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Section F: .................................................................. December 15, 2000

Del Rey Oaks, CA

See if you can get this....

Steve Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

UNTITLED

1
Mound Meadow

in the east Pacific
glare

sannyasi

i throw myself
down

raging solar flares

when satisfied with my
earthy sincerity

pine path creatures

emerge lyrical
and tympanic

from their dens

of silently
watching

my place

somehow is finding
theirs

even the reeds

rattling assist
with this

2
The body

of the Pacific
yields its scent

a low-lying plume
of brine

after the tall waves
have fallen

against the recent
loss of day

i sketch each footstep
tenderly adeptly

across the slime skin
of knotted kelp

the tide left behind
the tide has taken

the light away
early as always

light must die
in december

i concentrate
breath unto breath

separating thus
successfully

darkly smoldering
ribs

swallow deep
gather no shells

3
Attractors

no greater stranger
formalities these

blisses

traveling alongside
anatomies of the dead

Eloi Eloi

what to be said
Lama Sabachthani

what romance

(arriving in this
gilt-framed mirror

and through this

mirror
we wed)

dramatis assemblage

displaying the beveled
edges of the age

our wingspreads

to history's end
the muscle folds

hearts bend

Here is one of my paintings.

Laura Carley
Carleycat@aol.com

LOOKING FOR JESSIE

Every day, in the afternoon,
I take our dog for a walk
in a place known as, "The woods."
A grove of Monterey Pines.
They are dying, these strange trees,
dying countywide from a viral disease.

Improbable in appearance,
having impossibly long trunks reaching skyward
up to a hundred feet
with only dark tufts of needles at the top.
They sway in the wind;
more, they seem to sweep the sky
in a generous leaning
then elegant slow whiplash back.
Many of the diseased trees
have been cut down,
their long trunks crashed down,
splintered agape—
giving the woods a war zone look.

It was there I met Tyler and Lilly
looking for Jessie.
Two little girls, six or seven,
with that clean open declaration
that children have for a while.
Jessie, their dog, was missing;
and, their grandfather said,
was tied up on someone's porch.
They were looking for her.

Lilly seemed to like telling me her name,
Tyler was more matter of fact.
They wanted to look more in the woods
because Tyler had called Jesse's name
and a dog barked over where
there was ivy and poison oak and,
"A creepy guy who lives in a shed."

In an eagerness they told me all about him.
He had a bed and chair in this shed
and didn't like anybody
and the inside of his place was scary.
I explained the church at the end of the woods
allowed the man to live there,
that he was homeless and poor
and wouldn't hurt anyone.
I could tell from their silence
they didn't care for that version of things.
They were talking to me from magic,
I was answering from what I thought was reality.

I offered to go with them, looking for Jessie.
We went all the way up to the church
with Tyler and Lilly calling.
When we reached the empty church,
Lilly was for pressing on, Tyler wasn't.
We stood at the foot of three tall crosses,
Lilly examined the base of one, pointing,
"Somebody carved their name here."
Tyler pointed to the tallest of the crosses.
"That's where they killed God
and the other two were where
they killed the two guys that killed God.
My mother said that was why three crosses."
Then, "JESSSSSSSSEEEEEEE!"

In heading back through the woods
we came to a path off toward a creek
and the backs of some houses.
Lilly and Tyler wanted to look there,
I showed them I was wearing only sandals
and said I'd stay behind and watch.
Lilly grinned hugely at the idea.
"If we scream will you come?"
I assured them I would.

"JESSSSSSSEEEEEE!"
Jessie came running through the ivy.
It was easy to see she hadn't been tied
nor was she lost. She had that totally
happy look of a dog just out of puppyhood.
She was everywhere at once, elastic, exuberant.
After some wrestling and face licking,
Jessie was leashed and we were
all off for home.
Above us, ailing pines
reeled across the sky,
and nondescript birds careened.
Tyler was staggered and spun
on one end of the leash,
still managing to say,
Lilly nodding satisfied,
"We are friends now."

Donald Marsh
marsh@cruzio.com
(To receive one of these free original poems emailed each Monday, contact Donald Marsh.)

Section E: .................................................................. November 15, 2000

San Antonio, TX

I am a professional artist, husband and father. When I stumbled across your site I was pleasantly surprised and I have really enjoyed your contributing authors' works and prose. I was so impressed that I decided to submit a piece that I wrote this past August. As for this poem what can I say—its a basic articulation about a life experience. I dedicate this to my beautiful son, Caleb, (died at birth) whom I will see again.

Loire is a small French farming community just south of town. My family helped establish the cemetery which predates the Texas Revolution. We are not sure of its exact age, and it is small and surrounded by farms. Yet it is singular and has a quiet purity about it.

THAT'S WHERE CALEB LAYS

It's where Caleb lays
   that red ants wander clumsy to and fro
   and on their insect highways tiny they do not know
   that far above them farm-dust and flower mix together—
   a recipe written by unpredictable, windy Texas weather.

Beneath the footfall compaction
   echoes crisp chaunts of pulverence action.

Brown patches of shorter Buffalo grasses
   contrast verdant feather-clumps as one passes
   centenary oaks with ancient grapevines fastened

. . . it's where Caleb lays.

Glance down to look at our earthly losses
   row on row of stone markers and Spaniard's crosses.

Her name is Mexican, he's Irish, and she a French
   all some electric-day God will retrench
   to a place beyond this physical tideland—

. . . it's where Caleb lays.

Hidden in the earth, my angel asleep—
   "today I would be five" if he could speak.

But high above the prairie hawk is flying
   and the dry August air is whistling and crying.

Horizon's lights evidence climactic quarrels are rising
   now cattle with sheep lowing—
   its a summer storm they're surmising.

In little Loire, this cemetery soul's heartland,
   that's where Caleb lays

. . . my Caleb lays.

Thomas Palmer
thomaspalmer@hotmail.com

Right now I feel like I am in a perpetual waiting phase—waiting for something to end, something to begin—not sure what to let go of or hold on to—and being a new mom requires some degree of efficiency—but I am finding the loss of freedoms to be terribly difficult...so...a poem or two?

UNTITLED

My mind is never still now
and the cries of unpredictability
etch in my brain
like fingernails on chalkboard

I have no control
over my own reactions
emotions rise up, like lava
exploding in the bathroom
where no one can hear
and where no one can hide
for longer than a few minutes

Infants are like eggs
fragile
full of yellow
and goo
they are creatures unlike any other
supposed miracles
that require constant care

I don't know what to do
when my meditation is avoided all together
or my 89 pound body
can't find time to eat

There is so much I want to love
and yet
so much
eating me up inside.

I want to give
I want to love
but there seems
so little left...
and I know not where
to find it
when it is dark outside
and all my friends are gone.

UNTITLED

Life turns us into Hindus
democrats
aristocrats
and mortal souls who can play flutes and
mandolins

Where is the love that was promised?
choking out the bitter vine
that wraps the throat
in grapelike purple
so that we are content
to silence ourselves
to quiet our screaming heart
that revels only in bitter opening
where two souls
unite
in pain or pleasure

Words become meaningless
language a barrier
to truth of the external
and eternal God
and outside
the wolf howls
grass weaves itself in the wind
and a rooster greets the morning
uninhibited
unafraid
unable to speak and
still
alive as an infant—
oh so
alive!

Ingrid Middleton
IMiddleton@aol.com

IMPRINTED RHYTHMS

My pen's ink
prints the tides
of my life's currents

Flowing as the surf
upon the shores

Imprinted rhythms
mark the paper

Using the palpable
to capture evanescence

To record time
in the timeless

Carolyn Mary Kleefeld
ddunn3@earthlink.net

MARY MAGDALENE

I was never good at anything
but whoring. Men, women,
I could put my heart into it.
A roll in the hay, a drunken sleep
And in the morning, parting as strangers.

Now the lines crinkle around my eyes
The young men no longer look
In the same way as before
I heard two joking about the "old hag."
The words came to me as a cold messenger.

But you looked at me with eyes
Full of a love I could not understand
You spoke of a lost sheep
And a Father whose searching love
Was full of joy when I turned to you

And I began to understand a little
Of the Father who made the stars
And who made me. Then a stronger love
Began to live in my heart, strong enough
To trust in you though knowing who I am.

Chris Lovette
Chlovette@aol.com

Here is a of photo from our recent Creative Arts Fellowship meeting in your living room!

Ted R Hill
tedsup@juno.com

SLOW DANCE IN TETHER TIME

Cannula.
Not an aria in a cantata,
nor an Italian morning dolce.

But an invention—an ersatz vein of sorts—
delicate tubing swooping to the nose.

Clear clean plastic taut across the cheekbones,
looped over each ear, clasped chinward.

The tube attached to a cold canister,
sweet cool oxygen floating to needy lungs.

Wearing cannulas are the recovering,
the chronically ill, the terminal.

Seen as a stigmata of sorts, marking
the excused, the separate, the waiting.

Their need something others take for granted—
for them everything is but a breath.

I have entered the world of the cannula,
I lead a modern-medicine existence.


Surviving alcoholism, depression, cancer,
now an esoteric lung disorder;
I breathe, tethered, wonder, in this time,
have I learned anything worth the while?

Yes. Knowing an old thing in a new way.
That all we know of as life is breathing;
that every thing has only so many breaths—

That each breath is a measure in a dance
and the dance and life
are a mystery to me.
Cannula.
Something I wear to the dance.

Donald Marsh
marsh@cruzio.com
(To receive one of these free original poems emailed each Monday, contact Donald Marsh.)

Section D: .................................................................. October 15, 2000

Salt Lake City, UT

A poem for you.

BABY KATE

Eyes filled with water
hers
are pools of two souls

she sees the leaves
twinkling in sunlight
dancing
for the first time
from her perch
on my shoulder
in a white, terry cloth
suit
the same one I wore
33 years ago

Time isn't real
when we sleep
on the floor
her lips quivering
as if trying to nurse
on breasts that
hardly produce
the richest of milk

I didn't know if I could have
you
or keep you and now the
days aren't moving
while
life seems to stand still

and there is only a moment to
have or to waste
or to dream
or to see
the soft fuzzy hair
that moves in the breeze
as your cries
make sounds
I have never heard before.

I went to a senior care center—many of the residents older than 92—and I learned and I felt and I realized:

UNTITLED

We have only between birth
and old age
to be
to see
to hear
to feel
to touch
to taste
to explore

and how much is wasted
on pain
and trivial things
that mean nothing

no wonder we can't stay
prisoned
in one job
but for me
I create a new
life
everyday

wanting structure
only of body
but NEVER of mind
or soul

It made more sense today
when I realized
I have no idea what tomorrow will be like
and if I will live
or not live

but we are all living
and dying
right now

so
what does it matter?

But hear the planes overhead
and the crickets
beneath

and sigh
and sigh
and sigh!!

Relief
we are still
alive!

Ingrid Middleton
IMiddleton@aol.com

ASSESSMENT

My intelligence is ordinary,
education poor,
talent undefined.
Purpose, direction, focus,
ambition—almost nonexistent.

In aging I tend to be reclusive,
tainted with misanthropic humor.
If at all motivated,
it is to endless fantasies of revenge.
I will do nothing to acquire recognition,
yet grow depressed and resentful
for the lack of it.

I am heartsick with poetry,
and the futile world of words
crushes me.

I can spend infinite days being
petty, unforgiving, spiteful,
all the time numb with fear.

When desperate enough
I can admit life is meaningless.

I have aspirations
too foolish to write down.

Moments when I feel
my life ended some time ago.

With all this I can say
I am,
in an inexplicable way,
happy.

Donald Marsh
marsh@cruzio.com
(To receive one of these free original poems emailed each Monday, contact Donald Marsh.)

Section C: .................................................................. September 15, 2000

Asheville, NC

I just went to your web site—so much there! I will definitely explore it. As I was skimming some of the writing, I thought of a piece I had done last month. (The first ever that came in an outpouring at the computer!). So here it is!

THOUGHTS ON BUSY-NESS

I'm just coming out of a mini sabbatical for this summer. One of the "uncoverings" that had occurred to me is that even without my daytimer, without my storytelling touring and performing, without office work, and without attending to my usual projects and piles, I was and am still amazingly BUSY!

Then I realized I was jumping into an old familiar pattern of judging myself. On the one turn, angry that I had stayed so busy rather than resting, and on the other, feeling like I had nothing to show for 30 days of being off.

Then, I was answering an e-mail and an image came to me. Last weekend my husband, Phil and I were clearing out some underbrush in the back yard, where the woods start. It was weeds and locust and thorny things, some were trees and other thick bushes that, unbeknownst to us, were in fact blocking our view of the woods.

It had grown up, not because it had been planted there, and not because it was native to these North Carolina woods, but rather because when we built the house on 2 acres of wooded mountain land, that's how far we cleared. It was now getting plenty of light, and in a sense it held a prime spot, almost the focus. Looking at it, it seemed to be so natural, after all it was green and bushy. Over these 11 years, I suppose unconsciously I thought that was the way it was supposed to look.

By cutting it away, we can now see more clearly how the woods were meant to be. It is incredibly beautiful... looking deep into the woods, revealing not the bushiness, but rather a long range view of branches arching and thick old trunks and almost a quiet serenity in the empty spaces.

And what a powerful metaphor for me right now. All the "busy-ness" that seems to be such an integral part of my everyday existence isn't who I am. It is the "bushiness" at the edge of the forest, the part that has been exposed to outer view and so gets a lot of the light and focus. It is just on the edge, so it is what most people including myself see first, what they sometimes end up responding to.

Even as a young child—I think I began to believe that that was who I was. That it was that busy-ness (list making, super detail, and oh so responsible good girl) part of me that was important and valuable, and so I have continued to nourish it. And that part of me thrived as it took up more and more space in my life.

And now I'm just coming to realize that's not what holds my worth.

Maybe the moments of bliss I have experienced these last few years have been glimpses into my inner forest. I think I have begun the journey of cutting away some of that thick underbrush so the other can be revealed and viewed as it was meant to be.

OLD LONG SINCE
(In memory of Gabrielle Esperanza)

In hospital corridor moments,
odd what is remembered,
what canât be recalled.

We are both suddenly white haired;
she seems so little,
lost in hospital bedding and flannel robe.

In a low amber light,
we act with such remembered style.

So few and spaced the words,
so quiet the inevitability
swirled by eternity
to the moment.

Of the words,
only terminal stays
on the drive home.

Donald Marsh
marsh@cruzio.com
(To receive one of these free original poems emailed each Monday, contact Donald Marsh.)

I send a story that has been a muse in my spirit for some time... It was developed during recent adventures and finally flowed while here in this beautiful mountain home.

THE OLD MAN IN A CAVE

A wise old man sat on the floor of a cave, warming himself to the flames of a small fire. I entered the cave and sat across the fire from him. I asked, "Wise old man, what lessons do you have for me today?"

He said, "Open your heart. Follow your inner wisdom."

"How may I open my heart?"

"Meditate on beauty."

With the thought, "What is beauty?" I thanked him, stood up and left the cave to go into the forest outside. A river ran through the forest, and I found a rock on the riverbank. There I meditated on the beauty of my surroundings. I felt the flow of the water, the warmth of the sunshine, the pine scent of the forest, the color of wildflowers, and the sounds of songbirds in the trees. I felt my oneness with the life around me. My energy field was in total peace and harmony.

A sharp sting brought me out of this reverie, and I smacked the mosquito on my arm, with anger and outrage at the invasion of my space. Red lightening thoughts flashed through my field, disturbing my peace. The idea of the mosquito contrasted sharply with the experience of nature’s beauty. Then I realized that my resistance to the mosquito made it my enemy. This enemy felt distinctly separate from me, and against me. I realized that all my enemies are created with my thoughts and with the choices I make.

In my heart, the feeling arose that beauty is the relationship between the beholder and the object of beauty. Beauty exists only within, not outside me. The enemies and ugliness in my life also exist only in my fields of thoughts and emotions. I realized that in every "negative" situation in my lifetime, my fears and negative thoughts had drained my energy and given energy to my perceived antagonists. Acceptance of life as it is enables me to live with more joy and power.

Whatever "another" does, I can choose to accept it fully and completely. Life is neither good nor bad, right nor wrong, it just is. My response—whether to a mosquito, an illness or injury, or an angry and hateful person—is completely within my power of choice. My fears and anger only feed the lower aspects of any situation. I have more power to make changes by sending light and love. Beauty is entirely my choice.

Back in the cool of the cave, I told the wise old man my revelations. His warm eyes laughed. "That little mosquito was a big teacher. Your resistance to anything in life makes it not beautiful to you. The more you accept your inner beauty and your oneness with all, the more you experience the beauty of life."

"Yes," I replied, "and acceptance is not always passive. There is passive resistance. There is also pro-active acceptance. I can fully accept what is, and at the same time choose to change it. Resisting any aspect of life closes me to life. I really don't want the feeling of being closed to and separated from life—although that feeling is also part of the all!"

"Yes. And you define yourself by what you accept and reject. Whatever you reject, you say you are not. If all is one, how can there be anything you are not?"

"That is so. I can see that the ideas of right and wrong, good and bad, create separation and disharmony in the human experience. And life is perfect as it is, in every moment."

"I choose to change my experience within the unlimited possibilities of life by accepting all as it is and shifting to energies that I prefer. When my heart is open to all of life, I have more energy to do what I really want and to be who I really am. I can be true to my unique individual expression as well as my oneness with all."

"Congratulations. You are on your way to fully experiencing the first lesson of the day."

"Ah yes," I thought, "and now, how can I follow my inner wisdom?" Excusing myself, I went again to the rock on the riverbank to consider. Across the river, mountains rose forest green at the nearest, and shades of blue into the distance. The wind rustled through the evergreens and aspen trees around me. I remembered my choice years ago to live by principles rather than by doctrine.

The principles I chose were the first steps to my preferred way of being: I trust my inner resources, I am true to myself, I respect the right of others to their views and choices, I appreciate diversity, I honor all paths, I practice detached involvement, I am the witness and observer of my experience, I recognize we are all connected at a deep level.

These were the beginning of a big shift in the way I viewed and experienced life. I let go of limiting words, thoughts and beliefs. I realized my beliefs are only models of reality. I can choose the model that is most useful to me in the moment. The shift continued through many lessons from daily living, through times of fear and times of trust.

Now, sitting on the granite rock warmed by the sun, and hearing the wind blow softly through the trees, I opened my heart to accept all of life and my true oneness with life. The possibility of moving through the magnificent creative experience of life in total trust and confidence opened to me. The universe is not lacking! I am not lacking. I am enough. I can continually trust my inner wisdom and resources by remembering who I really am. My highest guidance comes from within, through intuition, dreams, and other connections with my true being. The more I trust my inner guidance and act upon it, the more one I am with my true self.

With the energy of this realization in my field, I returned to the wise old man. Through the firelight his eyes twinkled. He smiled at me and added, "You are a beautiful and powerful being. You are the universe. The universe is you."

I closed my eyes and considered his words. When my eyes opened, the wise old man was gone. I sat on the cave floor whole and complete, and danced with the flames of the eternal fire.

Section B: .................................................................. August 15, 2000

Evanston, IL

I am enclosing a poem I wrote after a three day retreat called Inner Journey.

THE INNER JOURNEY

Being Present.
Awake.
Here. Now.
Unafraid.
Surrendered.
Empty.
Trusting.
We then ask the Light to go within to help us look.
Not by pressing
Or pulling,
But by LOVING.

Finding our points
Of pain, resistance, fear.
Hearing our language
When it criticizes others, or ourselves.
Knowing it is always and only about us,
And looking for the lessons.
Never to eradicate
Or repress
Or rip out,
But to encounter lightly,
Lovingly.

We cannot fix these places in our souls.
We can only embrace them.
Including all these voices. Letting them heal us.
And we look through a different lens,
When we are Quiet and Present.
We know that we are not our Form,
Our Thoughts,
Our Feelings.
These are the Guests.
We welcome them into us,
Into the Guest House,
Into the Empty Space inside,
Where Spirit dwells.
Some Guests will come and go.
Some will stay a long while.
But we are the Space, the Spirit surrounding them.
We are not they.

In this Space,
In this Present NOW,
All that is is Spirit:
Love.
Birds.
Light.
The Wind.
And we can then live out of the clear stands we take,
In a world where Love is Queen and Spirit King and
We are not limited by Mind.
We have learned the Monkey talk of the Mind.
Now we can shout with Joy to Heaven:
"Thy Kingdom Come. On Earth. As it is in Heaven."

Amen.

Jim Stuart
JStuart902@aol.com

Here is an untitled piece I wore recently. I find my writing is the most powerful when I am fully engaged with all of my senses. This attentiveness seemingly opens my mind to the creative "Sixth Sense." It's wonderful!!! Also, it takes all the pressure off of trying to artificially produce something. It's like "fluid grace"—it just comes pouring into my mind and heart. (Not to mention that I'm crazy about my son, Aaron!)

It's the bottom of the eighth inning, one out, and no one on base. The score is Cambridge 4, Sudbury 3. Aaron Gibson, center fielder and left-hand hitter, is up at bat. Strike one. Ball one, and then, "POP!" Aaron lands a solid double in center field.

Robbi Otari, pitcher and right-hand hitter, is up at bat. "Strrrrike One!" Aaron anxiously waits at second base for the next pitch. A slow curve ball comes across the plate, "CRACK!" Robbi hits a clean single to left field, and Aaron charges on to third. Brian Moore, relief pitcher for Robbi Otari, steps into the batter's box.

Aaron anxiously paces on and off the bag at third. He looks intently at Mom and Dad and gives a "thumbs up." He stands tall and strong and intuitively ready for his opening to run. He knows he's heading for home.

One out with two men on base at first and third, and Cambridge grows pensively quiet while they wait for the next pitch.

Suspense and tension fill the air as the spectators wait for the ball to leave the pitcher's hands. For two years in a row, Cambridge has taken the "gold" from Sudbury in the All Star Division. The next pitch comes. It's low and inside. "Swwwwwwwwwwing, and a HIT!" Like an arrow, Brian Moore sends the ball into center field with a single! Aaron's flyyyying from third to home! Looks like he's going to make it! He scores the winning run!!!!!!!!! The crowd jumps to their feet and roars. His mother cries, and all hands go into the air! The score is Sudbury, 5 and Cambridge, 4. The game is over.

I love baseball. But most of all, I love watching Aaron play. He's like poetry in motion on the field. He is quick, passionate, and responsive. He stands on solid ground anywhere he plays. I love the smell of "dawgs" and burgers on the grill, and how the boys chew sunflower seeds to relieve their anticipation. I love how each boy knocks the mud from his cleats with the bat and digs his feet in the dirt just before he makes eye contact with the pitcher. I love how the adrenaline fills the air, and everyone holds his (and her) breath for the next pitch and the batter's swing. Baseball, I find, is a lot like daily life. Some days the score is better than others, but always, it's an opportunity of chance and surprise. Baseball, like living, is a thrill just to be in the game.

  Today was celebrated as a moment in time filled with spirit, effort, focus, and steadfast determination. It was a good day for baseball, a great day for life, and a real charge to win! Sudbury, with the "Gold Trophy," begins this week with a series of games for the State Championship Round. As for Aaron, he is beaming, and so are his Mom and Dad! Stephen and I are truly enjoying our summer both on and off the field.

  Whether you are an active player or a conscious observer in life's field of dreams, we have learned that it's always a gift to be a participant "in the moment."

Deborah Gibson
MysticGlo@aol.com

JUST A THOUGHT

Laughter in the void
There is no echo
Only time and space
Fading to silence

Ribbon of laughter
In a giddy bow
Around a lone thought

No meaning
Just a thought
Just laughter
Just silence

CREDO

My faith tells me to tell you
I have none;
have wanting fragility,
have rare moments of much;

that everything I know of is a wave—
depression, doubt, delight, insight—
every sight we see in waves of light.

The universe furled ablaze in waves
moving through a stillness that is.
My faith tells me to tell you
that that is
is all there is.

Donald Marsh
marsh@cruzio.com
(To receive one of these free original poems emailed each Monday, contact Donald Marsh.)

Section A: .................................................................. July 12, 2000

Here is some new work I have been exploring with my pinhole camera!

Martha Casanave
Martha's web site

This poem is about slowing down and listening. It's been difficult lately, having to sit quietly with this sore back and not do all the activities that call to me—chores to do, dog to run, things to do... My body is forcing me to evaluate my priorities once again, and amazingly enough, chores are not really that high on the list. I enjoyed spending the time yesterday writing the poem—it felt productive in a very creative, personal way—a way that satisfies my own inner desire for expression and has little to do with the outside world that "vision relates." It's about moving beyond what my limited sensory perception brings in, and tapping into that deeper, more visceral experience.

Carol Lynn Mathew-Rogers
carripie@concentric.net

Here is a poem from my darker side. I have several of these poems and I've hesitated putting them out because I don't know your age, tastes, etc. But timidity has nothing to do with poetry. I had a friend read Burial at Sea whose taste and intelligence I admire and respect. To my delight he got my intent. There is no feeling in this world as clean and satisfying as communication.

BURIAL AT SEA

In that place between dreaming and waking,
I died, falling from a great liner
and drowning after a screaming struggle.

I sank slowly below the surface
as the great juggernaut slowed,
stopped, turned for an eternity,
then came back searching, gliding powerless.

One hundred feet below the North Atlantic's
surface I hung suspended arms outstretched
in an attempt to embrace my own death.

Sound carries in water so I could hear
everything being said aboard the liner
—a babble, the consternation, the fear,
jokes, boredom, the cabin love making,
the snores, a child crying out in sleep,
the music of a band playing a theme from Cats.

I could see the amazing hull moving slowly
massive before and above me, could see
the little boats making a wake on the surface
as they searched for me, could see the
searchlights playing over the swells,
could think how puny and helpless we were
against the world of deep water.

I could understand that this hearing and seeing
was not of ears and eyes but of the mind
and then only transitory and that I would move
on to a new lifeless understanding.

Then hanging effortless in icy water
with the little boats gone I could hear
the captain or perhaps a ship's officer
read the burial service and then the great ship
—its hull all black with a red water line—
shuddered as its engines engaged the screws
and it began a ponderous moving.

I thought they are leaving me
as the ship passed before my dead man's stare
and disappeared in the murky light shafts of water
and then my body was turned and swirled and tumbled
by currents created by the propellers and then
it was quiet. My body rocked in an eternal sea rhythm.

Then the last human emotion engulfed me.
A great—greater than the ship—incredible
peace and rightness came over me as my body
began a majestic slow-motion dive to
the bottom, to the bed of the sea from
which all life came and to which
my body was now consigned.

Donald Marsh
marsh@cruzio.com
(To receive one of these free original poems emailed each Monday, contact Donald Marsh.)

I invite readers to share their own creative works (poems, stories, images, comment, etc.) in Letter Box On Line (LBOL). I look for work and comments I feel support understanding and encouragement of the creative process, and hence, the process of life.

The Editor

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