writingontherim
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The canyon edge looms out my bedroom windows,
pale adobe, stark.
Fall to death or serious injury!
I will not fall; I love living on the edge.
Rain brings a one hundred foot deluge,
a roar of water, cascading, screaming.
Someone said my house is pink; it is not pink!
It is the color of the canyon, the worldwide color,
Moroccan, pueblo, Saudi, Mali, Navaho, Timbuktu,
Desert, alive and lovely.
Three bucks watch me through my bedroom windows.
They see me move; they stare.
Isabella stands rigid, watching.
I kneel to her level; follow her eyes.
The bobcat casually climbs the canyon wall, impervious.
He marks the cedar tree, walks a deer path, disappears.
He is a secret, rarely seen.
The huge hoot owl’s voice echoes down the canyon,
drifting through my dreams.
A young road runner calls, scratchy,
running across the patio–on the edge.
In the spring the mocking…
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Hot Pink Toenails
The day I met Tom my toenails were hot 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 an orange person
mixed with lots of red.
It took me two weeks of looking
at those hot pink toenails
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 red toenails
even though I like them and
not think “old lady”?
Will I have to find a new color?
Probably.
Maybe orange marmelade or cinnamon spice or burnt sienna.
These toenails are painted Cajun Shrimp.
Why I Write
This post continues the saga of my writing for the SCN poetry class. One of our first assignments included reading Mary Oliver’s poem about why she writes and then write one of our own about why we write. Unlike many writers, discipline frequently escapes me. I write when I feel like it or get inspired or have something special I want to say. What do I care about? Why do I write and about what?
I want to write about
beauty and life,
wind and flowers,
riding and writing on the rim,
sleeping in the moonlight.
I want to write to
make a difference,
challenge the status quo,
instill a love of wonder,
change the world
even if only for one minuscule moment
in one tiny corner.
I want to write so that when I die, they will say,
“She mattered!”
I usually do not reblog other blogs, but as a lover of coffee and what Ema calls trivia, I just have to reblog this. In Costa Rica, I kept getting asked where did coffee originate and I said, “Ethiopia”. This confirms that I was correct. In fact, this inspired me to make coffee in the middle of the afternoon on a hot Texas day.
For all of my friends who will see this title and say, “Oh no, more coffee… Havent you written enough posts on coffee already?”, I have to respond and say – “You can never write enough about coffee. It’s like chocolate or mangoes”.. Do you ever feel that you have written / eaten / appreciated enough of chocolates or mangoes or anything else as sinful for that matter?
My friend Sridhar, another coffee lover (but much much worse than me in fact) sent this really nice email forward on the said subject and I just couldn’t help myself and had to post it… It’s by theoatmeal.com and you can check their site for more such posts.
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writingontherim 