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Section F: .................................................................. December 15, 2002

This drawing conveys my kindest regards for a Merry Christmas!

A child was born, now looking curiously into the world.
There is so much waiting: learning, pleasure, sometimes pain.
Shadow and light seen in the little face.

I wish you and all of us a full life, and trust into the force
that makes us live the love in souls around and inside our heart.

Hilly Mueller
Hiltrud.Mueller@t-online.de

SILVER ARROW

the silver arrow
flew
through the mountain
across the valley
under the river
striking a tree
it passed through
into the other side
lodging just beneath
a core
freeing for this time
the opalescent glow

LILIES

As the lilies of time flow across our souls

we stand where we have before
in a different age and altered place
we herald the change that comes
our lives are held in the flower space
to strengthen and to grow
crystal clear and pyrite bound
we stand at the wall of grace

As the lilies of time flow across our souls

Steve Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

(A reprint from NL#37 Letter Box with corrected author!)

FLOW

Aging is my favorite time
Though I'm no longer in my prime.
My eyes have lost their perfect sight
And yet each day brings in more light.
I see what I still need to earn
The insights that I need to learn.
My guard no longer keeps me blind
To all the flaws I need to find.
I see the growth that still remains
The need for heart instead of brains.
I feel the gift of second chance
Each day brings in a sweeter dance.

Duffie Bart
Doro10000@aol.com

RETROSPECTIVE

Viewing my art
hung on bare walls
as strong lights
embrace these eighteen
elongated squares,
I imagine a quilt,
a comforter of colors,
varied textures
to enhance dream time,
hold warmth within
and cold without,
display of stories
wide enough
to cover a lifetime,
soft enough
to gently enfold
ultimate departure.

Illia Thompson
Illia99@aol.com

I am so very sorry to learn you are thinking of discontinuing mail distribution of "The Edge" Newsletter. (See NL#37) Of particular interest to me have been the "A'musings" and everything by Laura Bayless—she is a wonder! Her "Journal Entries" in the most recent issue (NL#37) reflect much of my own inner life, but she puts it into words that only a poet could speak.

I look forward to whatever "News" issues are forthcoming and always wish your endeavors Godspeed. Yours is a worthwhile life's work.

PS: We haven't met because I am largely house bound and don't get to do a lot of things I'd like to do.

PPS: And, I don't own or know a computer. I'm still friendly with my electric typewriter, tho' even it is showing its age as I am!

Ethhel J. Costagliola

Section E: .................................................................. November 15, 2002

I so much enjoy the artistic pieces on this site, which show many different aspects of human nature in dialogue with life. It is a wonder, to feel deeply connected with so many strangers, but the creative force lives in all of us and makes us transgressing boundaries both in creating and later on in the reception of works, it seems. I would not have dared to write this poem on the beauty of daring to share pain or painful moments without being inspired by your courage of sharing your own creative expressions, thank you.

THAT CHIVALRY, MYSTERY OF COMPASSION

You found my hidden wound,
understood at once and took over.
A sudden silent play in play,
my role:
to bear that heavenly gift,
not flee but let you share,
sootheing my pains,
and seeing you suffer instead.
The mystery burnt our souls
together
awestruck
in a moment of utmost beauty.

Hilly Mueller
Hiltrud.Mueller@t-online.de

Section D: .................................................................. October 15, 2002

I am going through a lot of feelings right now... I just started to feel depressed... (So,) I cried a little and came to the computer and typed this poem.

I AM

I am
As deep as the depths of an ocean
As far away as a plane in the sky
As black as the night's canvas
I have no where to go

My fiery mind twists and turns
Not letting any time to breathe
My eyes dried to the desert's drought
Yet overflowing with watery cries

Cries for help
Cries for sorrow
Cries for hope
Hope that the next day will be different
The next day will be lovely

How much longer can this go on
I am drowning in the pains of all pains
I am nothing
I am a failure

As strong as an Ox' leg
As overpowering as a fathers yell
As truthful as rain on a beautiful sunny day
I am a success
I am everything
I am OK

Lynn Marie Sweet
gbootygirl@hotmail.com

FOR ALL THOSE WHO DIE LONELY

(1)

Friends, friends, friends, friends,
are there any friends left?
((Peter died in hospital in 1999)
--------(belongs to the poem))

I myself lost a dear family member,
father of two small, recently.
It was when I took time to put the dark unsorted
feelings into words, that they seemed to carry
the burden and I felt lighter:

(2)

Suddenly I felt so sad,
t'was, as if the air was sticking,
you had gone and gone nowhere.
Left alone the bumblebee
and the little marigold.
There, where once winds had blown softly,
grew now morose stony walls.
Are we left,
and where are we?

After having swum in the dark stream and being
able to go ashore on dry land again, I tried a
happy feeling also (this is for the return of a dear
friend).
It is amazing, almost the same words express
quite the other extreme of feeling, rather a change
in heart, and whenever I read those two, I can
easily feel again as I did in the moments when I
created
them:

(3)

Suddenly I felt so glad,
t'was, as if the air was singing,
you had come and come to me.
Brought along a bumblebee
on a little marigold.
There, where once winds had blown frosty,
grew now coloured flower walls.
We are happy,
aren't we?

Hilly Mueller
Hiltrud.Mueller@t-online.de

Section C: .................................................................. September 15, 2002

Wuppertal,Germany

I am not sure if this poem plus drawing suites these times, hopefully our prayers for peace will soothe down plans for aggressions on all sides. Well, it is peace we wish for our inner wars, too, don't we.

This knight is originally Hamlet, but praying for inner peace and whether it is necessary to take revenge to get justice and peace back (and by that way creating even more innocent victims like Polonius or Ophelia)

OLD AND NEW WARS

Bowed in front of innocent victims,
hands open
praying for peace,
a crying soul for a crying world.

(I started drawing just last year—didn't know I could do it, but was encouraged by the free-style of contemporary pieces of art...)

Hilly Mueller
Hiltrud.Mueller@t-online.de

I thought I would pass on a couple of poems that I wrote in the last week as I experienced major shifts in my life. I am dealing with personal growth issues surrounding relationships. These two poems both exemplify this kind of work. One is about what happened when working with a physical healer, and the other is about healing in intimate relationships.

HEALING HANDS
(For Harry)

A gift came through
your hands today.

Hidden doorway
to unknown forces,
your light touch
small moves
passionate belief
allowed me the chance to heal.

In a sweep of white,
soothing light of Spirit
accepts your offered gateway,
spreads through open palms,
pries apart tight defenses
and floods my heart with joy.

Open, I weep.

Open, I wonder.

Overwhelmed, I can only accept
this life-changing love
as wondrous benefaction—
a heaven-sent gift brought forth
by
healing hands.

RICHARD

Heat rising from
sleep washed skin,
his eyes slowly open
blue portals
overflowing with love.

Pooled sunshine
strokes our limbs,
reminder of passing time,
but we remain
entwined
secure
together.


Gentle touch
soft kiss
warm breath,
these are gifts
from one who
danced into my heart
and taught me to play.

Gazing, now, into shining blue,
thankfulness rises, swells,
moves me to
nestle closer,
closer,
catching the rhythm
of pounding heart
and steadfast devotion.

In his arms,
there is no pain
there is no sorrow.
In his heart,
there is only comfort
there is only love
we remain
entwined
secure
together.

Carol Lynn Mathew-Rogers
carripie@lanset.com

Section B: .................................................................. August 15, 2002

Thank you so much for that wonderful pages you and your artistic fellowmen created, I have such a pleasure contemplating over the thoughts and messages of all of you, it really enriches my life. Unfortunately my English is not perfect nevertheless I send you a little story, no dream this one. I hope you and all are further on sharing so much, it is always like coming home getting to your homepage after a hard day of work and stress.

I PUSHED IT ASIDE!

When I was a child, we visited my relatives who lived in a city far away. Joining my cousin in his room I wanted to sit down on a chair and pushed aside an old black stick, which made my cousin cry out, "no, be careful, this is my clarinet."

Still I did not really know what to think of it, coming from a family of complete non-musicians. I understood that the dark round wood seemed to be precious to my cousin, however, whom I had started to like during games in the afternoon.

It was not till I heard the Mozart concerto A-major for clarinet and orchestra in the evening that I understood what a wonderful instrument this old piece of wood meant to be. Melodies that made me dream and listen endlessly derived from it.

This is a story I could never forget. Things that look ugly, meaningless, unimportant might have a wonderful purpose when the creative force starts to make use of them, and we all might enjoy that beauty and are overwhelmed with a feeling of understanding.

Yes, this is the answer, so it was meant.

Hilly Mueller
Hiltrud.Mueller@t-online.de

UNTITLED

humbled again.
humbled by the wind
that thrashes my door.
humbled by loneliness,
by selfish destructiveness—
wondering what is more,
what is less: safe comfort
or naked homelessness.

humbled again.
burned like a fire by desire,
by the liars that within me lived...
wishing i could give one more song
to lovers who have gone.

humbled by change,
by pain that erects walls.
humbled by cold rain that falls.


humbled by death, by life, by beauty
that cuts like a knife.
humbled by the dregs of the wine
that at first tasted so sweet.
—by strangers that i meet.
—by women who pass me by
oblivious that i for them would die.

humbled by delicate flowers.
humbled by the mind's delusional tower.
humbled by memories, humbled by mountains—
by nature's views.
humbled by the six o'clock news.

humbled by grace, and all that i've been given.
humbled by trees and humbled when you pack
your bags to leave.

humbled by what is, humbled by what never was,
or ever will be.
humbled by dreams, and by this poem's fragile
soft scream...

David Dunn
ddunn3@earthlink.net

Section A: .................................................................. July 15, 2002

THE DRAGON SINGS; THE DRAGON DIES

Last evening,
with the black trees towering
and the stars falling behind you,
you sang the nomad's lament
into the moonless night

Spanish gypsy music rode the tides
And lost, vanishing worlds echoed you

Today you reappear,
but the stars are gone
from your shoulders
The heavens have sunk
into your pain-soaked earth;
you've become the murky smoke
of a suffering reptile

I leave with unseeing eyes,
a numb senselessness,
a questioning soul

The dragon sings; the dragon dies—
in One breath, I muse


OF THE LIZARD'S BREATH

We bathe in a shower
of golden beams

Garlands of flaming roses,
scarlet as your passion,
cascade upon my shoulders

Flaxen tresses
adorn the voluptuous hills
We imbibe summer's
warming breath,
renewed in God's heat

And in this
approaching summer,
we grow hair of gold,
green and red,
our wildflowers
again lost to seed

We know not
what will burgeon
in this scorch of sun,
in the dryness
of the lizard's breath

Carolyn Mary Kleefeld
info@carolynmarykleefeld.com

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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