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Section F: .................................................................. December 15, 2004

San Jose, CA

COMMUNIONS

         I

You called and asked me
To cook your favorite desert.
Silky rich cream custard
Trembling in an amber lake
Of dark golden, bitter sweet sugar
Caramelized.

I feel light with delight
As I understand you understand
Our communion
Beyond the vulgarity of words.
Weightless, without burden
And for a long moment I belong.

         II

Your hand trembles.
Your voice breaks,
Reciting your favorite poem.
My hand trembles.
My heart quickens
Touched by your passion.

         III

I locked the door behind you.
The hum of your car has faded fast.
Eery silence fills the house,
An adagio of absence
Which makes the heart ache
And long for your return.
This is the music of grief
When the dead are present
In their final absence.
To hell with fear of thieves,
Unlock the door again.

Franz Spickhoff
franz@sj.znet.com

News Headline:
"Tall trucks aren't a risk factor in crashes, police say"

THE SHORT LATINA

we cannot forget her
because he killed her
with his truck
raised up high
for the "off roading"
around Salinas High
to impress the girls
raised so high
he could not see her
"he was such a good kid"
he killed her
he could not see her
she was a "short Latina"
to short for the wilds
around Salinas High
we cannot forget her
for as long as we live
born in Texas
killed in California
deported like others
because she was too short
and a "Latina"?
we cannot forget her

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com

Here is my latest poem. I wrote it in my writers group when we were tasked to write on the subject of crying. I really didn't want to do it, and felt paralyzed at first, but then these words came through, almost as if they came through me, instead of from me. I was certainly surprised!

CRYING

I don't want to write
about crying.

I don't want to
open those floodgates.

I feel the surge
of unshed tears
crashing and pounding
inside my throat,
         already strong
                  already
restless
ready to spill out
onto the table—
ready to drown me
with their
endless
         endless
                  sadness.

There are days
like today
where my unshed tears
crouch inside me,
monsters ready
to leap out
         unleashed
                   ferocious
ready to consume
my fragile world—
ready to tear my legs
from my weakened body
rendering me
         helpless
                  helpless
leaving me wet and bloodied
leaving me empty and dry
leaving me

leaving

Me.

Carol Mathew-Rogers
Mathewrogers@lanset.com

PLEA OF THE ANCIENT

You who can see me,
Lend me your eyes for the day.
Let me share your vision.
See my beauty in intimate play.

You who can hear me,
Lend me your silence and your voice.
Let me choose your words
As though it were your own choice.

You who I scare,
Lend me your concept of death.
Let me recycle your fears
And live in your circle of breath.

You who can see me
Lend me your eyes for the day.
Let me share your vision
See my beauty in intimate play.

Laura Carley
LCarleyCat@aol.com

DESTINY

Then later,
by the river,
when twilight
shyly approaches,
how you've almost
forgotten her!
But not quite.
Suddenly you
remember and hold
her in your arms
as if it were forever.
And you wonder:
Did it ever happen?
Because the stars once,
long before struggling
to know, were born
with shining mystery;
they cradled fates
and led the foolish
to fulfill foolish things.
Did you ever imagine?
Because for so long
you never suspected
trust and still only
comprehend
in fragments.
Look: She has been
here since the beginning.
One breath later her life
mingles with your own.
Another breath later,
very near the end
(which is also like
another beginning)
the whole world
appears as if it were
destiny all along.

David Wayne Dunn
ddunn3@earthlink.net

THE CLIFFS OF OBLIVION

We drive around and around the hairpin turns,
hugging the jeweled spine of Highway One
above the salty churn of seas
on the high cliffs of oblivion.

Flooding us with the black air of night,
the infinite darkness swallows our hearts.

Lost to the wilderness of spirit,
we drive on and on through the ebony night
hearing the sighs of the cliffs of oblivion
buried beneath the rush of humans,
unclaimed by the stars above.

Carolyn Kleefeld
ddunn3@earthlink.net

TAKING RESPONSIBILITY

I do not
know this—or that

And—neither do you.

It is hearsay,
it is gossip,
and you know it.

To feast
on a lie means your
soul must go hungry,
for there is a poison
found in words that
is far more lethal
than the poison
found in food.

Better—to rise
from this table of
strangers who offer up
their friend's as dessert.

Next time—
It could be you.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

Section E: .................................................................. November 15, 2004

Carmel Valley, CA

MATING SEASON

Awakened, after midnight
by the clatter of loose stones
dislodged on the slope
beneath my window
and the exotic click
of clashing antlers,
I leap up and go outside,
witness two mature bucks
engaged in battle,
pivoting, unyielding,
shoulder muscles rigid,
hooves flying.

Heads low, horns locked,
they press and lunge
under a half-moon's waxen light,
hurl pebbles and dry grass
into the maelstrom of their struggle.
Fascinated by this primitive rivalry,
the collision of brawn and lust
holds me hostage
to their dance of brute force.

Eventually one, exhausted,
yields and they vault away
down the hillside,
their harsh quick breaths,
snorts and squeals,
audible in the clear night air.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

THE TRUTH

As a child I searched for the truth eagerly,
stripping an onion layer by layer,
shedding lots of tears
nearly blind in the end
when I found
not much,
all good pieces had been lost in the process.
But:
is an onion the answer?

Hilly Mueller
hillmuell@t-online.de

I've really been enjoying the poetry posted in LBOL. It is always a pleasure to read the creative contributions of everyone. I find inspiration and deep gratitude when I connect through the words of others. In particular, I've appreciated these works by Shirley Tofte: "My Breasts" in the October 2004 posting, and "My Poem" in the September posting. Please forward my regards to her.

Here is a poem I wrote on July 28th during my weekly writing group. We were to write a declaration of self, without apology or modesty. The assignment was intimidating at first, but then these words came forth.

I AM

I am
wondering what to write
Who am I?
What do I bring to this
luscious table called life?

I am soft arms and beating heart
holding you close
sending warm love
straight inside.

I am
twinkling eyes
cracking jokes
sharp wit that rolls
from gleeful tongue
humor clothed with love.

I am warm candlelight
fire inside
flickers of moments
spent in pain and sorrow
brought forth
with care to heal.

I am
stillness
emptiness
open arms
a place to carry those
heavy burdens
and leave them
quietly
where you will.

I am
color
and line
texture and tone
dreams that shout
their need to
burst through
into waking life.

I am softly singing
murmurs of song
music seeping
wrapping us all
in wondrous
simple
joy.

I am
cranky and tired
overwhelmed and done in
shrewish screams
to push you away.

I am
alive
awake
at peace and
at home.
I am.

Carol Mathew-Rogers
Mathewrogers@lanset.com

HAUNTING MEMORIES

To be white,
             when I know
how black I am,
is painful.

When memory lies
unveiled, to a life
with other purpose,
             other lessons,
is painful.

I miss the velvet
feel of my black skin,
and the coal pitch
color of my eyes.

The piercing way
such blackness views
the burning sun
of another day.

Offering—
             Light,
             and heat,
and the sweet
singeing aroma

that tints my flesh
a darker, richer hue.

I miss the visible signs
that speak of who I am,
and from where I came.

I am invisible,
in this white coat
that offers acceptance
into a world, I know,

I do not belong.

Patricia Ann Doneson
padoneson@earthlink.net

This picture has Mom and I with our quilt on the design wall at my house. The heirloom quilt that was my great-grandmothers in on the quilt frame by the chair. It was inspired by an heirloom quilt Mom has; it was a wedding gift to Mom's Grandmother in 1879.

The old quilt is a pattern called Carolina Lily. (Picture shows just a few blocks) I made the center medallion of the new quilt in the old style. It is hand pieced. Then I surrounded it with flowers pieced with modern techniques. It is very special to be able too share a creative project with Mom at this time in her life. This will be our 5th collaboration.

Patty Matthews
PMatthews@aol.com

PLAY DOUGH

A handful of play dough
Soft and maleable,
Squishes in my palms,
Lets me explore
Shapes, touch, texture.
Simple white clay feels
Heavy with potential
Invites my inner child
To play
Mold it
Without judgment.
Soon a bowl
Emerges to embrace me
Within the circle of
My own hands,
Speaks without a word.

Here am I for now.
I will change form
And so will you.
Are you prepared?
What intention calls you forth
Into new expression?
You too are a vessel
Formed out of the rich clay
Of Mother Earth.
Anyone can do it.
It is meant to be fun!
Squeeze, squish,
Slosh in the mud!
Swim in the sea!
Life is what you make it.
Smile, for this is child's play.
At least that's what I say,
But I'm only a piece of clay.

Shirley Tofte

The past year has been anything but easy going. I have a family member struggling with leukemia. I do not even know how to put into words how this experience leaves me feeling. So un-helpful...

I miss you and the Creative Edge. I still have all the old (Newsletters) and look through them often. I had great joy waiting each time for the next theme to come about.

Would you consider doing a theme re: The Faithful Warriors in our lives who are ill and how it effects us, them, and the collective "get together" that takes place in such times. And how that same nature of collectiveness should be tapped into and explored, not just in times of great despair etc. It seems to me there is such a great force being tapped into, but only during times of wretched unfair(ness)...

Why is it that during these awful times of despair we as a collective come together lock, stock and barrel, for lack of better words? This potential and resource of human nature should not have an on and off switch. We should each day embrace the world and others as our life depends on it. Like you said Donald—"Stepping out of our safety zone and or comfort zone and stepping into the unknown..." or for this talk—the well known!

Such a richness of quality of life right there (the collective) to be constantly tapped. I do not get why only in certain events this richness of collectiveness is open to be experienced? In a process that should provide additional comfort, love, support—I feel ashamed and somehow cheated.

Perhaps you'll see what I am trying to get across... In honor of (my family member) for his kindness, love and compassion for his fellow man.

Robert Burgess, 954722, 2A-2B
Indiana Dept. of Corrections, Correctional Industrial Facility
PO Box 601
Pendleton, IN 46064

Section D: .................................................................. October 15, 2004

Tucson, AZ

THE PROMISE

America
You said
We all have
The Right
To Pursue Happiness

What you didn't tell us
Is that happiness pursued
Is never find never mind null found

Happiness
Is a by product
Of a life well lived

Other than that
America
As long as you recognize
God gives the people their rights
You are on the right track

But America please
Never tell me there is no god
And that it is you
America
Who has given us our rights
And all of them as your special privilege to us

Chris Lovette
cwlovette@cox.net

MY BREASTS

I once was like a sapling tree
And then within a month or three
My breasts grew much too big for me.

One day I saw to my surprise
That they had grown to triple size
And life forever changed.

I filled my arms with extra books
Still people gave me knowing looks
Which only made me shy.

I started wearing baggy clothes
My old ones were too tight.
I started reading novels
And avoided glaring fight

I've since had nursing babies
Three times my breasts grew double.
They've given me some pleasure
And not a little trouble.

But I am not my breasts.
They're just apart of me.
My body is the vessel
Of much more than what you see.

CHANGE CALLING

Ready to change course
I gather images
Without knowing
How to use them.

Please, what is it I want?
Where with all my gifts can I go?
To what purpose, what promise,
What plan?
I feel adrift
Without rudder
Or blueprint.

My heart hums with energy
While I give in to empty
Pleasure seeking
Puttering around.
Let me give myself
To something greater
And prompt me
With a song that
Only I can hear.

Shirley Tofte

UNEVENLY DISTRIBUTED

"The future is already here. It's just unevenly distributed."
William Gibson

at daybreak
concepts of time
negotiate a maze in my mind

songbirds distract me
with their sweet high notes
sky begins to lighten
and I am left behind

moments have been in motion without me,
an unevenly distributed future

I remain lost in meditative state
while everything else stirs
continues the chain of evolution

every now and then
I experience a lightning flash
propelling me forward
foreshadowing

I travel between
random dimensions
without dominion over clocks

this is the adventure of life
this haphazard fortuitous
calamitous lack of hold on time
the hours unkind

I hold onto the fine linen of the moment
reach out to touch ripening light in early morning

everything just beyond my full comprehension
I would not have it any other way

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

Section C: .................................................................. September 15, 2004

Morgan Hill, CA

A SLICE OF ICE IS NICE

A slice of ice is very nice
On sultry days and sumner nights
A slice of ice is positively nice.
While working in your toolshed, or maybe on a long bike ride,
Or even your hospital bed, or camping by a mountainside,
It's nice to have yourself a slice of ice.

So, roll the dice and toss some rice,
And you may get yourself some ice.
(Hopefully you won't catch mice
or wake up in a bed of lice) but soon, perhaps,
You'll have some really luscious, scrumptious, most delicious ice,
And that would truly just be very very nice!

We'll work up some strange new device
To slice and dice and splice the ice.

So roll the dice and toss some rice—
Or toss the dice and roll some rice,
I really can't remember which—
But I have got a powerful itch
To dig down deep into some ditch
And bring up some enticing frozen tasty shimmering ice.

We'll wash it till it's squeaky clean
And toss it into our machine
And slice and dice the ice.

In record time (and I mean hasty)
You will find that you are flipping for a really tasty
Slush of luscious gripping dripping ice,
And that will be so super
    hyper
        ultra, mega, NICE!

Sasha Kwapinski
billyum@myexel.com

VAST

Wandering along the sand—
at the bar of memory,
something in that ocean there
intimates eternity;
not in time that one could know
nor in space, that one might grasp,
like the whole of consciousness
unimaginable, vast!

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

Roy Austin
troya@onetel.com

MY POEM

My poem resists me,
Waits in my mind
Aloof, itches me
Where I cannot scratch.
My poem hums its
Toneless rhythm
While I search for
The words.

An image in
Glass and water
Raindrops sliding
Down my windshield
Illusive, just beyond reach
It defies me, yet
I believe it seeks to be
Discovered and expressed.

My poem emerges now
Bold and free,
A part of me.
I follow where it leads,
Cast my net among the stars
And catch it with my pen.

Shirley Tofte

THE POEM THAT RISES FROM SLEEP

I am the poem that rises from sleep
to walk outside and stand
in the shadowed hour past midnight
because the black sea above
is alive with far away eyes
that wink at me.

I am the poem that rises from sleep
to pace the hallway
because my thoughts
are crowded with doubt.

I am the poem that rises from sleep
to search for the perfect thumbnail
of moon that lingers over the mountain
in the west toward morning.

I am the poem that returns to dreams,
trailing moonbeams
from the soles of my feet
to tuck among the quilts.

I am the poem that awakes
to the risk of another day
not knowing if the night's travels
are enough to salt the coming hours
with leftover sparks of stars.

I am the poem that keeps on
gathering the grace
to dance in the darkness.

Laura Bayless
ctblaura@redshift.com

0BSERVATION

waves care not
that I expound
on their performance
crescendo
and lace finale
attire for craggy shore

fire needs not
my appreciation
to display
orange red tongues
consuming kindling
in campfire blaze

yet........maybe........
the surf crashes
just a bit more loudly
and flames burn
just a bit more brightly
during my presence.

Illia Thompson
Illia99@aol.com

Section B: .................................................................. August 15, 2004

Dorset, England

APOPHATIC SAGE

God is something
but something is not God,
God is as nothing
though nothing is not God,
God is the ultimate
limit of perception,
— faith is the love of this,
love of this mystery:

Belief is to cleave
to what you preconceive,
having circumscribed the prize
it is that which you idolise!
Such deception may promise bliss
but God, will not, be this.

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

Roy Austin
troya@onetel.com

UNTITLED

the squeak of the bocce roller
in the fog
in the mist
blessings given
and blessings taken
cigars and Italian old men
gathering together
talking and reminding
of ancient feuds and
ancient ways

children given
children taken
some to drugs
some to the sea
some to war
but many giving
in the ancient way

grand children and
great grand children

the squeak of the bocce roller

Stephen Brown
SteveArtis@aol.com