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Section F: .................................................................. December 15, 2003

Del Rey Oaks, CA

POETRY WRITING

It's about "Constant Comment Tea"
and window seats
curled up against the fog
writing poetry
In Irish cable knit sweaters
making an effort
to speak in a quiet voice
across the gap of time

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

FORGOTTEN TIMES

The call—"Mom I'm home"
Feel of wintery coldness from the door
Puddles left on the kitchen floor
From snow laden goloshes
Wet mittens—cold cheeks
Warmth this brings of long-a-go
A life time ago
Forgotten times awakening my heart
Cries to retrieve those moments
How swiftly the clock ticks on.
Memories the dreams of yesteryear.

WINGS

Time has wings
Soaring thru space
Reaching my arms out
Trying to cling, catching it
Try as I may—
It seems to soar that much faster.

VERMONT WINTER

The morning lies cold and heavy
As I gaze from my kitchen window
This day has a beauty of mystic powers
Air so still—crystals floating
Coldness has made the world divine
Colors dance a crystal ballet
There to be caught for an instant—
Chimney smoke twirling
Sun so intense
Beyond discription—only for me to see
In the silence of my kitchen.

Jean Gates

Poems from Lake Tahoe:

PRAISE FOR THE WIND IN A HIGH SIERRA MEADOW

She comes———singing
across the riffled pond of golden grasses,
gathers my loose thoughts,
tosses them like watercolor kites
to be caught in the green sleeves
of mountain hemlocks.

growls among the white fir,
paces the crest of Mount Rose,
broadcasts the shriek
of the hawk, tok-click of raven,
chatter of a chickaree.

wanders the banks
of small streams, disappears
and returns without echo,
hurls brown grenades,
from the tips of pines.

prompts cloud streams to drift north,
steals yellow parchment coins
from quaking aspens,
transports them in pockets of light
through the forest.

Bringer of messages, she
plays in the hollows of my ears,
invades the chambers of my lungs,
beckons my spirit to linger
in her high meadow eden.

AT TRAILS END

After the long descent to Emerald Bay
I climb an extra half-mile of trail
to Eagle Falls.

Steep stone steps
accelerate my heartbeat.
I calculate altitude.

At trails-end I rest.
No waterfall cascades.
Only a thin stream

lingers in Autumn,
etches pewter and flint feather motifs
across granite slabs.

High above,
gray mountain fortress crowns
an unreachable peak.

I exalt my pulsing heart,
sturdy legs,
the perpetual bellows of my lungs,

the privilege of living.

SPOONER LAKE LOOP

Immersed in a painter's autumn
paradise at Spooner Lake,
I place joyous footsteps on a dusty path.

Trembling aspens rustle with each slight breeze.
In the long-grass boggy meadow
savanna sparrows and a warbling vireo exchange songs.

A congregation of cones gathers
under the Jeffrey pines
beside a cluster of whistler brush.

In an aspen grove a hundred black eyes
stare from white bark,
insist I bear witness to silent desecration,
names engraved into living trunks.

Before I complete the circle
I shed tears for the trees.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

AMONG MARMOTS I

Here he comes again
With his peculiar limp
In time before the summer
Melts the last patches of snow.
He tosses off his heavy load
And rests in my back yard
Among the granite rocks.

Yes, he has slowed down
Since I saw him last
On top of the granite rock.
We locked eyes for a long time
I circled around
For a closer inspection.

For a long time he stares
Into the brook, watching
The trout easing into the current
Drifting down stream into the lake.
He is at a loss for words
Understanding little what he sees.

Even the ants notice the difference,
Moving in aggressively.
He flicks them off, unaware
Of their keen instinct
For slowing movement.
He gets up—letÕs meet again.
If we don't it's all right too.

Franz Spickhoff
franz@znet.com

LOOKING BACK

Hidden well behind the eyes
mystery in deepest black,
what you do not know you see
in the mirror looking back;

feel the pulse to count you hear
catch the daydream on your face,
everyone is somewhere else,
somewhere in that inner space;

emptiness is what you are
omnipresent like the air,
you resolve my universe
sitting in that rocking—chair.

There are a lot of my poems wanting to speak on www.mysticseed.com

Roy Austin
troya@onetel.com

Section E: .................................................................. November 15, 2003

Carmel valley, CA

A SUNDAY AFTERNOON

As I help a stranger on with her burgundy sweater,
my hands feel the soft fullness of cashmere
and smiles exchanged bring Kindness into bloom.

Before, Kindness sat at the edge of the seat,
not really listening to the lecture praising his worth,
rather ego less, this Kindness.

The room a bit too crowded, heated by so many presences
warmed by the sun attempting entrance,
ventilation sparse except for the open hallway.

But, Kindness knew he would be of service, winked at patience,
let judgment fly away through the open window
noted the sky, honoring the monastery with its blue umbrella.

At the end of the long lecture, all other words fall to the ground
provide a padded pathway, rose-scented, for Kindness to walk
and nod silently to those along the way.

Illia Thompson
Illia99@aol.com

HAIKU
(Garden)

The wild strawberry
tastes like nothing else I know,
shy behind the leaf;

below my plimsole
I see aÊviper slither
to a timbered bole,

and the children, lithe
surprising with hide and seek,
echoing strange myth.

There are a lot of my poems wanting to speak on www.mysticseed.com

Roy Austin
troya@onetel.com

Section D: .................................................................. October 15, 2003

Del Rey Oaks

AND VERILY IT CAME TO BE

and verily it came to be
that the world became filled
with greed
and the greed became
one with the word
and the word became
angry and violent
and the violence begat
hate and fear
and the word was
changed from the light of day
to the dark of night
and they who stole
the word had become
as money changers
to be driven from the
temple once more

"Forgive them father they know not what they do!"

©Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

REFLECTIONS OF IRELAND

My last day in Ireland, I happened upon,
on a Dublin sidewalk,
An exhibit of photographs.

Artfully composed pictures of the sea
Beaches, black cliffs, twisted trees,
Glassed in photographs showing detail of
Sea urchins and scallop shells.

Green, green, hills and rocks and rivers and busy cities
Of the emerald isle.

But other pictures appear.
Sun's bright rays project the scene behind me
onto the framed images.

The old Georgian architecture of Dublin
Dances and shimmers on the covering glass,
Making wavy patterns
Of the neat rows of bricks on the buildings at my back,
An optical trick of reflected light.

Behind me, a car moves, I can hear it swoosh
And I see it, blue car, moving right to left
Across the frames, animating the still pictures .
Next, a horse wearing blinders, floats across, superimposing
Itself on a beach scene.
The horse pulls a buggy with brightly painted wheels.

Carriage and horse are called a jaunty cart,
They are for hiring
By tourists, wanting to see Dublin
As if from a gentle, rocking cradle,


The rhythmic clop, clop, clop of the horses hooves
Tattoo a sound behind me as I follow
Its passage in the new mirror in front of me, the
Moving reflection, obscuring the quiet Images, so carefully
Preserved on shiny photo paper.

Cart and horse and elegant architecture, lovely photographs
Speak of peace and beauty, and a quiet and gentle life
Much of it, though not all fancy, designed to
Lull the hordes of visitors into romantic visions
Of Ireland.

Oh yes, I am a tourist, too.
Camera hanging around my neck, I traveled for 20 days on the island,
I saw its beautiful hills and mountains and sea. I heard the lilting music of the Irish voice,
I visited its pubs, and yes, I tasted a little whiskey and drank the ale.
I sang Ireland's romantic songs and
read its myths of fairies, little people, and Celtic kings.

But I could not turn my inner eye away from the evidence I had seen
When I toured Ireland's castles, forts, and battle scenes
I learned of Ireland's struggle for religious autonomy
And to revive a language and culture nearly destroyed by the,
Neighbor across the sea, whose land grabbing, murders and
Cold blooded executions.
Turned some Irish to violence; but most
To lofty elocution.

I reflect on the reflections as I watch the horse pull
The cart off the edge of the exhibit.

I turn and look over my left shoulder
To see horse and buggy going down the road,
I smile, reflect on the reflections,
And notice, once again,
That the horse wears blinders.

Carol Ryan
c-ryan@sbcglobal.net

MOON SHADOWS

Under the autumn-hued
grape arbor
I linger
within the quiet light
of dusk.

The moon,
a white mare's tail
pinned to a fading blue,
sways free
of the last hour,
suspended over
a black ridge.

I hang on
to singing silence,
remote,
delaying my own descent
into darkness.


THEN AND THERE

You come upon your soul
as if by accident
in a shaft of light
melting through a grove
of shadowed oaks,

or perched on the cellophane wing
of a dragonfly staring
back at you with one black liquid eye.

The earth stops turning.
It's the day before eternity,
a consequence
of unpredictable splendor.

A thousand or more melodies
play in unison,
notes spilling
from the mouths of clouds.

This is the moment
you would choose to die,
if death were tidy,
at your elbow,
willing.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

TRUTH

The truth is but a dream
where nothing has a name,
as all our tomorrows
are that which never came;
she punished as the sun
who sought her on the earth—
through myths of Acheron,
the mystic's desert dearth;

in vultures on thermals
I seem to read her mind,
she travels with spirit
but leaves the flesh behind,
and hides between heart—beats
that drum her narrow ledge—
a bottomless chasm
that hugs the razor's edge.

There are a lot of my poems wanting to speak on www.mysticseed.com

Roy Austin
troya@onetel.com

Section C: .................................................................. September 15, 2003

Fair Oaks, CA

The September meeting of the Creative Arts Fellowship was a tremendous experience for me. I enjoyed sharing with old and new friends, and wish I could participate more often. The artwork, poetry and performances were very moving, and I felt honored to be in such excellent company. Thank you to everyone who participated. Since the meeting was held on my father's birthday, I wrote this poem in his honor.

ONE WHO KNOWS

Years ago,
One Who Knows fathered tiny feminine life,
dawn of our journey together.

With booming voice
and military stance,
he vitalized my heart with loving attention
and careful words;
nourishment poured over blossoming soul.

In younger times,
his strong shoulders held inexperienced feet,
springboard for daring dives into unknown seas;
lessons of trust wrapped in joyful abandon.

As my world enlarged beyond parental control,
his attention turned towards inner space,
and spiritual journeys into personal truth
were lovingly offered as
illustrations for passionate living;
beacons to smooth the way.

With passing years,
fulfillment comes from quiet shared moments,
often fed by tears,
always completed by hugs;
pearlescent gifts exchanged
between devoted daughter and
One Who Knows.

HOMECOMING

There's something exciting
about returning home,
much like reuniting with a lover.
Profound familiarity beckons,
reminder that you are awaited.

Will the red geraniums bloom more fully?
Will the glass prism on the redwood fence
announce a rainbow?
Will the neighbor's yellow cat parade
as though she were the regal caretaker
in your absence?

Finally, you will know
that home brings more than shelter
as you enter the gentle protection
of an embrace as soft as the scent
of home-grown lavender.

Illia Thompson
Illia99@aol.com

SEASONS GREETINGS

The wind whistled around my chubby, pink five year old legs and made my skin feel cold and putty-like. I was standing on a railroad platform, looking out through the iron grate railing that ran parallel to the tracks. It was no higher than the average adult's waist but it towered over my small figure. My face was pressed between the narrow bars as I tried to command the best view of the parade of nautical flotsam and jetsam making it's way northward up the Harlem River in New York City.

My small fingers gripped my father's right hand, as the two of us stood bundled in wool coats and mufflers. Today was one of our special Saturday outings. It was late December, and the station platform was cold and empty. No passengers idled about; and the wind swirled and pinwheeled bits of litter past us down the long cement platform.

Directly ahead was the wide expanse of the Harlem River. The water was a steel blue color flecked with white caps that rose and fell in a rhythmic cadence behind the tugs and salvage barges that paraded along its route. The sea spray had a salty fishy smell that was tinged with oil and fuel odors. Every once in a while a tugboat would swish slowly past our vantage point, and I would be enthralled with it's funny curved shape as it lurched and bobbed and bellowed smoke from it's single smokestack onto the necklace of old tires that inevitably adorned it's bow. As each tugboat and garbage scow passed close enough to be within earshot, we would wave and yell "Merry Christmas" until we were hoarse. The memory of this outing has remained a childhood highlight because the crew of one rusty, slow moving barge waved back bellowing "Merry Christmas" and serenaded us with a froggy, belching baritone of toots !!!

My face broke into a broad grin, my fingers were suddenly warm, and my heart thumped in my chest. Santa Claus himself could not have pleased me more.

Joie Goodkin
Joie77@msn.com

These painting are part of a series I did on a forest near a small town close to the Dutch border. I've always been fascinated by trees and the magic aura they seem to ooze with.

Ivor Sias
ivorjosias@arcor.de

HOW DID I GET TO BE SIXTY?

I'm sixty!

How in the world did it happen?
One day I woke up
Turned on the heat
Closed the window
Put the teakettle on
Watched the sun come up
And I was sixty.

My blond hair is turning white
I have more lines and grooves
In my face that once weren't there.
My round belly refuses to flatten
Except with tight jeans
Or pantyhose that should
Be illegal.

What happened?
I am still me!
People don't act surprised
When they find out my age.
Just yesterday I was fortyish.
I'm surprised as hell.
Someday I'll be seventy,
And I'm going to be prepared
It won't catch me by surprise
Like sixty did.

Shirley Tofle
patshirl@mbay.net

Section B: .................................................................. August 15, 2003

Carmel Valley, CA

MEMORIAL DAY 2003

Early November storms ambush
vulnerable elements in coastal forests,
scuttle massive and miniature alike,
relocate the canyon streambed.

The dead and dying lie tumbled
in awkward array, a Picasso mural
of sacrifice to wind and rain.

In May
a prolonged series of spring showers
nourishes a crazy-quilt of color,
profuse gaudy vaudeville cast
of wild morning glory trumpets,
yellow bush lupine.

Fiery paint brush
and prairie gentian envelope
the edges of the path.

Trailing vines, thick patches of sorrel
and fragile Queen Anne's lace
drape winter's fatalities
in living shrouds,

so lush you almost forget to mourn.

QUESTIONS

If the mind is uncluttered,
empty of babble and scraps,
all the bittersweet
tattered rags of memory,

is anything possible?

On a bare stage
where is material to construct scenery,
dialogue to write a script,
experience to tell a story?

If you sweep the soil
from thin-skinned corners
to banish regret,
what is lost?

One might wish
to keep a seed,
some rubble near the fence
from which to build
another treehouse on a cloud.

Even a dream is grafted
to whisperings of reality,
rises through inevitable debris
to bring you a postcard
from a deserted island.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

I enclose one short poem which I want to start...I like this little poem because it is increasingly my attitude to writing poetry (though it hasn't always been) that in saying a little I try to say a lot!

MOTH
(in memory of J. Krishnamurti)

Before my cloth
destroyed the moth
which was my cleaning duty,
did i reject it's beauty!

For still it clings
and how it sings
from those unfolded wings.

WITH THE IDEA

Was truth, scrambled like an egg,
does it leave you here to beg!
Tangled in a snare and shot—
does a tiger haunt your lot!

Nothing, breeding ground of fear
fills the void with that idea,
leaves the scripture on the shelf
genuflecting to itself;

winnowing and blowing back
is life's bread this empty sack
answering a pilgrim's prayer
suddenly, with nothing there!

Are we lost from too much geist,
are we something less than Christ
or is it providence we miss!
was Artemis, displaced by this!

BEING IN THIS

Sky at noon
echoes the bluebell
ghosting the moon
echoing dust,
bee to bloom
where the live wire sings,
follow for now the drone of
wings...

Hawk hovers
where the fossils talk,
my poppies grow
through flint and chalk...

I must leave
no scent behind me
run with the fox
to waiting ground;
will i see you
through my one eye—
your spirit in the
dragonfly?

As silent
as the swooping owl
admit the vole
into my soul...
Dark, my way
as phases of moon,
her mystic way
echoing light.

There are a lot of my poems wanting to speak onÊwww.mysticseed.com... I need to give a voice to these poems!

Roy Austin
troya@onetel.com

I have to struggle to fall asleep in these too warm summer nights, so I read, or write, or just watch into darkness, the imagination weaving facts (e.g. dragonflies) and fancies to an incoherent stream.

SUMMER HEAT

My body longs for shivers at night
Sleepless
I listen to
Songs sung without music
A flower
Missing leaves
It's blossom beams lovely
A donkey
Friendly eyes
Soft nostrils
Kissing fairies
Dragonflies
Shining between emerald trees
Hook female head to male backside
Making love flying
A dancing circle
Translucent wings
Over cool water
Songs not sung
My heart resonates
Silently

Hilly Mueller
mmhiue@t-online.de

Section A: .................................................................. July 15, 2003

Wuppertal,Germany

Recently I found a smoothed three dimensional portrait of the Turin shroud face originally produced by sweat and blood forensic scientists say (http://www.shroud.com/meacham2.htm). Since I started to draw portraits I am fascinated by all the different traits and expressions faces show, and how they can be reproduced when watching carefully. It is a good way to study fello(wo)men and oneself.

I drew this picture with much respect and pity for the deadly wounded person it shows. There is despair of what people can do to each other. At the same time I am in awe of the ability to forgive. A joyful wonder to belong to the human community, that is able to acknowledge such as true greatness.

HUMAN PORTRAIT

I draw with chalk
this one drew with blood
a memory
a face
sharing
traits of destruction
blood stains on the forehead
caused by thorns
bloody eyelid
caused by hits
broken nose
bloody cheek
caused by weakness
downfall
no graceful smile as Mona Lisa's
no fierce force as a warrior
no mighty king
humanity's face
peaceful dignity
after being destructed
by fate
fellow humans
he had forgiven

Hilly Mueller
mmhiue@t-online.de

Monterey, CA

EMPTY AND WAITING

I ache today.
Something pull and tugs
At my energy.
I'm not ready to succeed
At anything of great Importance.
I sit silent at the table
Stripping thyme from thin dried stems
Tedious work, soothing and slow
Like breathing

I want the mindless thing today.
Do not ask me to create.
The well seems dry.
I'll wait for rain
To fill me again.
There sits my violin
Encased within velvet and silk
Like a princess on a fine small bed.
It cannot sing without my help,
My hands
And I am empty now
Not able and not willing

Yet I feel that something good
Is coming soon.
My cup will be filled.
I gather something from
The tree next door
From the wind a song
From the red tailed hawk
A rush of wings and a cry.

I eat a hearty salad
On a redwood bench
In the back yard
And let the magic come to me.

Shirley Tofle
patshirl@mbay.net

PACIFIC VIGIL

they come
    with measured pace
near the end of day
    tranquil pagans
some in pairs
    others alone
all facing west

rows
    of galloping
wild white mares
    stampede
recede
    before them...

they kneel
    in the sand
celebrants
    of the descending
gold coin
    divine doubloon
swallowed
    on some winter evening
into the blue
    kiss
of the sea

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

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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