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Section B: .................................................................. August 15, 2010

Del Rey Oaks, CA

NEVER HITCH HIKE ON SUNDAY

I almost hit a spotted dog
Along his careless way
My car it moved up swiftly
The bumper slick and chrome

I swerved to miss him desperate
The breaks applied full force
The rubber peeled in moving sheets
Upon the pavement stone

I wouldn't have tried so hard you see
If I had been alone
But others they were watching me
And death they don't condone

On movie film and T.V. sets
And prison walls alone

On another day in another place
I hit a fluffy cat

No one sat there watching me
I'm sure they do not care

But god I feel alone

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

Carmel Valley, CA

MISSING

All the silver winter driftwood
has been burned
or hauled home
to become sinuate effigies
in coastal gardens.

Seashore...
summer
high fog subdues
colors to muted hues.

Even waves
are docile,
sliding up
and retreating effortlessly,
as if some slender hand
were swaying slowly
through the kelp
far out to sea,

all the passionate turbulence
of storms merely
a dim echo,
no more retrievable
at this moment
than the intoxication of spring,
vital obsessions
of desire,
or the vivid image
of someone long ago
lost.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

Del Rey Oaks, CA

POEM TO SPRING #3

with the spring
the center spread
across the still water
pond with ducks

lined up behind the hen
paddling along the reeds
in the shadow ripples
reflecting all of the sky

time to once again
begin to stand
upon the bank
counting flower blooms
upon the trees

narrow cast
towards the
rain clouds
spread into the sky

white and grey
raising high up
in blue sky

beyond those trees

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

Carmel Valley, CA

INEVITABLY

I intend to make the bed today,
tuck all the corners tight,
fluff up the pillows...

but portly quail gather on the hillside clucking,
summoning their young to feast
on seeds I scattered at daybreak.
I stop to watch them flow,
a slate-blue stream under sunlight.
Shadows dissolve
on the mountain across the valley
while I linger.

I plan to sweep the deck today,
water plants, complete a dozen other duties...

but a pine tree broke a limb
in yesterday's wind
and its scent reminds me
of the woods along the South Plateau trail,
so I fetch my backpack,
head for Point Lobos instead.

I mean to take one path,
stay one hour...

but I fall under a spell,
wander along the pine needle-covered path
out to Gibson Beach,
circle the edge of China Cove,
soak up heady fragrances
of sea air and ceanothus.

I resolve to take the short cut
back to the park entrance
through Mound Meadow...

but the sign for the Pine Woods trail
lures me down through the forest
toward the harsh barks of sea lions
and I follow my heart,
pause on a bench that offers
a porthole to the south shoreline,
admire thin mists trailing
over islands of stone.

I think I will turn back
along the Lace Lichen trail to stroll
beneath the pale green scarves
that drape from bare limbs...

but I recall it has been a long time
since I visited the ghostly gray cypress groves
and steep cliffs of the North Shore.
By this time my legs begin to ache,
calves tightening
on steeper portions of the path...

but rocky inlets and granite walls
are worth every sore muscle.
In patches under the pines
purple stars of woods iris sway
on slender stems among green grasses.
A pair of deer graze,
lift their heads to watch me pass.

Eventually, reluctantly,
my pace slows as I exit the trails,
walk towards the gate,
a list of unfinished chores
slipping in to scold once more.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

Carmel Valley, CA

U

The secret to knowing you is
when I remember you—and lose myself,
I become you.
Your fragance pours from my skin.
You laugh and flowers bloom
drawing bees by the millions.
You cry and people rush forward with open arms
and handfulls of tissue.
You make cautious steps outside your door
and hundreds of blind men's canes
tap the path through the darkness.
Your courage becomes a balm for wounds.
You feel warmth and babies
the world over sleep quietly in their cribs.
your needs form a thousand prayer doves
filling the sky.
Your pain is a beggar's bowl
at the feet of God.
I love being you.

Karl Schaurer
horus01@sbcglobal.net

Carmel, CA

35TH REUNION

They weren't all there
It had been years
Some were dead
Some were missing
Even those of us who were there
Weren't all there

I danced
It had been years
The old songs came back
Like Monterey fog in the morning
I wanted to sing
Not dance
I knew the tunes
The harmonies
The falsetto parts
Now I wanted to explore
What had spawned my fantasies—
The litanies and the dogma
The mating calls and the sacred texts—
I wanted to know the words

The women were more beautiful than
They had been as girls
Their brains and their bodies
Filled full
And connected to the world
They had carried children
Raised them and run restaurants
Managed offices and real estate
They had not labored
To hold back tears
And it made them
Yes
More beautiful

We men looked more
Like returning soldiers
Who had stayed up too long
For too little
Was the difference
That they had carried children
While we shouldered responsibilities
And hunting rifles
And bought second cars?
Or was it the tears
They had not held back
That released who they were
Inside
To spill out and fill out
Into their bodies?
Is this how
They had grown up to be better
Connected to the world?

The evening ends too abruptly
Like a poem or a dream
Not ready to finish
We sneak our last words
Give kisses
Exchange convivialities
And leave while the music still plays
And while the words I wanted to know
The primal litanies—
Hang there in the air
Clusters of an almost forbidden fruit
Just out of reach
And just ready to fall

Wayne Martin
Waynechaplain@netzero.com

Tucson, AZ

I had to say goodbye to my dog Thursday morning. I held his head while he lay on a little blanket. When the vet injected the barbiturates into him his head immediately plopped into my hand and his spark left. I buried him in a grave I had already prepared, with the biggest rocks I could carry placed on top of it and a cross made of old wood from close by, in the open desert next to some small mesquite trees and not far from a coyote den.

CANINE HOSPICE CARE

My dog's name is Cisco
I found him on a street in Tucson
In the Spring of 2008
He was lost and lonely
I knocked on doors in the neighborhood
But no one was home
So I took the puppy and walked home
Carrying my new precious friend

He grew and learned
Crate training taught him to be housebroken
Slaps on his nose taught him
Not to jump up on everyone he met
Grabbing his tongue when he licked me
And holding on to it a few seconds
Taught him not to lick people
Those were the rules I made him learn

I live one block from the desert
And Cisco became my eager companion
On our walks there
One day in October 2009
I tied him in the shade of a tree
In a wash
Where we stopped so I could meditate
He didn't want to be tied up
Straining on the leash
And finally digging in the wash
Sniffing the soil
And caught Valley Fever

His belly became distended
And from looking like a small pit bull
His spine revealed each vertebrae
His chest revealed each rib
And his abdomen grew into
A tight huge ball like a filled-up balloon

The vomiting and diarrhea began
Now it is June 2010
And in the last few weeks
He has weakened
But he looks at me
With eyes sweetly and earnestly
Requesting any show of love from me
When I greet him

When he dies part of me will die
He will no longer chase rabbits
Into the place where the cholla cactus grow
Where sometimes he would stop
And look to me for help
With cholla balls in his nose or his legs

He will not run toward the coyote
Who looked at him
And began running toward him
That made him turn and run back to me

He will not sleep with me
In my desert camp
Where we snuggled naked against each other

His love will be hard to replace
But I know that from my broken heart
Will come a greater wisdom

We do not want to let each other go
And when he goes I will let
A part of me go as well

Last night we lay on an open sleeping bag
In the front yard
So I wouldn't have to clean up his vomit

He came and licked me on the lips
The rules forgotten in our love

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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