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Colorado Springs, CO

(Editor's comment: Patrcia Ann Doneson died suddenly on July 11, 2009. Her poetry has been appearing regularly in Letter Box On Line for the last four and one half years reflecting her insightful musings. We miss her dearly! This poem from her book Songs of Silence is the last in a series published in her memory.)

HECATE

It is good
to be finished
with idle conversation.

Now,
I approach the crone.

Knowing,
in her presence,
the mask will crumble,

Lies will fall away.

In her eyes
I seek validation.

Not—
for my success,
but for my failures.

She alone—
knows the struggle,
the path I have followed.

She alone—
understands my grief
for sins not committed.

It is from her
that I seek absolution.

Patricia Ann Doneson

Salinas, CA

CALLS FROM THE UMBRAE

November begins with the days of the dead.
First the Saints,
Then all souls
Descend upon the consciousness
Of those who seek reunion.

The low sun casts shadows,
Animating ice and stone,
Revealing primordial playgrounds
For ancient spirits
In the crevasses of perception.

Monoliths rise from a carpet of needles
Impressing their vistas
With a sense of permanence,
While transient profiles
Find their moment in the sun.

The season continues in a cool, quite air
Of contemplative quality,
Conducive to hearing
Calls from the umbrae
And songs from a distant source.

Laura Carley
lcarley11@yahoo.com

Dallas, TX

CATECHISM

"Long live Iguana," shouts the rain,
"His spines are godly reticules, his temple in the green mush
Is small and holy, weird. His fingernails
Are sickness and his flesh ungood to eat. He will permit
No termites or any small rodents." The rain doesn't know
What she's talking about. A codex in Forgottendom has this
To blame: "Do not go into his temple lightly. It is not belong
To him, defend it [Iguana] and . . . curse."
This poem is over.
Reticule, radical, catechetical,
Permit no gods but the ones you can eat.


(THE END)

The important line is the one about eating. But the whole thing represents the way I create, where something new arises from the tension when I try to both accept and reject the monsters of my deepest self, accept in such a way that I can transform that energy into something new, something that I am the author of. This poem, because it is a personal "catechism" that sort of states the "rules" for doing that. Gabriel Mamola culabraxis@yahoo.com

Carmel Valley, CA

ART AS A WAY OF LIFE

Each morning we must hold out the chalice of our being
To receive, to carry, and give back. Dag Hammarskjold

Like the fisherwoman
who stands atop the rocky quay
at the edge of the sea, casts her thin line
into the choppy water, then leaps back to elude
the seventh wave—casting again and again,
so the poet holds out her begging bowl
to the wind in her broken eggshell hands
and waits for a flurry
of anagrams
to rearrange
themselves
into a poem
at the bottom of her chalice.


And if not today
then tomorrow.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

Del Rey Oaks, CA

UNTITLED

the poet lay
curled beneath
the Christmas tree
cloaked in red
and green armor
against the
in coming pain
of Christmas past

waiting for
the poem to come
a mighty vessel
to calm the sea
and float along
towards the clouds
on gossamer waves
of white and pearl
all colors of the sky

to cover wounds
of time gone by

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

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Colorado Springs, CO

(Editor's comment: Patrcia Ann Doneson died suddenly on July 11, 2009. Her poetry has been appearing regularly in Letter Box On Line for the last four and one half years reflecting her insightful musings. We will miss her dearly although a few poems from her book Songs of Silence will continue to be published in the next few months in her memory.)

HOME

Wherever,
I am—is called home.

This journey— is the destination.


And I,
will take
the bitter with
the sweet, as the
chalice of life is offered.

Knowing—
each step taken
is the correct one.

Leading me,
through
seasons of myself.

Oh!
how the changes
excite me, even
the sleet and the snow.

For Life!
is the gift in the
journey. And the here,
and the now is the goal.

Patricia Ann Doneson

Berkeley,CA

UNTITLED

One benefit, Dreamer, is that sleep
is your friend, even when you can't fall asleep
you might and then dream, ah, a good thing
like oranges, cool and sweet juice
over your tongue, taste of it lingering,
love, just a little, sky blue and long trails,
knapsacks, memory and muse of a day walking,
the edge of what you wanted, nine-mile fork
of the high river, each step taking you further away,
out of yourself, fragrance of sisal and sage, following
your heart and hers, springtime and snowmelt,
penstemon and pines at the bend of the river, rock weirs
gentle the current, serpentine pools of sunlight,
swimming turquoise and trout, the cascades higher
up the canyon, water over granite, revelation
and creation, each drop brings you closer
what more do we need to understand?
Loosen whys and wherefores, let them go
downstream, over the rapids, let go
of whatever kept you from this place,
whatever keeps you apart.

TO WHAT IS UNCOMMON

Ah, Pablo, never can we be intimidated by your words,
the idea that song lifting our voices and hearts,
memoria of what you want and write
even in translation, surely what you want is what we want
what we write, melody and mélange of fruit and wine, of women and men,
laughter, life and love—forgive us if we forget sometimes
of what your odes remind us, that everything, every thing is light,
is connected, is change, even as we pay attention to this,
that we have only now remembered the world, the orange
and the peeling of it, Mercator projection of the skin of our life, love, being
the meaning of time, the most common of things, of what we all share
even in solitude, seed, plant sapling, tree bearing fruit, skin and segment
of each one a mnemonic for the time of our lives, Andalucía, of Isla Negra
love comes, not once, but over and over again, oranges of the south,
Antofagasta and Atacama, even Orange Cove, sweet lush of it,
rolling around your mouth, over your tongue,
eating this orange could transport you, back to when
you were nineteen, before your name was Neruda
and your words embraced nature and life
stretching out forever in all directions—

Pablo, this ode's for you.

Larry Ruth
lwruth@yahoo.com

Carmel Valley, CA

SOMETHING ABOUT THE WIND

Across the sea
white-tipped waves
stream ashore.
Whisked froth shatters
against eroding bluffs,
recedes from rocky coves.

The hand of a stiff breeze
passes its cadence over the land.
Foxtails and oat grasses
pulse up a steep hillside meadow.

Along the ridge trail
warped cypress limbs sway,
twisted by years of resistance
to fierce ocean windstorms,
resilient trunks still rooted.

Cold gusts whip my hair
into my eyes, chafe my face.
The sting of the strong wind
wakes a tremor of submerged grief.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

Del Rey Oaks, CA

UNTITLED

is the mountain
standing in its space
before the face of god
along the horizon
head in clouds
the white cold snows
clinging on its side
turning darker and darker
as it lowers
along the sides
into the valley
and off to the plain

SORTING THE BEANS
(writing poetry on a cool overcast November 28, 2008)

sorting the beans
black ones
taking away splits
I don't know why

my grandmother
never did it
she was Irish
and didn't grow
black beans

my mother
Virginia May Gilmartin
did not do it either
when she went to
New Mexico in the 55

with four kids
in a stationwagon
to join my father
who worked in a salt mine
at the time
she used pintos
to make the chili
that she taught me
to make

skull popping hot
with hamburger and
tomatoes and lots of
chili powder

to kill the
taste of the spoiled
meat taste
when you were in jail
they said

new mexico jail chili
eaten with lots
of soda crackers
and corn bread
on the bottom
cooled with pepsi cola
straight from the bottle

with scarred glass
from going through
the machines
so many times

50 years later
it all visits me
in my kitchen
in California
making beans
to chase the
overcast day

knowing that
its about the cooking
with love
that is what they
taught me

when I sort the beans

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

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Colorado Springs, CO

(Editor's comment: Patrcia Ann Doneson died suddenly on July 11, 2009. Her poetry has been appearing regularly in Letter Box On Line for the last four and one half years reflecting her insightful musings. We will miss her dearly although a few poems from her book Songs of Silence will continue to be published in the next few months in her memory.)

FEAR

Last Night—

I reached
deep into
my fears,

and found
there, a
lost child

seeking warmth
from the rocks.

Holding, in
its tiny arms,
forgotten dreams.

Here—
in this dark womb,

Two,
pleading eyes
flashed their
light upon me,

and I
shrieked
in terror,

as the
small voice
whispered

I,
have been
waiting
for you

Patricia Ann Doneson

Carmel Valley, CA

EARLY MORNING REFLECTION

At 5:00 am, a thin mist sits lightly,
delicate as a whisper over the valley
and to the east evidence of her dissolving
lingers along the thin sliver of moon visible
in the colorless sky of early morning.
Drawn west, she appears to depart
rather than vanish from warmth.

Moving more swiftly now,
lying close to the mountains,
fog follows the ramble of the river.
Blue jays come again and again
to the seed bowls on the deck,
picking out the sunflower pods
from the millet and milo.
The vapor hesitates, can't seem to decide
to stay or proceed on the path to the sea.
Fascinated by her moods and manifestations,
I find no defined edge, but a soft sculpture
of blurred borders in motion.

It's been too long since I stole
quiet time for myself.
Something undefined is at work,
an embrace in the tender mist
that carries a beauty all its own.
Something is being revealed slowly,
like my valley on this early June morning,
as if a reason could be delineated
from one day to the next,

and I am being asked to trust the mystery.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

Del Rey Oaks, CA

Here is a Poem that I wrote as a Memorial to a Vietnam Veteran friend who had a difficult path but came around.

DAVID THE DRAGON SLAYER
(July 3, 2009)

when the thunder claimed the air
to announce the arrival
of a mighty warrior
into the halls of fame

battered and broken
by wanton war
blinded by all that he had seen

all wrapped in black
he stood astride
his mighty steed
reaching high into the trees

his smile
lit the path
so others could follow

on the journey
he often fell
to the side of the road
but always got up
to continue along the way

to those who walked
along at his side
he will always
mark the way

we stand in ranks
and salute his passing
his very presence
has marked the way

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

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Creative Edge Home Page

Colorado Springs, CO

(Editor's comment: Patrcia Ann Doneson died suddenly on July 11, 2009. Her poetry has been appearing regularly in Letter Box On Line for the last four and one half years reflecting her insightful musings. We will miss her dearly although a few poems from her book Songs of Silence will continue to be published in the next few months in her memory.)

TRUSTING

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

Carmel Valley, CA

BEVERLY AT THE GARDEN OF MEMORIES

One cold and windy morning in April
my cousin comes home from Arizona
in a glossy cedar casket
to the bleak cemetery
across the street from the truck stop.

Only four of us come that day.
No one sits on the three benches
under the green canvas tent
meant to shelter a dozen mourners.

After we murmur a few
awkward words of goodbye,
the groundskeeper pulls away
the imitation grasscloth,
reveals the concrete-lined pit.

We stand, watch solemnly
while the coffin is lowered slowly,
tipping slightly, then straightening,
as if my cousin has turned over
in her sleep, a subtle thump
marking the end of her descent.

I pluck a white tulip from my bouquet
tied with white lace ribbon,
toss it onto the polished wood lid,
alongside the three white carnations
the others have already offered.

Across this cement-bordered sector
of the Garden of Memories
with its few trees and flat markers.
I locate the grave of my cousin's mother,
the aunt I most closely resemble,
imagine who will come someday
to cast a white flower in my name.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

Monterey, CA

HAIKU SCENES

Orthopedic Scene:
Each Person's Pain Is Their Own,
But Heal Each Other.

Severe Clear Today.
Fremont Peak Sees From Afar
Calm Blue-Green Ocean

California Dreams.
The Black Cat Sleeps In the Sun.
His Peace Is Our Peace.

Ray Cyr
raythecyr@att.net

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Colorado Springs, CO

(Editor's comment: Patrcia Ann Doneson died suddenly on July 11, 2009. Her poetry has been appearing regularly in Letter Box On Line for the last four and one half years reflecting her insightful musings. We will miss her dearly although a few poems from her book Songs of Silence will continue to be published in the next few months in her memory.)

NEW HORIZONS

I am Hungry—

Hungry for lilacs
and an early spring,

Hungry for rain
to fall on dried earth,

Hungry—for people
to fill the landscape
that my mind has created,

Join with them—
bathe in the vermilion
oranges of purple sunsets.

Search,
for the tree
that bears forbidden fruit.

Bite into the apple!
Taste the pomegranate!

I am tired of being safe.

So great—
is my hunger,
that I want to devour myself,

And create a new me.

Patricia Ann Doneson

Del Rey Oaks, CA

UNTITLED

Life in the woods
with cotton tails
and house wrens
flying close to the ground
in the cool foggy
pine trees of Pt. Lobos
the wolf of the sea
barking off on the point
moss hanging
wind blown
off the branches

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

Carmel Valley, CA

THE POEM THAT RISES FROM SLEEP

I am the poem that rises from sleep
to walk outside and stand
in the shadowed hour past midnight
because the black sea above
is alive with far away eyes
that watch me.

I am the poem that rises from sleep
to pace the hallway
because my thoughts
are crowded with doubt.

I am the poem that rises from sleep
to search for the perfect thumbnail
of moon that lingers over the mountain
in the west toward morning.

I am the poem that returns to dreams,
trailing moonbeams
from the soles of my feet
to tuck among the quilts.

I am the poem that wakes
to the risk of another day,
not knowing if night's travels
are enough to salt the coming hours
with leftover sparks of stars.

I am the poem that keeps on
gathering the grace
to dance in the darkness.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

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Elverta, CA

UNTITLED

No more
a quicksilvered flash
nor
terrorizing mouth

he floats belly up
in a pond
fins held bone-stiff against liquid darkness

Though still visible
movement has degenerated
into the awkwardness
of
rigidity

metamorphized
from mystery
into
mundane

a Captured Thought

No longer
all that might be

merely
that which is:

a deadfishfloatingbellyup
on a
cold
green

winter's


pond

Jennifer Mamola
mamolaj@earthlink.net

Colorado Springs, CO

NIGHT VISION

Oh! to have
the eyes
of the owl,

That I
might see
with clarity,

What the moon
has to offer.

Wrapped,
in darkness

I venture
into the forest.

Trees, like
cardboard
sentinels,

Speak
to each other,

And I,
the stranger, hear

Only my fear.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

Del Rey Oaks, CA

MARCH 19, 2009, 1:18 AM
(Night after returning from the doctor's office.)

I can no longer begin
to tell you of when it started
to pass before my soul.

Chilling blips of reality
set themselves
along the edge
rimming the core
with a kind of salt.

Reaching out to touch
the wheel in the wind
that sends it's prayers
to the distant shore.

The plum is blooming
between the calls
of the male birds
unto the spring
telling the ladies
who want to listen
of his strength
and plumage growth.

"Come and see what I can do.
I am the strongest of all
you see!"

The echo's came
from the other side
telling those who waited now
the way to pass
before the storm.

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

Carmel Valley, CA

DOG-TIRED
(I'm tired of getting over things...
Martha Ronk)

I'm tired
of trying to figure out where
I went wrong in the first place,
when the first place has been gone
for so long.

The only way not
to have things to get over
is to hole up in a cave,
no human contact,
but then eventually
I have to get over
feeling isolated.

I am tired of climbing over
whatever emotional mountain
has sprung up across my path
without my permission,
its shifting slopes and sheer size
a surprise.
When
did I miss the turn
to the detour?

I'm tired
of not being able to forecast disaster,
predict the obsession
someone else carries into my life
while I am slap-happily planning
a frustration-free formula.

I'm tired of pre-grieving
and post-grieving the inevitable.
I drag my feet, reluctant to face whatever
else life has waiting for me.
I work hard at creating
a bit of rapture out of the morass of chaos.

I'm tired of getting over
disappointment, accepting the obvious,
of election promises that will never be kept,
and happily ever after
never coming true.
Weariness overwhelms my best efforts.

I'm tired of being a realist,
a responsible, dependable, conscientious,
compassionate human being,
still making mistakes,
still wandering off into quicksand

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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