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Section F: .................................................................. December 15, 2010

Del Rey Oaks, CA

THE SHINY SILVER SHOE

the shiny silver shoe
lost its little girl

decided to sit down
in the gutter
by the library
to figure it out

what to do

laying in the litter
beside the road
far from home

and little girls
with fancy dresses
that always made
the two
look so nice

at the parties
with friends
playing pin the tail
on the donkey
laughing
and drinking cool aid
till it came out of their noses

oh little shoe
I hope you find
your little girl

and dance away
till a new dawn

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

Carmel Valley, CA

MOSS LANDING PRIZE

Shorebirds gather and disperse.
Congregations of gulls stand together
on one knoll of the beach.
One after another, a squadron of pelicans
glides close to the water,
then rises up the side of a bluff,
using the slightest thermal
to support their outspread wings.

The gulls have no schedule,
while waves roll up the low slope
and slip back again, or so it seems to me.
They behave like cousins,
all with some family resemblance
but varied shapes of gray patches on wings
or a dark stripe near the tail feathers,
all bony webbed feet and yellow hooked beaks,
a different story in each eye.

I walk the shore, come across a gull's head,
white boned with large circular eye sockets,
intricate linkage of jaw and open beak
that seems to still sing
its shrill call over the sea.
Only a bit of muscle and ligament remains,
the basic form of its cranium a skeletal sculpture.

Tucking it carefully into my pocket,
I bring it home, soak the skull in clean water,
wash away the clinging sand and place a stone
between the upper and lower mandibles,
discover dignity beneath its familiar face.

MAKE VISIBLE

Make visible what, without you, might perhaps never have been seen.
—Robert Bresson, French film director

An August morning in what has been a cool summer
even here in my inland valley.
On first awakening the fog surrounds the house.
I need a flashlight to go up to retrieve the newspaper,
startle a skunk who scuttles away.

I sip my tea and read, look up from the news
to see the sky has cleared, become
a delicate mauve color, and the mist floats
like a white sea in the narrow vale below.

Soon it will disappear, but for now
I am above the vapor, as if sitting on a cloud,
some sort of mysterious heaven
with only the top of a pine tree piercing
my cloudbank magic carpet.

I like the feeling of being contained
in a soft world all my own.
At these times I don't long for a companion,
glad of the silence.

Other times, when the setting sun lends
its honey-glow to the evening
and later when the night sky glitters
with its millennium of stars,
I want to share it all with another,
one who sighs along with me
as we stand in each other's arms
and stare out at all that beauty.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

Little River, CA

IN GRATITUDE

In gratitude...
for this moment,
the breath,
The spark that ignites passion...
the first movement,
curiosity,
the curve of your neck;
the song we sing together...
unrestrained joyfulness,
children laughing,
mindless, unreasonable gestures of kindness,
seeing myself through your eyes,
the silence before the word...
     and YOU.

Monterey, CA

SUNDAY, NOV. 7, 2010

The end of Daylight Savings Time.
What is it that we saved?
The Sun rose in the East and set in the West.
Night came with its gift of rest
And its procession of stars.

The Great Wheel is forever turning,
Ever changing, never the same.
What is it that we saved?
And what is it that we lost
By stepping out of time
In our dance with the Divine?

I cherish the change,
Being back in rhythm and time,
Dancing the Great Mystery's dance.

I embrace the gift of Darkness
With its calling to be still.
Time to be still and listen
To the change that's churning inside.
Time to be still
And let old ways that aren't mine die.

Carmel, CA

WENDELL AND THE PASSING OF YEARS

Today we spoke
The two of us
After the long passing of years
Each of us I suspect editing
From the sounds inside telephone wires
The out-of-date portraits
We had stored up in our minds
What new lines in the face
What new colors in the hair
What new etchings in the heart
What new protrusions of the imagination
Who is he now
After his newest daughter's birth
Though she is thirteen
How is he faring now
He wonders about me
Four years since the president
Began gutting the country
Who is he three months after
His wife's last radiation
Who are we
After years of spoken absence

Is there a boat
A small isthmus
We can paddle together
Just long enough to share
A view of gulls landing
On a limb above our heads
Or storm clouds forming
Or the singing of an old song
Is there a boat
Somewhere in this world
In which to sit and
Slowly
Retender
A friendship

Monterey, CA

CLOUD REALITIES

Clouds appear and grow mysteriously,
Seem to be created from nothing at all,
Seem to choose their venues at random,
Create speckled cotton sky or serious summer squall.

Hiding dark interiors with their own bright white light,
They shadow red desert monolith and distant mountain range.
Moving and changing in their own inevitable ways,
They conceal what's familiar, and reveal what's strange.

Smaller clouds die into the larger collective space,
Combine to produce rolling roiling rising white towers.
With roots that are buried in the dark anima mystery of earth,
The bright animus mystery grows heavenward and flowers.

Balance animus with anima, balance anima with animus,
No light without darkness and no darkness without light.
Revel in darkness,, revel in light, and reveal your insight.
Eagerly—and fearfully—soar into the light, dive into the night.

Tucson, AZ

BEHIND AND AHEAD

in back yard swing,
a swinging lounge really
how long back yard
long enough to run a year in?

I will be gone soon
That is for certain
This is as good as
My last chance
To annoy the discordant bird
Singing a monotonous song
Or to listen to the
traffic on Campbell

Well, I'll miss it
my rock garden
mostly from my parents'
rock collection
some my father "mined", as it were
ourselves camping out in the desert
near the mineral deposits
in the fifties and sixties

the pigeons flying overhead
I will miss them too
the mulberry trees
the sideways mesquite
that still lives
though toppled by
a monsoon tempest

changes and changes
behind and ahead

A FRIDAY NIGHT ADVENTURE

yesterdays perigrinations
took me to the University
of Arizona where
I spotted people gathered
at the entrance to a large campus building

thinking free food
I headed that way:
better than dumpster diving

so I go flirt with all the women
as usual
getting four tacquitos
provided by El Charro
an old restaurant in Tucson

I ate, then began dancing
to the Spanish guitarist

up on the balls of my feet
the way I love to dance
I do the fandango

Ê Later, outside,
the bad boy
wearing a cowboy hat
salt sweat stains on its brown oilskin
Stands in front of the hall
to howl at the moon
doingÊhis best coyote imitation

Chris Lovette
chris_lovette@yahoo.com

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Section E: .................................................................. November 15, 2010

Del Rey Oaks, CA

OCTOBER 14, 2010, 7:14 AM

The miners came
raised up on the prayers
of human kind
around the world
watching
waiting
having become
the symbol
of workers
everywhere

from deep in the earth
having slain the devil
in his lair
they ascended
among us.
to share the light
once more.
so many doubts
and fears
     put to rest

OCTOBER 17, 2010, 6:28 PM

one more mouse
on its way to Valhalla
in the talons of
Red hawk
winging over the freeway
in the rain
while I am on my way
to San Francisco Airport
to pickup the bankers
from their flying tubes

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

Carmel Valley, CA

MONDAY, MONDAY

A light drizzle waters
the potted plants on my deck
and the weather report promises sun
the remainder of the week.
My horoscope has five stars,
says I might awe someone with my intellect
without even intending to.

A break in the clouds has lit up
the white fluff and a patch of blue
I can see through the glass door
from my glider chair.
Shimmering light reflects
in shallow pools of water
and drops of rain still drum down
from the edge of the roof.

Chickadees and house wrens
hop around the seed bowl.
Yesterday I had a visit
from a stellar jay in addition
to the usual scrubs.
Birds are entertaining,
but they are not affectionate,
can't pay their share of travel expenses
or count for double occupancy discounts.

Dissolving clouds move east
as the last of the small rainstorm
drifts through my valley.
April is dense with green foliage.
The fire tower atop Sid Ormsby Peak
glows like a white candle.

I love the way the rising sun
tips the ridges with its beams
and how the wisps of vapor gather,
then disperse as the minutes pass.
I am looking for signs of life
in my little universe.

ON MY OWN

I start out on the steep trail
to Maple Canyon
in search of trillium.
Sunlight streams through
dense green leaf stars.
Songbirds prevail over
the muted rumble
on a distant road.
A legion of tree trunks
troops up the mountainside.
Valley oaks grow
tattered lichen beards,
shadow fuchsia-flowered gooseberry vines
and woodmint in color-muted pools.

Short of breath,
heartbeat rapid,
footsteps faltering uphill,
I choose the Live Oak Trail,
head across the ridge,
whisper names to myself,
Buckwheat, sage, blue-eyed grass,
detect the vanilla scent
of white torch blooms
on buckeye boughs,
arrive eventually
at the open meadow,
pick a blossom of owl's clover
to tuck behind my ear,
consult no one about
where to go next.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

Monterey, CA

WORDS

Words appear out of a thin mist
Velvet black, cloudy grey
Birthing a line of thought
My Soul awakened.

Words form a lyric for tunes
As yet unheard
A fragrance, a bouquet
To touch a heart with delight
A heady scent of roses

Words wait in secret
Where sacred seeds are planted.
I try not to know
More than this breath,
This joining of living words,
Truly a banquet of bounty.

Shirley Tofte
shirleytofte@comcast.net

Carmel, CA

DROPPED OFF TOO EARLY

In her life she had been
Lying awake for years
Waiting like when she had been
Dropped off too early for church.
Waiting for one of the kids to arrive
Home, for another to fall asleep
In a book or a prayer, for a
Dream not ready to start, for the
Moon to rise to the place where
It can finally see everything, for
Fatigue to smudge out the
Mistakes of the day.

Waiting
As it all gets collected in
The soft bowl at the top of the neck;
It's like, she thinks, the collection
Basket at church being passed
Through the hands of each half-
Awake parishioner

Until Smirched with fingerprints,
Longings, and a few clinking
Pennies of guilt, it is
Placed upon the altar
And sits there alone

Waiting
Like all the rest of her mingled
Currencies
For the peace to be passed
And the benediction said.

Wayne Martin
waynechaplain@netzero.net

Tucson, AZ

ZOE

Beautiful is not a word
I would use for Zoe
Angel is closer
Shining with
     inner light
From a place
     so far beyond
This mundane
     and sometimes ugly
          world
That when I am near her
I am in awe
Of that which
     when shared
Ever increases

Other men may woo thee
Perhaps women, too
Their desires tinged with
          your body
And of course
          your unique soul

Perhaps one day you will wed
Be a Mother and a Wife
And Zoe, I your friend
Wish you all the blessings
          of your life

I love to hold you and
          hold you
And be one
     in the contentment
          of your arms

I know it cannot be
What is my love
          But fantasy?

     For a dream
Who is you
Who smiles at me
     with almost a laugh

Encouraging me on
Scarred and old knight
Who's taken too many
     wrong turns . . .

I will find that secret
          of your smile
Which must be
     Paradise
Which I know
     without knowing
Is Yes
Is that which awaits
When my soul shall find
          comfort
My attachment for you will cease
But my love always remain

Chris Lovette
chris_lovette@yahoo.com

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Section D: .................................................................. October 15, 2010

Del Rey Oaks, CA

IN THE LIGHT OF DAWN

in the light of dawn
the sacred bound
of earth and sky
ripples above the sea
pale the greying
moving on
bring the north wind
telling of autumn
changing color
pulling down
into cloisters
gathering together the
last supplies

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

Berkeley, CA

LAST AFTERNOON JULY

After the cappuccino, reading
a section of the newspaper, look
over, I've been sitting a long time,
neatly folded Friday afternoon, mine
to walk away from Weekend Arts
away from the table, south, down
College Avenue, summer daydream
to Milestone Basin, Sequoia and hike,
two blocks to the car, more, going
to the fire road in the hills, muse
about that conversation at the next
table and at the corner, wait
for the signal, think about music
tonight, Coleman Barks
reading Rumi and more, tablas
flutes, bliss and blues, Sufis,
summer is here, love, live a little
revival, green light, go east, step up
step off the curb, speeds by

that first car, driver cuts the corner
too close, step back, nick of time,
but not far enough, there're two cars,
the second, burnt orange box Honda,
driver not looking at us, looking south,
the opposite direction, front of the car
right here, engine revs, soft tire treads
on my toes, wheels roll and backward
I go, somersaulting over and away,
end on the asphalt, sitting on my butt,
dazed, my foot tingling, numbs out just
before five, quitting time, next to me Sammy
says "Are you..." I don't respond, so he tries
a different tack: "Do you want me to call,"
I tell him no, I need to get my bearings,
follow Annelise and her friend back to Strada

No second cappuccino, sit for a bit, but they
want 911, no pressure, we talk, I call my doctor,
the office is closed, "in the event of a medical emergency,
please dial 9-1-1." I don't but don't move either, until
the world slows down. Bruise on thigh, walk to the car (an enemy...
I wonder), get in drive home, and pressure, realize my head
hurts, end up at Alta Bates Hospital, place where I was born.
Funny, though, the toe seems pretty much unaffected.
CT scan shows head, no fractures. Bob says "Get out of here."
Jessie reminds me not to ignore the bruises. Ice and rest,
more ice and you are definitely going to be sore. And stiff.

Next morning, I'm still in my bathrobe, figuring out what
works and trying to get started, a police officer comes by,
someone I know, Lyle Ledward, star of the Seventh Grade class,
fastest runner, six hundred yard dash, big smile, he wants to talk
After he gathers "just the facts," he reaches out, takes my hand
and shakes it. Via e-mail, my friend Arpita recommends Rescue
Remedy— "helps after shocky-scary things." At Whole Foods
or Berkeley Bowl. And Arnica pills, she writes, "for the stiffness."
All this— no music— no walk in the hills— no revel— all happens.

Friday, Saturday, Sunday— not bliss but not bad either
Sunday night at my desk, healing as writing, blessed
are the words before they are written
Monday morning
flies past.

ALTAMONT, LAST DAY OF JULY

Out of Livermore, cycling
past farms and fields boom!
a blowout, rear tire, darn,
had just replaced both tires.
Reach down, tire doesn't feel flat
check the front. It's fine
and strange, the blue
bike is still rolling,
Pull over, stop, thumb
both the tires, no problem,
summer afternoon, cool breeze,
can't figure it out until
twenty yards to my right
flash of color, bright
wing and shadow
slowly lifts body
long tail feathers
into flight

for once I'm glad
I guess
someone was shooting
at a bird

and ride north
toward home.

Larry Ruth
ergolarry@gmail.com

Piedmont, CA

THE BAND OF WOMEN

On that warm summer's eve
We circled our chairs on the lawn;
Some spoke of retirement, some of moving
Some spoke of grandchildren, some of traveling.
On that warm summer's eve
We shared the happenings of our lives;
Some talked about recent gatherings, some of personal problems
Some talked about work, some of wishes for the future.

A laziness floated on the air
We were comfortable in our chatter;
Some made us laugh, some made us ponder
Some encouraged us to share our thoughts, some chose to quietly listen.
A laziness floated on the air
We were content in our friendship;
Some rested from a hectic work day, some from volunteering
Some enjoyed the contentment shared by friends, some the fun of gatherings.

The Band of Women

Pam Quesnoy
quesnoy@comcast.net

Carmel Valley, CA

SLEEPLESS
In a sacred manner, they are sending voices.
—Black Elk

It's almost midnight.
Stars rise and fall,
flicker Morse code
in the sacred hours of darkness.
Restless earth spins its body
to another face of the universe.

Minutes falter,
tack into time-lapse nightmares.
I turn over,
rearrange pillows
elbows and knees,
surf nocturnal waves past
numbers on the clock,
sink into and wake
from brief intervals of dream,
hear haunting voices.

Some nights I wish for oblivion,
to fall into coma for a year or two,
then wake refreshed,
having slept long enough
to banish the demons of darkness
and reclaim my sanity.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

Tucson, AZ

EVENTUAL ME AND I WILL A MAGIC POSSESS YOU

A stand of desert willows for 50 yards along Julian Wash
Not true willows but related to Catalpa trees

Pink trumpet flowers reminiscent of snapdragons
Purple rouge on the inner side leading into the bell
Two yellow orange stripes emerging from inside
Flowers of two inch long delicately thin membrane
Yet staying in perfection for weeks through desert heat and drought
Summer monsoon rains open new blossoms into the spring's surviving bloom
Branches bearing racemes, stem-like clusters of buds opening sequentially
Groups of four or fewer in full bloom at a time

In the gentle breeze after sunrise one lady falls to the brown hard earth
The edges of the petals do a small ballet choreographed by a light breeze

Lucky morning, the breeze dancing plants and vividly the flowers
Dawn's light of dimensional shading and depth of coloration
Not an hour old slants low from the eastern horizon

The tallest desert willow in the stand is twenty feet high
Its trunk separating into five a short way above the ground
It stands at the height of the slope up from Julian Wash
Thirty-some feet above the Wash, up a hundred-foot long trail
On the highest ground and the tallest of any of the trees of this solitary stand

Stripped free of soil by erosion, a few feet of the topside of one of its roots has been
Intricately weathered by radiant light, heat, drought, windblown dust, rain runoff
Kin in its weathered look to beach driftwood
Or a snow and wind-blasted gnarled branch of High Sierra Juniper

On the trunks fissures expose the inner wood
Between the fissures inch-wide strips of bark
With crosswise creases every half-inch, like a dried cracked mud flat
Oiled willow-like leaves minimize evaporation
Bean pods, thin, up to eight inches long
Brown and opened, spent, or ripening green unopened
Hang smooth and slightly curly

The sun has traveled higher overhead
Radiating intensity from a higher angle, dulling colors and dimensionality
The desert prepares for another hundred-degree summer's day
Do its living things have some dim yearning for a monsoon rain?

One ten-foot tall tree bends its branches over the edge of Julian Wash
Rooted close to the best water source
As revealed by blossoms thick on every branch
Perhaps a thousand trumpet-bell ballerinas given motion by the breeze
Spontaneous and graceful, beautiful women unaware of their beauty

The bumblebees and black swallowtails come to partake of the ladies' favors
Dominating the ballet with their gift of flight
Nimbly drinking nectar from an unsuspected opening near each flower's base

Four black swallowtails race by in chaotic tandem
Almost erratic flight paths follow some instinctual pattern

Left in the western shade of the big tree up the thirty foot rise
My backpack waits with iced green tea, lemonade, and tobacco

After rolling the morning's first cigarette I light it
The nicotine from the first few drags triggers a momentary sense
Of the unity of my self-awareness and the entire scene
Especially the trees, their flowers, and the humble breeze moving through all

I discover a dozen fallen blooms by my backpack
On the ground at the base of the trunk that splits five ways
Blossoms now shriveled and withered
Still beautiful in their desiccation, singing their final whispered song:
"Nothing lasts . . ."

THE BOA CONSTRICTOR

I laid down to sleep
Tired from working with pickaxe and shovel
Pulled up the soft sheet
With the cotton bedspread on top
Caressed by my mattress
My head sinking softly into my pillow

My mind unwound and muscles relaxed
Bands loosened in all directions
When a snake slithered up to me
A boa constrictor with golden eyes

Its head came to rest on my chest
"Why are you afraid?" it asked
"I'm afraid of you!" I replied
"You're not supposed to be here!"
"But don't you like snakes?
I am a very nice snake"
Its question reminded me that I like animals

"This is my bed and I sleep alone . . .
I am happier sleeping alone"
"What do you love?" it asked
All the things I love
Came tumbling into my head
"I love my health, my car,
my home, my garden, my cats,
my income, good food, music,
good books, and this comfortable bed"
"Ah!" said the snake knowingly
"I am the snake who lives in your heart
I have come with a gift:
to show you how to love what is not 'yours'"

The snake disappeared suddenly
I could not understand what it meant

Deciding it had not been real
I slowly began to fall asleep
And as I fell asleep I thought about
The hardened tough calluses encasing my heart
Self-pity, fear, disillusionment and pain
And I fell asleep wondering
How could the snake have gotten out?

Chris Lovette
chris_lovette@yahoo.com

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Section C: .................................................................. September 15, 2010

Del Rey Oaks, CA

DRAWING IS ALL THERE IS

drawing is all there is
take a pencil
a big paper
draw your name
as big as you can

you have drawn a most complex image
completely abstract
but full of meaning

now on another sheet
draw a line around the edge
a square box
to bind the limits
of what you have done
or will do

now on yet another
put the paper vertical
not on the horizontal
and draw another edge
when that is done
make a line at 3/4

it doesn't matter
if it is from the top
or from the button

you are making a world
and have divided the land from the sky
separated the ocean
from the air

drawing is all there is

now if you never stop
for 100 years
you will be known as artist
but do it everyday
on books and pages
big and small

do not worry of what to draw
it's right in front of you

just remember it is everyday
drawing is all there is

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

Carmel Valley, CA

BARGAIN HUNTER

I go shopping for words,
not as one would for new shoes
or groceries, but with my ears,
the small hairs in inner chambers
shivering with anticipation
of some fresh merger of noun
and verb, a three-word phrase
implausibly accurate.

Song lyrics, book titles,
magazine ads,
newspaper headlines,
commonplace figures of speech,
become original
with the variation of an adjective,
unexpected fusion of images,
a haunting word.

I'm an oniomaniac (compulsive buyer)
of words, a bibliophage (bookworm),
add them to my vocabulary,
swap lexicology like anagrams
in my head.
I collect tittle-tattle at thrift stores,
and restaurants, listen in
on conversations
for lingual surprises,
rhetorical questions I can explore
past their apparent reply.

I pay nothing for indigenous
expressions of strangers
and regional archaisms,
tuck them into my notebooks
for reserve stock.
I've even been known to shoplift,
a bucolic verse kleptomaniac
from the racks of greeting cards,
jot down a jingle or two
when no one is looking.

My cupboards are crammed
with Costco-sized containers.
l have enough
babble and bunk,
horsefeathers,
bombastic balderdash,
and poppycock
to last the rest of my life.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

THE IDEA

I awoke this morning
With the idea of you
Next to me.

It was an idea
I had had of you
Thirty years ago
Walking along the Charles in autumn
Long before I met you.

The long boats drifted by
Like slow years
Barely leaving a ripple,
Gulls from the harbor
Searching the wide river
As if it may once
Have offered them something.

You walked the Charles
With years of music
In your eyes
Which I heard faintly
As I neared you

There was the song of your father,
A whisper in your lingering stride.
Were you a student at BU?
A waitress, a doctor, a woodsmith,
A painter like someone in your past?

I have held this memory,
This song, those boats, this idea,
As one holds a butterfly
And lets it go
Until it returns.

In the pale orange of this morning
As I stirred
On the hard bed of sleep
It fluttered back
And landed there beside me
As you lay breathing.

Wayne Martin
Waynechaplain@netzero.com

Berkeley, CA

CAST A SPELL
(August, southern Sierra)

Change something, exactly what doesn't matter,
new or old, who or what doesn't matter, conjure now,
make vivid, believe it alive
          as one body enfolds
another, awaken to an alarm clock shift of her body,
one whom you love, had forgotten you loved,
met again on a summer's day, Sierra
granite and glaciers, measuring distance
by the careless crush of her arms.

Each day, cross the river, twenty-minutes more
or less, swim, whisk yourselves dry, reverie
and rhyolite giving off warmth, hike to happiness,
long days cool into evening, weaving sunset
and sleep, dreaming of
         talus, slopes and scree
to Old Army Pass, big rock, the back country,
bighorn sheep, ewes and calves at Soldier Lake,
corn lilies and columbine in bloom, purple
onions below at Rock Creek,
         old avalanches
mark the trail to foxtail pines, to the saddle
at Guyot, then down, a long, sandy traverse
to Crabtree Meadows
         ford the creek, veer east, take the fisherman's trail, uphill to the meadows
and lakes, boulders bright with snow, sliding
toward solid ground, to the water beneath the cliff.
Walk on, to the shore of a lake
         high, blue and deep,
remember that day of fishing and laughter,
the creek's outlet silver, golden, going scarlet
with a thousand spawning trout.

Next morning, follow the shore of Guitar Lake,
climb seventy-odd switchbacks to the crest,
cross over, off trail long way round,
scramble through Whitney Pass and down
or linger at the top before leaving, bend
         day and night
and day, flow, river carving curves in the rock,
decades unchanging even as it changes,
never the same water, not the same
time.
         Find your pack. Call her, say, "Let's go, leave
for Lone Pine, hike from Horse Corral, Cottonwood,
any trail, just two of us.."
         Afternoons and asters, snowmelt
trickling down the rock.

Larry Ruth
ergolarry@gmail.com

Tucson, AZ

A ROAD ENDS

Living in the desert has certain advantages over a house
Coyotes, quails, jackrabbits, owls, hawks
Flowers, trees, and the rest of the flora and fauna of the natural world
Interpenetrate the desert drifters' living spaces
A desert that has more plants and animals than most since it gets more rain
Rain in winter and even more in the summer monsoon of July and August

One desert dweller named Jerry and I became good friends
Sometimes when we'd talk and the conversation paused
He would look me intensely in the eyes and ask
"You know what I like about you the most? Everything!"

Quail and roadrunners came to eat the bread crumbs Jerry set out next to camp
We were in a wilderness setting we loved
One that hasn't changed much since before Columbus — except for the trash
That was where we shared our stories and heard those of others who came to visit

Jerry told this story to me once
About when his small unit
Was out on a reconnaissance patrol
And after a long day's march
They made camp in the open fields, dog tired
The next morning, as men often do right after they wake up
The first man who woke up got up to make water
But before he could finish
Ping!
A bullet bit into his brain and killed him

When he came back from Vietnam
Jerry left his home in Louisiana and drifted around the country
Riding freight trains and seeing new places, living in Monterey for a time
And if opportunity allowed, he sang and played blues guitar
Finally he ended up here in Tucson living in a tent
Where sometimes in the summer it tops 110 in full sun

The patch of desert where he lived begins one block from my house
A few hundred acres of undeveloped land surrounded by the City of Tucson
He panhandled down by the local supermarket
And always gave everybody a smile whether they gave him anything or not

Whenever he saw me coming
He would say "Hey Outlaw!
Use your head for something besides a hat rack!"

One day a few years back
He was drinking beer behind a store at the edge of the desert
A couple of friends were drinking beer with him
When a young city dweller drifted into the group
Somehow the punk learned Jerry had some crack in his backpack
And demanded that Jerry share it with him

The 55 year old combat vet told the young stranger
"I had to sit on the corner to get the money for that. You can go get your own!"
The stranger picked up a big rock and bashed Jerry in the head
Jerry was killed instantly and the desert drifters and I were sad such a nice man was gone

I recently heard that another friend who went by the name of Doc Holliday
Went on a road trip to Missouri this last July

A few words about Doc are in order
He always drank everybody else's booze
When the bottle got passed around he chugged a lot more than his share
But Doc had a big heart
And he could tell his friends story after entertaining story
Over and over again

On the way back from Missouri he and his buddy
Stopped to sleep up in the mountains
Before going to sleep that night
Doc drank a fifth of vodka
Took some pills and never woke up

Janis Joplin sang about freedom being "Nothing left to lose"
And that's how Jerry and Doc chose to live their lives

But I had it all wrong about my freedom being like that
Freedom gives a lot to lose and a lot to gain

Chris Lovette
chris_lovette@yahoo.com

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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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