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
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
Reaching, reaching deeper.
Pulling, pulling inward through the darkness
Into the very core,
Into the fiery light,
I am the sun fragmented.
Embryonic granule of the Whole,
The Center, the One:
Mother of pearl.
Esta, 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
Heaven is deep in a wooded glen
Still damp from an early rain,
Where Harmony hangs sweet
In the pungent pine,
And its presence knows my name.
Way 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:
we explore, we discover,
we dance, we sing,
Last 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.
Once, a poetic woman
found the heartbeat of God
beneath a blade of grass.
She simply pulled the leaves apart
and felt the ancient pulse.
When she pressed her palm against the living earth,
and felt the power pounding,
she surely was compelled
To lay her body down.
Breast to breast,
heart to heart,
This old house squats around me, over me
Like a brooding mother hen,
Her wings spreading out, to gather me close,
To confine me to her sagging, cozy bosom.
This old house speaks to me, privately,
Like a jealous old lover,
Resenting the chiming doorbell,
The ringing telephone,
Their rude presumptuousness.
Nestling down around me,
Her creaking old body embraces my fears,
And I snuggle deeper into her womb.
Words 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.