Creative Edge Letter Box On Line #13

IMPORTANCE: HIGH
someday you'll turn the last page of your book of life
and read no more the starry story of your dreams.
someday you'll move with such grace
you'll be invisible.
someday you'll be gone but the grass you walked
on remain and sing like poets from the soil.
someday you'll never see flowers again;
never kiss the soft petals, never touch the tender
leaves.
someday you'll be dead but it won't feel like forever
to anyone; you'll live in the breasts of birds and
men like music that is pregnant and wants to be born.
someday, visions and dreams and life and death are
all going to be married (if they aren't already)
and you'll be where you've always been:
here, within me...

David Dunn
ddunn3@earthlink.net

MY LOVER, THE MOON
The ebony womb of night
is heavy with silent seed
Towering trees stand witness
to all that can't be seen
Stars fall to the seas
in reflections from the heavens
And I await the moon's glimmering path
as I swim the black pools
of tomorrow's bloom
The path arrives like my lover's message,
seducing me to drink of his breath,
his white vintage of soul's beauty
I dance into his wavering arms,
looking into his sultry light,
becoming his, becoming different
We become one
in the drinking of each other
Then he moves on
to love again in his resplendence
I will always wait for him,
for the moon of him
in the seed of unknown tomorrows
I will always be his, reaching for him
as I swim his path of shimmering radiance
I am touched
with the madness of becoming him
A NIGHT OF...
Last night
we were lived in by the stars,
the ancient lords of mystery,
the ebony, glittering unknown,
reaching into our hearts
We became the lunar enchantment,
the shadows, the metallic flowering seas,
the music of resonant glory
rippling through our veins
as our glowing essence
blended and ascended
into more than we were
In the dawn I wore
my gossamer memories
as an invisible cloak of blessing.
Then, in the midnight noon
the showering presence
again bathed us
in its incessant extravagance.
The moon's plumage
cast its lunar reflections
upon the surge of metallic tides.
The dark purple churn of seas
roared below us, blossoming wildly
on the waves' crest
like flowering, aquatic fields in bloom
The tides in their lunar glory
silhouetted the dark cypress trees,
bejeweling them with silver crowns
And today, after these last nights
of lunar wine, the fog moves in,
obscuring the skies,
enshrouding the trees
in the lavender seas' mists
The clime holds
the cold, damp breath of winter;
all is changing, is change.
Within the changes
lives all the seasons,
the unsame of the Same.
The gray heaviness,
like undeveloped film,
awaits the unknown, its forms
birthed from the formless
We bow to the beauty
that so graces us,
humbly walking on,
feeling how blessed we are
to be in such beauty,
to be such beauty
A DIFFERENT SCRIPTURE TO DECODE
Are you the lone puma
of the black night
who lays his heart
upon the white granite
of re-creation?
With the paling emerald
of the tall, gray grasses,
what do you stalk,
but the peace hidden beneath
your stealthy paws?
Do you still kill the deer
when your body cries for sustenance
because you can't be
else than you are?
In the man of you,
dear beloved puma,
in your nomad wanderings—
do you now find
a jade garden
by a different path?
And under your softly
touching feet
on the white stones,
a different scripture
to decode?

Carolyn Mary Kleefeld
info@carolynmarykleefeld.com

AMEN
I don't look for God.
How can you look for silence?
I wait in particular places.
Everything ages
without my noticing.
At the very moment
of events
I feel I'm absent.
Then, things only glimpsed
take on long lives
and meanings.
There is a waiting
part of me
nothing touches.
Listen for God?
Best listen
for the singular seep!
of a black phoebe,
then watch its
dervish misdirection
in midair.

(Donald Marsh died on Wednesday, November 21, of respiratory failure. This is his last poem for us.)

I see the magic everywhere
and know I am not from here.
Something in me is sore touched
in wanting to go home.

Donald Marsh

Section E: .................................................................. November 15, 2001

Del Rey Oaks, CA

AMSTERDAM 10/11/01
and it was there
standing on the 2nd floor
staring far back into time
and Vincent's soul
nearing its end
where crows watch
the yellow grass will flow
along the road
toward the end
I can feel the heat
hear the crickets
and crows call
the heads of wheat
bumping and scraping
in the breeze
there is no sound
in this moment of creation
we approach the end
and...
Susan Long* died...

I went to Amsterdam
Van Gogh Museum
to stand
in front
of Vincent's
yellow fields
with crows
and I cried

* My drawing teacher of 25 years.

Steve Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

THE SCENT OF DAWN
the scent of salt
water landing
drifting oceanic
the scent of oak
smoky layers
lingering on the sand
while all desires
are illumined
and fluttering like moths

warmed to the gift
of one more day

John Dodson
flute@acharantos.com

ALL THAT HAS BEEN
The twilight carries away
the cries of day,
softening the ragged bluffs within—
then, vanquished by the wings
of night's darkening rapture,
is lost to the black womb of seed
At the savage cove below,
where the sea churns and seethes,
the wild things fold their wings
in dark shadow,
basking in the fleeting tides,
in the ebony caves of the spirit's call
Then, o'er the mountain's shoulder,
the sun's breath emerges,
soon to banish the dawn again,
in a radiance consuming
all that has been
ANCIENT GODDESS LIGHT
O luminous flower, waning,
your world is suspended
in sovereign glory,
crowned by your halo
of amber, pink and blue,
your ankles enshrouded
by the traveling mist
You cast a glittering path
across the writhing sea,
shimmering up our streams
The constellations of our eyes
behold your prayer in silence
Our love is resplendent
in your ancient goddess light,
in the infinite gray of skies and seas
We are one dream
O illumining vessel, we become you
And as the clouds obscure you,
we become, like you, invisible

Carolyn Mary Kleefeld
info@carolynmarykleefeld.com

ROOTS
Stump grunt
mattock
maul thump
fisted
clench of it
Roots snaked
trenched tenacious
clutching
earth rock
panting admiration
We battle
dust digging
the day
Something done
time gone
must come up
root matrix
in me say
Knuckled crucible
green
stump staggered
limp free I slump
feeling
a thing
old gnarled deep
grieving grand
No one can own
the ground
pieces of paper
stating
a consciousness
may be ended

Roots are ever
probe back
always be
only that
which lives
in the earth
can claim it

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

Section D: .................................................................. October 15, 2001

Carmel, CA

UNTITLED
(September 14, 2001)
Whatever can be found more closely, more truthfully, more tenderly, more courageously, more faithfully, now, let it be so. Now. Let it be so.
Here we gather, the whole world that we are, here in Monterey.
Here we are the whole world in old Monterey. Spirits surround us. The tribes of ten thousand years and more. They are around us now. The communion of the living and the dead and those to come. We can feel all spirits now in this place.
And in all and through all, the greater Spirit dwells among us, the Spirit from which we have come, the Spirit that can guide us all our days, the Spirit that will bring forth all who come after us.
We can feel this now. Here. Beside the sea. The whole world that we are. Little as we are, few as we are. Here in Monterey. On the sands beside the Pacific.
You may be already touching someone. Or if you feel moved to touch someone, then let that be. Hold someone now if that is what you may feel. And stand as you are, if that is what you need. But however we stand, together here we stand.
Together here we are free. And we are not free. We are not free until all are free. And we are not free until we are free within ourselves, by the courage of the truths within and among us, the courage of faith within and among us, the courage of justice within and among us, and the courage of love within and among us.
My heart is bleeding today with every thought, with every feeling, in each breath, the bleeding, and in the marrow of my bones and in the cells of my body and in these molecules and in these very electrons that carry me through this life, I am bleeding and weeping and hoping and praying.
AS WE ALL ARE
For all the suffering
among us all
all ways all days
and for all the suffering that is today
for all the injured and the tortured
and all the wounded
for all who have died so that we might live
for all who have suffered and died
and for all who are suffering
and for all who have died that others might live—
that we may live
and for the suffering of all the living
let us find ourselves here joined in quiet prayer
for who we are
for where we have come to
for who we have come to be
and for what shall become of us
on this planet that we ourselves
have not made
this day let us pray
unto WHO has made us
and not we ourselves
A'ILLAH
ELOHIM
SPIRITUS SANCTUS
ABBA
OM MANI PADME HUM
OM
Show us a better way now.
In this time of times, in our time,
this time that calls for the deepest, and truest, and wisest
of what we are—
the deepest of feeling,
the truest examining our hearts,
the wisest of actions in all our living,
and in the whole world,
guide us to-and through-what we feel,
lead us to all that we may find in our hearts,
right now and through and through.
Whatever can be found more closely, more truthfully, more tenderly, more courageously, more faithfully, now, let it be so. Now. Let it be so.
And in all our acts and in all our living and breathing,
and in all the world, may holy love prevail.
May the love that passes understanding direct our ways—
all our ways
always
May the love that passes understanding
SET US FREE
SET ALL OF US FREE
The love that passes all understanding
sets us free
ALWAYS
per sempre
in fullness of forgiveness and grace
a tout moment
todo el tiempo
allezeit
navsegda
vzdycky
yóng yuan
justlikethis
all in all
itsu mo
lojojumo
daima
holy love shall prevail
always

per sempre:Italian
a tout moment: French
todo el tiempo: Spanish
allezeit: German
navsegda: Russian
vzdycky [vizh.ditz.skee]: Czech
yóng yuan: Mandarin
itsu mo: Japanese
lojojumo: Yoruba
daima [da.eem.ah]: Swahili

John Dodson
flute@acharantos.com

San Francisco, CA

Two very close and beloved friends of mine were killed in the World Trade Center. In my own deep grief, these words captured what has helped me stay connected to the real values I cherish. This is why, though I grieve, I cannot give in to despair.

"Either we have hope or we don't; it's a dimension of the soul. It's an orientation of the spirit, an orientation of the heart. [It is] the ability to work for something because it is good, not because it stands a chance to succeed. The more unpropitious the situation in which we demonstrate hope, the deeper the hope is. Hope is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense.

What faith means to me is simply this: it is a particular state of mind, a state of persistent and productive openness... Everything meaningful in life, though it may assume the most dramatic form of questioning and doubting, is distinguished by a certain transcendence of individual human existence—beyond the limits of mere 'self-care'—toward other people, toward society, toward the world. Only by looking outward, by caring for things that, in terms of pure survival, one needn't bother with at all... [only] by throwing oneself over and over again into the tumult of the world, with the intention of making one's voice count— only thus does one really become a person, a creator of the 'order of the spirit,' a being capable of a miracle: the recreation of the world."

Vaclav Havel

Zann Erick
zannerick@earthlink.net

THE BEGINNINGS OF TIME,
UNTOUCHED
We stroll in our evanescence
on an old wooden pier,
a savage sea teeming below
with a wildness unbounded
Above, the unseamed skies meet
the waves' crest of sea,
separated by a stream of city lights,
stars fallen, now imprisoned,
stolen from the skies
The gulls shriek of the black night,
free in their wild flight
The sea beasts roar their primordial call,
uncorrupted by the panting traffic nearby
The beginnings of time, untouched
in the incessant surge of wave,
ignore this pier, our temporary visits
and impermanent hearts
ANCIENT GODDESS LIGHT
O luminous flower, waning,
your world is suspended
in sovereign glory,
crowned by your halo
of amber, pink and blue,
your ankles enshrouded
by the traveling mist
You cast a glittering path
across the writhing sea,
shimmering up our streams
The constellations of our eyes
behold your prayer in silence
Our love is resplendent
in your ancient goddess light,
in the infinite gray of skies and seas
We are one dream
O illumining vessel, we become you
And as the clouds obscure you,
we become , like you, invisible
WHAT ONCE HAS BEEN
The twilight carries away
the cries of day,
softening the ragged bluffs within—
then, vanquished by the wings
of night's darkening rapture,
is lost to the black womb of seed
At the savage cove below,
where the sea churns and seethes,
the wild things fold their wings
in dark shadow,
basking in the fleeting tides,
in the ebony caves of the spirit's call
O'er the mountain's shoulder,
the sun's breath emerges,
soon to banish the dawn again,
in a radiance consuming
what once has been

Carolyn Mary Kleefeld
info@carolynmarykleefeld.com

San Antonio, TX

From a concerned grandmother.

WE LIVE FOR FREEDOM—
WE DIE FOR PEACE!
We fight for our freedom, we live to care
So, tread lightly terrorists—if you dare.
Know eyes are watching—for your dirty tricks
As America gathers to get in our licks.
You think you have beaten us that you have won
But think again, it's not over till our job is done
That is to drive you terrorists from our Nation's shore
We stand United; so don't come looking for war.
It's easy to be complacent—to look the other way,
Does it have to take a terrible act to melt our feet of clay?
Or the human tragedy inflicted by man on man
Somehow all of this doesn't seem to fit into God's Holy Plan.
Maybe this is just a wake-up call for you and me
To rejoice, praise Him on our bended knee.
It is times like these our Patriotism reigns on high
Still the question haunts us, why do good people have to die?
In the mounting toll of death that devastating day
Our leader, our President George Bush asked us to pray
For the mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, family and friends
Taken away or left behind, their story never ends.
So stay awake America, be aware and don't forsake
The ideals our great country was built on—it was no mistake.
The men & women who fought and died at Freedom's Gate
Their voices arise and shout "Don't back down—retaliate!"

For these evil men from birth are bred to hate and die
For the glory and ultimate reward they shall redeem on high.
No, fellow Americans, we cannot let our courage drop
We must hold our heads high—fight for our freedom—and never stop!

Shirley Smalley Price
Bob_Price1@msn.com

WOMEN IN SHAWLS
Women in shawls praying,
women embracing shawls in promenade,
women seated on attentive benches waiting
in shawls; women walking in snow
in a row in various shawls.
Women loosening shawls dancing
by tongue licking torches spreading
fat-oil smoke, a fusillade of feet
in scarlet shawls; backs arched,
one arm raised imperial,
merciless, erotic, contained,
Women opening shawls wide
as wondrous Peruvian birdwings
before wrapping themselves in solemnity.

Women in the rain in a square
at night in shawls on glistening stones,
the rain coming down on their hair,
on their shawls, as they turn
and turn again as women standing
in the night in the square in their shawls
in the rain; turning and turning again.

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

Section C: .................................................................. September 15, 2001

San Jose, CA

SILENCE
Suddenly the wind stops.
Silence slides down from granite slopes
congeals around the camp
thick and smothering
drowning all sounds
Reflected from this wall of silence
breathing becomes loud and clear.
Even the beat of the heart
so deeply hidden
faintly rings in our ears.

A hummingbird slices
a gap through the silence
droning and drowning
the beat of our heart.
Silence pours in filling the gap.

We hear the song of the dry creek
filled with forgotten snows.
Silence presses the lake into glass
holding the Aspen tight
until their last quiver stops.

Franz Spickhoff
franz@sj.znet.com

FOR DAVID WAYNE DUNN
There, a king stands,
a fountain of love,
the dark green foliage
of his tree, incensed
with the gild of dusk
Within his voice timbre,
his bloom is lush
The earth's arteries pulse,
metabolize his being
He bends low
in his garden haven
amidst the concrete of Fresno,
the busyness of people
The deepest root walks his feet,
yet he breathes the air of angels,
This king of poetry,
tree of a man
grows God's fruits
in sensibility
His gossamer castle spun
outside the city's crimes
breathes golden light afar . . .
DAVID'S LETTER
Your letter ignited
the savage pain
of love's touch,
arousing my numbed passions
sleeping as drugged beasts
hiding from life behind masks
The fruits of passion are lost
to repetitious themes,
nailed to the habits of time
Your words planted seeds
in my desert within

Carolyn Mary Kleefeld
info@carolynmarykleefeld.com

Delhi, India

Excerpts of thoughts to consider on the creative life from India!

I
Thesis: In a fast society slow emotions become extinct. A thinking mind cannot feel. Scientific/ Industrial/ Financial thinking destroys ability for subjective-experience.

Emotion is what we experience during gaps in our thinking. If there are no gaps there is no emotion. Today people are thinking all the time and are mistaking thought (words/ language) for emotion.

When society switches-over from physical work (agriculture) to mental work (scientific/ industrial/ financial/ fast visuals/ fast words) the speed of thinking keeps on accelerating and the gaps between thinking go on decreasing.

There comes a time when there are almost no gaps. People become incapable of experiencing/ tolerating gaps. Emotion ends.

Man becomes machine.

A society that speeds up mentally experiences every mental slowing-down as Depression/ Anxiety. A (traveling) society that speeds up physically experiences every physical slowing-down as Depression/ Anxiety. A society that entertains itself daily experiences every non-entertaining moment as Depression/ Anxiety.

II
One thousand years ago visuals would change only when man physically moved himself to a new place or when other people (animals/ birds) and objects (clouds/ water) physically moved themselves before him. Today man sits in front of TV/ Computer and watches the rapidly changing visuals/ audio.

He sits in a vehicle (car/ train/ bus) and as it moves he watches the rapidly changing visuals. He turns the pages of a book/ newspaper/ magazine and sees many visuals/ text in a short span.

The speed of visuals (and words) has increased so much during the last one hundred years that today the human brain has become incapable of focusing on slow visuals/ words through perception, memory, imagery.

If we cannot focus on slow visuals/ words we cannot experience emotions associated with slow visuals /words.

III
Before the advent of Industrial Revolution Man's thinking was primarily limited to: (a) visual processing (slow visuals). (b) verbal/ language processing (slow words).

Today there are many kinds of fast thinking : (1) visual processing (fast visuals). (2) verbal/ language processing (fast words).

If visual/ verbal processing is fast we cannot feel slow emotions.

(3) Scientific/ Technical thinking (fast). (4) Industrial thinking (fast). (5) Business thinking (fast).

(3), (4) & (5) are associated with numbers/ symbols/ equations/ graphs/ circuits/ diagrams/ money/ accounting/ etc.

As long as the mind is doing this kind of thinking it cannot feel any emotion—not an iota of emotion. In a fast society slow emotions become extinct. In a thinking (scientific/ industrial) society emotion itself becomes extinct.

EMOTION IS WHAT REMAINS IN THE MIND WHEN VISUAL /VERBAL PROCESSING SLOWS DOWN (STOPS/ FREEZES )

IV
There are certain categories of people who feel more emotion (subjective experience ) than others. If we attempt to understand why (and how) they feel more emotion we can learn a lot about emotion. Writers, poets, actors, painters (and other artists) are examples.

WRITERS
Writers do verbal (and associated visual) processing whole day—every day. They do slow verbal (and associated visual) processing every day. (A novel that we read in 2 hours might have taken 2 years to write. This is also the reason why the reader can never feel the intensity and duration of emotion experienced by the writer.)

POETS
Poets do verbal (and associated visual) processing whole day—every day. There is more emotion in poetry than in prose. This happens because there are very few words (and associated visuals) in poetry than in any other kind of writing. There is a very high degree of freezing/ slowing down of visuals and words in poetry.

ACTORS
Actors do verbal (and associated visual) processing whole day—every day. During shooting/ rehearsal they repeat the dialogues (words) again and again (the associated visuals/ scenes also get repeated along with the dialogues).

PAINTERS
Painters do visual (and associated verbal) processing whole day—every day. They do extremely slow visual processing—the visual on the canvas changes only when the painter adds to what already exists on the canvas.

There are some important points to be noted :

(1) All these artists do visual and verbal processing whole day—every day.
(2) They do slow visual and verbal processing.
(3) They do not do scientific/ industrial/ business processing whole day—every day.

Most of the city people doing mental work either do this kind of mental processing which is associated with Numbers/ Symbols/ Equations/ Graphs/ Circuits/ Diagrams/ Money/ Accounting etc., or they do fast visual (verbal) processing whole day—every day.

This kind of thinking (processing) has come into existence only during the last 200 years and has destroyed our emotional ability (circuits).

However in today's modern world even artists have started using machines/ technology for their work and they are also involved with financial/ business/ commercial thinking. In addition to this they are also exposed to highly overstimulated environment like the rest of the population.

Because of these factors even the mind of an artist of a fast society has become quite different from the mind of an artist who lived in any slow/non-industrial society of the past. A modern artist is thinking more and feeling less than an artist of the past.

For more information from this author, visit www.netshooter.com/emotion.

Sushil Yadav
mpyadav@bol.net.in

Austin, TX

As a University ofTexas student, here is some of my work.

Chamel Raghu
craghu@mail.utexas.edu

FLUTTERING
enjoying i will
enjoy an instant
timefreely of
wondering
if you too feel
the aloneness that
is as great as
it is impossible
that was the way
i put it once upon
time when time was
otherwise put
this delirium of
fluttering like
heart valves
in the river of life
i don't feel much
of over-reaching how
ever tricky my soul
twists and turns
on me but i do
let what will wonder
do just that with you

who as a direction

John Dodson
flute@acharantos.com

WHO WHAT WHY ME I AM?
Thinking how my entire life
has been spent trying to get out
of being who I know I am.
Why do I and so many others
long to be other than who we are?
And why, failing to be other,
do I feel awful, that my true self
(whatever that is) is not acceptable?

Always, who we are abides
at the end of the self-made
elaborate life-long labyrinth.

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

Section B: .................................................................. August 15, 2001

THE ANIMALS MAY WONDER
the animals may wonder
about us humans
staying so much
inside this time of day
this time sublime
the street is empty
my neighbor grows
passionflowers
hung like carillon bells
only heavier somehow
faces to the ground
pistils dropped low
yielding so exotic
a fragrance
as i take a walk past
yellow golden blooms
with the spaniel and
cat comes too
the fragrance ahhh
i am transfixed
i do not know
where i am going
half the time
anyway
forgetting what
my options are
more often than
that
yes the cat comes
too always
comes too
SEA FOG
coastal fog
fractal
fog in fog
streaks eastward
called
it seems just
now by the inland
heat
at this instant
no earlier no later
just now
sudden
very sudden
well let's go ahead
and say it
abduction
abruptio
these terrors
primordial
like fogs
these foglike
terrors
sweep away
sweep on along
now spinning
twisting filaments
entangled
enmeshing more
like twirling
called inland
this
august after noon
through the skylight
by the sea here
i am so
sorely
wondering
just so
i am

just so

John Dodson
flute@acharantos.com

SOLITUDE
she sits watching me
when i walk through the fragrant
canyon, white spots of sun on
naked knees. her eyes reflect
the forest-green, and are very dreamy.
dangling leaves on intricate vines
float over her shoulders, her hands
are caressed by delicate ferns
and her soft smile drifts up
from the sea...
one day i asked her if there was a river
nearby, would she like to hike and
have a swim. or, i wondered, isn't there
some other place you would like to be?
she just bowed her head and answered:
"not at all. my life, you see, is a river
of longing, and i have no need to leave."
SOLITUDE II
like a sister
i secretly loved,
her white shoulders
bridges i crossed
to meet her.
my long lost
and thought-forgotten
mistress, white roses
falling from her open hands.
oh it only she knew
the depth of my wound.
if only she could swim
in the ocean of my longing,
nakedly. i know she would
caress me then, eternally,
and understand infinity.
but she no longer hears
my voiceless cry; she
no longer answers my
desperate prayer.
i am too alone though
she is inside me like
a lover i've known
for a thousand years.

David Dunn
ddunn3@earthlink.net

THE DEAD COME
The dead come to talk to us in dreams—
dream echoes that puzzle, that seem
to see them young and old, strange then same.
The dead come with care, with formality,
independent of our fretfilled ways.
That is yours, they say, this we now know.

They say such simple strange things
that surface us awake,
so gentle surreal, so said at peace.
Then slide sweetknife through us in things
people do and say throughout the day.

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

Section A: .................................................................. July 15, 2001

WOVEN INTO ALL
Am I, as a poet,
somehow not in this life,
living between this one
and the other?
Spinning gossamer
of moonbeam
as my galactic ladder
into the music of space
Am I, as an artist,
a canvas-like being
absorbing nature's palette
of tones, rhythms
A void, a passion, a creature
walking about in nothingness
yet vibrantly, delicately woven into all
THE DRUMS OF THE EARTH'S PULSE
Reeling, swirling
as a flower so fragrant
blown by the winds of love
I'm swept into forests
with flying root
and their boughs reach
out in longing
I swirl and dance;
my head is filled
with the pulse of you,
my dearest love
Is there a hesitancy
I am missing?
Is the wind of passion
refusing stale restraint?
O my darling, I thirst
only for you, for
the swirling, reeling
pulse of you that dances
my heart and beats the drums
of the earth's pulse as our song
NIGHT SONG
Ah, night,
with your ancient eyes beyond time
How you lure me
up the gossamer ladders of your rays,
enfolding me
in your ebony arms
of fragrant silence
And I yearn again only to be yours,
just yours, our skin seamless
in the velvet darkness

Carolyn Mary Kleefeld
info@carolynmarykleefeld.com

I STILL LOVE YOU
Take it all away,
I still love you.
Leave empty my hands
for I must lose,
I still love you.
Take from me what
I've never owned, this life,
I still love you.
Take it all away, leave me
naked and nameless
under infinite sky,
I still love you.

David Dunn
ddunn3@earthlink.net

REMEMBERANCE OF
THINGS TO COME
too much of this day
i am confused
about the same
as generally
just too much day
today
it is record hot
i seem unable to rise
to it
to converge
about as generally
feeling the whole
planetary roll
feeling the Sun aging
you know
midlife has brought
all the plants all
the aggressively
lunging life forms
to their feet some from the beginning
to where we are now
just past
dinosaur meat
thus Thou Sun
with prostrate asana
coronally expulsive
Thee i do greet
*
the pool of this
present moment
i swim in
is too deep
too reflective and
unbearably
perturbable
*
too much day here
today
fahrenheit or celsius
or kelvin for that
uplinked or downloaded
as it may be
floating greengold now
the molten maple leaves
the moths are picking up
the pace
birdsong delivers

*
remembering what
i believe
i do believe
and tapping into this
fingers drumming
mounting the steps
remembering to breathe
the transformalities
too much to contain
today
these things i am
moving through
with the midlife
Sun
about a billion
years to go

before the heat
to come

John Dodson
flute@acharantos.com