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Section F: .................................................................. Jun 15, 2004

Dorset, England

DIVINE DRAMA
(Lila, Non Duality)

What then is ultimately heard
is singing in a singing bird—
what then left of her's or his,
is it everything there is?
Is there room for your's or mine
is it sacred and divine?
Is it verb and also noun,
is it knower and the known?
Is it world and solar aspect
all of object and of subject?

Is it the patient and the nurse,
the in and outward universe?
If all we sensed were ever true
would it,in playfulness, be you?

There are a lot of my poems wanting to speak on www.mysticseed.com

Roy Austin
troya@onetel.com

Tucson, AZ

Here are two poems: something old and something new. I hope neither is too awfully blue. The first is really an ode to my parents. They were simple Midwesterners, my father born in West Virginia and my mother in Kentucky. The second is a simple sonnet. It sort of took its own direction as I lay in bed listening to the cars go by on the busy streetcorner where I live. And it is about who I am and how I feel at the present time.

THE THOMAS HART BENTON PRINT

Got in to my folks house
A Friday night, drove down
From Monterey to L.A.
Tarzana, suburb where I grew up

It's July, summer heat
The grapes are filling out on a vine
On a back fence, My Dad's
Garden, though he's eighty-eight

It's night, the first thing
I notice in their living room
Is an old Thomas Hart Benton print
A barn in profile, a man closing a gate

A black and white print
Of the power of the people
Of this land years ago
Dusty farm upheld by stubborn will

Captured in a print
Signed by the artist
Hanging on the wall of this house
Of my parents, American originals

Now in their eighties
Still keeping a half acre place
Garden, lawns, the whole bit . . .
My Dad moves slowly, steadying himself now and then

They have a parakeet I gave to them
Three years ago after their pet rooster died
And ended the sound of morning crowing
In this L.A. suburban cityscape

The parakeet is sick, my Mother says
"He chirped a lot for three days,
And now he's been quiet for two"
This morning he breathed hard, obviously weak

Late in the morning my Mother says
"He's dying." I go look to see
The parakeet is still alert
But inexplicably distressed and weak

I get him out of the cage into my hand
To comfort the little bundle
Of feathers and light
Struggling with the last extremity

The small bird does not struggle
In my hand, but seems comforted,
Then shakes and trembles
The extremity coming to the extreme

The bird shudders violently
And then is still, head drooping
Eyes wide but no motion in the body,
A tiny spark torn loose from matter

I tell my Mother "He's gone"
Showing her the lifeless body in my hand
She smiles a sad knowing smile
Says "He sure was a good bird"

Death has come with its
Punctuation mark
To a small life,
A warbling part of larger lives

My Father walks outside
To get a post hole digger
To dig a grave
I say "Let me do that"

He shows me where he wants it
Near the garden where he grows
A few squash and tomatoes
After eighty-eight years still a farmboy

Like the man in the print
By Thomas Hart Benton
A man of the earth, strong in knowing
That what comes from the earth

Must return to the earth
Knowing with an ancient knowing
Learned in the bones from
A lifetime of working the earth

He was taken from the country
To the city, but the country
Was never taken from the boy
Its wisdom abiding in his years

I dig the grave in the summer's heat
In the shade of the plum tree
He brings the body in a plastic bag
I lay it in the shallow grave
He has a shovel and takes the dirt
From the pile I made
And covers the small feathered corpse
In completion of the cycle of the earth

Walking back to the house
I remark on the abundant
Clusters of small grapes
On the deep green spreading vine

He points to the one vine trunk
And says it was only last year
That the vine began to bear
And now it stretches in abundance

The afternoon is muted and sad
But in the unspoken words
The quiet strength of the earth speaks
Like the dusty farm in the Benton print

TRAFFIC NOISE AND STILLNESS

My plastic cup of wine is red and cold
A measuring cup if truth be told
I sit in bed at night and hear the sounds
Of cars on the busy street my house bounds

Sometimes a silence comes when no cars come
And then I feel stillness like a kingdom
Silence is a virtue seldom had here
Except when 3 AM comes idling near

Tucson Arizona is a small town
And I am only one small crazy clown
A disabled accountant to be true
Seriously mentally ill I rue

Being mad is not such a sad affair
It's more like taking God out on a dare

Chris Lovette
cwlovette@cox.net

THE MORNING OF DECEMBER 31ST
(For Nancy 3/23/46 - 12/31/03)

The last day of the year
the phone rings.
I don't rush
on the way to the hospital,
feel no panic,
having made a similar journey
a few months before.

I enter the ER waiting area,
slip into a chair beside her lover,
offer him my arms
to hold his evident fear.

A nurse comes, says to us
the doctor would like to talk with you
in the quiet room.
I condense the news
I sense is coming
to a manageable pinpoint of light.

The doctor says he is sorry,
they could not bring her back.
I hesitate,
back from where?

A drawn out wail
escapes from my throat.
I forget for a moment
all but my own anguish.

Then we cling to each other,
her companion and I,
in sudden shared sorrow.
A medical explanation is offered,
possible cause and effect.

A chaplain appears
I repress my ancient anger
at the uselessness of faith.
He prays with us,
but I hold my heart
in the only hands I trust.

They say we can see her
if we want,
warn us she has been intubated.
We stand beside her sheet-draped body
to say goodbye.

Her matted hair is pushed back
from her forehead,
her skin a peculiar gray-brown,
lower jaw slack, mouth propped open
by a breathing tube
that holds no breath.

We speak to her as if she hear,
with those closed ears,
touch her shoulder as if she can feel
our warm hands.
His tender dark fingers
caress her cheek.

A nurse gives us the only jewelry
she wore today, a black cord holding
five letters that spell F-L-I-R-T.
Even in death, she invites a smile.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

LIGHT VERSE

Poetry knocks on the door
invites me to play
to catch words
toss them into a delightful order
before evening illumination
pays attention to the dark.

Illia Thompson
Illia99@aol.com

Section E: .................................................................. May 15, 2004

PARIS 4-1-04

lightening spread across the sky
striking back the blue green dark
filling the air with its smell
wrapping time in mortal shreds
pulling life from beneath the sea

PARIS IN THE SPRING

Paris in the spring
stripped to its bones
leafless trees
blooming plums
you can tell the tourist
they clutch hold their purse
staring at the sky
praying that culture
will strike them
whole
bird sounds and pansies
tulips in their beds
some trees blooming
others still leafless
the city of light.

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

US

What then of this
that time would drown,
the holy face of bliss
found fathoms down,
as earth gives up her secrets so
then what does anybody know?
What now of wisdom
life often hides the truth
that flies on wings of myth,
'til we perceieve the evidence
of prehistoric us,
sitting in the lotus!

There are a lot of my poems wanting to speak on www.mysticseed.com

Roy Austin
troya@onetel.com

Golden Lioness
Defender of Ideals
Protects her young pride

Laura Carley
LCarleyCat@aol.com

MODERN FAIRY TALE

I trail bread crumbs
in shapes that call,
small portions of lore offer
scent of self for others to inhale

Occasionally I look back
view travelers tasting
some taking seconds
provisions for endurance.

It matters most
that I leave just a bit
of myself behind
offer that as sustenance.

That way
I do not become
too fat
too proud
nor too lonely.

Illia Thompson Illia99@aol.com

NOTES TO MY SON

The other day, our church philosophy group had an interesting topic, one that dealt with defining yourself. It included a funny quote by Kirk Douglas, who, when picking up a hitchhiker, was amused by the question "do you know who you are?" It led to his realization that "it's a question we all must ask ourselves." And this is true, we all must from time do, as they say in the science fiction shows, a 'complete diagnostic.' Self- awareness, the thing which we assume separates us from other animals, comes with a price-a mind capable of stark assessment of who and what we are, other than very small specks in a very large universe. Each of us answers that question differently, depending on our past, our personality and our developmental life stage. If I were to ask you this question, for example, you would proudly answer "I'm Jason," as if that were enough because the whole and wonderful you was encompassed quite nicely by your name. If I were to ask myself, the first instinct would be to say that I do not have the slightest clue as to who I am. Of course I know what I am, a female physical being taking up space, but who I am is a question that should be at least examined, if I am to claim any sort of honest approach to life. So who am I? The short answer to that—I am a mommy. Taking care of your physical, intellectual, and emotional needs takes up a very large space in my inner landscape and defines a great deal of my private self. But at the same time I am fully aware that one cannot define that self in terms of any role, regardless of how satisfying that role may be. There is more to a person than that more than just the labels Life thrusts in your path. I cannot say 'wife' or even 'teacher' or 'writer' and fully encompass all aspects of my thoughts and my reactions to the world. Much of who I am is here, in these pages, at times coherent, at times blithering and rambling and probably mind numbing; elements which are fairly typical in human beings. I could conceivably list my most salient character traits—inner strength, sporadic bursts of logical thinking, wry sardonic sense of humor, capability to love deeply—and it would just be a laundry list, fairly meaningless in value. There is no way, I think, to explain what the mind's, eye sees when picturing our own selves. There are no words for it, it is simply an image that takes everything about you in, all at once. How do you explain or express that? I have no idea. So, failing to come up with a comprehensive and philosophical response to the question "who am I," I'll turn to the utterly ridiculous and quote Popeye "I yam what I am and that's all that I yam." That in a nutshell, sums it up as well as anything else.

Olga Chandler

UNTITLED

in the forest of my mind grow the trees of my heart.
i'm walking there, beside waterfalls of feeling that
never desire to be explained. i'm walking there,
through the moss of no mystic's trailing glory, over
the boulders of another beginning, another end.
every forest is my longing's deceptve cry.
suddenly my tears have died... my lips, moist and
mute care not but to try once again to capture one
illusionary moment of freedom before the last tree
falls, fleshless in the flickering twilight.

David Dunn
ddunn3@earthlink.net

DEEPER EXPERIENCE

If you want to experience a poem
Be arrested for some misdemeanor
That will be the beginning of it
When you feel the handcuffs behind your back
Feel the cuffs bite until the wrist nerves crimp

If you want a special added attraction
Pepper spray in your eyes will provide it
The paramedics might then come to you
Hosing your eyes while you keep them open
And you get into the patrol car wet

The jailers treat you with amused contempt
Leading you to a cell with barren walls
An eight by eight cell with aÊmetal cot
Metal concrete and brick are yours to keep
Until you know that you are unwanted

Try to sleep near the urinal on the floor
The floor was mopped but on the metal bed
Are urine and what looks like feces stains
Old timers say "Sack time is easy time."
So try to get lots of sleep on the floor

The jailers like to play the TV loud
Especially from one to three AM
It makes the night shift go a bit quicker
And when it's over they leave the jailed scum
{If prisoners aren't scum they wouldn't be there}


You must be arraigned within 24 hours
Taken to court in your cuffs and shackles
The good judge will treat you like a number
Tell you what you will do and threaten you
With more time in jail if you don' t do them

You will not leave until the judge says so
And when the jailers do your paperwork
Which will not take more than six or eight hours
When you will be free to go attend your hurts
And get out of the way of those jailers

If you listened well you will have heard it
The timeless wisdom of the jail cell walls
Some know they are losers and some are taught
Some innocents soundlessly ask "Why this?"
But the human spirit speaks from those bleak walls

Chris Lovette
cwlovette@cox.net

Section D: .................................................................. April 15, 2004

DID NO ONE HEAR!

Listening to that little thrush
singing in the midnight hush,
beyond the spire, above the yew
as if the stars were listening, too,
so crystal clear, beyond the word—
a cosmos in that little bird;
remote to count the miles in years
but then, they do through us, have ears,
in silence, with the earth asleep;
a miracle beyond the veil
did no one hear the nightingale!

SUN. DAY. NIGHT.

Mourning dove is in the wood,
rainbow through my observations,
sun sets on the mountain top
giving back the constellations,
nightjar mimics in the air
round an empty house of prayer;
wonder fills my awe-struck mind
high above the sleeping land,
stars are written out tonight
by another author's hand.

There are a lot of my poems wanting to speak on www.mysticseed.com

Roy Austin
troya@onetel.com

Tiny rosebuds bloom
In chilly rains of Winter
With the breath of grace.

Laura Carley
LCarleyCat@aol.com

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

TIME TO THANK FOR THE ROSES
(a reminder for all who have forgotten...)

I love life like roses,
full beauty blossoming
an infatuous fragrance
leads even blind eyes.

Already I had known
these lovely promises
during childhood's sheltered happiness
touching treasures from above
parents' arms held me with love.

Then starting on my own
life so huge and I not grown
having forgotten how to love
everything seemed strange and tough.
I was mean and hopeless
between hurting green bushes
filled with hate and despair
ignorant, fighting,
thought it were
scratchy thorns, biting,
whilst there
higher up the wonder was waiting.

Patience and love made me grow
and out of a sudden
happiness did show
again,
so now I dare
with all open hearts share
a poem.
I embrace life and you friendly,
even the unhappy enemy,
thank God, parents, lovers, family,
and sing of life's beauty
gratefully.

Hiltrud Mueller
mmhiue@t-online.de

Carol Mathew-Rogers
Mathewrogers@lanset.com

When I was a young medical student in the early 1970's I thought that by the year 2000 serious diseases like cancer and heart disease would be things of the past. My faith in science bordered on the religious. Like others in my school, I also thought the primary mission of physicians was to sustain and prolong life. What I did not begin to see until later was the part about sustaining life at all costs. It seemed somehow comforting to focus on the ills of the body and the many ways of addressing them. The ills of the mind and emotions were far too hidden, too complex, and often too scary to be faced openly.

After my father, an old fashioned GP who made house calls, died of cancer I felt like my souls had shattered. My confidence in my medical training was shaken to it's roots. His suffering from radiation and chemotherapy, his facial mutilation and loss of speech from repeated surgeries, and his depresion and mental confusion broke my heart. A terrible anger welled up inside me, as if I had been violated and betrayed. Medicine would never feel the same to me again.

Other relatives died of cancer. I watched them suffer with numbed emotion because my expectations had been rudely lowered by my father's ordeal. Science was no longer my religion, and out of that change, a great longing was born in me. Where was I going to put my faith? In what was I going to believe? I tried to settle for the small victories medicine could provide, but the deep longing in my heart grew over time.

Medicine kept me busy. There were always new treatments, procedures, and studies. I tried to stay focused on the tasks of the practice. Yet gradually I began to question the need to prolong life at all costs and realized how terrified most people are of dying. I certainly was.

Despite my activities I also began to notice an exceptional person every now and then. There were attitudes and emotional qualities in these people that grabbed my attention like no medical book or lecture ever had. I tried to sense what made these people stand out, and I came up with words like courage, peace, strength. Yet that was not all.

I began to notice that some people accept death calmly because they live life fully and believe that life does not end. These were not necessarily religious people who had visions of a heaven in the hereafter as a reward for having been good on earth. These people seemed to have an immunity to the directives of society about what not to eat, what pills to take, how much money to make, what to buy, where to live, how to look, and how to live. My guess was that they listened to some inner directions that had nothing to do with my prescriptions, warnings or advice. Though at first my ego was hurt, I loved it!! I watched some die peacefully without pills, shots, or tubing of any sort, because they demanded that right.

I watched some live with joy though they were not the richest, the slimmest, the prettiest or the most educated. It opened my own heart to see that ordinary people could be happy simply because their lungs were breathing, their hearts were beating and they felt intensely alive. My warnings and prescriptions made no sense to some because, after all, what did they really have to do with living in the richness of love.

Technology and science have made strides over time. Medicine has some great successes that allow longer and more productive lives for many people. If our technology and our science can be used lovingly and respectfully, I believe a new era of health will dawn on planet earth. The good news is that this is possible, and that there are people who can help us understand love more deeply. They are here living life eternal right now.

Jemille Hardy
jemille@medscape.com

Section C: .................................................................. March 15, 2004

LOVE OF THE FORGOTTEN

The heaven I see
is that look in your eyes,
you never quite hear
or listen to lies,

and never quite you
there, that stands at the sink,
and never me, but
one soul at the brink;

one soul forgotten
and one soul that is wise—
beyond conception,
beyond our demise.

There are a lot of my poems wanting to speak on www.mysticseed.com

Roy Austin
troya@onetel.com

UNTITLED

I have come to this place without a map or a compass. It feels like potency vibrating life. These cells of mine know their purpose and function. They know more than this mind comprehends. If it is true that all reality is occurring in now time, a part of me is already home, and sends me glimpses of a future greatly to be desired.

Divine order guides the stars across the night sky. The moon sheds beauty in every phase in her sequential passages. By day, sunlight dances in delightful flashes, and I am entranced. Nature embraces like a magical grandmother, adorned in crimson, gold, greens, lavenders and blues. I adore her lush scents, her coolness after a sudden shower.

Who I am is almost beside the point. What do I know after all? I am a part of life, and depend upon the generosity of others, and of Mother Nature. All of it serenades my soul. As long as I can, I hope to live fully, love passionately, and remain conscious of what I want to be and do. Within me is a divine spark that glows brighter as I share myself in my own way. I want to participate fully because I love life. It never stops teaching me.

Shirley Tofte

Section B: .................................................................. February 15, 2004

Del Rey Oaks

BEGAN THE SUN

now setting
began the sun
holding for all
to see
ancient ways
across the silver bay
rainbow fog
beneath the sun
light filling sky
mystery hidden
covered to begin
pearl place
in soul
the legend says
we cannot cross
the golden grass
where the samurai warrior
arose
sword in hand
arrows poised
to draw the bow
praise the Buddha
lilac purple glow
the chrysanthemum
raising with the sun

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

GLIMPSE

Time, drips like that stripped maple
onto a timeless pool,
my mind, beneath the surface
tension, feels the break,
that ripple to infinity;
but then, clarity as before
would too soon restore,
my common sense in winter thaw.

LIGHT IS LOVE AND LOVE IS LIFE

Stars seem captive tonight, out there,
held by their own gravity,
and so am I in thinking
space would mirror the freedom
of my inward gaze;
my life is light, the light
that fills the external void
while within,—that feeling of space,
the loving space we make
where others live and move
is light as freedom, expressed as love
thus love is also life as well as light.
The face of youthful beings
seeming green and vain,
knows not the inside beauty
that hides their timeless age,
where an old man from time
hides his ageless youth.

There are a lot of my poems wanting to speak on www.mysticseed.com

Roy Austin
troya@onetel.com

BUT WHEN I REMEMBER

Sometimes I forget my connections
To the whole world and everyone.
Sometimes I listen too much
To the chatter in my head and forget
The peace of silence.

And sometimes I forget to breathe deep
And realize that there is so much to love.
There are bird choruses at dawn every morning.
Full sunshine pours forth living energy
Into all that lives on this beautiful earth.

And beauty abounds
Even when my eyes are unseeing.
Pure love surrounds me
Even when I am upset.
Waves wash clean the sand on Carmel beach,
Even when I'm in my little house.

But oh, when I remember,
I can hardly keep my heart within me!
It wants to fly free and dance around the moon,
Sing out loud among the stars,
Break into colors to form a rainbow
Over all the earth.

Shirley Tofte

Section A: .................................................................. January 15, 2004

Del Rey Oaks

GOLDEN MOUNTAIN

I approach the golden mountain
kneeling by the silver river
washed and pure
praying in the sacred circle
absolved and clear
I approach the golden mountain

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

AMONG MARMOTS II

Unblinking black eyes look on,
Inspect the visitor at rest.
He glances at the old pine
With freshly amputated limps
And flogged by the winter storms
Calling this implacable,
This billowing cumulus cloud
Luminous and towering—indifferent
The granite rock, hot and sparkling
Home of an oasis of moss—distant.
What cold core creates such images
Isolated, disconnected?
A core implacably indifferent.

At this lofty top at the end of the trail
A proud prayer was offered
At an alien altar
Ignoring this path into light
Is also the path into darkness.
Only the mind knew
The path up is the path down
The path out is the path in.
This the heart could not under stand
Because a cold mind refused to stand under.
The unblinking gaze dislodges a new prayer
Shantih—this pine, this cloud, this rock.
OM Mani Marmot Too.

Franz Spickhoff
franz@znet.com

MISSING

All the silver winter driftwood
has been burned
or hauled home
to become sinuate effigies
in coastal gardens.


Seashore. . .
summer
high fog subdues
colors to muted hues.

Even waves
are docile,
sliding up
and retreating effortlessly,
as if some slender hand
were swaying slowly
through the kelp
far out to sea.

All the passionate turbulence
of storms merely
a dim echo,
no more retrievable
at this moment
than the intoxication of spring,
vital obsessions
of desire,
or the vivid image
of someone long ago lost.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

GIFTS TO GATHER

This is a time to be aware of gifts
That hide in tiny swelling seeds
That lie buried in black earth,
Living sweetness singing tunes
Heard in the quietest moments.

A time to ask for miracles,
To whisper heartfelt thanks
When these arrive while the asking
Lingers fresh in my mind.

A time to gather sunshine
Within the last of autumn's tomatoes
Ripening on kitchen window sill
Time to watch their orange turn to red.

A worm peeked out of the soil and waved
As I planted elephant garlic today.
It has plenty to do, the little plowboy!
This is a time to be grateful for
My garden and my life.

A time to allow my soul's whispers
To be heard, to ask for and receive
Fresh energy that dances and sings
Time to watch the glowing sun in a pink shawl
Kiss the world goodnight.

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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