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Letter Box On Line (LBOL) Files #45

  • Section A: July 15, 2017
  • Section B: .................................................................. August 15, 2017

    Del Rey Oaks, CA


      As the warm yellow light
      of evening
      fills the hallway of my life
      lighting the quaking aspen
      that grow there
      shadows flit in the groves
      passing before my eyes

    Stephen Brown

    Tucsan, AZ


      After several inches
      Of Summer's monsoon rains
      Fresh bloom of green growth
      Springs across the desert floor
      And up the desert mountainsides

      Flowers stab the eye
      Cacti expanding with precious water
      The monsoon clouds above
      A grey mass
      Of flash-flooding peril
      Covering the sky

      Water puddles swallow up baked earth
      And swarm with mosquitoes
      Dragonflies flittering above

      Spade foot frogs freed by the water
      Dig out of their underground tombs
      Animating after their hibernation
      Like life rehydrated after a space flight
      To a distant star's planet

      The froggy lovers
      Lay and inseminate eggs in the water
      Then adults in a matter of days
      Racing the water sucking sun

      The full grown young
      Dig themselves
      Into underground suspension of life
      As the monsoon ceases

      Life's assertion
      Waiting for next year's rain

    Chris Lovette

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    Section A: .................................................................. July 15, 2017

    Del Rey Oaks, CA


      I stand above the sun white bed
      looking into the soft.

      Unsure of what will happen
      when dark descends
      into my brain.

      Will bear come out,
      the fight begin,
      some time after three?

      Will the yellow orb
      rise in the east?

      I try once more
      to see if I can levitate
      off of the bed.

      And be right sized.

    Stephen Brown

    Sacramento, CA


      She stood on the landing outside Cottage B-21, her hands clutching the fog kissed railing as she watched me get into my car. Her red-draped shoulders hunched just a little against the misty morning and as I watched she released the metal bars and hugged herself against the chill.

      In a flash I pictured those beloved arms that only moments before had lightly embraced me in a farewell hug—arms whose flesh had loosened from her bones and donned a paper-thin gown of multicolored age spots punctuated by small bruises like black and blue petals scattered by the wind. She was fragile now, unsteady on her feet, and movement through busy shopping malls or crowded grocery aisles always resulted in surprise blooms she never recalled receiving. The hands now tucked protectively around her too thin torso were bent and twisted, fingers determined to go their own way and thumbs so sunken in her palms they were basically useless. And yet . . . and yet . . .

      Only hours before I had sat in the fourth pew under cathedral ceilings and listened to those gnarled hands dance over the pipe organ keyboard in a manner so light and airy my heart lifted like a butterfly to follow her notes. She could barely hold a pen, she couldn't possibly open a reluctant jar, but she could still coax beautiful music from black and white ivory. And those hands, boney as they were, still had the power to send waves of love to my receptive skin when she lightly caressed my cheek as she said goodbye and wished me safe journey.

      As I stood by my car, door already open, suitcase safely stowed, I looked up at her smiling face once more and caught the first of her gently blown kisses. This was her tradition, started ages ago in a time my memory can't reach, first one hand then the other lifted in rhythmic goodbye, delicate kisses sent through the air in motherly blessing. Heart clutching, I send my own volley of love back to her, end with a small wave, slide into my seat and shut the door. Her kisses keep coming, magically following my car even as I pull away, her love slipping into my heart for the long ride home.

    Carol Mathew-Rogers

    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

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