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Carmel Valley, CA

SPRING, JULIA PFEIFFER BURNS STATE PARK

Out on the coastal headland
Australian daisies spill down a ravine
across from the narrow waterfall
that pools on the beach below.

Inland the river trail is closed,
the sound of the stream
a deceptive invitation to explore
further into the redwood forest.

Dim light bathes the trees
in a pallid afterglow.
Patches of skyblue forget-me-nots
surface among sorrel and yellow violets.

I long to share
this enchanted realm,
as one would
with a childŠ
      see this tall red tree,
      this feather-like fern
      silver stone, white water

as if it were the first time either of us set eyes on such wonders.

      Storm-battered river banks,
      fallen bare trunks,
      exposed layers of granite
      lilies like white chalices—

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

Carmel Valley, CA

MY SMALL RECTANGLE

There is something delicious
in enhancing a garden
gathering cuttings and plants
randomly placing growth
to further future growth
trusting the tapestry
to weave itself into beauty.

Nature's shades more varied
than dressmakers' samples.
No clash of colors
as red and pink and magenta petals
proclaim their presence
during spring surge.

Proud yellows thrive
among gracious greens
purples await presentation.
All brighter than Crayolas
in a newly opened box.

I imagine Beauty smiles
upon being blessed
breathes in amorphous affection
exhales rays of gratitude
to spark the surrounding air.

Illia Thompson
Illia99@aol.com

Del Rey Oaks, CA

I WANT MY POETRY

I want my poetry
to not be about
the cancer that is
eating me up

from the crotch
to my brain

I would suppose
although
I don't really know

it is just the word
that takes over
and begins to gnaw
around the edges
of my sanity

but it is very hard

really more than I want
to think of its presence
inside of me daily

from when I awake

to when I pop back
into fitful sleep

who wants to hear
the pathetic death rattle
and ruminations
that accompany
the march

life is not about
its end
but more about
what has come in
in what form
what feeling
what strident reality

off in the
far past distance
the sun rises once again
to start the new day
all things happen
all things live

why focus
on only the end

but think
of the beginning
from whence we came

screaming and lubricated
with the cake frosting
of birth

the squall was a good thing
for most of the rest
of life

breathing in
breathing out

life time energy
spread as sun light
for the flowers to grow

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

Carmel Valley, CA

OCTOBER EVENING

Garden shears in one hand
flashlight in the other
I walk toward small garden.

Autumn holds chard
beginning kale and vibrant mint.

Yellow and red tomatoes were
swallowed by summer's lust.

Crisp dried vines hang listless
await their return to the earth.

The moon signals approval
as I collect sparse greenery.

Gatherings mind not the slice of knife
as I carve slivers to season broth.

A simple supper for one
salted with remembrance
of when my table held many.

Illia Thompson
Illia99@aol.com

Carmel Valley, CA

GRAINS OF SAND

More often now I bear a likeness
to late afternoon shade created
by swaying tree branches that dance
patterns of sunlight on the land.

I go alone, that one shadow at the shore,
a coastal ghost beside the vast bathysphere,
a place of consolation and sadness.
White wings of seabirds guide me.

Like the motion of water over a rocky streambed,
my vision becomes imprecise, distorted,
eyes appearing as blue petals of periwinkle
emerging from a furrowed field.

I acquire contradictions and simplicities,
as leaves almost ready to fall away in autumn
reveal bare limbs of winter's respite,
renewal which cannot occur without surrender.

Like grains of sand flow back to fill
whatever channel mined by the sea,
I have been to solitary shores and found company,
emerged from my broken shell more whole

Some days I am waterfall and jungle,
September light and rainbow arc,
as if there really is a state of euphoria,
a parallel resemblance to the planet.

PARTY FAVORS

I wish strangers came with warnings,
like a paper sign
pinned to their back
when they weren't looking,
or listed in small print
under a name tag at a conference.

How about an invisible tattoo
across a forehead
that magically appears
just in case
a clue is necessary,
like pathological liar
for the lady-killer type
who has just invited you to dinner

or evangelical born again
for the chap who hasn't yet mentioned
his affiliation with a charismatic cult
in eastern Oregon?

It would be so helpful
to be able to read the proverbial
handwriting on their wall...

      boring Betty
      gloomy Gus
      starving artist
      right wing politician
      sports fanatic
      closet Satanist
      melancholy poet
      party pooper

All of the above!

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

Carmel, CA

DEEPER

the quest of the art is
the movement of soul

through these appearances

to live what love is
most deeply

and nothing less will do

REALITY

and what comes to me is that
of all
expressions

immediately available
to you and me

soul

is most full
of our lying down

our rising up

our breathing in
and rousing about

this life's localities

John Dodson
flute@acharantos.com

Del Rey Oaks, CA

KRISTINA'S POEM

Through the glowing ice of time
the purple river rises.

Caressing in its gentle hands
the bright spring flowers
that show our love for one another.

Stretching like a rainbow
from the sphere of our iridescent joy,

holding the life of our existence
to show to the expanding day
the bond that rushes from its soul.

Spawning the rising of the golden sun
for the yellow pink day
of blossom trees
of growing joy.

Through the glowing ice of time

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

Piedmont, CA

GRIEF

Outside my window— the park full of birds, chirping with the dawn
      some singing, some squawking, an occasional goose honking on its way to Lake Merritt

I stretch and rise for the day
Out the front door where the sun glows behind the redwoods on its way to light the day
Down the flight of steps for the paper
Waving at a neighbor walking his dog up through the park
Taking a deep breath and pausing to look down Artuna Ave
      The park, with lawn sparkling from the dew
      The Hawthorne and Liquid Ambers, with emerald leaves glistening
      The myriad style of old homes: Tudor, prairie, craftsman, bungalow
Back up the stairs, then gulping down my daily pills

Finally relaxing in the recliner, always eager to read Jon Carroll's column
      Did he write about his cats, Poncho and Bucket, or is he on a tirade involving politics?
Always checking the weather, not just in Piedmont,
But on the other side of The Calclecott as well
      Could be 90 to our 75—always hotter and always colder!!!
Now I know what to wear for the movie and lunch with friends from work

Then as I stand in the shower with water sliding down my skin, my eyes fill with another liquid
            Ten months and tears still spill
            Ten months and memories still pour
            Ten months and heart still hurts

Pam Quesnoy
quesnoy@comcast.net

Tucson, AZ

"I just wrote this two part meditation this afternoon on a beautiful spring day here in Tucson while I was out in the 'Desert Gardens' with my journal."

ALCOHOL

1.
Alcohol
Can be a
Man's best friend
or a rabid dog
(a police officer
once told me
most crimes are committed
by someone who'd been drinking)

The ancients knew:
"In vino veritas"
A drunk tells the truth
—sometimes—almost never—
but if you are astute
you can see right through
the inebriated
into the very soul
of a human being
with troubles like your own
and yes,
— tears and laughter —
and alcohol brings
those to the surface

in my case
not the tears
I was brought up
to know that boys don't cry

the few times I have cried
in my adult life
were a blessed few

And laughter?
Sort of a reserved amusement
is more like it
a Henry James type of thing

2.
The breeze blows through
each creosote bush distinctly
even though they are only
inches or feet apart

The day is heaven
the Santa Catalinas smile
into the Tucson Valley

even the trucks on
Interstate 10
Remind me of Robert Heinlein's
"The Roads Must Roll"

Chris Lovette
chris_lovette@yahoo.com

Carmel Valley, CA

TIME OUT

At the summit of Whaler's Knoll,
I rest, survey a portion of coastline,
a single egret, sleeping harbor seal,
line of pelicans skimming
the water in fluid formation.

I feel the sun on my skin,
an ache in my lower back,
rumbling of hunger
before I dig into my lunch,
apple and cheese,
ripe cherries and almonds.

Now and again I need more time
to watch breakers roll in,
crest out beyond islands of stone,
assimilate the rumble in my body,
listen to the white foam sigh.

I find I'm in no hurry
to leave, to budge
from my hilltop refuge,
trek back down through the woods
to the rugged north shore,
return to whatever consequence
I have left behind.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

San Jose, CA

WINTER SOLSTICE

A month ago the giant umbrella
Of the Mimosa tree was tattered
To shreds. The skeleton of black branches
Inching slowly across the pavement
Advancing to our door step.

Today Gaia's axial tilt has stopped
The sun is stuck on the horns of Capricorn
The hands of the black branches
Are stopped in their tracks
On this shortest day of the year

Now we hope now we pray
Gaia may find her momentum
Opens again her eye to the arctic night.
The sun will rise up from the horns of Capricorn
the black shadows will retreat from our door step.

After a few more days of suspense
We will know if the shadows grow shorter
If the shortest day will become longer
If the longest night will become shorter
If there will be another spring.

Franz Spickhoff
franzox@gmail.com

Del Rey Oaks, CA

MY LIFE HAS TOO MANY POCKETS

My life has too many pockets
like those pants or jackets
where the phone rings
and you do the pat down dance
till you find it.

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

Carmel, CA

JADE BUSH

A moment ago I saw something
Almost everything in the world grows lowly
The jade bushes in the back
Stuck in the ground three years ago

I could easily have tossed them into the recycled waste
But why not just stick'em in the dirt?

I looked at them just now
I looked very closely
They stand like small monuments
Superbly carved
Every detail itself a small monument

They have grown beautiful and wise unnoticed
Each day they have grown imperceptibly
Impressing no one
Going nowhere
And not needing to

In these three years
I've grown as well
But quickly
As if to beat someone to something
I've read books
Changed Jobs
Taken lessons
Written letters of protest
Traveled to other continents
Plotted outcomes
Lots and lots of outcomes

In these three years
For all that effort
I'm having trouble seeing where it went
And Jade bushes
Just stuck in the dirt
Grow strong
Going nowhere
Every detail
Every curve
A monument

Wayne Martin
waynechaplain@netzero.net

Carmel Valley, CA

WHAT I WISH TO SEE, 2012

The whole flower
      not just the bloom
that nods and smiles
but the whole flower
dependable stalk
leaves and roots.

The whole view
      not just a postcard
with waves at rest mid-crash
or silent birds aloft
poised in perpetual flight
eloquent in stillness.

The whole earth
      not just the text
and photos displayed
gloriously graphics
arranged and spliced
in shades of Crayola colors.

The whole person
      not just the body
face and arms and legs
but the entire person
with dreams and aches
and story under the skin.

The whole love
      that wraps and warms
without a touch of harshness
soothing liquid so clear
it travels easily and wide
scented with perfume of caring.

Illia Thompson
Illia99@aol.com

Carmel Valley, CA

WASHED ASHORE

Brine-bleached logs and driftwood bundles
festooned with webs of snarled kelp
tossed ashore by winter storms
converge in scrambled compositions.
Gray stick forts built by beachcombers
invite entrance, shelter.

I commune with debris,
equivalent lifework wreckage,
stroll south in shifting sand,
leave deep footprints.

In shadowed alcoves
multi-colored pebbles find refuge
under sandstone bluffs
draped in dense robes
of sea fig and coreopsis.

I collect stones carefully—
brown, red, black-speckled,
polished and pitted,
one the jade green color
of breakers just before
they dissolve into crests of foam—
consider what I might leave behind
in the ebb and flow
along the arc of a coastal curve.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

Del Rey Oaks, CA

RAINFALL

Rain will fill the garden
upon the grass
the voice is singing
passing sound
Autumn here

Drink the ending
fill the grass
voices are singing
land is turning
Autumn here

The earth is giving
to be receiving
fallen rain
a voice is singing
Autumn here

Earth receiving
male singing
rain is given
voice the sun
Autumn here

The earth is giving
to be receiving
fallen rain
the voice is singing
Autumn here

Tears have fallen
upon the garden
I hear her voice now
the cricket singing
Autumn here

Earth shall given
land of sun
time is passing
now it¹s gone
Autumn here

FUNERAL FOR A BLUEJAY
(Standing on the deck at Tassajara in the Santa Lucia mountains)

Funeral for a Blue Jay
Time lashed and rock bound

You luscious green velvet fish spell bound below the kitchen deck
          Zen like in dappled grace
          But stone bound still
straw yellow grass

Green Water
          Light
          Brown
          The raucous blue sky moves the bell
          Redwood stained
 the poppy grows

Cloistered motion towards the sun
          that sun

Hand clasped walls
          of growing stone

Yellow bells
          Blue jay song

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

Big Creek, CA

LIKE THE CREEK BELOW

After all the winding pain of getting here, I¹m down by the water
Which is bouncing along toward the sea.
I find a fallen redwood to perch upon. I have time.
But it is not time on my hands, as so many say. It is time all around me.
Everywhere I look I see time. And I think
It is like the creek below, which is bouncing along.
Yes time, I think, is bouncing along, a bumpy ride to the future,
But that may not be entirely true.

Here where I sit near the water.
Here where I sit, yes, time is all around me.
But it is not exactly like the water on its way downstream.
Rather it is it is pushing its way into the future , and I feel it.
And it is gurgling its way into the past, and I can feel that, too.
Like the creek below it bounces alongŠ.but it is, wait, bidirectional.
A word like that barely makes it into a real.
A poem may have to be a little drunk to let a word like that in.
There is time all around me, the stream of it flowing both ways . Each way.
Back and ahead. Ahead and back.
The fallen redwood I sit on begins to tell me of its former life,
Tall, erect, a home for its family of crawling and nest denizens.
It takes me into its spirit, though it barely knows me.
³You should have seen me,² the tree says, then corrects itself.
³You should have been here.²
³I wish I had been² I respond aloud. ³Will you let me be there now?² (Pause)
There is a silence, and it speaks again
³And now,² the tree continues, ³And now as time moves ahead,
           Let us too move ahead.
           Now you cannot sit on me. You would not even see me.²
Time has lengthened its stride forward, and this gracious forest bench explains
That it is no longer a perch for the curious.
Instead in the very soil beneath us it provides a feast for a whole new family,
Serving daily, hourly meals to a grateful linear neighborhood
Thriving on its delicious bounty.
The very soil in which it now rests
Sighs with satisfaction: ³Ahhhh.²

I wonder
Can it be true elsewhere
Beyond this sylvan temple
That the thing we call time
Moves in both directions
And has a soft voice
That tells its srories
Behind and ahead?

Creeks may flow downstream
As they bounce and laugh their way
Over the round stones to the sea.
But time? No.
Time flows, laughs,
Bounces, weeps both ways.
I feel my grandfather here
Though he died eleven years before I was born.
And he speaks—
³Thank you for all you have done for me.²
³What exactly have I done?²
³Well, you¹ve done what I couldn¹t do.
           Thank you.²
³And what exactly was that?² my response..
³You loved your father.
           I could not do that.²
³What difference does that make now?
           You¹re dead.²
³Not exactly, grandson.²
³Oh-h?²
³Do you know the words spoken by Moses
           Right after the Shema?²
³Remind me.² And he does.
³The sins of the fathers shall be visited
           Upon the third and fourth generations.²
³I know the passage. What about it?²
He thought. He really thought.
³The reverse is also true.²
³I really don¹t know what you mean. (Pause)
³I mean this. While the sins of the fathers
Are visited upon the third and fourth generations,
           It happens that the love and forgiveness and care
           Are revisited upon the fathers.
           Yours has reached me. I wanted to thank you.²

There I sat,
On the tree which had just offered me wisdom,
While time had brushed by me
On its way ahead and
On its way back.
Did it teach me, this tree? This creek?

Could it be that pardon, amnesty, redemption
Are gifts that travel like time
In both directions,
And that in living pardon,
In living forgiveness, mercy, courage, grace, love,
We live them into the light before us,
And we live them as well into the darkness behind us,
So that who and what may have been on the hook,
May be taken off the hook,
Is no longer on the hook.
And in that great sweet day that waits,
There are no hooks.
That is, if time can flow both ways,
As it indeed does in this sacred place
On a redwood log by a creek in the forest.

Wayne Martin
waynechaplain@netzero.net

Carmel Valley, CA

INLAND ODYSSEY

Just off Elkhorn Road the trail turns
west on a weed-choked track
toward five fingers of a wetlands marsh.

Meadow barley, salt grass, and wild radish
merge with dense woodlands
along shallow mudflats.

Tiny suncups edge an overgrown path
down to a gray weathered dock,
its bleached legs anchored in rusty pickleweed.

A painted lady, wings motionless,
feeds on a hillside pasture
buttered with blooming field mustard.

At the promontory of Parson's Slough
three gulls notch the sky, glide and dive
over receding estuary channels.

Itinerant flocks of shorebirds
dine on burrowing invertebrates
on the ebbing tide.

In the distance a breeze carries
the desolate wail, clang, and rumble
of a passing freight train.

Your mind drops a stitch,
loves the lonely whistle of the kestrel,
the bristly beauty of the cobweb thistle.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

Thank you for your creative offerings!

I invite readers to share their own creative works (poems, stories, images, comment, etc.) in Letter Box On Line (LBOL). I look for work and comments I feel support understanding and encouragement of the creative process, and hence, the process of life.

The Editor

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