Up-dated December 29, 1996
UPDRAFT
without a flutter
white-tipped wings
ride the
updraft-
joined by spiraling cinders,
once your love
letters
--*--
Harvest Glow
Eye's bountiful harvest of these fleeting days:
horses grazing in the golden autumn haze,
aspens grasping sunset's last red ember glow,
flaming yellow leaves mellowing to soft halos
This land, embracing sun as lover, slowly letting go,
reflecting sunset's fiery passion in cozy afterglow
--*--
The Gift
I have no gift to herald forth
a new born baby King;
Yet what I have I'm told will cause
the Angel Choirs to sing.
No Gold or Frankinsence or Myrrah
with which to celebrate --
But with the gift I give . . . instead
His death I commemorate.
Though wretched is my offered gift --
unworthy for a King . . .
On bended knee . . . before His cross
a yielded soul I bring.
Original Poems by Ron Baron
--*--
tea steeps, warm in hand
disgussion of poems and
prose
writer's bloc meeting
aurora
Updated December 19, 1996
carrousel
Around and around
go the princes and
princesses
mounted on their enameled steeds
sitting primly
on bright colored saddles
hands
clutching
the jeweled bridles
around and around
the twinkling mirrors
of
reflected lights
as mechanical prancing
keeps time to
piped music
the riders unaware
they are going
nowhere
Nancy Ayash
--*--
We've turned into dragons
and flown straight south,
past rivers and streams
and car driving beings,
and afterwards children find our scales
in the gardens.
We're mystical creatures,
and we're still in love,
counting our gifts
on leather-turned-gossamer
jewels of wings.
But these perfect things
make us unhappy
when we sit too still
and think of wings,
because everyone knows
that dragons aren't real.
--*--
Dernier regard
Une fillette blanche se regarde dehors
Son fond de sourire dur ne se regarde pas
Ses doigts cherchent muets à repasser ce pli
Il est creu et meurtri
Son oeil lui donne tord
Elle ne s'entend pas
Elle est et c'est fini
--*--
THOROUGHBRED
You watched me yawn
so now you think you know
me
intimately
and you cross the bar to buy me a
drink
Should I have covered my mouth
or did you in the
counting of my teeth
approve my pedigree
and fall in
love?
--*--
bright colored fruit
cradled in an old straw
basket
rain tapping
on a kitchen window
glorious morning!
Nancy Ayash
--*--
Musings
Is there a point of altitude beyond which there's no sky?
Is there a place somewhere in space where age never says die?
Is there a soft sequestered grove where mysteries are born
and nursed to full complexity before becoming storms?
J. William Bailey
Updated December 5, 1996
--*--
moss-draped live oaks
canopy the stone angel
in the
dripping rain-
I replace
your wilted flowers
--*--
Fish hang from the clouds
Moving through the silver
rushes
Looking for the moon?