Creative Edge Letter Box On Line #26

There is much to relate about Balinese Hindu beliefs, but for me, standing alongside the low wall of the "Royal Temple's" inner courtyard, the visual and the feelings inside me collide. The temple appears empty aside from several cats lounging in the shade...

To the bafflement of Indian Hindus, there are no images in the inner temple, thus the look of emptiness. "We do not know what they looked like, the gods." But standing beside the wall looking across a narrow watery canal of lotus, the palpable vibration full of meaning unavailable to my western sorting, cataloguing mind belies the concept of "empty."

My cells understand what my mind can only flirt with like a mosquito looking for a blood meal. The inner temple, the jungle, the beach, the volcanoes, the flowers, the monkeys, the air, everything and everyone vibrates with what I would call spirit, that which is unseeable, unnameable, but not imperceiveable. This, to me, is Bali.

SACRED MONKEY FOREST SANCTUARY
Morning. Muggy. Cool.
Taupe-colored prehensile Macaques
Scamper, mock-battle, groom,
Nurse the youngest.
An attendant tossed bananas.
The monkeys grab, run-off
Peel and gobble.
It's snack time.
It's food scramble time.
It's monkey time
Here in the steamy jungle
Set aside to honor
Hanaman, the monkey god
Who saved Sita, queen
Of Rama in the Hindu tale
Of Ramayana.
We don a simple sari
Tied around the waist,
Walk through the gate
Into the forecourt
Of the temple.
A "good man" prepares offerings.
A square of green leaf,
Fruit, flowers, peanuts, incense.
He places them everywhere,
Performing a blessing,
As do Balinese everywhere
On this small island.
He lays them beside trees,
Flicks water and blessings.
He lays them where two
Paths cross to ward off
The evil spirits.
He lays them in front
Of gateways,
In front of stone carvings
Piled one on top of another,
Gods of the Hindi,
Spirits of the forest,
The river, the sky,
Everything.
The courtyard shifts
As if a doorway
To the gods has opened.
The air changes,
Bathes my spirit
In this jungle
Of mounting heat
Surrounded by shops
And commerce,
Blessings for us all.

Sharon Davies
sharondavies@me.com

Carmel Valley, CA

GUARDIAN
Keep me from closing the gate,
from building the fort stronger
and the windows smaller.
Describe for me
the union of black swans,
the moment pollen alters
the center of a peach blossom,
how seasons arrive.
Open the sky
and toss me an epic poem
that becomes my journey.
Don't sell me any more locks,
any more reasons to drift
alone through the world.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

Colorado Springs, CO

THE RETURN
It is spring—
Persephone rises again,
Reaches out
her hand to another,
The trees
burst into bloom.
The sun
smiles upon the land,
She blinks—
and pauses.
Such beauty,
requires a moment of prayer.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

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Section D: .................................................................. April 15, 2009

San Rafael, CA

THE KINGDOM OF THE GRAIL
Not intellect or intuition, education or experience,
Singly or jointly, can chart the geography of the Heart.
Love alone can see the beauteous meadows in the Waste Land.
Love alone can find in its arid desert the deep springs
That water its invisible grasses and its shade trees.
Unaccompanied by Love, the Soul must suffer the storms
Which rage on the cliffs of the Heart; must wonder endlessly
Through the Waste Land's desert. Without Love,
The wounded Fisher-King must float forever in his boat,
Unable to heal, unable to die, his castle everywhere and nowhere.
And untll he himself is filled with Love,
Parsifal, unable to ask his first question,
Which is the World's Last Question, will watch the Holy Grail
Parade past him, and disappear, one more time.
All this, until "The Day" when Love, following only its own logic,
Throws open the way to the highlands of the Heart;
And the Soul, then finding there no Waste Land
But a Kingdom ready to explode into blossom;
Then finding there "that all things are well
And all manner of things are well."
Takes up its own true role nurturing with its own love
The Kingdom of the Grail.

Rick Nelson
RandLNels@comcast.net

Colorado Springs, CO

THE WORD
First there was
the word
then the
sound
of word
stretched
itself through
vocal chords
through poets
pen and artist brush
each chord
struck by the
delicate touch
of the harpist hand
and the word was made
flesh and dwelt among us.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

Del Rey Oaks, CA

LUPIN PEEKING
When the silver grass
of morning springtime
glistens
hillside
flower bond
against the green
lupin peeking
purple sheen

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

Pacific Grove, CA

Yogyakarta, Indonesia

Indonesia is hot and beautiful. Java, 80% Muslim was a picture postcard of green rice fields and thick, moist air. The afternoons were gushers! The clouds opened and poured out forever! Mornings were slightly cooler but steamed up quickly. By 10:30 in the morning it was so hot that sun screen had washed itself away. All that kept me from burning was a $2 umbrella made from lacquered paper I bought in Bangkok.

I was charmed by our guide who glowed with his beliefs! He spoke of going on the Haj, the once in a lifetime pilgrimage to Mecca and light shone from his very pores. The young people were particularly enchanting, and irritating at the same time. They would stare at us like we were exotic creatures when it was the other way around for us! They wanted to put us in their pictures, talk with us. They nearly petted our skin. On the other hand, they chattered and giggled relentlessly so it was like a gaggle of geese filling the air with their noise,...I yearned for peace and quiet, especially in the temples. The heat, the humidity (and this is the "cool" season), the strength of the place was almost overwhelming.

JAVA
Behind me on the path
A long stand of bamboo
Yellow trunks with thin
Brown rings bend
Slightly in a breeze.
Slender green leaves rattle
Like small gourds.
In front, a golf course
Nine holes daily scattered
With young ladies in lime
Colored pants, hats, shirts
Pulling golf bags
For customers.
Or in brown, sweeping
Leaves, filling in divits
With dirt from a small bucket.
All around me, bushes,
Large and small, birds calling
Warm, humid morning air.
I stand in a sea
Of magnetic forces
My palms are one pole,
The earth, the sky,
The air I breathe, another.
As I move through Tai Chi
My spirit calms.
A sleepless night falls away,
Memories of standing
At the top of Borobudur
In Java, Indonesia.
The heavy chaos inside me
Sense of desperate searching
For a way out.
At the top, only stupas, 72
Each of stone blocks,
Bell-shaped. Each with Buddha
Life-sized inside.
Most without heads
Lost to marauders,
Treasure seekers,
Adventurers,
Souvenir seekers.
Below, 5 million stones
On 7 levels, carved
With Buddha's mysteries,
His life, his meditations,
The life in Java
In 9th century
When this monument,
This temple,
This giant mandala
Was constructed.
11 centuries of tones
Holding the shape
Of a teaching,
Absorbing the energies
Of monks, people,
The relentless sun,
Rain, steamy green
Of Java, radiating
Blessings of devotion.
The energy source
Within the fabric
Of these stones
Is so strong
I can barely
Stand upright,
Cannot think at the top
Where these stupas
Represent emptiness,
The enlightment of Buddha,
Who could cross a field
And all battle would cease,
Who could make the starving
Feel blessed,
The sinner to cease,
Because sin is only
Turning away from this
Huge ocean of emtiness
That draws outlines
around my thoughts,
my feelings of fear,
my sorrows and aging body
Undoes the knots
I've tied to keep
Myself together
Blows away all
my small pieces
inot the dense, warm morning
air, into the sunshine
breaking free of mists,
into the sky above,
the volcano in the distance,
the green jungle
and rice paddies,
the $2000 a night resort
on the hill,
the simple hotel
where we didn't sleep well
last night.
I cannot find my pieces,
Cannot bring them together
With Tai Chi
Cannot feel the magnetic pull
Of my own palms.
Cannot withstand the chatter
Of a 1000 muslim youngsters
Wanting to speak English,
Have a picture with us,
With our tall white skin,
Our foreignness.
I can only regain my balance
By descending the levels,
Taking photos of carved
Faces in stone,
The camera drawing
My eyes into focus again,
By sitting on a rock,
Letting the chaos
Of emotions
Pour down out of air
Through the top of my head,
Somehow making its way
Through thickened tissue
Onto a page of paper,
Scriggly lines of letter,
Blocks of meaning
To focus my thought again
Into recognition.
Was this a past life
Where I was killed,
Thrown from the top?
Or the influence of an image,
A movie, a bood
A spoken suggestion?
Or must I walk simply
Throughout this earth
Chronicling how the land feels
In this century
Of my lifetime.
Perhaps I'm a living tablet,
A scribe of inner landscapes
Shaped by all I see,
All I hear and smell,
All I feel.

Sharon Davies
sharondavies@me.com

Carmel Valley, CA

TORMENT
Some where a poem
is waiting
to be written—
lies behind a gauze curtain
of seamless clouds,
shuffles under the couch
with the tussocks of dust
just out of reach,
beyond the sweep of my mind.
I might hold out my hand
every day
in absolute faith,
listen for the prelude,
the piccolo squeal of gate hinge,
and still not find it.
Some where a poem
is standing watch
at the tiller
through the long night
beneath the Milky Way,
holding its breath
just before sunrise,
tacking into the storm,
preparing to cast anchor.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

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Section C: .................................................................. March 15, 2009

Del Rey Oaks, CA

HIROSHE
Hiroshie sitting on his
front porch
thinking
about his friends
who died
for the Emperor
and tries to rationalize
the Buddha
and death and killing
starts to make tea bowls
one for each person
killed
in the war

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

Pacific Grove, CA

Traveling in Vietnam.

Hoi An—(Gathering Peaceful). It used to be a major sea port in central Vietnam. Japanese and Chinese traders lived peacefully with the local inhabitants plying their trade in the south China Seas. In the early 17th century, a Portugese ship captured a Japanese trading ship, thus causing Japan to "lose face." The Emperor called all ex-pats home and the Chinese bought up their homes on the water front street. Over time, the locals cut down the Iron Wood forests up river and the resulting deforestation, flooding silted over the harbor and the land, adding islands where none were before. The large ships moved on to other ports and Hoi An is now a peaceful, pretty tourist town along the Haoi River.

HOI AN IMPRESSIONS
Egrets fly off when we stop,
wings white against bright green paddies,
bent backs of rice planters
feet deep in water,
plastic ponchos and rubber boots,
connical hats against the sun,
today the slow rain.
Water buffalo twist away from their tether
ducks and geese penned by the stream,
rice growing green
rain falling
villages, children
returning home from school
"hello" wide grins
from girls and young boys
mother's instructing toddlers to wave.
Older boys make grimace
and rude noises.
I'd like to think the gian palm fronds
are waving, green against a gray sky,
to background Flaminco music
on this French influence terrace,
that the limp branches hanging
by the gracefully ringed tan trunk
has been overcome with emotion,
bows its head in awe of the dancing
all around. But I know
it is broken by swift winds
along the Haoi river

Hue—it is raining and everything looks grim beneath a gray sky...damp, broken pavement, everyone wearing plastic ponchos so it looks a sea of moving plastic flowers along the streets. Often the 2nd person on a motor bike is completely covered with the poncho of the driver, like a short dragon with 4 sets of legs, 2 wheels.

HUE
The skies opened gray and wet,
January rain in Hue.
Not quite cold.
Not quite drenched.
Not quite anything
But dampening.
This is a day to kindle
Our own spirits
With inner fires
That burn despite the weather,
The grayness everywhere
Except within.

Sharon Davies
sharondavies@me.com

Colorado Springs, CO

RELATIONSHIPS
Spoon feeding
your affection
is not
necessary
I am grown now
and can take
larger doses.
I choke on the
pabulum
you feed me
Give me
something
I can chew upon
digest again and again
Until
I understand
your need for silence
and my desire to speak.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

Carmel Valley, CA

SHAPESHIFTING
It's impossible now to recapture
the ability I had as a child
to be invisible, to disappear
among the bodies of my family,
vanish into the noise of their voices,
sometimes fading slowly
into background elements
of furniture, stucco walls,
right through clear windowpanes
into the arms of pines
at the edge of the garden,
to become just one more
green needle-covered branch,
a petaled cone.
I learned early to perform
my magic act at the first sign
of tension, long before the shouting.
It was practice for years
of teachers, cruel children,
for adolescent embarrassments
the confinements of marriage.
Concealment equaled silent shelter.
How did I do that?
I'm finding it harder lately
to keep enclosed in my carefully
constructed arrangement of mirrors.
I speak suddenly, resentfully,
without my usual censor,
feel discomfited by my rudeness,
contemplate polite apologies.
POLKA PARTY
(Age 16)
Right in the middle
of the rock n' roll revolution
I went to a polka party,
offbeat whim of a quirky friend,
a teenage anomaly in 1957.
Steps easy to learn,
tempo brisk, music infectious,
we swirled round and round,
turning always on our right foot
arms catawampus, blood pounding,
not knowing the hours flew by
while we danced,
pure joy in our bones.
Now and then I long
to dance like that again,
for my heart to emerge
from its thicket of fractures,
for thoughts of awkwardness
and modesty to vanish
in the jubilance
of a thumping, upbeat tune,
the moment I'm broken open...
wanting more.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

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Section B: .................................................................. February 15, 2009

Del Rey Oaks, CA

A memorial to a woman who watched as her vibrant Doctor husband withered away very slowly into senility and death. She stands as a memorial to all who have suffered.

KATHLEEN
When the mist had covered
those pool bright eyes.
She waited at his side
for a very long time.
In the memory
of their life together.
Until it was time to go.
She kissed him there
and said goodbye.
With a smile and a tear.
When the mist had covered
those pool bright eyes.
(On January 25, 2009 I added:)
She lifted her head
to continue the journey
along the road
that they had shared
forward into the sunset
She has joined him now
to look once again
into those pool bright eyes...

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

Pacific Grove, CA

Traveling in Vietnam.

Stalled on the bridge over the Red River, Hanoi is a landscape of skinny 3,4,5 story houses that look like awkward corn stalks amongst the skyscrapers increasingly littering the skyline.

HANOI
Women in straw conical hats
Two open baskets swing, balance
From wooden pole across their shoulders.
Piles of orange tangerines,
Yellow bananas, open pineapples,
Green vegetables, tea makings,
Even a bowl of hot soup.
They weave and bob
Through the crowds
In the narrow market area.
They plead with us to buy
Along the busy roads.
They carry goods from store
To store. They are like donkeys.
They are still here.
LIFE OUTSIDE
Families, friends sit
In the dark of night,
In the bright light of day,
Around low tables,
On cushions,
Share a hot pot
Of steaming soup
Filled with green,
Maybe some meat.
The men smoke.
The women tend
The children playing.
Babies sleep in arms.
Narrow shop fronts
Filled with every goods.
The barbers sit outside
With a mirror hung on the wall,
A stool for customers.
Women wash women's
Long flowing black hair
Just inside the open door.
On the sidewalk, the cobbler
Affixes a rubber heel,
Gouges rivulets to defeat
The slippery pavement.
Women sit and talk,
Rub each others shoulders,
Hold the babies, sound asleep
Amidst the horns, voices,
Smog-smudged music of Hanoi.
FULL MOON
Waiting for the prayers
Of the full moon,
Old women sit in rows
In maroon "home Buddist" coats.
Before them, a short table,
Blue program. Their gray buns,
Wrinkles of long life,
Bob in conversation.
I stand at the door watching,
Am embowed aside like a stream
Pushing on a light-weight pebble.
The babble of sound around me
The same as tossing stones.
Inside gold Buddhas stand
On gold altars with candles
Burning bright. Fruits, money,
Packets of food, incense.
Over the loud speaker,
A voice squacks
"...I beg you Buddha,
Forgive me..."
Where does culture
Cut, and where religion?
Outside the pagoda,
Belief is suspended
In the reality of everyday,
And that 1/4 the monks
Are secret police.

Sharon Davies
sharondavies@me.com

Colorado Springs, CO

INNOCENCE
Yes, you have led
a sheltered life.
Someday—
if you are lucky
life will touch you
and place you into the fire.
There you will be tempered
like fine steel strengthened
against your own will
bent and shaped
into a new you.

Careful—
the alchemist is afoot
think twice
before you utter
this pray and
flash your
light into
the darkness
for change is in
the air and you may
never be the same again.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

Carmel Valley, CA

GUILLEMOT ISLAND
Exposed roots imperil a hidden path
to a remote seabird refuge
on a spur off the North Shore Trail.
Nests of seaweed congest crevices
on the upper flank of a small island.
Brown pelicans with darning-needle beaks,
double-crested Brandt's cormorants,
gray western gulls with white heads,
and red-footed pigeon guillemots
congregate on a September Sunday,
speckle their white-rock haven
with black, gray, and tan feathered bodies,
this stone backbone their chapel.
Four separate flocks share
their sanctuary without conflict.
I study their instinctive rituals.
On silent cue twelve pelicans take flight,
one behind the other in formation,
a squadron gliding slowly away.
They wheel and cruise, return to settle
along the crest of the knoll.
I come here for what cannot be captured
on film, printed, painted or penned,
the peace of blue and green, rock, fern,
and renewal, the innocent habits of birds,
some sense of order in my complicated world.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

Monterey, CA

HOME NATURE #1

The five unusual deer
are sitting in the back
squinting their eyes
against the unusual sun.
Do you think
they're thinking
as they chew their cud?
I don't think so.
PROUD GRANNIE
My granddaughter
nodded off
during the
celebrated vampire kiss
ARTIST
My friend Simonson
sends me odd
sometimes beautiful
pieces of paper.
He lives in Snohomish.

Carolyn Berry
Carolynbberry@redshift.com
Visit her web site: www..Carolynbberry.com

Piedmont, CA

OBAMA
Anticipation has this country tied up in knots,
Because the big day has finally come.
Ceremonies and parades for the world to see;
Can he do the job? No guarantee.

To see him swear before a nation to do the job we want
We wait, we watch, we worry...
Can one man alone fix the problems at hand?
It will require the strength of a one-man band.

People of color are more joyous than the rest,
But everywhere we are all full of hope.
This tall, slender man with intelligence and poise
Will step before a nation full of confusion and white noise.
Many hopes are placed on this extraordinary man
Who came from an ordinary background.
At noon he will place his hand on a Bible and swear
To lead us out of this economic and global nightmare.
Our spirits are high, our hearts full of trust;
We encourage, we assist, we cheer...
Is he up to the task? Will others follow his lead?
A world worries, but is expectant and eager he'll succeed.

Pam Quesnoy

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Section A: .................................................................. January 15, 2009

Del Rey Oaks, CA

RECTAL EXAM
(Dr. Vierra's office)
Has anyone ever written a poem
while having a rectal exam?
Tried to heap piles of words
to hide the fear?
Hoping to snow the uncomfort
with phrases?
Has anyone ever written a poem
while having a rectal exam?
I asked the Doctor when he was done
if he had ever heard of such a thing.
"No, No, Never!" he said
...
so I did

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

Pacific Grove, CA

Traveling in Laos.

FOGGY MORNING
Up river on boat,
long, thin knife
through brown Mekong
to Pak Ou Caves.
Cucumber farmers
hug close to shore
pack their homes
when rains come,
move uphill
until seasons
turn again.
Fog falls from sky,
layers of gray pillows.
Wispy crown of white
floats among tree tops,
over rich brown Mekong.
Soil flows from Tibet,
through China, Laos,
laying down richness,
carrying it away,
redeposits of life,
land in continual reincarnation.
Each living day, each flower,
layer of soil along the shore,
song heard from far away,
a face, hands held in "swabaidee,"
heads nod, ripples on the river,
all lay down the soil
of my life.

One last poem about our generous and interesting guide who spent 9 years as a novice monk:

SOMPASONG
Was nine years a novice,
now 33 years old with wife
a daughter, Sompasong,
a construction worker,
a tour guide,
hand on his heart,
yearning to be a monk,
for peace again.

Sharon Davies
sharondavies@me.com

Colorado Springs, CO

UNEARTHING
Sometimes
you have
to toss
everything aside
as if knowing nothing.
Nothing of
value or
importance
as if the sun
has had
enough
of praise.
Sometimes
you have to
bow down
and dig deep
into dark earth
turning the soil
until worms rise up
to crawl between
open fingers of
open hands
Until the
lowliest of
creatures
makes love to
your cringing flesh
Until
lovemaking
comes from the
grave to greet life
as if life without thought
of death is no more
than the mind
calling itself master.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

Carmel Valley, CA

NO ONE KNOWS
No one knows if there's a plan
or if life is just some random journey,
some long trek of years
or foreshortened timeline
of just a few breaths.
No one really knows
if we have lived many lifetimes
or are tethered here briefly
in these precarious bodies.
Some will tell you
their gospel truth,
their confessions of faith
in a continuum.
I like to assume
there is only this one lifespan,
this incurable affliction
of inevitable mortality.
It keeps me mindful
of the extravagance
of each new day,
how our marvel of a planet
turns its east face to the first blush
and later lingers
on the song of sundown.
Whether it's the melody
of waves washing a pebblestone beach,
whispering poems to me
or the stuttering crackle of dry leaves
under my feet in November,
I don't want to take
this temporary tenure for granted.
I may only have another moment
or another thirty years.
I want to listen deliberately,
pay equal attention
to the permutations of light
on the green folds of the wilderness
and the luminous surface of the sea,
be giddy with bliss
over a scarlet geranium
or the blueberry burlesque
of a stellar jay on my front porch.

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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