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Colorado Springs, CO

A PRECIOUS MEMORY

This story is beyond joy it is pure bliss. Even though the years have passed this memory still warms me on cold winter nights. It was one of those days in life where everything was right with the world.

It was winter and snow was in the forecast. One doesn't even have to look out the window to sense the arrival of snow. There is stillness and a remarkable silence that announces its arrival. It calls to me this night and I go to the window. I pull back the drapes and watch the snowflakes gently falling covering the earth with its white blanket. The snow lights up the night like a full moon is present.

The world sleeps, but not I. I am too full from the wonder of it all. Children are tucked away in their beds, safe and warm. And when they reach their teens it is even more of a blessing. My husband has already retired from this day and warms the bed that we share.

I leave the window and return to my resting place on the sofa. Wrap my robe tightly around my contented body and add a blanket for further comfort. The night is rich and full with its blessings and I don't want to miss a moment of it. I am queen of my castle tonight and all is well with the world.

Our dog, Jiggs, also finds contentment as he lies just below the sofa keeping me company in his slumber. My hand and heart is so full of love and life that it finds release in the soft stroking of this faithful friend. I swear I can see him smile as I stroke his head.

On that night I knew the fullness of joy that approached me and filled me. I understood profoundly what the word bliss means. Even the pain that followed later in my life cannot erase the joy and the gift of that moment in time.

Sometimes when a woman smiles into the face of her partner she reveals the sacred secrets that she carries. Her precious memory of their life together not needing or wanting anything more than to look into her partner's eyes. She smiles, plants a soft kiss. With a puzzled look on his face, he smiles back and says, "What was that for?" She does not answer, she just gives him one of those Mona Lisa smiles.

We may never know the secret behind Mona Lisa's smile, but now you know the secret behind this woman's smile. Sometimes men just don't realize how little it takes to make a woman happy.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

I have gone through a very deep and dark valley and come to a place on the other side I have never been before.

THE IDEALISTIC FOOL

Don Quixote rides again
With Sancho Panza jocularly tolerating him

The villagers are fearful of the Knight
As he passes by
Fighting the imaginary evil sorcerer

Yet after he has passed
They know something has happened
Something has changed—
The scent of freedom is in the air

PRAYER

May I un-understand

May I un-know

Throw out the garbage!

Christopher Lovette
cwlovette@cox.net

Piedmont, CA

AUTUMN OF OUR YEARS

The two of us sitting there, in silence, listening to the children's squeals and laughter
Blow across the street and float up to the deck.
The gold autumn splendor of the afternoon beckoning like an old friend
On the edges of our vision.

The two of us quiet in our retirement, our age Instilling a degree of patience
Feeding a spirituality and calmness.
Even as a fresh harvest of children frolicked and gamboled in the park
At the rim of our vision.

The two of us enjoying the magical wisdom that Invades the venerable
Knowing that "people are what they do."
That we had used our understanding and judgment to enlighten and guide our offspring
To the edge of a vision.

The two of us resting under the shadows of the hawthorn branches
Light-bearers across the ages for our sons.
In the autumn of our years reminiscing the halcyon days of their youth
Embracing those visions.

Pam Quesnoy
quesnoy@sbcglobal.net

THE SONG RUSTLING IN MY CHEST

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

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

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

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

From: No One Gets To Be Special
Poems by Laura Bayless, 2006

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

Colorado Springs, CO

NATURE

We are not
here to teach
nature anything
she teaches
us daily.

She waves to us
in the fluttering wings
of a butterfly, she rushes
by us in the swift flight of a
hummingbird. When we
finally take time to be
with her she travels
with us on those
long journeys.

She bids us
good day in the
setting of the sun,
and smiles at us with
the rise of the moon

She greets us
as we drive
through
meadowlands
and wheat fields,
through mountain
passes and tall pines.

She sings to us
in the voice of a bird,
and whispers to us in the
soft murmur of a stream.

She is everywhere,
and when we are busy
searching for the face
of the divine, she
calls out to us,
"Here I am!"

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

CRASHING DOWN

I need to be free from this house
To be free from my fanatically religious
but totally unspiritual self
Not bound by inner or outer pettiness
To understand loneliness more fully
And not put too high a price on myself

All the melodrama come crashing down
Crashing down
Crashing down
And fall away to nothingness

Melancholy my old friend
You are looking well

My true nature is gaudy cheapness
Facetious cruelty
Spoiled brat of an empire past its prime

And I think I have suffered?
—no—
that has been left for hardier souls than mine

HELL BEING

Dread causes me to fear each successive moment
The hunted under the eye of a cruel and laughing hunter
My personality reflected in the carnival hall of mirrors
The subterranean part of me struggles to surface
Digging like a premature burial in his tomb
Struggling to reach fingers into the light

And hope is born, swelling slightly in my chest
Lifting the landscape
Until I almost want to get out of bed
But glops of gooey thick red mucous infiltrate my mind
Leaving me here with this pad of paper

Conceptualizing death as a component of myself

Heavy clouds outline in blue
Sunlit white on top, gray underneath
From the pattern of a Pacific coastal storm
Blown over my home in southern Arizona
In late September so far ahead of winter

The Autumnal Equinox is tomorrow
I must tell myself of the weather and time
To convince myself there is more than nothingness here
It is so hard to chart a course
Without cardinal points and with a spinning compass
Yet I would rather die here
Than live in a servitude of certainty

Food, coffee, Valium, alcohol - even pot
Call me without a word but with desire
But I do not trust desireÕs promises
As quickly kept as they are quickly broken
Yet I wonder if I can keep them at bay for long
And if a shaft of light will come
To show me a desire that is for something else
Something more expansive, more inclusive
Christ consciousness, Buddha mind, love

The chains of my petty desires tighten
The same old struggle of flesh and spirit
Long ago consigned to the dustbin of history
By science, psychiatry, and advertisers
The tyrannical must rule

Perhaps in my struggle is my humanity

Fear and self-pity, two strong chains
Attempt to bind me in immobility
I must stop writing, get out of bed, and do something
—anything—or face paralysis

THERE IS AN ESSENTIAL UNITY, A GOODNESS

Walking to the market
The dawn sun rising over the gas station
The muted scream of traffic in waves
A Union Pacific locomotive horn in the distance

People in cars going to work
Pigeons circling a billboard and alighting on its top

I love the locomotive horn
Blowing lonely yet serene

Christopher Lovette
cwlovette@cox.net

A rose for all of the "mom's!"

Here is a poem for the season...

BEN GAY

Ben Gay, Menthalatum, and Vicks Vapor Rub
sorcerer's drugs against the cold
wielded my magicians
called Mom.

Rubbing and stuffing
slathering it all on
covered with warm tomato soup
and ginger ale.

She makes laughing stock
of scientist who say:
"There is no cure for the common cold"

She sealed it all
with a gentle kiss
a tucked in blanket
fluffed pillow
along with a promise.

"You'll be O.K.!"

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

Laura Carley
lcarley11@yahoo.com

Colorado Springs, CO

THE ASPEN

The aspens
turn gold
again,
dance like
golden ribbons
of light between
the tall, green pines.

Soon—
the mountain peaks
will be covered
with snow
announcing
its own beauty.

Yet—
somewhere
deep inside
the soul longs
to cling to
the gold
of this season,
the sunlight
of the mountains.

Nature does not cling
to the seasons
but releases
freely
what has passed.

Oh! To have
the wisdom of nature.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

SEPTEMBER 6, 1:57 pm

the shiny silver shoe
lost its little girl

decided to sit down
in the gutter
by the library
to figure it out

what to do

laying in the litter
beside the road
far from home

and little girls
with fancy dresses
that always made
the two
look so nice

at the parties
with friends
playing pin the tail
on the donkey
laughing
and drinking cool aid
till it came out of her nose

oh little shoe
I hope you find
your little girl

and dance away
till a new dawn

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

FLORAL DANCE

Look out the blue window
Into a world of breathtaking beauty
Pull aside lace curtains that obscure the view
Become the eyes of admiration
As hollyhocks dance in prim pink frocks,
Happiness their natural state

Velvety golden sunshine warms a world
Humming with bees who hover
Drunk with honeysuckle nectar
Tiny feet burdened with pollen
Glamorous morning glories tangle
Around everything they can reach,
Trumpet a pink and white melody
Open-faced flirting with
Ruby throated hummingbirds and bees

Stroll into a magical world
Where pure life welcomes you
Tall sunflowers bend their burdened heads
Nasturtiums fill every available space
With shouts of orange and vibrant yellow,
Where calendula reaches
Yellow and green arms
To the nurturing sun
Scented lush and fresh
Sweet every morning

Shirley Tofte
patshirl@mbay.net

NOT MUCH OF A PLAN
"The truth is nobody's waiting for you
to press your poetry into their hands."
Ted Kooser

Why do I continue to write,
to remark "there's a poem in that"
when a phrase seems to have a life
beyond a nominal thought,
a bit of humor with potential,
a possible narrative epiphany.

Writing the end of one chapter
opens the blank page to the next.
Certain threads of the story
carry on, new characters arrive,
create tension, mystery,
and revelation.

Poetry teaches me to begin,
set out on a journey,
allow a chainstich of thought,
elements of surprise,
to sit in silence for a while.

That's as much of a plan as there is.
Outside the hills begin to define
the horizon, black and blueblack,
Monday, a beginning,
my hand's shadow on the page,
anticipation hovering
over my shoulder.

What's the hurry...

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

FEELING GOOD POEM

Let the feel good hormones realist
In your skin.
And let the feeling good.
Feel good from within.
O let the feeling, be a healing.
From the musical redeem
Enchanting your mind.
To make feeling so find,
with the good feeling, be
find.
With the musical feeling
as a healing with good feeling.
And the stress and worry
Disappear. Let the eyes see clear.
See the good, for good feeling.
Feel good increases in you brain
Uplift it's forces from within.
It's a good feeling.
Feeling good from within.
It's one of the best thing.

Andrew R Johnson
singingvoice@gmail.com

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Carmel Valley, CA

I DON'T KNOW EXACTLY WHAT PRAYER IS
(From a line in Mary Oliver's Summer Days.)

I don't know exactly what prayer is
     but I know how it feels to wear a shawl of grace
          to grant peace its place at my table
               and to allow cares to evaporate
                    under an umbrella of calm.

I don't know exactly what prayer is
     but I do know how wordless music
          becomes more than notes
               as it lifts on butterfly wings
                    all else from my busy mind.

I don't know exactly what prayer is
     but I do know when sunlight plays tag
          with hummingbirds sipping snap dragons
               momentary stillness captures
                    my complete attention.

I don't know exactly what prayer is
     but when at ocean's edge I taste salt
          and breath-in formation and time
               I become small child
                    witness to creation.

I don't know exactly what prayer is
     but I do know when pen leaves traces of telling
          or brush glides paints on paper
               I become artist
                    and feel fully alive.

Illia Thompson
Illia99@aol.com

Dedicated to my sister Bethany attending University Of Pacific in Stockton with a scholarship in music as a singer.

HYMN AT THE GREATER EMERGENCY FOOD BANK

(Sad Stockton, mother of pearl and concrete,
Weaves liquor stores brightly connected with organic ambles
     of sluice gates, cement ponds,
Gray, jutting monoliths to boredom and the lesser figures of rap music:
Vicious chain-link tapestries,
Hung with needless diffidence across a city with no major sports teams,
But plenty of broken glass.)

Take good care of my sister, Stockton.
She's coming, she breathes, she sucks in breath and blows it back out better.
Take care she don't howl you down with her powerful lungs,
Mother of miniature ocean, Stockton.
Beware that I don't turn my pen against you from here,
Even right here on this bus I can level you,
And I am kind in warning you that my sister is stronger, so WATCH IT!

Little Stockton, you have a lovely river,
Be proud that she is stepping over it.
Graceless Stockton, you have had your meteors strike,
SHE will make you burn,
For she has Jazz a-plenty,
Some Jazz enough to stop your heart,
Should she be so inclining,
Jazz that hums and hurts like power lines,
Jazz that can crumble your Jericho harbor and stockyards.
(My sister is a one for all the music that a black, majestic swamp-witch,
     radiant with power on the deck of a paddle boat can glow-worm off.
Beware the magic, ditchdog Stockton, or she'll sink you.)

Keep your religion to yourself, Stockton,
Proselytize not to her.
She comes from a race of giants from the Northwest areas of everywhere,
And we are all behind her like the bear-cub and her mother.

Behave yourself,
Keep your dank distance,
Applaud in wonder, politely,
That such a one as she should stoop to conquer you.


Amen.

Colorado Springs, CO

TRUST

She shows me
her garden
points
nervously
at carefully
arranged flowers.

Speaks
of neatness and order.

I listen—
for hours,
for days,
for weeks.

Finally—
in the fall
amidst her
dying garden
we stand
hand in hand
witnessing
the late blooming
of a fine red rose.

Now—
she reveals to me
the deep roots
of her past
and the pain
that drove her
into this garden.

Tears
stain our cheeks
and friendship blossoms.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

Del Rey Oaks, CA

THE SCENT OF IT

In the pines
wind sounds softly
as mothers breath
cool to the face
just needles
showing motion
on the forest floor
blue jay's distant call
alight the shadows
to raise
the scent of it

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

Berkeley, CA

ESALEN LUNCH

Emptiness soup
filled our bowls.
We had a taste
then a bit more

When nothing
was left
I wondered
if there were
seconds.

Larry Ruth
ergolr@aol.com

Carmel Valley, CA

MOUNT NOUNOU

We climb 1,000 feet to the ridgetop,
     hike two miles up steep dusty tracks on unaccustomed legs,
          negotiate abrupt switchbacks.

One forbidding gully presents a choice
     between narrow ledge
or scramble up rock-strewn gulch.

I fall behind,
     stop often to catch my breath,
feel my heart's rowdy thump,
          bless
     each cool breeze.

     Wayward mists kiss
thousand-fingered leaves and brown pods
     on tamarind trees.
Zebra doves coo in Morse code.

Fragrant white plumeria blossoms
     twist free,
     tumble
into emerald beds of birdsnest ferns.

At the summit green pastures
     unfurl to the seacoast
and across another valley
          to a volcanic crater's rim.

Out on the east shore
     date palms sway,
slender dancers wearing feathered crowns.

Kauai bestows her approval
     on a draft of wind.
I discover my island bones
     on the face of the Sleeping Giant.

FREE-FLOATING ANXIETY

You think too much,
every moment
the edge
of a precipice,
your foot an inch
from stepping off
into the next chasm
where something malevolent
dozes in the shadows,
sharpens its claws
and watches you
with cynical eyes.

You're sure
the unexpected waits
for your unguarded heartbeat
to stumble and plunge
into the wicked pit
of a paradox
that invokes
spine-chilling dreams,
consumes resistance,
exhausts optimism, a riddle
without password
or solution.

You wonder if
being lost
is ever worth the coming home.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

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Colorado Springs, CO

SHANGRI LA

I would
like to speak.

Yet,
when the heart
has found its voice
the tongue goes silent.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

Fair Oaks, CA

AN UNEXPECTED GIFT

Today,
a peaceful Sunday,
reading the news
listening to the wind,
an unexpected gift
came via computer's
creative edge.

This precious offering
sprang from unknown sources:
men and women
in towns and cities
near and far
who cared enough
to share carefully selected words,
vowels and consonants
arranged in lilting phrases
and stark insights,
communal moments
that reach out to say:
yes, we are connected
we share the joys
we share the sorrows
we know what comes with this
breath called life.

Today,
a peaceful Sunday
poets send
a gift of love.

Carol Mathew-Rogers
mathewrogers2@sbcglobal.net

Marina, CA

LOOKING GOOD

I'm angry
Why are you so important?
Who put you in charge?
In fact, who even invited you here?
And why are you more important than me,
and what I want?
And why are you more important than me,
and my serenity?
And why are you more important than me,
and who I am?
Why, in the middle of making love,
do you come into my mind?
How do you have the audacity?
What gives you the right?

And why did I just wake and get out of bed,
leaving the person I love
to write this poem
For a class I barely attended
For people I've never met
For people I'll never see again
Just like I've done my entire life
Over and over again
And I'm sick and tired of it.
Fuck you, I'm going back to bed!

Alan Holmstrom
a_holmstrom@yahoo.com

Carmel Valley, CA

BELOW THE SURFACE

Deep in the tangled forest of my heart
flames rage out of control,
consume leaves and limbs,
dark stumps of betrayals,
mine and yours.
I hack myself in half
to supply the fuel.
Red flags rise and tremble,
burn down to gray coals.
In the embers I reclaim
what wants to be rekindled.

Come with me then
down to the enduring green depths
where fan corals sway and shimmer,
where a sunbeam casts arrows of light
through the sea, ignites
furtive swaying silver scales.
This is the doorway to surrender,
where the tide moves us
in and out of our unspoken walls.

TAKING FORM

I heard you say
you are a paper crane
with carefully folded beak
and wings waiting
for someone or something
to breathe you into flight.

How would it be if
you could imagine
you began with the splitting
of a few ruby cells,
a pattern incomplete,
the smallest seedling
in a forest sending down,
your slender taproot.

every day notched
and whittled by time,
each nick a deepening
of your emerging image,
all heartache groundwork
for your evolution,
imperfection a signature
of creation.

Suppose you are a natural
work of art,
continuously carved
by each raindrop,
every rasp of the wind,
taking form with every breath.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

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Colorado Springs, CO

FORGIVENESS

There is
no time left
to be angry.

What you
cannot
forgive today
will haunt you
long after that coffin
lid has been closed.

The strong wind
of regret will blow hard
against you until you
bend as the willow
bends to kiss this
sacred ground.

Begging forgiveness
for pride,
for arrogance,
for intolerance
from those souls
who were incapable
of offering the love
you so needed.

There is
no time left
for judgment.

Better to release
it here
before you
pass through
those gates where
your own judgments
will be rendered
back to you.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

New Boston, TX

AND SAND, AND SKY

I am only human, just a young man
And yet, still am I earth.
I am earth, sky and sea forever,
And none will ever take this from me.

I am old in my youth
And yet, I am young in all truth.
But though the end must come,
I will wait in patience.

For a product of earth and power am I,
And earth I will return to thee,
And beyond my strength to leave
And cease to be—only for now.

But soon my friend
United we will be,
And forever—I will caress the beach's sands,
And my soul will rest within your being.

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

Marina, CA

SICK AND TIRED

Have you ever noticed, those of you that write
that your writing is a snapshot of your life
But part of my picture is not exposed
Part of my picture has always been missing
And I'm sick and tired of it
Sick of writing to please others, never to please myself
Tired of coming from the head, seldom coming from the body
Sick of living the Clark Kent image, briefcase and all
Afraid of throwing off the glasses and ripping off the shirt

Have you ever wanted to just let go
To go crazy, to run naked down the beach
To write in bold exclamations like "Fucking-A!"
To stand on a street comer in the middle of rush hour
And scream as loud as you can
To let out that hot, steamy, primal passion
that's been pent up, held in, and shut down
that's been "nice guy'ed" and "good girl'ed" away
And just once, to eat a whole German chocolate cake
without counting calories or checking cholesterol
To write in big bold loud purple words
that color up the entire page, margins and all
To act silly, fly kites, stay up late and dance!
To smell flowers, blow bubbles, watch the moon and howl!
To break plates, throw glasses, slarn the door and swear!
To throw snowballs, baseballs, wet cottonballs and mud!
To make love all night, and call in sick the next day
Not because you're tired, because you're not done!

And a voice says, "Do It Now" or forever be sick and tired!

Alan Holmstrom
a_holmstrom@yahoo.com

Del Rey Oaks, CA

UNTITLED

In 1961, I was sitting in a coffee house
in Saratoga California called the Brass Knocker.
I would take wooden matches and light them
then blow them out and remove the phosphors
and draw with the charcoal end.

I drew the death of J.F.K.,
Man landing on the moon,
the war in Viet man
and the killing of the students
at Kent State.

I drew Watergate
and the murder
of Martin and Bobby,
the bodies beneath the dam.

I drew Man landing on the moon
and the shuttle exploding in the sky,
those two buildings falling down.

Today, in 2007,
I sit in a coffee shop
in Del Rey Oaks, California
and draw with a pen dipped in ink
and I have become speechless.

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

Piedmont, CA

PRESERVING BEAUTY

As young girls we were taught to make ourselves beautiful
As young ladies we were expected to keep ourselves beautiful
As mature ladies we were inspired to maintain our beauty
As mature women we are encouraged to manipulate for beauty

Young girls—we brushed on a little eye shadow
       Drew on some eyeliner
              Flicked on some mascara
                     Swiped on some lip gloss

Young ladies—we added some Cover-Girl make-up
       Dusted on a dash of blush
              Rolled on a bright lipstick
                     Teased some curls around our face

Mature ladies—we stepped on the dieter's scale
       Jogged the morning mile
              Plastered on evening skin creams
                     Colored our graying hair

Mature women—we are botoxing our wrinkled foreheads
       "Lifting" our fallen eyelids
              "Tucking" our bloated tummies
                     "Sucking-out" our double chins

So, what is beauty?

Were we taught to look inward?
Were we expected to calm our minds?
Were we inspired to reflect on our decisions?
Are we encouraged to replenish our spirits?

Is beauty in the "eye of the beholder" or in the heart of the beholder?

Beauty ...

Pam Quesnoy
quesnoy@sbcglobal.net

Berkeley, CA

A SATURDAY MORNING IN IRELAND
(to the mystics...)

Dawn in slivers
light on the hills
where land meets sky
and sky meets sea


Thatch of clouds and fog, feathered
gray and green, walls of jagged stone, piers,
and jetties of sky and silver, Monk's Pub
and a magic well beyond.

Left over from last night,
laughter, too little sleep,
admixture of happiness
and a bucket of stars

Down the road, a lane
from the lane, a brushy path,
off the path, skeins of seaweed
and a ribbon of sand

Through the mist,
the cuckoo calls first song
sounds and echoes
across the strand

Across Galway Bay,
a glimmer off shore
half an hour or more, barely moving
until sun touches the Rine,

illumines the hills,
southwest, the weathered
limestone and grass above
the ruins of Corcomroe

Breezes stir the swells
water laps the shore,
morning clouds brighten
and sweep patches on the hills.

The tide ripples off Rine Spit,
a shoal of cockles, mussel shells
the tip of dark cobbles and granite
carved out of Conamara,

sculpted on a whim, carried
on the waves, brought by
flooding seas, scattering spells
and splash, shining at our feet.

Larry Ruth
ergolr@aol.com

Carmel Valley, CA

FEEDING THE MUSE

I invite my muse to join me
at a bistro by the harbor,
lead her through double French doors
to a black lacquer table
with a corner window view.

We order organic Earl Grey Mighty Leaf tea
served in a flowered porcelain cup,
consider the selection of sweets,
caramel pots du creme, triple berry pie,
buttermilk scones, apple cranberry tartlet,
split a square of cheesecake.

An hour seems like three.
Words stack up behind our silence.
Tourists circle the plaza
as if stirred slowly with a wooden spoon.
Two little girls lap the domes
off their ice cream cones.

We eavesdrop on trivial chitchat,
note how the wind ruffles
the flaps on outdoor umbrellas,
ponder some fresh way to express
how cloud edges become rimmed
with bright sunlight,
close our notebook
on one more empty page
at the Nothing To Say Cafe

TWO CONVERTS AT THE DIVINE DELI

Hungry multitudes gather
at the corner of Bay and Capitola Avenue
snatch a numbered paper wafer
from the dispenser by the back door,
bow down before glassfront shrines
crammed with sandwich selections,
assorted salads, the St. Pat's Day special,
wait willingly to be served.

Down along a second aisle
domed princess cakes
cloaked in pastel ganache,
chocolate eclairs, raspberry turnovers,
and almond filled bear claws
convene in sweet processions
on white paper doilies.

My friend picks turkey and pepper jack
on a Dutch crunch roll, side of creamy coleslaw,
my delectable prize tri-tip and carmelized onions
with gorgonzola mayo, on rustic bread,
a plate of green bean and artichoke salad
with hazelnut dressing.

The gods of gourmet have decreed
this place their particular paradise
for a Saturday brunch.
We worship at the temple of taste and texture
known as Gayle's Bakery,
a satiated congregation talking in blessed tongues.

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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