Rose remnants float in my palm
the color
of fresh blood
of sunsets
cerise, burnt orange, gold.
A pale blue dragon
thunders
across a salmon sky.
Slowly indigo night
descends,
only the coyotes sing.
poetry
Puma III
Two more puma paintings grace my house, one in my bedroom and one in my office. The one in my office was painted by Amarillo artist Steven Cost and needs framing.
I want
to walk
with you
in my dreams
scream your screams
feel your blood
rushing
your heartbeat
mine
soft golden fur
wound in my hair
your amber eyes
glowing
through my brown
death defying
together walking
moonlit
wild
free
Puma–2
Years ago while visiting Albuquerque or Santa Fe, I acquired a Zuni puma fetish. It is the only fetish I own. I bought it because it is a puma, the Directional Guardian and prey god of the North, representing independence, personal power, intensity, and loyalty, carried by travelers to protect their journey. It resides on a dresser in my bedroom, watching over me, protecting my life journey.
As I mentioned in a previous post, my puma obsession extends to researching them and writing poems about them. The following poem was originally published in my book, “On the Rim of Wonder”.
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.
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.
Pumas — 1
Some people possess obsessions. For me only one really exists–pumas. I kept hoping I might see one when I lived at the edge of a canyon in the Panhandle of Texas even though I knew where I lived was probably too populated. Now, living in LA Country, I realize pumas can be anywhere. Have not seen one yet, but I keep hoping. I’ve considered driving 1/2 hour up into the Los Angeles National Forest to hike and hope. Since one of my walking partners refused to go any farther when the sign said “Watch for Bears”, I would have to take the hike alone. The bear sign did not deter me, but she could not go home since I drove so I went back to the car with her. People see bears in town all the time, but rarely pumas or if they are around, they hide. My puma obsession includes dreaming about them and writing poetry where they star. Here is one of the puma poems I wrote while I still lived in Texas.
I watch for eyes, blue changing to amber and back.
I put my palm, fingers stretched to measure, into the footprint.
Too small, bobcat
No puma.
My thin body squeezes between the rocks,
climbing quietly down the cliff.
Watching, listening, searching.
No puma,
Pale amber rushes across my vision line.
My hearth quakes.
I watch; I wait.
It is Isabella, a golden whir chasing rabbits.
No puma.
At sunrise, I walk the rim,
watching.
At sunset, I walk the rim,
waiting.
At night, I walk the rim,
dreaming.
No puma; not yet.
I’ve had this photo, taken by a famous wildlife photographer, for at least a decade. She, yes, it is a she, watches over me daily. In my bedroom is a puma Zuni fetish and a painting. I have a couple of others here and there in addition to books about pumas. Someday before I die, hopefully.
One Million Dead–We Must Remember
I see you, the dead, the too often forgotten,
you who lost your lives to Covid,
1,000,000 gone.
This is like wiping out the entire population of
Columbus, Ohio,
wiping out all the people who live in
Montana.
More of you died than live in the entire
states of
Wyoming or
North Dakota or
South Dakota or
Alaska.
This is like wiping out 1/2 the people in
New Mexico.
Lest you who read this forget,
pretend all are dead in Columbus,
no one is left in Montana.
All dead.
Envision the magnitude of
our loss.
Grieve for them, their friends,
their families.
Do Not Forget.
I post these flowers in remembrance.
My First Published Poem
April is National Poetry Month. While emptying one of the boxes still stacked in the garage after the move, I found the book in which Missouri high school student’s poems were published. The following includes a photo of the book and my first published poem included in it.
In Honor of Earth Day
In honor of Earth Day
I present you roses:
may they bring joy
feelings of renewal
a sense of beauty
value of our precious planet.
Blackwater Draw
I walk the mile long trail down into the depths,
caliche, gravel, larger rocks strewn by millennia.
The ancients–Clovis, Folsom, Portales
Man–hunted here at the shores of a lake
nearly 12,000 years ago. In 1929, an amateur
archeologist discovered a spear point lodged in bone.
Scattered cottonwoods whisper in the wind,
timeless voices call me, beckoning.
Who were these people? What did they
look like? Where did they come
from? In whose gods, goddesses, did
they believe? Doubtless hunger
drove them to this place of water
and plenty. Columbia mammoths, giant
sloths, dire wolves, saber toothed cats.
I walk this long path, read signs
that tell what diggers found at specific
spots along the trail: bison horns
spanning seven feet, mammoths twice
the size of elephants. I stand in the shade
of the cottonwoods. They whisper to me.
They tell me ancient tales of hunger, strife,
beauty, love, endurance, woe, war, weaponry,
courage and community. How did they overcome
danger, fear? My skin tingles strangely
in the summer heat. Now this land is dry,
desert, the water that sustained teeming life
evaporated in the crystalline air.
Twelve thousand years from now who will stand here?
Will this place exist? Will someone wonder the meaning
of our bones, who we were, what we believed?
Hot Pink Toenails
Since this is National Poetry Month, I have decided to post a few of my poems from my book “On the Rim of Wonder” which can be found on Amazon. This particular poem has been one of the more popular poems.
The day I met Tom
my toenails were pink.
A big mistake!
He called me the lady with the hot
pink toenails.
I am not a hot
pink person.
They should have been red
or orange.
I am orange person–
mixed with lot of red.
It took me two weeks
of looking at those hot
pink toe nails
to paint them red.
Am I happier now?
Not really
but I know
it is the real me,
my own toes when I
look down.
When she painted them pink
the woman said,
“Old ladies want red toenails.”
Will I be able to look
at my toenails and not
think “old lady”?
Will I have to find
a new color?
Probably.
Maybe orange marmalade or cinnamon spice or burnt sienna.
Spring in LA County
Flowers grace life with beauty
Flowers bring everyone joy
Flowers invite humans to hike, laugh, love
Flowers sing songs of peace.
writingontherim 