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Section D: .................................................................. February 15, 1997

Sandpoint, ID

This poem was written by my husband, Jon Ruffatto. He was impressed by Creative Edge and wanted you to have the first poem he's ever written. Jon works at sea aboard an asphalt carrier. He saw a butterfly with very colorful wings "lift" from the sea and saw the beauty in it -- and at the same time felt sorrowful about the Bosnian situation; thus he was inspired to write the poem. (Joyce Ruffatto)

BOSNIAN BUTTERFLY

Today I saw a butterfly
lifting from the sea
do you wonder where
it's going, Ah yes, so do I
the Adriatic, so clear, azure
the land behind it, gunfire near
so sure, children's fear

the butterfly that lifted
some say the world has shifted
those who saw, perhaps they're gifted
its' left a hole, and made a sound
the sound of thunder shaking
could it be our conscious quaking?
or the worldıs mind awaking.

when great bells, swing, made to ring,
or small streams cry, wonder why?

they sing;
tears sting

were there holes in the wings?
or depths, magic wonder brings
pictures in the bright light holes
made so clear, and yet so near
did I see the past? or closer to the future
much too soon, I fear
politicians grasp eternity

but miss the little things
we sing; tears sting

Don't forget the butterfly
itıs flying up and far away
listen to the world sigh
watch, as simple people die
gravity holds sway
has goodness gone astray?

the bells ring, the tears sting
who can tell what futures bring

Don't forget the butterfly.

The first time this Monday's poem was published, I didn't put my name to it, using Random Acts, a small group I belonged to, instead. I sometimes am self-conscious about my thoughts, feelings, beliefs. Occupational hazard.

UNTITLED

Everything is sacred,
sky, inventions, moths,
oceans, dust, cliffs,
the lonely dance
of a piece of paper
next to a busy highway.

Sacred are the churches,
pimps and palimpsests,
campfires, bridges, thistles,
hummingbirds and gargoyles.

Even those that insist
only certain things
are sacred, are sacred.

It is all the boom, flood,
then stillness of things
and you are at the center;
and if you don't believe that,
well, doubt is sacred too.

I am starting to write poetry more as a result of a challenge that I gave myself... I would do something creative each day. It is a resolution that I have kept up, except for two days, this past month. When my son asked me to write some poems for him, this short poem came to me:

UNTITLED

My son asked for my poems.
A messenger calling for my soul.
The inner flame awoke
clearing the smoke from a dying fire.

This is my first attempt to write a poem.

UNTITLED

I joined the net some months ago
Searching for what, I didn't know
A friend, a lover, maybe a new mate
Someone to share my dreams

I looked at so many sites, you see
Some were just not right for me.
Swingers and singles, no, that's not me
This married but lonely father of three

I found a site that seemed okay
I posted my bio and sat back to wait
Nothing happened, no mail arrived
I decided I had to give sending a try

I am a little shy, my nature, you see,
So sending mail was quite a feat.
I sent one, then two, not sure of myself
When they replied, I wanted to yell

The first two were lonely, looking for love
We started to chat and exchanged cyber hugs
The talk went from hi to let's jump in bed
I'll ride you, I'll rope you, it made me afraid
It was fun, it was safe, but, maybe insane
These women were too lonely, to quick,
I don't like this, I am going to quit

Still lonely, I browsed more bios you see.
I thought maybe I would be lucky with number three
I sent a short note to a woman with kids
She responded and I am so glad she did.

She was divorced and living alone
Looking for a soul mate to share her home
We started chatting about kids and our life
We share our dreams, our fears and our ideals
We talked about flowers, music and more
We bared to each other our souls
Now I am sure, I want her to be my new wife

It has happened so fast, this affair of my heart
My mind says slow down, it may not be real
My heart says charge on... so good do I feel
I am in love with this lady in Texas, its grand
I want to announce it with a 100 piece band

Together we will walk through life hand in hand
Surprised by the love we found, in cyberland

All of my poems/stories are based around my life and the situations that build in it. I base a number of these on my fiancee, who is the love of my life and my inspirational dreamer. With out him, I just don't know how I could express myself and who I am. My poetry comes naturally to me to express these feelings, and how many people in society do you know who would accept somebody walking around talking in that manner or context? Alas, in any relationship, there are also conflicts which must be resolved, and again, my most reliable source of resolution is my writing. It is the truer side of who I am.

UNTITLED

We should have been together in a different age,
But long ago we should have known to read a different page.
I'm not saying they shouldn't be a little torn,
But maybe it would go away if I could be reborn.
I'm yours?
You're mine.
A promise sealed by the kiss of time.
We're growing old with a handful of ghouls,
(And those who were faith filled were deemed as fools)
Brown paper packages tied up with strings
Can't bring me back from the pain that this brings.
So I'm still a child power
wild flower
witching hour
STOP.
Resume in my place among foe and friend,
as long as you love me,
it's never the end...

Here is my next effort that I think is ready for anybody to see. This one is more a story than a reflection of life on the service. Yet because my writing style is cryptic, it does have meaning between the lines. I hope you deem it worthy to publish -- and thanks for publishing my last piece. Boy, have I grown up since then -- I have learned that if you persist long enough and have enough faith then anything is possible!!!!!

UNTITLED

Once upon a time in a land far, far away there lived a great old toy maker whose house was full of all sorts of toys. People throughout the land would go to this toy maker for he was the master craftsman, and he knew all his toys because he would talk to them as he made them.

Every night when the toy maker would blow out his candle and go to bed, the toys would come alive and they would play games together and laugh and have fun. The Barbies would dance with the G.I. Joes, and the Lego would play cards with the chess pieces. In fact all the toys would have the merriment of their lives.

All that is, except for one; a puppet who sat high on the shelf unable to move for he was tethered by string and needed someone to direct and guide him. The puppet would question: "Why great toy maker, have you tethered me with string, unable to move without your guidance and directions?" It would make him sad, to have to sit back and watch the remote controlled cars zip by, free to go where they pleased, to race around -- to slide jump and flip. "I want to move and play and be free like the others. Toy maker, when will these strings become not a burden?" the puppet would cry.

The next day the toy maker was dusting his shelves and came across the puppet. He picked up it's cross and marveled at his workmanship before directing the puppet to walk. "I have a strong feeling about you," he wondered out aloud, "There is a reason why I made you like I made you. Yes, I have strong feelings about you."

That night when the toy maker had blown out his candle and had gone to bed, the toys came alive and started from where they had left off. From high on the shelf, the puppet watched as the remote controlled cars took themselves where they pleased, but gone was the zip, the slide jump and flip. The puppet wondered; and looked at his tethers: "What are these pieces of string?"

The next day, a man walked into the toy makers store. "I am looking for a toy for my son," he said, "What about one of those cars?" The toy maker looked up and replied, "A car will go as it pleases, and tires as a result. But this..." he said as he reached up for the puppet, "needs guidance, a skillful hand and thus will never tire."

The man took the puppet from the toy maker and tried it out. It danced,

"I'll take it."

As the man left with the puppet, the toy maker thought -- "Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and learn not unto thine own understanding. In all ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thine path." (Proverbs 3: 5,6)

Ethan Tate
cbtate@internet-australia.com

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Section C: .................................................................. January 15, 1997

Orinda, CA

Nov 6: I'm going through this difficult yet potent time of my mother's passing. I've written several poems during the process and wanted to share them with you. It's as though I'm able to climb into my "observer" self and carefully chronicle my emotions through writing. Yesterday my tears finally broke down my carefully constructed dam and they haven't stopped flowing since.

DURABLE POWER OF ATTORNEY

Heavy body that cannot turn.
"It hurts! It hurts!"
You grip the side-rail
of the hospital bed
until your next morphine shot.

Years of leaning on your advice.
Now I must choose--
a tube to keep you alive
or painful mini-swallows.
And for what?

I want you to feel good again.
Keep the cookie jar full,
plants blooming in your garden.

I want the rock wall back
that I grew against
finding my shape
in your strength.

Nothing to push against now.
Only the sound of your voice,
"It hurts!" rattling into my ears,
bouncing off my heart.
And restless limbs
thrashing for relief.

PLAYING GOD

This is the hour
to pull the tubes.
Sugar in her veins
will not pump Mom
back into full life

only leave her trapped
inside a body
unable to raise her head,
eating through plastic
stuffed down her nose.

This is the death vigil.
Slow starvation
for a good woman,
a junkie on morphine
feces soiling her legs.

LINEAGE

I feel like my heart
is about to break
watching my daughter
walk to the plane.

I'm alone again.
No one to catch my grief,
woman to woman
in the blood line
of my grandmother.

As old ones have died out
and new ones have flowered,
I've been in the middle,
sandwiched between Molly and Mom.

Now I'll be at the top of the chain.

WAITING

I awoke this morning
not knowing if
she was still alive.

I planted a garden in her honor
filled with red tulips,
not knowing if
she was still alive.

I ate my lunch.
Talked to a friend
on the phone
about my mother,
not knowing if she
was still alive.

Then the call came!

Details will follow
and time...
but meanwhile,
I have slipped
into "oldest woman"
of my family
with the slipping away
of my mother's breath.

Nov 24: I just received a call from my brother that my mother finally did pass away. A strange phrase, pass away. For the body remains, still and frozen in time and the decaying process. What is it that passes away? Their living, breathing, moving presence for us passes away, no longer available. But as I sat holding Mom's hand yesterday and looked into her eyes that could recognize me, what remained of ther living, breathing, moving self? All that moved was her breath, and that was so labored that it puffed out her neck such that it came even with her chin. Her hand was no longer able to squeeze mine. Her lips could no longer move to form words. The most they could do was hang onto the damp sponge we put in her mouth to give her moisture. Her vocal cords could not form words either, only little grunting sounds, mono sounds of trying to communicate. Once when I told her I was leaving to go home now, her mono sounds came out rapidly in a pair... sounding like uh..uh. So I sat with her a little longer, stroked her, kissed her, cried a little and told her it was ok to let go. That we were all fine. That she lived and would always live in my heart. And other words that came pouring out of my mouth that could still form words.

Sharon Davies
Poetchat@aol.com

It was terrifically exciting to see my writing in the most recent LBOL. You were very right on about seeing one's work "out there". I have even received a response from someone in Australia which has really been an inspiration -- to think someone halfway around the world has the opportunity to read something I have to say. It's really a mind-blower. Thank you, thank you for being there!! Here's another couple of my "musings." Hope you enjoy!

SANIBEL Part II

Shell collecting is a truly profound spiritual experience for me. Now, I suppose different people have different experiences they find deeply moving or profound. But, its amazing to me how every time I have ever walked along the shore on the Sanibel beach (not just any beach mind you) and looked at shells and stooped over to pick up ones that catch my eye -- I am overwhelmed by the magnitude and timelessness of God and life and this planet we call home.

And all this profundity sparked by a silly little thing like a seashell. Maybe, they're not such silly, little things after all... And who knows where these particular shells on the southwest shore of Florida originated -- they could be from the other side of the world for all we know... And what's more, over thousands or maybe millions of years the shells become the very ground we walk upon.

So here I am, taking a leisurely stroll along the shore and I start to pick up a few shells and WHAM, I have the whole history of the universe laid out before me. Life never ceases to amaze me.

Thank you God for the opportunity to realize your magnitude and magnificence -- to feel your presence in the form of a simple shell -- in simplicity, period.

The challenge then, of course, becomes how to carry this simplicity -- this awareness -- this experience of God back to civilization -- to the frantic pace of life that most of us live -- the desperate struggle to survive -- to get ahead -- to succeed -- How do we merge these two? A difficult task perhaps -- but not impossible...

Like any other aspect of the quest to live a more enriching, fulfilling, spiritually-oriented life -- I guess one has to begin with ever-increasing awareness -- and then simplifying --and a dash of discipline thrown in -- ultimately achieving a greater and greater sense of balance.

ISLAND OF WONDER

Magical island
Land of dreams

Soothing and reassuring
the wounded spirit
Struggling and yearning
for serenity of the soul

Precious island
Land of beauty

Enveloping the weary traveler
in peace and tranquility
Offering a respite from the storm

Wondrous island
Land of simplicity

Feeding the starving infant
Searching for the onmipotent father/mother

Weave your magic
Cast your spell

Call your lost children
back to the bosom of love

Susan Schanerman
shayneone@aol.com

IN THE PRESENT

You speak to me of things
With names such as love, peace, truth
And you ask me to believe in you words...
My day will come?
My day is HERE.
I have already broken my lock again,
And I can't help but laugh as you wave the keys
in front of my face...
Yes.
Cease your incessant ranting...
Is that fear in your spiteful eyes?
You have failed to murder my will...
this stands as my weapon now...
I will be born as your twisted logic
withers away...
And my world begins
NOW.

Kimberly Anne ( Butterfly )
dsowko@conc.tdsnet.com

ON WRITING POETRY: II

And I do not
want
to dirty up the
blank page
with my sorrow,
sadness,
self-pity.
I wish
to keep it white
blue-lined,
veins running through
the body
of my mind.
Let's not make
the simplicity
of it
unpure,
with our
thoughts,
feelings,
emotions.
It cowers
from the pen I hold.
The ink I spread
on its lovely
body.
Scratch away
at the stain of words,
please.
But it will not
be undone.

Emma Barry
miss_emma@hotmail.com

It was one of my strongest desires to come from a close nit family, and after four years of trying and being slapped in the face for my efforts, I have given up. Yet by giving up on my family, I feel as though I have made a huge sacrifice in the eyes of this society. That is the sad part. My family will never like each other, and even if by some miracle we did, then would I have to sacrifice my creativity and individualism, which is the very reason why I am the Black Sheep in the first place? It's the whole question of the lesser of two evils.

The following is my contribution to the forum.

Today is a sad day for I am reminded of the sacrifice I am giving up in order to live out my dreams. The sad part tells me that I really do want to make this thing work even though I know it won't, and that even if it did it would make things harder and more frustrating.

But how hard is hard? And what are the limits of self determination? I think you should push things to the limit; then will yourself to take that one step further before digressing and using the energy and self-discipline/control to follow the next dream. (Or part of the whole one)

You should push against something -- a challenge? -- something that will test your mental soul, until you can't push anymore. And then break through. Once you have broken through, use that experience to your advantage. Learn from it, build from it, steal its energy. Then jump to the next level of your creativity. This is how you succeed.

But it is sad. It's sad to know that sometimes somethings don't work out even though you wish to God that they would; but wishing that they didn't as well.

Ethan Tate
cbtate@internet-australia.com

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Section B: .................................................................. December 15, 1996

Seaside, CA

Here is a poem and drawing (#9) from my Puti series (Puti: an Italian cherub -- they fly around Rococo alters.).

LOVER'S POINT

As time begins
And sand is swept
The moving for infinity
Up and out
The metallic sound
Of feeding gulls
When the tactile
Surface of the water breaks
The fog lifts
For an instant quick
Allowing the bell to toll
Somber
Smooth
Eternal

Steve Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

Here's my Thanksgiving Haiku

In stillness
I touch the hand
that moves the moon
through darkness.

Illia Thompson
IRTHOMP@aol.com

Your web site has been an inspiration to me -- I love it!! "Despair" was really just a silly little poem that I did on the spur of the moment after having described my 'despair' to you -- I was really only having fun with the word itself and thought you might get a chuckle out of it... I can't imagine that anyone would like it!!

DESPAIR

Oh, Despair, my old friend
where have you been
will you ever come to me again?


You were there when I needed you
as much foe as friend
but you stayed by my side
never wavering
when I wanted to plunge
right to the depths of hell
you held my hand and encouraged me
how you loved that leap
now you never visit
even as I sleep


You used to lurk in the shadows
in the tiniest darkest parts of me
always ready to spring out
and live with me in my darkness
rejoicing in my sorrow
you sang the saddest songs
sad, gentle, mocking music
and I hung on to every word
you guided my soul down
down, down
until I thought I'd never get up again


Ah, I recall the day you left
you really are such a coward
the day hope came marching in
singing raucously, songs of glee
lighting up all the dark crevices
clearing all the dark hidden places
the hiding places of you and me
she burned bright and true
scared you off, Oh Despair, didn't she?


Oh, Despair, my old friend
where have you been
will you ever come to me again?

Joyce Ruffatto
riveratz@digital-cafe.com

I wrote (the first) poem on March 6, 1995, when I was 18 yrs old and a Senior in high school... I was dealing with all the stress of graduating when I wrote this, and all I wanted to do was get some rest and dream of more beautiful and peaceful worlds. Also, I had just become a Christian a year and a half before, so I was discovering the wonder and joy of looking to God for my strength, and dreaming of what being with Him in heaven would be like (He's "the One whose redeeming/ lets me rest in the rushing, hushed blessed."). The second poem is from college.

UNTITLED

Let me sleep in the rushing noon-tide
Let me dream of quivers and crowns
That roaring, foam-clothed waves dare not waken


Let me sleep in serenity upon soft sand
Amid the pearlescent crescendo of sunshine
With peace sparkling aqua-gold in bubbles cold


Let me sleep in the rushing noon-tide
Purple-land dreaming of the One whose redeeming
Lets me rest in the rushing, hushed blessed.

WANDERING THROUGH THE LIBRARY (Sept. 24, 1996)

I am trapped in a sea of dust and knowledge
Not every wave, not every page will touch my mind
Older than I am, these words echo down through
The Corridors of Time, and wait here on the shelves
For searching hands to find them.
Has every book been touched?
Has every page been turned?
Faces peer at me between the rows of binding;
Empty eyes that cannot see haunt me with their blind stare.
They hang on the wall, begging me for help, for a look;
They want to draw my soul through their eyes
-----that they might live again.
Or perhaps they never lived at all.
These magic books have been saved
From smoke and fire of burning revenge
Exacted on helpless monasteries.
And now they bind me with their spell,
With their heavy scent of ancient spices
That drape (hang) the air with their secrets
-----long forgotten and left untold.
And then they come: those heathens
With their quick tongues and closed eyes
Who do not understand the sacredness
That clings to this palace (temple) of words.

Kimberly McMartin
Kimberly_McMartin@mail.okbu.edu

I am so thrilled to have found you!! I especially liked what you had to say about revealing "our personal thoughts and feelings in the public arena" and the Creative Edge being a vehicle for that.

Since I am still at the point in my creative development where I find it difficult to "put myself out there," I am thrilled to have found a community of kindred spirits who are giving me an opportunity to share myself and my innermost ideas and feelings. The following is what I call one of my "musings." I hope you enjoy it.

THE DAWNING OF NEW LIFE

Yesterday my friend Susie gave birth to her first child--a 6 lb. 7 oz. beautiful, baby girl. I just had a long conversation with her getting all the details of the labor, birth, etc--and as I got off the phone and I began "musing" about the wonder of it all.

Is there any experience we know of or could even imagine that comes close to the awe, mystery and wonder of birth? I can't think of one.

From the conception--the merging of male and female energies--to gestation--growth--maturation--to labor--and finally, birth.

Isn't it interesting how for thousands of years there have been no rule books or How-To's regarding this most intricate, mysterious process--it just seems to "happen" on its own--guided by its own wisdom. And yet today, in our highly-developed, ultra-sophisticated, "evolved" world, we have reached the point where we seem to need to know "how to" do something that has been "doing itself" since the beginning of life itself.

The act of creation is and always has been. PERIOD. From beginning to end--the process has its own timing--its own "knowing"--Just like Susie was saying about when it was time for her to push--it was just time for her to push--she just knew--

Somehow these thoughts about a new birth and the incredible wonder of it all led my mind to contemplate the similarities with the process of creativity, in general. Conceiving of an idea--allowing it time to gestate--mature--going through a labor period and then voila--giving birth--and seeing the idea in its physical form. A thrilling experience for me, without a doubt.

But what I am coming to understand is that any act of creativity, like creation itself, has its own timing, wisdom, "knowing"--and for me, I am coming to realize that the more I allow myself to "go with the flow" of the process--to trust it--the more creative I actually become.

I am presently in the process of writing a book which I call Celebrations of Wonder. Besides my own reflections or "musings" on the subject (like the above), I would like to include stories, impressions, experiences, anecdotes, etc. by other people, as well.

If anyone would like to contribute a short piece, please contact me. Credit will be given, of course.

Susan Schanerman
shayneone@aol.com

THE PHOTOGRAPH, a short story

This story emerged quite spontaneously and was jotted
down very much in its final form. But, as with most
creative work having some substantial content, it was
the result of much prior experience and work.


Continue reading introduction and THE PHOTOGRAPH

Ted Welch
tedwelch@dircon.co.uk

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Section A: .................................................................. November 15, 1996

Portland, OR

STRANGER

Unknown,
I walk amoung them.
Thinking they know me,
they laugh.

Carl J Shoemaker
puck@aracnet.com

I just found your page... It is always a delight to find like minded souls out here in cyberspace... I have facilitated classes, workshops and one retreat in Maui for woman on opening the channel of creativity in everyday life and work. I very much enjoyed reading your comments on creativity, and find them very timely as I push through barriers of emotions to release my own creative work.

Katherine Mapes-Resnik
KATHMR@aol.com

My work has taken me to the depths of the human spirit and shaped my life as a writer a poet and a philosopher.While surfing in the net I found about the Creative Edge. It was a wonderful revelation and comfort to know that I am not alone and I am not dammed to the loneliness of the free thinker. Here is my definition of talent.

TALENT: Realizing that we are unique allows us to be authentic.
Authenticity is the ground on which creativity flourishes.
What we create is simply the natural expression of our uniqueness,
that only when expressed loud and clear enough is (it) called "Talent."

Reading the wonderful stuff people are sharing, these lines kind of wrote themselves and I felt like sending it too.

UNTITLED

God is the greatest game inventor.
He made the largest board.
His artwork is divine.
The rules are coherent.
Can anybody tell me what my role is?
I want to play!

Haim Shafir
shafir_h@netvision.net.il

UNTITLED

Why is it that
I can no longer sleep:
I fear the reaper.
A grinning madman in my nightvisions--
black revelation.
Death spreads as a mist
rampantly spreading, blanketing the damned.
The numbness of paradise filters through my veins.
Hot blooded lust takes over--
I am soaked in sinful passion.
( Forgive me. My wants are powerful and out of
control against the raw beauty of your flesh against
the moonlight.)
Hold me prisoner no less than eternally.
Subject me to my consequence in your obsessive mind,
Make me feel your wrath upon my inflicted thoughts.
I am lying before you, my rage is buried, and I ache--
If only to hold you for a while, feel you against me,
with the knowledge that you want me and the intensity
that fills me shared with you. It cannot destruct
( unite--whisper--breathe--feed the hunger in my veins)
This is an unmatched beast, separate possession. Am I evil?
Is the reaper my alter ego? I wasn't the one who ate the apple,
I am not the temptress. I am drowning in passion.
I question the logic and validity of my touch.
If it is meant to be evil, I cannot escape it.

UNTITLED

Love?


That is a feeling,
a thought,
an almost undeniable experience
in which
two people become one being,
one creature
inside the world they choose
to call their own.
This is what they are
and always will be.
Because it is beyond mortality
Deeper than God.
Because it is pure.

The most accurate way to describe my writing is that each poem is like a piece of my soul. Emotions are the most powerful substance on this earth and I believe they form many different shapes inside of a person. This can be described at best by things like a person has their demons or monsters or whatever they choose to call their painful emotions. My way of exorcising my demons is to expose them. That gives me the control over my demons and purifies my perception. It also allows me to give certain people an idea of exactly how I think or feel on a subject.

Kimberly Ann Sowko
dsowko@mail.tds.net

THE WHALE

I climbed to the top of the mountain
slept with the silver wolf on a lonely trail
and fought for the right of the Indian
but I could not save the whale


The white owl became my mentor
whispered in my ear that I had failed
and I tried to rise above it
but I could not save the whale


I threw a line to a drowning man
taught a child the notes on a scale
but my life will always be empty
I could not save the whale

When that poem was written, I was at a low point in my life. For some years I had worked diligently with a Vietnam Marine veteran (my silver wolf), trying, as it were, to "fix" his life. He and I 'walked' and 'slept' on some lonely paths. During that period in time, I also worked a full time job, took night courses at the city college 3 nights a week, and somehow managed to nurture my 13 year old son (getting him to music lessons, etc.); and I was semi-active in the causes of the American Indians at that time. I felt good (the 'superwoman' syndrome!!) Then everything fell apart in my life. The man I loved decided to move on, my son was growing up and seemed to no longer need me, I quit school, and most of all I hated my job of 17 years!

I sat in the forest one day summing up my life -- mentally taking credit for my accomplishments and recognizing my failures. A white owl flew up and landed on a branch within 5 feet of me -- just sat there staring at me. The owl told me that I had failed -- not failed the people I loved, but that I had failed myself. I had been so busy trying to improve other people's life that I failed to feed my own soul. Even knowing this, I still told myself that I could not change. I fell into despair and self-pity and likened myself to the great whale whose destiny will surely be extinction in an uncaring world. So the poem was written by a person (me) who was feeling deep despair.

I would like to point out that about 2 years later, I again witnessed a white owl sitting on a limb; he only looked at me briefly, then spread his beautiful wings and soared through the air with the grace of a sparrow. It all clicked into place, and I too flew, soared, danced away, did handstands on the rainbow!! I still care for others, and help them whenever I can; but I have learned to love and nurture myself as well.

Joyce Ruffatto
Joyce riveratz@digital-cafe.com

UNTITLED

True love is perhaps
the ability to be connected
from afar
or maybe just from
the distance across
a kitchen table


True love is too
the way we feel
when cleaning the kitchen
knowing the one
we love
remembers
the little things
that make us happy
the nudge
the look
the grateful eyes
that peer over a plate of spaghetti
and vegetables
that we burned
in the big pot
hoping to make it perfect


True love
says
Oh well...
and doesn't mind
taco bell
if nothing else works out...

Ingrid Maria Middleton
IMiddleton@aol.com

I was playing around writing yesterday and followed a theme to see where it would go. This short story is the result. It has a surprising ending.

November Story

Cold.
It embraced him like death. Biting wind whipped though his body.
Sea spray salted his face. The man walked haltingly along the storm-racked shores like a specter drawn back to this strange day of the year -- Dia de los Muertos.

Ironic.
His birthday, November 2nd, the Day of the Dead, now to be his death day... Continue reading

Rose Reynolds

I stumbled quite by accident across this site, and was amazed by so many people with the same experiences, and feelings. It is not just a site, but an experience!

You said in NL#24:

"However to be reborn in newness of life, one must be willing to look for their secret hiding places in forgotten often traumatic memories -- like the affliction from Pandora's Box, then engage them with sensitivity and finally, work to make a creative relationship with them as part of our rich inheritance."

I have been an actress all my life. Playing the game of life, as if I had it all figured out. I was quite good at it up until four years ago, then came the collapse. First came the blackouts, but I tried to carry on as if nothing was happening. But when the darkness came, and I had no inner resources to call upon to save me...

I began to seek out someone to tell me what was wrong, what was happening. Little did I know that no one could really answer those questions for me. All they could do was make very educated guesses, give me tests, and medication. And when those didn't work, more guesses, more tests, and more medication.

Soon growing tired of this, I discontinued all of it. I understand that's typical for survivors like myself... Supposedly, childhood trauma or memories are the root of my problem. Therapist had a hard time with me because I could not feel the pain that they felt I needed to in order to exorcise the demons. It seems in order to survive, I learned a lesson I cannot un-learn. I remember, but I feel no animosity concerning my past, and it seems I must, or I am destined to forever live in this void.

After all this, I finally get to the reason for my writing. I too believe that one has to recognize that their past is part of them, and is the reason for their being who they are. I believe the hardships of my past, are to be looked on as a gift. I do not mean that the things done to me were right, but there is no future in blame or self-pity, and I have strengths that enable me to endure what many cannot.

I am now working on coming to know the person I am. I do not know how long this is going to take, or whether I will be any better for the knowledge of it. I only know that I must find me before I can give of myself to anyone.

Except for God, and my family, I am alone on this voyage. I am at peace most of the time, as I have quit fighting and have learned to accept that which cannot be changed, except by time and God.

Expressing myself by writing, is one part of me that I have discovered. I think I am pleased by this, though maybe a little intimidated because of my lack of education... but it helped me to write it. I need to learn to share myself without fear of what others will think of me... a problem that has plagued me for a long time.

Charolette Ramsey
charlee@eatel.net

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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