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Section F: .................................................................. June 15, 2006

Del Rey Oaks, CA

BREAKING REFLECTIONS
(#2 From 5-9-06.doc)

scattering of the flowers
upon the pond
breaking reflections
of springs gentle sky
soft clouds upon the blue
destined for eternity
while the morning dove
calls to an unseen mate
forlorn and hopeful all in the same

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

CHOICES

There is no time
left to be cruel,
to hold on to
those
old grudges.
You have spit
enough in the wind
hoping to receive
kindness in return.

Your pain is not
hurting others it is
hurting you. The
hands on the
clock is no longer
ticking away
the years,
the hands are
spinning
and time is running out.

Anger does not
serve you—it is a
thief in the night
robbing you
day by day
of your
tomorrow
that is buried
in your yesterdays.

Aren't you tired yet,
aren't you weary yet?

Let go—fly free.

There is
no someday
there is only this day
and what you do with it
is called choice.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

SUNDAYS

This is the sofa cushion where
I sit left side comer.
Navy blue pillow edged with red fringe
supports my left arm
while my right hand grips another
of hundreds of yellow pencils
suspended over a journal,
my salvation in the considerable emptiness
of a Sunday afternoon.

This is the room where
my solitary life happens,
or doesn't,
depending on my state of mind.

Outside a traveling storm has altered the weather
all day long, carrying black rain,
wind, particles of snow,
light-rimmed clouds shaped like scoops of ice cream
inside temporary blue bowls of sky.
It's weather that doesn't know
what it wants to be, bitter or sunny,
borne southeast by the clash of atmospheric
highs and lows.

This is the hour where
I wait for life to inform me
what is coming next,
the lull between what slips away
and what carries me with it,
ponder the questions I never expected
to inhabit in quite this way,
the remembrance of rejection that never quite dissolves
the conundrum of lonely contentedness.

This is the land of insubstantiality where
everything appears to be happening outwardly,
passing by just beyond the glass door
that remains closed to itinerant tempests.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

MEDITATIONS ON A
BIRTHDAY COLLAGE

An empty chair beckons.
My mind weary of complications
seeks comfortable silence,
assurance that worldly cares
may be released.
Sacred spirit offers
healing balm to soothe all pain.

I seek shelter beneath
a yellow umbrella,
aware of kinship with
every created thing.
Music flows through violin strings
native voices chanting ancient prayers
Five hundred crows awaken the world

and I remain tranquil
exploring an inner landscape
finding my way breath by breath
I discover a habitation which
has known me forever.
In trust and surrender
I free fall into my life
with all its abundance
its delicious beauty.

I am aware of subtle sounds
hummingbird wings,
restless ocean waves,
windblown cypress sentinels,
wild lavender, purple irises
flourishing in awesome splendor
and I forget myself.

Section E: .................................................................. May 15, 2006

Carmel Valley, CA

QUESTIONS

I

Are You Indifferent to Sorrow Now—
now that you have known it so often,
so intimately, so intensely?

Have you experienced so much grief
that to feel it completely again
would obstruct your heart in midbeat,
draw the breath from your lungs
leaving the hollow sacs unable to contract,
panic a permanent emotion?

Have you put all the condolence cards away
in boxes you have no intention of opening,
no chance of having the expressions of sympathy
loose that unstoppable deluge of hot tears?

Have you decided to build your walls with stronger steel,
implant your spine with inflexible rods of indifference?
Do you believe it is necessary to your survival
to deny the next death?

I ask you all this in order to know for myself
where the road goes,
when it ends at the rim of a steep cliff
and there is nothing but air beneath your feet.

11

Have You Been Forgiven?
In the hearts of those you have wounded,
intentionally or accidentally,
does some rage still fester?
Will the absolution you seek for your errors
arrive before it is too late?
Are these questions without answers
if you have not learned how to forgive yourself,
root and branch, bag and baggage, to the marrow?
Is there cellular forgiveness that can bridge the chasm
between you and your victims,
acquitting predator and prey for eternity
all transgressions of conduct or omission
pardoned in a blaze of sudden compassion.
What, after all, is sacred!

III

Isn't This Then Your Moment?

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

HAUNTING MEMORIES

To be white
when I know how
black I am is painful.

When memory lies
unveiled to a life
with other purpose,
other lessons—is painful.

I miss the velvet feel
of my black skin, the
coal pitch color of my
eyes. The piercing way
such blackness views the
burning sun of another day.

Offering—
light, and heat,
and the sweet singeing
aroma that tints my flesh
a darker, richer hue.

I miss the visible signs
that speaks of who I am
and from where I came.

I am invisible
in this white coat
that offers acceptance
into a world I know
I do not belong.


ENOUGH

Whether you sit silently
under gray skies, or jump
joyfully in this gloom.

Whether you join with
others, or prefer this
solitary space.
Perhaps—
believing you are
less for not participating.

Know that
what you do,
or not do—is enough.

And the world
not only needs, but
will one day recognize the
perfection you already carry.

You are not
empty—you are full and
in your silence—you
say everything.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

Section D: .................................................................. April 15, 2006

Carmel Valley, CA

A TIME COMES

i have bled with despair
all afternoon
and even long into the next day
curled inward on the narrow
length of the sofa
a blanket tucked to my chin
rode in and out of misty sleep
unsure whether or not
i wished to wake

i have sat stiff as mortar swaying
slowly in an old oak rocking chair
while the sun slipped low
and night arrived
without the comfort of a small lamp
or the notion of desire

i have soaked tissue
after tissue
with floods of tears
amassed wads of white paper blossoms
that gathered around my feet
until the empty box
shouts enough

and somewhere in all that suffering
a time comes

in spite of whatever
brings me to a cruel edge
of reality
i rise from my millstone of misery
make a cup of tea
splash cool water on my face
and begin to exist
again

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

IN THE WAKE OF PROCESSED LIGHT

Have you ever imagined the spectrum
That lies beyond our eyes.
Colors we will never know.
Waves of heat and radiation,
And the frequencies between
That although named,
Can never be claimed with any certainty
As universally experienced.

Have you ever looked at color with decadent desire.
Yearning for the vivid like a hungry child.
Fingers reaching with anticipation
For tubes of favored hues.
Merry golds and aqua blues
Dripping with saturation
Flow from a wet brush.

Have you ever rode the wake of processed light
Snatched a slivered blink in time
From it natural place
And moved it.
Stretched it's code
Until a narrow portal showed evidence of
The illusion of perceptual knowledge.

Have you ever sought the far edge of process
Processed the process
Past all context and purpose,
Other than observing the distance
Transformations will skim
Across the surface of satisfaction
Before sinking and dissolving into noise.

Have you ever looked at an image through alien eyes
Past shape and definition,
Into a realm of unfamiliar
Chords echoing a rendition of
Yesterday's dinner.
The O of the taco.
The berriless straw.
The Virgin Mary of the grilled cheese sandwich.

Have you ever looked at light without thought
Floating on streams of unnamed color,
In and out of shadow
Without intention,
Toward a destination
Far beyond the vantage point.

Laura Carley
lcarley11@yahoo.com

A SECOND CHANCE

Now that the room
Is empty—
I can breathe again.
Wrap myself around
those endless
possibilities I thought
I had lost. Fill up
the corners with
my own dreams.

Dare to be selfish.

Long for the things
that youth could
not give me.

Resurrection
is such a beautiful
word—how did
I manage to forget the
message it carries.

Before I begin—
I will sit awhile
in this empty room
and breathe again.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

Section C: .................................................................. March 15, 2006

Del Rey Oaks, CA

NANCY

It was the willow standing beside the river
The river reflecting the clouds the sun and sky
Reflecting the stars and the moon
Beyond the willow
The corn is standing in murmuring rows of green

It was the willow standing beside the river
The river reflecting the reds and yellows
That shimmer the wind
The corn just now is turning golden
Stacked in perfect sheaves against the wind

It was the willow standing beside the river
The river reflecting the cold blue grey
The leaves long gone
The corn beneath the snow is awaiting
The breath of spring

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

THE ROAD HOME

They tell me that I am
beginning to forget again—


And I believe them.

There is anger
when I turn myself
over to their believing
and forget about my own.

Oh! yes, I forget
the days of the week
and the time spent alone.
These are good things to forget

Don't you think?

How does age explain to youth
that the hands on the clock
no longer point to a future
that is months away or
years away.

Time—is now filled with
precious minutes of
precious days.

The face on the clock is
my own face and time
itself tells me what
to remember.

If I forget
where I am
it is because
I am remembering
where I am headed.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

OILS

In my peripheral vision
a plate still stained with leftover paint
orange, vibrating with excitement
anticipating penetration.
Dust soaked cobalt blue squinting blindly
towards an empty canvas.
Fleeting thoughts of being home.
Peaceful.
Detonating roadblocks, foreign languages
that cut off feelings.
Fluid, warm pulsing feelings.

And there is someone who still has the courage to think.
The courage to write in high and low—drawing raw pictures
with words frowned upon by locals.

Oil and charcoal are calling.
express, transcend language deficiency.
Reveal steaming green horse apples
in rural dialect splashed on refined white.
A command resonates across nervous belly strings
Connect to the womb of wombs where as he
writes..."even men are able to give birth."

Trude Zmoelinig
4wardandup@earthlink.net

UNTITLED

The Severn River winds its way along the Maryland shores
Upon its banks are gold-speckled rocks that draw the eyes of young boys
The water laps against the shores with a soft gurgling sound
The boys stoop and grab at stones, which are twisted back and forth
The beauty is too tempting, so rocks are shoved deep into short's pockets
Heads still bent, slender young legs continue strolling the beach
More stooping to gather the glistening gems—the pebbles that line these sands
Pockets bulging, lips smiling, eyes twinkling on a sparkling summer's day

Pam Quesnoy
quesnoy@sbcglobal.net

I HAVE PASSED THE DAY EACH YEAR

I was born late in October
the year of Pearl Harbor.

One day
others will mark their calendar
with another date, one that comes
around each year to remind them of when
they had to go on without me.

I am curious.
Will it be fall when
the light is low
and leaves are beginning
to drift to earth,

or perhaps a stormy day,
late February, thunder announcing
my passage to unending peace.

Has that day already slipped past
this year or only waiting for tomorrow,
but seven years away.

What if it were possible to choose?
Say I would like to leave on the same date
as my son or my mother,
maybe catching up with them
on the calendar of the afterlife,
if there is one.

Would I want my own day?

Maybe when the daffodils are swaying
and the new leaves are like prayers
on the trees.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

It's amazing how I cannot for the life of me come up with a crisis to write about in this moment. Has my life been so wonderful that I've never experienced one? No, I know it hasn't. And in fact, I could come up with a list of those avalanche moments, but you know? I'm not interested. I'm more interested in my wonderful ability to forget things. I say wonderful with tongue in cheek because there have been many times when I berated myself for forgetting.

I know I'm not stupid, but really—why can't I remember the particular incidences of my life? I'm talking about the good ones, as well as bad. It's fascinating, actually. If I forget a bad experience, then I can say that it's good, because it seems to indicate that I've moved beyond the horrific into a better place. If I don't have to remember, then it no longer has power over me. But what about those good experiences I cannot hold on to? If I forget those, does it mean I've moved beyond the wonderful into something not wonderful? Maybe so. This is the beauty of it.

So I find myself in a place of appreciation for how my mind works, since I actually cannot do anything about it. For so many years I beat myself up about my forgetfulness, but now I choose to embrace my tendencies as unique, and just see where I go from there.

It's a great journey, and I choose to enjoy it (if only I can remember that fact)!

Carol Lynn Mathew-Rogers
mathewrogers2@sbcglobal.net

Section B: .................................................................. February 15, 2006

Colorado Springs, CO

CONSIDER THIS

You say,
you are tired
of living at the top.

You
want to
experience life,

Live—on the edge,

Forget—
the comfort of
money, the support
of family and friends.

I say,
It is easier
to speak of these
things than to live it.

Sacrifice—is not easy.

It takes
years of training
and enormous courage

To develop this skill.

WHO LISTENS

Everyone talks,
but who listens?

I listen!
shouts the clay pot.

And the hand
that forges it
places into this
now empty vessel

A river of words

Taken
from the ocean
of the dolphin's song.

Then lovingly
places it along the
riverbank where it may
easily be found and
all who thirst may
drink from it.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

I wrote this statement about my painting—thought that I would share it ...

Bring all that you can when you come to view my paintings.
Look for what you want to see; not what you think that I saw.
If you don't find it, look to another.
It is here some where.

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

One day while out walking I noticed that there are signs called Stop on many streets. After thinking about this a while my Street Names poem was born (and has now morphed into a blues song). Grandpa Woodstock is really the wise man and he really did say that. Then he gave me a hit from his stone bowl and it sounded right. And if anyone is not living on the Street called Now, check it out. This is a picture of Grandpa Woodstock dressed in a robe.

STREET NAMES

I came to a Street called Stop
I did not turn around
I went down that street shopping

And generally just looking around

When I came to the police department
A policeman said to me
"Son you are now in trouble
And that is why you're talking to me"

It looked bad when he pulled out his Taser
And I ducked as it flew on by
Deciding it was not the time
To push my luck or to wonder why

I made a U turn right there and then
And went back the way I came
Until I met a wise man who told me
That there's really no one to blame

So I do all my sightseeing
Right on down this Street called Now
And it generally looks just right as rain
Without me ever quite knowing how

I Could Never Dance was written on a lonely night when the inward eye was roaming. I wonder what it says about me? Can anyone relate?

I COULD NEVER DANCE

It started in Junior High
At the Sock Hops
I could never dance
The girls lined up on one side of the gym
The boys on the other
I was the boy by the wall
Watching as other boys
Whose hormones overcame their fear
Crossed the No Mans Land
To ask the pretty girls to dance

In high school I didn't go to dances
Some barrier of insecurity
Has always held me back
A nervous stranger in a crowd
I could never dance

Chris Lovette
cwlovette@cox.net

This is the poem that came to me as an early morning dreamtime missive during the Elderhood Conference.

ELDERSHIP

It isn't easy
trusting the winds
to guide the sails
as your unsteadied hands
adjust the mast
uncoil the ropes
to enter unfamiliar seas.

Oh, you, in the warmth
beside winter's hearth
have studied words in books
gathered voices to speak of age
in her varied dress
reds of power
grays of loss
greens of growth
the purple mantle of respect.

Yet, now, worldly wisdom
melts in cool morning fog
water-spotted notations soften
and you observe that offered
with vision blurred by toll of time.

The motion of the boat
becomes as cradle
and the purity of saline mist
reminds you of moments
approaching birth.

Soon, the colors become
as pastel rainbow, a shawl
to gently touch you to form
shade or warmth as needed
until you easily return
to peace of complete comfort.

Illia Thompson
Illia99@aol.com

Section A: .................................................................. January 17, 2006

Colorado Springs, CO

EVOLUTION

Only the gods
care not for flesh
and bone. Are
we then pawns
in an endless
game of chess.


Powerless to win.

Allowed to move
only at the discretion
of what is perceive
as higher authority.

Do we then turn
to the animals
and impose
our will and our
elevated opinions
onto these creatures.

Do they
then turn to
the next chain
in the food line and
enforce their will.
Or, do these
simple creatures
already understand
the futility of such
a senseless journey.

Are they then
the gods of earth
protecting us from
our own annihilation.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

This Whore Machine poem is harking back to the dead god whose prophets wrote in Hebrew, Aramaic, and the disciples of the guru Yeshua who wrote in Greek a nasty lot of stuff about how this god who is now dead (whew!) is not satisfied with being merciful but who also demands justice for the widows orphans dispossessed opressed marginalized and others like that. I am glad that god is dead because I personally don't think it is appropriate for any godly god to advertise destruction of the so-called wicked or judgment upon the inhabitants of the earth.

THE WHORE MACHINE

It traveled all across our land
Industrializing waste
Those who came back were those who killed
The others died in haste

Little did the pigeon know
Who flew across my sky
That all created beings
All yes all who live must die

If only only those who knew
Would only only try
Then some of us together
Could stop the innocent who die

Yet grapes of wrath must soon be tread
And great will be the number of the dead

Chris Lovette
cwlovette@cox.net

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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