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Letter Box On Line (LBOL) Files #2

  • Section C: September 16.
  • Section B: August 16.
  • Section A: July 16.
  • Section D: .................................................................. October 15, 1996

    Knoxville, TN

    I'm 13 and live near Knoxville, Tennessee. I liked lamp shades my parents got when they bought new lamps. I had to think of what to use them for or my parents would throw them away. I glued the tops together. Then I cut a piece of cardboard the same size as the bottom. After that I covered the cardboard with a piece of newspaper. Finally I glued the cardboard to the bottom of the shades (the biggest opening is the bottom). Wala -- I have a sturdy table for my room. I also made chairs out of my newspaper collection. One chair is 11 pounds and the other is 13 pounds.

    I also made art work. Our little keyboard wouldn't work no matter what we did. So I took it apart and put it on a board then put it on the wall. I make picture frames out of cardboard. It is fun and good for recycling. I decorate my room with my one of a kind work. No two pieces are alike.

    George M Dabney

    Salt Lake City, UT


      Why is it that
      I can race around
      the world
      running fast
      and far
      only when I slow down
      the self catch up
      and mock
      where I have come from
      chasing away
      where I thought I was going

      Why do all my fears
      come out as regrets
      while growth becomes
      in clay dry soil
      unable to move
      to reach
      to live?

      Why do all my
      seem like mistakes
      when Pain is supposed
      to transform
      and lift
      from despair?

      How do we change the
      of the thought
      that claims our feeling
      as we dance
      over and back
      from the threshold
      we thought
      we'd crossed for good?

    Ingrid Middleton

    Perth, Australia

    I have just got back some new work that I handed in for the proposal of the anthology I am working on. I thought you might like some.


      your words
      like knives
      in between my ribs
      fold me from
      the inside
      i fall
      a slow stretch
      on my knees
      to you my eyes
      nothing more
      than a space
      two lids


      i wanted
      to die
      to be
      taken away
      tired fingers
      can no longer
      hold the masks
      and strings
      my temples
      can only rub
      at my eyes
      turning for
      that silent
      endless be.

    Wednesday Geddes
    eenderburyv@alpha1.curtin.edu.au (c/o Vincent Enderbury)

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    Section C: .................................................................. September 16, 1996

    Salt Lake City, UT


      Scared of my own
      and power

      All things
      that should be inside


      but outward
      A Lone Ness
      that won't relinquish
      its grip
      on my soul

      So I stay behind
      afraid to cross
      the border
      the juncture
      the edge

      and vastness
      so unlike
      the threshold
      once of light
      and of hope.

    The power I speak of is this direct communion with the Universe... sometimes it wants so much of me that I try to push it away... I don't want to do all these things at once and yet when I have no way to ground myself... I find myself in turmoil.

    The way I write anything that means something to me evolves in this way... I see images... usually large, vast pictures of something in nature... sometimes simply darkness that comes alive when a star twinkles or a memory comes in... Being very visual, I struggle mostly with having so many of these occur at once that I hardly can manage them... so I (have) attempted to numb them altogether

    Now, realizing... this no longer improves me or my prospects in life... I am trying to be responsible first... find a job... safety... and let creativity come in on particular intervals... or whenever I feel that vastness approaching... The fears are generally at night... and they involve many recreated aspects of my childhood... Nothing I can fix... so I simply accept it and try to get through as best as I can.


      I grew up
      on the south side of town
      growing a different garden
      from those in the north
      hoping my flowers
      would still
      the same

      But the grass
      sprung forth questions
      weeds never the same
      and my gardens grew
      i still ask
      but glad for the reason

    Ingrid Middleton

    Perth, Australia

    I write with new poems...


      When i hear that song
      the one that starts
      and turns
      and turns
      in the air
      and over back
      over back over
      to the part where
      i see you and i
      and turning
      standing in the air
      and over back
      over back over
      everyone feeling
      something even if
      it's nothing.

    "A Thank You" was written about a person I know to whom I gave a present. I was proud of the achievements this friend has made lately, and wanted to let him know... I guess I was writing about the spaces in between what it is people say, and what it is they really want to, but for reasons don't.


      Last night when
      you stepped into
      the space between us
      i felt the sting
      of perfunctory
      on my cheek
      from your lips
      without concern,
      that indifferent
      routine of others
      of any and all
      except of you and i
      but you did it

    Wednesday Geddes
    eenderburyv@alpha1.curtin.edu.au (c/o Vincent Enderbury)

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    Section B: .................................................................. August 16, 1996

    Perth, Australia


      i went to visit
      to see that you
      were still real
      and driving home
      i remembered that
      again i forgot
      to say all of
      those words that
      your eyes seem to
      silence... to tell you
      all that is within me
      when i am you
      is so good
      that i forget

    Wednesday Geddes
    eenderburyv@alpha1.curtin.edu.au (c/o Vincent Enderbury)

    Montreal, Canada

    I'd like to share my thougts ( for they are more thought than poetry) with all that will read it...
    I hope you do enjoy!


      Yesterday was spontanious and misguided
      by lures of evil and disturbed lusts,
      Yet completed with the desire to commence new projects,
      only to wish for, an hour in the sun.

      Today can only stimulate melancholy;
      the expectations to grieve can be so abundant,
      that in turn being swallowed by the moaning,
      is... inevitable.

      Tomorrow brings hope and the revitlalization
      of... spirit.
      Withdrawl of all harm and threat.
      though only knowledge of a paradox
      reoccurs continually and leaves a last simplistic thought,

      ----- ----- ----- ----- where will I be tomorrow?

    Brenna Levin-Moscovitch

    Carmel Valley, CA

    Does this rate at 10?


      blue and white waves
      tumble forth full-form
      worthy of Olympic Gold
      reward for centuries
      of unfailing practice

      No need to travel
      to Atlanta site
      to view the push
      towards precision
      as athletes strive
      almost beyond endurance
      to performs feats that stretch
      to depths of pain

      Just watching
      willows bow in
      sturdy breeze
      ... noticing
      wind-sculpted cypress
      point the way
      ... glimpsing
      a fluorescent hummingbird
      balance on pale air
      ... satisfies the need to
      witness perfection

      I award a full ten
      to a deer nuzzling
      her velvet fawn...
      a perfect score to
      the strong crescendo
      of a red-orange sunset
      ... find quiet melodies
      that arise to honor the day
      as potent as an Olympic Anthem

    Illia Thompson

    Santa Cruz, CA


      I am a seed.
      I travel with the wind
      aimlessly, forlorn
      it matters not where
      I land.
      I belong to the
      therefore, I'm never lost,
      never, not at home.
      I sprout and resprout.
      You can find me in the
      narrows, or on a butte,
      in the city, on the prairie.
      I am everywhere, always.
      I land softly and settle
      into the earth, into you,
      to sprout new life...


      Listen, not with the ears.
      Listen intently,
      not with the eyes,
      listen with the soul.
      Let the messages sink in.


      Saw a leaf spinning
      around and round
      a pentagon,
      a bright-orangish-yellow,
      brittle cadaver.
      Time passes, leaves
      die, too.

      A POEM

      A poem
      lingers off of my tongue
      it's a luscious one
      dripping, moist
      sounds waiting to
      burst forth, buds
      hoping to sprout
      a reaching for the light
      another moment of birth
      My life does this often
      a metamorphic cataclysmic
      epiphany... I love the way
      that they shoot across my sky.

    Joel M. Olinger

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    Section A: .................................................................. July 16, 1996


    (Reference: Thoughts on Creativity #23) Yes, I am also positive to what we can do with the Internet. It is more a question of connecting human resources than spreading recipes of carbombs, or satanic verses as the opposers of this "new" MEDIA of communication try to convince the souls that have not yet been informed.

    Art in Cyberspace can be a step to beautiful matters that I believe are somewhat more greater than we can imagine. In the present the future will be what we make of it!!

    Oscar Noslund
    publik@msb.malmo.se (Publik-public user)

    Fishkill, NY


      Tense the little muscles that
      pour over shedding locks of
      undisturbed hair and
      pure and bright are the
      vast energies that rise
      to a setting sun
      at days start,
      at days end.

      Burnt magenta
      drawn like lips in silence.
      Wilderness, desert, depth,
      a whole canvas of world shed to
      an eternity and coined
      to a calendar finishing month.

      And cold,
      cold the sharp porcelain of Winter
      bluff and crags of
      unfinished... months

      before Springs' navel rings to count its
      rinse of tears on stone and
      marauding ephesias twitch indolence in the
      eyes of sudden..Life

      fierce your almost
      tangible bliss of
      softly spoken words.


      Stave no piety, no rhythm, no rhyme,
      (you are),

      corrugated wet dream,
      bittersweet anemone,
      foreskins primped on battled sheepskin...
      barish lover, soil and dream,
      (you are),

      scattered flesh-dark cilia,
      cabals blood born breast on high ,
      suckled Yahweh, Kalki, Gilgamesh.
      (you are)

      Sum the Nile with Nil,
      eat up the years of
      Season run-up ash,
      exhume the beds of your
      flower children, subaqueous
      listeners, and
      kiss and tell me!
      where the wild-haired monoliths
      tribute your fancy.
      Plait no
      locket, no pillar, no plaque
      bronze nothing but
      exhume, exhume, exhume...
      (you are),
      disarray, disarray, disarray...
      (you are),

      Philos, toxin, mender,
      Heron's seminal embrace,
      too much, enough, and never
      (you are)
      field broad opened spectrum
      forest, desert, ocean, sky,
      (you are)
      forever what
      a moment is to --
      (you are --)


      Tour of force is a breeze
      lifting the gauze
      of wound cooled by contraband.
      And wars' never;
      and peace never,
      makes mirth or

      sense the ground
      rising up in jump
      bleating out these
      mournful skies over
      hop-scotch fields,
      quilted daisies,
      blown crazy eights.

      And hope's never;
      and dreams never...
      Circummure poles,

      spill out from tight
      circling currents of
      desperate mass.

      Canvas of flesh,
      sphere of illusion and
      lilly and cholera and laughter and bedlam,
      ever-thickening yoke
      hold me.

      And lifes' never;
      and loves' never...

    David Hunter Sutherland

    Salt Lake City, UT

    >> Director, The Creative Edge: The Way Of The Arts <<

    This sounds like my kind of organization!

      The Beauty of the World
      which is so soon to perish
      has two edges
      one of laughter
      one of anguish
      cuting the heart asunder...

      -- Virginia Woolf

    Ingrid Maria Middleton

    Santa Cruz, CA

    I live just across the bay from you. Though it has been a partly cloudy day on my end of the bay today my mind has been clear. Thanks for the Spring Newsletter. I just arrived back in town recently from four days of hot springs and four days in Yosemite as part of a writing retreat. I would like to send you a few of my most recent poems. If you want to print any of them you have my permission, if not, enjoy them anyway. They come from my soul, the fire that resides in me these days, and the grief that has traveled alongside me for a few decades.


      Beggars arrived in the night, clothed in the shadows
      They moved into the deep, unlit room, unchallenged
      They grappled, in trance, midnight robbers
      A young boy the victim this time

      The night beggars reached to fondle
      to rape, to molest, the trusting boy
      and before the beggars departed, they,
      forced a pact of silence -- no sharing

      Alone again, the young boy lie still
      frozen, in silence, in terror,
      mixed feelings permeated his body
      his soul was wounded, left askew

      From that moment on the wounds
      traveled with him -- the walls
      protected the trama, incarcerated
      the frozen moments -- stymed the boy

      But at time passed the boy grew in,
      many ways... he inflicted pain, and
      he received it... but he continued to grow
      To open his heart, his soul, his wounds

      Days became years, his lifetime occurred,
      the walls began to collapse, the pain
      lessened, his sadness became grief, deep grief,
      and his grief led him to battle; to liberation

      After an ocean of tears, a few ponds of laughter
      the boy became a man, and the wounds
      became the canvas that he painted his masterpiece
      upon, by sharing, by spending museful time alone

      As his heart opened, the healing sprouted
      his courage, his fire, his softness forced
      the night beggars to ride off into the night
      for he had a new life to live...

      YO NO SOY YO!

      I am not I
      I walk beside myself
      I walk with myself
      I look over, I care for myself
      The dark shadow has been with me for so long.
      It has controlled me and others

      I look over and I now see a friend
      A person that feels the wind,
      and at times is the wind.
      The Tuolumne River that passes
      is part of my arteries,
      my pulse, it leads me to "Yo soy."

      Yo no soy yo! No mas!
      Mi vida es ahora! I choose to live,
      to love, to be truth
      If I don't live within, then
      I live without
      I choose to live.

      The woods, the sun, the waterways
      have always been my sanctuaries,
      mi familia.
      I hear you tree, you speak to me as I lean
      against you, you speak of love, of perserverance,
      of deep, deep patience

      Thank you for reminding me of my place in
      our world. Yo soy! It means to breathe,
      to reach out, to share, to be vulnerable, trusting
      The elements, the living organisms that
      surround me now with such passion --
      such reverence allow me to be, Yo soy!


      I am very much like you
      You see, if you look deep
      enough a mirror appears
      a holographic image of
      both of us; all of us.

    Joel M. Olinger

    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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