Home | News | Programs | Facilitators | LBOL | NL | Membership

Section C: .................................................................. June 15, 1996

Shreveport, LA

I'm a 24 year old single mom. I've been writing poetry since I began spelling. I always keep my poems the same way I wrote them when they first come into my mind. I hope you enjoy!

IT'S ONLY A WEEK
(For Gabrielle)

I left my child today with greasy fries and a new Power Ranger toy.
She left with a man I once loved in that kind of way.

Plastic barbie smiles... a wave of a hand.
Have a wonderful time my life, but do not enjoy the time too much without me.

I fear he will not give her back.
In reality I know he does not want that sort of responsibility.
She's my prize!!!!! My reward for a short hard life.
Sing my songs my child. it's only a week.

Enjoy this paper doll world. We have an adventure soon...Oceans and mermaids.
Little by little I will teach you my wisdom.
Open you eyes and this world will always be full of wonder.
Don't fear the monsters in the closet... They have to have a place to live too.
Oh! My angel. It's only a week

©1995

DEAR TIM

I have not been keeping clean lately: not in that dirty, private, twisted
part... I seem to have that under control.

Didn't brush my hair today.
Guess no one really cares, slapped it in a bun... Would you like ketchup,
mustard, or mayo with that... Jerk!

My legs and arm pits have become tropical rain forests... I wait for the day
To plow it all down and build a normal human body.
It is lonely without you.

©1996

Cynthia Jones
cynthia@talent-express.com

THE ORIGINAL SIN

When I close my eyes the world gets smaller and I can see inside. Dirty corners left unkept, I am afraid to go where rusted nails are twisted and bent. Sometimes I go to this place of mind where the voices are in whisper, and the whimper is mine. This is not where I want to be -- all the pain that is left for me.

I kept on running but the voices crept up behind, so now here I stand at the end of the line. I thought it was them, their evil inside, but when the cards were dealt the evil proved to be mine. Now the joker is naked and the queen is calling for the king. The court is in order and the drum roll begins. Urgency surrounds me and the light focuses in. Where did this come from, how did it all begin? Calling To Witness, the Original Sin..........

Scott Challis
104031.1325@compuserve.com

AMETHYST

Her words to him held no merit
they were promises meant to be broken, pouring
from her mouth
like jewels
he was in awe
each garnet, amethyst, ruby
he rolled over his tongue
foolishly
laguishing in their value, their poison
so he failed such tests miserably, consistently
she grew bored
and when she left him, the tears that poured from her eyes
cut her face
and she realized, for him only him
could she have cared to try
--- too late ? ? ?

Jeanne Everson
jmarie@worldramp.net

RESOLUTIONS

12:01am, January 1st.

I put on good intentions
like favorite, fuzzy slippers.
They've worn well for years,
yet, I have given you permission
to pull them off,
and now my feet are cold.

I drive barefooted through fog,
the glow of fireworks displays
to the left, to the right,
needing answers from the sky
to fix the doubt and the pique,
picturing me there,
you not.

Confetti on the floor,
in my head. Streamers.
In the shower soap and water make clean
the layers of my dirt,
your dirt.
In your bed once again
I pull on the old slippers found
stashed between the mattress and box spring,
so I don't shock you later with my chill.


I fall asleep early on the first day
of the new decade,
and dream of buying shoes.

(©)1994

Kate Storm
kate.storm@bbs.ocis.com
http://bbs.ocis.com/heartwor/

Top of page
LBOL Index
Creative Edge Home Page

Section B: .................................................................. May 16, 1996

Flat Top, WV

Here are two of my poems I wrote this year. I am 15 years old and have been writing for two years. I have never taken creative writing classes but have written over 30 things in my short time period on earth.

UNTITLED

As we start our story,
Only a page or two exists.
Opening the book; What's this I see?
A girl is crying, It must be me.
This is when I found your shoulder to cry upon.
And someone to be strong;
When I become weak.

One chapter in our lives has begun,
Still you should know I'll be here when you fall,
I'll be here to lift you up and to never let you go.
You'll be here for me;
If just to hold my hand,
and make me feel loved.

When this chapter of our lives concludes,
Our friendship will carry on;
For I'll be here for you,
And you'll be there for me.
That is until our novel comes to an end.

HAPPINESS

Dumb I am,
Stupid I will always be.
Falling for a shadow,
Falling for a dream.

They say a prince will come,
And someday he'll carry you away.
It's all my imagination,
It all has gone away.

They say your happiness:
It will over-joy you.
For it'll stay and stay.
So why does mine come for a day,
And then fly away.

Nora Burge

I'm basically a songwriter for DGC Records... but as a child, I had this deep passion for poetry. The inspiration for this hit me as I was on the Santa Monica Highway (of all places). I hope you enjoy this as much as I do. All I have to say to young kids trying to make it in either school, athletics, music, whatever -- NEVER, EVER give up. Your drive will carry you through the toughest times. Peace.

UNTITLED

i see the moon and the moon sees me
the moon looks down on what i long to be
there's grace in the heart and grace in the home
the grace of God is over us all
sudden move in the stars
whenever i look to the skies
-----i can get lost
stand in a mirror and know that i am a fragment of something
-----greater than i
specks of dust in a moonbeam gathering shape of
-----something important waiting to lay
even the wind in the trees is an allegory
everything that is -- and every will be -- is an allegory
we can stand with both feet firmly in the ground
-----still our heads get lost so thoroughly in the clouds
conjure up visions of power and romance and destiny changed
-----in the twinkle of an eye
stumble and fall
desperate to give some meaning to this life
i see the moon and the moon sees me
the moon looks down on what i long to be
there's grace in the heart and grace in the home
the grace of God is over us all
sweating this boundary of lies
hammer my soul until it looks something more like me
forcing chains that bind us like slaves to a dark and omninous dream

this is the allegory

Murray Attaway

PUNCTURED

Puncture my soul as you enter me
let it pour all into you
then -- maybe then
you will see what I feel
but cannot say
maybe then you will know what I see in your eyes
every time you touch me -- but I don't feel
every time you leave me
punctured

Jeanne Marie Everson
jmarie@worldramp.net

Top of page
LBOL Index
Creative Edge Home Page

Section A: .................................................................. April 8, 1996

Monterey, CA

Here is one of the tiff files that I have been scanning in with my new Mustek flat bed scanner. These come from my black sketch books... I call them Zee's watch cause that is my grandfather's watch on the table... I have it and sometimes wear it.

Steve (Artis) Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

Fishkill, NY

...these two (poems), ...my most recent works ...are commentary on 'Life Passage' Use my E-mail address, I do enjoy commentary good or bad!

RED


In rutilant reds, our
faith is un-knotting this
wretch of existence,
rash of desire.


The intervening dark is
intervening light and
bodies-the-body
to its final conclusion.


But, did you say Love ?
This curio is serial,
spotted under a circus sideshow of
offered elimination.


To be certain and tolerant and loving,
up to this end is
haute couture.


And did you feel Pain ?
Blank to a jesters stare,
then shuffle in numb
resignation with


failing kidney, stretching sight, pitted sacrum and
hymning...
the Grace, the Glory !


(or did you cry wolf ?)


INTENT


Everything, everything
shrinks with age,
tight-rap to rest on
brittle elbows and arms,
smooth as wide-eyed dreams consume
a gentler landscape of
toddler reasons and jester
stares.


Everything, everything
falls into temperaments,
the weathered storm in steps
subside,
Life no longer sleeps,
regrets no longer paid,


And in everything,
the bugle rounds its
note of cart drawn flowers,
effigies sweet minstrel.
the bards' final stage.
"The stuff...,"
of dreams,


Everything, everything
tumbles with time,
and only,
only the chisel of gods
move in their sheaves
content too watch as
the tether shakes.

David Hunter Sutherland
3468441@mcimail.com

Fort Meade, MD

I would like to share a poem, and remember, as Pablo Naruda wrote, "Sweetness, Always."

TALL, BEINGS OF WARMTH


Of all the things to remember,
One frame freezes, refusing to
advance to the next.


Stuck in this place of four or five-
I don't know, it could have also been two.
Nevertheless, my view of you was grand.
Through these eyes, tiny, chubby arms
extended to the tall, being of warmth.


I recall senses, unaware of time,
but vision keen enough to spot
invisible pebbles, or airplanes
so far above, was just a spec.


Because of you, this is the place
I chose to stay, understanding why
my children find joy in touching my hair,
quite a solace to them, their own formula
of afternoon tea.

Being half Filipino and half American, I have unique experiences which I try to transalate over to the public as a universal language that anyone can relate, understand, or can simply imagine. My favorite poets are Pablo Naruda, Adrienne Rich, Christina Rossetti and countless others.

Cristina Querrer
104347.1676@compuserve.com

Sundown, VT

Here is a poem that I wrote:

DAWN


dim light reveals familiar forms out of darkness's unknown shadows
creatures stir awakening towards morning's journey
the moon and a few stars shine despite the sky's brightening
air fresh, cool, revitalizing
creating that special morning energy
a warm glow lights the sky
ribbons of beauty shoot upwards
like great arms stretching, awakening
turning from a sleepy orange into a brilliant red
leaping into the sky like a dancer performing in a grand ballet
swallowed into the depth of the bright expanse
the stars fade, the moon persists
before it too is cloaked in a shadow of light

...I feel (my poems) are merely feelings and expressions that I manage to write down on paper, hardly worthy of mingling with the poems published in your newsletters. As you could probably tell, I have never taken courses on writing, though I am very interested in what the Creative Edge has to offer. I too feel that creativity is linked to an inner spirit that many have but do not draw upon. For me a it has been years since I have been able to let my more "sensitive" creative person emerge again. Thanks to a very talented friend of mine from NY, NY I have been "puttering" with the written word again and embarking on a musical path long ago forgotten also.

Lori Baker

Orinda, CA

I like this poem that came bubbling out this morning and I wanted to share it. :-)

THE EAGLE REVERSED


Handle the oak leaf
It's brittle, sharp points
on its swing around itself.
It falls at the ground when it is pushed
from the nest of its branch
by the new bud.


Give yourself to the oak leaf
that falls and rots
into the earth of its father.


And give yourself to new bud
brave enough to show itself
before the bitter breath of winter,
willing to play its role
in the drama of life.

I'm taking it plus this other new one that I "retrieved" from my over zealous "editor" to be workshopped tonight so look for any revisions...

WALKING DOWN CORRIDORS


Doors locked
Wooden doors
Metal doors
Ones with elaborate painted artifice
All are shut


I knock
But they do not reply
Not the fine people
The harried ones
---too busy to see
---beyond their calendar


Are you one of those?
An entry for each day
When you are busy enough
---you will be wanted


There is a space for you
---in this time
The door can be unlocked.
Opened
---into an empty corridor


Sit in the center of the hall
Drink in the silence
Throw your calendar back into your cubicle
---and forget the things you must do


Just for a moment


Feel the radiant sunshine
---pouring in from the window
---at the end of the hall.
Its warm, yellow light
---heals the wounds on your hands
---the ones that pounded the key into place


It heals the wounds on your stomach
---the one you flattened to fit your pants.


It heals the wounds on your face
---the one made from too much smiling


It seeps between the web of cells
Falls forever into the inner springs
---of your life
Warms you from within


Sit in the hall as it floods
with the sunshine
of quiet.

Sharon Davies
poetchat@aol.com

Thank you for your creative offerings!

I invite readers to share their own creative works with a few words about the context of their work for this new version of Letter Box. I look for work and comments I feel support understanding and encouragement of the creative process, and hence, the process of life.

The Editor

Home | News | Programs | Facilitators | LBOL | NL | Membership