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Letter Box On Line (LBOL) Files #1

  • Section B: May 16, 1996
  • Section A: April 8, 1996
  • Section C: .................................................................. June 15, 1996

    Shreveport, LA

    I'm a 24 year old single mom. I've been writing poetry since I began spelling. I always keep my poems the same way I wrote them when they first come into my mind. I hope you enjoy!

      (For Gabrielle)

      I left my child today with greasy fries and a new Power Ranger toy.
      She left with a man I once loved in that kind of way.

      Plastic barbie smiles... a wave of a hand.
      Have a wonderful time my life, but do not enjoy the time too much without me.

      I fear he will not give her back.
      In reality I know he does not want that sort of responsibility.
      She's my prize!!!!! My reward for a short hard life.
      Sing my songs my child. it's only a week.

      Enjoy this paper doll world. We have an adventure soon...Oceans and mermaids.
      Little by little I will teach you my wisdom.
      Open you eyes and this world will always be full of wonder.
      Don't fear the monsters in the closet... They have to have a place to live too.
      Oh! My angel. It's only a week


      DEAR TIM

      I have not been keeping clean lately: not in that dirty, private, twisted
      part... I seem to have that under control.

      Didn't brush my hair today.
      Guess no one really cares, slapped it in a bun... Would you like ketchup,
      mustard, or mayo with that... Jerk!

      My legs and arm pits have become tropical rain forests... I wait for the day
      To plow it all down and build a normal human body.
      It is lonely without you.


    Cynthia Jones

    Glenwood Springs, CO

      When I close my eyes the world gets smaller and I can see inside. Dirty corners left unkept, I am afraid to go where rusted nails are twisted and bent. Sometimes I go to this place of mind where the voices are in whisper, and the whimper is mine. This is not where I want to be -- all the pain that is left for me.

      I kept on running but the voices crept up behind, so now here I stand at the end of the line. I thought it was them, their evil inside, but when the cards were dealt the evil proved to be mine. Now the joker is naked and the queen is calling for the king. The court is in order and the drum roll begins. Urgency surrounds me and the light focuses in. Where did this come from, how did it all begin? Calling To Witness, the Original Sin..........

    Scott Challis

    Winter Park, FL

      Her words to him held no merit
      they were promises meant to be broken, pouring
      from her mouth
      like jewels
      he was in awe
      each garnet, amethyst, ruby
      he rolled over his tongue
      laguishing in their value, their poison
      so he failed such tests miserably, consistently
      she grew bored
      and when she left him, the tears that poured from her eyes
      cut her face
      and she realized, for him only him
      could she have cared to try
      --- too late ? ? ?

    Jeanne Everson

    Orange County, CA

      12:01am, January 1st.

      I put on good intentions
      like favorite, fuzzy slippers.
      They've worn well for years,
      yet, I have given you permission
      to pull them off,
      and now my feet are cold.

      I drive barefooted through fog,
      the glow of fireworks displays
      to the left, to the right,
      needing answers from the sky
      to fix the doubt and the pique,
      picturing me there,
      you not.

      Confetti on the floor,
      in my head. Streamers.
      In the shower soap and water make clean
      the layers of my dirt,
      your dirt.
      In your bed once again
      I pull on the old slippers found
      stashed between the mattress and box spring,
      so I don't shock you later with my chill.

      I fall asleep early on the first day
      of the new decade,
      and dream of buying shoes.


    Kate Storm

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    Section B: .................................................................. May 16, 1996

    Flat Top, WV

    Here are two of my poems I wrote this year. I am 15 years old and have been writing for two years. I have never taken creative writing classes but have written over 30 things in my short time period on earth.


      As we start our story,
      Only a page or two exists.
      Opening the book; What's this I see?
      A girl is crying, It must be me.
      This is when I found your shoulder to cry upon.
      And someone to be strong;
      When I become weak.

      One chapter in our lives has begun,
      Still you should know I'll be here when you fall,
      I'll be here to lift you up and to never let you go.
      You'll be here for me;
      If just to hold my hand,
      and make me feel loved.

      When this chapter of our lives concludes,
      Our friendship will carry on;
      For I'll be here for you,
      And you'll be there for me.
      That is until our novel comes to an end.


      Dumb I am,
      Stupid I will always be.
      Falling for a shadow,
      Falling for a dream.

      They say a prince will come,
      And someday he'll carry you away.
      It's all my imagination,
      It all has gone away.

      They say your happiness:
      It will over-joy you.
      For it'll stay and stay.
      So why does mine come for a day,
      And then fly away.

    Nora Burge

    San Diego, CA

    I'm basically a songwriter for DGC Records... but as a child, I had this deep passion for poetry. The inspiration for this hit me as I was on the Santa Monica Highway (of all places). I hope you enjoy this as much as I do. All I have to say to young kids trying to make it in either school, athletics, music, whatever -- NEVER, EVER give up. Your drive will carry you through the toughest times. Peace.


      i see the moon and the moon sees me
      the moon looks down on what i long to be
      there's grace in the heart and grace in the home
      the grace of God is over us all
      sudden move in the stars
      whenever i look to the skies
      -----i can get lost
      stand in a mirror and know that i am a fragment of something
      -----greater than i
      specks of dust in a moonbeam gathering shape of
      -----something important waiting to lay
      even the wind in the trees is an allegory
      everything that is -- and every will be -- is an allegory
      we can stand with both feet firmly in the ground
      -----still our heads get lost so thoroughly in the clouds
      conjure up visions of power and romance and destiny changed
      -----in the twinkle of an eye
      stumble and fall
      desperate to give some meaning to this life
      i see the moon and the moon sees me
      the moon looks down on what i long to be
      there's grace in the heart and grace in the home
      the grace of God is over us all
      sweating this boundary of lies
      hammer my soul until it looks something more like me
      forcing chains that bind us like slaves to a dark and omninous dream

      this is the allegory

    Murray Attaway

    Winter Park, FL

      Puncture my soul as you enter me
      let it pour all into you
      then -- maybe then
      you will see what I feel
      but cannot say
      maybe then you will know what I see in your eyes
      every time you touch me -- but I don't feel
      every time you leave me

    Jeanne Marie Everson

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    Section A: .................................................................. April 8, 1996

    Monterey, CA

    Here is one of the tiff files that I have been scanning in with my new Mustek flat bed scanner. These come from my black sketch books... I call them Zee's watch cause that is my grandfather's watch on the table... I have it and sometimes wear it.

    [Zee#15 image]

    Steve (Artis) Brown

    Fishkill, NY

    ...these two (poems), ...my most recent works ...are commentary on 'Life Passage' Use my E-mail address, I do enjoy commentary good or bad!


      In rutilant reds, our
      faith is un-knotting this
      wretch of existence,
      rash of desire.

      The intervening dark is
      intervening light and
      to its final conclusion.

      But, did you say Love ?
      This curio is serial,
      spotted under a circus sideshow of
      offered elimination.

      To be certain and tolerant and loving,
      up to this end is
      haute couture.

      And did you feel Pain ?
      Blank to a jesters stare,
      then shuffle in numb
      resignation with

      failing kidney, stretching sight, pitted sacrum and
      the Grace, the Glory !

      (or did you cry wolf ?)


      Everything, everything
      shrinks with age,
      tight-rap to rest on
      brittle elbows and arms,
      smooth as wide-eyed dreams consume
      a gentler landscape of
      toddler reasons and jester

      Everything, everything
      falls into temperaments,
      the weathered storm in steps
      Life no longer sleeps,
      regrets no longer paid,

      And in everything,
      the bugle rounds its
      note of cart drawn flowers,
      effigies sweet minstrel.
      the bards' final stage.
      "The stuff...,"
      of dreams,

      Everything, everything
      tumbles with time,
      and only,
      only the chisel of gods
      move in their sheaves
      content too watch as
      the tether shakes.

    David Hunter Sutherland

    Fort Meade, MD

    I would like to share a poem, and remember, as Pablo Naruda wrote, "Sweetness, Always."


      Of all the things to remember,
      One frame freezes, refusing to
      advance to the next.

      Stuck in this place of four or five-
      I don't know, it could have also been two.
      Nevertheless, my view of you was grand.
      Through these eyes, tiny, chubby arms
      extended to the tall, being of warmth.

      I recall senses, unaware of time,
      but vision keen enough to spot
      invisible pebbles, or airplanes
      so far above, was just a spec.

      Because of you, this is the place
      I chose to stay, understanding why
      my children find joy in touching my hair,
      quite a solace to them, their own formula
      of afternoon tea.

    Being half Filipino and half American, I have unique experiences which I try to transalate over to the public as a universal language that anyone can relate, understand, or can simply imagine. My favorite poets are Pablo Naruda, Adrienne Rich, Christina Rossetti and countless others.

    Cristina Querrer

    Sundown, VT

    Here is a poem that I wrote:


      dim light reveals familiar forms out of darkness's unknown shadows
      creatures stir awakening towards morning's journey
      the moon and a few stars shine despite the sky's brightening
      air fresh, cool, revitalizing
      creating that special morning energy
      a warm glow lights the sky
      ribbons of beauty shoot upwards
      like great arms stretching, awakening
      turning from a sleepy orange into a brilliant red
      leaping into the sky like a dancer performing in a grand ballet
      swallowed into the depth of the bright expanse
      the stars fade, the moon persists
      before it too is cloaked in a shadow of light

    ...I feel (my poems) are merely feelings and expressions that I manage to write down on paper, hardly worthy of mingling with the poems published in your newsletters. As you could probably tell, I have never taken courses on writing, though I am very interested in what the Creative Edge has to offer. I too feel that creativity is linked to an inner spirit that many have but do not draw upon. For me a it has been years since I have been able to let my more "sensitive" creative person emerge again. Thanks to a very talented friend of mine from NY, NY I have been "puttering" with the written word again and embarking on a musical path long ago forgotten also.

    Lori Baker

    Orinda, CA

    I like this poem that came bubbling out this morning and I wanted to share it. :-)


      Handle the oak leaf
      It's brittle, sharp points
      on its swing around itself.
      It falls at the ground when it is pushed
      from the nest of its branch
      by the new bud.

      Give yourself to the oak leaf
      that falls and rots
      into the earth of its father.

      And give yourself to new bud
      brave enough to show itself
      before the bitter breath of winter,
      willing to play its role
      in the drama of life.

    I'm taking it plus this other new one that I "retrieved" from my over zealous "editor" to be workshopped tonight so look for any revisions...


      Doors locked
      Wooden doors
      Metal doors
      Ones with elaborate painted artifice
      All are shut

      I knock
      But they do not reply
      Not the fine people
      The harried ones
      ---too busy to see
      ---beyond their calendar

      Are you one of those?
      An entry for each day
      When you are busy enough
      ---you will be wanted

      There is a space for you
      ---in this time
      The door can be unlocked.
      ---into an empty corridor

      Sit in the center of the hall
      Drink in the silence
      Throw your calendar back into your cubicle
      ---and forget the things you must do

      Just for a moment

      Feel the radiant sunshine
      ---pouring in from the window
      ---at the end of the hall.
      Its warm, yellow light
      ---heals the wounds on your hands
      ---the ones that pounded the key into place

      It heals the wounds on your stomach
      ---the one you flattened to fit your pants.

      It heals the wounds on your face
      ---the one made from too much smiling

      It seeps between the web of cells
      Falls forever into the inner springs
      ---of your life
      Warms you from within

      Sit in the hall as it floods
      with the sunshine
      of quiet.

    Sharon Davies

    Thank you for your creative offerings!

    I invite readers to share their own creative works with a few words about the context of their work for this new version of Letter Box. 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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