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Section F: .................................................................. December 15, 2005

Colorado Springs, CO

FUSION

I want to remember
       your name.
I want to remember
       how the two of us
became the one and
the one
       became the one
       became the one
       became the one
as we merged together willing
to risk it all...
       All the fear,
       All the doubt,
       All the frustration
that our separation brings.

And then—
       not knowing or caring
what the sacrifice might be—
the two of us
       became the one
       became the one
       became the one
and the one floated uninterrupted
through the mystery of eternity.

I want to remember your name.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

DILEMMA

Should I change the linen
only used two nights?
Prepare for sterile sleeping
as his brother comes in sight?

Are these two sons of mine
from the same womb
desirous of serial sharing
of the bedding in this room?

A setting set aside
for the welcome guest
Clean towels and empty hangers
Bright mirrors reflect the best.

No others would I expect
To share successive sheeting
but why waste water and labor
for siblings that are fleeting?

Illia Thompson
Illia99@aol.com

DAY NOTES
(8/11/05)

when age had settled
around my shoulders
and upon my face
bringing the resting
of mind and spirit
adding the gental glow
to each day
I do not miss
those passions
that drove
the frenzy

but now relish
the quiet
easy contemplation
of winter days
by the fire
bread in the oven
poetry and reading
a cup of tea
and the eternal symphony...

IN THE POND
(From the Black book dated 10/12/05

In the pond
there is a single lotus
in the lotus
is a single dew drop
in the dew drop
are a thousand Buddha's
each Buddha holds a single lotus
each lotus has a single dew drop
each dew drop holds a thousand Buddha's
and each Buddha holds
a single lotus
in larger and larger circles

the circle begins to spin
larger and larger
while around its edges
begins the dance
Buddha and Shiva
The Great Spirit and Zeus
Athena and Mohammed
Zoraster and The One God
all who wonder
circling forever
in a thousand circles
creating a pond

In the pond...

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

There were four of us at work who went out to dinner once every six weeks forever and ever. One of us four contracted cancer 3 years ago and has been battling outbreaks throughout her system. She finally left work 6 weeks ago and is not seeing anyone. But myself and one of the other four is going to knock on her door next Monday with a bright-colored throw and this poem to express our feelings. My friend may or may not answer to our knock... We feel so sad and don't know what else to do.

ACROSS THE ETHER

If we could
       recall shared laughter,
       smile at our mistakes,
       and hug you close,
we would do so.

If we could
       sit beside you,
       hold your hand,
       and give you strength,
we would do so.

If we could
       send the sun's warmth,
       embrace your soul,
       and encourage you,
we would do so.

If we could
       keep you cozy,
       give you comfort,
       and wrap our love around you,
we would do so.

CALIFORNIA WINTER

The sun drifts low across a pale blue sky
The crisp, cool days display creamy trunks and limbs
       on bare trees up high.
My breath appears frosty as it dashes out across silvery air
       while I climb the Piedmont hills,
Walking past lawns that glimmer dark emerald,
       all covered in dew drops so still.
These quiet morning walks awash with golden rays
       falling softly across walkways; I halt
At school grounds where kids are bundled in crimson parkas and
       voices rebound from cold-blackened asphalt.
Basketballs bounce in high school gymnasiums
       and at outdoor hoops,
While purple twilight seeps in early and lays longer
       across front stoops.
People hurry their dogs for a quick turn around a quiet neighborhood;
       as the sky darkens to charcoal,
       all wander inside for a heated meal so good.
Lights twinkle from houses warmed by crackling fires
       as smoke drifts from chimneys.
Schoolbooks are opened, TVs are turned on,
       favorite programs to see.
Finally all snuggle under down comforters
       as rain splatters softly on rooftops
For this colorful California winter
       where Mother Nature pulls out no stops.

Pam Quesnoy
quesnoy@sbcglobal.net

TABLES

My mother always set the table for breakfast the night before. "I'm better in the evening," she told questioning houseguests. The family came downstairs to a hot breakfast every day. There was a fresh cheery tablecloth weekly and cloth napkins. On the day of my wedding, I sat at that table with my father, eating oatmeal and reading the funnies.

Years later, I finally understand the part about being better in the evening, as I lay out my clothes and "To Do" list for the next day—the night before. If I wait until morning, I'm sure to forget something.

As my mother grew older her health deteriorated. There were two heart surgeries and three hip replacements. When she came home after the surgeries, a hospital bed was set up for her in the den. We brought her meals in on a tray, and often my father sat with her and ate at a TV table. When she recovered, she only climbed up and down the stairs to her bedroom once a day. She set herself up a breakfast tray in the evening, and every morning my father made her breakfast and carried it up the stairs. She ate at her desk. He had already eaten breakfast by himself earlier.

Once when I was visiting, I happened to walk by their open bedroom door. I saw my father putting my mother's stockings on for her. She saw me, laughed, and said my father was "rough." That was the first time I realized my father was helping my mother to get dressed. In that instant, I knew my own husband would never be willing to do that for me.

Now my father is the only one living in the house. He still eats breakfast every day in the cozy breakfast room, while he reads the paper. It is always the same: oatmeal, toast, an orange, a glass of milk. "Breakfast is the most important meal of the day," he says. At his place is a souvenir placemat from one of the many trips we have taken together. Currently, it is of Lake Superior. Other souvenir placemats from our trips are at the other places at the table. When I visit, I usually eat at Zion National Park.

I, too, often eat breakfast alone. My only table serves for all meals as well as craft projects, bill paying, Christmas cards, income tax. When I eat breakfast there, I grab silverware from the drawer with one hand on the way to the table. My father will come to visit soon, and I will make his oatmeal.

Peggy Hansen

Section E: .................................................................. November 15, 2005

Carmel Valley, CA

ONE

One truck
parked on the side of
Highway One
red taillights blinking.

One man
steps out of the truck
waits for a break
in the traffic
carries a long pole
with a hook at one end
approaches one dead raccoon.

This man gently collects
the remains of one animal
places this into that truck
drives away all lights blinking.

This one job
gathering bodies
with souls evaporated
takes place multiplied
on our one earth
scarred by nature's anger
and the appetite of war.

That one image
a truck on Highway One
adds up to more than a frame
on an early Tuesday morning
to become less than a blink
as world-wide loss continuously
breaks hearts into infinite pieces.

Illia Thompson
Illia99@aol.com

SALVATION

Can you live with the embarrassment
     that honesty brings.
Can you cry without apology from
      open eyes.
Can you greet the demon that stares
     back at you from the shattered
     mirror, from the broken heart.

Face the untold stories from untold
nights. Weeping alone, angry alone
without the embrace of heaven,
without the comfort of stars.

Can you face the darkness alone.

Can you trust the silence of your own
footsteps moving through pain, moving
through grief and loss, moving through
water and quick sand, through hail and
blowing snow.

Blinded in sight and in mind.

Nothing
to greet you or save you.
Nothing
to hold you up or wrestle you to the ground.
Nothing
and no one but YOU.

Can you?

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

ODE TO THE TABLE
(La Serrania, Mallorca)

Gently, move to the right.
Pass the wine, please.
Which would you like, Red or white?

Ah sing to me of plates, forks, knives and spoons,
sing to me of cracked walnuts,
       great planks of brown bread
     of conversations great and small,
       of chants, long looks, one to another,
sing of yourselves to ourselves,
dance from one day to the next,
  dance from chair to chair,
     dance metaphor to Formentor.

Larry Ruth
ergo@nature.berkeley.edu

WHETHER OR NOT

I am in the beginning of knowing
something I do not want to know,
an annoying mosquito of a lie
I have told myself.

I tolerate its presence on my hand,
permit it to sting,
but kill it with one swift slap
before it can draw blood.

I am considering
whether or not
to tear down the stronghold
that keeps the half truth confined.

Up until now
surrender has not been an option,
trumpet call for troops not sounded,
witnesses silenced.

Subliminal bulletins surface.
I torch them
with pyrotechnic tantrums.
The subtext remains nebulous.

A humble diligence disturbs
the crypt where
I believe I have concealed
my deceit.

Perhaps I will have an epiphany,
          perhaps not.

RETEACH A THING ITS LOVELINESS

There is a pattern to recovery, the way back both a healing and a blooming. The tip of the bud shows its colors, and the calyx begins to bend away from the blossom, allowing the petals to consider light. It is no longer a choice to remain safely encased, to not know our beauty. Even the shy gray dove opens her painted fantail when she flies.

A flower's life is short, one interlude of loveliness given to each before returning its organic remains to the landscape. We have many opportunities to rekindle growth, to perform on life's stage, to show our colors. Often it is storms and cataclysms that test our courage, toughen our fiber, dare us to weather disaster and come forth altered to greater glory.

I am lucky enough to recognize the phases now, to remain calm while the damage repairs. In the journal I document the wretchedness and the reconstruction, the depth of the reservoir, the way through the dim caverns. At times there are no words for what is germinating and mending at the same time. I commit to patience.

When we are young there is no knowledge of redemption to soften the blows. This gift of age and experience is priceless, and droll, a favor and a warning. You are precious. Your hours are incalculable.

I am writing again with greater depth, clarity and style. This is my signpost, my landmark, my ticket to the concert. There is music to be played. I am polishing my instrument, calling forth the muses and the magic, all the creatures of spirit and the powers of the universe. Revival is near, abiding in persistent dreams and seeds of anticipation.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

THE TEACHER

She studies and determines material to present
Her lessons for students of worthy content...
To develop young minds
On school days.

She creates clever lessons to stimulate attention
To spark and gain interest for the most retention...
So students will find
Their own way.

She explains and illustrates so students can understand
Then digest, internalize, and have at their command...
Knowledge of a kind
That will stay.

She encourages those who struggle to learn
Difficult material for hearts that still yearn...
To capture and bind
In their array.

She gives full attention and hears the questions and doubts
Concerning debatable issues that learned books tout...
As gold that is mined
From the knowledge bay.

She provides food for their minds and nurtures their ideals
Then stimulates and sets a fire so their hearts will peal...
Down a street lined
With the sun's rays.

Pam Quesnoy
quesnoy@sbcglobal.net

THE WHIRLWIND

Whirlwind:
     Here I am, at your call.

Shirley:
     Why did you appear in my dream?

Whirlwind:
     I came at your own Soul's request, to demonstrate to you that
     like me, life can appear spinning out of control, but there is
     still a certain kind of order in the chaos.

Shirley:
     What kind of order can do so much damage?

Whirlwind:
     That which tears down structures which are built on a
     weak foundation and can be ripped away. In the void which is
     created, something much stronger can be built.

Shirley:
     Whenever my structured life is torn apart by fierce winds, I
     feel lost, vulnerable, disoriented and wounded. What can I do then?

Whirlwind:
     It helps to sit down upon the ground, breath deeply and take
     stock of what remains, your own living being.

Shirley:
     I feel that I have been through so many whirlwinds and trials.
     What can I do to prevent them in the future?

Whirlwind:
     You may not be able to prevent them, for there are trials sent
     into human life for glorious growth, but you can remember
     that at the center of every whirlwind is a calm place of peace,
     called the "eye of the storm." Seek it within the spirit which
     is yourself, and there you will find the Truth of your Being.
     I am certain that you will also find the Eye with which to see your path.

Shirley Tofte

Section D: .................................................................. October 15, 2005

Carmel Valley, CA

TO MY HUSBAND

After your death
I planted young grape vines
urging them to grow tall
to hold comfortable clusters
of dark orbs, late summer offerings

September's portent of autumn
green large-veined leaves
becoming golden, rust, magenta,
wide as your open hands
a palette of profusion
before stark still surrender.

Today plump purple fruit
fulfills my earlier desire
while vines shed occasional
pale green translucent tears
that drop to the earth before ripe.

SOFAR'S CALL

Biblical times
tell of ram's horn
blown to welcome
each new year.

Shofar's call created
by hearty breath forced
through calcium curves.

Splendid sound
of ancient prayer
announces end of
daylong worship.

Essence of gratitude
for every breath written
in the Book of Life.

Illia Thompson
Illia99@aol.com

SUMMER ESCAPE

Eager to depart,
leave behind caustic hours
in favor of melding
with landscapes to the south,
we become mired
in miles-long traffic jam,
motorcycle race weekend vehicular hell.

Finally set free
from the one-lane lockup of cars
on Reservation Road,
we shed frustration,
turn on tropical tunes
as calming component
to humming wheels.

At Paso Robles we head west,
glide up and over rolling hills
tinted in multiple shades
of green and amber.
Down the last steep grade
a long line of blue coastal waters
seeds our minds with salty language.
We have been detained too long
in the halls of obligation,

        break out into poems.

DUNES DISCOVERY

On the cliff trail at Montana de Oro
sand shifts beneath my feet,
burns calf muscles to quivering cords.

At the waterline
granite ledges align,
stacked together, stone envelopes
waiting to be mailed.

Lavender-beach geranium
amass on every hillock
and arc along the path.

Mists caress my face,
cloak nearby mountain
in gauzy vapors.

Patches of blue emerge
and disappear,
sea and sky in a Virginia reel
parallel-union
at a coastal junction.

I am between alliances,
content to explore,
ripe with gratitude
for what materializes
and departs.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

Section C: .................................................................. September 7, 2005

Fair Oaks, CA

AS MOTHERHOOD WATCHES

Laughing,
tumbling,
shouting,
layers of young lives
joyously escape
education's restrictions.

Standing,
momentarily caught by the flow,
watching,
waiting,
hands on heavy belly
feeling the pulse:
new life yearning to be free.

Groceries forgotten,
I watch
in wonderment
knowing that soon
my own new pulse
would be there.
A child.
Our child,
of love.

Carol Lynn Mathew-Rogers
mathewrogers@lanset.com

Winter Soldier is a documentary (movie) made back in 1972. It was shocking then and from what I have heard, is just as shocking still today. Chances are that you didn't see it when it was new, since public sensibilities were pretty delicate back then and it was such a cold hard look at the brutality of war...

Winter Soldier has been airing (now) in a few cities around the country. (This is) a glimpse of my perspective on all of this, my story I wrote a while back. It pretty much explains why I need to see this movie.

TROJAN HORSE

He came, a child,
Not quite innocent,
And left, no more a man.
Monstrous—dark heart.
War dog. Hound of hell.
Suffering sorrows,
Anguished agony,
Scorched death—his own
        not allowed
        But inflicted.
He would carry it long
And live its agony
In dumpsters and shadowed doorways
stinking with old beer and piss,
And nights of terror
And hollow black emptiness.
shattered.
Lost.

©2005 Michael Reddell
michael@reddell.net

I send you my offering for Sept... I was so fascinated with Aug. LBOL. Three poets with three points of view, but each of us writing about the same thing. At least that is the way I saw it. We each seemed to be in the same place and searching to describe how this space felt to each of us. I think that is what I love most about poetry—it gives everything a voice, even the profane.

THE MIRACLE OF TWINS

The mystery of twins
has arrived in our clan—
entered in masculine form.
Are they two souls with a single
song, or will their dance reflect to us
their opposites. I stare in amazement
as the mystery hooks me.

What is it like to be a twin?

No mirror is needed they have
carried their own in with them. What is
it like to have no escape from your own
reflection. Knowing that to turn away
from this image is to turn your back
on the bond that created you.

Do twins
then bring in a special
strength that the rest of us lack.
A courage to fight for individuation
against enormous odds. Aware that
the likeness they carry might be
their greatest obstacle.

I am caught in the wonder of it all.

Two faces,
with the same smile,
greet me. Validate my curiosity
to understand this great mystery.
Such wisdom already visible to me their
student. They speak, I, the Grandmother,
listen. Is this communication merely
the prattle of the infant, or is it the
pure essence of a language that
all of us have forgotten.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

POINT LOBOS
10-15-04

long wave
grey and green
playing coasts
sky fog
lines up
the pelicans
awards the surf line
tops turning white
to settle down
gently steel grey
pine bark texture
reaching into the sky
awards for life
awards of life
given and taken
by the comarants
to the otters
played by seals
along the edge

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

LOST POEMS

I want to reclaim the words
that arrive while walking
and vanish by the time
I return to pen and paper.

Murmurs and sighs
punctuate a lost narrative,
left behind in the landscape.

Descriptions drip
with the honey
of symbolic parables.

Fat bumblebees drone
embellishments.
Suggestions of significance
drift away.

I toss-phrases out
to the tempo of my steps,
hope rhythm
will bind them to my mind.

What doesn't get written
is harder to catch
than sunbeams.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

Section B: .................................................................. August 15, 2005

Colorado Springs, CO

I debated about sending this one. Sometimes the conversations I am having with myself hold too much of the truth. I wonder how much is me and how much of me has been defined by those who taught me. I seem to be a combination of it all and somewhere buried in all of this acquired junk is my authentic self screaming to be set free.

THE WISDOM IN FORGIVENESS

Believing myself to be honest I
approached life with a sharp
tongue. Sharper still were
the words I delivered.

Words that easily shot down
small birds and, better yet,
words that pierced the
hearts of old stags
still believing
themselves
in power.

Even though compassion was gifted
back, forgiveness offered...I refused.
Not yet finished with punishing
myself, and punishing others
for what I perceived they
did wrong. The priest in
the confessional had
taught me well about
sin and penance.

Laying down these earlier teachings
by those I trusted the most is not
easy. They didn't mean to harm
me. For them these teachings
were true and the only path
back to their fearful,
vengeful god.

Wrapped in their own pain and
suffering they neglected to
teach me of a loving
presence. They too
were well trained.
In learning to
forgive them
for their error I am
now free to love and forgive myself.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

POETRY WHY DO YOU EMBARRASS ME

Poetry why do you embarrass me
you whore?

Why do you cross the street to greet me
when I am in polite company
surrounded by gentile folks
who know you for what you are
a harlot?

Unwanted by polite society
ridiculed by the sports folks,
who's testosterone runs the world,
the greed maker who won't support you,
"does it add to the bottom line?"

Why do you run towards me
and embarrass me
and make me ashamed?

You and your sister culture
have had your day
when things were beautiful and free.

It is time to pay the piper

Poetry why do you embarrass me?

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

I WRITE TO STAY ALIVE

How does it come to this...
solitary afternoon beside the sea,
a long stretch of curved sand,
foaming hiss of small waves
all that breaks an otherwise silence.

One gull stands guard
on the crown
of an anaglyph tower
of boulders.
This empty beach a temple.

Limpid sunlight sifts
through high clouds.
A congregation of crows
gathers for early evening vespers.

Somewhere between contentment
and loneliness
I sense all the the loved ones
in my life slowly disappear,
contemplate forty years
of grief condensed to this one moment,
needing some one and no one

and tomorrow

deciding whether to go or stay.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

Section A: .................................................................. July 15, 2005

Colorado Springs, CO

I was deeply touched by Shirley Tofte's poem, "Dark Angel". This magnificent piece of writing deeply touched my soul. Such grace deserves praise. Thank you, Shirley.

CELEBRATION

Today—
I celebrate your life!

Not the years,
nor the days, but
all the mountains you
have climbed, all the
rivers you have crossed.
The rise of your chin
above the water when
the fast moving current
of life caught you unaware.

Always looking upward.

The smile on
your face and the
strength of your hand
as you reached out
for the shoreline.

Determined—To stand
firm again on solid ground.

You—
journeyed
the path of a woman,
tasted its sweet delight,
known its bitter struggle.

You have lived life,
and you have given life.
No wonder—today is a celebration!

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

INLAND ODYSSEY

Just off Elkhorn Road the trail turns
west on a weed-choked track
toward the five fingers of a wetlands marsh.

Meadow barley, salt grass, and wild radish
merge with dense woodlands
along shallow mudflats.

Tiny suncups edge an overgrown path
down to a gray weathered dock,
its bleached legs anchored in rusty pickleweed.

A painted lady, wings motionless,
feeds on a hillside pasture
buttered with blooming field mustard.

At the promontory of Parson's Slough
three gulls notch the sky, glide and dive
over receding estuary channels.

Itinerant flocks of shorebirds
dine on burrowing invertebrates
on the ebbing tide.

In the distance the breeze carries
the desolate wail, clang, and rumble
of a passing freight train.

Sunbeams glint through streamers
of swaying eucalyptus leaves
and the outstretched arms of oak limbs.

Your mind drops a stitch,
loves the lonely whistle of the kestrel,
the bristly beauty of the cobweb thistle.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.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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