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

Section F: .................................................................. June 15, 2003

San Jose, CA

I just returned from New York. I visited the Metropolitan Museum and I saw the exhibition "The Oldest Cities." I am still reflecting on this show, which displays art and artifacts from Mesopotamia from 5000BCA to the pre-biblical area around 1500BCA.

I was struck by the vibrancy and the modernity of many of the pieces on display. Some of the abstractions of bulls could have been done by Picasso and some of the stark and erect human figures could have been done by Giaccometti. And the difference in time is almost 6000 years. This proved to me that doing art and appreciating art is not climbing a Platonic ladder to higher and higher levels of purity and truth. It is rather a going back, again and again, to a well unchanging, universal and deep in the fabric of what it means to be human. It is very moving to experience this circular movement in the flesh before your eyes contemplating the displays.

It is sad the looting of the museum in Bagdad and of the archeological sites in Iraq disrupts this experience. The gatherings with the Creative Edge provide an opportunity to go back to the well. Thank you for being a good well keeper.

Franz Spickhoff
franz@znet.com

(The following tips are forwarded to help your readers) ...think more creatively and I am also offering a free copy of my e-book on creative thinking.

3 Tips to be more creative

No logic allowed

Logic and creativity belong together as much as drinking and driving do. Of course logic is critical in our daily lives, but there is one place it does not belong—during the creative thinking process and brainstorming activities. Why? Because logic always pulverizes the flow of creative ideas. Save the logic for later.

Think like Thomas Edison

This is so simple, but only a few smart people do it. Be smart. Schedule "time to think" into your weekly work schedule. It's one of the most effective things you can do to come up with new ideas and to be creative. And it won't cost you a dime. Try a couple of 2-hour blocks a week for starters.

Use the right tools

If you're like most people, you probably just sit there and stare at the walls when looking for new ideas. Most of us use the accidental method because we don't know any other way. This is the slowest, most ineffective, and boring process to come up with new ideas. And when you do come up with an idea, you won't be sure how you did it so you can't repeat the process. There are fast, effective, and deliberate methods to generate new ideas. Some of the best tools and techniques can be found in a free e-book at www.slyasafox.com. These tools will help you consistently generate 100's of ideas in about an hour. This is not the exception, but the norm.

Mark Fox
info@slyasafox.com

RECTAL EXAM

Has anyone ever written a poem
while having a rectal exam?

Tried to heap piles of words
to hide the fear?

Hoping to snow the uncomfort
with phrases?

Has anyone ever written a poem
while having a rectal exam?

I asked the Doctor when he was done
if he had ever heard of such a thing.

"No, No, Never!" he said,
so I did

Steve Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

Section E: .................................................................. May 15, 2003

Del Rey Oaks

THE DAY THE BUDDHA CRIED

I

begin the chant
deep the breath
hallowed soul
of free lined grace
sitting
beneath the bohdi
sighted on the key lime tree
blessing the raising sun
waiting the frost to clear

He came among us this way. When he had set down, a gentle silence came towards us and filled all of the space to become the room,
        We waited for him to speak.

    "All that we are is now."

    I reached out and picked up two of the five river worn stones which were arranged along the edge of the platform, each was a like size and well worn from their journey to the sea.

    The only sound was the smell from the single rose laying by the stones.

    "Time as we know it is as a soap bubble. Linked to many others each interlocking and touching the others."

    Putting one stone to rest, I held the other An both hands. Passing it one to the other.

    The sound of breath filled the space.
    As I put the stone to rest on its journey it took its place.

"On a tree grow many leaves."

    The stone, which I had set back on the ledge, split into two parts issuing the sound of a Robin sharp and very clear.

    "All motion flows through all time."

    The sound of breathing filled the space of the Ocean. Earth waited.

    "In the sunrise comes the pearl."

    The Ocean had filled the sky which turned from blue to green and they had become one in the darkness before the dawn.
    Clouds formed there, the green becoming darker and darker fill the lightening filled the air with thunder claps.

    "All edges become new beginnings. There is no difference one from the other."

    The sound of breathing filled the sky.
        The stone that split became gold and the sun shone on all.
    I lifted another stone to hold it in my hand.

    "The soul contains all."

    This stone, worn from its journey to the sea, split in my hand. Its silver core glowed from within and it became as the moon.
    "From without and within, it is one."
    As far as the eye could see the land was covered with yellow flowers.
    The Buddha rose to go. So be it.

II

Blessing sentence lord on high wait the time

terror on the hill from off the mountain
placing many stones all in a row

sea gull mounts a new horizon
placing all who came before us in a most special peril

waiting along the river Styx
for Charons boat
Athena was there along with all of the others. They were all bent over crying tears saddened by the course of man towards the flaming death. Lightening struck. All turned to salt for looking back into the dragons mouth of greed. They had picked up his sword and could not drop it. Sucking all that the earth could produce, sapping the mortal soul from it, they carried the banner of profit, they drowned all who were with them, laughing and claiming immunity because it was for profit and their lord claimed that as his cloak they could plunder as they wishedÑenslave all who were about them in his name. "Will Jesus wash the blood stain from their hands?"

So be it

Steve Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

SOMETIMES POETRY

is a phantom
you feel compelled to follow
into the moldy basement
or spider-infested attic
where it drags you through dust
you cannot name
brings out goosebumps
sweaters cannot dispel
just before
it throws open the back door
and shoves you
into the sunlit backyard
of your own good sense

is a gauzy breeze
that brushes your cheek
whispers silky gibberish
into spiraled chambers
of your mute ears
visits you dreaming
beneath cherry clouds of dawn
at the riverside crying
the same tears
you cried more times
than you care to admit
then kisses your forehead
and leads you home...

WHAT ONCE WAS

The tears are welcome
when they reappear
from some deep aquifer
that streams beneath the surface
of ordinary days.
I do not reject their raw sting
their unexpected spilling
into an otherwise serene moment.

Memories are sometimes harsh
when they reclaim their pocket
in my heart,
for they have been riding
undercurrents far too long,
deep-rooted aches
the years have buried.

Sadness is welcome
when it grips my shoulders,
shudders my foundation,
for it is the only remaining sum
of the joy that once was.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

Section D: .................................................................. April 15, 2003

San Jose, CA

NIGHT SHIFT

Here I am, an old man
Waking up late at night,
Disturbed by dreams
Clawing for attention.
Strange dreams of anger and rage.
Fierce furies are on the loose
During fickle sleep of this age,
Fading into shadows unknown
The moment I come to myself

Into darkness I must descend
To recover old rubbish
Discarded in youthful days
When feelings became so painful.
Barely forgotten the pain
Just settled into the bones
As a constant reminder,
A reminder not heeded for years:
Attend! Tender Attention!

I have become used to pain,
Less frightened by feelings.
It is time to climb down,
To sift carefully through my rubbish
And salvage fragments of my life.

Franz Spickhoff
franz@sj.znet.com

TETHERED
    —for Bob Faul

Tethered by the tube that brought oxygen,
your last days spent in the downstairs bedroom
listening to the soft whisper of flesh
leaving bone, eyes still aglow, determined,
to drink deeply of this life, to leave with
no regrets. And I, drawn to you, tethered
to you in ways I did not understand
as I sat by your bedside, listening
to you tell about the only book of
poems you ever bought, fifty-three years ago
On your honeymoon.

        We are all tethered
to what sustains us. What is it that keeps
me tethered to you? Simply by being
yourself, you changed the fives of others. Where
would I be had you not seen in me what
I myself could not see? At that crossroad,
you offered a path, then stepped back and I
found my way, drawing, though I did not know
it then, strength from you. What had brought me to
your bedside, dear friend, what brings me today
to this gathering to celebrate your
life but my love for you.

        I breathe deeply.
These words become a lifeline between us.
The weight of sadness falls away. Inspired
by the love that gives each of us life, we
discover we are tethered to each other.

Elliot Ruchowitz Roberts
elliotrr@redshift.com

A Journal Entry:

Ask your inner poet: What have you got to say?

It is 3:20 pm on March 20th, a cloudy afternoon in Carmel Valley. There is something ticklish about the coincidence of time and date all of a sudden being identical—a magic moment to begin writing. Because of the clouds the light is subdued. Huge shadows block the sun, mountains of clouds laying shade where sunbeams ought to be. There is a lack of warmth, and a stillness that contrasts to the explosions of bombs half a world away. I am cloaked in a layer of guilt for a consequence in which I have had no choice.

What have you got to say about that poet?

Your thoughts have no power. They are simply the carousel that goes round and round, but your poems, the actual words you write and revise and read aloud and move in shapes on the pages, those are tender and potent. Sixty one and one half years of compassion and intuition, a lifetime of loving and kindnesses, these are your counterpoint to all the ego-centric rhetoric, the baseless justifications for cruelty.

I hear what you say but find it difficult to focus on any aching truth in poems with the specter of innocent deaths rising from the smoke of destruction.

So she answers: All the more reason for the medicine of poetry. What else of value do have to give the world besides your heart.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

Section C: .................................................................. March 15, 2003

Del Rey Oaks

IT WAS JUST A DOG

You know

It was just a dog
that I shared those times with

It was just a dog
greeting me when I came home

It was just a dog
when the kids were born

It was just a dog
when my mother died

It was just a dog
at Christmas time

It was just a dog
when Bob was sick

But her time has come
she can hardly walk
with all of the pain


It was just a dog
when I said good bye!

Steve Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

What a wonderful collection of poems you got for us again in the February LBOL! Many thanks to the people who contribute. For example, Patricia's lines moved my heart to tears (I am sentimental as I am older now...), she has so very much to give with all she expresses, also the others whoever they are, I'd like to answer with namaste, the light in my soul greets your light!

Enclosed is a springtime impression (I like these Japanese Haikus).

SPRINGTIME-HAIKU

I saw a bird
it did not sing.
Well then,
it was a stone.

(I had forgotten my spectacles)

Hilly Mueller
mmhiue@t-online.de

IN & OUT

There's no way out
And there's no way in
And I don't even know
Where to begin
So I tried the hitting the wall trick
And found the wall is still that thick
If I had any answers do you think I'd be here?
It's been a week
Since the space shuttle Columbia broke up
Killing all aboard

God rest their souls
Too many good men and women have died
And can the rest of us say we've really tried?
All I can do is to let go
Into the frightening void
And ask for comfort from the
One Who said "I will give you rest"

This one is almost too dry for my taste. But I take what I get.

DESERT GARDENS PSYCHIATRIC UNIT

Canto I

Oh! I love
the smell of coffee in the morning
Oh! I love
group therapy in the morning

Today Mark the street merchant
Was kicked out of group
Because he is noisy and disruptive
And his shit doesn't stink.

I had a brain fart
And blabbed about my mania
Leading with my chin
Displaying my peacock (peabrained) tailfeathers

Just like a peacock
Oh honey lay me down
And then we can get to sleep
Hypersexuality: you figure it out

Canto II

Pounding the floor with my fists
I ended up hurting—why?
The staff at the nursing station
Very dryly asked if I had had my meds

Well a frontal lobotomy
Is all that's going to slow this roadrunner down
You got it: One flew east, west
And one flew the coop.

My hands are hurting from pounding the floor
The meds I've taken are under control
My roommate wants to suck my dick
And I'll show'em all I can be a prick

Listen my children and you shall hear
The midnight cross I have to bear
In an asylum for the insane
Why I don't want to stop feeling my pain

Donald - thanks for caring. The one thing life has been teaching me is that I must never fear. Caution is good, but fear gives rise to paranoia and delusions very easily, and can corrupt the process of rational judgment. My poetry has been a way of grounding myself. Thanks for encouraging me to pursue it. This poem expresses where I am and the next phase I face.

ONE THING IS LACKING

Because I have not answered the question
"Who am I?"
I have not become a person.
I have not stood naked before God,
Without social standing,
Without a job or a career,
Without a hobby or vocation,
And had to answer this one simple question:
Who am I?

I have not stood before the all-seeing eye
That perceives spirit as well as matter
And which I can only sense
By the eyes of the heart and of the mind
I have not stood naked and alone
Without a spouse to support me
Without children who look up to me
Without community ties
I have held up bits and pieces
Of tattered masks representing
All these roles, but not in sincerity,
Not in connection to a central whole
Of which they are simply aspects
No, I have held to the Greek actor's masks
From which comes the root word for "hypocrite"
And yet I do not hate myself.
I am simply a gooey mass of feeling
Where a strong coherent identity
Forged and tried and true
Will one day exist.
Alone and all alone
That is the way I must journey to stand before God
And then, perhaps, I will begin to know
The answers to two questions:
Who am I? And
Who is this God?

Christopher Lovette
cwlovette@cox.net

MOONBEAMS

Sometimes
when the moon
shines deeply
becoming
many moons
multiple
reflections
in pools
of recent rain
I imagine
personal moonbeams
brilliant rays
profusion
tapping gently
on window panes
alerting us all
to awaken from sleep
to gather light
during darkness
by opening hearts
to hold kindness
proclaiming peace
as a universal right
heaven sent.

LOS LAURELES GRADE

rose colored sky
silhouette,
trees and hillside
golden glaze


emotions less than gratitude
evaporate,

weightless in body and burden
I inhale perfume of peace
silence becomes a wordless song
one small tear runs down my cheek

I taste salt

prayer that asks for nothing
accompanie's me, home,

Illia Thompson
Illia99@aol.com

A DOG'S LIFE

My poems tell me where I have to go,
gradually guide me
as if I were an untrained pup
in need of a firm voice,
short leash.
Sit,
stay the poem instructs,
wait for your reward

and I obey
because I know the bone wants to be found.
I dig
even when the ground is hard
and the scent is faint.

I follow the trail,
a bloodhound in search of my own scarlet veins.
MY poem is in command.
I jump through hoops,
an old trick now,
familiar as chewed slippers.

I slog through shadowed forests
and up steep cliffs,
wander along narrow alleys,
meet my tale coming and going.

My poem knew the destination all along.
It asks me to trust my own buried instincts.


THE SECRET LIFE

All night the silver blade
in the ebony sky carves
westward seeking the other side
of earth. Crickets
play their fiddle wings.
White owl rotates
his head to catch
a small rustle
under the sage.

All night the stars appear
to follow in the wake
of the moon
on a similar journey
in a larger universe.
Fog creeps upriver
along the south mountain range
veiling village lights
with an eerie glow.

All night a light breeze
weaves through thin fingers
of a pine tree,
carrying its sharp fragrance
past open windows.
A gray fox and his mate pause
to drink from a water bowl,
blessing moisture
with their tongues.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

Section B: .................................................................. February 15, 2003

Birmingham, AL

UNTITLED

The Blue Jays
The Red birds
The Wax Wings
    in Winter
Against bare gray limbs
    of trees
Flying flowers
To tide us over
    'til Spring

I'm like a lover
Courting the words
That visit me
In light or night.
I embrace them hungrily
And kiss them with the pen.
They respond to my touch
And leap onto the page—
Together we engage
In making magic
And the world turns purple
With joy
Our souls traversing
The universe
With music and laughter,
Flying on the winds of time.

Jean Callahan Crowe

WINTER

Persephone
tugged at my big toe
pulled me into the underworld.
She could not bear the cold
needed my company to withstand
the chill bestowed upon her
solely because she ate of pomegranate
autumn red, one bite and the juice
stained fingers and lips,
no way to erase the blush.

Free-falling downward
a glide of sorts
landed me in snow
no heat to melt
no warmth to thaw
just a steady freeze
to slow to almost stop
musing motion.

Persephone held out her hand
well-gloved in skin of doe
welcomed me as though
by mutual arrangement
we had set this date

That simple tug
pulled me through
a winter of my own
a sedentary respite
ending when the New Year
invited me to celebrate.

Illia Thompson
Illia99@aol.com

I especially liked the (poem by David Dunn in NL#37) about being humbled and how it felt so appropriate that it appeared on the same page as my poem "Ballad of the Hooch" ... I can relate to being humbled by practically everything and he expressed it beautifully. He also touched on the theme of homelessness which leads in to my poem about my experiences with the homeless. They are not really homeless. Their homes (their "hooches") are just different from yours and mine—a tent, some plywood and blankets thrown together, or whatever else can make a livable shelter... At any rate, I'd like to share a new poem.

REQUIEM FOR ANIMAL

He was only thirty-four when he died
Confused and numb and overdosing
He did not know You when he died
Lord, have mercy on his soul

He was not the smartest or the strongest
Have mercy, Lord
He was living with Gizmo in the Hooch
Lord, have mercy

When I saw him most times he had a troubled look
Have mercy, Lord
But when he smiled with both his mouth and his eyes
I could see you made him Lord
Lord, have mercy

He fell out of a tree while high on speed
Have mercy, Lord
And fractured his back
Lord, have mercy

He got food stamps and a hundred and seven a month
Have mercy, Lord
And a prescription for morphine for his back
Lord, have mercy

Lord, have mercy

One time I brought my Guitar to the Hooch
Lord, have mercy
Gizmo played and sang Loozeeanna blues
Have mercy, Lord

Ron listened and we all smiled
Lord, have mercy
I played a bit too
Have mercy, Lord

Don't know how his handle came to be Animal
Lord, have mercy
S'pose cause his back was all bent
Have mercy, Lord

Once we talked about right and wrong
Lord, have mercy
About how we ought to live
Have mercy Lord

I was too blind to see how far I'd failed
Lord, have mercy
But Ron looked like he knew he had
Have mercy, Lord

Why didn't I have more love for him?
Lord, have mercy
Would he still be with us if I had?
Have mercy, Lord

Lord, I pray he be with You now
Lord, have mercy
Looking down and smiling blues at us his friends
Have mercy, Lord.

Christopher Lovette
cwlovette@cox.net

CONVERSATION WITH MYSELF

Love the Creator, Death the Destroyer?
Or Death the Creator, Love the Destroyer?
Relentless—Discoverer, Captor, Hunter.
Wait! Do you mean Love? ... Yes.
    Or do you mean Death? ... Of course.

Do I hunt for it? Or does it hunt for me?
Does it capture me? Or do I capture it?
Do I discover it? Or does it discover me?
Wait! Do you mean Love? ... Yes.
    Or do you mean Death? ... Of course.

I've lived at the Edge of the Precipice,
And I've lived on the Peaceful Plateau..
Now I mean Love, looking to the past.
But I do live at the Edge and on the Plateau.
    And now you mean Death? ... Of course.

Death the Destroyer or Love the Creator?
Love the Destroyer or Death the Creator?
Please go away! Please stay!
Wait! Do you mean Love? ... Yes.
    Or do you mean Death? ... Of course.

Ray Cyr
raythecyr@cs.com

LIBRARY OF THE MIND

"There is no death so final as the death of memory"
—Paul Gruchow (The Necessity of Empty Places)

Recollections rise,
slip from my grasp,
phantoms never quite faithful.

I hear my father's laughter in dreams,
but cannot retrieve the warmth of his arms,
the love that illuminated his eyes.

The last hours of her dying return,
more memorable than the ordinary events
of my sister's life.

Two black and white images,
discolored by almost forty years on the shelf,
long past their abruptly terminated childhood,
the only tangible objects
that remain of a boy and a girl,
children from a life now indistinct,
shrouded in the crowd of other hours.

The paper faces are not near enough
to counter the losses
of voice and substance,
laying of cheek to forehead,
silky tendrils of hair,
scent at the base of a throat,

Memories diminish
in the veneer of the present,
Time raids the ledgers of the past
taking what is most precious,
what cannot be replaced.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

It was good to hold the Creative Edge again in its printed form. I send to you two pieces of work and I can't tell you just how much courage it is taking to do this. When I wrote the poem, "The Secret," about four years ago, it held so much truth that it frightened me. I almost destroyed the poem, but instead I hid it away as I have hidden my life away.

Then the day after Christmas 2002, this story emerged and with it a message was delivered ... I must also share the poem ... it is time. I break the silence. And it is my deep desire that this is what my mother had always hoped I would do, since she herself could not do it.

THE SECRET

Now—
there is no way back.

Here—
I take form
in my mother's womb
feeling her shame, her anger.

Already
I know that
I am a mistake, a sin
of passion. Already she
offers me her legacy of guilt.

Out of a lie
I am born, and
in the lie I shall live.
Her fear fills me, feeds
me as I grow—uninvited

Beneath her breast.

Trapped
as she is trapped,
branded as she is branded.

Not until
her death will I be free
to speak—the lie we lived.

The story behind the poem:


BIRTHING MY FORGOTTEN SELF

Section A: .................................................................. January 15, 2003

Monterey, CA

These poems are dedicated to my Mother: Edith Victoria Ostman, born June 24, 1914 in Minnesota, died November 25, 2002 in Medford Oregon.

I ALWAYS KNEW YOU LOVED ME

I alwavs knew you loved me, Mom.
You had a loving touch,
That soothed my aching forehead,
Which always meant so much.
You worked for every dollar
When times for us were lean.
You bought our clothes on lay-away,
And kept them neat and clean.
The ice cream truck played music.
I begged and got a dime.
You sang and told me stories
Of once upon a time.
I know it wasn't easy
That time we were alone.
But then along came Daddy
And soon we had a home.
Whenever I remember
Those times I feel a thrill,
For I always knew you loved me,
And that you always will.

LITTLE BOAT

Little boat
Upon the sea,
Take me where
I need to be.

Keep me safe
From every storm.
Shelter me
And keep me warm.

Rock me
In your cradle deep,
Bring me comfort
While I sleep.

Let me know
I need not fear
While God and angels
Hover near

LANDSCAPE OF DREAMS

Somewhere west of the dawn
And east of the moon's pale beams
There is a tiny kingdom
Wherein do live my dreams.

'Tis peopled by forgotten friends
And folks I've never met;
With some remembered faces
And those I've not known yet.

By azure flights of fancy
And familiar places known;
With houses full of trapdoors,
With gentle gardens grown.

It is a place of wonder
But not a place of rest
For time runs very odd
And I've often got a quest.

So oft I make a journey
That morphs from that to this.
Sometimes its with a lady
Who I've been known to kiss.

Yet often in this kingdom
Familiar turns to strange;
So what was here is gone
As billowing thoughts do range.

Sometimes it is fantastic
Sometimes it is mundane
But always it is changing
And never seem the same.

Aye Dreamland is a faerie place
Wherein my Id doth soar.
And when I do awaken
I mourn its closing door.

SINGING NAIADS

Dancing waters, dancing waves,
Dancing on lost wat'ry graves.

Singing naiads, crying gulls,
Singing over lost ships' hulls.

Shadows of a hungry shark
Whose parents once fed in the dark.

Blowing winds and gentle breeze
Dimming now the memories.

Once again are naiads singing;
What fresh sorrow are they bringing?

Jeff Hudelson
bluebear@redshift.com

UNTITLED

pain in new york.
shame in seattle.
suicide in san fransisco.
war and murder here, war and murder
there, war and murder everywhere.
what is, changes tomorrow.
and yesterday i heard of someone who needs
some new bone marrow.
idealism. intellectualism. metaphysicalism.
meditation. medication...
how about a warm bath instead, and less
education.
first it was buddha in your bedroom,
now christ's blood is on your hands.
tomorrow i'll be just another man and we'll
all do the best we can.
paradise within and then it's everywhere
without. my last lover never realized this,
of that there is no doubt.
some enjoy it light, some enjoy it dark.
some like it fast, others like it slow.
some just cease to care and let everything go.
the world is large, and rather small no doubt.
sometimes i wonder if the schools we went to
really knew what anything's about...

David Dunn
ddunn3@earthlink.net

THE MINISTER'S CHRISTMAS SERMON

Christmas time—the wonder of it
Ladies baking, caroling
And of course the gifts—so many gifts

The minister thought these happy thoughts
In his study, settling in to prepare his sermon
For that Sunday, Christmas Sunday

It was so peaceful there; he did nothing.
His mind drifted, until it caught
On a memory of long ago

Thirty years—it's been thirty years
The child would have been thirty, or almost
The child of that sweet girl he'd known in seminary


Why did the memory come?
He began to feel the panic, the need to hide,
The frantic talks with his girlfriend, the tears . . .

He remembered taking her to the abortion clinic
Waiting for her, how he'd watched the other women
Almost all young, almost all attractive

Remembering back over the years
He had an absurd idea: those women
Were like Barbie dolls—broken Barbie dolls that needed fixing

They all left the clinic fixed, he and his girlfriend had left fixed.
The inconvenience was over, the shame hidden,
No one had to know.

Why did he think now about what might have been?
A son, perhaps a son . . . almost thirty
Perhaps grandchildren

Hadn't he gone on for the better though?
Become a fine minister, yes he had.
Though he had had to leave that episode behind, almost forgotten

The girl had managed to keep quiet
Shortly after the clinic visit they broke up
He had gone on to graduate, to work, to marry

Yes, he had suffered like those in his flock
And now he could open his arms to all the rainbow of lifestyles
All sexual preferences, all spiritual paths, and rejoice in the diversity

How far things had progressed in thirty years.
Now even some on his church staff
Would counsel a young woman in difficulty to terminate a pregnancy

But something in his stomach didn't feel good
(Must be eating too many spicy foods)
What about getting that sermon outlined, at least?

The afternoon was drifting on like his mind
He decided the sermon would have to wait
He let himself go with the current

What about the Christmas songs?
Yes, which ones would they be singing that Sunday?
He could almost hear "Hark the Herald Angels Sing"

But his mind was still playing tricks on him
And instead of "God and sinners reconciled"
He imagined he heard "God and Satan reconciled"

Yes, he thought, maybe that's it really
Maybe peace on earth would come
With God and Satan reconciled

No, even with his diverse congregation
That would not go over as a Christmas sermon
Better stick to the baby in the manger.

A child . . . why did he have to remember
About a child that was removed in the eighth week of pregnancy
How absurd to think it had even been a child!

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

Top of page

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