Sunday, October 6, 2019


Old Mesilla, New Mexico

The band played Latin Jazz
People sat on chairs or on the grass
Some walked alone some with canine companions
Music waved through the air delicately 
Melding with time as it gently passed
Humans animals trees even concrete
Responded with an otherworldly softness
Church bells playfully clanged
As a wedding party floated in hope bubbles
Toward the Gazebo to eternalize
The couple's vow to love
Sitting on the ground surrounded by friends
I forgot what I remembered or needed to forget
Perhaps I even forgot there was an I
Desiring nothing
Until the moment ended

 (For Poets United.)

Wednesday, September 18, 2019



The roadrunner runs 
Zigzagging down the driveway
He jumps through the bougainvillea bush
In a flash he emerges victorious
A cute sweet motionless baby rabbit
Dangles from his beak as he disappears
Into the desert

Somewhere Darwin continues vigilance 
Hoping he can witness promises of evolution
I watch too but wistfully 
Glad the roadrunner obeys rules of survival
Yet sad for the tiny rabbit so respectful of nature
My animal self understands
My intelligent self remains perplexed
Wondering how humans can be predators to nature itself
They know better than any animal

Somewhere Darwin too shrugs holding back tears

(For Poets United.)

Wednesday, September 11, 2019

The International Dark-Sky Association (IDA) is a United States-based non-profit organization incorporated in 1988 by founders David Crawford, a professional astronomer, and Tim Hunter, a physician/amateur astronomer. The mission of the IDA is "to preserve and protect the night time environment and our heritage of dark skies through quality outdoor lighting."[1]


I live in an International Dark Sky Community
Outdoor lights stay off in order that we may see stars
Twinkling their messages like shouts of brightness
There is no translator for their flashing lights
So I watch them in awe 
Ignorant like everyone else
Knowing I'm made of star dust
Wondering if I admire or envy their beautiful wisdom
Hoping at least one star will fall
Crash upon me
Teach me its star language
So I too can enlighten the dark

(Today Sumana asks us to write about stars at Poets United.)

Wednesday, August 28, 2019

Glorious Memories

For about six years, I cared for my mother and mother-in-law in my home before I no longer could,  before they went to a nursing home where they died. I called them the ladies, my ladies, not because of any biased gender designation, but because they were royalty.  They were the good queens that ruled my life.  Their needs commanded.  

They also displayed their royal crowns through their raw, unfiltered emotions and behaviors.  For example my mother, a very traditional, religious lady, once shed compassionate tears for a troubled, transsexual person on a TV talk show. The kindness in her heart was pure, not clouded by judgmental dogma. My mother-in-law engaged in hours of prayerful meditation daily. She prayed to ease world suffering, while she was oblivious to her own. Examples of their goodness are plentiful.

They both believed in heaven.  I'm convinced they found their way.  I hope somehow they can see how much they taught me, how much I miss them, how grateful I am to bask in their glory.

Storm clouds dissipate
Sun's light rays slowly appear
Glorious brilliance

(For Poets United where Sumana prompts us to write about "glory".)

Sunday, August 25, 2019

Photo Credit - Rachel Giese Brown
Mary Jane Oliver (September 10, 1935 – January 17, 2019) was an American poet who won the National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize.[1] In 2007 The New York Times described her as "far and away, this country's best-selling poet."

 I like sitting in a book store drinking coffee and reading poetry. Often I read and reread Mary Oliver, whose poetry teaches me about life, nature and its flow .  When I read her, I feel as if  we are best friends.  She died recently and I hope to honor her with my poem.


I take little sips.
Black, potent elixir opens my mind
Like an opening stage curtain
Slowly revealing
Her wise yet simple words.
"I prefer tea." she says,
"It's more like sweet 'n bitter truth.
Coffee just tries to wake us up.
As much as you drink, have you awakened?"
I look down, shrug. 
My silence grows so loud
She can hear my thoughts
About the darkness dimming earth -
Evil growing like the roots of weeds.
"It sounds like you're living a nightmare.
In death we have no dreams, no choices.
Trust me, living is better.
If it's dark, light a fire that enlightens. 
Your heart will love the heat."
Abruptly, she's gone.
I'm left alone
With all my questions. 

Wednesday, August 21, 2019

Academia Gallery, Florence, Italy


Mouth agape, eyes like marbles
Frozen in time I stared
Struck by silent still solemnity of beauty
As he gazed uncaring into ethos
Unthinking unaware of creativity's flow
The way I was ignorant 
Of creativity's power to explode 
The unknown within me
A bomb causing my every atom to expand
Into inexplicable mushroom cloud
Awakening something just as mysterious
Perhaps that's one purpose of art
To wake us up
To help us focus on what's already been created
To help us imitate appreciate preserve it
I've never visited David again
But I have a similar experience
Whenever I admire the beauty of a tree

Friday, August 16, 2019


One of my first paintings.  No need to critique.  I realize I was (am) overly ambitious.

A few years ago, I decided I would self-publish a little "adult" children's book and illustrate it myself.  It was quite an ego trip, since I only knew how to draw stick figures and knew nothing about self-publishing. But, I decided to learn a little about illustrating and after some struggles I did publish the book.  I was happy to complete a personal challenge.  

As a reward from the gods of creativity, this small accomplishment led me to appreciate drawing and painting. I took up the hobby without grandiose aspirations, but rather as a way to keep me engaged in the present moment while learning/doing something that makes me happy. All of my family and most of my friends support me in my playful endeavor as well as in my more serious long lived interest in writing poetry.

However, a sweet, lovable and loving couple whom I respect have been less than enthusiastic.  They have lived a story book romance which has enthralled me.  I once wrote a poem to honor them and the quirks of fate that brought them together.  Their reaction to the poem was lukewarm. Clearly, it displeased them.  They also didn't like a painting I had on the wall. Admittedly, it was no masterpiece (just something I copied from Pinterest), but it was one of my first attempts. My confidence plummeted as they made jokes and laughed about it.

It makes me realize that not all negative criticism is expressed verbally or even intentionally but it can certainly be thoughtless and destructive.  My friends are lovely people who would never hurt me.  Yet, had my sensitivity been more fragile, I may have eliminated some activities from my life that are a huge part of my joy. Their reactions did not nourish or improve my work in any way.  

The lesson for me, of course, is the value of lifting someone up, rather than bringing them down.  Criticism can be honest while honesty can be kind.

(Magaly at Poets United prompts us to write an essay about criticism.)