Best Laid Plans

worthkeepcollage

I came across this piece I wrote over ten years ago and decided to post it.  Reading through it I thought, oh my, what a difference a decade makes!  I am not as audacious now as then, for sure.  I know I TRULY have no more time to waste, not to mention money to spend!

Since I wrote the following piece,  I have fallen as much in love with jewelry making, acrylic painting, and decorating hat boxes (not at the same time) as with all the other creative endeavors preceding them.  Those things naturally ran their course the same as did the others I wrote about back then.  Always I come back to my writing.  It patiently waits for me, my old, most faithful, long-suffering friend.  I will never say never, but for now, I believe my addiction to dabbling in various distractions and dalliances, has truly lost its passion, I really do.  The years have gotten away from me, and now the time has come to settle down and seriously focus.  I have two books to finish.  But again, the best laid plans. . . .  Continue reading Best Laid Plans

Choices: Chapter 10

old hand writing for journal
Chapter X
1836
The Republic of Texas

I woke up that first morning contemplating my next move in this new place. I didn’t know anything about the area. Was there a trading post, other settlers?  If there were others, they would most likely be along the river, probably further southwest. It was an uncertain time in the territory. The both of us traveling a distance on one horse was risky but we had no choice. We needed tools, basic supplies, a mule and a wagon. Continue reading Choices: Chapter 10

Choices: Chapter 4

old hand writing for journal

Chapter IV
Things Change
Autumn, 1821

Crockett rode up one morning wanting to know if I’d be interested in doing some exploring, a little surveying in the territory northwest, almost halfway to the Mississippi, and thought I might want to look around there, perhaps laying claim to a homestead for myself. I had been splitting logs close to the boat’s mooring when he rode up behind me.  Everyone else was over at the Wilkes place.  I was glad it had worked out that way. Continue reading Choices: Chapter 4

Choices: Chapter 3

old hand writing for journal
Chapter III
Colonel Crockett
1820

We got married on June 30, 1820, on a Friday evening at the Wilkes’ house. The preacher came down from Pitts Burg Landing to perform the ceremony.  He was a Baptist, quite young, a red-faced Scotch-Irish fellow, another Wilkes’ relative.  Danny was not a religious man, as far as I knew. The subject never came up. I had been baptized at Christ’s Church in Montreal, but had never taken to the church life myself, having found it to be an inconvenience, as had my parents.  Mana and her family, on the other hand, were Baptists. Mrs. Wilkes belonged to The Primitive Baptist Church, but Mana must have taken after her father in that respect, for Homer rarely attended services.  Mrs. Wilkes spent a lot of time excusing their absences. Continue reading Choices: Chapter 3

The Last Ovalian

ovalianEsta, old and dying, stood at the gate.  She had lived from the beginning to the end.  She had come from the place of perpetual bliss to this planet of death, but she had not come freely.  She sank to the ground, her wizened old fingers clutching the dirt, as she summoned the great wings of thought. Come, take me back to Ova, she willed.   As her head fell to rest upon the brown parchment remains of the garden’s dying trees, Esta remembered.  Ova was gone. Continue reading The Last Ovalian

Eve in Bloom

LifeWay back there in birthing bed
alone again she’d weep.
Year after year, new flesh, new bone,
pushed out like temporal teeth.
Ripped from its sockets by the roots,
life gasped and screamed for air,
then quieted down in perfect peace
to rich maternal fare.

Grandmother soil, warm and fertile,
the perfect garden spot.
She was Eve in efflorescence:
Black-eyed Susans, Blazing Stars,
Snow-drops, Spring Beauties,

Ragweed and Clover.
She was Eden, perennially pregnant.

Wildflowers, we speckle the landscape,
earth’s laughter, we nourish and flavor the land.
Spawned one by one in darkened rooms,
loosed as fledglings from cradling hands:
farmers, herders,
builders, teachers,
healers.
Grandchildren,
we explore, we discover,
we dance, we sing,
we think.

Anita Stubbs

Give Me the Wine

eveLast night the dogwood bloomed,
splattering white all over the woods.
What magic transpired while I soundly slept,
to lighten their previous mood?
Give me the wine that frees the mind,
the nectar sipped by Eve.
Just let me taste one sparkling drop
to counteract this sleep.
Let Inspiration’s sweetest juice
remove this misty veil,
so I can see the mystery
Eden could not conceal.
Anita Stubbs

Words

writing coverWords are garments
which clothe my thoughts,
like fabric woven from threads.
They can be worn loosely, letting my spirit breathe,
or, bound so tightly, the thoughts are never free.
A few thoughts, essentially unspeakable,
I must wrap warmly in dark, heavy wool,
dressing them carefully for discretion’s sake-
But the majority can be draped in transparent lace,
and exposed to the world.
Anita Stubbs

Mother to Daughter

mothers-day-photo
Artist Unknown

Because you are
I’m fully conscious of unconditional love.
Because you are, I know the texture
of being the center of.
Your awareness of my being,
is not shared by anyone,
not by mother, sisters, father, brother,
not by husband, not by sons.
A daughter’s love, unique and pure,
cares as no one can.
As I am, you are.
as you are, I am.
Anita Stubbs