behemoth bones
bleached white
African sun
grave yard for giants
some shot
others died a natural death
the living caress
bones with trunks
six thousand nerves
sensitive, searching
for answers
behemoth bones
bleached white
African sun
grave yard for giants
some shot
others died a natural death
the living caress
bones with trunks
six thousand nerves
sensitive, searching
for answers
It’s raining! It’s raining!
It has not rained in more than a month.
I run out the door,
spreading my arms skyward.
I laugh out loud, dancing in the rain.
A smile smears joyfully across my face.
I run across the patio,
rain drops pelleting my face, my arms.
I laugh out loud, dancing in the rain.
My dog stands, rivulets of rain running off her.
Lightning explodes, thunder booms bass,
the steel roof plays staccato music.
I laugh out loud, dancing in the rain.

From my book “On the Rim of Wonder”. This poem holds true today. After a summer with lots of rain, it quit. It is very dry with a high danger of wildfires now that the summer vegetation has dried, perfect fuel.

A busy time of year, this holiday season. Here is what I will be doing this week on Thursday. Now I have to decide which poems to read, the Puma Poems, Hot Pink Toenails, Star–the sad one about the death of my grandson’s horse, poems about aging, death, what?
“An animal’s eyes have the power to speak a great language.” Martin Buber
My neighbor walked out her door
found a puma lying on the lawn.
Puma rose, stretched, disappeared.
At night when I open my gate
I wonder if she lurks
behind the cedar trees,
pounce ready.
My daughter dreams puma dreams:
a puma chases her up a tree.
There are no trees here big enough to climb.
A Zuni puma fetish guards my sleep.
I run with puma
Night wild
Free.
I scream and howl
Moonstruck
Bloodborn.
I hike the canyon
stroll around my house
look for puma tracks.
I see none.
I would rather die by puma
than in a car wreck.

Note: This is the first in a series of Puma Poems in my book “On the Rim of Wonder”.
Simple ingredients
Beautiful
Healthy food

No females in my family had long hair.
Dad did not like it,
said it showed male domination
over women.
Once when grown and gone
from home, I began to grow mine
out, experiment.
When he saw it, he told me
he thought it unbecoming.
I cut it.
Mom said she had long hair
when she was young.
Her dad forbade her to cut it.
In her twenties she chopped her golden locks
off, flapper style, then hid her head
in a scarf, afraid.
Note: This poem is from the family section of my book, “On the Rim of Wonder”.
Autumn’s beauty
Sunrise
Rim of Wonder



A few years ago Uno Mundo Press published my second book, a book of poems. Reviewers say it is a memoir. Oddly, that was not the plan; in retrospect, it seems apt. The poems’ topics are not chronological but rather via topic with quotations before each topic as a sort of introduction. For the foreseeable future, while I continue writing another book, I will post one poem from the book every Sunday.
The book begins with this quotation:
“Do something scandalous to give your descendants something
to talk about when you are gone.” Vanessa Talbot
The first section begins with this quote by Judith Jameson, the famous dancer and choreographer:
“I always tell my dancers.
You are not defined by your fingertips,
or the top of you head,
or the bottom of your feet.
You are defined by you.
You are the expanse.
You are the infinity.”
The first poem in the book goes like this:
I Have Lived
Depression, sad days, melancholy.
Gone!
At 26, I said, “To hell with this!
You control you life, live it!”
I tried forbidden liaisons, trained horses,
Traveled around the world, a cobra wrapped around my neck,
Walked the Shalimar Gardens in Kashmir,
Stood before the Jama Masjid in Old Delhi,
Watched the Taj Mahal reflected in still waters,
Walked the streets of Katmandu,
Talked to monks at Shwedagon Pagoda,
Bargained with sticks in dirt, math our only common language,
Downed raw turtle eggs in Costa Rica,
Danced on table tops, sang “Adonai”,
Roamed empty roads across the Navaho Nation,
Divorced four times,
Raised two talented children.
I have lived, running on the rim of wonder.


Saturday I discovered your chrysalis underneath the top of a disintegrating cable spool by the red and green barn. At first I remained uncertain about you. Were you really a monarch?
Then I thought, “This is too late; you won’t survive,”
I checked the weather. There is hope. No freeze until late Thursday night.
By Monday evening your chrysalis had turned a dark green transparency; I could see hints of your wings inside.
When I looked Tuesday after horse feeding, you were out, unmoving, wings folded, your chrysalis a hollow shell.
I checked you twice last evening. Still by your chrysalis, opening and closing your wings.
Becoming really worried, knowing a cold front was coming, I puzzled what to do, keep you inside the barn, leave barn doors open, what?
This morning you had moved to the edge of the spool top. Today’s wind and warmth might inspire you to take your journey south; I could only hope, placed you where you could fly away easily.
When I fed the horses at five today, you were gone.
Relieved, I wish you a safe journey to Michoacan.
Final flowers before frost
Brilliant intensity
A last hurrah of beauty




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