Home | News | Programs | Facilitators | LBOL | NL | Membership

Letter Box On Line (LBOL) Files #13

  • Section A: July 15, 2001
  • Section B: August 15, 2001
  • Section C: September 15, 2001
  • Section D: October 15, 2001
  • Section E: November 15, 2001
  • Section F: .................................................................. December 15, 2001

    Carmel, CA

    This poem has been very demanding... at one point, it was all in the recycling bin... then popped out... resisted completeness for about a month... it's been awhile since i've been able to work like this... but i do as i am instructed... you may have lost interest in this path some time ago! But this is REALLY it...

      PLEIN AIR

      "Images in suspense appear and subsist in a mirror. The material substance of the mirror, whether metal or mineral, is not the substance of the Image; the Image could only accidentally be of the same substance as the mirror. The substance is simply the place of its appearance." —Henri Corbin

      a sculptor's mysteryis clearing some place
      in the minerals

      of this IS NOW
      suspended

      transparency
           t

      passageways openin each breath
      out each breath
      in a little trickleof the west wind
      on the back of my neck
      as i carve out a facepolish down a moonshining voluptuous

      in prophecyit is this girl still

      who startles me

      through the portals
      between our hearts

      between heartbeats
           t

      here are soul's secrets
      extravagantly arrayed

      in silvery substances

      free playing secrets that may be shown

      and somehowconcealing all thatloss must holdtrapped in flightas time dissolves
      into falling dreams

      and chiseled petals

    John Dodson
    flute@acharantos.com

    Big Sur, CA

      IMPORTANCE: HIGH

      someday you'll turn the last page of your book of life
      and read no more the starry story of your dreams.
      someday you'll move with such grace
      you'll be invisible.
      someday you'll be gone but the grass you walked
      on remain and sing like poets from the soil.
      someday you'll never see flowers again;
      never kiss the soft petals, never touch the tender
      leaves.
      someday you'll be dead but it won't feel like forever
      to anyone; you'll live in the breasts of birds and
      men like music that is pregnant and wants to be born.
      someday, visions and dreams and life and death are
      all going to be married (if they aren't already)
      and you'll be where you've always been:
      here, within me...

    David Dunn
    ddunn3@earthlink.net

    Big Sur, CA

      MY LOVER, THE MOON

      The ebony womb of night
      is heavy with silent seed
      Towering trees stand witness
      to all that can't be seen
      Stars fall to the seas
      in reflections from the heavens

      And I await the moon's glimmering path
      as I swim the black pools
      of tomorrow's bloom

      The path arrives like my lover's message,
      seducing me to drink of his breath,
      his white vintage of soul's beauty
      I dance into his wavering arms,
      looking into his sultry light,
      becoming his, becoming different

      We become one
      in the drinking of each other
      Then he moves on
      to love again in his resplendence

      I will always wait for him,
      for the moon of him
      in the seed of unknown tomorrows
      I will always be his, reaching for him
      as I swim his path of shimmering radiance

      I am touched
      with the madness of becoming him

      A NIGHT OF...

      Last night
      we were lived in by the stars,
      the ancient lords of mystery,
      the ebony, glittering unknown,
      reaching into our hearts

      We became the lunar enchantment,
      the shadows, the metallic flowering seas,
      the music of resonant glory
      rippling through our veins
      as our glowing essence
      blended and ascended
      into more than we were

      In the dawn I wore
      my gossamer memories
      as an invisible cloak of blessing.

      Then, in the midnight noon
      the showering presence
      again bathed us
      in its incessant extravagance.

      The moon's plumage
      cast its lunar reflections
      upon the surge of metallic tides.

      The dark purple churn of seas
      roared below us, blossoming wildly
      on the waves' crest
      like flowering, aquatic fields in bloom

      The tides in their lunar glory
      silhouetted the dark cypress trees,
      bejeweling them with silver crowns

      And today, after these last nights
      of lunar wine, the fog moves in,
      obscuring the skies,
      enshrouding the trees
      in the lavender seas' mists

      The clime holds
      the cold, damp breath of winter;
      all is changing, is change.

      Within the changes
      lives all the seasons,
      the unsame of the Same.

      The gray heaviness,
      like undeveloped film,
      awaits the unknown, its forms
      birthed from the formless

      We bow to the beauty
      that so graces us,
      humbly walking on,
      feeling how blessed we are
      to be in such beauty,
      to be such beauty

      A DIFFERENT SCRIPTURE TO DECODE

      Are you the lone puma
      of the black night
      who lays his heart
      upon the white granite
      of re-creation?

      With the paling emerald
      of the tall, gray grasses,
      what do you stalk,
      but the peace hidden beneath
      your stealthy paws?

      Do you still kill the deer
      when your body cries for sustenance
      because you can't be
      else than you are?

      In the man of you,
      dear beloved puma,
      in your nomad wanderings—
      do you now find
      a jade garden
      by a different path?

      And under your softly
      touching feet
      on the white stones,
      a different scripture
      to decode?

    Carolyn Mary Kleefeld
    info@carolynmarykleefeld.com

    Soquel, CA

    (Donald Marsh died on Wednesday, November 21, of respiratory failure. This is his last poem for us.)

      AMEN

      I don't look for God.
      How can you look for silence?

      I wait in particular places.
      Everything ages
      without my noticing.

      At the very moment
      of events
      I feel I'm absent.

      Then, things only glimpsed
      take on long lives
      and meanings.

      There is a waiting
      part of me
      nothing touches.

      Listen for God?
      Best listen
      for the singular seep!
      of a black phoebe,
      then watch its
      dervish misdirection
      in midair.

      I see the magic everywhere
      and know I am not from here.
      Something in me is sore touched
      in wanting to go home.

    Donald Marsh

    Top of page
    LBOL Index
    Creative Edge Home Page

    Section E: .................................................................. November 15, 2001

    Del Rey Oaks, CA

      AMSTERDAM 10/11/01

      and it was there
      standing on the 2nd floor
      staring far back into time
      and Vincent's soul
      nearing its end
      where crows watch
      the yellow grass will flow
      along the road
      toward the end
      I can feel the heat
      hear the crickets
      and crows call
      the heads of wheat
      bumping and scraping
      in the breeze
      there is no sound
      in this moment of creation
      we approach the end
      and...

      Susan Long* died...

      I went to Amsterdam
      Van Gogh Museum
      to stand
      in front
      of Vincent's
      yellow fields
      with crows
      and I cried

    * My drawing teacher of 25 years.

    Steve Brown
    SteveArtis@aol.com

    Carmel, CA

      THE SCENT OF DAWN

      the scent of salt
      water landing

      drifting oceanic

      the scent of oak
      smoky layers

      lingering on the sand

      while all desires
      are illumined

      and fluttering like moths

      warmed to the gift
      of one more day

    John Dodson
    flute@acharantos.com

    Big Sur, CA

      ALL THAT HAS BEEN

      The twilight carries away
      the cries of day,
      softening the ragged bluffs within—
      then, vanquished by the wings
      of night's darkening rapture,
      is lost to the black womb of seed

      At the savage cove below,
      where the sea churns and seethes,
      the wild things fold their wings
      in dark shadow,
      basking in the fleeting tides,
      in the ebony caves of the spirit's call

      Then, o'er the mountain's shoulder,
      the sun's breath emerges,
      soon to banish the dawn again,
      in a radiance consuming
      all that has been

      ANCIENT GODDESS LIGHT

      O luminous flower, waning,
      your world is suspended
      in sovereign glory,
      crowned by your halo
      of amber, pink and blue,
      your ankles enshrouded
      by the traveling mist

      You cast a glittering path
      across the writhing sea,
      shimmering up our streams
      The constellations of our eyes
      behold your prayer in silence

      Our love is resplendent
      in your ancient goddess light,
      in the infinite gray of skies and seas
      We are one dream

      O illumining vessel, we become you
      And as the clouds obscure you,
      we become, like you, invisible

    Carolyn Mary Kleefeld
    info@carolynmarykleefeld.com

    Soquel, CA

      ROOTS

      Stump grunt
      mattock
      maul thump
      fisted
      clench of it

      Roots snaked
      trenched tenacious
      clutching
      earth rock
      panting admiration

      We battle
      dust digging
      the day

      Something done
      time gone
      must come up
      root matrix
      in me say

      Knuckled crucible
      green
      stump staggered
      limp free I slump
      feeling
      a thing
      old gnarled deep
      grieving grand

      No one can own
      the ground
      pieces of paper
      stating
      a consciousness
      may be ended

      Roots are ever
      probe back
      always be
      only that
      which lives
      in the earth
      can claim it

    Donald Marsh
    marsh@cruzio.com
    (To receive one of these free original poems emailed each Monday, contact Donald Marsh.)

    Top of page
    LBOL Index
    Creative Edge Home Page

    Section D: .................................................................. October 15, 2001

    Carmel, CA

      UNTITLED
      (September 14, 2001)

      Whatever can be found more closely, more truthfully, more tenderly, more courageously, more faithfully, now, let it be so. Now. Let it be so.

      Here we gather, the whole world that we are, here in Monterey.

      Here we are the whole world in old Monterey. Spirits surround us. The tribes of ten thousand years and more. They are around us now. The communion of the living and the dead and those to come. We can feel all spirits now in this place.

      And in all and through all, the greater Spirit dwells among us, the Spirit from which we have come, the Spirit that can guide us all our days, the Spirit that will bring forth all who come after us.

      We can feel this now. Here. Beside the sea. The whole world that we are. Little as we are, few as we are. Here in Monterey. On the sands beside the Pacific.

      You may be already touching someone. Or if you feel moved to touch someone, then let that be. Hold someone now if that is what you may feel. And stand as you are, if that is what you need. But however we stand, together here we stand.

      Together here we are free. And we are not free. We are not free until all are free. And we are not free until we are free within ourselves, by the courage of the truths within and among us, the courage of faith within and among us, the courage of justice within and among us, and the courage of love within and among us.

      My heart is bleeding today with every thought, with every feeling, in each breath, the bleeding, and in the marrow of my bones and in the cells of my body and in these molecules and in these very electrons that carry me through this life, I am bleeding and weeping and hoping and praying.

      AS WE ALL ARE

      For all the suffering
      among us all
      all ways all days
      and for all the suffering that is today

      for all the injured and the tortured
      and all the wounded
      for all who have died so that we might live
      for all who have suffered and died
      and for all who are suffering

      and for all who have died that others might live—
      that we may live

      and for the suffering of all the living
      let us find ourselves here joined in quiet prayer
      for who we are
      for where we have come to

      for who we have come to be

      and for what shall become of us
      on this planet that we ourselves
      have not made
      this day let us pray
      unto WHO has made us
      and not we ourselves

      A'ILLAH
      ELOHIM
      SPIRITUS SANCTUS
      ABBA
      OM MANI PADME HUM
      OM

      Show us a better way now.

      In this time of times, in our time,
      this time that calls for the deepest, and truest, and wisest
      of what we are—

      the deepest of feeling,
      the truest examining our hearts,
      the wisest of actions in all our living,
      and in the whole world,

      guide us to-and through-what we feel,
      lead us to all that we may find in our hearts,
      right now and through and through.

      Whatever can be found more closely, more truthfully, more tenderly, more courageously, more faithfully, now, let it be so. Now. Let it be so.

      And in all our acts and in all our living and breathing,
      and in all the world, may holy love prevail.

      May the love that passes understanding direct our ways—

      all our ways
      always

      May the love that passes understanding
      SET US FREE

      SET ALL OF US FREE

      The love that passes all understanding
      sets us free
      ALWAYS
      per sempre

      in fullness of forgiveness and grace

      a tout moment
      todo el tiempo

      allezeit
      navsegda
      vzdycky

      yóng yuan

      justlikethis
      all in all

      itsu mo

      lojojumo
      daima

      holy love shall prevail
      always

    per sempre:Italian
    a tout moment: French
    todo el tiempo: Spanish
    allezeit: German
    navsegda: Russian
    vzdycky [vizh.ditz.skee]: Czech
    yóng yuan: Mandarin
    itsu mo: Japanese
    lojojumo: Yoruba
    daima [da.eem.ah]: Swahili

    John Dodson
    flute@acharantos.com

    San Francisco, CA

    Two very close and beloved friends of mine were killed in the World Trade Center. In my own deep grief, these words captured what has helped me stay connected to the real values I cherish. This is why, though I grieve, I cannot give in to despair.

    "Either we have hope or we don't; it's a dimension of the soul. It's an orientation of the spirit, an orientation of the heart. [It is] the ability to work for something because it is good, not because it stands a chance to succeed. The more unpropitious the situation in which we demonstrate hope, the deeper the hope is. Hope is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense.

    What faith means to me is simply this: it is a particular state of mind, a state of persistent and productive openness... Everything meaningful in life, though it may assume the most dramatic form of questioning and doubting, is distinguished by a certain transcendence of individual human existence—beyond the limits of mere 'self-care'—toward other people, toward society, toward the world. Only by looking outward, by caring for things that, in terms of pure survival, one needn't bother with at all... [only] by throwing oneself over and over again into the tumult of the world, with the intention of making one's voice count— only thus does one really become a person, a creator of the 'order of the spirit,' a being capable of a miracle: the recreation of the world."

    Vaclav Havel

    Zann Erick
    zannerick@earthlink.net

    Big Sur, CA

      THE BEGINNINGS OF TIME,
      UNTOUCHED

      We stroll in our evanescence
      on an old wooden pier,
      a savage sea teeming below
      with a wildness unbounded

      Above, the unseamed skies meet
      the waves' crest of sea,
      separated by a stream of city lights,
      stars fallen, now imprisoned,
      stolen from the skies

      The gulls shriek of the black night,
      free in their wild flight
      The sea beasts roar their primordial call,
      uncorrupted by the panting traffic nearby

      The beginnings of time, untouched
      in the incessant surge of wave,
      ignore this pier, our temporary visits
      and impermanent hearts

      ANCIENT GODDESS LIGHT

      O luminous flower, waning,
      your world is suspended
      in sovereign glory,
      crowned by your halo
      of amber, pink and blue,
      your ankles enshrouded
      by the traveling mist

      You cast a glittering path
      across the writhing sea,
      shimmering up our streams
      The constellations of our eyes
      behold your prayer in silence

      Our love is resplendent
      in your ancient goddess light,
      in the infinite gray of skies and seas
      We are one dream

      O illumining vessel, we become you
      And as the clouds obscure you,
      we become , like you, invisible

      WHAT ONCE HAS BEEN

      The twilight carries away
      the cries of day,
      softening the ragged bluffs within—
      then, vanquished by the wings
      of night's darkening rapture,
      is lost to the black womb of seed

      At the savage cove below,
      where the sea churns and seethes,
      the wild things fold their wings
      in dark shadow,
      basking in the fleeting tides,
      in the ebony caves of the spirit's call

      O'er the mountain's shoulder,
      the sun's breath emerges,
      soon to banish the dawn again,
      in a radiance consuming
      what once has been

    Carolyn Mary Kleefeld
    info@carolynmarykleefeld.com

    San Antonio, TX

    From a concerned grandmother.

      WE LIVE FOR FREEDOM—
      WE DIE FOR PEACE!

      We fight for our freedom, we live to care
      So, tread lightly terrorists—if you dare.
      Know eyes are watching—for your dirty tricks
      As America gathers to get in our licks.

      You think you have beaten us that you have won
      But think again, it's not over till our job is done
      That is to drive you terrorists from our Nation's shore
      We stand United; so don't come looking for war.

      It's easy to be complacent—to look the other way,
      Does it have to take a terrible act to melt our feet of clay?
      Or the human tragedy inflicted by man on man
      Somehow all of this doesn't seem to fit into God's Holy Plan.

      Maybe this is just a wake-up call for you and me
      To rejoice, praise Him on our bended knee.
      It is times like these our Patriotism reigns on high
      Still the question haunts us, why do good people have to die?

      In the mounting toll of death that devastating day
      Our leader, our President George Bush asked us to pray
      For the mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, family and friends
      Taken away or left behind, their story never ends.

      So stay awake America, be aware and don't forsake
      The ideals our great country was built on—it was no mistake.
      The men & women who fought and died at Freedom's Gate
      Their voices arise and shout "Don't back down—retaliate!"

      For these evil men from birth are bred to hate and die
      For the glory and ultimate reward they shall redeem on high.
      No, fellow Americans, we cannot let our courage drop
      We must hold our heads high—fight for our freedom—and never stop!

    Shirley Smalley Price
    Bob_Price1@msn.com

    Soquel, CA

      WOMEN IN SHAWLS

      Women in shawls praying,
      women embracing shawls in promenade,
      women seated on attentive benches waiting
      in shawls; women walking in snow
      in a row in various shawls.

      Women loosening shawls dancing
      by tongue licking torches spreading
      fat-oil smoke, a fusillade of feet
      in scarlet shawls; backs arched,
      one arm raised imperial,
      merciless, erotic, contained,

      Women opening shawls wide
      as wondrous Peruvian birdwings
      before wrapping themselves in solemnity.

      Women in the rain in a square
      at night in shawls on glistening stones,
      the rain coming down on their hair,
      on their shawls, as they turn
      and turn again as women standing
      in the night in the square in their shawls
      in the rain; turning and turning again.

    Donald Marsh
    marsh@cruzio.com
    (To receive one of these free original poems emailed each Monday, contact Donald Marsh.)

    Top of page
    LBOL Index
    Creative Edge Home Page

    Section C: .................................................................. September 15, 2001

    San Jose, CA

      SILENCE

      Suddenly the wind stops.
      Silence slides down from granite slopes
      congeals around the camp
      thick and smothering
      drowning all sounds

      Reflected from this wall of silence
      breathing becomes loud and clear.
      Even the beat of the heart
      so deeply hidden
      faintly rings in our ears.

      A hummingbird slices
      a gap through the silence
      droning and drowning
      the beat of our heart.
      Silence pours in filling the gap.

      We hear the song of the dry creek
      filled with forgotten snows.
      Silence presses the lake into glass
      holding the Aspen tight
      until their last quiver stops.

    Franz Spickhoff
    franz@sj.znet.com

    Big Sur, CA

      FOR DAVID WAYNE DUNN

      There, a king stands,
      a fountain of love,
      the dark green foliage
      of his tree, incensed
      with the gild of dusk

      Within his voice timbre,
      his bloom is lush

      The earth's arteries pulse,
      metabolize his being

      He bends low
      in his garden haven
      amidst the concrete of Fresno,
      the busyness of people

      The deepest root walks his feet,
      yet he breathes the air of angels,

      This king of poetry,
      tree of a man
      grows God's fruits
      in sensibility

      His gossamer castle spun
      outside the city's crimes
      breathes golden light afar . . .

      DAVID'S LETTER

      Your letter ignited
      the savage pain
      of love's touch,
      arousing my numbed passions
      sleeping as drugged beasts
      hiding from life behind masks

      The fruits of passion are lost
      to repetitious themes,
      nailed to the habits of time

      Your words planted seeds
      in my desert within

    Carolyn Mary Kleefeld
    info@carolynmarykleefeld.com

    Delhi, India

    Excerpts of thoughts to consider on the creative life from India!

    I

    Thesis: In a fast society slow emotions become extinct. A thinking mind cannot feel. Scientific/ Industrial/ Financial thinking destroys ability for subjective-experience.

    Emotion is what we experience during gaps in our thinking. If there are no gaps there is no emotion. Today people are thinking all the time and are mistaking thought (words/ language) for emotion.

    When society switches-over from physical work (agriculture) to mental work (scientific/ industrial/ financial/ fast visuals/ fast words) the speed of thinking keeps on accelerating and the gaps between thinking go on decreasing.

    There comes a time when there are almost no gaps. People become incapable of experiencing/ tolerating gaps. Emotion ends.

    Man becomes machine.

    A society that speeds up mentally experiences every mental slowing-down as Depression/ Anxiety. A (traveling) society that speeds up physically experiences every physical slowing-down as Depression/ Anxiety. A society that entertains itself daily experiences every non-entertaining moment as Depression/ Anxiety.

    II

    One thousand years ago visuals would change only when man physically moved himself to a new place or when other people (animals/ birds) and objects (clouds/ water) physically moved themselves before him. Today man sits in front of TV/ Computer and watches the rapidly changing visuals/ audio.

    He sits in a vehicle (car/ train/ bus) and as it moves he watches the rapidly changing visuals. He turns the pages of a book/ newspaper/ magazine and sees many visuals/ text in a short span.

    The speed of visuals (and words) has increased so much during the last one hundred years that today the human brain has become incapable of focusing on slow visuals/ words through perception, memory, imagery.

    If we cannot focus on slow visuals/ words we cannot experience emotions associated with slow visuals /words.

    III

    Before the advent of Industrial Revolution Man's thinking was primarily limited to: (a) visual processing (slow visuals). (b) verbal/ language processing (slow words).

    Today there are many kinds of fast thinking : (1) visual processing (fast visuals). (2) verbal/ language processing (fast words).

    If visual/ verbal processing is fast we cannot feel slow emotions.

    (3) Scientific/ Technical thinking (fast). (4) Industrial thinking (fast). (5) Business thinking (fast).

    (3), (4) & (5) are associated with numbers/ symbols/ equations/ graphs/ circuits/ diagrams/ money/ accounting/ etc.

    As long as the mind is doing this kind of thinking it cannot feel any emotion—not an iota of emotion. In a fast society slow emotions become extinct. In a thinking (scientific/ industrial) society emotion itself becomes extinct.

    EMOTION IS WHAT REMAINS IN THE MIND WHEN VISUAL /VERBAL PROCESSING SLOWS DOWN (STOPS/ FREEZES )

    IV

    There are certain categories of people who feel more emotion (subjective experience ) than others. If we attempt to understand why (and how) they feel more emotion we can learn a lot about emotion. Writers, poets, actors, painters (and other artists) are examples.

    WRITERS
    Writers do verbal (and associated visual) processing whole day—every day. They do slow verbal (and associated visual) processing every day. (A novel that we read in 2 hours might have taken 2 years to write. This is also the reason why the reader can never feel the intensity and duration of emotion experienced by the writer.)

    POETS
    Poets do verbal (and associated visual) processing whole day—every day. There is more emotion in poetry than in prose. This happens because there are very few words (and associated visuals) in poetry than in any other kind of writing. There is a very high degree of freezing/ slowing down of visuals and words in poetry.

    ACTORS
    Actors do verbal (and associated visual) processing whole day—every day. During shooting/ rehearsal they repeat the dialogues (words) again and again (the associated visuals/ scenes also get repeated along with the dialogues).

    PAINTERS
    Painters do visual (and associated verbal) processing whole day—every day. They do extremely slow visual processing—the visual on the canvas changes only when the painter adds to what already exists on the canvas.

    There are some important points to be noted :

    (1) All these artists do visual and verbal processing whole day—every day.
    (2) They do slow visual and verbal processing.
    (3) They do not do scientific/ industrial/ business processing whole day—every day.

    Most of the city people doing mental work either do this kind of mental processing which is associated with Numbers/ Symbols/ Equations/ Graphs/ Circuits/ Diagrams/ Money/ Accounting etc., or they do fast visual (verbal) processing whole day—every day.

    This kind of thinking (processing) has come into existence only during the last 200 years and has destroyed our emotional ability (circuits).

    However in today's modern world even artists have started using machines/ technology for their work and they are also involved with financial/ business/ commercial thinking. In addition to this they are also exposed to highly overstimulated environment like the rest of the population.

    Because of these factors even the mind of an artist of a fast society has become quite different from the mind of an artist who lived in any slow/non-industrial society of the past. A modern artist is thinking more and feeling less than an artist of the past.

    For more information from this author, visit www.netshooter.com/emotion.

    Sushil Yadav
    mpyadav@bol.net.in

    Austin, TX

    As a University ofTexas student, here is some of my work.

    [Mary] [Vertigo] [Aquabella]

    Chamel Raghu
    craghu@mail.utexas.edu

    Carmel, CA

      FLUTTERING

      enjoying i will
      enjoy an instant
      timefreely of

      wondering

      if you too feel
      the aloneness that
      is as great as

      it is impossible

      that was the way
      i put it once upon
      time when time was

      otherwise put

      this delirium of
      fluttering like
      heart valves

      in the river of life

      i don't feel much
      of over-reaching how
      ever tricky my soul

      twists and turns

      on me but i do
      let what will wonder
      do just that with you

      who as a direction

    John Dodson
    flute@acharantos.com

    Soquel, CA

      WHO WHAT WHY ME I AM?

      Thinking how my entire life
      has been spent trying to get out
      of being who I know I am.

      Why do I and so many others
      long to be other than who we are?

      And why, failing to be other,
      do I feel awful, that my true self
      (whatever that is) is not acceptable?

      Always, who we are abides
      at the end of the self-made
      elaborate life-long labyrinth.

    Donald Marsh
    marsh@cruzio.com
    (To receive one of these free original poems emailed each Monday, contact Donald Marsh.)

    Top of page
    LBOL Index
    Creative Edge Home Page
    Section B: .................................................................. August 15, 2001
    Carmel, CA

      THE ANIMALS MAY WONDER

      the animals may wonder
      about us humans

      staying so much
      inside this time of day

      this time sublime
      the street is empty

      my neighbor grows
      passionflowers

      hung like carillon bells
      only heavier somehow

      faces to the ground
      pistils dropped low

      yielding so exotic
      a fragrance

      as i take a walk past
      yellow golden blooms

      with the spaniel and
      cat comes too

      the fragrance ahhh
      i am transfixed

      i do not know
      where i am going

      half the time
      anyway

      forgetting what
      my options are

      more often than
      that

      yes the cat comes
      too always

      comes too

      SEA FOG

      coastal fog

      fractal

      fog in fog

      streaks eastward
      called

      it seems just
      now by the inland

      heat

      at this instant
      no earlier no later

      just now

      sudden

      very sudden

      well let's go ahead
      and say it

      abduction

      abruptio

      these terrors
      primordial

      like fogs

      these foglike
      terrors

      sweep away

      sweep on along
      now spinning

      twisting filaments
      entangled

      enmeshing more
      like twirling

      called inland
      this

      august after noon

      through the skylight
      by the sea here

      i am so
      sorely

      wondering

      just so
      i am

      just so

    John Dodson
    flute@acharantos.com

    Big Sur, CA

      SOLITUDE

      she sits watching me
      when i walk through the fragrant
      canyon, white spots of sun on
      naked knees. her eyes reflect
      the forest-green, and are very dreamy.
      dangling leaves on intricate vines
      float over her shoulders, her hands
      are caressed by delicate ferns
      and her soft smile drifts up
      from the sea...

      one day i asked her if there was a river
      nearby, would she like to hike and
      have a swim. or, i wondered, isn't there
      some other place you would like to be?
      she just bowed her head and answered:
      "not at all. my life, you see, is a river
      of longing, and i have no need to leave."

      SOLITUDE II

      like a sister
      i secretly loved,
      her white shoulders
      bridges i crossed
      to meet her.

      my long lost
      and thought-forgotten
      mistress, white roses
      falling from her open hands.

      oh it only she knew
      the depth of my wound.
      if only she could swim
      in the ocean of my longing,
      nakedly. i know she would
      caress me then, eternally,
      and understand infinity.

      but she no longer hears
      my voiceless cry; she
      no longer answers my
      desperate prayer.

      i am too alone though
      she is inside me like
      a lover i've known
      for a thousand years.

    ©2001

    David Dunn
    ddunn3@earthlink.net

    Soquel, CA

      THE DEAD COME

      The dead come to talk to us in dreams—
      dream echoes that puzzle, that seem
      to see them young and old, strange then same.

      The dead come with care, with formality,
      independent of our fretfilled ways.
      That is yours, they say, this we now know.

      They say such simple strange things
      that surface us awake,
      so gentle surreal, so said at peace.
      Then slide sweetknife through us in things
      people do and say throughout the day.

    Donald Marsh
    marsh@cruzio.com
    (To receive one of these free original poems emailed each Monday, contact Donald Marsh.)

    Top of page
    LBOL Index
    Creative Edge Home Page
    Section A: .................................................................. July 15, 2001
    Carmel, CA

      WOVEN INTO ALL

      Am I, as a poet,
      somehow not in this life,
      living between this one
      and the other?

      Spinning gossamer
      of moonbeam
      as my galactic ladder
      into the music of space

      Am I, as an artist,
      a canvas-like being
      absorbing nature's palette
      of tones, rhythms

      A void, a passion, a creature
      walking about in nothingness
      yet vibrantly, delicately woven into all

      THE DRUMS OF THE EARTH'S PULSE

      Reeling, swirling
      as a flower so fragrant
      blown by the winds of love

      I'm swept into forests
      with flying root
      and their boughs reach
      out in longing

      I swirl and dance;
      my head is filled
      with the pulse of you,
      my dearest love

      Is there a hesitancy
      I am missing?
      Is the wind of passion
      refusing stale restraint?

      O my darling, I thirst
      only for you, for
      the swirling, reeling
      pulse of you that dances
      my heart and beats the drums
      of the earth's pulse as our song

      NIGHT SONG

      Ah, night,
      with your ancient eyes beyond time

      How you lure me
      up the gossamer ladders of your rays,
      enfolding me
      in your ebony arms
      of fragrant silence

      And I yearn again only to be yours,
      just yours, our skin seamless
      in the velvet darkness

    Carolyn Mary Kleefeld
    info@carolynmarykleefeld.com

    Big Sur, CA

      I STILL LOVE YOU

      Take it all away,
      I still love you.

      Leave empty my hands
      for I must lose,
      I still love you.

      Take from me what
      I've never owned, this life,
      I still love you.

      Take it all away, leave me
      naked and nameless
      under infinite sky,
      I still love you.

    ©2001

    David Dunn
    ddunn3@earthlink.net

    Carmel, CA

      REMEMBERANCE OF
      THINGS TO COME

      too much of this day

      i am confused

      about the same
      as generally

      just too much day
      today

      it is record hot

      i seem unable to rise
      to it
      to converge

      about as generally

      feeling the whole
      planetary roll

      feeling the Sun aging
      you know

      midlife has brought
      all the plants all
      the aggressively
      lunging life forms
      to their feet some from the beginning
      to where we are now
      just past
      dinosaur meat

      thus Thou Sun
      with prostrate asana

      coronally expulsive
      Thee i do greet

      *

      the pool of this
      present moment
      i swim in

      is too deep
      too reflective and
      unbearably

      perturbable

      *

      too much day here
      today

      fahrenheit or celsius
      or kelvin for that

      uplinked or downloaded
      as it may be

      floating greengold now
      the molten maple leaves

      the moths are picking up
      the pace

      birdsong delivers

      *

      remembering what
      i believe

      i do believe
      and tapping into this

      fingers drumming
      mounting the steps

      remembering to breathe
      the transformalities

      too much to contain
      today

      these things i am
      moving through

      with the midlife
      Sun

      about a billion
      years to go

      before the heat
      to come

    John Dodson
    flute@acharantos.com

    Soquel, CA

      UNTITLED

      Moon reflecting
      in a mountain pond—

      something rising to feed
      in the middle of the moon—

      lunar dimple then squiggle
      bullseye leisurely expanding—

      one by one stars undulate
      all the way to the ferns—

      stillness slowly settles
      to the bottom of everything

      LET THERE BE LIGHT

      The constant light is varied all around the world;
      particular to the heart brought to the seeing.

      So it is the rose red sunset walls of Florence;
      the dappled pools of Gaulois blue in summer Paris;
      the collar cold colorless light hurrying in London;
      the big legged towered upshafts of autumn Manhattan;
      Some say the light in Africa is old, tinfoil gold.

      There is a light everywhere that brings a longing home.

      The ending light efficient in shadowless hospitals;
      from the effulgent black, the light bursting at birth.

      Then, in the beginning, God spoke.

    Donald Marsh
    marsh@cruzio.com
    (To receive one of these free original poems emailed each Monday, contact Donald Marsh.)

    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

    Top of page

    Home | News | Programs | Facilitators | LBOL | NL | Membership