“Creativity, as has been said, consists largely of rearranging what we know in order to find out what we do not know. Hence, to think creatively, we must be able to look afresh at what we normally take for granted.”

– George Kneller

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Welcome to our online forum for sharing your creative explorations with the world! Revealing your work is an easy yet powerful way to validate your efforts,
and gives your singular view as a gift to the world.

 

If you are striving to know yourself better, or to connect with others on this journey of discovery, this forum is a valuable way to deepen into the process, especially if you are just starting out on this exploration of self and community. When you share your personal perceptions and listen appreciatively to others, you can gain insight to the eternal forces mirrored in our collective lives and in your own soul. Often these hidden treasures are buried in your images, poems or stories you tell.

We invite you to look for emerging themes from your own or other’s intuitions and creative works. Then, we invite you to comment on how they facilitate your life journey. By posting and responding to posts of others, we all get an important glimpse into life’s unfolding in a much larger way than any one of us can make alone – we also bond together with companionship and support. We particularly invite work which supports understanding and encouragement of the creative process, and hence, the process of life.

CREATIVITY FORUM

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Thank you to all who share their creative expressions!

 

Thanksgiving 2017

The phone rings, not the cell phone, which I keep on the night table near my bed, but the phone, land-line, in the kitchen. I glance at the clock. Seven in the morning on Thanksgiving Day.  My Colorado son, Lance, calls to wish me well, discusses his plans to visit friends for dinner in the mountains above Boulder.  But most of all, he tells me that his Thanksgiving began Tuesday night.  I listen to his description of an impromptu supper put on at his house by his wife.  His family is fairly new to the area, sons five and seven years old.  Two families are invited to this celebration.  One family, next door, affluent, father a pilot, the other family lives in a trailer park about two blocks away. Both have sons who play with the boys.  My son continues, “Jenny, (his wife ) made lasagna from scratch, (“except for the noodles,” he inserts) and a salad and we all shared a meal. As we sat down,  the man from the trailer park spoke, “The boys tell me you say grace before eating.  May I do so?”  My son, glad for the offer.  And Lance continues, “Mom, he said the best prayer, one of gratitude and joy. Then we all ate together and after dinner the boys played and we, the  grownups, talked together as friends”.

With that as my awakening gift, I decide to rise and ready for the dinner I will be sharing with ten at the table this afternoon.  I have all at the ready, with additional items to be brought by guests. The turkey and gravy and stuffing need my main attention.  I will reread the directions for temperature and timing, and with help of a meat thermometer, I expect all will be fine. 

With Lance’s story in my mind, I am well filled with the Thanksgiving spirit. I open the front door to check the morning temperature. On the edge of the welcome mat, a floral offering in a red ceramic flower pot, from Temples of Carmel.  I imagine my Florida son sending an arrangement, as he usually does so around Christmas.  But then it feels more like summer than winter, and I wonder?  When I open the card, I am delighted to find a  greeting from a dear friend who is on vacation, who would have been part of my celebration, were he at home. 

The day glides into a lovely pace of preparing. As guests arrive, I find myself at ease and not at all tired. Elation and gratitude surround me.  Though not everyone knows each other prior to this day, there is instant accord.  Age differences melt and we are for those moments “family.”

The afternoon flows into one smooth happening, on automatic pilot.  We eat our main meal, then some drift to sit outside in the evening warmth as the sun sets, while others stay inside to visit, conversation lively and thoughtful.  Laughter, seasoned at times with a bit of melancholy as we speak of those no longer in this realm.  A holiday that turned out well, sparked by early morning kindnesses sent my way.

Illia Thompson
November 2017

“Paco” Francisco Granados Ferro

“Paco” Francisco Granados Ferro

living in bird land
with St. Veronica
from Granada
spreading pomegranate
knowledge to all
who will listen

about the war
the civil war
before the last
world war
we hope

from the hills of Spain
that lives in pain
across the shore
and out the door
god speed my friend

Stephen Brown

November 2017

 

 

The Darkest Night

Turning on all
Rebellion against rebellion itself
The fire angels
Burned in tallow candles
Enumerating the night

Spells cast
By the Ouija Board
And unheard of
Whispers from beyond
Upthrust
In the nude light

Shells of special consciousness
Pealed
Like evaporating vapors
Plunged into the darkest night

Chris Lovette
October 2017

Holly Pebbling 5-25-80

This is a poem that I wrote when I was separating from Holly’s Mother, and I was interested and impressed with how much she had to survive at the very young age of three or four. My younger daughter Holly lost her husband on October 1, to a motorcycle accident. She asked me to post this poem again.

 

Holly lives amongst the rocks
pebbling
as only Holly can
down this stream
that grows moss between our toes
her pebble feet covered by
granite self
tumbling along the stream
tossed and turned
grey granite self
speckled with
black sparkle life
down the stream
goes
Holly pebble
toward the ocean
sand

Stephen Brown
October 2017

I Quit Playing Myself

Once upon a time
I was a little boy
Who liked lollipops
And Ginger Roses
And now I am old
And it is time to stop.

Even about that, I don’t know
Do I remember what the Ghost
Said to Hamlet?
Am I a straw mouse
In indigo bunting?

Or am I a hummingbird,
Swift upon wings to fly
Farther than the moon,
Uplifted
By the chicanery of time.

Chris Lovette
October 2017

Untitled

The Czech version:

Padl na mne velký smutek,
Jak ten život rychle utek.

The English version:

I got hit by deeply sad and profound feeling
Seeing last few layers of my life now peeling

Jerry Stepanek
October 2017

They Were Dancing In The Isles In 58

they were dancing
in the isles in 58
during the “Jazz festival.”

then in 67 for the “Pop festival”
for the first “Blues Festival”

now for the
“International Blues festival”

but what is important is
keep on dancin’
like Zorba

to understand it all

Stephen Brown
October 2017

Flax

“FLAX” the label on the back
of the white linen nightgown
full-length, pure-white
three bone buttons along
front neckline opening.

Bought ever-so-many years ago
worn regularly during all seasons
washed and sun-dried, weather permitting.

I loved that nightgown
spacious, sturdy, yet lightweight,
this garment, perfect attire, embraced me
to welcome rest into dreamtime.

Yesterday, I notice a tear.
elongated, irreparable,
along the neckline.

Ceremoniously, almost piously,
I cut the linen into featherweight
squares, rags, transformed
lovingly into their next service.

I fold, touch each small part
recognize its entirety, even
in change, each holds an essence
of its former existence.

Now, resting in a drawer
next to more sturdy kitchen towels
these servants, recall former use,
nestle comfortably into their companions

Today, I write in appreciation
of warmth afforded me in the past,
the intimacy of shared sleep
in the comfort of white linen
fostering well-cradled dreamtime.

A new nightgown, my companion.
pale satin sheen, holds me well
and likely will for many years.
Maybe for all those nights remaining.

Until I transform into another realm
leave my words as well-worn threads
of comfort for those who held me
during their reveries.

Illia Thompson
March 2017

Monstrance

Monstrance is an altar dedicated to the Great Mother in all her aspects.
The image shown is a detail, about 20″X15″ of a sculpture that is nearly 7′ tall, 3′ wide, 2′ deep. The whole piece weighs about 300 lbs.

 

[Sculpture]

John Dotson
March 2017

 

Repose

Your head in the blue sky
your feet in the blue lake
your back at rest against your pack.

You are a mountain
of food for two ants
crawling up your arms.

You are an invisible speck
for the juniper Pine
clinging to the top of the granite cliff.

You feel the cool presences
of ants, lake, pines and cliff
as a single white cloud casts a shadow.

Your own presence
among this plentitude
quite natural and unremarkable.

Franz Spickhoff
March 2017

February, 1981

the lacy curtains sheer and patterned
sometimes rippled outward on
a breath of the sky
through the open window
to the moon high in the branches
of a black leafless silhouette
against a black sky

the little hope of flesh had passed
our bed was quiet
my lover lay asleep
I left the bed
left the room through the curtained window
the curtain kissed my naked flesh once more
I climbed the leafless tree
and watched and watched the sky
until with bright and splashing tears
the moon began to cry.

Chris Lovette
March 2017

Untitled

Past fifty it’s hard to find new sacrificial victims to blame for ones unhappiness. All these years I’ve been waiting for the soulful perfection of others to appear like a magical key and unlock my heart. Then I would be filled with loving-kindness; it would roll in like fog, without effort.

 

Every day I wake up, and I crawl out of bed,
Waiting for love to make its way
Through the war zone in my head.

Every day I turn away from the glass
where an old woman sits frowning
as wind blasts pages from her calendar.

Every day I wait for the parole board
To decide I no longer need
Solitary confinement.

Every night I stare out into dreams
Ready to fly if only
I could find my hands.

Helene Constant
March 2017

Love Is Not A Word

Love is not a word
in search of a definition

Not a matter of grammatology
font style effects

My fingers touch your skin
and the heat transfers

The deeper lava flows
hot as your beating heart

Back and forth I descend
into the wants of your eyes

I feel the rise and fall of your breath
as tears surge out of my face

For each shattered occasion
I missed out on your embrace

And today it is all but too late
and it is never too late

for one more morning alive
for the bliss of the unexpected

Sunbeams ignite the windowpane
Dewdrops like supernovae explode

Holy chaos licks the edges
of this page as I scroll down

There are no ordinary days

Love is not a word

 

John Dotson
February 2017

Big Sur

A few miles up from the ocean reached by truck on rugged road
lined with pale pink buckwheat,
and ruby lit Indian Paintbrush,
I sit by an old wooden cabin
feel sun’s beginning seduction.

Rays closer than usual
probe my skin,
alert my blood to its glory.
An easy surrender.
Myself warmed.
The sun loves its loving.

Soon heat becomes too strong.
I seek overhanging shelter
bask in slanted shade
to slake arising passion.

On the downward return,
I notice small golden poppies
strong enough to nod at wind,
tie themselves to the earth
before sundown closes their petals.

Illia Thompson
Carmel Valley, CA
February 2017

Untitled

He is smiling sweetly
Talking about his wise love for his sons
And his best friend.

He glances at my neck,
At the crease between my breasts.
Then he looks again.

There is a small scratch on his brown, furry forearm
It’s winking at me.

He has taken my hands
As I speak of the death of my loved friend.
His eyes tear as mine do.

He says I’m pretty.
He wants me to enjoy dessert,
As if I’m a woman who should eat dessert.

And I wonder how late he could stay in the morning.

 

Jaymee Kjelland
February 2017

I Am A Spy

I am a spy in the house of me. I live in disguise, my metaphoric black fedora slanted across my forehead, my belted trench coat flapping wide as I stride with purpose through dark and stormy nights. Though the streetlamps cast weak spotlights all around me, the black gloom successfully hides the parts of me for which I search.

Before, when I was younger, I avoided this work, not wanting to admit there were cave-like places of deception and fear where drunken addicts and scarred felons allowed what little joy they had left in their dank lives to wither into smoke like the endless cigarettes that burned their stained fingers.

Before, when I was younger, I followed only the lure of the light, believing that happiness only sprang from cool clear water whose shining surface reflected a multitude of sparkling gems. I would reach with sure hands under the surface only when I knew for certain that what would emerge gripped in my dripping palm would be a characteristic worthy of a storybook princess: kindheartedness or generosity or maybe even serenity and peace.

Now that I am older, though, I have felt the urgent need to walk the hidden streets that zig-zag across the map of my life. I shove my feet into scarred shit-kicker boots, grab my hefty police-issue flashlight and head into the unknown as often as I can. I am scared when I do this, I have to admit, but it doesn’t show in the determined set of my jaw or the swagger I pretend as I begin my journey inward. No, I am scared each time because there are so many unforeseen sinkholes and bones of broken dreams that can trip me up and slow me down, and I never know which one will flatten my spirit the way young boys gleefully squash snails and slugs on sunny sidewalks.

I only know that if I don’t go on this quest, if I don’t purposefully turn down dark alleys and rustle through the rusted garbage bins of my basic assumptions that I can never really understand or appreciate this gift of my life. I have to sneak up on myself, take surreptitious pictures of my falsehoods and foibles because otherwise I’d never admit to anything other than sweetness and light. Yes, I am a spy in my own house because I am the only one who can save me.

Carol Mathew-Rogers
February 2017

Two Haiku

HAIKU 99,000

it was all very
simple until it
got complicated

UNTITLED

Who am I
That death doesn’t desert me
But waits patiently
At my doorstep?

Chris Lovette
Tucsan, AZ
February 2017

Pietersite’s Omen

[Stone face]

The burning rubble tumbles from the ridge
To valley floors where water once ran clear,
Illuminates a long sustaining bridge
Whose last passage across is growing near.

The omens of an elemental force
Hint toward a shift of global reaching range,
With power to disrupt the current course
And clear space for a fundamental change.

Combustible mythologies collide
With embers of a disillusioned dream.
Cool waters that confront the fiery slide
Transform a stream into creative steam.

The flow may not prevent destruction, now,
But carries reconstructive plans in tow.

Laura Carley
Salinas, CA
February 2017

Prism Feelings

When the purple sun is standing
complete against the sky

A glowing white crane starts its flight line
for all mankind to see

Working for a new beginning
holding to the virgin light

Raising flight is gained the prism
giving us the cryptic sight

Emotions feeling
thoughts in crystal

Sainted waves will touch the wall
glancing up toward the light stone

The prism feeling stands alone

Stephen Brown
Del Rey Oaks, CA
February 2017

Tucson Veteran’s Hospital, 2016

The roses bloom
in the Spring

In the court yard
full of blooming roses
A blind soldier
talks to me

About going back
to Wyoming tomorrow

Where the ice

Off the ponds

We no longer need
is now melting
Off the ponds

We no longer need
to break through the ice
To water our horses

Chris Lovette
Tucsan, AZ
January 2107

Scorched Brown Black

The scorched brown black
earth telling cinder tales
of just passed fire storms

Lining the road
to the Monastery
at Tassajara.

In the mountains of the Salinian’s
near the sacred spring
of another tribe

The Buddha chants
the Bells ring.

The stones of the walls
wait on their journey

To the beach sand
by the sea. . .

Stephen Brown
Del Rey Oaks, CA
January 2017

Environmental Services Truck #6110

“Brush and Bulky Pickup”
It says in a two by eight foot decal
On the side of the truck.
A crew of six inmates
Two drivers
And a deputy sheriff overseer
Load the camps’ debris into the back of the truck
Into the compactor that leads
Into the belly of the truck

The paloverde trees are blooming yellow
With lacy leafy tendrils falling from the branches
The mesquites stand silently

Denise and Gary abandoned their camp
And Vinnie his not long after
But Debby and Ron are here
To rescue a carload
Of what fits into my car
And watch the rest
Including the huge tent
Go into the belly of the truck

Chris Lovette
Tucsan, AZ

May 2017

The Tight Rope Walker

The heights can be dizzying
Balancing
On seeing feet
Light and airy

Or losing control
The walk
No longer sustainable
The fall
Inevitable

And falling
An eternity
Wondering
Will the safety net hold?

Chris Lovette
Tucsan, AZ
Sept 2017

Rattlesnake

We kept the baby rattlesnake
In an aquarium
In the homemade bookshelf
Made of cinder blocks and wood planks

The baby rattlesnake learned
How to crawl up the side of the aquarium
And to get out
And to hide
In one of the holes in the cinder blocks
That held up the bookshelves

We were always careful
When we went to get a book
Out of those bookshelves

Chris Lovette
Tucsan, AZ
2017

Grand Canyon

when you approach the lookout
packed tight with people
their hands stretched to heaven
they hold small boxes
they briefly look at them
to rise them again and again
fracking the Grand Canyon
into small fragments
to be deconstructed
into a fuzzy memory
of the magnificent space
you and I cannot hold
because the human eye
blessed and condemned by evolution
cannot see entirety

Franz Spickhoff
San Jose, CA
Sept 2017

Untitled

The rich plasma of space and time
flows in infinite waves
through out the cosmos
within no bounds.

On the circle with no beginning
or end.

The storms from the south
brought lightning bolt
the swords of Mars
God of War.

Into the peaceful night.

Good or evil
sad or loving
we cannot know.

Caught in the infinite loop
around and around.

Over and under like the sign for Infinity.

Stephen Brown
Del Rey Oaks, CA
Sept 2017

Untitled

Crow struts
along the road
hop bopping
as crows will do
on the ground
head bobbing
the yellow
brown mountains
begin to once again
appear from out of the dark
head up
morsel searching
telling the trees
that the time has come
to shed the night
cast off the dark
so the twitter creatures
can begin to talk

Stephen Brown
Del Rey Oaks, CA
June 2017

Untitled

Preamble:
Small tremors of love ignite feelings so fresh
decades of living melt into a clear pond
where, upon reflection among ripples
created by thoughts, your life clearly viewed
becomes you.

Lately, my love becomes as though arrow-born,
soars straight, stops at appropriate landing, announces itself,
and returns to its quiver, ready to be dispatched again.
These moments arrive at random, unbidden friends
calling, some frequent visitors, others long ago
messengers enhance my joy of being.
And I wonder, when did I first know love?
Was it when a wet-nurse gave to drink?
When my father held me in the palm of his hand?
When my mother knit while the click of wooden needles
matched well the beat of my small heart?
My children, conceived under the canopy of caring.
I harbor deep love beyond any, for these offsprings
who know how to dance among the tremors of my love.
How can I not love nature? Ever-present beauty calls to me.
Be it mountain or ocean sent, or the path of bee or hummingbird
ever so easily swirling among temporarily perfect blooms.
And I cannot forget those people, who reveal thoughts with ease,
know how to listen with attention laced with trusting caring
to create an intimacy where all involved flourish.
And those tremors of love from beyond, without warning
arrive with superb swiftness to mate with my love within
to create more of splendid, easily shared euphoria.
With Father’s Day nearing, I recall my father’s love
so fully given to each of his three daughters
as each one knew he loved her best!
Sometimes, my father will arrive from beyond,
visit briefly as my need arises and I will sense the scent of his pipe
and touch of his wool sport jacket to know I am tended from afar.
My life does not feel brief. My days add up to many
and when they are spent, I imagine small tremors of love
will be found bouncing about those whom I loved.

Illia Thompson
Carmel Valley, CA
June 2017

 

Music of Love

I used to sprawl in the last pew of the church, the one closest to the double doors at the back of the room, the escape route denied to me during those long practice sessions. In this Methodist edifice, there were long cushions of dark green velvet whose dusty yet comforting softness would cradle me as I lay on my back, one leg hiked across the other knee, or on my sides, legs tucked up, shoes kicked to the floor, the inevitable book held reverently before my youthful face.

Sometimes beams of bright sunlight would shaft into the space, and I would be distracted by the dancing motes and their swirling whirlpools. Sometimes my book would slowly sink to my chest while I gazed at backlit stained glass windows whose stories would come to life so that I too felt the spread of my angel wings or sat stroking soft lamb wool while sitting at the feet of that glowing figure in the white robe.

Sometimes I even tuned in to the music soaring through the cathedral rafters—ethereal notes light as air, pounding marches a call to action, familiar refrains of hymns shared year after year after year. I could identify the padded strike of the organ foot pedals, the thump and scrape as levers were pushed and pulled, the quick flip and crackle as a page was turned—these were the orchestra of my mother’s music.

She would sit on that polished bench, both hands flying across the two tiers of black and white keys, leaning forward or rocking back as the notes dictated, her feet moving independently over the pedals in a dance both beautiful and mystifying to a young girl with no musical talent of her own. The rows of copper pipes standing shoulder to shoulder above the ancient organ would sing their throaty songs, filling the air with a blanket of sound that became the backdrop of my youth.

At that time I often squirmed with the unfairness of being forced to stay there while she practiced, but I know now that those moments of soaring music and imaginative journeys were precious pages written in my story of family love.

Carol Mathew-Rogers
Fair Oaks, CA
June 2017

Pentecost Veil, Antechamber

The deep background for this structure is my childhood in upper eastern Tennessee. There was a door there, and the door is still there. I can freely walk through this door no matter where I am on Earth, no matter how old I am, no matter what drama is unfolding. Through this door, past, present, and future form a threshold—which I can pass through facing one way, let’s say an Alpha direction, or facing the other way, let’s say, an Omega direction. As I continue this life journey through time, and yet free of time, I experience this doorway as a veil comprised of many veils—and one veil. Born in the Milky Way, we all may say. . .
The [Pentecost veil] is one component in a larger installation titled [Antechamber]. Veil is 51” x 26” x 3.5.” Antechamber is 77” x 34” x 23.”

John Dotson
Carmel, CA
June 2017

Through the Universe

Spring will arrive again
as it always has
before and after
then and now.
The scent of it
lain in the mind.
Blossoms poking their heads
above the snow.
Whiteness reflecting color
to the edge of time.
Through halls of memory
down the cascade
of time long gone.
Past the hellish
fire bound sites
that float on the surface
then disappear.
Rolling on and on
grinding the granite
rocks to sand.
Standing at an angle
to the sun.
Watching shadows
on the moon.
The pain.
of others
flicker images.
The journey wanders on.
All of the gods
from all of the lands
have settled into above.
The shallow plain
that protects this earth
holds us all
under a blanket of air
By now we had
witnessed it
from afar.
On our way to the moon.
Yet cannot believe how small we are
The un-nameable force
that put this rocky globe
right where it is . . .
A hurtling mass
bound through the universe
. . . to who knows where?

Stephen Brown
Del Rey Oaks, CA
May 2017

Apache Tears

Did you ever see them?
Little orbs of obsidian
Grape sized
Someone dubbed them Apache Tears
You used to find them
At many volcanic sites around the Southwest
Molten glass blown skyward
Falling back as Apache Tears
Luz lays in bed at her son’s
Hooked up to oxygen for her asthma
Blood pressure pills every day
She lies thin and yellow as old paper
She is alone all day
While her son works
Until he comes home to watch television
Her husband was an Apache too
A Marine veteran of World War Two
Older than she and long gone too
Luz hangs on to her life’s thin thread
Perhaps because she is Apache
Perhaps because she is human

Chris Lovette
Tucson, AZ
May 2017

Grief Interrupted

How dare the sun shine today
so brilliant and bright
filling her chair with shimmering light.
How dare the mockingbird mock
your sadness about her absence
filling silent space with ecstatic song.
How dare five dying sunflowers beam
across this dark space
edging darkness with glowing gold.
When hungry you eat
when thirsty you drink
when sleepy you sleep
breathing in breathing out
so marvelous so mundane.

Franz Spickhoff
San Jose, CA
May 2017

Normal

We live in the light. Mostly.
Our home is a village
Perhaps a city.
Our bodies encased in fabric
Smooth glass against our fingertips
Waxy balm on our lips.
We know that we are not
The whole world.
Although this thought only
Comes to us sporadically.
Looking up from the
Garbage can at night
The stars speak to us.
Crushing a spider
We feel that much safer.
We know the deer at the
Edge of the woods must pass
A watchful night.
And fishes glide under
Tons of salty water
Even darker before the
Sun rises.
We are outnumbered
By birds
Less organized
Than bees or ants.
Yet our village, our mirrors
Are the world to us.
Our voices, our songs
Fill the silence
That we never hear.
Our tongues, our throats
Touch the animals that
We tell ourselves that we are not.
The wild place always
Outside, away, apart.
Within we are
Tamed, surrounded
Separated.
Under the glow
Of our many lamps.

David Chase
Sacramento, CA
May 2017

Coming to the Edge

Coming to the edge
where it is foggy to the ground
but warm.
On the table in the kitchen
is a compass.
Can it point the way?
It has been there for months
since we returned
to worship the sun once more.
Will it point the way?

Stephen Brown
Del Rey Oaks, CA
April 2017

Vigil

And many a night
The Knight would rise from his chamber
To stare in to the Void
Yet discerning no thing
A three a m train
Blows its horn
On the main line
South to the Pacific Coast of Mexico
The rolling stock pounds the rails
Sending its tune a mile away
And the whistle blows again
Past the sleepers on the Mexican side of town
The belly must be fed
Apple sauce and pita bread
There is no delicacy here
Just hanging folds of fat

Chris Lovette
Tucsan, AZ
April 2017

Two Worlds

We live in a new world.
A daily fill of images,
reading magazines,
surrounded by ads.
A weekly dose of spectacles.
Select a TV show.
Go to Disneyland.
You feel free and in control.
Still there is this bitter taste.
We come from an older world
where images are etched
by wind and water
where spectacles are staged
by light and thunder.
Signs of flash floods tell you,
manging boulders remind you
the shadow behind you whispers
“You are not in control.”
The taste of ancient memories.
When you enter this world
you adapt to its rhythm
you submit when you must.
Except for your pace
your food and your shelter
you control nothing.
Soon the bitter taste is gone.

Franz Spickhoff
San Jose, CA
Escalante Canyon
April 2017

The Shiny Silver Shoe

This poem is a bit old, I was walking by the Monterey Library and saw this little plastic shoe with all kinds of bling on it laying in the gutter. I am sending it because I am, to paraphrase a Greek Fisherman, “I am fillered up with politics!”

THE SHINY SILVER SHOE
September 6, 2007- 1:57 pm

the shiny silver shoe
lost its little girl
decided to sit down
in the gutter
by the library
to figure it out
what to do
laying in the litter
beside the road
far from home
and the little girl
with a fancy dress
that always made
the two
look so nice
at the parties
with friends
playing pin the tail
on the donkey
and laughing
drinking cool aid
till it came out of their noses
oh little shoe
I hope you find
your little girl
and dance away
till a new dawn

Stephen Brown
Del Rey Oaks, CA
March 2017

Haiku 99,000

it was all very
simple until it
got complicated

Chris Lovette
Tucsan, AZ

 

Who Am I?

Who am I
That death doesn’t desert me
But waits patiently
At my doorstep?

Chris Lovette
Tucsan, AZ

 

 

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