Canyon de Chelley–Part One


One of the most famous canyons in the country resides inside the Dine (Navaho) Nation. While administered by the National Park service, it is also the home of several Dine families. You can drive through the roads on the top freely, stop at various viewpoints, take photos, etc. Here are the various views I saw last week while there. The bottom of the canyon is restricted. To go there, you need a permit and a Dine (Navaho) guide. More about that in the next post.

Several families live in the bottom of the canyon, especially during the summer months. You cannot go into the bottom of the canyon without a permit and a Navaho guide.

Book 19 for 2024: “Unearthing”, Kyo Maclear


Several months after Maclear’s father (who was a famous journalist) dies, she decides to take a DNA test to find out more about her family health and personality history, mainly because of the stories about a particular grandmother. She wonders if certain traits she and her sons have might possibly be inherited. The results of the test are a shock. Her father, the father she adored, who raised her and adored her, is not her biological father. At first, she thinks perhaps it was a sperm donor, but then she discovers this is not the case. Through the DNA test and her detective work, she finds two biological half-brothers (she was an only child before this discovery) who are willing to communicate with her, send her photos, etc. She tries relentlessly to acquire more information from her mother, who is often unforthcoming or tells her contradictory information. Then her mother gets dementia.

This is also a story of plants, of gardening. Both she and her mother are amateur botanists and expert gardeners. When nothing else works in their mother-daughter relationship, their love of plants and gardening holds them together. Even with dementia, her mother knows plants. Their other joint endeavor is ink drawings and love of art.

Additionally, this is the story of family, family secrets, inter-racial marriage, and challenging relationships. Kyo’s mother is Japanese living originally in England and later in Canada who often struggled with her status as a Japanese immigrant. Her “real” father, the one who raised her, was of British and Irish descent; her biological father was a Jewish formula one race car driver.

Two New Poems for National Poetry Month


Rainy Day

sheets of rain against the kitchen window

heavy fog hides mountain peaks

scarlet hibiscus and bougainvillea brighten

a gloomy day

Dusk

The wind died; stillness pervades.

A distant train whistle interrupts.

Tiny brown bird chirps its chitty song.

Mountains display navy blue and purple.

The western sky becomes cantaloupe color.

Walking in Pasadena Near Rose Bowl


Fearless little bird with chocolate brown head runs beside me

on the road. At the intersection I circle to the left, following

a familiar route. The heavy tree canopy here always astonishes.

It’s almost like walking in a forest.

The architectural variety amazes: mid-century modern, Spanish,

colonial, ranch, the smallest I am guessing contains 3500 sq. ft. One

house encompasses an entire city block, fronted with heavy, high

fences and metal gates. Privacy obsessed.

I’m watching my time. I don’t want to be late for singing

practice. I take a new route, perhaps a shortcut. It’s

120 degrees of a circle. Not quite a regular street,

not quite an alley, a combination–fronts of a few houses

and the backside of others. At one place it angles more;

I come to a three story stone fortress with intricate

geometrical designs vertically running up and down

the walls. No windows. A sign says, “No trespassing.”

Realization hits me. This is the other side of a house

I saw last year through a gap in a wall on another street.

Three ladies, strangers, asked me about it, told me they’d

heard it was the creation of a famous architect. I researched,

asked others, no one knew. Back then, I tried to find the front,

failed. Now I’m looking at it, wonderstruck. It appears abandoned,

an architectural wonder belonging to another time and place.

Time to rush, a bit lost, I look at my phone map, finish the loop,

find a familiar street, walk faster. Then I see a large, white, colonial house,

weeds knee high, black shutters hanging askew. Here it is abandoned

in the midst of multi-million dollar houses. I wonder what the neighbors

think. Walking on I hear water rushing, peer through the hedges–a stream

runs downhill from the side of this huge brown house at least 100 feet

and gurgles in a pool behind the bushes. Hurrying, I stop in front of one

of my favorite houses, a one-story, tan, Spanish style, small compared

to the others nearby. I take a photo of the tree in front by the sidewalk,

its impressive girth impossible to ignore.

Finally, I’m near my destination, walking in front of The Gamble House,

a tourist destination made famous by the movie, “Back to the Future”,

a structure I see at least twice a week.

Poems


I started out thinking I would write a poem per day for National Poetry Month. Well, I’m a bit behind on that, but here are two of several I have written so far.

Spring

The mockingbird awakens me with his song.

A hummingbird, dressed in green with an iridescent

orange collar, flits by my head then sips nectar

from a scarlet bougainvillea blossom.

The neighborhood barn owl hoots at dawn and dusk.

A black and red/orange bird I’ve never seen before

lights on a palo verde limb.

A Western Bluebird dips its beak repeatedly in

the talavera birdbath.

Remember

In this world steeped in senseless violence remember

each day to find a piece of beauty:

-rosebuds opening

-the scent of jasmine

-a friend’s smile

-a bit of birdsong

In this world ravaged by wars remember

each day to find the jewels of joy:

-listen to a child’s laughter

-dance to a favorite song

-walk in the morning sunshine

-tell someone you love them

Perfect Spring Day


They tell writers, “Never ever use cliches.”

Sometimes I question that. When you

word a cliche, nearly everyone knows

exactly what you mean. For example:

This is a perfect spring day:

-birdsong wafting here and there,

mostly mockingbirds except for those

irredescent, orange-throated

hummingbirds at their feeder

-wind singing through the pines

-open windows for a change; it’s

75 degrees and sunny

-magenta and scarlet bougainvillea

climbing the garden wall

-white and lavender lantana

outdoing themselves with

spread and bloom

-geraniums in full flower

-mint growing so fast and tall

I already need to trim it.

I lounge on the patio reading

another novel, drinking rosewater

lassi, munching mixed nuts.

I feel gratitude for this

perfect spring day.

Ovid


This is poem two for National Poetry Month. A friend wrote a poem following the prompt to write a poem about a book the writer has not read for a long time. She wrote about The Scarlet Letter. My poem is about the book, An Imaginary Life.

The Roman Emperor Augustus saw Ovid’s poetry as subversive,

a power threat. He exiled Ovid to a remote corner of the Empire,

somewhere over by the Black Sea, the Carpathian Mountains,

among the destitute, the superstitious, people who did even know

how to read or write. They believed in witches, feared ghosts, saw

evil in everything and everyone different. Different equaled

death.

Paid to host Ovid, the village leader teaches him to ride horses

bareback, hunt, become stronger. Ovid transforms from a weak

revolutionary who hates this place to one who sees the barren

beauty, wanders in the forests, plants a wildflower garden,

survives.

While hunting, they see barefoot tracks in snow, tracks

of a feral child, a boy. Ovid fears for him, finds him,

rescues him. An accident occurs. The villagers blame

the boy, want to kill him. He and Ovid escape,

wander far into the northern wilds, into

infinity.

Nostalgia


Today is the first day of National Poetry Month. I am committing myself to write a poem a day. Here is the first one for the month.

Easter yesterday made me sad,

remembering children, grandson,

egg dying, egg hunting, family

together, laughter, joy.

Found photos of my family,

I, a child, dressed in Easter finery,

a family tradition. Dad bought us

corsages to wear every Easter,

pretty dresses in spring colors–

my favorite a pink dress trimmed

in scarlet, a unique combination

explained why I liked it so much,

felt special wearing it.

Today I wear pink and orange

together, admire the deep purple

and red bougainvillea, scarlet rosebuds,

snowy freeway daisies,

shining in the sun and wonder

will I live long enough to teach

a great grandchild to color

Easter eggs.

Book 14 for 2024: “The Invisible Hour”, Alice Hoffman


This is a book for those who believe in the power of books to transform life, who are fans of Alice Hoffman, and who like time travel. It also about how a charismatic man can ruin the lives of many, especially women, by controlling everything around him through fear and coercion. In his Community books and contact with the rest of the world are banned. Mia is a young woman who sneaks into a local library and finds Hawthorne’s “The Scarlet Letter”. She realizes the life she is living in the Community is like the lives in the book. Through this book she manages to attain the courage to escape such a man, the man who destroyed her mother, Ivy. She makes her way back in time to the period in the book, has a love affair with Hawthorne, and finally escapes the horrible man who tracks her everywhere she goes.