and filthy exterior. Maybe he collected exotic artifacts and traveled to far away places and had elevated philosophies of societal customs. Who knew?

We arrived at the Huntington and all its splendor. Roy wouldn’t shut up. Not for a minute. He chatted on and on about the bourgeoisie around us and how foolish I was to actually possess a membership at the Huntington. Why did I care about art and all these paintings by “dead Dutch and English men”? Even the plants and spectacular landscape were a waste of “upper middle class talent

and taste.” “Who gives a rat’s ass about these Japanese Zen gardens? Just a bunch or raked rocks, for Christ’s sake!”

I tried to defend my membership to the Huntington while I counted the minutes until I could escape I sort did a little skip-hop to the car ahead of him. “Let’s get to the restaurant.” I called back. I just didn’t know how to tactfully get rid of him, so I thought moving through the series of planned events would be the best tack. Remember, also, that The Huntington had been my idea. I should have deposited him back at his car, but something inside me said, “Maybe dinner will be better.”

Roy, the entomologist in the gray pit-stained t-shirt and I (dressed for a formal dinner), arrived at The Wild Thyme Café for a bite to eat. I ordered a bowl of strawberries with a side of whipped cream and a cup of decaf coffee. I think Roy ordered a salad. Through the course of the dinner, Roy talked about my ex- husband’s father. It turns out that Roy had worked with him some twenty years ago, back in Detroit, Michigan. He told me Bob’s dad had been a total loser, a freak amongst gentlemen. Somehow this information made me feel sad and protective of Warren, Bob’s father. He went on and on about how Bob’s father had been unable to advance further in the ranks due to his drinking. All of this somehow gave me the notion I’d accidentally walked in on Warren in the bathroom and found him vulnerable and naked.

Then the Bug Man came forth with, “So, you say you’re in recovery and healthy now, and yet here you are drinking chemically drenched coffee beans and wolfing down fake whipped cream. Are you aware of the triglycerides and preservatives in that whipped cream? All those phony chemicals preserving those strawberries? You say you’re in recovery? HAH. You are doped up on chemicals!”

I jumped to my feet, shuffling to push the table back. “Okay, Roy, let’s go. Dinner’s over. I need to get home.”

He looked startled. “But, Sarah, it’s only seven o’clock.”

I shouted, “I don’t care -- we are out of here. Let’s go.”

On the way back to my house, which was thankfully only a ten- minute ride from The Wild Thyme, I stared ahead in dead silence. The Bug Man chatted on about the messes he’d encountered in restaurant after restaurant with the bugs and the germs. I tried not to listen. We arrived at his car, parked across the street from my house.

“Well,” he said with a little Winnie the Poo hang head, “I suppose this is the last time I’ll be seeing you, huh?”

Still staring straight ahead, my hands sweating at the wheel, contained fury in every cell, I replied,” yes, this will be the last time. In fact, I think when I get inside the house I’ll go online and cancel my Match.com membership.”

And so I did.

Sarah Hunter began creating characters and dramas in her neighborhood backyard at age eight back in West Lafayette, Indiana. From graduate school to her time in Los Angeles, Sarah remains a dedicated student of classical and modern theater.

She has dubbed Japanese cartoons, done voice-over work, had her original plays produced in Los Angeles and Pasadena, and continues acting, creating, writing and dreaming. The most important thing for Sarah is the continuous re-inventing of herself each time she writes another play or TV episode. Working with Sandra Cruze, on TWO HEADS ARE BETTER PRODUCTIONS has allowed her to continue writing episodes and acting, working on her one- woman solo shows which she has presented at Beyond Baroque in Venice, CA and her “Dogs are Better Than People” at the Whitefire Theater in West Los Angeles. She will be presenting this piece a second time, as she has been awarded “The Best of the Solo Fest.” Stay tuned for June 12 at 7PM.

Sarah loves writing and performing in the episodes in “We’re Not Dead Yet” (WNDY) and enjoys watching them on the YOUTUBE channel. She and her creative partner, Sandra Cruze have been awarded 5 wins for their series. They are having a ball and definitely not “dead yet.”

Life is good.

I Love Praising Women
By: IE Carlo

22 March 2021

Well look at them

I love praising women

Their shapes and curves, eyes, mouth, and hair

Their intoxicating glutinous maximum movement

as you observe them

in their heels

Like meals on heels I say is real

For all is revealed in that strid built of confidence and zeal

I live to praise women who are real

Give me a woman who knows her deal

And I am a happy man

Making it ideal

I love praising women

Who know their minds and speak

Clearly with purpose of mind

And adore comes to my mind

For what is a person without a mind

Nothing difficult to galvanise to this of mine

I love praising women making them a pleasure of mine

As I hope I’m their pleasure of mind

I love praising women particularly if they are mine

Ismael (East) Carlo, poet, actor begins on the streets of East Harlem, el barrio whose monica of “East” happened due to others not being able to pronounce the name, Is-Ma-El…

East, considers himself more a storyteller than a poet, although at times he gets lucky and poetry emerges from his stories...

For more about East, visit IMDB. Paz en Vida

Triad Poem
By Ronald G. Carrillo

• Tendaberry

She inspires me with her female epistles

Her soaring mezzo-soprano transports me out of my element

Tendaberry girl with the long hair evoking and emoting on her piano

She moves me and cherry blossoms appear while I am making tea

Nyro lyrics are jig-saws of her heaven and New York City

Gospel intentions with sewer reality situations

Tom Cat men edging out the backdoor of her life

Cruelty and devil captains adding her salty tears to the Hudson

I have been there and was used by those Tom of Finland men

Bouncers and bartenders with macho moustaches

Disco dancers and too cool pool players

Leather men and afternoon beer hustlers

But Laura’s arias were hard-core big city prophecy

I was fifteen and she guided my teenage footsteps to love

Sean and Filip were my first of that strange male persuasion

Fly by night and never a call always on the make having a ball

She was right “never gonna make a movie maker

Always be a city faker”

Tom, Dick and Harry all belonged to that same loser’s club

Tom cat feet prowling the back alleys and secret city streets

Then come a calling that big Captain man who soothed me

Big time lover man who knew how to use his hands

Wet kisses and too late sorrys sniffing the white stuff

Sharing my bed until we hit a dead end

Back to the sorrow of Tendaberry and miracles for her man

Like Billie she had the blues in spades

Had to give up her cigarettes and all the male charades

Frank-in-sense no longer made sense for me

A private inventory and freedom from the blues

Walking with poetry and pigeons along Hill Drive

I know I will survive all the Eli’s

No more sour strawberries from strangers

My life beyond the glitter and the lies now gone

Authentic no longer paying rent I own it

My life more simple but still spicy

Menudo but no mainstream

Laura before there was a Winehouse

Tendaberry and her 13th Confession predated Back to Black

But where is my sweet lovin’ baby

The Spring winds blowing magnolia fragrance in the Eagle Rock air

I am centered and patient with a full head of senior hair

Step forward and equal partners we can be

Mutual reciprocal senior men reaching a ten on our comfort level

• Blue Nyro Channeling Carrillo

Blue where were you when I was in high school

Oh Blue how did I come to know you

The Fabulous 52 and old black and white movies

Emily Dickinson poems of sorrow

Tennessee Williams and Miss Alma

A Delta nightingale who believed but could not receive love

Rising out of smoke and desire

Before love even spoke its name

Then that Sophomore year of Frank

With all my innocence to blame

My heart reached for the flame of love

You burned me Blue learning Nyro dialect

Seagulls and clouds in purple Cathedral skies

All lies except for Tendaberry and Blue

More layers of you in Holiday, Kahlo and Etta

My own poetry buttressed my teenage obsession of depression

Leaving Phantom fairies and into the disco kick-line

Now alcohol drank with Blue as I fell

Retreating completely from the garden

I was tempted and ate of the forbidden fruit

Turned to salt and killing my spirit brother

I fornicated with another with no name

Blue watched me go insane

Then the plague like a flood to clean my brain

Blackout to a groundhog’s day of repeated pain

But no recovery all in vain for Blue

I was now cruelly addicted to oblivion

Repeating nights and weekends of obsession

Drinking and fantasizing near death

No clear thinking only a Blue out of focus

Losing my breath but still conscious

My eyes unable to see you

My pulse unable to feel you

My heart beating erratically for you

My frequency out of tune

My energy failing

Waiting to fall into the Blue

• La-la-la Laura

Songs of inquiry

Piano chords on the spectrum of pain

Switching to major never staying in minor

Vocals searching for resolution and closure

Lovers unresolved in testaments of fidelity

Bleeding lyrics speaking for broken hearts

Sub feeling to sub feeling with no healing

Crescendo and climax with no satisfaction

Life in gray tones with no energy for action

Stuck in lethargy and doubt

Not able to see my way out of fear

Life on the edge in a fractured America

Can’t breathe in the racial air of discontent

Cruel democracy hanging from dead constitutional trees

Black lives bent and stunted unable to realize their full potential

Bled and the ill racial spread of hate toward brown immigrants

And now attacking American citizens of Asian descent

Why are the white entitled afraid

Are we no longer the land of the free and the home of the brave

Essential kindness for all

Reverential respect for life

Then the red, white and blue will reach its manifest

A holy spiritual destiny that can attest to Martin’s dream

Speak its truth to Laura’s fury in her soul to save the country

DETOUR
By Stephen Buhler

Deep into someones' heartland,

Construction aims to ease commutes

And prepare future development

With roads blocked before being replaced.

On an unaccustomed route I see

Someone who farms (not a farmer –

A doctor – we know such things

Even about distant neighbors)

Has moved an ancient, unused horse trailer

To the side of the highway

With a newly commissioned banner about

White Christian men sailing the Mayflower

And writing the Constitution.

No word about the women, Christian

Or otherwise; no word about men and women

Denied rights and privileges; no word

About broken treaties or 3/5 representation.

It was not a large trailer, after all.

But it was large enough for desiccated memories

From textbooks that cultivated legislatures

Seek to make again curricular law of the land.

So when I pulled behind a truck

Bearing the license plate of another state

Deep into someones' heartland,

I puzzled after its possibly gnomic inscription:

II V7 I.

Was this another militia message?

Was this related to III percenters and worse?

And then music paved a way: I remembered that

In the key of C, this is D chord and

Then G7 and then C.

Perhaps the most comforting progression

In the world of jazz. It is home

And all about going home.

As I negotiated the detour on my way back,

I realized that these numbers were not a solution,

Much less a resolution.

But perhaps their coordinates charted a pathway

Not only back but forward.

Stephen Buhler teaches at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln and performs with the Americana-and-More group Tupelo Springfield.

Thanks for joining! We will continue to host writers and poets of all genres.

With great hope for a loving and accepting future!

Love,
Linda Kaye

Please submit your written work to:lindakayepoetry@icloud.com and include a short bio.

Linda Kaye writes poetry, curates poetry, 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 and Zweet Café in Eagle Rock. 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 most recent project a rap music video in collaboration with Mary Cheung, “ERACE-ISM” can also be seen on youtube. https://youtu.be/NfrbveNUBgg

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

May Poet's Place

May 04, 2021

POETS PLACE

MAY 2021

Mental Health Awareness Month

What are you all doing to stay sane and healthy? There’s always so much dirt flying around that it takes all of our strength sometimes to stay above water and the mud! I find that I sometimes have to drag myself out of bed and force myself to exercise, stretch, walk and write. That works for me, but I know it doesn’t work for everyone. Depression is rampant amongst so many people right now, I wonder if it’s contagious. It takes effort, lots of effort to do anything that is meaningful, even just bathing sometimes, and not everyone has the motivation to take the leap. Depression has many faces. It is often triggered by the situation, the time of day, the weather, and certain anniversary’s, a history of trauma, genetics, nature and nurture, feelings of helplessness, death, divorce and low self-esteem. Just to name a few reasons. It’s just so very personal. It can be a choice to avoid the inevitable, a demon that needs to be fed, an emotional imbalance caused by brain chemical dysfunctions, or an inability to regulate emotions triggering a loss of self worth and embarrassments. Whatever the cause, there is always help and treatment. Whenever I have been alerted to someone’s pain from depression, I acknowledge him or her, them, they with love and kindness and offer an ear if that’s what is asked for. Many people do not share their pain and often suffer in silence, which is so sad since there is always hope if you reach out.

Please, reach out. Always.

Mental illness as a hustle

By Linda Kaye

It slowly creeps in through the woodwork like a slippery slime that penetrates and destroys the brain cells

combusting synapses

deluding time

First signs are somewhat scary voices cheering

Creepy looks from strangers keep leering

the families love disappearing

The disheveled clothes appearing

the stink and smell of the abandoned hope

empty pockets

no dough for dope

to stifle the sounds of the last goodbyes familiar ties

dreams gone awry

Paranoid police distributing the law handcuffs clinking no eyes blinking

“Make room fella the Nimbyness princess is coming!”

"Pull up your pants!" “Not in my backyard!”

"Come on lady give me a dollar I wont holler or bother or stab you to death with bad breath!"

“Waz up homeboy homegirl are you getting ready to be going to Mars to listen to the stars?”

Hey the Apocalypse is coming and the voices keep on Drumming directions to slit my throat

Because Jesus saves

and Armageddon has slaves

Hey it's time for the parade

are your genitals made from clay?

"is this the real life or is it fantasy caught in a landslide no escape from reality open your eyes look up to the sky and see

I'm just a poor boy

nothing really matters to me"

Crystal Cove 

By Valerie Larsen 

I’m looking back at sharks shoved off, The Beaten Bloody Heads I Faced. Santiago and I, Winners? Or mere survivors of the Race.

With nothing but a skeleton, We show the Glories and the Horrors, What might’ve been or could’ve been: The Pyrrhic victories of Wars.

However one assesses grief, The credit one might give for a life Still lived—which often might have died— It can’t compare to the Relief from Strife.

For now on this Laguna Beach, The waves repeat that I am safe. And I’m so thankful for my friends Who wouldn’t let me stay the waif.

So I marvel at what I see And not just see, but what I Feel, Each paint-by-number color and hue, Every Blue, Green, White, and Teal.

Remembering all the times I’ve shared These sights and sounds with Heroin, King Alcohol, Jester-O-Joint, Queen Depression, who did me in...

They were friends who nearly killed me Who deadened me beyond belief. And when I finally cared—I fled— Instead, to Dr. Brown for relief.

Now, with no possessions to parade, I’m like the pelican at sea, Dipping into the abundance, Wondering what’s out there for me.

Oh, The Horror, The Horror

By: IE Carlo

13 April 2021

Oh, the horror, the horror

Black is beautiful but not in a casket today

Black is beautiful if allowed to say it with faith

Black is beautiful if left to live in this space

Oh, the horror, the horror

Yes an apocalypse of horror

Black means death is on its way

Not a day goes by where death means another black soul will die today

Here in this god forsaken country of wealth we die for being black not one not two but countless blacks because of the color of our skin and we wait for death to rejoice in that kingdom of god given to us by people who know nothing of that god they profoundly say of their faith...the power of the state is greater than the power of the people and yet it is written that the power belongs to the people but not for black people and their race…

Oh, the horror, the horror

Sad is the state for we of the black race are here to stay and we of the yellow race are here to stay and we of the brown race are here to stay and we of the red race are here to stay and we we we will stay

Regardless of the horror, the horror

Oh, the horror, the horror of the state

Meaningless consequences for those who kill those of another race and yet we of a different race search for a way to live in this state with some kind of faith not by way of retribution but that faith given to us by this white race

Oh, the horror, the horror

Of being black brown red yellow in this state

Of horror, oh, the horror, the horror

Ismael (East) Carlo, poet, actor begins on the streets of East Harlem, el barrio whose monica of “East” happened due to others not being able to pronounce the name, Is-Ma-El…

East, considers himself more a storyteller than a poet, although at times he gets lucky and poetry emerges from his stories...

For more about East, visit IMDB. Paz en Vida

CRAZY

4-28-21

3:00pm

by Mary Cheung

I must be crazy to want to fall,

So deep there's no safe return,

Least my heart tumble and fall.

Watch my sanity burn.

I must be crazy, to think I'll find,

Good looks, loving and kind.

But I keep searching, with hopes that someday I'll find....

That 1 in a million, that'll click into place.

We fit like a glove;

I knew you had good taste.

I must be crazy to put up with your moods.

The one that swings from 1 end to the next.

Bewitched again, I'm under your hex.

I must be crazy to put myself through it over and over again.

The really high, highs

And really low, lows that never seem to end.

I must be crazy to come back to this brutal love.

I'm a paper thin Chinese lantern, hanging from above.

Handle me with care,

because I easily tear.

Blazing brightly,

I'm a beacon to guide you to me.

I must be crazy,

to put it out there, for everyone to see....

“Oahu no ka oi”—

by Sarah Hunter

The moon touches the tops of the Pali’s. The reflection of its white roundness reverberates on the ocean, waves lap to the shore in a rhythmic “s-h-h- h-h.” The pounding waves hit the sand in a soft tango. A music of their own. Oahu nights. 1974-1980.

The smell of the plumeria drifts through my classroom window in Manoa Valley. Filipino, Japanese, Chinese and Hawaiian teenagers arrive in the morning to prop their surfboards against my classroom door. None of them are particularly fond of Shakespeare or the poetry of John Keats, but that’s what I’m serving up, and that’s what I care about. I’m young, and I don’t know any better. I think they should be “exposed” to the great Caucasian writers. I’m probably right, because they don’t look like they’re suffering too much.

In the early evening I drive up the road to Mt. Tantalus. The mountain of green. My trusty Volkswagen putters up the side of the mountain. Eucalyptus and ginger blossoms waft through the night air. Fleetwood Mac plays on the radio. “... and if you don’t love me now, you will never love me again. I can still hear you sayin’ you would never break the chain...” I’m forever young, and I will never be old.

This is a dream. Light, sun, light again, moonlight. Orange and purple sunsets with deep pinks and spattered gold. Time is suspended. There is no reason to sleep. Morning is gentle and soft, filled with misty rain and scattered rainbows.

And even if there’s no love, it’s hard to be sad in Paradise. The green and blue and yellow and orange and red of nature always remind me that I’m alive. Completely alive. I’m leading with all my senses.. I can dance all night and study all day, work all day, stay electrifyingly awake. And night sings seductive songs over the trade winds. The winds tell me that morning will never come, and if it does, it will be tender. It won’t hit me between the eyes,

Mountains, ocean, sand, gardenias, orchids. It’s a never-ending reverie. Life offers eras that move us forward. It offers time to slow down, to reflect. To be young and naive in the Islands is a gift. Gifts are to be unwrapped, opened up and cherished. I do and I did. Oahu no ka oi. Oahu, “nothing better.”

Life is good.

POEM by G. Billie Quijano

We are hungry for that touch

Hungry for that kiss

How many more months till we reach that bliss?

Contemplating suicide

Hurtful thoughts may not subside

How do we stave off depression?

All the while lifting oppression

Give me your hand

As we all take a stand

Joy is constant

Laughter infectious

Contemplating suicide

It doesn’t have to hide

Keep moving towards the bliss

And you won’t wait long for that kiss

G. Billie Quijano- bio

“Everyday I have new mind, body, emotional, psychological discoveries, a soul awakening, soul retrieval. A new journey of learning, self-compassion. I am my own eco-system, complete with fears, phobias, grief, passion, a soaring imagination, depression, vegan, anxiety, suicidal thoughts, joy, la vida loca, my third eye, ruby red lips, bruja, camera in one hand, brushes, needles and thread in the other. Palabra Mujer.Feminista. Executive Chola. I observe what surrounds me with awe. I am curious and delighted about nature. The cosmos are astounding and mysterious. My thesaurus is one of my best friends. Gente is my muse. Sometimes my brain is a clown car, most of the time it’s a working machine. What makes me happy, memories of east los, jazz, tamales, mota, true love, colores, guacamole, funny ass people and my camaradas.”

Genuine

By Jacqueline Ray Phillips

The Poetess Reigns

She says...

Soft & Tender

Are The Heat of The Tongue

The Soft & The Tender

The Membranes

Do Flowingly

Love Thee

An Excursion of the Mind

Dedicated...

Until The End

Until The End of Time

The Science of The Mind

Meditates...

Onto The Membranes

Of My Soul

Exciting Are The Energies

Of Love Flowing Strong

Through & With

Synchronized Passions

The Exotic & Erotic

Experience of Inner Peace

Everlasting Lasting

And Forever

Closer and Closer

To Love’s Bright Lights

AMPLIFIED

Every Time

It’s Genuine...

The Poetess Reigns aka JackieRay Phillips is Creator of The Poetry of Justice Show, Where Social Consciousness Meets the Arts. The Show is designed to spark the interest and awareness of social diversity ranging from arts, entertainment and social justice at large. Catch The Poetry of Justice Show Saturday nights 6:00-8:00pm PST Live @Yikesradio.com and @AcceleratedRadio.net in addition to all other podcast streaming platforms. You may also view and subscribe to the Show’s YouTube channel @The POJ Show. Follow us on IG @The POJ Show and FB @ The Poetry of Justice Show and JackieRay Phillips.

DARK

By Richard Russeth

Loss is troublesome,

but to let it

bother you,

I don’t know.

In the end we are all,

all of us, always lost,

in places we would,

on any other day,

recognize.

Being lost

can be a tragedy,

being found

perhaps

the more so.

The world is large,

I want to see it

before it

goes dark.

Richard Russeth is a poet, photographer, baker and magician who lives in Ohio with his wife Charlotte

May Poem: 2021

By Ronald G. Carrillo

Sometimes that Blanche DuBois mood overtakes me

When I feel the world is wicked

I seek refuge that I know I must discover on my own

Relief from the cruelty of this time that no lover can give me

When I was young I wanted to run away from it

I knew this planet was not my true home

Only a learning ground that could advance my spirit

I now understand the polarity of my environment

But its violence and hate still frighten me

Rendering me to that place where I seek escape

But then the dark clouds clear and I see my way to you

Our soft time overcoming these pandemic blues

Fast feet developing a lover’s speech

And tranquil nesting while investing in love

Years of sobriety have steadied me

Years of waiting have given me gratitude

My perseverance has only deepened my regard

Mr. Blue you were always my man

Your rainbow heart generous

Your Los Angeles eyes soulful

My past beaus echo my road to you

They were loving sometimes naughty stepping stones

Romance has rough edges

Its challenges only matures love

The aging process of our youth mellows our drama

Oh Papa man come unto me and lovers we will be

Free from the LBGTQ label just me and you

No politics not public approval no marrying

I know we are caring one for the other

Just holding hands and washing our dinner dishes

Kisses and planning many more tomorrows

Thanks for joining! We will continue to host writers and poets of all genres.

With great hope for a loving and accepting future!

Love,

Linda Kaye

Please submit your written work to:lindakayepoetry@icloud.com and include a short bio.

Linda Kaye writes poetry, 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 and Zweet Café in Eagle Rock. 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 most recent project a rap music video in collaboration with Mary Cheung, “ERACE-ISM” can also be seen on youtube. https://youtu.be/NfrbveNUBgg

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

April Poet's Place!!

April 04, 2021

POETS PLACE

APRIL 2021

NATIONAL POETRY MONTH, YO!!

APRIL is blooming! Achoo!!! It’s also the month of vaccinations for all of us! Go get em!! We will all congregate again soon with hugs galore! We have a host of writers for the month of lauded poetry. POETRY!!! THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT!! “The art of rhythmical composition, written or spoken, for exciting pleasure by beautiful, imaginative, or elevated thoughts. Literary work in metrical form; verse. Prose with poetic qualities. Poetic qualities however manifested: the poetry of simple acts and things”. Dictionary.com. WOW!! Yes this is so true!! We must continue on this beautiful stream of consciousness and elevate our thoughts to share with the world!! Or at least here in Poets Place!! LOL!!! Let’s move towards brighter futures with the expressions of hope written in poetry!!! So we can “watch the sorrels”, and to gloriously witness justice for George Floyd! “Will we aspire and achieve further development” and “call forth our better angels” As Ronald Carrillo hopes. What can we promise ourselves Mary Cheung? To love and cherish our fellow man as we do ourselves, or should do for ourselves? “Hold your sword high! Be ready!” Find spirituality in poetry, or as Ismael ‘East’ Carlo says, “…Salsa is the salvation of our times!” Baila!

On a hot summer night

By Linda Kaye

On a hot summer night whilst the crescent moon shone in the distant night with the sweat pouring off his neck in the bright light

stars hidden in the heat and mist of his passion

and time was alluded

hint of sarcasm colluded between his sheets of speculation

amongst all the adoration

there was no hesitation

Now I turn My Attention to that of Music

By: IE Carlo

14 June 2019

Puerto Rico and its musicianship...is a way of life! Growing up in New York City, listening to the likes of Bobby Capo, Carlos Pizzaro, Daniel Santos, La Sonora Matancera, Johnny Rodriguez brother to Tito Rodriguez, Milta Silva, Trio Los Panchos, Perez Prado, Tito Puente, and as well music of Mexico, by many of their artists was a way of life at my house. There wasn’t a home (apartment) without music that I can remember in those tenements. Mother knew all the songs played on the radio, commercials included...meaning that music was a way of life for me and others growing up, there in that concrete city of New York.

Many friends today tell me they were allowed radio time; not in my house, mother was in total control of the radio. If I wanted to listen to radio and that of the Green Hornet, or the Shadow, I had to visit with my friend Bataan next door...the radio was for music, and mothers’ entertainment, period! Not that I mind; being I was always on the streets, and there as well music blasted from Mita’s candy store, my grandmother! No matter where you went in el barrio music was there to greet you.

Up on 110th Street and 5th Ave was the Park Plaza. Where the best of the worlds Latino/Hispanic musical orchestras played, and where fights between Cubans and Puerto Ricans ensued because of whose music was the better.

Which brings me to the music of today; the music I enjoy, salsa. Someone asked me about the salsa music of Puerto Rico the other day, all I could think to say was, it’s a way of life, almost a religion…

If you happen to visit Puerto Rico, you’ll find a festival at some interval of your stay. Music is everywhere, from regeton to rock, heavy metal, punk, but the biggest concerts are SALSA…

Salsa, the biggest dance craze on the planet, and its artists; Tito Nieves, Tito Vega, Jose el Canario, El Gran Combo, Gilberto SantaRosa, Franky Vasquez, Mark Anthony, Bobby Valentin, Willie Rosario, La Sonora Poncena, Roberto Rohena and His Apollo Sound. etc,etc,etc…

Comparisons I make none, other than to say they’re all good, and only to point out differences in that of sound and compositions written to that of the clave beat. I’m not a musician so I won’t get into the breakdown of musical notation or rhythm patterns, but I am a dancer, a street dancer! I learned my steps from watching Louie Maquina, Carlos, and Cuban Pete of the Palladium days. The rhythms of the music of those streets, the rhythms mixed together giving our music an intricate mixer, nowhere else could this music have developed being it encompassed all the rhythms brought to this great city of New York City.

Of course we must not forget its origins in that of clave, (the beat). Originally the clave was nothing more than what held the old wooden ships together. Clave was used in place of nails (pegs), and due to the wood it was made from, it had a unique sound that basically gave rise to the total sound of today. Two sticks and a drum made of wood and animal skin used for communications.

Africa, via way of Cuba gave the bottom to this rhythm as I understand it. Meaning the foundation, but the Puerto Rican sound is the one that has the weight of the times’. The New York City sound came via a number of rhythmic sounds that only a city like New York can render or inspire, and produce.

Puerto Rico’s musical sound has what one can call a magical sound that wants and needs those listening to move to the (and just slightly faster that our sister’s Cuba sound.) fast sway and rhythm of that sound, you dance it in the isles, on the streets, parks, and it’s called salsa, because it’s sexy and sultry, and it gives that basic feeling of freedom the body so desperately needs in a world half mad with frustration and demoralized. Salsa is the salvation of our times,

I laugh to myself wishing this to be true. I’ve mentioned the fact of the dance craze around the globe, it’s happening...and salsa leads the way. Salsa allows you to feel the sway of your partner, you dance it together, never separated other than for that freedom I allure to. You feel her/him in that flow, it’s magic…

There’s also the physical condition that salsa brings. When traveling you will always have a place to meet people close to that same salsa mentality, like I said, salsa, it’s almost spiritual.

Ismael (East) Carlo, poet, actor begins on the streets of East Harlem, el barrio whose monica of “East” happened due to others not being able to pronounce the name, Is-Ma-El…

East, considers himself more a storyteller than a poet, although at times he gets lucky and poetry emerges from his stories...

For more about East, visit IMDB. Paz en Vida

High Wind Warning

By Richard Russeth

The national weather service has issued

a high wind warning here in Ohio.

It says the power will go out tonight.

Trees will fall. Flashlights should be ready.

Because without light, life is hard

and maneuvering is difficult.

Because life is hard enough.

Because light is the sword

that cuts through darkness,

even just before the dawn.

Hold your sword high,

Be ready.

Richard Russeth is a poet, photographer, baker and magician who lives in Ohio with his wife Charlotte

Christmas in a Warm Bolinas Home

By Lee Boek

Skyward Ho

Watching the Sorrels

Run the ridges of the green land.

Riding the netted white cloud

We float above

The Blue Pacific Waters

Holding the Christ child

As nymphets dance

In the swirling Grateful canyons

Touching our feet to the soft white sand

We share the warm sunshine.

Mister Floyd

By G. Billie Quijano

There was no time to hang a noose

They took him down

So he would not get loose

All he did was spend a 20 dollar bill

Who knew it would be used against his will

Why was the color of his skin,

A murderous sin?

A knee in the neck

When you are suppose to serve and protect

It was an execution

There was another solution

She shouted “please let me take his pulse”

But they made it false

9 minutes 29 seconds never to return

They did it for the public eye

We choked back our fear

We could not sigh

George you narrated your death

We witnessed your last breath

The whole world is watching, you fools

Darnella filmed you, that was her tool

It is genocide

Their hate won’t subside

We won’t rest

And you all be put to the test

Will justice be served?

Or will they lose their nerve

If peace is to be attainted

Our emotions will not be contained

Murder 2 is demanded

Keep that assassin remanded

9 minutes 29 seconds never to return

G. Billie Quijano-Bruja, Mestiza, self taught Artista, Fotographer and Poeta, recently published in Modern Latina magazine.

I was born in the Corazon of East Los. The landscape of my childhood were elements of L.A. urban life. Cool concrete, balmy nights, vibrant colors, sounds of girl groups, low riders and Trio Los Panchos. Mexico was all around me, surrounded by calla lillies, cactus and sunflowers. My neighbor Rafael’s rooster was my alarm clock. Olvera Street was my playground. Saturday’s breakfast was the delicious aromas of menudo, carnitas and freshly made tortillas de maiz from our local tortilleria on Whittier Blvd. My work is my desire to keep my ancestors traditions, history and vision alive.

America Hybrid???

By Ronald G. Carrillo

A national cancer

A constitutional disaster

Creating helter-skelter

A Summer of riots and swelter

The officer had his foot on Mr. Floyd’s neck

What the heck

He couldn’t breathe

The liberals still seethe

Freedom once again hanging from trees

A racial disease

The last squeeze of hatred

Finally acknowledging all humanity is sacred

Black America is endangered

Being black in America is being a stranger

The hand of peace and democracy never extended

Slavery, segregation, Jim Crow never mended

Post civil war a whitewash pretended

Emancipation not truly defended

Wounds so deep swept under our national rug

Cleaning house but still left the bugs

The nation dividing

Two worlds colliding

Liberty in her harbor crying

Good people still trying

The citizenry in pain

But still riding Liberty’s train

Adding such a strain on democracy

The doubters yelling hypocrisy

People of color living second class lives

On the fringe without forks and knives

In a country that could have done so much

But greed got in the way of the rush

Toward world power and center stage

Let me sleep in your mercy Lord

Let me continue to dream in your word

Bring forth prosperity for a new age

The best laid plans can still be conceived

Time for democracy to open her cage

Release full potential to be engaged

Coda: Our past leads us into the future

But the present defines that forward movement

The temperature and design of the country has vastly changed

Since the constitutional times of Jefferson and Hamilton

Slavery became segregation

Segregation became suppression

But never was EQUAL justice achieved

Legal white supremacy in the South ruled the day

Will we aspire and achieve further development

Or divide into the horrible inhumanity

Of an American caste system

We are truly better than this

Call forth our better angels that President Lincoln attested to

The husk of a founding white only constitution

Hides the fruit of a hybrid experiment in government

I await a new harvest for all our people

We continue to seek the dream of Dr. King

BROKEN PROMISES

12-11-19

3:44 a.m.

By Mary Cheung

Your promises mean nothing,

Because they're just words.

Your words have no value,

Because they're just that.

Stolen my trust,

by your charms,

By your looks.

By ideals of who you are,

From words spoken.

You made your way inside,

& Inspired me to show even more.

once given freely, but lingeringly,

I hesitate now.

Cuz You show me my worth is zero,

And hope is a myth.

But then, I'm a dreamer.

And here I thought you were real.

For to say what you meant,

And to do what you said.

But your promises hold pain now.

Sharp pins digging in.

A pale coat of yellow,

Painted with flecks of distrust.

You once filled me with giddy anticipation,

Brimming with nervous joy.

But your words have no value,

Because they're just that.

I toss and turn, anxious to lose this feeling,

Cuz it steals away my joy.

But the only thing I lose is sleep

And my naivety.

Your promises are empty,

Is it time to pack up and go?

For your words have no value.

Because they are just that......

⚜The Possibility

By Jacqueline Ray Phillips

The Poetess Reigns

Precious

Pure

Essence of Love

To the Mature Mind

A mind that's mine

Connected to me

A mind that's mine

Wired to be FREE...

From Thee

Or Me

What not to be

Is it me or is it thee??

The possibility

Of She Is strong

Was it so wrong?

To Love.... And Not to be

Only the possibility

Of She!

Only the possibility

Of Me!

To be made Free

Only she can be

Through the Possibility

Of being me

In touch with you

Is what's left to do

Inside of self

Is the definite wealth

Of living FREE

NOT to be bothered

By me

Is the Key

To happiness

And being FREE

Of the Possibility

Of Being ME!

I'm FREE...

Thanks for joining! We will continue to host writers and poets of all genres.

With great hope for a loving and accepting future!

Love,

Linda Kaye

Please submit your written work to:lindakayepoetry@icloud.com and include a short bio.

Linda Kaye writes poetry, 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 and Zweet Café in Eagle Rock. 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 most recent project a rap music video in collaboration with Mary Cheung, “ERACE-ISM” can also be seen on youtube. https://youtu.be/NfrbveNUBgg

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

March is Here!! Poet's Place!

March 05, 2021

POETS PLACE

MARCH 2021

WOMEN’S HISTORY MONTH

Hello everyone!

In the last hundred years, and probably much longer than that, women in America have had to overcome the oppression forced upon them by male belief systems that had been indoctrinated by religious ideology, as well as perpetuated by society’s acceptance of the male dominance to control women. Many scholars have written extensively about the man’s need to have power and control over women due, mostly, to their animosity that women produce sexual desires in men, that sex is “sinful” which meant that women “the weaker sex” controls that power, thus men couldn’t have complete control over them. This need to control, we have seen throughout human history and are evident in the conquering and the subjugation towards people of color, the disenfranchised, lower socioeconomic status, immigrants, and especially towards women. Freud believed that sex is the prime motivator and common denominator for all of us. Was he right?

That aside, we have a woman VP! It’s about time! There are women in “power” positions all over the world! I hope we can finally see more women in positions that can make a difference in our society towards the greater good, for all people. Let’s hope they aren’t throttled!

Let poetry be our great divide from dismissiveness!

A woman of her word

By Linda Kaye

A woman of her word paves the road with directional signs pointing forward then letting go.

A woman of her word carries bountiful insightful messages that sound the drums of conscious beings harmonizing with the whispers of faith.

A woman of her word respects the guardians of wishes doesn't dispel hopes and praises dreams.

A woman of her word makes plans and follows through giving light a shining path lifting spirits ringing bells keeping promises protecting secrets saving lives.

A woman of her word

Curates peace

Supports humanity

Celebrates friends

Listens intently

Questions sparingly

Nurtures success

Repels prejudice

A Woman of her word loves you with all her heart with the depths of her soul with the threads of gold spiraled lovingly through gifts of freedom, to be

Love Unlost in the Fields of Magnetic North

By Rich Ferguson

Think of love

as magnetic north

should you ever find yourself lost.

Think of love

as the uncivilized magic

of the present moment,

the unreined beauty of possibility,

the wild & wondrous music of wolves

howling in the hills

of anything-can-happen.

Guarding that love:

our sweat, blood & muscles;

heaving, blossoming

with the changing seasons.

Such ardent & arduous work

we offer forth

to cherish one another's heart—

life’s most powerful & precious light

Rich Ferguson is a Pushcart Prize-nominated poet who has shared the stage with Patti Smith, Wanda Coleman, Moby, and other esteemed poets and musicians. Ferguson has been selected by the National Beat Poetry Foundation, Inc. (NBPF), to serve as the State of California Beat Poet Laureate (Sept. 2020 to Sept. 2022). He is a featured performer in the film, What About Me? featuring Michael Stipe, Michael Franti, k.d. lang, and others. His newest poetry collection, Everything Is Radiant Between the Hates, is now available on Moon Tide Press.

* The Power of Never

By Lee Boek

The ache is deep

Or is it the frustration

Angst

Pushing uselessly for something

That cannot be

The way you want it to be

It can’t happen

Acceptance of that is impossible

The Power of Never

Never the less

Make it happen

This is why we have our own

Little Universes

Even if you want it and it can’t happen

It still is happening

In your head,

It’s part of you already

You won’t let go.

Congratulations!

You can envision how good life would be with it

If only things could be the way you see it

A perfect spot, like a perfect phone call

Everything and Everyone

Complying

“Never Again is Now”

The disgusting sight of concentration camps in the US, again; a genuine repeat; as if as a country we haven’t learned a thing. We have a hard time, always a struggle to make progress for human rights, and against racism and sexism.

We can somehow justify these concentration camps, or, at least, tolerate them. Otherwise, the streets would be full of protest, like in Chile where the people hit the streets by the thousands just because the subway fares were raised.

In the US the streets could be full because immigrant children are being taken, separated and even stolen, from their parents and incarcerated, locked up, innocent children, often in , “for profit” concentration camps.

Only misuse and abuse can follow, because the plan and the perceived need for the plan is wicked and concocted, racist, opportunistic, criminal and fascist. It is wrong for humanity, for our survival.

We must learn to live together in peace, motivated by more than greed, personal gain and dominance.

The need to be “top dog”

Dominance,

“American Exceptionalism”,

The Greatest Nation,

“Great Again”,

The Race Bait again

Like a Big Fish

Hooked on the horror

Mega Wannabe Superior

The minute you think you’re Superior

You drop

To Mega

Inferior.

KKK

These kids are going to grow up one day

Remembering how you took them away

Put them in a cage

A cage

Like animals

A K K Kage

Koncentration Kamps for Kids

Actual Born Children.

FASTER

9-22-20

9:00 a.m.

By Mary Cheung

Like a speeding bullet we want to jump the timeline and make things go faster.

We want to get our packages faster.

We want to get our food faster.

We want to get paid faster.

So impatient is our society...

There’s no time to slow down!

We want it now, from the minute we push the button.

We expect to turn around and have it in our hands.

Our movies are on demand and if we could,

our lives would be on demand as well!

Ah heck! just about.

I mean, we tell Alexa and she does it for us pronto!

But...how can we get it faster?

How can we transfer our desires,

to thought,

to reality in a second?

Cuz 2 seconds is too long.

We want it faster!

Mary Cheung 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”.

⚜Intermittently Me...

By Jackie Ray Phillips

Intermittent pieces of ecstasy

Sexily existing in the galaxy

Through this life

The passion and the energy

Seductively

Invitingly

Lovingly... Free

Is romance

The dance

Through space?

No time

No race

To face

The chase

Of Love

Peace and harmony

Adoringly

Through me

Touching the heart

The tender

The seductive part

At the start

Of something new

That only few

Can do

To me

Are you with me?

Intermittently

Jackie

The Poetess Reigns

2-28-2021

Oda a Brujas

By G. Billie Quijano

La Playa proved to be a vortex of love

It is written in the codices, hereinabove

La Bruja Magica entwined with the sirens of the sea

Flores, salvia, cartas all medicina for the we

The waves spoke, ebb and flow

Peace and healing make our hearts aglow

The universe released its golden ribbons

Dreams attached and guidance given

Third eye opens, intuition a gift

Read the antepasados glyphs

El Colibri flys high in vibration

Abrazos, besos, intentions, illuminations

G. Billie Quijano-Bruja, Mestiza, self taught Artista, Fotographer and Poeta, recently published in Modern Latina magazine.

"For You, With Love, Your Pen" –

By Austin Musick

All you do is use me

Never giving back

Use me up til there's nothing left

The toss me back to black

Or worse yet you infuse me with your dreams, your rage, your pain

There it goes, my heart, again

Bleeds for you across this page.

Ah, but now you're feeling empty

and so am I in fact

Still, you loan me out to someone else as if I'm still in tact

But I gave and gave, gave it all to you

There's nothing more that I can do

And without your hand holding round my waist

There's nothing more to prove

Austin Musick, also known as Unitsi Ai, is a poet, lyricist, singer, and actor, originally from East Tennessee, now living in the Los Angeles area with her two daughters, two cats, one rabbit, and her main man/son she never got to have, her dog, Romeo.

With Love and Gratitude,

Austin

March Poem: 2021

By Ronald G. Carrillo

Always fighting demons

Trying not to lose my center

Staying on track with God

Paying dues and being an earthly squatter

On these streets of blues in L.A.

Temperatures getting hotter and people growing colder

It’s seldom the news is good in these pandemic times

But being a senior now I’m still learning

Staying on the straight and narrow

It’s harrowing each time I fall

My life roots are getting stronger

My godly instincts are deeper

My passions clearer and purer

I move forward surer

I have sparrow wings and God feeds me

Now I see you clearly

Your countenance is reflected in my eyes

My soul enlightens my vision of you

I had a false image of Eros

Love was then like chattel

And my youth was heretical

Like the Israelites I too was wandering in a desert of lust

Idolizing the golden calf of sin

Until I was reborn in a spiritual maturity

Now Eros has developed into a lush union

Reciprocal, having common ground, ever developing

Lust has been vanquished and exiled from our communion

My point of view altered and revigorated

I stand tall looking at you in the hues of Spring

My innocence returned as if it had never left me

Sending you thought kisses of my desire

Romantic heartbeat waves sent to love’s ethereal realm

Connect, respond, pickup, feel, inspire

2021 is our time a new crop on the vine soon to harvest

Correspond to me through the clouds

Send doves and yellow roses of friendship

We will build love’s foundation like romantic architects

I am a veteran of the heart wars

I was aching from battle scars

And truces that did not last

Treaties that were broken

Fidelity dissolving way too fast

Allies that betrayed me

Lovers that were players

Tom cats that could not be domesticated

My innocence faded in jealousy and depression

Having no control over a phenomenon that could not be controlled

Waiting for a new baptism

Coda: Reset for a new year romance

Resolution invitation to my heart

2021 muse of destiny

No mutiny on my horizon of love

Lucky Valentine path blooming

All-consuming Romeo yearning

No void in the heavens of learning

Perfume of desire speaking

Amorous dialect interconnecting

Detecting my complement

Awaiting tender passion through union

New year solution and communion

Thanks for joining! We will continue to host writers and poets of all genres.

With great hope for a healthier future!

Love,

Linda Kaye

Please submit your written work to:lindakayepoetry@icloud.com and include a short bio.

Linda Kaye writes poetry, 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 and Zweet Café in Eagle Rock. 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 most recent project a rap music video in collaboration with Mary Cheung, “ERACE-ISM” can also be seen on youtube. https://youtu.be/NfrbveNUBgg

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

February Poet's Place - Love Edition

February 03, 2021

POETS PLACE

FEBRUARY 2021

LOVE EDITION

Hello! February is here and it’s the time of love! Love sharing, love seeking and love giving. Valentines for our hearts and souls. Although it’s a difficult time for so many people who have lost loved ones, I’m hoping we can find the love in our hearts to send them some so needed LOVE. In any form. Be it cards, phone calls, face-time, Zoom calls, carrier pigeons. However you can, make the effort. It will be truly appreciated.

What does love look like to you? Love isn’t wrapped in cellophane tied with a neat bow, it, I believe, develops from those around us, family, friends, schoolmates, coworkers, teachers, anyone who has touched our lives, and who have shared experiences and commitments towards our personal growth, our welfare, encouraging our spirits with a recognition and respect for our achievements and sometimes failures as human beings. Unconditional and non-judgmental.

Love is letting go as well as keeping up with relationships by investing your time, your heart with loving attention towards nurturing them. Relationships do not flourish without the needed attention. Like your garden, without water, pruning and nourishment, it will eventually die out.

I have been nurturing this column for the last year and it has grown from just a few submitting poets to a large base of multiple writers from all parts of the country. This month we have poetry of love and stories of love lost. Love for the cinema and the love of lust. Love does come in all shapes and sizes!!

Love

By Linda Kaye

Sensuous and sentimental

easily seduced

often aroused

excited

ignited and aflame

frisky but contained

never aloof

inviting desiring

wanting waiting wishing love

UNDONE

12-19-20

11:17 a.m

By Mary Cheung

I stare at the card, unopened.

Rejected and returned.

Sits there and refuses to be acknowledged, undisturbed.

Over a year later.

Forces me, to interact.

Finally I relent and I open the gift I sent.

Ignored and unacknowledged.

Opening the card I made with loving care.

Feels like closure to something that was never meant to be.

Danced on the edges of possibilities,

But never fulfilled...

It's been over a year and I read what I wrote with selection and caution.

Careful, to not expose too much of my heart.

Least it gets damaged and hurt.

Yet the inaction taken was more damaging than if it had been accepted and than rejected.

It tears me up that I took so much time in carefully crafting my art.

In making the art.

In choosing my words carefully...

Only to have it unread, unseen… By your eyes.

Eyes that I can't remember any more...

What color they were.

Your presence and power bulldozed me, each day.

And pulled me in, in an attraction that was so magnetic and powerful;

I .... couldn't resist.

Fighting it everyday,

Was bittersweet and torturous.

And trying to pull away. Was as futile as two polar opposites that attract,

stuck on your path.

I write to you my heart:

- take time in life to appreciate art.

- take time in life to appreciate kindness.

- take time on life to appreciate uniqueness.

- take time in life for gratitude & more.

Thank you,

I appreciate what you did for me and,

Hope you appreciate this art I made for you.

And if not, well heck, there's always the beer to help you see the art better

Now it feels done. I can finally move on and stop thinking bout you.

Sometimes I still wonder,

Why, what could of been..

Why nothing ever came of something that seemed so promising and destined.

Yet never came to be.

I guess I'll never know,

why you never took a chance and why you didn't see,

All the possibilities that laid in wake,

of walking down a path,

that would lead to me..

February Poem: 2021

By Ronald G. Carrillo

I have learned from masters

To do the opposite of their ill deeds

Confessing and releasing my sins from the past

Has freed and refreshened my outlook toward the future

Like Paul of Tarsus I have become a new man

Love has taken me on a wayward journey

Through perilous peaks and vulgar valleys

All thrilling and savage but holding my attention

My will not always able to prevent their harsh lessons

This quest and eternal search for Eros

Has sometimes robbed me of my energy and rest

Its beauty at times has taken away my breath

Other times it has insulted me

I was a sapling youth when first love bent my trunk

My leaves were scattered in a whirlwind of lust

I lost my trust and forward direction

An endless erection of longing for that special one

Who no longer existed

After a purple Sophomore year of innocence

My Frank-in-sense spirit dissipated in a false independence

Detours that decorated my gutters with glitter and glitz

A bitter disco season of “I Feel Love”

Played relentlessly to an erotic synthesized beat

And drugs that numbed me

My heart no longer operating

A different appendage dominating my feelings not to feel

A revelation and long appeal toward some good will

My journey devalued my original intent

I cast my jewels before this world

I spent years making little progress only steps

On the silken roads of loneliness

Now in my golden years my tears have dried

But I continue my quest toward Shangri-la

Like Marco Polo I am an adventurer

But like Peter Pan I know love is a Neverland that truly exists

I still view the stars waiting to find you

Where is your constellation perhaps near Venus

My senior eyes will soon detect you

I feel you in the rhythm of new songs

Your muse is there in each line I write

You will be part of my evolving history

From imperfection can come perfection

For love is transcendent, everlasting and divine

Love truly is being in the presence of God

Somewhere among the stars is your light

Reflecting back at me

We will see each other in a glance

Coda: My branches are getting less sturdy

My leaves less green and some have blown away

My roots absorbing less water and nutrients

My memories leading me into the future

The enigmatic Sphinx guarding the Giza plain

I’m becoming an archaeologist of pain and truth

The phoenix will rise again in Eros

No loss in getting older only gaining a new strength

As my concentric rings widen and my patina deepens

No more sorrow only pride in my journey

Creating a personal history

Chronicling my time through love and poetry

A Valentine of Fodder and Regret

By Jane Cantillon

Their pretty lips on my lips and red lipstick smeared around heart shaped mouth and a velvet heart shaped G-string, a gift I will never wear again

tongue curled heart shaped pink a trickle of blood falls painless,

a bittersweet cosmo with a stripped plastic straw next to an empty bottle of Moet upside down in melted ice in bucket next to chocolates half bitten into oozing pink cream. My breasts pop out of heart shaped bra licking sucking wet pussy fucking. Yes, did I forget—and with who?

Oh yes but I heard it was great

and without regret.

There is pain to never forget

what could have been, more babies and the college degrees

or the great jobs I didn’t get.

Or opportunities like fruit ripe let rot on the vine.

But those are just some regrets in time.

A Valentines with no farewell kiss before the end of the war in his head

oh how I regret I never said I loved him. A Valentines I shall never give or forget.

Watching him weeks before the pain in his heart stopped.

Handsome sipping red wine as his broken red capillaries traveled up his shadowed grand nose. His blood shot eyes seemed brighter from the shock treatments but they never helped him forget, no he could not forget.

How strange he took his life on Valentines for all the flowery words arranged as orgasms of rhymes a poet was he

his pain was his only lover and the horror of life exploded his heart in an instant

it was over. “A very strong combination of drugs took him, I inform you with regret.” The small town coroner said, then sighed. “A tragedy I will not soon forget.”

Multi-talented Jane Cantillon is an Emmy-nominated producer, working in daily television for over 24 years. More recently, Cantillon been an improvisational creative writing and arts facilitator who hosts private salon-type workshops and retreats in Los Angeles and Joshua Tree. Designed to help non-writers and artists manifest their dreams through sharing their work, she creates unconventional prompts that develop into moving stories. She also conducts art and music therapy at various assisted living facilities in Los Angeles. Cantillon also fronts an original rock band backed by her husband called The Dick and Jane Family Orchestra, and she produced and directed a critically acclaimed documentary called "The Other Side: A Queer History's Last Call".

February 24, 2021

This poem is dedicated to my beloved John who rode on the wings of hummingbirds onto the cosmos February 24, 2019

Para John

By G. Billie Quijano

There is poetry in my dreams

What does it all mean?

Welcome to my new normal

I refuse to be so formal

In my heart

I explode with art

Colores and palabras guarded by Lola’s rebozo surrounds me

I continue to evolve, a desire to be free,

My soul did not flee

I have screamed at my four walls

My womaness was at war

La Duende flows through my veins

I can still hear my tear drops through the rain

My light shines in the face of dark times

The universe has shown me I am eternally fine

So the poetry in my dreams

Is what John gave and gleamed

As he left for the cosmos

Words glide through osmosis

My heart twists and turns

Ebbs and flows

Love is planted, deepens and grows

Will I love again?

With remnants of the pain?

News at 11, see you then

G. Billie Quijano-Bruja, Mestiza, self taught Artista, Fotographer and Poeta, recently published in Modern Latina magazine.

“Love and Not”

By Ed Burgess

2/1/21

You say

Write a poem

about love

I say

Pass a camel

through a needle

A shot in the arm

An easy love

A dromedary

In an allegory

Senseless Love

With out reason

You Drink me

The cat smiles

The bug smokes

The shark jumps

The tea is spilt

And we are late again

For another date

Now and Forever

And forever for now

We pass the afternoon

In my room

In love

And not

In love

Ed Burgess is an artist, poet and all around bon vivant. He has lived in LA for 20 years and is an active member of the art community. He has exhibited his artwork in many galleries around Los Angeles. He also writes poetry and sometimes reads it publicly.

Golden Memories: Tarantino’s L.A., A Love Letter to My Town

By Randi Lavik

Poet/Documentary Filmmaker/Cabaret Singer/Actress/Fantastic Party-Thrower and Overall Real-Life L.A. Woman Linda Kaye asked me if I might like to contribute a love letter and I’m happy to oblige, because I love her too.

I’m going to start out with a declaration. I’m not in love with new movies. I love the classics. I have a BA in Communications/Radio-TV-Film from Cal State Fullerton’s highly-acclaimed curriculum—yet, learned more about the art of the filmmaker from Turner Classic Movies Hosts Robert Osbourne (RIP great educator/overall lovely man), and the knowledgeable and charming Ben Mankiewicz. After decades of repeat viewings, I feel as though I can finally extrapolate the deep cultural meaning behind Citizen Kane with a decent amount of clarity.

I finally realized I had seen A LOT of old movies, and sadly, subsequently unsubscribed from my beloved Turner Classic Movies channel, after being a faithful viewer for more than a decade. I had literally enjoyed everything in their glorious catalogue; in many cases more than once. That’s an awful lot of celluloid.

With all of that said, in 2019, I very uncharacteristically took a chance with a newly-released Oscar-Nominated, popular pick amongst film-loving pals, and accompanied my teenage son to the cinema, to see Quentin Tarantino’s Once Upon a Time in Hollywood.

I have a love/hate relationship with Tarantino movies; so brilliant, sets so glorious, music so fine, yet dialogue so brutal, and violence so violent.

To illustrate: I recently attempted to watch The Hateful Eight on cable, and the dialogue and acting were so stellar, that I was downright angry at Quentin by the end of the second act or so, no offense Sir, because I just couldn’t get through it. I still don’t know who or what was in the stew. I don’t know who survived that twisted hot mess (with very fine acting and dialogue), but I have my best guesses.

Tarantino’s Jackie Brown was especially gorgeous too; the subtlety was glorious. The long-shot at LAX in the perfectly-preserved mosaic hallway; Pam Grier so posh, exquisitely styled, clicking in her heels while framed by yummy Brady Bunch tones. And such fine acting in Jackie Brown—almost too painfully beautiful for an Empath/Humanist to bear. As a repeat two-out-of-three-acts viewer, I’m frustrated overall, but still a Tarantino fan.

And I can’t lie, I’m a sometimes nervy, yet mostly big ‘bockbockity’ chicken. Once again, during Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, I hid under a giant hoodie for the entire third act of a Tarantino film. Whatever was happening, it sure sounded awfully graphic, you bet, and the packed audience sounded absolutely delighted. As much as I like the idea of revenge on the Manson family for terrorizing my hometown, as there’s certainly nothing cute or funny about the crime scene photos—I respectfully ask that Hollywood give me implored and implied, anytime, any day, yes, please and thank you.

I’m a lover, not a fighter, and this piece is about love. Critics agreed and loved Once Upon a Time in Hollywood. This film got major love. Tarantino’s masterpiece was lauded with the Academy Award for Best Screenplay and Best Production Design, among many major awards. Brad Pitt stole scene after scene from a grand cast of kooks. Costumer Arianne Phillips brought Sharon Tate to cinematic life, a joy to behold, in grand style; perfection in tailored Emilio Pucci minis. So much Biba! Quentin made Sharon real, a real lady, so full of life, beyond her untimely demise. Performances a joy to behold. Dialogue so smart.

Now for some major love: The set designers Mr. Tarantino employed, Nancy Haigh and Barbara Ling, made me fall back in love, and cry happy in my seat, remembering the heyday of #mytown. My L.A. The L.A. of my early childhood. LA streets shined like gold back then to a kid with a massive imagination.

How we got to L.A.: My people immigrated to Ellis Island in 1905, after getting kicked out of Russia, and persevered in great style. The extended family followed the Brooklyn Dodgers to Los Angeles in the 1950s. My uncles owned a notorious dive bar on the West Side and my grandparents owned a store full of mid-century modern furnishings in the 1950s, on the fabulous Sunset Strip. We are talking Heywood-Wakefield and Eames. My aunt and uncle helped to integrate housing in L.A. and Orange County during the Civil Rights era.

And I was born in Inglewood, right before the Summer of Love, 1967, in L.A.’s golden era in many ways. My parents ran lunch trucks all over Tarantino’s late 1960s dreamy L.A. while falling in love, bringing hot coffee, breakfast and lunches to factories and film sets all over the city, and raising five small children on the West Side, in the process.

It’s hard to express, looking back now that I have teenagers, what a free time it truly was. Our moms told us to “go out and play” and we did. I couldn’t wait to get on skates, on a bike, in a car. When I could drive, I was on Melrose by noon if I couldn’t find a parking space at the public high school. When my Mom attended Hamilton High in the 1950s, she was on the beach by noon if she couldn’t find a parking space at the public high school.

My petite-yet-epically-brave Mom danced on Hullabaloo and was a cocktail waitress at Gazarri’s Nightclub on the Sunset Strip, eschewing The Doors for her then-favorite house performer, Trini Lopez. She listened to ‘race records’ and ‘the black stations’ in her words, and was a ‘Stones Girl’ through and through. A real outlaw. With five babies at home.

In Westwood, I saw Willy Wonka at the same theater, the AVCO, where Sharon Tate goes to the movies, to take a peek at herself, in a movie. I saw the 1976 epic King Kong at the AVCO too (I had brothers; they got to pick, for better (The Computer Wore Tennis Shoes) or worse (The Towering Inferno).

Century City literally gleamed from my second story bedroom window and I was convinced that King Kong was going show up, swoop his giant hand and whisk me away; it was just a matter of time. Amazingly, and of course only in LA, in my late teens, I appeared in a TV commercial with some girlfriends; cast on-the spot, after a preview screening of Jeff Goldblum’s The Fly II, filmed in front of the very same AVCO Theater.

We lived in the same neighborhood as my extremely fashionable grandparents, right near the National/Overland exit, right off the 10 freeway. As demonstrated beautifully in Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, L.A. is such a car town. A radio town. A car radio town. My Pop always drove what is known in this town as a ‘boat’—a massive Cadillac or Lincoln, and tossed us five kids in wherever we fit, seatbelts be damned.

My grandpa drove a late model 1960s Porsche 914, tossing my brother and I into the jump seats where we couldn’t have been happier, so joyously free, loud and squished. He wore a fedora with a feather tucked into the brim. Everyone liked him. I remember when traffic jams only occurred during traditional rush hour. You could get anywhere in twenty minutes, and we did. One older brother spent hours polishing his minitruck with my sister’s pristine white cloth diapers. I marveled at L.A. radio, and still do. Then I got on it. I even worked at KRLA with L.A. radio legend Art Laboe—my Mom’s jam!

My Nana always drove an Oldsmobile and chain smoked Benson and Hedges, Menthols. The ashtray was full of them. A real lady, she wore monogrammed outfits, was always decked, head to toe, was a very early career woman, and after she retired, she ran the heck out of the Board at the Co-Op community where my grandparents lived.

Tarantino’s film shows that people really dressed then. And cared. About looking sharp. I loved and still love hats. Pearls. Brooches. Hosiery. People ironed then. So many layers and much accessorizing. Oh did I love to roam though my Nana’s perfectly organized closet and watch her “put her face on.” Sneakers were for the playground.

My Nana wore Ferragamos, Roger Viviers, and high-heeled Grasshoppers. She used a silver eye pencil. And most certainly enjoyed her VO and soda, always after 5pm, tastefully. Oysters with tabasco sauce and lemon juice on crackers. And taught me to play cards. I’d watch her dreamily fall asleep watching still-handsome James Garner solve mysteries on The Rockford Files.

And she gave quite some speech at my older brother’s very fancy Bar Mitzvah, where the VO & Soda was surely flowing that great day. My big brave brother, “the man” in a three-piece suit—the only family member who actually learned Hebrew to his great credit—holds a beer bottle and cigar in his Bar Mitzvah photos, circa 1974, Westside. L.A. was just so glamorous, so enchanting and free spirited, as captured in the film. Before the ‘pajamafication’ of America. Pre-‘designer tracksuits.’

My Nana dolled up and took me on dates: Fashion shows and High Tea at Bullock’s Wilshire, to the Hollywood Bowl, where her cousin was the Sound Director. We always sat in a fancy box with a picnic and when he came down the concrete aisles to say hello, I felt like my Nana was such a VIP—and oh she was.

She took me to the Biltmore, The Greek, The Farmer’s Market, The Griffith Observatory, LACMA and The Music Center… lucky, mousy, wide-eyed me. I think she picked me because I was too shy then to look grownups in the eyes, let alone say much of anything to annoy. I was such a happy goofy curious kid. L.A. felt very dreamy and wonderful.

I’m glad I let my son pick the movies now, or I might have missed two-thirds of a real gem. Thanks to Quentin Tarantino for reminding me that many of the landmarks I mentioned here still exist, many beautifully preserved, for which I’m grateful. I long to explore my town again, sooner than later, with wide-eyed teenagers in tow, in Mom’s noisy little convertible this round. First stop: Dodger Stadium. We love L.A.

Randi Lavik, L.A. Native

Producer and Host

KX FM 104.7, Community-Supported Radio, Laguna Beach, So Cal, USA

www.kxfmradio.org

www.instagram.com/randi_lavik

www.twitter.com/randi_lavik

Thanks for joining! We will continue to power through and hopefully make this next year more loving and accepting.

With great hope for a healthier future

Love,

Linda Kaye

Please submit your written work to:lindakayepoetry@icloud.com and include a short bio.

Linda Kaye writes poetry, 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 and Zweet Café in Eagle Rock. 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.

Linda Kaye is a native Angelino 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 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 25 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.

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

www.laartnews.com

January Poet's Place - It's a Brand New Year!

January 06, 2021

POETS PLACE

JANUARY 2021

ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY EDITION

HELLO! HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!

It’s been one year since I started this column. And what a year it has been! AGHHHHH!!! I will not rehash all that has passed and trampled our lives since it was too horrible and devastating to describe. So many people I know have gotten sick and are still in the throes of recovery. I imagine every one of you knows someone who has faced tragedy this last year. Tragedy comes in all shapes, sizes, forms and experiences. Loved ones die from disease as well as broken hearts. And sometimes, intentionally. People suffer in different ways. Our strength, our humor, our intellect, our compassion, our empathy, has been tested to its fullest capacity. It’s all too close to home.

Maybe we can ponder a bit of the future now that the worst is behind us. What can we say about what we have left that’s unfinished? What are you planning to do once the all clear bell rings? Will you return to your past lifestyle? What’s your new normal? I tend to believe that following your passions and listening to your heart will be your truth. Your own personal destiny. Not one that has been dictated by societies norms and expectations. A life suitable to the inner workings of your soul. A life nurtured by a lifetime of personal experiences. Some failures and yes some successes. I would suggest taking a moment to reflect on how you will step into this new era. We have this new luxury of quiet time to self reflect- Time now allotted to make any changes to our past behaviors that have inhibited us or guarded us from making those difficult decisions to… take that risk, that scary plunge. It’s all up to you.

Now that it is quieter, maybe we can move forward and take that new path or maybe take baby steps to look at the old one. My hope is that we can be a kinder nation. I desperately want to be a part of this rebuild.

Do you?

This month in this NEW fresh year, Poets Place has many contributions from writers that share those thoughts of rebirth and hope. Some familiar faces, and some famous ones too! I am thankful to LAARTNEWS for this platform to host anyone who wants a forum to share their hearts, souls and unleashed creativity. IT’S 2021!! BRING IT ON BABY!!!

ENJOY!

What’s left unfinished?

By Linda Kaye

Have you completed or started your bucket list? Or are you just thinking about what you don’t have?

Did you finish that novel that poem or that letter to your family asking for forgiveness sharing those crusty harbored feelings of abandonment hurt anger or love? Or are you just pining and procrastinating about them?

Have you started that course you wanted to take forever to learn how to bake that bread make that ceramic bowl plant that garden travel to that mystical foreign land that you have spent copious hours researching the Internet about? Or write that love hate angry disappointed in it all song?

What’s left unfinished?

Have you planned that perfect death that will spell out all your desires and wishes at the end? Creating a to do list for your final countdown? Which includes having your nails polished a certain color, clipping your beard, tweezing those ugly nose and chin hairs, and specifying someone to put lipstick and makeup on that suits your preferred lifestyle ? Have you thought of what you’d want to wear at your funeral? Hawaiian shorts and a tee? The black sequined gown you never got to wear again? A rabbit costume? It’s in your court to decide. Have you written that Will or created a living trust about stipulating and assigning someone to deal with all your leftover stuff you never had a chance to go through, and someone to cancel all your social media accounts?

Unless you want everyone to wish you a happy birthday forever on Facebook! LOL!

What do you want your friends and family to say when you die? Rest in peace? He /she/ it /them /they was a good soul an unselfish humanitarian who went out of their way to acknowledge all who had crossed their path with encouragement acceptance and unconditional love? Or were they an entitled thief of love and friendships that never reciprocated an ounce of affection or attention, most likely a lonely isolated and fear mongering soul, or a neurotic selfish narcissistic bitch?

The eulogy left to others devices, well; anything could be said about the deceased- it’s personal and subjective. Why not create the perfect memorial service ahead of that time give out personalized leaflets or scripts with detailed instructions to recite!

Would that fly? Ha!

You could ask for donations at the funeral so the deceased family wouldn’t have to pay the bill entirely for the reception or have a go fund me funeral fundraiser, which is now the acceptable course of business these days. And you can do that while you’re still alive to see who donated! So tacky.

What’s left unfinished?

This poem

POST SOLSTICE

By Lisa Roman

Walk softly in the winter

So not to destroy

Tiny things below.

Little lives, burrowing in

Reddish orange blankets.

Like many things hidden

From the human eye.

Speak gently to the

Years End.

Lisa Roman is a native Californian, writer, artist, filmmaker and healer. Her background consists of set decorating and art direction for film during the 80's and 90's. She began doing pop up shows for various local artists during that time. Writing consists of poetry, humorist tales, scriptwriter and script doctoring. Her stories of magic and healing contain metaphysical essence. Entering 2021 as a film producer/writer with intent of continued expansion of spirit. Hope for a more sensitive future.

Deal with it!

10-18-2020

10:12a.m.

By Mary Cheung

It's easy to complain and to not see the joy.

Bring down, break down,

to live in a tunnel of despair, tear and destroy.

It's hard to keep your patience, temper that anger that threatens your common sense.

And sometimes you just want to let it go and give up.

Easier than being dragging down by this feeling that smothers you.

Walk away from it, let it breathe, take some time to digest.

Stop fighting and resisting, just... give it a rest.

Because than all of a sudden you will see,

The answer to your problems; was always there, staring right back at me.

Sometimes you have to let go. Instead of hanging on so tightly.

Arguing of who is right and wrong, an ugly truth that is so unsightly.

Let it go, take a deep breath.

Let your body fill with positive energy.

Now use it and channel what you need.

The out come might cost you more than a few pennies.

But your peace of mind and sanity is worth the costs.

Do it, before your humanity is lost.

The Speaker

By Dan Frischman

11/12/81

In the McDonald’s on Westwood Blvd., I saw a man at a table, mumbling aloud to no one. I chuckled to myself and walked up to the counter.

“Help you?” “Yes, I’ll have a Fish Filet, a fries, and a chocolate shake.” “You’ll have to wait a few minutes for the fries, okay?” “Fine.” I paid, then looked back at the talking man, jabbering away. He was

dressed well enough — crinkly brown sports jacket, dress pants, patent leather shoes. The scraggly beard and Larry Fine-style hair left much to be mowed, though.

“Here you go. Thanks for waiting.” “Sure.” I sat against a wall, facing the man’s side two tables away. Looking

closer, I noticed he wasn’t just talking to a non-entity — he was relating to one. He looked it in the “eyes” when he spoke; he reacted to its imagined replies with earnest aplomb. I listened in, feeling like an interloper. Fortunately, the party I was facing was invisible.

“So I left this girl in Elizabeth, New Jersey,” he said. “It was no big deal, really. We had our time and when it was getting rough, we broke up. No big deal. We talked of my going back there, but I said forget it. I’m not going back there. Forget it, I said. We had our thrills, though. Huh?.... Yeah, you kidding? Yeah, we made it! Made it lots of times! All over the place! We made it in the park lots of times. On the grass. It was nice.... Cops?.... Yeah, no, they never came around. We had the whole place to ourselves. On the grass. It was nice. We did it there, sometimes we did it

on the sidewalk behind the library. Ha! It was great, we had a great time. But it wasn’t as nice as the grass, it was too hard. The grass was soft, and we had blankets and pillows. We did it there, the swimming pool.... No, no big deal, the swimming pool.... The shower? No, never did it in the shower. It was too—I don’t know—clean. You know where’s the best place to do it? You really want to know? In a bed. A soft....warm...bed. That’s where to do it. In a bed. Soft and warm.”

I was quickly sucked into the show. The man was interesting and very theatrical, his arms gesticulating wildly, and his eyes popping for emphasis. I was watching a one-man play, complete with logical progression and smooth segues.

“My parents almost never got it on. I know. If I wasn’t born, I’d swear they’d never got it on. My father was a prick. I hated his guts. Grade-A jerk bastard. I hated him and his guts. My mother was nice. We got along. I liked my mother. My grandfather was prick. Dumb butt, dumb jerk. Pervert prick bastard. The only one I really loved was my grandmother. I loved her. I loved that lady so much. She was the only one who could slap me. My mother did it, I’d have taken a hatchet to her. I would’ve. My grandmother could do it. She was old, and I respected her.”

He continued on about his grandmother while a middle-aged man sat next to me with a coffee. I hardly noticed him at first, as entranced by the talking man as I was. Then he addressed me.

“He’s a very interesting person.”

I turned to him. He was an amiable-looking fellow, about fifty-five, balding, honest eyes—the kind of guy you’d expect to be named Jerry.

“He’s here almost every day and he sits and talks to himself. Excuse me, my name’s Isaac. What’s yours?”

“Dan.” “Hi, Dan.” “Hello.” I was trying to divide my attention between Isaac and the talking man,

which was tough. The talker segued into religion, and why he was glad to be Presbyterian instead of Roman Catholic, which lost my interest. I opted for Isaac.

“I come here everyday for a coffee. I like to get out of my apartment once in a while. I’m on the admissions staff at UCLA, but I’m on break now, taking it easy.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Everyday around three-thirty, I come in here and listen to the Speaker. That’s what I call him. He’s very interesting and very prolific. It’s great entertainment, better than a play or a movie. Here you just sit, buy a coffee, and watch this guy talk about everything. I don’t always agree with what he says, but he’s very logical. He’s always backs up his premises.”

“Did you ever talk to him?”

“No, never tried talking to him. Ha, ha! It might be interesting at that. Ha! No, the show might end, and he seems pretty involved with whoever he pretends he’s talking to.”

The Speaker was into the War Years. Isaac and I tuned in.

“World War Two was hell, man — fuckin’ hell. I was there, man... Hell, yeah, I was there, blastin’ them gooks! I killed my share. I killed ‘em, I did. I aimed and I shot. Killed a lot of them... Nah, I didn’t’ like it or nothin’, it just had to be done. They told us to do it, and it was kill or be killed, you know what I mean? There was some guy there who fell into this

trap — a hole in the ground. That’s bad, man, fallin’ in a hole. He yelled. I said, ‘Hold on, man! Just hold on!’ I looked in on ‘im. He was impaled on a bed of spikes. All through ‘im. The only thing I couldn’t figure out is how the hell he was able to yell. I mean if you saw ‘im.... War, man—fuckin’ hell.”

He dug his cigarette into the ashtray.

“He’s going to get up and buy another coffee now, “ Isaac informed me. “Watch.” Sure enough, the Speaker got up and walked to the counter. “He always does that. I watch him all the time.”

Isaac was obviously proud of his knowledge of the Speaker. “Now, you see that man over there?” Isaac pointed to a fat balding man with a cauliflower nose sitting in

the far corner of the room. He wore a white business shirt and black pants, and could easily pass for W.C. Fields. He was wiping his hands with a load of napkins, and looking uncomfortably at the table where the Speaker had been.

“He’s mad because the Speaker is sitting in his favorite seat. He’s here a lot, too. He comes in with a paper and just sits for hours cleaning his hands. I call him the Cleaner. And he always sits in the same chair — the one the Speaker sat in today.”

The Cleaner was standing now, looking back and forth between his favorite table and the Speaker, who was in line for his next coffee. The Cleaner seemed at a loss because the Speaker had and old green knapsack sitting on the table. If he reclaimed his regular seat, he would have to move it, which could provoke confrontation. He just stood uneasily, not knowing what to do.

The Speaker returned with a steaming coffee, not noticing the Cleaner glaring at him menacingly, and sat down to resume his monologue. Surprisingly enough, he started in again about the girl from New Jersey.

“So I left this girl in Elizabeth, New Jersey. It was no big deal, really. We had our time, and when it was getting rough...” Almost verbatim. I asked Isaac if the Speaker always repeated himself. He said never.

“He’s always got something new to talk about. Never any need to go back.”

“Yeah, but he just did. That stuff about the girl from New Jersey.”

“Oh, yeah? I must have missed that part. Pretty interesting, huh? Heh, heh.”

I remembered that Isaac came in just after that section, and an idea struck me. Was the Speaker repeating the story for Isaac’s benefit? He never made note of our existence, but we were only a few tables away.

“We made it in the park lots of times. On the grass. It was nice....” He stopped and stared at his coffee.

“No cream,” Isaac whispered.

The Speaker got up and took his coffee back to the counter. The Cleaner made his move.

“Uh-oh.” Isaac was worried.

The Cleaner moved the knapsack to another table and sat down. Now content, he resumed cleaning his hands.

“You came at a good time,” assured Isaac. “This’ll be some episode. I guarantee it.”

The Speaker got his cream and started for his seat. He stopped cold seeing the Cleaner, and just stood expressionlessly for half a minute,

watching him clean his hands. Then he slowly picked up his knapsack and headed for the Men’s room. Isaac sighed and stood up.

“Well, that’s it. We won’t see him for a while now.” “He just went to the bathroom.” “He locked himself in. He always does that when someone bothers

him. He’ll be in there for at least twenty minutes.” “Locked himself....”

“Yup. Well, so long, my friend. Stop back sometime and we’ll watch the Speaker together. Bye now.”

“Bye.”

Isaac left. A boy tried entering the bathroom, but couldn’t get in — the door was locked. A few others tried with no luck. The whole thing struck me as very funny and I started laughing. The restaurant manager tried the door, and knocked. No response. I was in hysterics now. It was like a circus: “Step right up and see the Speaker and his invisible friend! The Cleaner and his napkins! Isaac the ringmaster! Step right up, no one turned away!”

I was doubled over with laughter when some girls walked by me giggling. I turned in time to see them watching me, and they quickly scurried away. I suddenly felt very self-conscious. There I was, sitting by myself in a McDonald’s, laughing into space. Like some nut.

I finished my fries and left. ******************

Dan Frischman is an Actor/writer/magician best known for his 80s/90s roles as "Arvid" on ABC’s Head of the Class, and as "Chris" on Nickelodeon’s Kenan & Kel. TV/theater director. Short magic performances at http://www.houdanny.com

Prosperity:

By Ronald G Carrillo

Divine consciousness

God is my supply

Unlimited prosperity

Reset my creativity

More defined focus

Leaving behind the mundane hocus pocus

In simplicity I see the bigger picture

My direction is sharper

My edge is kinder

Less fear more clear

Age has created an erosion in me

Worn down my rough edges

Built up my patina

Mellowed my soul

Filled a hole in my heart and head

Becoming more whole

Settled into this skin

Much more comfortable within

I begin not again but anew

Even my aura of blue is gleaming

Sunshine streaming through all that I do

A new school of learning a spiritual view

My personal journey has met a fork in the road

Leaving one path and embarking on another

A deeper route I’m exploring with gratitude

Celebration

By Mona Jean Cedar

Alone

At home; in my head

Alone All alone All together

I know you’re there. out there out of reach

I know we will be together again

Will celebrate together, again

All together again

The troubles that separate us, Will leave us

Our world has turned upside down

The commotion has calmed

Our thoughts turned inward

Reality is clear

All has Become peaceful; holy; silent.

But now, in this sacred silence we sow seeds of spirituality

Soon to bloom into a bounty of beauty.

In this sacred silence the world opens;

We perceive, receive, conceive

A new global enlightenment

We will learn new skills of connection

A new language of inclusion

A new global vision

And together, a glorious global celebration!

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!

Unleashed

By Mike Sonksen aka Mike the PoeT

Unpredictable like January rain

Santa Ana winds come from the east

Eucalyptus trees in the left turn lane

Mother Nature unleashed

on Pasadena streets

20 Twenty One

2021

things will never be the same

don't watch the rerun

2021

the Rose Parade was cancelled

throw your own instead

2021

stay safe social distancing

get to know yourself

Mike Sonksen aka Mike the PoeT is a 3rd-generation Los Angeles native. Poet, professor, journalist, historian and tour-guide, his latest book Letters to My City was published by Writ Large Press. His poetry’s been featured on Public Radio Stations KCRW, KPCC & KPFK & TV programs like Spectrum News. Sonksen taught high school for five years and now teaches at Woodbury University.

Lucky One

by Jane Cantillon

Like she was going into a sunny Embassy Suite, she slipped into the Disney Cancer Center and smiled at the receptionist, a perky Doris Day look-alike with her earnest "how are you?" Probably, Joan thought, another survivor. Her right breast was tender, second degree burns spreading in the shadow of the pendulous one in question. Mechanically moving toward the locker room, down a nondescript hallway marked with a painting of a California mission, she pushed open the door and she peeled off her shirt and virgin white hospital bra she was given after surgery, and there she looked at the angry smile of a scar on her breast, pulled this camisole around her waist and said "Hey dear, you alright? All quiet in there?" She began to gently massage her right breast for she had heard a recent report that breasts that get more loving and massaging are more likely to be cancer free. She was curiously feeling herself up, like when she first found the tiny bump. Then a crooked woman came through the door just out of treatment. A scarf wrapped neatly around her head, a perfectly slender and obedient patient marching out of the breast cancer factory. Joan knew this woman, always did what she was told, cautious and thoughtful in her life, a perfect student, then wife and mother, and now, a perfect cancer patient. 

"Hello "she murmured a daily nod though she seemed to be growing weaker than Joan, who was one of the lucky ones who didn’t need chemo. Lucky, she would sigh. She then climbed into her fresh laundered hospital robe and pushed the door open to the inner sanctum waiting room.

A Big 3D screen with scenes from a perfect white sand beach pixelated seagulls appeared to greet her there, a Disney ride gone terribly wrong, next to a small kitchen with burned coffee and traces of coffee mate from the early morning customers. She now had a habit of placing her left hand over her breast "Now now girl, promise not to let those nasty little cells run wild again.?"

Like clockwork, a large Russian man came out, Miss Joan, we are ready for you." Down a long hallway to the other familiar technician that knows every cell of her right breast and mumbles a hello, she then removed her gown waist up lies down on electric gurney and places her arms above her head. 

She is then locked in--shackled like a 17th-century prisoner in the belly of a steely ship, when they spout out numbers, measures, do not move they say as they position her body like the prep of a large holiday turkey. The remotes are pushed, machines like cannons move to each blue mapping tattoo, the three positions of her right breast, throbbing now. They are ready to fire the radiation into her body, then the nurse routinely says,"Your name and birth date please." Joan of Arc, January 2013." she laughs as the technicians scatter behind the thick barrier walls. "What was that?" the nurse says, safely hidden away.

Multi-talented Jane Cantillon is an Emmy-nominated producer, working in daily television for over 24 years. More recently, Cantillon been an improvisational creative writing and arts facilitator who hosts private salon-type workshops and retreats in Los Angeles and Joshua Tree. Designed to help non-writers and artists manifest their dreams through sharing their work, she creates unconventional prompts that develop into moving stories. She also conducts art and music therapy at various assisted living facilities in Los Angeles. Cantillon also fronts an original rock band backed by her husband called The Dick and Jane Family Orchesrtra, and she produced and directed a critically acclaimed documentary called "The Other Side: A Queer History's Last Call".

Thanks for joining! We will continue to power through and hopefully make this next year more loving and accepting.

With great hope for a healthier future

Love,

Linda Kaye

Please submit your written work to:lindakayepoetry@icloud.com and include a short bio.

Linda Kaye writes poetry, 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 and Zweet Café in Eagle Rock. 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.

Linda Kaye is a native Angelino 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 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 25 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.

www.lindakayepoetry.com

Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry

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