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Section F: .................................................................. December 15, 2006

Carmel Valley, CA

CREATION

mother and father nestle ever so close
gather into a net of silken strands
the fragile essence of babe's beginnings
while the world rages with violence

gather into a net of silken strands
pulled from innocent loveliness
the fragile essence of tiny being
breathing life before full gestation

pulled from innocent loveliness
they hold finely formed newness
breathing life before full gestation
swaddled with more than woolen cloths

they hold finely formed newness
hear desperate cry of pure hunger
swaddled by more than woolen cloths
a halo frames newborn appearance

hear desperate cry of pure hunger
echoing unheard wails from other babes
swaddled by more than woolen cloths
in countries ravaged by awakened evil

echoing unheard wails from other babes
arriving ready to absorb awaiting hope
in countries ravaged by awakened evil
where only the moment holds knowing

arriving ready to absorb awaiting hope
living surrounded by absolute uncertainty
where only the moment holds knowing
mother and father nestle ever so close

Illia Thompson
Illia99@aol.com

This poem seems appropriate for the month of December. I consider it my love letter to the Divine.

THE BELOVED

I have looked for you
everywhere, my Beloved,
thinking you are the pictures
they have painted. Each
image making me long
for more, leaving me
empty.

I have searched
the crowd for your face
and not found you.

Then—one day,
I turned my gaze
from the crowd and
stared into the eyes of
only one. A single human
being, a stranger and
there I found you.

I found you
in the mountains,
in the bright dawn of
the sunrise, in the soft
caress of a summer rain.

I found you in the tears,
in the pain,
in the joy of others.

I went looking
for you in the forest,
and there I found you
standing in a tree—my tree.

You are
everywhere
and nowhere—and I
have fallen in love again.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

This poem at best limps along. At worst it falls on the ground like a newborn calf who never takes a step before she dies. My attempt to bring it to life is in this short introduction. Be assured that I have no doubts about the divinity of the living god. And although I do have my doubts about the divinity of Jesus, I have no doubt that he spoke the truth.

After reading this poem Prince Charles would say: "ItÕs rather windy in here, don't you think?" The Zen Master would say: "After you fart, go to the bathroom." And you, should you choose to bear with me, will have your own opinion.

JESUS' HOLIDAY SONNET

He loves you to go party for His birth
Shop early or it will make Jesus weep
The malls have everything your hearts desire
Know Jesus doesn't want you to hold back

Don't get the blues when thinking of the bills
He promises to help you pay them off
The more you owe the more you will be blessed
Prosperity is guaranteed to you

Kind Jesus always teaches everyone
By His Spirit and His holy guidance
No one can show a greater love than this
To spend more money for the holidays

And honor those who Jesus loves the best
It is the time for merchants to be blessed

Christopher Lovette
cwlovette@cox.net

THE BUFFALO
(after 'The Salmon' by Ted Hughes)

He stands heads up
in the shade of the Baobab tree,
the hulking bull buffalo
motionless and isolated,
apart from his herd.
They move slowly, graze peacefully,
their heads down, bobbing gently.

The gloss of his massive hide,
streaked by wide gashes of angry pink,
claw marks of a fight last night
with a single lion.
His tail hangs by a wisp of skin
limp and useless to fend off flies
already feasting and breeding in his wounds.

Standing after the heroic battle,
majestic in his epic poise.
Stoic, calm he faces doom
tonight in the next battle.
No panic, not a flicker of fear
before the law of the Kalahari.

Franz Spickhoff
franzox@gmail.com

HONEY STRANDS

It is time to wash
                and braid my hair,
        to sit alone
                and watch the bees.
To hive within myself,
                                taste honey.

Now is the time for weaving,
                of gathering sweetness
        humming golden fiber
                                into my being.

It is time to compose
                my internal fabric.
To begin my tapestry
                from what has fallen
                                to the floor.

THE MUSE FINDS ME
(inspired by Joseph McNeilly)

Where are you?

I am here
I have not gone anywhere,
I have been the waiting cat

here on the ledge,
on your roof
watching your busy life.

You have been scurrying everywhere
but here
Right here, in here.

You were so busy
you did not know
I was gone

Yet here I am still

Where are you now?

In here, look in the waterfall
the fountain
in the spring that gushes from
deep in the earth.

In here, follow me down now
That damp chilly cave
is me, the source of all waters
where blind fish swim

where rocks are walls, ceiling, floor
where there is no light
this is where I dwell

You hear only the slight
gurgling spring
This alone

is who you are
Singing alone
with your broken heart

I am that which
rises in your blood,
and calls to you

As you have called me home.

Touch me now,
feel the cool damp
places in yourself

hear nothing
but your rhythmic
heart.

Yes you have been here before
a thousand times the monk,

a few hundred the bear
once or twice a wolf
with her cubs.

This cave is
eternal and
hidden

a moist and mossy floor
where light
opens through the roof.

Remember you tender heart?

This is where you sewed it back together
then you became afraid of more stitching.

You are hidden
behind a waterfall
at the bottom of a ravine,
at the edge of the cliff.

Remember?

I was once at the top of the hill
calling
Then you fell in

I was there to cool your broken ankle.
settling in around you,
in the fierce open waters
when you left the cave

EL FLAMBOYAN

Flaming canopy
Bright orange orchids
sister to Birds of Paradise
you cluster brightly
to lay your firy cheek
against a hazy sky.

Black trunk and a few
fans of green
cool your burning flowers

Scattered beneath you in the grass
your orange blossoms
blow across
the road,
are caught
along foot paths
making trails of fire.

Robin Lopez Lysne
rhlysne@cruzio.com

A CHR ISTMAS PRAYER

The year has been hot and somewhat vicious
And now its turned cool and it's so delicious.
Halloween's come and Thanksgiving has gone,
Christmas'll soon be here, it comes as the dawn.
Awakens us from our childhood sweet dreams,
Turns teary hearts into smiling sunbeams.
Try to ignore the promotional hype,
Christmas is for sharing, so let us gripe,
When the stores ban "Merry Christmas To You."
And it's not Christmas vacation you're due.
Then someone says it is now called "winter break"
Leaving Christ's birthday out is one big mistake.
Let us get the perspective back in place,
And all negativity just erase,
For "star light, star bright" wishes can come true,
But it's up to each to keep Christ in view.
It's okay to give gifts and decorate,
Just so we don't tell Christ He has to wait.
As we celebrate the Bethlehem birth,
Just maybe peace will encircle the earth.

Shirley Smalley Price
robert-p7998@sbcglobal.net

Section E: .................................................................. November 15, 2006

Del Rey Oaks, CA

MONET

roar the shelter
crossing aware
over the edge

pond reflection
trees in clouds
on the surface
under the edge
deep in the green
the lilies float
on the new spring day
into the purple
among the light
dancing white
blue and red
he stood there
so many years
living the edge
of up here
and down there
what went in
and what returned
to his eye
to his hands
he stole the light
clear edge
vapor thin
special facet
crystal bound
upon the notion
reflected

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

Colorado Springs, CO

THE BEGINNING OF...

With insight
and age
life enriches
the gifts found
earlier in the journey.

Redeeming
all the
careless
pleasures of
our past mistakes.

No confession necessary.

The caterpillar
did not seek
transformation
as it rested
in the
safety of its cocoon.

It expected nothing,
sought nothing,

Asked nothing
of this
dreamless
vacant space.

Yet—
understood
everything
once it could fly.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

ROUND TABLE MUSINGS

Awakened eye sees freshly,
Reminding me
To do what needs doing
To walk instead of running
To breathe with awareness
Simply to sit in a chair

What are these thoughts
Skimming the horizon of my mind?
The words that form or fall on my open heart
From who knows where?

This pen meanders down the page
Feeling its way like an inchworm
At a slow steady pace
I am curious to know where
It is wandering.
Have no worries.
It's safe here.

A round table invites
Today's muse with
Candle flame in tinted blue glass.
Pens pursue poems
While my hand holds my head
I'm at peace,
Grateful for this glass of water

Nothing is needed but this air,
This water, and a round table
All around me
A world of beauty
Golden rays touch the hillside outside
With the last light of day

RIVERS AND MEMORIES

In the wide space of not knowing,
Questioning arises,
A river of thought begins to flow
Where it will.
An open-ended sickle cuts a path through
Uncharted lands where words
Reformulate memories,
Meaningful surprises.

An anvil appears
Pounding heartbeat rhythms,
A young girl claps her hands
To ward off early morning chill
Eager to begin another day
Berry picking with Grandpa.
Six cents a pound and
All the berries she can eat.
She sings Chattanooga Shoeshine boy
And The Blacksmith Blues
While feet stomp rhythm.
Dark skies succumb to tangerine glow.

She envisions an endless journey
A ribbon dance where
Music plays from within
Her own heart's pulse beats
Without words or accompaniment
Melodies only she can hear.
Without effort she is gifted with song
On her violin, fingers find their way.
Trust in the music releases initial shyness
A new world opens, taking her
Downriver over rapids
White water music
The dance of life.

Shirley Tofte
patshirl@mbay.net

SOCIAL CONDITIONING #422

What if you went out one morning
And the sky swallowed you with no one noticing
With people passing by on their way to jobs
Nursing wounded egos
While polishing superficial faces meant for deception?

And what if from your viewpoint
In the belly of the clouds
You saw the training camps of error
Deftly laid out and camouflaged
By those who blindly serve
The last pieces of meat
Stripped from the skeleton of humanity?

Could your sadness rain down
Enter the earth
And cause new growth among the remains
Or would you close your eyes and look away?

There the narrow Rainbow Bridge now opens
The pathway to compassion through sadness is revealed

Christopher Lovette
cwlovette@cox.net

Piedmont, CA

UNTITLED

October anticipates summer sliding Into fall
We stare over our shoulders at the idle days of summer receding into our past
More of our thoughts are reflective

Quiet days with photo albums replace our gardens, our walks
Indoors from the crisp air we wrap ourselves with thoughts of our youth
A smile tugs at our lips

Our faces were smooth, unlined
We anticipated challenges, sure in our strength to succeed
Dynamic—spirited

In our autumn we step slower, more carefully
Our experiences have made us wise and thoughtful
Though optimism still clutches us close

Summer
              S
                 L
                    I
                       D
                           I
                             N
                                G
                                   Into fall

Pam Quesnoy
quesnoy@sbcglobal.net

Section D: .................................................................. October 15, 2006

Del Rey Oaks, CA

THE SOUL

The Soul

The soul
    the soul
        the soul stood
                the soul stood on the edge
                        the soul stood on the edge of the wheel
the wheel
        the wheel began the motion
                the soul stood on the edge of the wheel
                        the wheel was the motion

the wheel became the sun
        the soul stood on the edge of the sun
                the sun became one with the wheel

the soul stood on the edge
        the soul stood
                the soul

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

Colorado Springs, CO

BROKEN PROMISES

I will call
    tomorrow.

I will visit
    tomorrow.

I will listen
    tomorrow.

I will forgive
    tomorrow.

I will find
     some time
        tomorrow.

Suddenly—it is gone.

And all that
is left
are painful
yesterdays
and the broken
promises of—tomorrow.

SIMPLICITY

The fear
is not
that you
will never
accomplish
what you
came to do.

The fear
is that what
you are
doing
is all
that you
were meant to do.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

Carmel Valley, CA

HELLO DARKNESS MY OLD FRIEND
(Simon and Garfiinkel)

Shadows come forward,
the demons, the sad-sack characters
stumbling along dark alleyways
in seedy neighborhoods of my mind.
They are the homeless, unkempt,
the cruel ones who refuse to go away.
They are labeled fear and loathing,
uncharitable, unbearably lonely,
suspicious, bored, cynical,
products of the happily ever after lie
they were told in childhood.
They cruise by on issues labeled
abandonment, betrayal, envy, vanity.

I observe them from a distance
through rose-colored glasses, hoping
they keep to their darkness.
I worry if I bring them home with me,
begin to sympathize with their point of view,
I will become what part of me
has every so often believed I was...

easily discarded,
unworthy of notice and immutable love.
I turn the corner, avert my eyes
at the sight of their tattered clothes,
pat my wallet of virtues,
throttle rising panic.

AUTUMN TEMPTATION

You sit on a grassy knoll
high on a rugged coastal bluff.
White spume rims a rocky shore below.

You note the sun's heat on your arm,
feel an affection for a grove of cypress
two ridges north.

You watch a few phantoms of fog
wander up hidden ravines,
melt into a cluster of redwoods.

You are in a timeless place,
without the usual craving
for something undefined.

Nothing is your fault.

You entertain the thought
of never going back.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

ONE IS NOT ENOUGH, TWO IS TOO MUCH
(Elsie Ogato, Ikebano Artist)

Mathematics, that stern science
systematically places decimals
between whole numbers
yet we ask of ourselves
to measure ordinally
beginning at the beginning
and moving onward
one by one to the end
of the tabulation.

I like that between
one and two, as cited by a woman gifted
in the art of flower arrangement,
there exist pauses
places of silence,
negative space a dancer might say,
and to live among emptiness
holds gentle importance,
an indication of proper passage.

The subtle shift from one to two,
hardly more than a step
may also be seen as path among
flagstones, or a bench on which to rest
and view a pond where water lilies
create their own undulating array
without even considering the arithmetic of it all.

Illia Thompson
Illia99@aol.com

Section C: .................................................................. September 15, 2006

Fair Oaks, CA

MERE PRESENCE

Have you ever wondered
as you pause
between seemingly
important tasks—

already lining up
the next three items
to check off your list,
calculating the probability
of what will get done
in the few remaining
productive hours of
your busy day—

what would happen
if you accomplish nothing today?

What would it feel like
to simply let go
to forget the list
to drift
cloudlike
across the amazing blue
tapestry of the day
allowing the gentle
easy breath of chance
to mold you
again and again
into unknown
soft shapes?

Maybe today you can relax
breathe deep
fold your busy thoughts away
like the black and white loon
folds his sleek head
under his wing while he rests
bobbing on the rippling waves
at the edge of the lake—
content to simply exist
one of many floating creatures
whose mere presence
in the grand beauty
transforms everything.

Carol Lynn Mathew-Rogers
mathewrogers2@sbcglobal.ne

Tucson, AZ

I have reached a point of total disillusionment with myself and all of my efforts to change. There is only one thing left to do—stop trying. But there is a door I can open: the door of faith. Through this door the grace of God can come into the core of my being. God's grace has begun a transformation in me that I could never do by myself. God's grace is beginning to change me from the inside out. All that is required of me is faith in the process. I wrote the following poem to describe this opening of the door of faith.

THE VISITOR

While preoccupied
With triviality
Someone knocked at my door

I opened the door
To see a man standing there

I asked what he wanted

He said he is God
That the police had picked him up
Beaten him
Then executed him
That he allowed himself to suffer
And die
To show me
How much he loves me

And I remembered
That somewhere it is written
"I stand at the door and knock"

I would like to say a few words about why this poem begins on a note of joyousness—a new-found freedom expressed by the boon of the newly-found ability to fly—but ends on a note of struggle. Perhaps this new-found freedom is the flight of faith in the face of a world that often seems absurd. In a mythic sense it is a boon received by one who has just become aware that they are a prince or princess, who in the forgotten past was exiled from their rightful kingdom. But though they are joyous at the wonderful boon received and the budding sense of their royal heritage, they are immediately beset by obstacles and trials that make them wonder if this is at all real. These are the trials of self-purification, of overcoming the mountains of doubt, despair, and even the temptation to madness. It is the conquest of these doubts and fears within their own souls by which they receive the gifts of wisdom, patience, compassion, and self-control. It is then and only then that they are prepared for their true purpose. Only through the purification of their trials can they be prepared to defeat the dragon that has usurped their own rightful kingdom. In this poem the hero has experienced the joy of beginning to discover his true self, but by the end has only gotten so far as to realize that many trials lie ahead before the his own soul can be purified and prepared to slay the dragon and to ascend his rightful throne.

FLIGHT

morning

Weariness sweeps off of me
As water drops from a goose
With the violence of flapping
Lifting me into the sky

Sun disc hovers
Winking over the far mountains
It lifts its head like an eye
Seeing me
Enfolding me in its strengthening rays

My journey is begun

noon

The air is sweet to breathe
Lovingly me lifting
Until I soar where the ground
Spreads out like a quilt
Beneath my pinions

Breath sustains me

dusk

The morning's mountains
Look no closer
Yet something in me yearns
Will not settle for less

How will I rest?
There is a meadow
A stream passes through it
I hover

But it is not a meadow
It is a desert of lies
Envenomed by a dry gulch
Where bones dance in the twilight

I must go on

night

This flight is longer than I expected
There is tiredness in my wings
Like the weariness I left behind
On the ground
But not so subtle

The stars now show me
Canyons and hillsides
I must fly higher
I must get over the mountains

There is only air
And darkness
And faint shadows
Cast by a slivered moon

There is far to go

Christopher Lovette
cwlovette@cox.net

Colorado Springs, CO

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

San Antonio, TX

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY MY DARLING

Fifty-five years ago we were married,
Thirty-four days ago you were buried.
We spent many happy times together
Through sunny days and turbulent weather.
We said our "I do's" and trusted our fate.
Through the years you have been a perfect mate.
We have had our problems, but we solved them
You're my Knight in Shinning Armor—a raw gem.
We traveled the world and saw many sights,
From Berlin, Switzerland to the Paris lights.
We raised 2 sons & a daughter—they've done well.
Be still my heart, my love, I've lots more to tell,
Of flowers you picked by the garden gate
Of the phone calls made when you'd be late.
My darling, I wish I could hold you just now,
And if only you could talk to me somehow,
I'd never be angry or even sad
Because I'd look at all the love we had.
So, until my life on this earth shall end,
You'll be in my heart as lover—best friend.
I am so glad God sent you to find me,
Your strength will live on for many to see.
I will love you always, my darling Bob.

Shirley Smalley Price
robert-p7998@sbcglobal.net

Section B: .................................................................. August 15, 2006

Colorado Springs, CO

PLEASE TELL ME

It must be difficult
holding
the answers
to questions that
may never get asked.

To live on
the edge
of forever
when others are
searching for the end.

To carry so much
love that even
the ugly and
the profane
are granted
this grace.

How do you manage
to stand so tall and
yet bend so low
that even the
sacred ant
can hear your prayers.

Tell me, please tell
me, what is it like
being you.

WHOLENESS

I know
that man
he lives within me.

This woman
who stands
before me
lives within me.

I know
blindness for
it lives within me.

I know the
deaf because
the silence also
lives within me.

You might ask
in my deafness if
I then hear you.

Yes, I quickly
answer, I not only
hear what you say—


I hear what you are not saying.

Speak to me
these thoughts
and I will not only
hear you—I will see you.

For you too live within me.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

Del Rey Oaks, CA

I WANT YOU TO BECOME THE LIGHTENING MAN

I want you to become the lightening man
standing high up on the pine tree hills
laying your sword on the anvil of heaven
smiting those who carry the greed
dooming avarice to eternal damnation
father of all, seer of the universe
how can you help us to drive this sorcerer from off our land?
what begins and ends this plague?

no one reads these feeble ranting
they all are rushing toward the grave
smitten by the golden image
blinded by silver sun of more is better and all is best
long after the land is empty, long after the sun is gone
covered in soot and smoggy reason
blinded by hate and lustful pride
collected at the bottom of every well
the stagnant blood lust of beyond reason
using hate to pave the day

brick by brick they build their prison
taking slaves to sate their way
holy father do we condemn them,
holy mother show the way
evil evil sinner darkness bring the lightening
show the way.

(Dedicated to Saint Patrick driving the snakes from all of Ireland.)

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

Carmel Valley, CA

AN OTHER POEM
(Why is there under that poem always an other poem—Lucille Clifton)

A line begins
with the half moon a half-closed eye
in the early light of morning
and you think you know
where you are,
where you mean to proceed from there,

perhaps then to depict the ridge
with its fringe of ancient oaks
or back into the dream
you left reluctantly upon waking.

Suddenly you find yourself
weighted by a memory,
one that releases tears to crawl
unheeded down your face
and your hand writes
how it felt to lower your eyes
against the intensity of sunlight
at a burial,
as if you could extinguish
the wildfire in your heart
by smothering the sight of sorrow.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

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Colorado Springs, CO

I wanted to have a little fun! The poem started when I was writing an email to a friend, she is an artist. I meant it to be a paragraph... thus the beginning of the poem. I quickly saw that it was a poem and started adjusting to stanza's. It was fun!

I MISS YOU

The poet says,
there should be a period
in this paragraph.

There should be a me
before we. There should be
quiet moments to reflect the mistakes
that are made and the promises that will
always be broken. There should be a day
in the week where the word me is imprinted.

There should be a no guilt zone.

There should be a place
where there are no rules or goals.
There should be signal lights that are
always green and yield signs instead of stop signs.

Excuses should be banned
from our vocabulary. Reasons should
make more sense. There should be holidays
that celebrates the time spent with only me
and long days where the poet and the
artist is encouraged to run free.
And there should never be
another day without
the you in me.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

Tucson, AZ

This week I heard through the hobo grapevine about the death of a friend. He was the first bindlestiff I met after moving to Tucson, AZ.

GIZMO
(Jerry Wayne Walding,
1/26/52 Š 5/06)

Kicked
through
by an angel Mexican
Gizmo tired as the bull
with drooping head and horns
before the matador
and his sword

con man
tramp
wearing his coat
of quail
of trembling sky

where purple flames
burn the edges of paper dolls

caught in the eye
of destiny

of the elevation of forgotten toys
lost beneath the floor of life

the lizards
sitting on your shoulder
mutter to the orange-pink dawn
bringing stories
of grey rocks
to your waiting ear
whispering

you sat in the desert too

all sit
in the halls
of tattooed time
reminding the day
that you are here

Rotting teeth
never pulled by the dentist
lessons of a future
he refused to learn

"It sounds too much
like that four-letter word:
work"

licked bare
by the deep kissing
of dried earth
summer lightning
gritty dirt

blown
to the garment's edges
by the desert thorns

the sky preserves nothing

fluttering
unutterable
persistent
flat

"You know what I like about this
the most?"

he smiles before he tells you

knowing
you can never know
anything
except the answer

"everything"

Chris Lovette
cwlovette@cox.net

Carmel Valley, CA

YOU WHO ARE GONE

lend me your resignation,
your neutrality,
for an hour
for the next tragedy
for the disturbing newscasts
with their images of roadside carnage
in bleak landscapes
paired with celebrity gossip.

Caught up in the net of events
I unwittingly become a voyeur
of impermanent sacraments,
conspiracies, corruptions,
mourn what I cannot transform
nor transcend,
what I have not circled on a ballot
nor asked to know.

You who are beyond tears,
teach me to abandon what is pointless,
immutable.
Write me missives in clouds,
notecards in white sand,
prescriptions on thin filiments of spider webs.
Grant me what I need to persist,
a plausible sea upon which
I can still navigate.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

Thank you for your creative offerings!

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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