 Welcome everyone to No Poetry, No Peace, a reading and celebration of National Poetry Month. My name is Taryn Edwards and I am one of the librarians at the Mechanics Institute of San Francisco. And this event was produced in collaboration with the San Francisco Writers Conference. Together we strive to provide high quality learning experiences for writers at low cost or free. I'd like to thank those of you who elected to support this event and pay a little something to attend. It really does, like it really does, go a long way to help us do more in these challenging times. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the Mechanics Institute, we are an independent membership organization founded in 1854 that houses a wonderful library. The oldest designed to serve the general public in California, not just mechanics. We're also a cultural event center and a world renowned chess club that is the oldest in the United States. We are open again five days a week. And we are gradually moving towards face to face activities, but since the pandemic we've learned that virtual sometimes is good because we can engage people from all over the world. So if you are at all curious about what I'm talking about, I encourage you to consider becoming a member with the Institute. It's only $120 a year and with that you help support our contribution to the literary and cultural world of the San Francisco Bay Area. We are located right downtown, right literally a stone's throw away from the Montgomery Bart Station in the financial district on post street. So, back to tonight. This event is titled after a published collection of poems by Cheryl bees Boutet, and her daughter, Dr Angela Boutet. This is the third event titled no poetry no peace that we have hosted in the last 18 months. And Cheryl will be serving as our host tonight, but we also have a slate of local poets who will be sharing their local poets and prose writers I might add, who will be sharing their favorite pieces with us. So Cheryl, let me say a few words about her, she is a member of the mechanics Institute, and she regularly shares her knowledge with our writers community she's one of the most generous people that I know. She is a multi disciplinary writer who is based in Oakland, and her with her writing she aims to shine a light on the politics of race and economics through her narratives, which include a lot of really vivid imagery and lyrical prose. The first novel, which is in the mechanics Institute's collection is called betrayal on the bayou, and that was published, just in June of 2020, and then no poetry no peace was published in August of 2020. And as you will soon find she's a skilled presenter, a storyteller and MC. So thank you so much for hosting this event Cheryl, and hold on one sec. Before I get started, I again just want to encourage all of our guests to use our chat space. And if you have any questions, we will get to them at the end of the reading. We'll turn your mic on and you can ask our readers directly. And we are recording the event. So if all goes well, we will post it on our YouTube channel, and I will send all of our registered guests the link in a few days. So thank you all for coming and thank you Cheryl are you ready. I am ready. Thank you, Taryn. I really appreciate the opportunity to be here again at the mechanics Institute with you to host no poetry, no peace. And I am really, really happy with all of the wonderful enthusiastic and talented poetry and poets and prosers we have tonight with us. And thank you all who are in the audience who came to listen to us. I'm going to open with just a couple of things. I just want to say poetry is an act of peace. Peace goes into the making of a poet as flower goes into the making of bread. And that is a quote by Pablo Neruda. So welcome poets, and welcome everyone. Let's do some poetry. First we have Maria as Vela. She's a Mexican American creative nonfiction writer storyteller and artists in Los Angeles. In her poetic and prose field work. Miss Vela addresses the needs of immigrant Mexican families and the disparities they face every day. And she talks about those issues of inequity and how ingrained societal systems support the injustice that contributes to continuing poverty and abuse. She is the author of vestiges of courage available through Amazon, and is also a visual artist, which you are going to vividly see in a few minutes. Here you go. This is Maria. Hi everyone. I'm going to be reading a piece called autism and lust. It is a piece about my son, nonfiction piece, and it's prose. So autism and lust 14. He suddenly dating after telling me girls don't interest him. A bold girl for her mouth on his and he's giddy with emotion. What's going on, I say, I don't know. But you might be a grandma soon. He says this with a swagger. He must have picked that up from anime or cartoons. I never know what he is going to pull out from what I call his bag of tricks. He liked and collected a series of phrases and gestures ready to be used like Felix the cat, ready to disarm. I'm a young mom, his words land on me like a fire poker. But it's never good to be reactionary when it comes to Nathan. I wait and think instead. At bedtime, I go to his room and I say good night. He's sitting upright in on his bed. I gesture for him to move over. He's sitting next to him. Yeah, so do you, do you feel ready for sex. I say, what, no. Oh, you said earlier that I might be a grandma soon, and you make babies with sex. So I thought you might be ready to have sex. If that's the case, I thought we should talk. The girl kissed you, is she ready for sex. He kissed. He avoids my eyes. He's crossed his arms over the blanket frowns and pelt his mouth to show distaste. Okay, so you make babies through sex you can prevent babies if you use a condom. I know he scoffed at me indignantly and turns away. I've unsettled his dignity. I've shaken up his self perception of coolness. What's a condom? We have someone coming to the house once a week to teach sex ed in why in the world has any discussed birth control. I need to call your instructor he's supposed to have talked to you about condoms that he talked to you about condoms. I don't know, he says. How can you not know you were there are you paying attention. No. Can you just ignore him when he talks to you. Yes, this sucks, I say 21. I am sitting cross legged on the floor, reviewing a report for work. He comes into the living room. He's taller than any kid I ever thought I'd have. He's all arms and legs and despite his age he seems forever unaware of the space his body takes up. He's ready to get laid. He says, the words are fast and mumbled. It's almost as if he doesn't want me to hear what he needs to say, but this doesn't make sense. Perhaps he's hoping I catch a vibe that leads me to understanding. He doesn't like to explain things. His thinking is primarily visual. As he thinks he sees things in his, he sees things in pictures in his mind that relate to what he knows and what, and that relates to something else. For him, it's like watching a slide show. Then he interprets these images to make meaning. My brain doesn't work this way. Things come at me like puzzles, and I prefer not to make assumptions. I unravel carefully, like unwrapping a gift from Ted Kaczynski the unabomber. I need him to help me build understanding. Excuse me what I say. He sways nervously from side to side. He sighs. Then stares at me his eyes big. He doesn't make eye contact. The contact is temporary and bleeding. I might not see his gaze again for a long time. I'm sorry. I say, do you mean sex? Are we talking about sex? I'm trying to calm down. I used to teach sex ed. I'm unafraid of the talk, vagina, penis, whatever. I'm comfortable with the mechanics of mating. It's the other stuff that confounds me. The feeling, the regret, the need for aberration or conformity. I don't like to deal with the ethics, and it's about to become ethical if he's thinking about having sex with another person. He says, okay, he's a night talker and I have a deadline. But he only approaches me if he has something to say. Otherwise he mumbles or uses one word responses. He prefers gestures and guttural sounds. I set the report aside. He takes his signal and sits down on the rug next to me. What's going on? I say, I'm ready to have sex. I understand that. What's this got to do with me? I have sex. You're an adult. You don't need my permission. Do you have someone in mind for sex? Yes. Is it your girlfriend? Yes. Does she know you are thinking about sex? I don't know. I think you need to talk to her. That's where you start. I think you need to talk away, thinking the conversation is over. Perhaps he just needed direction and a confirmation that he's an adult. He's quiet. Is he ruminating or processing or trying to deepen the conversation? Okay, what do I do? He says, I'm staying calm. Goodness. How am I staying calm? I'm going to have to deal with his girlfriend's mom. I don't like that. She'll call or text me. She'll want to know why my son is putting his penis in their precious girl. Mothers of special needs daughters are a special breed. They are demanding insisting unreasonable and explosive. They seem to want their daughters to live normal lives while at once hoping their daughters never get to see a penis. The enormity of having to deal with this hits me. He'll struggle if he has to do this alone. I was really hoping not to be involved in your sex life, I say, I guess we should start with the legalities. Is she conserved? I don't know. Well, you need to figure out whether she has legal rights to do whatever she wants with her body first. Okay, then what? You need to figure out whether she wants sex. I think she does. I think you need to ask her. But also, do you have indications that she might want to have sex? Like, have you deeply kissed or touched breasts? Or have you touched her in more intimate places? No, no, don't tell me. If you have and if she has touched you, then you might be able to ask her about going further. When couples are hoping to have sex, these are some of the clues they look for. But really, you just need to have a conversation with her. Okay, he leaves the room. I can't concentrate on my report anymore. I go to bed instead. The next day he comes back to me. She said, okay, now what do I do? Honestly, dude? I say, yeah. Okay. 22. It's been three days since he had sex with his girlfriend. I'm at work. My phone is ringing. He's supposed to be on the bus to his training program. He rarely calls me. He doesn't like to talk over the phone. It's usually text with shorter words. What's up, I say? He's listening from my tone. If I sound annoyed, he won't continue. He'll say he just called to say hi. We both know he doesn't do that. But if he decides to opt out because of my tone, we'll both hang up and pretend he just called to say hi. It is scientifically proven. Oh, is it scientifically proven that there is no cure for autism? He says, I laugh nervously. Yes, there's no cure. What's going on? I think sex cured my autism. I feel a hysterical laugh rising within me. I smother it down. He hates it if I laugh at him. When he's telling me something serious, he never sees it as anything but ridicule. I think it's a relatively normal reaction. If you're relaxed, you would feel something similar if you exercised or if you meditated. Really? Yes, really. I want to lecture him about how I've been pushing both exercise and meditation for years. I don't do that. I'm struggling to be a better listener myself. I pull away from the damage to my criticism would cost us both. I want to protect him and arm him. I try to give him what he needs instead of what I need. A few days later, I am in the kitchen. I'm cooking white beans in a slow cooker, adding broth and herbs. I imagine the buttery taste of beans in my mouth. He comes in, I rest his body against the wall and leans forward to rest his forearms on the back of the kitchen chair. STDs don't run in our family, so I'm good, right? I stop myself from laughing. The men in our family are whores. They probably all have STDs. That's not the point, though, because that's not how you get STDs. You need to use a condom to prevent STDs. Oh, okay. He says, did you use a condom? Do you need help figuring out condoms? No. Okay, use a condom. It'll help prevent diseases. It's the only thing that can. Okay, when will I get to have sex again? He says, why are you asking me? I'm not the person you're having sex with. And I'm going to stop there because I know my time is up, but I really appreciate your time. Thank you so much. Thank you, Ms. Bella. That was very, I don't know, touching, scary, courageous, heartfelt, deep, and educational. We talk a lot of, thank you. We talk a lot in our family about who has the right to have what rights. Right, right, right. Gotcha. Gotcha. Thank you so much. Okay, our next poet is joining us from Seattle, Washington, where he writes and teaches. Douglas Cole has published six collections of poetry and the novel, The White Fields, which is excellent, by the way. And also, this book was also the winner of the American Fiction Award. In addition to the American Fiction Award, he was awarded the Leslie Hunt Memorial Prize in poetry. The Editors' Choice Award for Fiction by River Sedge. And just recently won a bronze award from the Heartland Review for his poem, Birdshines. Welcome, Douglas Cole. Thank you for that lovely introduction. And thank you for having me here. It's a great pleasure to participate in this and support the Mechanics Institute and to celebrate. Cheryl, you and Angela's book, your new publication, the book for which we have the title for this event. So congratulations. That sounds like a wonderful piece of work and I look forward to reading it. And I hope you have much success with it. All right. So in the spirit of no poetry, no peace, no poems, no peace, no poems, no peace, the idea of poetry and peace, peace and poetry. I mean, I suppose you could have a criminal poet, but I think if the poets as being our visionaries are, you know, they're ministers of our souls, they're poets in my mind. And I don't say that I necessarily am supplying that role as adequately as I could, but I'm on my way. I'm trying. So anyway, the first piece I want to read for you actually is a brief excerpt that comes from the novel that I just published called The White Feel, which is about a person who has just gotten out of prison and was trying to remake his life and struggles in that process. Anyway, I'm going to put a little link here because I'm going to read from it. But I'm going to read from it out of a journal called Jerry Jazz Musician, which I won't go into the story of how I got to work with them but Joe Mehta, he's in Portland, actually between us. And he puts out this really beautiful online journal about jazz and he asked me to start contributing, you know, like a monthly piece. And so I started with an excerpt from The White Field called Nightbird. And Nightbird is actually the name of a song by Chet Baker. I don't know if you can see Chet Baker over there or my shoulder. Anyway, it's from the opening of the novel Nightbird. And this is the main character fresh into the world after being in prison for some many years. I had a little radio on top of the refrigerator and I turned it on as the sunlight went and the world filled up with darkness. I listened to a jazz station smoke cigarette and blew the smoke out the window. Chet Baker came on playing a song called Nightbird. I listened as he laid down the first few statements, repeated them and then took flight right out of whatever that song was originally about whatever you could have written down. He took off on his own free of the structure, improvising but never wrong. Every choice fluid and graceful he flew smooth and connected tethered to the other players, but far away too, because he was flying up and out of it. I went with him and close my eyes and knew in the dark sky sound I am going and go and boundless go just like that Nightbird flying with no walls and no doors and no home at all. Just going and going in all directions in the endless dream. And then whatever I was hearing sort of fell back and I felt myself pulling away and going further and reaching higher and holding there in such beautiful stillness, true and pure and perfectly poised free. It was an old trick of the mind I've mastered in prison. Then a kind of lightning branched out winds rolled again and the whole world trembled into being again. Here I was back in the nerve and the blood and the body of sound like a friend speaking to me that trumpet players voice put me right back in my little kitchen space with all his trumpet variations concluded. Alright, so that's a little piece from the white field. My little take on jazz and check out Jerry jazz musician for other other pieces to anyway. I want to read you one poem out of this backwards to you guys. The gold tooth and the crooked smile of God published by unsolicited press really appreciated working with them really wonderful. I love the way the book turned out and the pictures I mean you can still see the pictures those are painted by my son. He painted those probably when he's about 1516. Yeah he's super talent. Anyway, and so in spirit of the poet and what the poet does and what brings to us what I'm trying to do. I read you this poem out of this collection called beauty. You ready. Beauty is the burned husk of an old house with a crime scene strip around it. I pass each night on my way to you. Beauty is the waste high grass in the yard and the more our father left behind. Oh, and beauty is the white spider web in the corner of the back door I opened and the son above I think I came from. In the marketplace, a deaf mute handing me a pamphlet that says bless it or the thankful as I'm picking out an avocado. Beauty is a beer after the funeral. Beauty is a good night's sleep. Beauty is a weekend roll your own cigarette and the empty beach as far as the eye can see. Beauty is a belief, a mood, a cool attitude, a crow looking in through the window. Beauty is winning a scrabble game, a clear lane at the gym when I go for a swim. Beauty is a car engine starting in the cold green lights, smooth traffic, a job well done, and a dog that greets me when I get home. That's beauty for me man. It is, that's beauty beauty. All right, and this last piece I'm going to read is from this book called the Blue Island, published by Kelsey books. She did a beautiful job on it too and there's a little thing I'll show in here that little, little prize, like, you know, like a crackerjack prize there's prize in the book for for you if you go in and search for it. All right, this one's set in my old stomping grounds in San Francisco I'm an alumni of Berkeley High School, graduated from high school. I used to work in San Francisco at UC medical center in the neuro oncology department. I've done my time there. All right, I'll just start and this is from a long piece called oblivion night, and it's roughly, you know, log it's kind of a dreamy drunken bender poem. All right, there you go. All right, and Ronnie gives john and me a little speed to pet things up as we drive into San Francisco and high Regency rooftop bar, you guys have been there spinning so that when I rise after four, maybe five Harvey wall bangers. Boom, the tilt the world room sends me staggering over thick velvet floors pitching and rolling as I lunge like a pinball knocked around by some wild mechanical adolescent gnome. Boom, crash sorry bumping into waitresses assembling into strangers chairs wedding party bacheloretate party intimate couple and where's my table. I ask you who invented this merry go round dining room, one fall step, and you're off. And I can't find my friends, and there's a human tooth in a martini glass, slow creatures turning wait. That wasn't just speed and rum something else slipped in there under the wire. What a joke. In the end as each step sends that foot down there stretching out seven leagues seven leagues onward to land on some checkerboard square. In any minute now the great hands going to pluck me up from far away I hear the call the summoning voice familiar draw Connecticut Yankee Annabelle. Then charming and fair find smoky arms waving like a pit crew in hell. As I safely land in the booth in the spinning night. Where were you lost lost room is spinning my head is spinning spinning. I'm just going to pay the bill. My hands don't work can't see straight how are we going to get out of here, but we do. We always do by the skin of our teeth, locked in slow descent, great feathery arms of oblivion. And then you get that. Which then continues on to the next page. But I stole that idea, I must, I must cite my sources. Originally, this came from the book Tristan Sandy Tristan Sandy sorry, Lauren Stern, he's got one. The famous black page which represents the grave of his friend York. It wasn't the only one to use it. It was also stolen by a poet by the name of James Dickie who use it in his poem called Apollo, where that space represents the astronauts going around the moon and getting into radio silence where they can't be heard at least that's its literal meaning, but then you know. So anyway, in my, it's a blackout. I'm clean. Alright, thanks for having me was fun to read for you. Oh, thank you for coming. And I have to say, it seems a lifetime ago when we were running around doing in person things at lift weight. And I have to say about your your poetry you are where the musician and the poet me and beautiful things. Thank you. And I know that in my heart of hearts because I was 13 all the way through college I was a singer. So I know the musicians heart, and I can hear it in your work. Wonderful. Thank you very much. Next we have Grace Marie Grafton her most recent book lens from unsolicited press features poems inspired by California artists 1853 to 2010. The author of six previous collections of poetry, her themes range from lyrical sonnets to experimental prose poems with a concentration of response to fine art. Ms Grafton taught for many years in the California poets in the schools program. She was named teacher of the year by the river of words annual student poetry contest co sponsored by Robert House United States poet laureate. Welcome, Grace Crafton. Thank you very much. Thank you very much Cheryl. And I'm very happy to see everyone here. I just like to, I'm going to read some poems out of that book lens that was mentioned. And I just want to end and that's from unsolicited press Doug. We had a similar experience there such wonderful folks there from Portland. This is the book lens. There's the artwork, Arthur Matthews of Oakland, California, about 100 years ago. I'm going to read four poems by different California artists, different years. Day of the dead. And this was inspired by a painting November 1964 painted by Alvin light day of the dead. When purposeful laughter mixes with departing spirits. California dry riverbed spring green hills turned to toasted buns. Burnt all sweetness away and seeds given DNA to carry sleeping memory. Parents try to get kids to parcel out their Halloween candy. And remember that the costumes aren't supposed to be all fun. But to carry the dark in a strong face all the way into the absent longed for light. And the grandparents, what do we tell them? Hang on. I know you don't walk so well but we'll get you your flu shot. Will light solstice lights. We want you to pull through the waning. Tell us your stories. Sing us your songs. We are here to show you it was worth the struggle. We'll help you piece together your twists and turns. The tortured steps you'd rather forget. Look at the brown and laden stems twig. Fallen branches. The rain will come. We'll sit inside a warm house and watch it run down the window pane. We'll be quiet. The next one is to some artwork by Roy de Forest. Perhaps some of you know him. He's a very funny looking dog somewhere in the painting that he paints. And this is the title of this is from a picture called canine point of view, which Roy de Forest painted in 1974. Point of view. What he sees in his backyard, it's true. The bull isn't there. But he feels a cow-iness about the place now that he's let the fescue grow. Cleared away Himalayan berry bushes, thinking all along about brayer rabbit. Now no more place to hide. But he just couldn't let those brambles lay claimed the only space he could house a cow. Should he eventually wish to. And the dogs are much happier this way, even though he's had to fence a patch for the days for the daisies and then and merry goals to grow. Those months have no sense of aesthetics, though they do like going after the deer. And deer will win the beauty contest every year. Of course, a dog chases a deer for a completely other purpose. Let's not forget predation and the jugular. Actually, he hasn't seen a deer nearby for months. The fence around the garden is as much for deer as for dogs. He knows as soon as he accidentally leaves the gate open. The ungulant telegraph will click into motion and come morning. Every one of the party dress petals will have disappeared down a deer's gullet. They do seem to possess an aesthetic sense, but it's totally about appetite. This next poem is called slopes, and it was inspired by a painting by Edward Corbett Mount Holyoke number two. 1960 slopes. This is how the day closes and thought gets lost. The hills take over with their slopes with their harshness where the rocks break through. Where the trees are so tough, a human can't find a way. It's distance we want the softening of twilight. The invitation of night to lie on the bed or in the stars. Feel blood making its map under the armories of skin. Dreams are minds unchosen path. Chaos a gift. Nothing to finish or polish or push. Somewhere on the planet. It's early spring and cherry blossoms are breaking out of a black wood that looks like death. A girl named Anne walks in a muddy orchard where the late rain has knocked a few white petals onto the mud at her feet. She's in a state of love. No one needs to answer her. No one needs to hold her hand. She lives in the assurance of cherries. The scent is wild. As new as any air ever gets. The fourth and final poem I'm going to read is Sequoia. And this was inspired by viewing the painting by Albert Bierstadt. The grizzly giant sequoia, Mariposa Grove, California, 1872. The giant sequoia stills all doubt. The older these trees get, the likelier they'll live forever. Huge peace. A host on a radio show interviewed a man who had spent decades exploring the heights of old growth redwoods. Ostra. A devotee. The interviewer confessed she'd never seen an old growth redwood. Through the radio came the shocked dumbstruck pause. Then the man said, as though it were impossible. You've never gone to see the redwoods. Her voice revealed the embarrassment that must have burned on her face. I guess I need to do that. She lived in California. These trees answer your prayers. Wow. Oh, thank you, Grace. You are certainly a poet who knows exactly what to do with her inspirations. You turn them into beautiful, beautiful messages that pull things out of what we some would think is ordinary, and you make them extraordinary. Thank you so much for being here. To see you soon. Yes, exactly. Thank you. Jenny Grossenbacher. Novelist, poet, certified editor, educator, publisher, founder of Elk Grove Writers and Artists, and JGKS Press in Sacramento County. She has 36 years of experience teaching English language arts to adolescents and adults. Her debut American Madam series novel, Madam of the My Heart, was a silver medalist for historical fiction in the 2018 independent publisher, publisher awards and received the Kirkus Star. Madam and Silk was runner up for historical fiction in the 2020 National Indie Excellence Awards. Her next novel, Madam and Lace, was recently published in December 2021. Glimpses, her first poetry collection will be released in September 2022. Here's Jenny. Thank you so much. I really want to thank Taryn Edwards and Cheryl Bees Boute, for giving me this wonderful poetry event opportunity. As you know, I'm a novelist, but I also am a secret closet poet. And so this is providing me a great chance to display my art, but also to learn from everyone else. So thank you so much. My first poem is called The Call. Live along some distant day into the answer. Follow the dreams that shroud you in their warmth. And on waking, pull yourself up and stretch into the sun's warmth, alive in the knowing of being in your body. Grateful for each cell, each nerve, each sense that leads you, tugs you into the fear and thrill of the next look, word, touch. The wonder of being yourself, smiling the secret of joy. My next poem is called Cleaning. And we should all recognize bits of this, I'm sure. If I am ever of a mind to clean, this happens. I pull out the dust buster vacuum and the dust bunnies scatter. Little bits of wood drop from dog Murphy's fur and trail in from the yard. An old pee stain on the hall runner lies like a modern art design left last year when dog Maya lived here. Why does the dust always hug the lower edges of chairs so that when I move them circles blotch the bare floor. If I am ever of a mind to clean. This also happens. On the hood above the stove, the grease thickens define the Clorox no matter how hard I spray. I resort to a chisel to chip the stubborn globs into a waste paper basket above the sink. The white dots on the kitchen window, rebel against Windex streaking with each wipe, like tears, painting the face of a man at the foot of his wife's newly laid grave. My third poem is called the loose tooth. It is autobiographical. It is a true story from my point of view as a seven year old in 1959. My seventh summer was marked by two pivotal events, my loose front tooth and my grandmother's dying. It progressed remarkably as June began and the school of nuns pushed us out into the street in the direction of home. Glad to be rid of us until September. My mom got thinner and paler under the large quilt in the double bed in the room with the yellow white wallpaper where her cane stood unused in the corner. People whispered in that room. The doctor shuffled in and out, swinging his black bag. Mom and dad shook their heads from time to time. We belong now. My top front tooth first wobbled while watching Lassie on TV. I kind of liked worrying it, tonguing it back and forth. It didn't hurt. If I pushed hard, it would sort of move a little more each day. I liked listening it, though at times I forgot it when playing kickball or hopscotch. At times I visited Grandma Mamam. Her white hair blended with the white cotton pillow. Her tiny pink nose peeked over the top of the green blanket. But her eyes hid under purple veiled, shuttered lids. Where had she gone? The friendly, gentle woman who followed me around, hobbling on her cane. She was a looser and yet it was not quite ready to pull out. I knew it. My tooth knew it. Maybe Grandma Mamam was not ready to go yet either. She was like my tooth. In order to leave us, she had to break loose so she could be free. But not long after, I munched corn on the cob at the Deepenbrock's house. My front tooth caught on my ear of corn and came right out. The children laughed. Mrs. Deepenbrock brought a napkin to stop the bleeding. My sister came over from our house across the street. She had tears in her eyes. And I knew. My tooth, Grandma Mamam, was free. Wow. Go ahead. Yeah, wonderful. Thank you. Contours, a study in contrasts. Light draws me. Darkness repels me. The morning breezes flutter the redwood branches. Those high sentinels above. Swirling bats fill the moon glow. Brilliant slices of roses, scarlets, purples, lavenders wave to their bees. Royals greeting their coronation subjects. The frogs mournful chorus, complaining teens with menstrual cramps. Light draws me. Darkness repels me. A fountain's dancing waters leap. Foam escape. Sudden shapes emerge in the darkness. Gray forms. Modeled features. Hug the walls. Orange lilies bow and caress their stalks. Gentle old ladies loving applause. Darkness repels. Light draws me. Down, down, down. On a filmy string. The black widow descends. A snail trails a sparkly diamond studded path behind him. A filth pool with rotting leaves leeches water onto the grass. A ladybug snug on a myrtle tree branch. A ladybug. A ladybug. As if she always belonged there. Light draws the darkness. Patterns and shapes limb contours. With the rising western sun. Thank you so much. Thank you. Thank you so much. You know, the juxtapositions that you employed. The generational stories that you bring together. And the things that all of us can relate to. You know, the loose tooth and the passing of relatives and. Things that were important to us as children while other big, big earth shattering things were going on. Told in such a warm and beautiful way. Thank you so much. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I have a lot of award winning and widely published poet, author, journalist and activists. Aquila M. Lewis Ross, who uses her poetry as a catalyst for healing. Her performative narrative is centered around themes ranging from personal topics, religion, and culture. In newspapers, magazines, reviews, radio broadcasts and 15 anthologies. While working on other manuscripts for poetry memoir and children's picture books, her stop hurting and dance has been published by Pochino press. Welcome Aquila M. Lewis Ross. Good evening. I am juggling being a mama right now. And my daughter is trying to ride her bike. So I'm going to be doing that while I'm doing the poetry thing. I'm just going to keep her real. I'm not really in the best of moods. And that's a lot of stuff is going on in my life. For me, poetry really hasn't been exactly what I needed, but it kind of helped when I was. Trying to rewrite my story 20 and a 2010. I decided I wanted to rewrite my story. I'm a thriving survivor. And my life for the past. I'll be 43 if you're 43 years. Has not been what I would like it to be, but I am trying to figure out how to make it. How I wanted to be. If I could do that. So right now I'm, I'm from the Bay Area. I was born and raised in Vallejo, Solano County and grandma lived in. In East Oakland. And was staying there for over 40 years before her house was foreclosed. In 2012. So I've watched a lot of people's. Heartaches and pain and. Been able to translate it into poetry and song and. I've seen it. I've seen it. I've seen it. Sometimes. Well, a lot of times I learned that trauma. In the body. And have it there. You have to figure out ways to get it out. Of the body. And if not. I believe, and I've kind of seen it. You can form ulcers and cancer and all these other diseases and different things. And I'm not sure that's right now, but a lot of it is true. Anyway, I've been a mom for about five years. And. And, uh, September. And I'm going to start. The portrait off. Um, A lot of my poems are, I really like the form of a plastic. I'm not sure. I'm not sure. I'm not sure. I'm not sure. I'm not sure. Poetry. There's one of the best types of forms of poetry. I believe. Where I'm able to collaborate with other writers. Other artists. Visual artists, mostly. Paintings. Neuro. Pictures. Um, And. Like I said, I didn't have a really good upling. So I was not going to go back to the whale or. Well, County. But I met a fabulous. She's now. I'm a. American. Of the Leo. And she was doing amazing things. Um, at the time, I don't think they had a really good strong poetry. When I was growing up in the nineties, or I didn't know about it. Um, But this corn. Is an a plastic corn. And it's written in response to. Painting. Peruvian mother in the field. By baby. Being. Mom. Everywhere. Have a song. It is. They see. They're young. Born for the first time. Each breath begins a new song. Scores. Of scores. Are written on seashore. In the fields. Toiling in the heart. From. A new day has begun. The indigenous hold on. And remember. Using their medicine. To heal us. To heal the land. And they want us to remember. And so we must. Feel the people. Feel the land. Free them all. But. We've forgotten how to sing. That poem is also from a plastic. Um, Portrait. Um, Experience. And it was two years later. They, um, They asked me to come back. They asked me to come back to the Leo and hear. Some poems. And. Um, I was paired up, I think, with 27 different visual artists. And this. Was written in response to Janet Brock Hughes. Painting. Merci. When the world becomes unbearable. In conversation is impossible. I escaped to the mythical. To punish. I don't have many friends. The circle was closed long ago. And I had to leave. I had to leave. Don't tell me she's not real. I see her powerful wings slide. Into the starlit night. Of course, with wings. And probable, beautiful things. Oh, there's a dream. I don't. And trance in the heavens dance. This next poem was written. The month. Um, into the pandemic. The prompt was lonely. Today on my walk. I heard the trickle of water. It's pretty hard sound moving to do anything I choose. The frigid wetness tickles my bones. And I just want to be still. Morning. I want to stay in. Mostly. Because the pressure slowly. Precise. Water com. Worry. Panic. And fear. I want to be still. A lonely flower. And no. Slowly milk away. The pine trees west with the wind. When my baby blow. The wishing flowers. And watch as the bubbles flow by. Although we are dying nature will live. And that's the reason to hope again. No. So that's what I really love about the poetry. And there's an opportunity that I just had a chance to do in February during Black History Month. And I was paired up with Moed. I hope you guys know him, Moed. It's an amazing museum in San Francisco. And that was my first time. I'm from the Bay Area, but it was my first time stepping into this amazing museum of San Francisco. And I was like entranced and I felt, I guess the spirit moves me. And I'm gonna share with you a poem that is in response to Self-Care Sunday by Billy Zangewa for Black Beauty Queens Like Me. Leslie Corrine Christ, Miss USA 2019. Sunrise, April 28th, 1991. Sunset, January 30th, 2022. There was a time long ago when I thought practicing self-care was easy to do. And Sundays weren't like any day. Sacred was upheld a fair on a pedestal. That's what I was told to do. We wore pews, banned ourselves because the sooner we struck a nerve or two. Anger, fear, politics, and the devil's tricks were here too. But everything together. Nails were done, hair was in an updo, and my clothes were worn for expecting compliments. Didn't want to be mistaken for being lazy, raggedy, and unkicked. But no one really knew how undone I felt inside. I was stuck on the bishop's words about- Mommy, I can't you see what's going on? Okay, okay. I was stuck on the bishop's words about what my people were really going through. That we were taught is selfish to care about ourselves, that we don't really know what peace feels like. We have to sneak in 15 minutes of bath time to breathe. Sundays have never been a day of rest for black people and self-care has never been easy. This last one is called imagine hashtag imagine peace. Peace? What would it look like if you had a space to imagine peace? Can you manifest it? What is peace? Is it calm before the storm? Is it before the earthquake hits when a global pandemic threatens to balance the tiered system? When you are scared and silent, vulnerable to unwanted touches and lances, and then what happens when it all goes to shit? It smells like chaos shows up again. Are you ready to imagine what kind of next? Thank you for my time. Oh, I have to say to you that I remember we were both at the now shuttered octopus salon and that baby I hear talking in the background was the babe in arms. And we were all taking turns holding the baby while you read. That seems a long, long time ago. That was. So I want to just say to you that one of the reasons I wanted to reach out to you is because I remember the beauty of your poetry and the deep meaning. And I see that you have a body of work now that is just growing and growing. And I wish you all the best. And I'm very, very happy that you were able to be with us tonight. Thank you very much. I appreciate that. Like I said, I'm struggling spiritually, emotionally in every which way. And I'm just going to keep it honest and real. I'm not really doing good. But I am alive right now. And that's something good, I believe. And I do have a legacy that I have to figure out how to make the world somehow make sense for her. Oh, and you can. And you will. And you will. I'm sorry? And you will. Yeah. I appreciate that. Thank you. Right now we're in Las Vegas. We've been out here since April, 2020. So we're just basically redoing. We're trying to figure out the next step in our life. I'm married. And my husband is out there in the NFL watching everything and also trying to pick up people, making some money somehow, some way somehow. But yeah, keep me, if you guys believe in that or as a creator, whatever you want to call it, please send some prayers this way because I'm really going through it. Thank you. We will. Thank you, Akwila. The last poet is going to be me. And I have a poem here that is a combination of poetry and prose. It's called Six Fingers, a love story. He was born with six fingers on each hand. Scalpel applied in a secret room. Precision clean cut, no trace. Only a few knew. Cautioned not to reproduce. He was fine with that. A captain of industry, a hellion, a brute and unrepentant supply of evil. Five remaining fingers on each hand. Vice grips on all there was to have. They named him Man of the Year. In his private garden of forever green grass and the blue-eyed sky, he prospered. She was born with six fingers on each hand. They tied them off with dirty string. Let them fall back into origin. Scars of protruding cheloid are even darker than her total gold. Everyone knew. Everyone whispered. She was a hellion, a brute, an unrepentant supply of evil. A bad mother, a failed woman. They named her Witch. Assigned designations without power to change. Five remaining fingers of each hand, barely clinging to that thirsty branch of the diseased tree. She struggled. They came upon each other one day. It was a chance meeting. Another arrangement of the universe. After all, their worlds were separated, divergent, unequivalent, yet equally actual. She was weary yet determined, walking slowly. The sidewalk seemed to grab at her steps as if to stop her progress. This was nothing new. Everything in life seemed to do that to her. Yet she continued. He was on the sidewalk, head in air, walking briskly. Too briskly to notice the woman he was heading towards. And then they collided. He was beyond angry that she had interfered with his forward progress. No one had ever done that before. No one. He instinctively pushed her to the ground. That was his nature. She knew she had to protect herself. She knew immediately she was on her own. If she had to fight, that was what she would do. He would not be the first she had to battle. He would not be the last she would best. She lay there looking up at him, one of her hands shielding her eyes from his blue glare. And that is when he saw the scar on her hand. He immediately knew what it was and what it meant. He reached down to help her up. She wondered why and did not trust. Jarring clarity took him to his knees. He took her hand and ran his fingers across the scar. She embraced the bond of blue sky and golden sun. They knew their real names. Holding hands and rising together to their feet. Now beyond circumstance. Strength and hope walked on. Thank you. Thank you, Taryn and Mechanics Institute. Thank you all, my wonderful, wonderful poets tonight. You were so enthusiastic, wonderful, such a variety of talent and beauty. Thank you all so much. Loved it. Thank you, Cheryl and everyone else. And if you are curious and in need of writing assistants, Cheryl regularly offers classes for us and she will be offering one in August about character development. Yeah. So that will shortly be up on our website. And I encourage you to follow Cheryl because she is such a generous person with her knowledge and writing experiences. Thank you, Taryn. So thank you, everyone. I hope you all have a wonderful evening. Thank you. Thank you for having me. Good to see everyone. Thank you. Good night. Good night. Great job, Cheryl. Thank you. You too, everybody. Wonderful.