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Colorado Springs, CO

PEACE

Here—in the land
of the tall pines
a tiny oak
has sprouted.
No question
is asked, no
judgment delivered.

Everyone
is welcomed
in this forest.

Here—
the lion
and the lamb
lay side by side,
while the eagle
and the hawk
share a friendly sky.

This—must be
what peace feels like.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

New Boston, TX

PLEASURES OF YOU

Crystal clear
     the blue that shines,
your eyes reflect
     shadows of my mind;
emotions full, ocean blue
deep and dark, surrounding you.

     See just how far
lips that touch,
     deep inside
yet still shallow
     leaves me soft and mellow.

Soft to touch earlobe,
     lips to kiss
a body to probe
     nothing small to miss,
     let me come inside
down and deep,
     always confide;
rest my child, woman-child
only the feast we did partake;
     drive away the beast
that aroused passion.

Monte Stafford
Telford Unit #290328
P.O. Box 9200
New Boston, TX 755570

Carmel Valley, CA

A LIGHT BY WHICH WE MAY SEE

Light in spring is different
than light in fall
or summer or winter.
Seasons blend into one another,
not so clearly defined,
sometimes arriving early
or lingering late.

Down by the river
light is tempered
by the hulking shadows
of high ridges
and dense trees,
not nearly enough sunlight hours
for tomatoes, plenty of shade
for begonias, rhododendron.

But up on a south-facing
rim of the valley
nighttime reveals it variables
of starlight and moonlight,
tempest-cloud pageantry,
the subtleties of never
the same light twice.

A September lightning storm
spawns crackling chains of fire,
illuminates the darkness,
circles the sky and returns.
The mysterious luster of a haloed moon
emits enough soft glow to bathe in,
as a goddess might have done
in ancient times to call forth magic.

Countless hues of summer tinge
the air at the precise moment
of sunrise with pastel light,
pink, coral, lavender, and gold.
Even on a dreary winter day
infinite shades recast themselves
in a pastiche of gray.

One has only to observe
a single spring green leaf
as it turns into an opaque gem
glimmering in a beam of morning light
to be forever beguiled,
a light fanatic.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

Marina, CA

THE ANGEL

There is an
aching,
gnawing,
uncomfortable feeling
Deep inside my gut

It's been there for weeks
It never leaves for long
It wakes me up earlier and earlier
And I can't go back to sleep

Thinking of her
Of what we had
Of what I miss
Of what I fear

I don't feel like reaching out to a soul
Including my own

But then, as I sit by myself
In a strange restaurant, in a strange town
An "Angel"
(disguised as a waitress)
notices my pain and sits with me
talks of her pain and her healing
touches my shoulder and touches my heart

I feel alive
I sleep all night
There is hope
How much do you tip an angel?

Alan Holmstrom
a_holmstrom@yahoo.com

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Colorado Springs, CO

Today, I am being reminded of what we may all leave behind when we lack the courage to tell our story.

THE MEMORY BOX

This box
called memory
is empty now.
I have, with
eyes content,
photographed
the pain and
the joy of the past.

Placed it in a
large album
and left it
for others
to praise,
or criticize.
I have laid down
the need to cling
to that earlier journey.

Here—I sit
staring out at
the world with
its hurried pace.
No more
will I clutter
this memory box
with the burden
of things left undone.

Instead—
I will fill the
bare walls of
this treasure cove
with my deepest longing
and my greatest hope.

And—
this time
I will save a
place for me.

ANOTHER WOMAN

I wish
she could
have told me
who she was.

No fairy tale
ending to her life,
no grand footprint
marked her way—
just another woman
living another day.

Did she
know love, or
did it pass her by.

Did she miss it all?

I do not recall
for she took
her story
with her
that final day.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

New Boston, TX

THOUGHT

Today I thought a wonderful thought,
A thought only a thinker could've thought,
A thought so wonderful
Only a non-thinker could've bought,
A thought so intriguing
Only a searcher could've sought;

I think I thought a wonderful thought today,
Which was a wishful thought I sought,
But much to my dismay
I was actually dreaming
Which was all so seeming
That I thought my dreamer's dream
Was a thinker's thought,
When it really did seem
The thinker's thought I sought;
But when I woke from my thoughtful sleep,
The dream I think I thought
Was nothing to keep,
Because the thought
I think I sought
Was only a dream
That happened in my sleep.

Monte Stafford
Telford Unit #290328
P.O. Box 9200
New Boston, TX 755570

Tucson, AZ

ADDICTED

On the way to the stage
he still looked
for his adoring fans
—especially the ladies—

when he sang
they were all beautiful
—everyone—
when they looked his way
and the gnawing inadequacy
where his chest used to be
filled out a little bit
—again—

After the show
Somewhere
—between the dressing room and the limo—
it caved in
he couldn't feel anything anymore
there was not even a hint
of who he was anymore

He wiped his nose with the back of his hand
smearing the white powder underneath his nostrils
quietly sobbing for his mother

I was in Phoenix for the weekend and on April Fool's Day... and took a trip to Scottsdale... I did meet a nice old guy blowing the leaves out of a parking lot. When I asked him where I could get a cup of coffee, he said wait five minutes and he'd brew up a pot in the hair salon belonging to the man paying him for the work. So I got some coffee and advice to go to Chaparral Park, and I did. It has a large skinny lake stocked with trout, catfish, bass, joggers, bikers, fisherfolk and such. That is where "Addicted" was born. After writing it I played guitar and sang in the park for a while, which I can do tolerably well... The coyote is real. I saw him on the one day it snowed last winter. He was out and about inspecting the unexpected new color of his house: white. He didn't have the concern to evade me, probably perplexed by his interior decorator. He might be part dog, I don't know, but other than the chow-like hairdo obviously coyote and obviously a wild animal.

SONORAN DESERT SEQUINS

Water Reclamation Project Basin

Gone the bone dry look of winter
New fish have sprung into the air
Where the quadrangle sky opens
Not yet the withering fire of summer
Garments of green for each cottonwood

Drought

Look at the longing glances of clouds
With love as pregnant as summer rain
But more like empty promises, passing fancies
Look at the ponds, empty as a skullŐs eyes
Except for wet scum, like pottery fired in hell

The Cast of Characters

Gambel's quail are singing in the choir
The male coyote maned like a red fox
Nothing left of the jackrabbit except bony fur
The cautiousness of a bounding cottontail in creosote
The favorite is last, a Mimbres painted roadrunner

Chris Lovette
cwlovette@cox.net

Del Rey Oaks, CA

Two years ago my daughter, Holly, called to say that Keri, her best friend wanted one of my paintings. Keri had grown into a wonderful woman and was now earning some money as an intern in a law firm while she went to law school, since she had always liked my art she was going to buy one, and I was flattered to say the least. When she and my daughter, as children, would visit me they often slept in my studio and would make art there.

My answer was a hearty "sure" so arrangements were made.

When they came there was a whole party including Keri, her mom Diane, dad Mike, her boyfriend Steve and of course my daughter. We spent a truly wonderful afternoon on our deck looking at my paintings. Keri finally decided to purchase one of them. The only cloud on the day was that Diane was ill from radiation treatments for cancer, but all seemed to be going well.

As they left Keri took me aside and told me that her mom and dad liked another of my paintings and that she would buy that one also so the agreement was made.

For many reasons it did not really work out as planned, so I decided to give them the painting. This whole family had treated my daughter very well and I like my work to go where it is loved.

How little we know about what the future will have in store.

A few months later Holly called to say Diane's cancer had returned and she was now confined to her bedroom. Holly told me that the painting was hung by Diane's bed so that she could see it. It seemed to make her feel better.

I cannot explain the rush of feeling that I had. I could not and would not ask one of my pieces of art to do something that wonderful and certainly could not have planned it or even painted it with that in mind.

Last Saturday, Holly called to tell me that Diane has passed on.

Here is the poem that I wrote.

UNTITLED

it came
          on a fine
                    spring day
as we had known
          it would
expected
          but unwanted relief
          and confusion
it is better
          now
but why the pain?
          why the agony?
we will never know

at the horizon
          is spread
                     a universe
so many ripples
          on the pond
some reflect
          blue sky
some announce
          the coming night

on a fine
          spring day

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

Carmel Valley, CA

CRAVINGS

I toil in the place of deficiency,
plead silently for easier tasks,
less grief,
for the six deer I watch trot single file
at the edge of the road
to dawdle a few moments longer
before they turn and disappear
into the thick chaparral on the hill.

Let me find what is lost,
what I don't know yet I yearn for,
a little tenderness,
unblemished ripe black cherries
too early in the season,
the perfect last line of a poem.

I thirst for whatever my throat desires,
crave a cool stream of fingertips
flowing over the parched husk of my body.

I take photographs to hold on
to unrelenting time, cling to hope
like the frail string of a kite
the wind might pluck from my grasp
at any time.

But, now and then,
I go down to the rock-bound coast
and lie on the nomadic sand,
gradually settle into the rhythm
of the unbridled sea,
slip my thoughts under the persuasion
of a dissolving wave,
arrive after a timeless interlude
to a place of not-wanting.

ESALEN PARABLES

On a rock-lined path
next to the meditation room
a gypsy stream flows
through fern-lined channels.
White froth cascades
beneath the jagged ends
of a broken log,
perfectly fragmented.

Behind the roundhouse
under a massive boulder
survivors have placed icons
of their departed
into hallowed ground
robed in a green shawl
of baby tears.

On this day one more
mourner hollows out
a small cleft, deposits
a portion of ashes,
covers what's left with moss,
chants to join her losses
in the hereafter.

In the sea, at the edge
of a sheer cliff,
a ridge of granite boulders
forms an impediment
to the advancing tide.
Waves spill over its shoulders,
swirl and eddy on either side,
as if invisible hands were circling
and blessing what remains constant.

Evening, the sun descends
into a window of clearing
in the fog bank.
Below the sill
light still shines,
nothing completely gone.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

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Colorado Springs, CO

FERTILE GROUND

The soul does not
ask you to stand
for anything.
It does
however
ask you to fall
apart consistently
over and over again.

Until
you finally
surrender that
which was never
yours to begin with.
Until grief
and loss
let loose to
nurture the earth
that supports you.

At these times
the song
of the soul
will not be found
in the heavens.
It lies here
in the mud
with you.

Singing—break free.

Even—
the lowly worms
that you now bed with
have wings
let them
teach you how to fly.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

New Boston, TX

THE ME

Defenseless animated clown I am,
I'd rather hate to be though
One like you or them.

Mean and cruel beast I feel to be,
I'd rather like it though
If I were more like you than me.

Eagle bold am I,
Yet still cold am I,
You look at me as though
You could hate me enough to kill
My good kindly will.

Benevolent nature
I'm a nocturnal creature.

I want to do some good
Like I know I should,
But I'd like to hurt
So I could feel it worth
The pain I've felt,
The pain I've caused.

UNTITLED

On a cold plateau—

I am,
Forever in destiny's embrace
Clinging to this parody
     Of life.
I search, I reach
     I find...
          Existence.

Monte Stafford
Telford Unit #290328
P.O. Box 9200
New Boston, TX 755570

Tucson, AZ

UNTITLED

The great God's life
Pulses within all the world
Living and knowing
Unfathomably loving
Beyond all my mind's contradictions

Only the dead are complete
Beyond contradiction
Not lifeless and forlorn
But unmasked and wise

What can I know now
Except faith to go on
Threatened by a world full of madness
Calmed by a peace within

Focused on the journey
And the divine knower, beyond all, within


ENTER THE CULTURE CLOWNS

"They also serve who only stand and wait."

Waiting. The ultimate end game. Waiting for the missing piece. To complete me. For the last wave to kiss the shore and unite sea and land into one beyond both forever without end. The kiss of God upon the mouth of the spirit. Yet how can mortals speak of such things?

How can I
A mortal being bound to die
Speak of such things and not lie?

The Way of the Cross will be the road I take
All the rest I now fake

A little thirst, a little drink, and then
A light in yonder window once again

Where does, pay up or shut up,
All the grass grow greener?
Where Mary is to Jane as mean to meaner

And meaning, if you please sir,
Is the fashion
But please sir, if you please sir,
Give me passion

The social worker came to visit yesterday
To work upon my disability
She tested my aptitudes for gainful employment
To find for me a vocation
"you, sir" said she
"a merry fool will be"

Chris Lovette
cwlovette@cox.net

Del Rey Oaks, CA

ASLEEP IN A GYM BAG

I will never forget
The little boy on the bus
From Todo Santo
To Cabo San Lucas

Finally curled up in sleep

Sanctuary from his day
Selling with his sisters
Mayan treasures to tourists

Who glance off of the poverty
That grinds the light from
His seven year old eyes

Like his sisters
Faces now blank
from too much life

He lay there clinging to
A small dog hidden in a
Castoff gym bag
Thrown away by a tourist

Full of dirty socks
Soiled underwear

The perfect home
For our big eared pup

They now are sleeping
Chin to chin
Neck to neck

Each knowing and hoping
That the other will lead

Away from this dark
To avenge the crimes
On their Mayan people

In their dreams
They return to the jungle
With its bug noise tree snap life

As is should have been

Instead of on the back of the bus

Sleeping exhausted
With his guide

In a cast off
Gym bag

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

TRANSITIONS

A stone throw from four palms near a fountain
In the heart of silicon desert
Summer dislodged spring from the low hills
Sucking dry every spring
Suffocating purple lupines in knee high weeds
Bleaching saturated green
With pale rusty rye grass.

Green footsteps mark spring's retreat
To the cool hill tops
Hanging its tongue of liquid green
Down the shallow ravine
Deriding summer's hot breath.
In the circle of green shadow under the oak tree
Spring makes a last defiant stand.

When summer is firmly established on the last hilltop
I will follow spring into the mountains.
White blooming dogwood
Will fool the eye with showers of snow.
Striding through fields of purple columbine
To the frozen lake gripped by nightly frost
Spilling spring's gift for four palms near a fountain.

Franz Spickhoff
franz@znet.com

Carmel Valley, CA

FEBRUARY

In winter deciduous trees
strip down to their essential bones,
weather-scarred trunks and limbs,
the last few curled leaves of fall
brown punctuation on twig tips.
Bare branches sketch themselves
in bleak filigree against a silver canvas.
Frozen buckwheat, woodmint,
and sage shrivel into skeletal gardens.

I want to burn away my flesh,
freeze irrelevant fragments,
peel the facade back to my core,
live through a season of frost and fire
to discover what is elemental,
what regenerates.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

Carmel Valley, CA

OBSERVATION

waves care not.
that I expound
on their vibrant performance
and display of lace,
upon, a craggy shore

fire needs not
my appreciation
to display
     orange red tongues
consuming kindling
in campfire blaze

yet... maybe...
     the surf crashes
just a bit, more loudly
     and flames burn
just a bit more brightly
     during my presence.

I'd like to think
     being seen
          matters.

Illia Thompson
Illia99@aol.com

Colorado Springs, CO

GRACE

I did not mean
to turn my
back on you.
The reflection
that mirrored
back to me
was full of
judgment.

Whether
self-imposed,
or taught
there it was.

For the
world
I mirrored
a different face,
but for you
I offered nothing.
The mirror became
my confessional.

Not until some
invisible hand
removed the glass
that separated us
did I come to
realize that the
face you show
is the face
shown back to you.
Especially the face
you show to yourself.

Now—when I greet
you grace is present.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

New Boston, TX

TREK ACROSS MY SUBCONSCIOUS

Remote,
Vast and alien,
Isolated—


Nowhere in place or time.

Cold and silent,
Darkness
Stretching away into infinity...

UNTITLED

I saw
And I wondered,

I felt,
Then I loved...

I miss you—
Now I hurt.

Monte Stafford
Telford Unit #290328
P.O. Box 9200
New Boston, TX 755570

Piedmont, CA

WOMEN OF A CERTAIN AGE

We are "women of a certain age"
     wise, experienced, and sage

But still as young at heart as when

At the age of 25 we read Last Tango in Paris,
     then ate popcorn while watching Night of the Iguana,
          we traveled to romantic Venice,
               we viewed Dark Shadows on TV,
                    partied at clubs with friends so pleased,
                         and walked across Amsterdam under the trees

But still as young at heart as when

At the age of 55 we read Under the Tuscan Sun, then
     ate popcorn while watching When Harry Met Sally,
          we traveled to fun-filled Disney World,
               we viewed Murder She Wrote on TV,
                    partied in the park with neighbors so pleased,
                         and walked across Piedmont under the trees

Is it a cliche that we "women of a certain age"
          do not feel like "women of a certain age?"
Because of "the continuity of consciousness,"
          We are the same person we had always been
until we looked in the mirror and had seen?

The face .....

Maybe the difference between
the face in the memory
and
the face in the mirror
is small,
not keen

Hey, let's do something unfit for our age
Filling all the young folk with shock and outrage
Keeping our hearts soaked with wit and courage, Yeah!

Pam Quesnoy
quesnoy@sbcglobal.net

Colorado Springs, CO

LIFE BLOSSOMS

Did you listen today? Did you touch today?

Forget about tomorrow.

There is no place
to go, nothing
needs to be done.
If you miss the
moments of
the day the
years will
not matter.

It is the
gentle touch,
the warm embrace,
a soft kiss on the cheek
that will be remembered.

The heart is a record keeper.

It is not
concerned with
the many words that are
spoken, but grows stronger
in the acts of kindness we perform.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

San Antonio, TX

The other night after I got into bed, lights out and everything and I started to pray, I asked God if He wanted me to continue to write more poems. Suddenly out of the clear the title of this poem popped into my head. Well, it was about 2 a.m.; so I said I would put it down in the morning. The answer came back. NO, do it now. Again, I thought sleepily that I would do it in the a.m. later on. No! So I found a pencil and a plain piece of paper seemed to appear out of nowhere. I usually write on the back of envelopes etc. I wrote the title down, and the words followed it until the end.

QUESTION NOT GOD'S PLANS

From the day we are born there was a plan
The plan emulated from God, not from man
Both innocent by virtue and by birth,
Times there are questions that circle the earth.
"Why was I put here?" The question is why
We may know tomorrow, or the day we die.
We work and we slave to climb to the top
Sometimes it doesn't seem wrong not to stop.
From hurting others to get our own way.
Tremble. for comuppance may come today.
For it is true what goes up, must come down,
A mean heart can turn a smile into a frown.
Just stand aside, ask for God's helping hand,
For it's not our will, but what God has planned.

Shirley Smalley Price
robert-p7998@sbcglobal.net

Del Rey Oaks, CA

SUNRISE BLESSING

Sunrise blessing giving praise.
Orange purple fills the sky.

Upon and to the coming day
we offer up a simple prayer.

Birds stir...
a far away sound.

The crow wings over
and gives its call.
"...cracaw... cracaw."

Shafts of light
caress the trees.

Giving to the leaves
a thirsty drink,
of light and soul.

Sunrise blessing giving praise.

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

Colorado Springs, CO

I have debated about sending this piece because silence after all is silent. But, perhaps even silence desires a voice. I salute all those who by circumstances or by choice have been forced into silence.

THE GIFTS OF SILENCE

I so appreciate all the words that we use in our daily language. But I appreciate even more the silence between the words. I fell in love with silence years ago. This, Temple of Silence, houses all the unspoken words that others left behind for us to contemplate, or bring forward with a new energy, a new light. Or, just to honor the deep silence they left behind. To heal the wound of failure that they felt their silence created.

Perhaps, The Temple of Silence is a burial ground, or the place of resurrection. So fine tuned is the world of silence that the ear first shivers when the sound of silence is heard. So high pitched is its sound... vacant, void, deafening. The mind screams for attention, yells, begs for escape. Yearns to chatter about nothing about everything. And yet something in me stays. I listen, I yearn, and I desire its wisdom, its direction. At last... silence speaks.

I love the silent rise of the foot before it places its footprint firmly on the path of life. I love the silence in the rise of a wave before sound crashes this silence to the shore. I love the silent language of the body when the voice betrays what the body is trying to tell us. I love the silent language of the eyes as we chatter about useless things. In these foolish moments how much more we could say if we just fell silent and let the eyes speak our truth.

I love every pause between the words, the hesitation, and the deep intake of breath before we speak, the way the eyes go vacant as they try desperately to override the voice. Even a lie becomes a gift when you can hear the silence of truth between the words.

Maybe that is why intimacy is important to us. The body, the eyes, the breath speak. The voice falls silent. And in that marvelous silence we are whole again, we are home again. We join in that silence and love finds a voice.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

Berkeley, CA

FOURTEEN LINES WITHOUT

Give up the idea that a job was or is
the brightest best blue-light beacon

just say: it's gone now—that organizing
purpose, self infused with schedule, life

distilled, settling somehow permanent
lynchpin of you held fast, that you held

on to, beginning and without end amen
fifteen years talk and teach, time enough

now apprenticed again, unlearning, learning
ten thousand fathoms under the third moon

On long journeys, choose some kind diversion
architectonics and absolution, a double diving

half-twist inverted Mobius curving pay-to-play
Look—fourteen blackbirds flying along the way.

Larry Ruth
ergolr@aol.com

Tucson, AZ

THANKSGIVING DAWN
(for the community at New Camoldoli)

I stole my very life from you my God
And now I give it back to you again
Although I'm worn out by the life I've led
To you I am your child all soft and new

My cares and troubles follow me to you
Like noisy squirrels barking their disdain
From trees of worry grown in years of pain
Let suffering now have its holy rest

In you I will abide and not be moved
For you there is no change or fading light
Although for me there comes approaching night
A little sleep and then I'll wake again

All things in perfect joy so fresh and clean
The old made new beloved One with you

Chris Lovette
cwlovette@cox.net

San Jose, CA

Here is an exercise to share: Taking a poem like Anna Akhmatva's below, reverse the first and last lines filling in your own poem in between as I have done.

Your heart must have no earthly consolation
You must not cling to either wife or home.
Take the bread out of your own child's mouth
and give it to a man you do not know.
You must be the most humble servant
of the man who was your desperate enemy
and call the forest beast your brother.
Above all, never ask God for anything.

Anna Akhmatova.

UNTITLED

Above all, never ask God for anything
when you step off the trodden trail
into the void of the wooded ravines,
into shrunken horizons.
Be selective picking your foot steps,
a broken ankle may be deadly.
Nobody can see you here,
nobody can hear your cry for help.
You must trust your own shadow
to stay the course to your destination.
If there is no sunshine you must take extra care
not to walk in circles.
Keep your mind focused and you feel no fear, also
your heart must have no earthly consolation.

Franz Spickhoff
franz@znet.com

Carmel Valley, CA

SAY WHAT YOU LOVE

Say you love the cloud
that rises from your mug,
scent of black tea and color
that consoles as you swallow
the morning's warmth.

Say you love that one tender leaf,
its saw-blade outer edge,
tessellated green capilaries,
how it quivers, flexible when new,
how it curls in the last heat of Indian summer
and withers into brown fragments
that inscribe its myth.

Search for words to say
how the crest of an afterthought
is the mending point
in your tattered world.
Describe the slim curve of the waxing moon
that gleams brightly at dusk
or shadow patterns beneath
a very old oak on the hill.

Say you love a firm hug,
kindly tone of concern in a friend's voice.
Take the irritating complaint
at the brink of your teeth
and tuck it into the pocket of your cheek.
Say what you love instead,
the fresh taste of the first rain
on the chill hint of winter,
the sweet bite of cinnamon.

ALWAYS POINT LOBOS

I hope you can understand
how the rift in my heart draws together
and begins to mend,
whenever I wander through the meadow
and come to the rocky spine of the coast
on the third anniversary of a loss,

and how sorrowful cries of gulls
form an Elysian song to stem
the shower of tears sure to spill
if I revisit the morning shadow of death.

I want to describe how sunlight
pours through a gap in dark clouds
and gathers in a gleaming pool
on the surface of the sea, just for me.

My solitude here is a palpable thing,
huge and tactile, expanding and contracting.
I inhabit its shape-shifting mist,
reluctant to take up the threads of my life,
as if it mattered to anyone.

I want to read to you the handwriting
in the scattered calligraphy of kelp
on the sands at Gibson Beach,
show you how incoming breakers
create their own renaissance.

I want you to know this place
the way I know it, the piney woods,
rock roses surviving in granite fractures,
black-suited congregations
of cormorants on bird rock,
placid jade inlets framed in narrow coves,
the great white cloudships
heading south across the horizon.

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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