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Letter Box — Newsletter #37

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Vancouver, British Columbia

This is something I wrote after reading some of the contributions on your site. I write a lot but never anything vaguely resembling poetry—have never tried and didn't really here either, this just sort of "happened" and I didn't feel I should mess with it, didn't know what to change it into. I'm rambling though...and it feels odd to send this off to you but here I go.

UNTITLED

Some small thing you wrote
was to me
a lifting and a clearing,
much more than an inkling
of striking translucence, perhaps.

I was me but now I am
me plus what you wrote,
a me with an altered or modified view
because
when I read your words I
shared your eyes.

That small thing with
its silent sudden all-knowing
command
did not know of my boundaries and limitations and
flattened them in turn.
And so I grew.

For that small thing you wrote,
maybe long ago and not here,
there was no wall and so I
stepped through
or stumbled
or fell,
looked up,
and went further.

Carolyn Verduzco

IS IT JUST FOR ME

The words come pouring in
To land upon the earth
Via paper and pen—
Or once written on the page
Do they sprout wings
And fly away
To live on far-off
Magic shores
And abide there
In rare creatures
Hearts and souls.

If this is true
Take care
These words of mine,
And be only words
That bring joy and love to all
On whatever or where ever
You may befall.

Jean Callahan Crowe

Here are the Journal Entries I promised to send.

Journal Entry—7/10/02

"Times like this everything in the world becomes personal."
Elizabeth Berg—Open House, pg. 13

I write these lines, these scraps of thought plucked from the minds of authors whose books I consume, my appetite for reading insatiable. For a great portion of life I responded as if everything was personal, as if each injustice and injury were my province, my obligation to remedy. Lately I've been better able to choose my times, my empathies and elixirs, offerings of advice relegated to the rag-bin of restraint.

I feel myself becoming insular, less affected by emotional storms brewing around me. The wind stirs. I take note and reach for my raincoat even before the first drops fall. My convictions reside under my ribs, in my veins, in embers banked at my core, but not spilling from my tongue. I disagree silently, snatch back the quick retort, the unguarded reply. I am used to not being heard, to having radical perspectives. It matters less whether or not I add to the commotion.

Still, the time arrives when I throw all discretion to the scavengers and toss a verbal bomb into the debate. I brace myself for the inevitable ricochet, polish my armor for the next rash moment. This is a mystery I go home and live with, this screening and measuring, concealing and revealing, each word torn loose from my flesh a double-edged sword.

Journal Entry—10/2/02

Why do I write in a journal?

I write because people don't listen. In the journal, on the lines and pages I speak without care how I will be heard, or if I will be heard. I see their faces, watch their expressions change when I say something that doesn't fit in their box, their book of rules. I hear the absurd questions they ask because they have not understood.

Here I can say there is no "father" god, no Allah, no deity managing the details of the world. I can also say I retain a sense of wonder at the mystery of life, its dichotomy of complexity and randomness, how I don't know the why and the meaning—and it is more than anyone can classify and cram into some comfort zone of absolute answers. It is here I can rant against the cruelties and injustices perpetrated by those who hold power over other human beings or animals. It is here I can say that men continue to commit acts of aggression rather than negotiate for the health of all people and the planet, believing they are justified by whatever ideology they claim.

Here no one labels me "feminist" or "lost soul" or "wrong," or tries to alter my view. The page does not offer the ever-negating opposing opinion, the positive rebuttal to what is perceived as negative simply because it differs. In the journal I am neither right nor scandalous, neither unreasonable nor rational. No one looks at me with a blank stare, as if I have spoken a foreign language, one without translation. In the journal I am not outside looking in upon an exclusive club. Here I am inside the unlimited world of writing, of listening for whatever needs to be spoken without appraisal of its merit, without comparison to the a statistical majority.

Laura Bayless

I received a very interesting e-mail this morning concerning my poem, Until Now. [See below. Reprinted from LBOL#14 (Section C—March 15, 2002)] It was a thank you and the person told me it made them cry. They quoted two of the stanzas and told me they read and reread this poem. The surprise of this e-mail was that I rose this morning wondering why I keep writing, does it have meaning, is it touching anyone. And like a message from the heavens...in comes this e-mail. I have no idea who sent it, I know their e-mail address, but they didn't sign a name. Well, what is life without risk...so, I answered the e-mail. Such a message deserves a response.

The last time I received a response to one of my poems, New Horizons, it prompted a reply from a young man in prison. He wrote to tell me how much that poem meant to him. Poets, this poet, can travel a thousand miles with a single response. So, I continue this journey.

UNTIL NOW

Late in the blooming
of my life am I—
not realizing, until now,
that the imperfections that
proceeded this moment
was the preparation of the
soil and the seeding of my
very soul. A place where
weeds and flowers and even
rancid wheat might grow. None
needing to be pulled up or plucked out.

Not realizing, until now, that the
tears I shed was my own soul
watering the very things I rejected
in myself. The union and communion
of all things without judgement.

Not seeing, until now, the
endless possibilities of such
a garden where all things
and all parts of self may co-exist.

Not capable, until now,
to appreciate the sweet stench
of compost that nurtured my blooming.

Not trusting, until now, that
what came before—makes
this moment possible NOW.

Patricia Ann Doneson

Well the time has come, parole is upon my doorstep. On July 11th my freedom will be provisionally returned. It's been a long road, yet I'm no worse for the wear. In fact I'm better for it.

I've accomplished a little, a vocational certificate in music theory, a high school diploma, an Associate degree from Indiana University and a pretty good hand at doing art work. Granted, none of which are going to make me a living, but will allow me self respect and esteem which will.

Over the years I have had many conversations with you via our correspondence. I enjoyed the Creative Edge immensely, and the never ending creative processes which I have hence been encouraged to pursue. Donald, tapping into my own creative ability squeezed all the anger and vileness from my being and filled me with peace and contentment, kind of like a jelly doughnut. (What a metaphor, eh?)

How do I thank you enough? Thank you for listening, taking your time to share, for your words of encouragement. Thank you for making me feel valuable by printing my words/cartoons. But most of all, thank you for your friendship. In your infinite wisdom you've taught me what that really is. Quite a different thing to empower than to enable. You believing in me, it allowed me to believe in myself.

What now? I plan to work through the fall if possible in a factory, then in the winter I will decide upon furthering my education full-time or continuing by correspondence. Part of me wonders why school is important at this stage of life. I mean, with so many years inside I cannot imagine anyone wanting to hire me. More over, with (just a) Bachelors degree they won't be opening doors that are already bolted shut by the prison time. But, for personal satisfaction I want to finish that which I've started, as expensive as it might be.

It's weird, years ago when I started corresponding, I was a psychological mess. A product of years of chronic drug use and horrific self-image. I needed to be incarcerated! Today I've got friendships that have lasted for years.

I've rattled on enough. Soon you'll get an E-mail from me, from the free world. I hope we can continue our friendship outside. Again, my sincere gratitude.

Jeffrey Ford

THE DRAGON SINGS;
THE DRAGON DIES

Last evening,
with the black trees towering
and the stars falling behind you,
you sang the nomad's lament
into the moonless night

Spanish gypsy music rode the tides
And lost, vanishing worlds echoed you

Today you reappear,
but the stars are gone
from your shoulders
The heavens have sunk
into your pain-soaked earth;
you've become the murky smoke
of a suffering reptile

I leave with unseeing eyes,
a numb senselessness,
a questioning soul

The dragon sings; the dragon dies—
in One breath, I muse

OF THE LIZARD'S BREATH

We bathe in a shower
of golden beams

Garlands of flaming roses,
scarlet as your passion,
cascade upon my shoulders

Flaxen tresses
adorn the voluptuous hills
We imbibe summer's
warming breath,
renewed in God's heat

And in this
approaching summer,
we grow hair of gold,
green and red,
our wildflowers
again lost to seed

We know not
what will burgeon
in this scorch of sun,
in the dryness
of the lizard's breath

Carolyn Mary Kleefeld

RICHARD

Heat rising from
sleep washed skin,
his eyes slowly open
blue portals
overflowing with love.

Pooled sunshine
strokes our limbs,
reminder of passing time,
but we remain
entwined
secure
together.

Gentle touch
soft kiss
warm breath,
these are gifts
from one who
danced into my heart
and taught me to play.

Gazing, now, into shining blue,
thankfulness rises, swells,
moves me to
nestle closer,
closer,
catching the rhythm
of pounding heart
and steadfast devotion.

In his arms,
there is no pain
there is no sorrow.
In his heart,
there is only comfort
there is only love
we remain
entwined
secure
together.

Carol Lynn Mathew-Rogers

UNTITLED

humbled again.
humbled by the wind
that thrashes my door.
humbled by loneliness,
by selfish destructiveness—
wondering what is more,
what is less: safe comfort
or naked homelessness.

humbled again.
burned like a fire by desire,
by the liars that within me lived...
wishing i could give one more song
to lovers who have gone.

humbled by change,
by pain that erects walls.
humbled by cold rain that falls.

humbled by death, by life, by beauty
that cuts like a knife.
humbled by the dregs of the wine
that at first tasted so sweet.
—by strangers that i meet.
—by women who pass me by
oblivious that i for them would die.

humbled by delicate flowers.
humbled by the mind's delusional tower.
humbled by memories, humbled by mountains—
by nature's views.
humbled by the six o'clock news.

humbled by grace, and all that i've been given.
humbled by trees and humbled when you pack
your bags to leave.

humbled by what is, humbled by what never was,
or ever will be.
humbled by dreams, and by this poem's fragile
soft scream...

David Dunn
© 2002

BALLAD OF THE HOOCH

He claimed to have made major rank
With battlefield promotions in Vietnam
Including 18 months in a Laotian POW camp
Just the place, no doubt, for R&R

So he goes by Gizmo
That's what we all call him
And Ray-Ray who claimed to be an ex-marine
And an ex-con
Lived in the hooch

That is when I first met them,
The day before it snowed in Tucson

Ray was big.
6'-4" lean and strong
Gizmo called him Monster
But he actually does that to a lot of people

I stole four oak pallets
From behind the supermarket
And drove out to the open desert near the hooch

Ray and Gizmo helped haul
The pallets back to the hooch
And it was a good thing
Cause that night it was cold

I had been fired from my job that day

The next day it was cold
The sky was overcast
The open desert not oppressed by heat

I remembered the words Ray had spoken
By the fire: "Join the Circle of Life"

So I walked back through the desert
To the hooch by the Palo Verde tree
Where Benjamin and John
Had come to sit by the fire
It got nasty
So we all crowded into the hooch

Ray and I had a game of chess
The best of my life
And then it began to snow
As we could see through the open blanket cover
That is the door of the hooch

It didn't stay on the ground
But the ground wasn't warm, either

Ray got a fire going
By breaking up the pallets with an iron bar
We all got outside in the rain
It finally began to hail
After I had brought some hot coffee from home
I said good-bye for the day

Ray moved on, but Gizmo is still there
And I remember
The Circle of Life
Contains us all

Chris Lovette

Please find my poem you can print in the Newsletter.

THERE'S NONE BETTER
FOR YOU THAN YOU

If you plan to go
somewhere special during the journey,
regardless of all the suffering,
you've been given Life force and
there's none better for you than
you
because you can be whatever you
want to be.

When people stop up and try
to get too personal
looking for the chance to know
what's hidden deep inside
there's none better for you than
you
because you can be whatever you
want to be.

And if your memory serves
you well,
the best place in the world
to dwell is where you're at now,
there's none better for you than
you
because you can be whatever you
want to be...
and make no mistake—

dreams are what make life
worth living.

FLOW

Aging is my favorite time
Though I'm no longer in my prime.
My eyes have lost their perfect sight
And yet each day brings in more light.
I see what I still need to earn
The insights that I need to learn.
My guard no longer keeps me blind
To all the flaws I need to find.
I see the growth that still remains
The need for heart instead of brains.
I feel the gift of second chance
Each day brings in a sweeter dance.

Illia Thompson

QUESTIONS

Is silence a canvas
On which to paint thoughts?
Are letters ideas made
With circles, lines, dots?

If you put them together
In just the right way,
Can sentences tea
What a heart wants to say?

Is truth always true
Or can it be wrong
Like a melody written
for a different song?

Does the earth touch the sky?
Does every thought fly?
Does the redwood tree feel
When the wind passes by?

When I breathe am I helping
The plants as they sway?
Is a garden a party
Where fairies can play?

Whatever I ask
And whatever I say
Is somebody listening?
Please, don't go away!

EXORCISM OF NICE

Without Nice
I would be wild
I'd be a nonconforming child
I'd not complain
If you thought me a pain
There's fire not ice
Inside my veins.

Nice is empty
Nice is weak
I enjoy my wicked streak.
Nice is quiet
Meek and mild.
As I said,
I fancy wild.

Look out, friend.
I'm learning how
To exorcise
That niceness now.
I won't wait another day
Nice, it's time to go away.

Says Nice, Okay.

WHERE I'M GOING

I have been ill
Against my will.
I thought at last
That I had passed
Some point advanced
Of where I'd danced
Before.

It disappoints me
Out of joints me
To mistakenly
Believe I've reached
A height not breached
Before.

Alas, I find
A certain blind
Spot in my thinking
Was I blinking
When the light of truth
So brightly poured out?

A little voice inside
Quite lovingly confides
That I will not arrive
But keep on going.

The journey never ends
Like a river
Weaves and bends
Be willing to endure
The Illness and the cure,
And trust in your own deep
Tendency to keep
On growing.

Shirley Tofte

I invite readers to share their own creative works with a few words about the context of their work for Letter Box On-line. I look for work and comments I feel support understanding and encouragement of the creative process, and hence, the process of life.

Submit your name, city and state with your works to Donald@creative-edge.org for publication. I also encourage you to approve adding your E-mail address. Submit images in 72dpi GIF, JPEG or TIFF format.

The Editor

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