Dear Fellow Females:
Celebrate yourselves today,
tomorrow, every day!
Stand strong, be brave, promote persistence, purpose.
Without you, your will, your abilities, your strength
humanity cannot continue to exist.
I salute you!
Mom loved Shetland ponies.
not so much the stocky, chubby ones,
the fancy show ponies.
We had so many, I’ve lost count–
black, pinto, dappled grey with silver
mane and tail–the fanciest one.
Midget, a pinto, was the first one.
They bought her so I could learn to ride.
I was six.
At the country fair, I rode her.
She zigged; I zagged, fell off.
Utter humiliation.
On rainy days my sister and I would
put a few in the barn, dress them up,
play games with them,
living toys.
We even rode them when in high school
along the cornfields, across the terraces.
My last memory–riding, ambling along, not paying attention,
suddenly lots of noise in the cornfield,
an animal running through the cornstalks.
Pony bolted; I jumped, landed wrong,
limped for days at school, climbing
up and down the steps.
Did I ride again?
I don’t think so, not for years and
then I rode horses.
No wind, stringy high clouds block a bit of blue.
Someone bounces a ball next door,
I hear the intermittent sound.
Suddenly several dogs bark across the golf course green,
Suddenly stop.
Across the turquoise pool water burnt orange leaves waft downward,
some land on the pale gold rocks,
some float at the pool’s terracotta edge,
others lay across the dark green rosemary bushes.
Bird song I cannot identify fills the background.
Two men, voices loud, banter –they’re neighbors, friends.
One of their small children cries, stops, cries again.
A late day golfer strides a ball, shouts.
Breeze arises, quits, more leaves fall,
the pool and birdbath water slightly ripple.
The lemons glow against the dark green leaves,
a painting emerald and bright yellow.
I sit beside the African multi-colored granite table my son made,
admire the colors:
-succulents called fire sticks match the falling leaves.
shades of orange, red, and green.
-the pots that house them match the dark blue of the pool’s old fashioned
Mexican tile.
-roses still display a few blossoms, dark red, pale pink, peach.
Tomorrow the gardener will trim them back to help them bloom lushly n spring.
-the oleander, still green, quit blooming weeks ago.
-rosemary loves this time of year, covers itself with tiny, fragrant, grey-blue flowers.
-in the distance mountains arise, a purple haze.
Now, no sounds, only silence.
I sit in the quiet beauty, write, drink green tea, feel grateful.
Orange pink shadows ripple across the turquoise pool water.
Pumpkin colored and purple leaves drift across the rosemary,
land, bright little boats floating across the turquoise water.
A phoebe, dressed in his grey tuxedo coat and white tie,
flits along the red tile at water’s edge.
Green, minuscule, a hummingbird hovers among the scarlet salvia.
Fuschia, peach, deep red roses glow in the setting sun.
Suddenly, howls break the evening silence.
Coyotes, joyful, sing to each other,
preparing for the nightly hunt.
An “exercise” to write a poem about ones origins with the words I am from… inspired me to write this poem.
I am from the dark side of the moon, blood born, secretly shining.
Fuerte
I am from puma, stalking your memories, invading your minds,.
Fuerte
I am from Gottlieb, who left Swiss mountains 150 years ago at 18 to avoid
becoming a mercenary, moved to Missouri, created a farm. His cultivator
sets in my front garden.
Fuerte
I am from persons Gujarati, Bengali, Punjabi, who sailed seas, met strangers, loved.
Fuerte
I am from Esan, a Nigerian tribe about which I knew nothing until a DNA test revealed,
ancient, black, beautiful.
Fuerte
I am from Latin America, Colombian, Peruvian, Puerto Rican–wanderers, explorers.
Fuerte
I am from Slavic peoples. Byzantine, Macedonian, Alexander the Great.
Fuerte
I am from brave wandering ancestors–Asian, Latin, Toscani Italian, French, German, Swiss, Slavic, Iberian.
Fuerte
I am from J haploid group, people who left the northern Middle East 7000 years ago,
wandered, explored, populated Western Europe.
Fuerte
I am from farmers, Doyle and Barbara, who grew corn, wheat, soybeans, Hereford and Charolaise cattle
to whom I carried salt blocks as a child.
Fuerte
I am from Sacred Corn, the nourisher, singing on hot summers, growing.
Fuerte
I am from the sweet smell of Jasmine, Roses, Honeysuckle, winding up walls, overgrowing gardens,
giving people hope.
Fuerte
I am from lemons, figs, dates, pomegranates, golden, dark, red, tropical, lingering.
Fuerte
I am from Stars, universal child, born on sacred ground, singing infinite songs.
Fuerte
Mother’s rose garden
flowers for the family table
all my childhood summers.
Red, pinks, snowy.
No roses for decades
except those given, bouquets,
mostly red.
Now, I look out every window, roses
Pinks, reds, orange, lavender, yellow, snowy.
I love them, cut them,
And remember my mother.
Barbara Lewis Duke, pretty, petite, blue-eyed and blond, my
mother, one fearless, controlling woman. Long after Mom’s
death, Dad said, “Barbara was afraid of absolutely no one
and nothing.” They married late, 34 and 38. He adored her
unconditionally. She filled my life with horses, music, love,
cornfields, hayrides, ambition. Whatever she felt she
had missed, my sister and I were going to possess: books,
piano lessons, a college education. Her father, who died long
before I was born, loved fancy, fast horses. So did she. During
my preschool, croupy years, she quieted my hysterical night
coughing with stories of runaway horses pulling her in a wagon.
With less than one hundred pounds and lots of determination,
she stopped them, a tiny Barbie Doll flying across the Missouri
River Bottom, strong, willful, free.
Hunkered down with two pillows–“Safe Place”??
Check TV to track tornadoes
It quits
Try to read, can’t
TV returns, tells me maybe safe
Tornados went east a few miles
Next day tan fog–dust
Wind, can’t stand up
Then spring, 76 degrees, birds sing,
sit on patio, sip tea.
Next morning, blizzard, wind roars,
no electricity, white out,
read by flashlight.
Electricity returns.
Thankful!
My travels have not only enlightened me personally, but also enabled me to create recipes from my food adventures around the world. Due to the recommendations of friends and family worldwide, I created a cookbook/memoir with stories and recipes. Len Leatherwood, new President of the Story Circle Network, says, “This is a cookbook after my own heart, filled with a wide range of healthy recipes from several cultures that will add flavor, color, and variety to any table.” Jennifer Archer, award winning writer and editor elaborated further, “A feast for the senses…combines colorful stories, poems, and mouth-watering recipes that inspire readers to experience new places, new tastes…from Asia, Africa, Latin America, Scandinavia, and America.”
This would make a great Christmas present for foodies and people who want worldwide food adventures. It can be ordered online from: http://www.dreamcatcherbooks.com and go to Angel Books.
Recipes for the food in the photos above are included in the book. More food photos follow:
Lemon pasta with mixed salad topped with grated asiago cheese.
Many of the recipes feature berbere, a spice used in Ethiopian cooking. The book also includes four different recipes for salmon and many vegetarian and vegan recipes using spices from around the world.
Searching for cool
Slithering, hunting
Transforming
Travel the World 4 Less
A Glimpse into My Life & Passions
Ceto-Magoism, the Whale-guided Way of WE in S/HE
Exploring the F-word in religion at the intersection of scholarship, activism, and community.
ANCESTRAL FOOD. HERBAL WISDOM. MAGICAL COOKERY. SEASONAL CELEBRATION.
inesemjphotography
politics, engineering, parenting, relevant things over coffee.
Food is the best expression of every emotion. Explore through my reviews, recipes, events and more.
Smile! A Site for Friends Wherever You Are!
inspiring personal growth through poetry and writing
Combining atheism with whimsy. This is a Fair and Balanced blog based on opinion unencumbered by fact.
Odds and ends ~ My Life
Original poetry, commentary, and fiction. All copyrights reserved.
bripike@gmail.com
A wildlife filmmaker in Africa
A Geeky Feminist's Musings On Pop Culture
"5 minute walks"
writingontherim 