Creative Edge Letter Box On Line #27

There is a myth in the Northwest that Crow returned fire to man. Fire which was so useful was stolen by the Badger people and taken to their underworld home. Crow, since he was a dark color flew into this underworld undetected. He found fire and returned it to man who is forever grateful.

CROWS EPIC JOURNEY
Lightning struck
beyond the door
flash the room
into the sun
placing time
beyond the pale
hanging seconds
in the vail
wistful shimmer
marks the tear
along the edge
of spirit land
crow
our hero
turned in flight
one wing down
the other high
through the door
before it closed
nipping feathers
with its slam
leveling off
in normal flight
pumping wings
toward the dark
farther
farther
on he went
deeper
deeper
into the mist
stirring green
toward the purple
mixing black
into the brown
with each pulse
his flying wing tips
moving forward
into unknown
inner guided
beyond by the source
no distraction
ever onward
passed the morning
passed the day
ever onward
never pausing
toward the hidden
into the night
keeping cadence
with a wing stroke
he carries
on and on
never resting
never stopping
this guided flight
far before him
barley hinted
he saw it there
now rewarded
now renewed
he did not falter
he did not pause
ever slowly
ever patient
it awaited him
to end the flight
guards were laying
watches sleeping
relaxed in vigil
crow was on it
with his beak
taking hold
with all his might
sure it burned him
of course the pain
he slowly wheeled
turning back
toward the tear
away from menace
leaving it behind
onward
onward
muscles straining
ever onward
toward the center
a new beginning
ever onward
pumping forward
the dark had lightened
with the coming
of the end
now the challenge
now the test
which direction
which belief
ever onward
toward the core
there was no flinching
never pausing
ever flying
toward the door
firmly sealed
without redemption
all the creatures
had long been gathered
waiting for
the scene to come
gathered here
in huddled circle
with each other
waiting excited
they had to see
is start to happen
lightning struck
beyond the door
flashing the room
beyond the sun
placing time
beyond the pale
crow now stood
there with the reason
standing glory
he returned the fire
into the hearth
long forgotten
long bewildered
others waited
beyond the sky
man had lost it
now returned
lacquered finished
a new beginning
was crow rewarded
certainly not
some still like him
but there are the others
who have forgotten
it was he
who returned
the warming fire
it once was stolen
by the badgers
taken away
from mortal man
now returned
in to the circle
we waited thunder
we waited death
but from the center
came the fire
a new beginning
he's surely risen
lightning struck
beyond the door.

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com
(Check out Steve's new web site
www.stevebrownartis.com)

Carmel Valley, CA

MOON SHADOWS
Under the autumn-hued
grape arbor
I linger
within the quiet light
of dusk.
The moon,
a white mare's tail
pinned to a fading blue,
sways free
of the last hour,
suspended over
a black ridge.
I hang on
to swinging silence,
remote,
delaying my own descent
into darkness.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

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Section D: .................................................................. October 15, 2008

Colorado Springs, CO

HEAR ME
I might
die tomorrow.
Will
these mere words
Help you
to understand
my great desire
To know you.
You,
have been
my quest, my longing.
How—
do we say good-bye,
When
we have not yet
learned to say hello.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

Piedmont, CA

LIFE
How we study life
     Are we hopeful and optimistic
     Or are we doubtful and cynical
     Are we energetic and enterprising
     Or are we lethargic and lazy
How we react to life
     Do we face each challenge
     Or do we hide in our daydreams
     Do we overcome obstacles
     Or do we lament life's demands
How we cope with life
     Will we walk out and meet the day
     Or will we drag our feet along the highway
     Will we stride forward into the sunshine
     Or will we let the gloom surround our hearts
I will walk out and meet the day!
I will stride forward into the sunshine!

Pam Quesnoy
quesnoy@sbcglobal.net

Carmel Valley, CA

HARD FEELINGS
All along a lush meadow
redundant rainstorms convert trails
into streams and pools,
an obstacle course reflection
of real life's recurring tempests.
Water seeps through leather shoes,
soaks thin socks,
everyday defenses no protection
from bogs and quagmires.
Scraps of hard feelings
surface
like infected wood splinters
left to fester.
Fragments of discontent
ferment and multiply.
Bitter seeds germinate
beneath verdant facades.
I seethe, scratch
what irritates, extract
toxic revenge from derelict
love affairs,
retreat to burlesque memories
to neutralize spite.
1 walk woodland paths,
attempt to evade the next cloudburst,
wait for light shed through thunderheads,
forecasts of returning rapture.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

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Section C: .................................................................. September 15, 2008

Del Rey Oaks, CA

THE MEDICINE MAN BEGAN THE DANCE
The medicine man began the dance
out beyond the silent walls
his rattle shaking away the fear
feathers moving through the air
the smoke of knowledge weaves around
to claim the space from here to there
grabbing hold between the legs
the haunting center of it all
destined to a new beginning
flight will take us through the air
as we climb into the sky the fear is gone
the night is clear
the path will lead forever on...

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com
(Check out Steve's new web site
www.stevebrownartis.com)

Colorado Springs, CO

SILENT HERO'S
Our country
stands silent we
have witnessed fire
we have seen for
ourselves the everyday
battlefield of the firefighter.
Silent heroes
men and women
so willing to give up their
own life to save another.
How does one wrap
the mind around
such courage.
Some of their soldiers
are missing along with
those they tried
to save. In this
devastation
silent heroes
raise the
American flag
and plant it firmly
in the face of terrorism.
Not a word is uttered.
With this single act
the firemen deliver
their message.
You have not won
you have not
destroyed
our symbol
this flag is who we are.
Within
the hearts
of a nation left
grieving this flag
still waves and never
has it looked so beautiful.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

Carmel Valley, CA

APRIL IN SOBERANES
Late winter rains have filled the gorge
with rangy shrubs and prolific poison oak.
Trailing threads of bindweed unfurl and sprawl
through paintbrush spikes and cactus patches.
I rub shoulders with yellow bush lupine,
hedges of blue ceanothus and thistle sage.
Pale pink morning glory runners fuse
with greasewood and strands of bird vetch.
The ravine reaches out for me, crowds
the narrow path, snags my sleeve.
I follow the trail between green canyon walls,
step gingerly across a melodic stream.
Watercress and delicate ferns merge
at the rim of water colored stone compositions.
At the entrance to the cool forest
I pass between two sentry redwoods,
follow shadowed passageways flanked by
coarse russet trunks and leafy sorrel clover.
Under the canopy of thick woods, I caress
rough bodies of trees, grasp at the truth,
gather myself for the times to come.
AUTUMN SONG
In the eucalyptus grove
light dapples a motif of crescent leaves
and empty elf cap seedpods
scattered on a shaded trail.
Boulders shaped like caskets
unearthed from a woodland graveyard
rise randomly from brushwood thickets
under laurels and cottonwoods.
A column of young quail
parades to the creek to sip
from the shallows of the stream.
River grasses fan gracefully
into clustered pinwheels
of gleaming green
in September sunlight.
An ensemble of river stones
plucks melodies from flowing water,
sends them adrift through the secrecy
of fragrant woods and tangled vines.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

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Section B: .................................................................. August 15, 2008

Pacific Grove, CA

TWO WORLDS
Flapping their wings strongly
to attain the air together,
a set of shore birds,
gulls or terns,
something white and gray,
flies into the sky
low over a calm sea.
Not an organized glide
like large, brown pelicans.
Or the frantic flutter of geese
heavy until aloft and sharing
the drag of friction in a V.
These birds race in circles
aloft, their twins a reflection
on the water below.
Two worlds, one urgent,
the other an echo.
Each as real in its own realm.
One a ghost or memory
of the ability to fly
lying reluctantly
on a mirror surface,
broken by distance
and a rising tide.

Sharon Davies
sharondavies@sbcglobal.net

Colorado Springs, CO

THE VOID
I lay in waiting
for what I do not know
is it for prey or for purpose.
The heart quickens in this
unknown space waiting
as the thistle waits for
the bud of a rose
that seeks life
from the thorn.
Waiting
as the night
waits for light
to burst upon
the horizon.
I surrender
to this waiting
as life surrenders
to death knowing that
death and dying are
a part of living.
This day has died
and a part of me
has died with it
who will I be
tomorrow
the thistle, the
thorn, or the rose

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

Carmel Valley, CA

DUNES DISCOVERY
On the cliff trail at Montana de Oro
sand shifts beneath my feet,
burns calf muscles to quivering cords.
At the waterline
vertical granite ledges align,
stacked together, stone envelopes
waiting to be mailed.
Lavender beach geranium
amass on every hillock
and are along the path.
Mists caress my face,
cloak nearby mountain
in gauzy vapors.
Patches of blue emerge
and disappear,
sea and sky in a Virginia reel
parallel union
at a coastal junction.
I am between alliances,
content to explore,
ripe with gratitude
for what materializes
and departs.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

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Section A: .................................................................. July 15, 2008

Colorado Springs, CO

POETRY
Where do you go
for these words?
Into dark places
you would not care to enter,
Nor, would you care to see.
In this space—
souls have been lost, and
are screaming to be free.
I sit, as others have
before me, looking into
hidden parts of self.
Steal, as a thief
would steal,
all the pain of the past,
all the hope of the future.
When I have gathered,
without judgment, all
that I can hold.
Then,
and only then,
am I released
To set my pen to paper.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

Tucson, AZ

From last night:

WHAT MOVES?
(haiku)
The mesquite branches
Move slowly through the moonlight
On this warm June night
The moonlight appears
Through the earthbound turning leaves
Of mesquite in June
Tucson streets line up
North to South by the Dipper
Thus so this June night
The Little Dipper
Faded by the city lights and
Desert Moon in June
The Phoenix Lander
Talking to the U of A
Desert night in June
I cannot see Mars
But the Phoenix Lander can
Red Desert Planet

Poems from El Lay:

SPIDER WEB
There on the San Pedro Headland
Live a row of bushes
And some years before my date and I
Spied a spider weaving a web among them
The light was fine
The air fresh as the thought of
The Sea of Japan
The afternoon was made for love and youth
I wonder how those bushes fared with the years?
The spider replaced by other spiders
But the bushes—
Replaced by asphalt and concrete?
Protected by the City Fathers
Ever intent on preserving tourist dollars?
I will be replaced by other writers
But the ideas—
Will they be replaced by concrete and asphalt?
SETTING UP HOUSE
Setting it up in an apartment
In West El Lay
On a hill near the 10 Freeway
Where it snakes past the San Diego
A baby came into our lives
Hers and mine
No more running around
No more sport rutting
Get a new sofa and a queen size bed
A new frig
All new stuff
Had to when we left our furnished place
Our new place was furnished with a baby
And two parents who did what they mostly all do
Wondered in awe and fear
At this little life given to them
When she grew and could walk
We took her to the park on Santa Monica Boulevard
Where we saw the heron on the island
In the pond
There we tore bread slices
And tossed them to the seagulls
Until our little one
Went and picked up a piece for herself
Our laughter came
It could not be held back
Or held on to
The time passed into memory as it always does

Christopher Lovette
cwlovette@cox.net

Carmel Valley, CA

WHETHER OR NOT
I am in the beginning of knowing
something I do not want to know,
an annoying mosquito of a lie
I have told myself.
I tolerate its presence on my hand,
permit it to sting,
but kill it with one swift slap
before it can draw blood.
I am considering
whether or not
to tear down the stronghold
that keeps the half truth confined.
Up until now
surrender has not been an option,
trumpet call for troops not sounded,
witnesses silenced.

Subliminal bulletins surface.
I torch them
with pyrotechnic tantrums.
The subtext remains nebulous.
A humble diligence disturbs
the crypt where
I believe I have concealed
my deceit.
Perhaps I will have an epiphany,
perhaps not.

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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