roses, lush
pink, red, coral
roses floating in crystal bowls
remind me of my mother
her rose garden by the barn
summer roses on her kitchen table
Mother’s Roses
poetry
National Poetry Month-2: Butter Love
Is it inherited?
Six year old me watched Grandmother
look around, take silver knife, cut into pale
yellow rectangular prism, plop a chunk into
her mouth, close her eyes,
smile.
In Aunt Julia’s presence, this never occurred,
Was it our shared secret,
Grandmother and me?
Yesterday, I told the cafeteria lady,
“Please bring me biscuits, extra butter.”
Less courageous than Grandmother,
I use blue corn pancakes, homemade bread, pasta,
excuses to eat butter, lots of golden, melted
butter.
Who eats butter on conchiglie?
I do, scooping out a tablespoon
from the butter bowl, watch it melt
in hot, drained Italian pasta from a
six-hundred-year-old monastery,
sprinkle on some sea salt, plop
a spoonful in my mouth, close my eyes,
smile.
Note: This poem is published in my book “You’re Gonna Eat That? Adventures with Food, Family, and Friends”. My grandmother, Mom’s mom, rarely smiled. When Mom went to the hospital to have my sister, the family story is that Grandmother fed me so many bread, butter, and sugar sandwiches, I became fat. I was two. I remember a mint patch in her backyard. She’d gather mint, boil water, and make mint tea with cream and sugar. I liked it. When Aunt Julia traveled out of town, I remember seeing Grandmother eat butter and smile. This is Grandmother’s wedding photo.
National Poetry Month: 1: The Kingdom of Trees
An essence within the heart of trees
allows them to communicate
with other trees to
-aid each other when disturbed
-send secret signals, warnings to other trees
-express pain, sympathy.
The kingdom of trees now cries
worldwide in pain,
watching each other’s murders.
land laid naked, nature destroyed.
Note: I wrote this poem last year. It is published in the anthology, “Writing Through The Apocalypse, Pandemic Poetry and Prose”,
Editor: Marcia Meier
Snow Blossoms
snow blossoms
falling in pool
a song of silence
Snow on Mountains
warm sun
snow-capped mountains
heartwarming joy
The First Time I Saw the Nile
Riding hours through emerald mountains
to Bahir Dar.
We drove up a steep road,
monkeys begging near the roadside.
Car parked, we climbed a steep hill.
There she was
The NILE
a silver ribbon far below
grassy fields
two white robed people
walked, hippos barely visible.
The NILE
I cried,
a life’s longing fulfilled.
The NILE
Flowing from Lake Tana,
she lay below me,
the legendary river,
ancient people, ancient stories,
builder of civilizations,
of life.
The NILE.
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.
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.
writingontherim 