Simple ingredients
Beautiful
Healthy food

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”.
“Most people are about as happy as they
make up their minds to be.” Abraham Lincoln
When I was twenty something, I chose happiness, not the sappy, syrupy, cheery, but a deeper joy of cherishing the small, the unique, the everyday, smiling with sunsets, the song of the mockingbird in spring, horses running free, the nearly invisible bobcat climbing the canyon wall, the taste of fine coffee at the first wakeful moments in the morning, cooking for friends, taking a “property walk” with my grandson, laughing with the teenagers I teach. I am driven to do little–obsessions, compulsions do not run me. I choose. Choose life, choose joy, or choose whining, choose lamenting. Choose!! Be who you want to be; do what you want to do.

Note: this is a poem from 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




listen to frogs
watch it rain
feel the breeze
answer the owl
sip red wine
read a book
sing favorite songs
dance alone
imagine
dream

After feeding the horses, completing chores, a late afternoon walk to look for the last of the wild flowers took my fancy. Here in the canyon country of the Panhandle of Texas, the majority of wildflowers are three colors: yellow, white, purple.

Butterflies feeding in the gay feather.

At first I thought this might be bitterweed but now, not sure.

Although this one and the last one may resemble each other, they are different.

Looked up, the sun decided to shine–at my place four inches of rain in the last week and more than seven inches ahead of normal.

Black foot daisies and prairie zinnias bloom from early spring almost until frost.


Athena among the flowers.

Prickly pear can grow almost anywhere.

I almost missed this one hidden among the grass.
Silence sits
like a wet, grey rag
no bird song
no insects or frogs singing
junipers unmoving
yesterdays footprints
impressions in adobe mud
Silence sits
like a wet, grey rag

Travel the World 4 Less
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