Remnants of summer remaining
Sunrise over canyon walls, hoot owl calling
Hints of autumn lurking
poetry
Isabella–En Memorium
The crematorium handed me the 6″ by 4 ” dark brown wooden box. I knew it would be heavy; Isabella was an eighty pound wolf dog. I thought I was prepared.
Driving home, memories:
March 2006, daughter calls; two year old grandson wants a beta. I drive to PetSmart. Daughter tells me I must see these unusual, incredible seven-week-old puppies. Alert brown eyes look at me. Too big, black ears wiggle. The label says wolf, German Shepard, Blue Heeler. The two remaining puppies look like light colored German Shepherds or Belgium Malinois. I had not planned to get a dog, not yet.
Two years later I move into my new house: canyon edge, horses, bobcats, coyotes, foxes, road runners, mockingbirds, rattlesnakes. Isabella guards her property, sits on the patio where she can check for invaders. She rarely barks, growls. When she does, high alert–I check. Neighbor dogs, coyotes, foxes, chased off–not bobcats. She watches them.
I remember the day she dismembered a skunk, drug the carcass everywhere. After eleven baths at PetSmart, the skunk smell remained. The one day she growled, I shocked, investigated–a man walking down the arroyo toward the house. Growls became increasingly loud. Out on the patio, she stands, the man sees her, turns and runs. I feel safe, Isabella guarding, telling me if something unusual occurs. She’s mixed breed; I think she’ll live long.
Every morning, evening, she completes horse chores with me, chases bunnies, roadrunners. Two months ago, I, mesmerized, watch her catch, gobble two half-grown bunnies in less than one minute–nothing left. Mixed breed; I think she’ll live long.
Friday morning she helps me with chores, chases bunnies. Friday afternoon she can hardly move. At the vet, blood work like a four year old; x-ray shows a little something wrong. They give her two shots, schedule an ultra-sound for Saturday morning at another vet’s. Meds working, Saturday morning she’s her usual lively self, eager to travel in the truck, nose wet and cold.
Ultrasound vet tells me there’s little hope. Shocked, I stand there. “If she were your dog, what would you do?”
“Put her to sleep. She’s not in pain. She has a tumor the size of your small fist on her intestines–might be cancer, hard to operate.”
I look at the vet, frozen.
At 8:00 Wednesday evening, I open the box, take out the bag of Isabella’s steel grey ashes, walk out to her patio spot, the place where she guarded her kingdom, toss a handful of ashes into the wind, watch them float and scatter down into the canyon, tears tracking down my face. I close the bag, walk to the place where our long yearling colt, Star, is buried, dig an eight inch hole, bury another handful of ashes. I take the one tablespoon of ashes left back to the house, put them back in the black velvet bag and into the box with the card with her paw print, the crematorium certificate, the sympathy card signed by all the employees where they euthanized her, place it on top of a stack of old magazines in the Chinese cabinet.
At bedtime, I forget, go to call her in. This morning I find her hairs–she shed so much, wolf undercoat. Evidence of her presence permeates.
It will never end.
Summer Evening
storm clouds at sunset
rain
reflections in gold
Meet the Artist–the Writing Process and Poetry
This evening I am the artist at a local Meet the Artist event in Amarillo, Texas. This event occurs bimonthly and past presenters have included musicians, photographers, and painters. While I sing and take photos, my presentation will include reading poems from my book, “On the Rim of Wonder” and new, unpublished poems and talking about the writing process. While I honestly thought few would be interested in the latter, several people have asked me specifically to discuss this.
Although I consider myself a writer, I do not sit down on schedule and write every day like many writers. Inspiration, thoughts, come to me sporadically. I write creatively exactly like I used to write college papers, magazine articles, etc.; I look like I am doing nothing, but in reality, all these ideas run through my head and finally gel. Then I sit down and write it all at once.
The following is one of the poems from my book which I plan to read this evening:
Aging
“Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” Dylan Thomas
Custom says, “Age gracefully.”
Are they crazy, dumb.
Who wants to look
old
wrinkled
grey?
They lie.
All of them.
Who wants a broken mind
confused
unfocused
lost?
Shoot me!
Burn my bones.
Scatter them
in the desert sands
to feed
desert willow where
rattlesnakes lie
searching for shade.
Horses
horses, running, bucking
storms coming
later, calmly graze together
a lesson
Bones
The bone is big, more than eighteen inches long. Isabella–
wolf, German shepherd, blue heeler, 80 pounds, lies in cool,
emerald, native grass, gnawing. What kind is it? From where?
Half hour hiking cross canyon, through junipers, tall grass, searching.
Nothing.
One week later, while driving through the gate, I see the neighbor’s
black lab gnawing on identical bone. Surprised, puzzled, I wonder
if it’s the same bone. After running the eighth mile back to my house,
I find the old bone, three pieces scattered in the grass. Not the same.
Neighbor tells me he hiked, searched.
Nothing.
no dead animal smell
meat scraps stuck to bone
we will never know
Temple Bells
swinging in the wind
temple bells
sing songs of joy
Typical Summer Morning
listen to birdsong
walk to barn
feed Rosie
photograph flowers
Early Summer
desert birds of paradise
lavender, catmint, Mexican hats, feather grass
early summer Joy
Modern Politics and Sor Juana Ines de la Cruz
Who would think that a Mexican woman who wrote poetry more than three hundred years ago would have anything applicable to today’s political arena? About one and one half years ago, my daughter returned from a business trip with a little gift, a translation of Sor Juana’s work. It is not the sort of literature I sit down and read all the way through. It is deep, questioning, the sort of literature you savor here and there. A few minutes ago I opened the book once again to read one of her ballads–typically referred to as romances. However, this is not exactly a romance. It reads:
“One who is sad criticizes
the happy man as frivolous;
and one who is happy derides
the sad man and his suffering.
The two philosophers of Greece
offered perfect proofs of this truth;
for what caused laughter in one man
occasioned tears in another.
The contradiction has been framed
for centuries beyond number,
yet which of the two ways was correct
has so far not been determined;
instead, into two factions
all people have been recruited,
temperament dictating which
band each person will adhere to.”
This is only a small portion of the ballad. It is ballad 2 in the translation by Edith Grossman. The introduction to the book is by one of my favorite authors (I have read all her books published to date), Julia Alvarez.
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