Let us share your scribblings with the world.

Send your Writers Corner submissions to Maureen Dolan, mdolan@cdapress.com.

We prefer e-mail submissions, and we ask that you limit the length of your stories and poems. Please include your hometown with your submission.

You can send hard-copies by mail to Maureen Dolan at The Press, 201 Second St., Coeur d'Alene, Idaho, 83814.

And now, we present more poems, stories and essays written by you, our readers.

ART CRITICS

By Marvin Tyacke

Post Falls

Sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the I-90 freeway, bored of listening to the radio telling him rush hour traffic wouldn't be getting any better, Mason Roberts found something else to think about. What would his son, Martin, end up doing in life?

Mr. Roberts had made a good life for his wife, Mary. Martin was out amongst people, at least a few hours a day. He was learning of the immense complexity of life. Would he become an accountant like his father? Mr. Roberts hoped not. A doctor? Perhaps. Not a lawyer for sure. An artist or an engineer? Martin loved music, possibly something in the arts. That's what Martin would probably do in his life.

These were the thoughts of Mr. Roberts as he pulled into his drive. Home at last. After a quick kiss his wife took him by the hand and pulled him eagerly toward the kitchen.

"Do you want to see the art work Martin brought home today?" she asked.

"Of course," Mr. Roberts said with a note of happy expectation in his voice.

There, spread out on the table were three works of art.

"Which one do you like?"

"I like them all," Mr. Roberts said. "I like the deep contrast of the colors and the subtle texture of this one.

And this one shows his interpretation of an unrelenting fight to adhere to the boundaries of society."

"Yes and this one shows his distaste for conforming to the rigors of using accepted colors. See how he uses black in the background, making the use of lighter colors almost indistinguishable?"

His wife took the artwork and places each one on the top door of the refrigerator, holding them in place with colorful magnets.

"When do you suppose they will teach him to stay within the lines?" Mr. Roberts asked.

"Oh, not in daycare, Mason, not until he's in kindergarten."

WALKING IS BEAUTIFUL

Walking along there is a dream,

the beauty and wonder of God's skill,

makes the eyes of mortals beam,

as we see the glories of divine will.

I see the fjords of branches in the trees of Norway,

the peppermint, refreshing, snow caresses,

my cheek, as I stroll through the white carpeted doorway,

the winter wonderland, my soul and heart addresses.

There is no season as peaceful as the warm snow,

settling quietly, gently, cheerfully, on the cedars and pines,

pure, bright, luscious, making rosy cheeks glow,

the escort of trees, with me along the road, winds.

Mountains, the Alps of the German-Swiss nestle the log cabin,

and the yodeling wind skips and dances in the trees,

swirling flakes silently bounce and I have in,

my mind's eye, drifts to places faraway, dreams carried in a breeze.

Holland's windmills are the trees, tulips are the rows

of fenceposts, and waterfalls of snow heaps,

And China's soaring peaks of Sinkiang sweeps.

The sleeping earth nurses under the windsong blows.

New Zealand meadows in the breath-taking highlands.

Sparkling under the broad, wide river of clouds.

Thank you Jehovah, for the inspiration of this, my land.

The ball gown of snow on the needles, a painting enshrouds.

I am walking on my home road in Pinecreek, Idaho.

Which bears the mark of many places I will see someday.

Why so many people ignore the sky and trees, I don't know.

Foreign lands are here, in Idaho, on the road my way.

- Patsy Ann Kurrelmeyer, Kellogg

SHE'S NOT MY BABY

"She was supposed to be a boy,"

my mother said, "So we'll name

after you Raymond."

("Ramon" Spanish for "the same")

"Miquerida," my daddy said:

"Ramona be true.

But only if I can name her Inez

after you."

Many years later

I learned that Ramona meant

"wise helper".

I don't know about that name . . .

I wore my first two husbands out . . . flat.

The last kept coming just the same.

Inez means "sparkling pure".

That's a lot to live up to.

God knows I've tried for sure.

- Ramona Inez Campbell Richardon Buehler Hollenbeck, Pinehurst

A LOGGER'S PARADISE

AUTUMN

The fall of the year is my favorite season

As nature changes according to plan . . .

And, though it may seem like it takes a long time

Everything changes as quick as it can.

You see, I sit up here on my jammer

Breathing the cold and frosty air . . .

And, no matter where I look

Bright, cheerful colors are just EVERYWHERE!

Big, soft-white, fleecy clouds

Float in bright-blue October skies . . .

Making the most perfect backdrop

For the beauty that is right before my eyes.

The beautiful gold needles of the Tamarack

And the 'GOT-CHA Brush' bright red . . .

While the brown and long dead leaves

Makes up a soft inviting bed.

The evergreen trees on the mountains

Will soon get their blanket of snow . . .

Creating a breath-taking beauty

Here in the Panhandle of North Idaho.

I think that each and every season

Has a unique beauty of it's own . . .

And, if I hadn't become a logger

This beauty, I might have never known.

But, it's not only the scenic beauty

As there is also beauty I feel . . .

The beauty of that peaceful contentment

That, anymore, can seem almost unreal!

- Mary Winkler, Pinehurst