Friday, September 30, 2005

I Had a Dream

I had a dream of meadows green,
Of lovely, gurgling brooks,
Of picnic treats and chocolate sweets,
Of a land without books.

I had a dream of moonlit trysts,
Of rain-drenched passions wild,
Of soaring high as eagles fly,
Of changes strong and mild.

I had a dream of a cozy nest,
Of little cherubs true,
Of strength of heart to do my part,
Of happy sailing through.

But dreams are dreams and fade away,
Joy, sorrow, name and fame,
The passions dry and cherubs fly,
And nothing stays the same.

There is a place beyond it all,
Where glorious patterns lie,
Dive deep within, and take a spin,
Just open your inward eye.

Let Me Hide

Do not look at me;
I am not worthy.
Let me hide away
In the darkness,
Where I am safe.

This shrunken, shriveled world,
Holds me snug in its embrace
Do not force me to break free.

Here there is no risk,
No dare or challenge,
Here no knocking knees,
No hostile judging eyes
Fixed harsh upon me.

Here in the shadows,
I die little deaths
Of pedestrian paralysis,
Fearing the larger death,
Of living in the Light.

Do not look at me;
I am not worthy.
Let me hide away
In this darkness,
Where I am safe.

Facets of life

thoughts, reflections,
tumultuous, yet intriguing;
ever moving, never stopping;
exhilaration, ecstasy, desires;
despondency and angst;
varied facets of life.

living it up with verve
no matter what, no matter how;
despite odds and adversity;
facing it head-on, i get on
with it somehow.

(c)2005 Gautami S. Tripathy

The Key

The key to the lock
That opens the door
Is hidden from the eye
Only those
With the right combination
Of qualities need apply

Even they will be tested first
Their colors against the sky
If they fly free
Their destiny
Will move them toward the door

The door will not be opened
Despite the gifts they bear
All the wisdom they proclaim
The twisting of their rhymes
Can not turn its latch
That only occurs with time
Once the games and pleas
Have long since ceased
Surrendered to the Light

The Light will reveal
The key
That turns the lock
That opens the door
To the kingdom
That lies within the heart
Its wonders to explore

©2002 Jodi Flesberg Lilly

Thursday, September 29, 2005

While She Lay Dying

By Carol Roach

The world continued as before,
On everyone's mind, the Iraqi war
And the eagle continues to soar
While she lay dying

No time to think of her you see,
There are victims of Katrina and tsunami
The world is in a state of catastrophe
While she lay dying

Husband and children sat around and smoked
Not caring if she were to choke
Taking lightly cancer of the throat
While she lay dying

Where was the respect that she deserved?
From the family she willingly served
Do not rock the boat do not disturb
While she lay dying

Does she feel sadness or dispair?
Does anyone really care?
The world, the family, anyone out there?
While she lay dying

Tuesday, September 27, 2005

Erasmus James & the Galactic Zapp Machine

Chapter One: My Dad’s Weird (Unlike Me)
By DC Green

Three! I was just three mouse clicks away from hacking into Bayfield High’s computer system when…


My bedroom rocked. What was that? Earthquake? World War Three?

A shock wave (or maybe just shock) toppled me out of my computer chair. I almost landed on Fang, my dad’s deaf ferret. Fang hissed and spat.

Then I smelt smoke.

‘Nnnnno!’ I cried. ‘Dad’s blown himself up! Again!’

I rushed to his rescue. Almost. For my earphones were still connected to my stereo, my left foot snagged in the jumble of power cables under my desk, and Fang took out my other leg with a biting crash tackle. I tumbled through my door into the hall, bringing down my chair, stereo and something that made a nasty, tinkling crash.

I looked up. A cloud of smoke rolled down the zigzag hall, shrouding a shadowy figure. Out waddled… a Frankenstein possum. ‘Ack,’ he coughed, and scratched his stitches.

More movement behind. Out lurched… my dad! Splattered with globs of fire-extinguisher foam, his eyebrows smoking, but alive.

Damn him! Why did Dad have to worry me so much? Causing worry was supposed to be my job!
Somewhat mad, I let rip a big Vietnamese rice burp. But my dad didn’t notice, not even when I kicked my guilty door shut. He just swayed and smoked in the hall like a black dog on a hot tin roof, eyes bug-wide open, beard half shaved, the hair on his head part gone, part pointing in every direction (looking for the missing crop circle perhaps). Luckily, when he gets blown up like this, my dad wouldn’t notice if I’d rented out my room to a homeless family (I hadn’t, but there’s a future money-making idea…).

I should point out that my old man normally has only a few kangaroos missing from his brain paddock, by which I mean he’s only partly a mad scientist. He’s actually a pass mark single father and a very clever inventor who’s invented clever inventions like the laser toaster (banned in every state), the wallaby wheelchair (zero sales) and chocolate flavoured toothpaste (his bestseller to date). That’s where I inherited my brains from. (Have I mentioned I’m brilliant yet?)

Yet unlike me, my dad is also somewhat weird. Especially at… normal things. For example, he works very strange and too long hours, sometimes wears his shirts backwards (like now) and, when cooking, has been known to burn water (which explains why we eat a lot of Vietnamese take-away) (which I don’t really mind) (burrrp).

If you think I’m being too critical of my dad, well, I have to be, because I’m the Organised One. It’s hard enough starting high school, topping every science test and preparing to wrestle with puberty, without worrying if my dad is going to blow himself up inventing a fart magnifier at nine in the evening. He just needs to get a faster car and a social life. (If he married Ms Trang from the Vietnamese restaurant on the corner, we could have discount take-aways every day.)

Even more embarrassing, my dad’s way too soft hearted. Every week he comes home from his long walks with yet another run-down, half-dead dog, cat, bat, galah, possum, kangaroo or homeless crazy person he’s scraped off the expressway or retrieved from under the electrical wires. Healthy animals are gross enough, let alone splattered or electrocuted ones.

So our house is too pitiful for me to invite any friends home (don’t believe any other rumour you might hear). The only good thing about Dad being such a softie is that I can almost always con my way (especially if I use goo-goo eyes or guilt him out about my lack of a mother (but that’s another story (and not really his fault (Aren’t brackets fun?))))…


I jolted with surprise as hall fans kicked in, blowing away the smoke.

‘Erasmus!’ My dad focused on me at last.

‘That’s my name,’ I replied, casually waving away my burp fumes. (In case you readers haven’t guessed, I’m also the hero and teller of this story (a story that is 95 % true).) ‘What went boom this time?’

‘Who boom?’ My dad flicked at his burning ear hair. ‘Oh, that boom! Well, I wanted to celebrate, so I decided to light up a cigar. Unfortunately, in my excitement, I failed to notice the build up of methane caused by the close proximity of a certain flatulent camel named Abdul.’

I began to untangle myself. ‘So camel fart gas caused your lab to blow up? Cool!’

‘There was a fire, but I put it out.’ My dad suddenly looked right at me. ‘How’d you get that black eye, Erasmus?’

‘Oh… that?’ I fingered my still-sore cheek. ‘Ah… cricket ball. Hazard of being small and hating cricket, I guess.’

‘Hmm…’ Dad raised one smouldering eyebrow.

I quickly changed the subject. ‘Um, you said you were celebrating something?’

‘Yes!’ My dad jolted back to his happy state. ‘I’ve finally finished it! The Nobel Prize will be ours!’

‘I’m happy for you, Dad,’ I yawned. ‘But I’m busy, um… e-mailing my stockbroker in Singapore.’

‘Your fiendish schemes can wait, Raz. You simply must see my latest invention!’ With a smile almost off his dial, my dad ignored my frown and picked up my roller chair, indicating I should sit. I grumbled, and sat. ‘Let’s roll!’

Dad laughed, scaring the one-eyed cat skulking outside the toilet door.

I sighed and figured I’d better play along. After all, my dad did pay my generous pocket money, and he was pushing me down the zigzag hall at speed, and I did love speed. Plus I didn’t want him to check my room too closely. Besides, he seemed so excited, even I was becoming a bit interested.

‘Eeeeh!’ My dad imitated a car braking as he pulled my chair to a skidding halt. A bandaged puppy slid by, her three legs skittering. We were outside the secret door, beyond which a solar powered escalator led to my dad’s even more secret lab in the basement. Normally, I wasn’t allowed down there (though I had snuck in before (roughly 367 times)).

‘Are you ready, Raz?’ My dad grinned. ‘Ready to see the most amazing invention in the history of inventions?’
I humoured him, and nodded. A willy wagtail with a bandaged wing plonked in my lap. ‘Stupid bird. Poop in someone else’s lap.’ I stood up. ‘Let’s go, Crazy Dad.’

‘Look out,’ he warned.

I ducked, and a ferret in a mini hang-glider cursed past my ear. Crazy Dad grinned even harder and reached out toward his secret door.
Before DC Green became a children's author, he worked for over 20 years as a surf journalist, winning awards for both his fiction and non-fiction. DC's writing credits include: some 2,000 plus articles published in over 60 magazines on every continent except Antarctica; stories included in a dozen anthologies; a commissioned movie script and a graphic novel for adults. He lives on the South Coast of NSW (at Milton-Ulladulla) with one slightly crazy daughter and three very crazy cats.
'Erasmus James & the Galactic Zapp Machine' is the first of a funny fantasy series for 8-108 year olds. The first chapters can be read at his website:

Monday, September 26, 2005


A rainbow
Creating a bridge
From yesterday to tomorrow.
Engagement of memory
And dreams yet to be dreamed.
A spectral flash in time
Sending a post:
The storm is over.

In the distance,
A tree struck by lightning
Offers a bony branch in homage,
Longing for a simpler time
Of symmetry and youth,
Yet polished and stately
In imperfection.

The volume of the past
Fades to naught
As promises of the future
Dart amidst the spectrum of color.

Virginia C. Foley


The rain falls like tear drops
on a hot sunny day.
Falling from my face,
taking a hard fall on the
blacktop street.

Steam rises humidifying
my lungs as
I breathe in and out.
Mist forms droplets
on my eye lashes,
and the sun releases a rainbow.
Sitting on the street corner,
hand in hand,
reminiscing on the past
few weeks.
The challenges we have overcome.
My head in the crest of your shoulder,
eyes gazing forward,
both knowing we can handle
anything that comes our way.

Sunday, September 25, 2005

Memories of Childhood

Mum was the sort of person who devoted her life to her children and home. Although she was active in our communities, her family was her raison d'ĂȘtre. Like many of our Mothers, she will be remembered both for her love and sacrifice and those less than stellar moments which had us screaming that we would never do this to our kids…of course, we did in spite of our resolve.

Mum was an old fashioned person with a stern eye toward manners. We sat down for dinner as a family (all six of us), and these feasts weren't always the most comfortable times. Mum insisted that dinner be a time to learn and practice good manners. Our conversation was keenly censored by our very own Ms. Manners, we were expected to sit up straight, hold our knives and forks correctly, and NEVER giggle. Of course, when kids are told NOT to giggle, what inevitably happens... you guessed it, the guffaws come cascading out like belches in a church service. Many times one or more of us were banished to eat our dinners in our bedrooms because of our distinct lack of civility. In fact, there were times when we "kids" would purposely giggle just so that we could all eat our dinners in our bedrooms together and behave like animals. There were also many fried eggs found under rims of the table when the smell finally bore witness to our disgraceful lack of respect for healthy repasts.

Along with those stern moments, I have warm memories of Mum's home baked cookies waiting for us on the kitchen table when we returned home from school....every single day. I distinctly remember our midnight snacks. We would wait until the house was dark and our parents were asleep, and then we "kids" would shine our flashlights on the hall ceiling in code-like fashion quietly heralding the time to convene in the walk in closet for a secret midnight snack and ghost stories. I'm sure our parents knew about it, but we thought we were being so sneaky. I have equally fond memories of our camp outs. Off we'd go in our woody station wagon to the hills for a week of communing with nature. We packed heavy with our sleeping bags, tents, camping stove, freezer with food, the DOG and fold up chairs. There was gear stacked on top of the car and everywhere a human wasn’t sitting. There were many bathroom stops and games in the car (like think of a word which begins with the letter "Z")...and choruses of "are we there yet," which drove Dad nuts. We particularly loved breakfast with the smell of coffee, bacon, and pancakes and Dad slaving over a hot camping stove. Somehow it all tasted better in the mountains. We'd giggle (seemed to do a lot of that back then), run around, and finally would take one long, uphill hike each day. I was the sissy who had to stop every few feet to eat something, my sister was the one inspired to lead the pack and make it to the top the fastest. When night descended, we sat around the camp fire and chatted and finally it was time for bed. All of us "kids" in one tent; Mum and Dad in another. Again, after dark it was time for ghost stories. We would actually scare one another A LOT. With the pitch dark backdrop of hooting owls, cracking twigs (which were clearly grizzly bears or ax murderers), the wind rushing through the trees, and an occasional wolf howling to the moon...there was many a ghostly night when we were convinced that we wouldn't survive to see the light of day. We became creative with our plot lines and I'm sure put Stephen King to shame. These scary stories backfired on a titillating way.

Holidays were ALWAYS wonderful. Mum and Dad made certain of that. The sweet, sweet scents of cooking and the fire burning brightly, the nuts and nutcracker, merriment and laughter. We didn't have lots of outside people in, but our immediate family gathered as one big happy crew. Moving a lot caused us to be a tight-knit group of revelers and our New Zealand relatives were a faint presence in our lives. Our immediate family was it….and we did make the best of it.I also remember Mum when we were sick. She was a vigilant nurse...and Dr. Otto. He was our family doctor in California who made house calls when we were sick. It seemed to me that he made lots of trips to the Cameron household. I don't know if this happened to any of you, but when I was sick I would feel miserable UNTIL the doctor arrived and then I miraculously healed. It embarrassed Mum no end. I remember all of us being herded off to the hospital to have our tonsils out at the same time, and my brother hemorrhaging that night and me fainting when Mum mentioned "blood." We all healed beautifully, sans tonsils.I remember my sister and I pretending to be one another when our dates came to court; we sure had 'em fooled. My brother's name was Christopher and mine Christina and our friends called both of us "Chris," so the memory of Mum answering the phone and in her English accent asking if the caller wanted the "girl or the boy" brings a smile to my heart. I warmly remember our wonderful dog, Blackie! Always with us wherever we went. I will also never forget the day I fainted when he ate my parakeet!Now that we've grown, we've all gone in vastly different directions and are no longer the close-knit group we once were. My brothers married women who wanted to loosen their ties with our band of gypsies, and my Sister succumbed to depression and ultimately committed suicide. My Father died quite young of Hepatitis C caused by a blood transfusion after open heart surgery, and Mum is chugging along at 90 years old. We still gather at holidays, but the magic is gone. I suppose that magic was childhood and our close knit group of gypsies.

My son and I repeated the Cameron tradition. Now he has grown and married a woman who wants to loosen the ties we had, and his world will take on a life of its own. He and his wife will bring their personal traditions to their family. Life moves on and the generations repeat themselves with memorable accuracy. Now we "kids" sit around the table at holidays and talk about our family tree and trace it back hundreds of years; each generation and each branch having its own happiness and sorrows. The tree remains in tact while the blossoms change with the seasons. Such is the beauty of family.

Christina (Cameron) Daly

Friday, September 23, 2005

Looking at the Taj Mahal from Agra Fort

no one heard the wailing of metal over marble
that afternoon, the masonry of agony
was too persuasive in its percussion
for ears to intrude and decipher its pain.

the worn-out workers, too, seemed unaware
of the plaintive cries the palpitating walls made
as their hands toiled and hammered
at this ashen-faced monument

to imperial anguish.

slow patricide was how the story unfolded
eventually, and the river became a witness
to the slaughtering that took place,
while shaking the earth from his axis

the chasm-like-river had its own version
of what happened, and the crying calligraphies
on the walls simply digressed into poetry
to explain this mournful mausoleum’s demise

into an imperial anecdote.

(C) 2005 Ashish B. Gorde

Note: In his declining years, the Mughal Emperor Shahjehan who built the Taj Mahal in memory of his wife Mumtaz Mahal, was imprisoned in the Agra Fort by his son Aurangzeb. A river separates the Taj Mahal from the Fort, and the deposed Emperor would spend his time watching the construction of the Taj from the place where he was imprisoned. Aurangzeb killed all the other claimants to the throne, which included his brothers among others. Although history is rather cruel on Aurangzeb, nevertheless, I feel, one should commend him for not completely suspending the construction of the Taj when he assumed power. As an emperor, he would have been able to do that but he didn't. However, he did manage to imitate the Taj when he constructed a similar monument in memory of his wife. "Bibi ka Maqbara" in Daulatabad, Central India, pales in comparison to the real McCoy.

Things Change

Things change,
Then change again
That is the nature of things
Feelings grow more fluid and flow
Freely from belly to breast
From throat to eyes
Purifying a moment in time
Long held
Long believed
Now released
Leaving in its wake
A new way
Of seeing,
Of saying,
Of being

Things change,
Then change again
That is the nature of things
We hold on
We hold tight
To the things we think will save us
Things we hope will prove us,
Things that make us other than
Who we were born to be

We are meant
To live and love
At every fork in the road
To open up
To let it go
To trust our heart to know

The things we thought would save us
The things we thought would prove us
The things we thought would make us--
Break us, in the end

Time and tide will show us
Every thing will pass
Love is the truth of who we are
Love is the thing that lasts

Copyright © 2005 Jodi Flesberg Lilly

Thursday, September 22, 2005

Life Undaunted

Crisp contrast and blurry edges,
Black and white and shades of gray,
Colors sharp like well-trimmed hedges,
Will I be mystified today?

Personalities abound,
Skipping, laughing, angry tones,
A missing letter I have found,
And history will not condone.

Stuffing, pushing, store away,
Never to be thought or spent,
Another hazy, vivid day
Shouts out for me and where I went.

(c) 2005 by Jack Huber


I started Creative Writers Network out of a desire for a writers group within which I felt comfortable and could grow as a writer. I longed for a sense of community with others who are similar in temperament, understand the challenges and share the joy I feel for writing, exploring and expressing creativity.

As a member of Ryze I'd joined several writers networks that didn’t really suit me. My inner voice began urging me to create my own network. I was even given the name, Creative Writers Network. The idea seemed so obvious to me. However, my searches revealed nothing close to what I envisioned. Still, I’d never led a network and wasn’t sure I was ready.

One day, I received an email from a friend, expressing the same disenchantment. I mentioned this crazy idea I’d been chasing around for the past few weeks about starting my own network. My idea was met with encouragement and I thought, okay, why not?

Within an hour Creative Writers Network was born. The network sprang to life with dynamic activity. Today nearly 500 talented writers from around the world have joined. We have become a community of friends and kindred spirits who appreciate and find joy in sharing the writing life.

This blog is the latest network development—a showcase for our creative talents. Thank you for visiting. If you like what we’re doing, please spread the word. New entries will be posted several times a week. With our diverse group of writers and styles, you just never know what you’ll find here. Enjoy!