Letter Box -- Newsletter #31
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Thoughts on Creativity #31 |
San Antonio, TX
MY COUSIN, MY FRIEND
Shirley Smalley Price
A blond, tousled headed boy dashing around and through the yard
Was my special friend, chum, and when playing games, the avant-garde.
We climbed huge fig trees at Grandmother's house, and it was so neat
Playing you Tarzan, me Jane made our playtime and life complete.
The early teenage years flew by and we went our separate ways.
We both moved to the same neighborhood, spending more pleasant days.
You went by bus to one school, and I went to a different one
With chores and milking a cow each day didn't leave much time for fun.
Your sweet Mother was my special aunt, a treasure to behold.
She was loving and kind and her heart was made of purest gold.
She would go rabbit hunting out in the sand dunes with her gun,
She loved to camp out in Lytle Creek with her dog and her son.
Yes, this little blond boy, so mischievous was you, my dear Don.
Your artistic creativity was a phenomenon
That rivaled my mind, boggled my brain and left me in sheer awe
For you not only could paint, but used logs, rocks and words to draw.
Always there when I needed a shoulder upon which to cry,
You gave me help with my problems, and you never asked me why.
What a kind and loving cousin you were to me way back then
And now with your Creative Edge, you're like a breath of oxygen.
May I once again tell you how proud I am of what you are?
You help so many people to find a footing and a star,
With your caring articles, poems, and comments along the way
And here you are again being there for others, come what may.
We were lying in bed and my Granddaughter couldn't get to sleep and suggested we write poems. Then she told me this one she had written before. (She is 6 years old and will be in the first grade in September, 1999.)
A NIGHT SONG
Go to sleep
Close your eyes
Shut your mouth
And dream away!
Colorado Springs, CO
" Remembering" is one of my new poems. It is my gift to the new millennium.
back in time where nothing is new,
messages are so clear
that there is no room
thought in its
In the tongue
you have forgotten.
travel to the future
the training of
between these two points.
is a wheel forever
the question—Who Am I?
Patricia Ann Doneson
A COLD SPRING
I cannot wife you nor can you husband me:
I do not wish to bolster you with flattery
——or argue with you about the household budget,
And you must roam, however much you would profess fidelity,
——no matter whom & what you inevitably destroy.
We were meant for flight together—not earth-bound domesticity.
We camp like gypsies wherever the brightest fire beckons,
——wherever " reasonable work or unreasonable love is offered,"
Quickly putting down roots in impossible terrain:
——the sky-blue air, a crashing waterfall or cliff side crevice,
——a tangled floating green bed of seaweed.
Forever lovers, ever eager for transcendence in ecstasy's trance-dance,
When we sigh and reach for one another in the night,
it is as divers poised to plunge into liquid bliss,
as undertow heaving to birth twenty-foot waves,
as the inbreath of a Vesuvius preparing to spill its fiery guts.
But an ugly Nordic, nay, Arctic wind named Goori,
Feigning weak damsel in distress, has diverted & cooled your fire for me.
Glacial sadness surrounds me—but my release is soon in sight:
My stifled joy will again burst into soaring flight.
When the cold spring storm torrents rush anew,
Someone else will catch my flooding river's spill
And feed upon the abundance I have cast upon its waters.
CAT PAWS AND CAT CLAWS
Aware of Slightest Sound,
Pivoting Ears Search, Seeking Truth.
They Dread the Unknown.
Staring Eyes Cut Through,
Seeking Out Motion Or Change,
What's Next, Claw Or Paw?
Cats See With Their Paws,
Sensing What's Right and What's Wrong,
Claws Slash to the Truth.
Carmel Valley, CA
From the reaches
Of the universe
The crimson leaves
In search of
Pacific Grove, CA
WHILE WE WERE AGING
Days and months and years speed by
We don't even notice
We love each other still but less often
While we were aging
Our children grew up and out
We keep on keeping on
Hardly aware we are slowing down
Until one day suddenly we are old
He with his cane and hear-inq aids
Me with my glasses and grey hair
We're still the same two lovers
Who raced up a hill laughed our joy
Found castles in the cloudy sky
Clung together fiercely
Our dreams didn't die
They just grew old.
San Jose, CA
Lead me into your studio
and set up the easel.
Show me the path that transforms
the empty canvas.
Place the brush in my palm
and teach my awkward flesh
the rhythms of colors.
Pour rivers through my fingertips,
a violet sky, the foam of the sea.
Show my hands how to speak
the language without words:
the flutter of an angel's wings,
the song of bells in the air.
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 either the new Letter Box On-line or regular hard copy version. I look for work and comments I feel support understanding and encouragement of the creative process, and hence, the process of life.
Submit your name, city and state with your works to Donald@creative-edge.org for publication. I also encourage you to approve adding your E-mail address. Submit images in 72dpi GIF or TIFF format.
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Thoughts on Creativity #31 |