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Section F: .................................................................. June 15, 2005

Berkeley, CA

TASSAJARA POSTCARD

Early, through fireweed, to the Horse Pasture
and, a pair of acorn woodpeckers, noisy,
a slide of mimula, orange, pale, apricot
down the Cutoff, the rocks, white torch
of yucca in bloom, water falling down granite,
traverse and a zigzag to the Narrows,
a bath of cold water,
upstream, the hills alive,
first sun, a log and across,
stones, jump, cross back, a path
a bridge, a view, nineteen shades
of green, more- burst of poppies,
petals falling orange on rock;
this way, footfalls, this morning—

Larry Ruth
ergo@nature.berkeley.edu

ALONG THE SANDY SHORE

Along this sandy shore
below the fort
children play
upon the sand
beneath war
and violence.

Chasing gulls
into the air
as the waves
take their foot prints
and the water
reflects a new born sky
with clouds sailing
toward the sunset
of orange and purple
along the sandy shore.

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

I WANT TO GROW WINGS

I have lost the beauty of life
today and two butterflies appear
before me. So large are their wings
that the bodies of the butterflies
appear invisible to my sight.

I observe the mating ritual
of these two graceful creatures.
They, unlike myself, are not concerned
with the length of time they are given
upon this earth. Not concerned with
winter and what it may bring.

They appear as birds today—freed
from the cocoon that brought them
into existence. As I watch the yellow
wings of their elegant dance I am
reminded of the courageous caterpillar
that gave them their birth.

The caterpillar becomes my hero.

I imagine its journey. I feel the tiny legs
of this earthbound creature as it crawls
slowly up the trunk of a tree searching
for a branch to support its dying. I feel
the shroud it weaves in this process.
I witness the baptism of its tears as
deep sleep overtakes it. No matter
what the outcome the caterpillar
knows it already has wings.

I want to reroute my life today—I want
to grow wings. And in my transformation
I want to remember the courageous
caterpillar that gave to me these wings.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

THE DARK ANGEL

She whispers as I dream
Knowing that in daytime
There is no reaching me.
I've tuned her out with busyness.
In dreams she reminds me that
Locked and sealed chambers,
Unhealthful places
Which I have disowned or denied
Remain to be dealt with,
Like it or not.

Illusions, secrets
Blackness unseen and unshared
Remain under pressure.
Release or suffer more.
Pockets of self judgment continue to torment
The child who huddles deep within the closet
Wrapped in shame.

She, the Dark Angel sees me
There in all my woe and bids me go
Within, take hold of my own hand
Acknowledge darkness, losses,
Stubborn resistance,
Opportunities foregone
Because of fear.

Take courage now,
For life extends
Beyond all understanding.
Embrace each awkward fall from grace
And know that Grace continues
Through the dark night
Through all the tears...
The Dark Angel guides me
Toward a light
Then, disappears.

Shirley Tofte

HARD FEELINGS

All along a lush meadow
redundant rainstorms convert trails
into streams and pools,
an obstacle course reflection
of real life's recurring tempests.

Water seeps through leather shoes,
soaks thin socks,
everyday defenses no protection
from bogs and quagmires.

Scraps of hard feelings
surface
like infected wood splinters
left to fester.
Fragments of discontent
ferment and multiply.
Bitter seeds germinate
beneath verdant facades.

I seethe, scratch
what irritates, extract
toxic revenge from derelict
love affairs,
retreat to burlesque memories
to neutralize spite.

I walk woodland paths,
attempt to evade the next cloudburst,
wait for light shed through thunderheads,
forecasts of returning rapture.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

Our Lady in her Grace of Service

THE VEIL

You covered my crippled hand with a smile
before they could ask
a break
the heart's sorrows end
where a daisy sparkles in sunlight

Hiltrud Mueller
hillmuell@t-online.de

Section E: .................................................................. May 15, 2005

Colorado Springs, CO

Happy Spring time!! I send to you my offering for the month of May. Thanks to Hilly Mueller and her poem, "Truth", Nov. 15th LBOL, which inspired me to look at my own onion again. Thanks Hilly.

NEW EYES

Nothing is ever lost
it has simply been misplaced,

So—I pack up
my memory bag again.
This time leaving behind
the heavy burden of regret,
the senseless word of failure.

I travel light this time.

Not looking
for what could have been
or might have been, but
the total wonder of it all.

I return again
to the onion field
peeling away
the many layers
of my life. Reminding
myself that the core
is indeed the sum
total of its parts and,
who knows, maybe
what was so carelessly
discarded years ago
may have born fruit
in this collective garden.

I have learned that
truth is forever
changing as
I change and
even a lie holds
a grain of truth
waiting for my discovery.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

LINGERING

late afternoon into evening
near a Zen garden whirlpool
circles in the sand
two rocks at the center
three stones beside
four mussel shells
at the outer edge of a spiral
nothing not in arms reach

a kelp pod
with unruly strands of hair
stands watch
over a refuge of shore, sky,
time, tide, seabirds
grains of sand shift

slowly, a half moon
rights its white bowl
in the blue canopy
on its westward arc

the sun descends
gradually towards
the edge of the sea

lacey pools of foam
encircle a limestone boulder,
glide in and out
over gleaming wet pebbles


lower and lower
the sun subsides,
casting light through the stony armor
of black damp rocks

muted melodies
implicated in breaking waves
bathe in fading day

APPETITE

In the early morning hours
I read
let delectable words
fill my mouth
enter my blood
stream and pulse
through my brain
until
their taste and tempo
and sting
become cellular flesh
muscle and marrow
so much chapter and paragraph
of my body
that vocabulary rises
to my fingertips
grows like new soft hair
on my arms
all devouring of syllable
and wit
lingering somewhere
in the folds and bones

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

UNTITLED

You must have paper at hand, and paint and pens and notebooks. Your blood demands it, so that it can flow unobstructed, take nourishment to every cell—redden the pale—stir the stagnant—awaken the sleeping. No need to know why this is more worthy than breath itself. After all, breath lives within, fine-tuned in a constant rhythm, accompanying in steady beat aware of heart's rhythm.

But, this more sacred music, the slide of paint on paper, the scratch of pens on lines of notebook, this absence of silence, owns voices as many as the stars, wants to be heard in the deep of night and the welcome of the day.

Blood knows its route, delivers as trustworthy as the mailman, the expected. Breath takes hold its flow of ion and out in predetermined regularity.

The words and art begin quite normally, then alchemy as they dance on paper, pay no attention to assigned choreography, decide to perform in the motion of the moment, leave legacy to keep dread away, to allow darkness its place, not as a place of drowning, but a place to sort, to struggle, to sustain until, until light and lightness of being brings solace, boldness, humor and acrid misery into play. An honest beginning again.

And it continues. How many times does pen meet paper, a handshake that often tells a fortune, points with a finger, a new direction? Old lore becomes mulch along the path. Wooden signs that seemed set in concrete, disintegrate words, become sawdust, before new words grow. A plateau, a mesa, on which to stand and wait.

And the paint waits, already knows with whom it will partner, even marry for the moment. Yellows and greens enhance each other, but they do not dream their wedding whites. Those virgin shades shyly touch. Softness welcomes gentleness, as bold reds restlessly await passion's promise. Then within the frame, reminders repeat this lesson: Do not forget my power.

It matters not so much that my words create morning. More dear, that morning arrives and I choose to step into it, drape my naked body with its offering, trust I will be well clad.

And, naked, I find my hands holding each other in thankfulness, a rush, a blossoming blush, that knows no age, places its kiss upon my check and I know I am loved.

Illia Thompson
Illia99@aol.com

Section D: .................................................................. April 15, 2005

San Jose, CA

COMUNIONS
(Continued)

         IV

The parking lot is almost deserted
In the hard glare of the July sun.
Two dirt devils swirl next to the garbage can,
Kicking up dust, scraps of paper, cigarette butts.
Two separate cars are waiting for them.
It is time to part.

She extracts the glasses from his shirt pocket
Before she settles into his arms,
Her head resting near his heart.
Yes, her breath and his breath are becoming one.
Yes, her heartbeat and his heartbeat are becoming one.
For a long moment they are fused in silence.
In their own space they are lost to this place.

Long after she left
He still feels her touch
Imprinted quite deep in his body.
His mind is at peace.
His soul is at ease.
He takes a deep breath and he wonders.

Franz Spickhoff
franz@sj.znet.com

THE WILD HORSE

Will this conversation
never end—this constant
need to prove myself.

I am weary of turning
from my own
image in the mirror.

Weary—of the smile
painted upon my face to
protect myself from sharp
words and cruel humor.

This desire
for acceptance
does not come cheaply.

I fall again
into the hallways
of this endless journey

Searching for my innocence.

Longing—
to find the wild horse
I used to be—freed from the
trainer's hand that sought
to break my spirit so that
I might fit into this life.

Now, that I fit in...
I still do not belong. I still miss
the Wild Horse I used to be.

POLAND

The field worker
bends his back
in reverence
as he offers
his prayers
with a hoe.

He looks not
to the heavens
for Mother, but
into the soil below.
And the seeds
he plants in
her belly fall
from a
loving hand.

There
is a secret
in this land
called Poland
that only the brave
may know and
a light so bright
it will blind you
in this place
where roses grow.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

THE SONG RUSTLING IN THE CHEST

Sometimes so faint
I can barely hear its dry sigh,
a muffled melody
mumbling under the rasp
of my breath.

Other times so loud
it scares me,
a thrashing of passion
within the crescendo
of a temporary storm.

I listen attentively
for themes,
attuned to tempo,
sweet harmony
in blood and bones,
as if the ribs were a trellis,
conservatory for capillaries
webbing the skirling bagpipes
of my lungs,

no note not part of
past and future,
nothing unsung from
the constant concerto
of my life.

BRAISING HELL

I'm in the mood to fricassee some mischief,
ready to, defrost the icing
of decorum from my disguise.

I want to scrap the marrow of good taste,
chop a few old taboos,
strive for complete meltdown.
The ham in me is feeling devilish.

Allow me to get a bit toasted,
sift some, spice into nice,
have dessert first,
order chocolate creme brulee.
I love the way saying it
rolls off the tongue.

I'm all for jumping
out of the frying pan
into a new stew,
tossing all the minced words
onto the goody-two-cakes griddle.

I'm ready to make hash
out of established etiquette,
put some sizzle
in the crockpot of bland habits.

I'll be the sweet and sour
on your menu,
flambe' your crepe suzettes,
before we totally chill out.

Hey, good lookin'
how's about cooking something up
with me!

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

AFTER THE STORM

After rainy nights
I gather earthworms
long low-lying inches of life
marooned on cold patio tiles
or damp backyard cement.

Gently, I place these creatures
on top of soft garden soil
watch a revival of spirit
as they enter the familiar.

These fat primordial beings
with no hint of face or feature
plump pink lengths, seem to come
from the sky on the slide of rain.

Limpid lethargy transformed
into mighty motion when carried
through space that must seem
like sky to them, during our
brief connection.

Suddenly aware, I smile.
When saving others, I save myself.

Illia Thompson
Illia99@aol.com

I sit in the woods, hear the rippling creek and singing birds—and see a lone white, small flower before me. Perfect in its singularity. There is evidence around me of a lush spring. Flowering bushes, dense greenery, water in previously dry beds. I happily saw many Douglas Iris along my way here, always a symbol of my father's death. I sit in the woods, marveling at the cycles of birth and death in my life and in nature.

First came the explosive entrance of my first grandchild—a boy named Shayah, meaning gift of God. I was witness to this miracle and the first month of his life. I held him often, feeling the dignity of his being, the fullness of his soul.

Then, I was fortunate to be in Death Valley, now more aptly named Blossoming Valley. It is an artist's palette of colors—colorful flowers set against the backdrop of huge rocks, vast scenes of life emerging and fading.

Upon my return, I learned that Shanja had died a few days prior. I struggle to peacefully place her in this vision of life and death. For I feel her loss immensely, knowing she had so much more to teach us, and to enjoy. And yet, I know she would have me do just that—she taught me acceptance and love, of myself and others, of the world with all its gifts. She spoke in her last message of impermanence. Life is short, pain is short. And all is good. Nothing to fear. Everything to appreciate.

And so I close with gratitude. For having known Shanja. For the birth of Shayah. For all the miracles and the mystery of life and of death.

SHANJA—SHAYAH

The beginning and the ending are the same. For them and for us. Only the middle differs. It is up to us and our angels. May we make the most of it!

Marilyn Beck
outbeck@juno.com

Section C: .................................................................. March 15, 2005

Tucson, AZ

I received a piece of junk mail with a promotional check for $2.50 that if I cashed it would automatically enroll me in the profit-making schemes of some company or other. I was a bit disappointed in the value placed on my compliance and destroyed the "check."

Somehow or other this led to the first poem that follows, "Junk Mail." Since an artist, like everyone, craves acceptance, encouragement, and love, does it not follow that art is an attempt to gain these things? However, for the artist, is there also an attempt through one's art to share that which points to something even greater than the artist's abilities and needs? And is this, perhaps, a yearning the artist in fact shares with everyone else also?

The second poem following, "The Leper Colony" revisits the theme of belonging.

Whether either of these poems achieves any of these goals, or whether the above stated goals of the artist hold any validity, this I cannot speak to with any authority.

Here are the poems:

JUNK MAIL

It said "Check Enclosed—
Do not discard"

So I opened it.

There it was:
A check for two million dollars.

Since anything too good to be true
Usually is
I examined it more closely.

The fine print read:
"Endorsing this check
enrolls you in the Damned Souls club"

While running that check
Through my paper shredder (government standard shred)
I remembered what the great Marx had said:
"I don't want to belong to any club
Whose standards are so low
They would have me for a member."

THE LEPER COLONY

It's the kind of place
That, if you're a member,
But do not live there,
Speaking about it to others who are not members
Is the kind of thing
You wonder about forthrightly disclosing
For fear of possible social repercussions

It's the continual nagging gripe
Of whether or not
You have equal intrinsic worth
In comparison to other human beings

It's the continual shrinkage
Of your world
Down to where it is so small
Only the mind's eye can see it.

Chris Lovette
cwlovette@cox.net

WHAT IN THE WORLD IS PERFECT

A silk rose has no fragrance,
no fleshy petals,
and a real bloom is always
half-way towards its own death.

I can't pin a perfect cloud
to the blue cotton sky
without acknowledging
the least breeze.

The imperfection of a moment
appears to tell a different story
each time.
If I expect perfection
I will be disappointed again.

I pursue beauty
in simple things,
fluid lines in wood grain,
the way the sea recedes
drawing its liquid sheet
across the sand,
a single crimson leaf
among a litter of yellow.

Before I water the pots
on the deck, I wait
for honeybees to feast
at the tiny blue galaxies
on rosemary branches.

What I want in my life
is
to be willing
to discover what is nearby,
to meet a day
without anticipating
it will be difficult,
willing to move through grief.

I don't ask to be dazzled,
only to be grateful
for nominal offerings.

My old dreams dissolve
like mist on the river of time.
I am learning
to float
allowing the current
to release me,
to encounter the flow.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

SILENCE

The house that once held
a family of five
now holds me alone.

Decades, my favorite
bundles of years, pile up
become steps I climb
to view more clearly.

When silence warms
it murmurs memories
of fullness, hints
at future possibilities.

When silence chills
ice-cold reminiscences
of loss, steel wind chimes
toll and tell foreboding.

When silence threatens
to freeze, I thaw the air
with other's music, words
of my gathering, and cooking.

Sounds and scents and sights
in motion as flavors blend
into heat that brings
fire without flame.

Spring brings its season
that knows no snow.

I hear geese honking their journey.
I listen for mine.

Illia Thompson
Illia99@aol.com

Section B: .................................................................. February 16, 2005

Berkeley, CA

REFLECTION IN SEARCH OF A RECITAL

Trite, trivial at best, when a thing you've known
turns to illusion, optics of the eye resettle
and resolve different dimensions, new ways
of regarding the familiar, a chestnut tree
in Autumn yellow, red, orange, ablaze—
the shock percusses the heart, torches
archaeologies of memory, a fiddle lifting,
bending notes, a song drawing you deep
in tune with fire and time, the slow shift
of her shoulders, the face turning, eyes
changing, shining grey, blue, silver, emerald,
mixing humor, affection, and something else—

the smallest question, like the curl of waves off Limatour
how much I'd missed, being there, not seeing this before.

Larry Ruth
ergo@nature.berkeley.edu

DRAWING IS ALL THERE IS

drawing is all there is
take a pencil
a big paper
draw your name
as big as you can

you have drawn a most complex image
completely abstract
but full of meaning

now on another sheet
draw a line around the edge
a square box
to bind the limits
of what you have done
or will do

now on yet another
put the paper vertical
not on the horizontal
and draw another edge
when that is done
make a line at 3/4

it doesn't matter
if it is from the top
or from the button

you are making a world
and have divided the land from the sky
separated the ocean
from the air

drawing is all there is

now if you never stop
for 100 years
you will be known as artist
but do it everyday
on books and pages
big and small

do not worry of what to draw
its right in front of you

just remember it is everyday
drawing is all there is

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

MY TIGER EYE

I chose a smooth tiger eye stone
brown on top and bottom,
vibrant tans in between
shaped like a tiny bread loaf that was
pushed on while it was baking.
My rock leans slightly askew.
I ask you,
Rock. what happened to you
to cause your layered look?
Were you tumbled in a brook?
How you shimmer and you shine!
You are lovely, and you're mine.

Says my rock, "I am layered, it is so
from events so long ago
under pressure, heat and light,
I was spewed from mountain height
into water swift and bright,
traveled miles while water flowed.
Someone found me on a road,
took me home inside his shirt,
clean and smooth and free of dirt.

I'm aware I glow inside.
It's my lightness and my pride,
a gift from Mother Earth
who gives all things their worth.
Yes, I'll gladly stay with you,
for you've warmed me through and through."

Shirley Tofte

SOLSTICE 2004
THE LONGEST NIGHT

No hint of dawn in the east yet,
the countless hours of winter darkness
not ready to relinquish their possession
of my mind.

I wander in temples of unrelenting night,
corridors without exits,
wonder what if
daylight never comes.

I have been in the maze
of midnight before,
certain the clock stopped,
leaving me stranded
among a multitude of longings
intermingled with grim memories.

There is nothing to do
but suffer the sluggish minutes
one by one.

This is the portion of life
for which there is no chicken soup,
no platitude, no denouement.

This is where I find my demons
and split their skulls with patience.

The light returns.
Even after the longest night,
the many winter penumbras,
I have to believe day will spill out
at the horizon.

I've seen it thousands of times,
the faint hint of blue bordering
the black pastures of the sky,
the torch of the sun coming slowly
from its journey on the other side of earth
to wash away remnants
of graveyard shadows.

I am waiting.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

Section A: .................................................................. January 15, 2005

Colorado Springs, CO

Well, here I am again offering the ongoing conversation I am having, not only with myself, but the Universe.

THINK ON THIS

When
did you begin
to believe you had
nothing of value to say.

What
unsolicited
advice wounded you
and set you on a path
not to prove them wrong,

But to prove them right.

How many
opportunities
have you missed for
meaningful conversation
simply because you feared
to be criticized again.

The critic is not
half as dangerous as
this self-imposed prophecy
that was created the day
someone delivered to you
their negative opinion
and convinced you
to believe it.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

EMBRACED

Under starlight and moon,
We embrace once again.
I rest in the hollow of your arm
Listen to your heart.
We scan the sky
For falling stars.
You've seen far more,
Yet still I'm feeling blessed
To share this coolness,
Breathe this scented air,
Listen to a lovelorn
Cricket's serenade.
I feet the full moon's
Motherly embrace of love,
Echoing our own.

A BEAUTIFUL PATTERN

There is a story told in earth and sky,
Dark veined leaf and fragile blossom,
Water rushing white and rippled
Over rocky streambeds
Wind blown over myriad grains of sand,
A pattern of waves undulating
In the rhythmic breath of Mother Earth

The pulse of heartbeats
Secret streams in veins
Deep surges of life blood
Water ever coursing, vibrant,
Changing form as it rises
To clouds floating gently
As morning dew
Misting tiny spider webs
That glow in sunlight's dawn.

How can these beauties pass unheeded?
What storyteller sees the patterns?
Who will sing for this blue-green earth,
Love it into story, dance it,
Proclaim each leaf and twig?

A playful blue jay eats pine nuts
From my porch rail,
Perches on my husband's knee.
Cricket song lulls me into sleep.
A ruby-throated hummingbird
Savors nectar from orange nasturtiums,
Its wings humming me awake
So near our bed on the deck.

Am 1 now called to speak for them?
How else can it be told?
For who has seen what I have seen
This day and in this life?
If I be silent, each sweet image
I behold will fade away.
This moment now, how rich, yet fleeting.
I will write of it if nature will but lead the way.

Shirley Tofte

THE TASTE OF US

"Does the air we vanish into taste of us..."
Rainier Maria Rilke

She often seems close by
even though she's been absent now
for many months,
her death a swift severance
from the roster of the living,
no chance for terminal farewells.

On the back page of a journal
I find the score of a game we played,
under her name more points than mine.
I have forgotten
what diversion we shared,
but not her fondness for winning.

I avoid the grocery store
on Friday afternoons,
our customary trip for the last ten years,
find the aisles of food she navigated
in the handicapped cart forbidding.

At the library
I grasp the handles of a wheelchair,
assist a retired Kindergarten teacher
over the threshold,
recall, myself bowed,
pushing my sister's chair
up a steep path.

I fold a small lavender quilt,
wind the unicorn music box,
touch these gifts she gave me,
believe I hear her say
"break a rule."

IN MEMORY OF THE DEAD

The sacred place where beauty is kept alive in memory of the dead.
May Sarton—Plant Dreaming Deep

Not existing,
but flourishing,
creating,
astonished by the soft colors
of the sky at dawn
or a spider's pattern of filaments
woven across the space under the porch—
this I do in memory of the dead.

I am their place in the world now,
my remembrance of them
what remains of their time,

I restore their laughter,
delicate strands of hair,
bright eyes,
when I stir up the past
to season the present.
My laughter is their song
sustained and celebrated,
a reliquary for their brief
but shimmering lives.

I persist, determined to experience
whatever joys
they were denied by death.
I like to think
they would have done
the same for me,
had I left them suddenly
some years before.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

THINKING

Of Course!
It points to common sense—
the brain is a reproduction of it's source
seen in the myriad perfections of nature!
It, not the least of these to arrive
growing like a child to it's limits,
learning how it arises
but not why or by whom or what!
It does not occur that the universe
studies itself through it!
But at it's best, unknowing
from knowing how it is wrought,
learning the joy that comes from repose,
not asking the ineffable question
but feeling the peace that lets it rest
and that certainty that comes
with freedom from thinking!

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

Roy Austin
troya@onetel.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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