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Langley,WA

Our Granddaughter arrived safely at 7:35 PM on May 24, 2010!

BIRTHING

You lay on the sofa that night
and slipped up your t-shirt
over the taught white pearl,
the great hump, a shock
for it's beauty it's ravishing femininity.

We put the stethoscope to the little heart,
at first nothing, and then, as though
hidden in a mist, like a distant steam train
making it way's through a far-a-away
landscape, coming,

coming, with every mythical pound
swishing closer and closer,
it's repetition stunning for pure intention.
A mother ship comes into harbor,
past the finally visible light house.

The full round moon of her belly
weighted low in the bow of her body.
When a she turns towards birth
she is a formidable force.
She meets gravity and transforms

it's pull at the apex, she confronts the Gods
with an equal passion, assertive as the
heave of rising sap, she bears down where divine joy
mixed with annihilation brings forth her miracle,
she is the magician, she is the Madonna.

Judith Adams
jaadams@whidbey.com

San Francisco, CA

(Thirteen years ago a group met in Ireland with poets David Whyte and John O'Donohue. Inspired to stay in contact, about twenty of these Mystics recently held a reunion at Sea Ranch. This poem came out of that meeting! Your Editor.)

SAVORING

You've heard of the oil lamp that never ran out of oil.
Well, dear Mystics, we're a bowl of fruit that,
while it nourishes over and over,
          is never consumed.

Large and small, smooth and pocked,
round and crescent and oval and hourglass,
firm and soft—we are.

Colors so pleasing to the eye
and billions of colors our eyes can't even see—we are.

Fresh and ripe and riper
Bruised and broken and whole—we are.

In essence, perfect.
Just the vehicle Life creates
     and can use to keep giving itself away.

We taste and smell and touch; nibble and hungrily devour
     and savor... and savor.

The bowl too must be noticed and cherished,
the sacred bowl that gathers and holds us—
     land and sea, wind and birdsong, rain and sun
     and every leaf and wing, hoof or paw.
     Ancestors and grandchildren—of the flesh or the spirit.
And don't forget the stars and galaxies...

"This is not the age of information," as our friend has rightly said.
It is the time of transformation.
And one bowl of fruit is food for thousands.

We say "Thank you!"
Life says "Thank you!"

Catherine Regan
cregan44@comcast.net

Tucson, AZ

This poem was written over the last two or three days but represents a summation of about two months of focusing inwardly.

CONTEMPLATIONS WHILE ALONE IN THE SONORAN DESERT

1.
I looked deep within and there was a great darkness
And as I went into the darkness I invited it to possess me
To come into me fully and control me

Then I experienced great lust
Sex turning into sadomasochism
Cruelty, hatred
And finally underneath all that pain
Self-hatred, the sense of being unlovable, defective

Then I said to myself there must be light, too
And I invited the light to possess me
And to fill the void left by the lack of love and the neglect
I experienced as a young child
And to fill the void left by all the self-demeaning choices
Of mistaken relationships and pleasures I thought would give me love
And to rid me of the self loathing from having broken homosexual taboos
I said to myself there must be light
Or life is meaningless
And the light must love me in a far superior way
To any human love

And somehow I have faith in that light
And somehow I feel my ego and my selfishness
At times being almost painfully ripped in shreds
But then is when I sense a reality of what I seek

2.
Hanging on to a separate self
Alone
Without a universe to manipulate with your illusions and lusts
Is hell

Planetary evolution
Is bringing forth many teachers
Of the truth that we have no separate selves
You are my other self
We are in interbeing with all things

This is the essence of the dogma
That I have to study with my spirit and soul and body

My heart is easily deceived
And my mind generates a nearly constant stream
Of thoughts and feelings that weave a world of illusions
All reasons to seek liberation
The house is on fire

Chris Lovette
chris_lovette@yahoo.com

Monterey, CA

Futher tales of Miss Bailey the cat:

I arrived home on a Valentine's Day with flowers and a little fuzzy red bear holding a red satin heart under its arm. Kyla placed the little fuzzy bear on our antique red loveseat, which made an endearing scene for all to see. Bailey, however, was not on board with the "endearing scene" concept, and expressed her opinion to us after a few minutes of careful thought. She hopped up on the love seat and sat in a spot next to the bear to plan her next move. After a minute or so of careful thought, accompanied by her "black-cat" frowny-face, faster than we could see, the bear was on the floor. Intrigued by this, we put the bear back up on the loveseat. After just a few seconds, Pow! The bear was back on the floor, put there by a single swift paw. And, yes, we tried it a third time because it was so very cute. Apparently, immune to Valentine's Day sentiments, Bailey was applying one of her cat rules, "Thou shall have no other animals before thee, even stuffed ones!" That established, she was soon asleep on the spot of her choice, just where the bear had been.

Choosing spots, we discovered almost daily, was a very important part of cat existence. Bailey would select a spot in the sun on the sofa. The selecting was done by hopping up and carefully sniffing a prospective area, then turning around once or twice and settling down on it, careful to place each paw and the tail in just the right location. Many times, however, this was not the end of the story. Willy, expressing his alpha-cat attitude, was frequently seen forcing Bailey to move off what he assumed must be a choice spot. He would do this by sitting down close to her and pushing on her with a paw. This failing, he would threaten to bite her (but not actually do it) by leaning over and opening his mouth wide. Usually, by now, she gave up on having a peaceful nap on that particular spot at that particular time, and would find another location out of his sight. Whereupon, using the usual sniff-and-turn-around procedure, Willy would take the spot and soon be asleep. On rare occasions, sad to admit, he would doze for a few minutes, rouse up with a big cat yawn, find Bailey, and perform the take-over drill once more.

Early on, applying our human sensibilities, we tried to discourage this behavior by picking Willy up and moving him, but that usually failed when he didn't care for the spot we chose for him. Finally, we had to accept the fact that this is simply what male cats do, and what female cats do when the other cat is their son. But we did notice that, on occasion, Bailey would defend her special spot, sometimes really biting back, with flattened ears and all, until Willy would give up and walk off disappointed. And, there were occasions when we would see Bailey choose a spot that we knew from watching her over time was not a favorite one. Willy would push her off it and she would move to a spot we knew was indeed one of her favorites. Again applying our human perspective, we thought that at times he appeared puzzled as to what was so great about the spot he had just taken over.

Ray Cyr
raythecyr@att.net

Carmel, CA

CATCH

I liked it when it was his idea
Not mine
Though it was far more often mine

We would grab our gloves
And go down to the street for a catch
These were old gloves
Mine from several Christmases back
With no rawhide lace along the top
Like the ones Honus Wagner
And the rookie Peewee Reese
Used in their games of catch

It would feel that my father and I
Would talk in the playing of catch
But no words were spoken
Except the occasional
Oops, Sorry
Or just Sorry
By me
Not him

There were times when I would miss
And run after it
As it bounded down the road
Past the debris of previous mistakes
And dropped balls

And there were also times
When every throw was guided
And blessed
Every catch a f-f-opp
Made whole by its own perfect sound

And it was then
That we were the sweet friends
Each of us were daily longing to find
Throughout that endless decade
Of my growing bones
And our mounting solitude

F-f-opp our gloves would warmly affirm
To each other
Except when the missed catch
Or the errant throw
Would intervene
As would happen with such regularity
As the years soon passed
And other gloves would be put on

I would always miss
As I still do today
The strange intimacy of catch
In those fleeting years
When you had it to offer

So do you see why
Dearest soul
I might wake up after all these years
With the aching in the heart
For a game of catch
Not with him
And not just with anyone
But with you

With you
The ball moving like grace
Between our bare hands
A soft rhythm like the one
My father and I were hoping always to find
F-f-oof    f-f-opp   f-f-oof    f-f-opp
Back and forth   back and forth
Drowsy imaginings   easy ideas
Lobbed gently and caught
Perhaps even dropped but soon picked up
And returned
In this warm early breaking of the sun's new day

Wayne Martin
Waynechaplain@netzero.com

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Berkeley, CA

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,

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

Galway Bay glimmers
Land and water still rest
another hour this silence
'til sun touches the Rine,

illumines the hills,
to the southwest, weathered
limestone and green grass in
conversation above Corcomroe.

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

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

sculpted on a whim, carried
here on flood tides, waves
scattering spells and splash,
shining at our feet.

Back to the pier, hikes, and happiness,
laughter, mixed with lack of sleep,
magic wella and Monk's Pub,Êwishes
pull up a bucket of stars

Larry Ruth
ergolarry@gmail.com

Carmel, CA

HYMAN BLOOM TURNS NINETY

You were generous enough
My father

A flood of intelligence gushing through the gene pool
The brokered deals
College expenses and loan repayment
Showtune melodies straining to locate their notes
The invitation to walk your paths through the forest
Moments of laughter ricocheting off a clanked funny bone
Discernment of sky
And in the end
A discovery of the caregiver
You always had it in you to be

Graciously I hope
I have taken of these gifts and more
But I can't help but wish for one more
The gift of your Jewishness
Hidden from sight like a skin blemish

Your story and that of your father
And his wives
and their fathers

This is what might also have been given
And with it
I might not be fumbling still so much in the dark
with all the unknowing

But I must add
I believe there are no penalties to pay
In the afterlife
Just lessons to be learned
A new habitation to be moved into
And a preparation for imparting
The very things that were left unsaid
The stories yet unengraved on the hearts
Of those who need them

On this your ninetieth birthday
Come soon with the lessons of your new learning
Bring us the best of Russia
The frozen soil
The bearded prayers of Minsk
The loaves of bread
The mocking of tsars

And gently draw from us the movements that connect
The missing past
To the redeemed and forgiving future.

Wayne Martin
Waynechaplain@netzero.com

San Jose, CA

SAVAGE SERENITY

From the window of their living room
the bulging belly of the Caribbean
stretches to the horizon
and beyond
from Belize to Cuba

Las brizas soaked
with her salty sweat press
against the windows blow
papers off their table leave
droplets trembling
in their window screen

He is held he is cradle
by her briny buoyancy
as he drifts and floats
across swaying fields of sea grass
he closes his eyes
the cradle rocks
his head spins

At night before dozing off
his breath slows down
harmonizing with the rhythm
of her waves exhaling
with a slap on the sandy beach

He wakes up his bones heavy
with the gravity of her sediments
his heart softened by her salty sweat
his mind stretched and bulging
where she lodged her gift
of savage serenity.

Franz Spickhoff
franzox@gmail.com

Del Rey Oaks, CA

UNTITLED

the finches
collect at the feeder
in brilliant yellow
golden dress
playing their part
...in the cycle

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

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Del Rey Oaks, CA

RAIN

Drip
Rain
Splash
Day

Spring
Gurgle
Grow
Day

Green
Hill
Spray
Day

Flower
Sprout
Rain
Day

Drop

THE EDGE OF THE CONTINENT

On the edge of the continent
where the vultures
stand on the ground
in the grass
collecting the morning sun
to wash away
the night cold
getting ready for
the soaring day
of riding the thermal ocean air
looking to keep our Mother
our earth clean
of death

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

Piedmont, CA

UNTITLED

I took "Q" driving today.
We rolled through Orinda towards
     Moraga, absorbing
          The winter day.
The foliage was chartreuse ...
The foliage was lime ...
The foliage was emerald ...


I took "Q" driving today.
We coasted through Walnut Creek towards
     Alamo, drinking in
          The misty scenes.
The trees were dripping ...
The trees were sparkling ...
The trees were shimmering ...


I took "Q" driving today.
We glided through Danville towards
     San Ramon, immersing ourselves in
          The solitude.
The mood was hushed ...
The mood was calm ...
The mood was serene ...

Pam Quesnoy
quesnoy@comcast.net

Carmel Valley, CA

UNCERTAIN ENDINGS

Even though we are wearing the wrong shoes
and the trail leads off
through a tangle of unfamiliar mountains,
we still take the first step.

We haven't enough warm clothes for the journey,
recall the time we became lost and wandered
aimlessly for days, ate the last scrap of food,
and starved for a while from loneliness.

Something draws us further
into the unknown.

Even though we are afraid of the next dusk
that leads us into black caverns of night,
we explore the graveyard of our failures,
hoping for some resurrection of what was lost.

Even though we have chosen
the dubious, dead end detour before,
stepped into quicksand and felt
the marsh close overhead,

some human spark ignites the way
and we travel again,
those wicked shoes pinching
our blistered feet, that path through
the future calling our name.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

Monterey, CA

MUSIC BOX

I'm like a music box that hasn't been wound in so long,
I'll try and play, but I've forgotten the song, the words.
Writing by moonlight, word droplets rain down
Out of a moon-drenched sky.

I need a posthole digger to get through
Soft topsoil to the bedrock below
Where I've buried tears and treasures.

Oh, don't you fade, Moon, I'm just getting started.
This weak flashlight will have to suffice.

Traveling back to far off places,
I see a little girl
Dreaming big dreams of creative living,
Art, music and poetry, as if aware
That something wonderful lived within,
Yet she hid it away out of fear, out of sight.

Who would care?
What did the world want from a skinny little girl
With white flyaway hair and crooked teeth?
Who cared except her Mom, maybe her grandparents?

I wonder. Am I still holding myself back?
In just a few short days I will be seventy.
I'm still digging deep.
Will I strike pay dirt?
We live, we breathe, and we love,
We play on our instruments and sing our songs,
We are here for our one precious life, then
One day we leave our earthly costume,
Travel on, not knowing what we'll find.

And the flashlight batteries just died.

Shirley Tofte
shirleytofte@comcast.net

Carmel Valley, CA

GESTATION'S END

Abrupt change
from womb to world
from being held
in liquid warmth
to arriving in
arena of air
to learn to suck
to focus eyes
to awaken
to the song of life.

All this and more
on the road to change
months turn into years
on stepping stones
of unpaved walkway.

Under the blessed guidance
of deeply caring parents
amidst the power of love
and the dusts of sadness
both necessary to turn child
into man at comfort with self
all welcome gestation's end.

Illia Thompson
Illia99@aol.com

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Del Rey Oaks, CA

UNTITLED

after the lecture
he went into the yard
settled down upon
the earth

pulling his legs
beneath him

facing the east
with the rising sun
stacking his spine
to the center

he picked up the bowl

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

Carmel Valley, CA

LITTLE WORDS

Some mornings before sunrise
while the stars still shine
like crystal shards in the dark sky,
I open my journal
and begin to lay gray tracks
of my pencil along blue lines.

This is the time I let
the little words curl in,
come unhurried from my thoughts,
gather and commune
with one another.
I never know
what destination they seek,
what revelation or resolution
to some nagging question.

My mug of tea sits steaming
under lamplight,
its vapor a veil upon which
the magic of a phrase
floats onto my page.
I follow the mist
into the forest of my mind,
catch the words
like yellow birds that flutter
past on fragile wings.

I have wings you cannot see
when I am writing,
when the sun is rising,
when thoughts are flying
and landing under my hand.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

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Pacific Grove, CA

UNTITLED

Adversity ruptured in my soul,
to wrestle, to seek—go within
and ask, what next?
Something big responds—
the soul bigger than your eyes can confess.

This yearning, exploring, driving to emulate
who am I, I ask myself amongst this act called life?
Anything replies the soul—you can be anything
you want—just don't ignore.

The soul chooses it's destiny—
we are in charge of our ecstasy.
Release your fears, unmask the
body shackled in fantasy no more.
Feel the freedom in the breath—
more than one would expect,
deep, deep to the floor.

Have no more oppression
free from depression—bondage,
shame gone like never before.
Live with honesty, love, kindness,
gratitude, compassion with out remorse.

Every one will come to you like gazing
sheep wanting to receive what you reap
and it's available to all—

Truth is the
beginning to living—
like never before!

One will Endure.

The Phoenix is new to this all.

Liz Sorenson
togetherness@comcast.net

Tucson, AZ

Predictably my high of last month led to a low. But I am coming to accept my bipolar disorder...

MY MARRIAGE AND MY DISEASE

After 29 years of marriage
And another bipolar episode of euphoric poor judgment
In which I "found" the perfect woman
I realize these unreal fantasies
And the search for the perfect woman
Are a part of myself I can surrender
To be more fully with you in the here and now

Our relationship began in a sexual attraction
Along with fiery fights almost from the start
Continually having difficulties
But we had the companionship of life events
And two daughters to share

In all of that I never felt satisfied
That I had found what I wanted
And a gaping loneliness was there too
Then came the last eight years of mental illness
With the times I looked to other women for that something
Idealizing three from a distance
And sharing kisses with two others

The rocky energy of madness
A delusion often leading to hospitalization
Followed by the terrible defeat of depression
Walking with the darkness
With the difficulty of doing simple things
Repeating day after day

But you always stayed
Through the times that hurt you most
And my eyes being opened to what you have put up with
To other things about myself, too
My dissatisfaction and my loneliness have lessened greatly

When you unwrap packages of past hurts to share with me
Like birthday presents from hell
I carefully allow their toxic fumes to disperse
Faced again with the immense selfishness of my past mistakes

Healing is a growing thing
For a relationship
And for my own personal mindscape
That includes daily meditation

Something between us is peaceful
Something new in me arises from a hidden place
And is met and touched by you
I'm finding out that where I'm going is where I am

Chris Lovette
chris_lovette@yahoo.com

Monterey, CA

The following images illustrate the creativity in traditional Japanese Jointery:

The sameness of male and female.

The marriage of two 2" x 6" x 72" old growth coastal redwood boards.

Harmony. Appearing as one.

Patrick Maiorana
patshirl@mbay.net

Carmel Valley, CA

VOICES OF ANCESTORS

Whispers of what used to be are lost,
times I can't remember now
though they were present once
as I lived through unexpected changes
the harsh years brought.

I hear a whisper now and then,
try to pull it deeper into my mind.
Who was that who came into my dream,
then left before morning
raised the curtain of night.

I am backstage now
straining to make out the voices,
the words and moments
that seemed so important at the time.

Perhaps there are just too many
whispers to catch and store
in one small brain,
too many then and now rifts,
too few jewels to string together.

So much has faded
that I wanted to keep,
so many have left me behind.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

Monterey, CA

Tales of Miss Bailey the cat:

We found that Miss Bailey's independence caused her to be very creative at finding entertaining things to do on her own. One morning, for example, she spotted a good-sized black beetle crawling across the floor. Apparently, she did not see this bug to be anything like prey, but chose to regard it as an opportunity for entertainment. She proceeded to use a gentle paw to steer the bug around on the floor, and after a few minutes, it reached a wall and started crawling upward. Bailey watched with interest, and when it was just about out of her reach, she reached up a paw and tapped the bug back down to the floor. After repeating this up the wall and back down procedure several times, she became bored and walked off to the next task on her to-do list, whatever that was. Had we not been so intrigued by this behavior, we would have disposed of the bug then and there. But, we had to admit that it was her bug because she discovered it, and who were we to take her toy away?

So we decided to let it go hide in the closet, or where ever it disappeared to. Sometime the next morning, Kyla noticed Bailey walking by with nothing particular on her mind, when it appeared that the thought struck her, "Oh, I think I'll go play with my bug!" She walked over to the front closet, and within seconds found the bug, brought it out on the floor and began steering it around again, including doing the up the wall and back down procedure several times. This kind of thing continued on for about a week, until we found the bug on the floor one morning, a toy whose batteries had permanently run down. This is how nicknames arise. Every so often we would unconsciously find ourselves calling her "Bailey Bug", because of her pet bug, and because she was a cute little bug of a cat. And also, Ray had often described her as a cat with a short "wheelbase".

Ray Cyr
raythecyr@att.net

Carmel Valley, CA

AT DAWNING

the house seems larger now
the vacancy of you illuminated
by shafts of sharp brightness
echoed by thunder's bravado

rain, full force, drums upon the roof
splashes bubbles off the cement patio
slides down paned glass
raindrops at play

a theater of light and sound
announces again my missing
your music, the melody of you.

Illia Thompson
Illia99@aol.com

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Del Rey Oaks, CA

SILLY BOY POET

silly boy
and all this time
you fell for the useless sports
thinking that culture had value
thinking that
thinking about
the human condition
was worth shit

its all about ripping off
amassing hoards
plundering your neighbors
sticking it to
the stupid
Grandmas
in California
not only that
but we will tell them
all what to do
every single one
will tow the line
if not
we can put them
into camps
jail and kill them
till they cough up
all the goods
deliver to me
all the gold

when I finally have it
all my own
I'll be called to heaven by
my greedy god
and given a thousand virgins
because I believe in Jesus
he is the way

and if you don't believe it
you are not with us

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

Carmel Valley, CA

NECESSARY

"as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry"
Mary Oliver

Somewhere
people are hungry
for my poems,
even if they don't know it yet.

So I go on scratching down
my thoughts along the lines,
tapping letters into text,
a first draft I know will be altered
as I come closer to the mystery
that drifts nearby
among the adjectives and verbs.

I wait a while,
go back to the poem
to change a word,
move a line down for emphasis,
or move it to the beginning,
middle or end,
wherever it tells me
it should come to roost.

And later I may move it again
or take it out all together.
Perhaps a certain word
sticks out—like a warthog,
but I haven't yet found a lemur
nor am I willing to surrender it.

Somewhere there are people hungry
for my poems, for clarity
in their otherwise confused minds,
for solace in moments of grief,
for a laugh or two.

I believe it's my calling
to keep putting words together
in surprising respects,
to create art out of the thin air
of my heart and the movement
of my pen across the page.

I work at arranging the words
in just the right rhythm
with precise metaphors
and juicy surprises.
I am feeding the hungry,
not with Salvation Army donations,
but with something rare
n our hasty world—
slow poems,
rich poems,
nourishing poems.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

Tucson, AZ

(She) is the assistant director at a drop-in center and lunch meal cafeteria for those classified and in the system as seriously mentally ill, of which number I have been for the past seven years. (She) is also active in Tucson's vibrant gay community. Almost five years ago after totaling my car in the mountains above Tombstone while very drunk, the next day I made a hateful scene at the Clubhouse center. But when I went back almost five years later last October, she befriended me and gave me another chance.

I began playing my guitar and singing again and the wonderful world of music has opened to me in a whole new way. Yesterday at an outdoor soup kitchen (the kitchen is in a building) the Franciscan brother officiating at the weekly Guadalupe mass had heard me playing gospel music in the yard and asked if I could do the communion meditation solo. I said yes. Then he asked if I am Catholic. I told him "More or less."

During the holidays I began drinking with some homeless friends camping in the desert under the mesquite trees. This led to a blackout drunk on Ten High bourbon on New Year's Day that gifted me with a huge black eye that I have had to explain to virtually everyone in my life. The black eye along with other symptoms of mental activity escalating toward a manic episode led (the assistant director) to intervene, sitting me down and asking what was going on and arranging a next day appointment with my psychiatrist. He believes marijuana is therapeutic for me and is generally very supportive.

Now instead of looking like I'm heading for another breakdown I'm looking at growing pains as my soul begins to open into a beautiful flower.

I MUST BE MORE

Don't let my foolishness and lack of tact
Spoil a beautiful friendship
I am learning much as I leave behind my crutches
And sail the ship of freedom
Into the ocean of love

Yes I do at times imagine
Myself as a knight errant
In vigils and brave adventures
And you my lady love
Pure and untouchable
The substance of every virtue
And the keeper of the flame of my heart

At times I see myself a priest
And my flock criminals, the homeless
The mentally twisted and bent
And among them so many beautiful saints
And it is then I know
That I must be more than I am
For them
So that I can share my love
The way I long to share my love with you

Chris Lovette
chris_lovette@yahoo.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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