A Moment in Time

And so the lady bug, she crawls,

Across the leaf so carefully,

That the leaf feels only tiny feet

tickling its tender parts.

The child sees,

The child sees its tender crawl,

The Intricate pattern of the spider's web,

The sweet rounded edges of the hummingbird nest,

With the spider web weave and dew.

And perhaps a piece of grass or moose shed too.

The child sees the glitter in the rock, the circles in the pool, the dung beetle's mystery.

The child sees what the grownups miss.

The child sees no color difference, no age difference,

Only the magic of that difference.

The child hears everything,

The birds song sweet in its tune,

The anger in the voice of fear and doom.

The child senses, strong and keen; examines everything,

The dandelion flower, a drop of dew, the pollen dust, the earth taste too.

The oozing pitch, the tiny seed,  the tiny feet upon a leaf.

So, hold still your parenting, and listen to the child.

Allow and observe all the child can bring.

Enjoy each and every moment a child sings,

It is fleeting and leaves in the flash of a blink.

The Mystery of life.

I sit and wonder the why of things with no answers quickly coming.

I sit and wonder the how of things and they are dark with the light behind them.

I know not what the surface will bring, be it white, or dark, with shadows hiding.

I know not what the day will bring as I sit and wonder the why and how of things.

If I moved about now, would I see it all, I wonder and I wonder at the cause of things.

And yet to sit and wonder is to dream, not out loud, but quietly, inward.

So I shall sit for a bit and wonder the cause of things and sip my coffee slowly.

I sit and wonder the how of things, the where and why of things the goodby of things and people.

As we grow older this happens along the way. That being one of the pains and pangs of life.

We have to have the bad with the good. That is why belief was created.

If one can not accept the end-ness of a life well lived, one invents another existence.

Was that how religion was born. An Other colorless world full of niceness.

And then another world full of ugliness to keep us in line and believing.

I do not believe in that world of ugly-ness as we have that here.

And it is not separate and is not all ugly but colorful and full of interest.

Life is often a mystery, not given to letting us know what is going to happen.

So I will sit and wonder the why of things that are here right now and those to come.

That mystery and its cause and effect on the world we live in and those (other) to maybe come.

Life is what we create of it. What we cause of it to happen. It is not just chance.

And so I shall sit and wonder my why of things, that have come my way like a dance.

A dance I partake in, live in, enter into, with satisfaction of all that is in it.

That richness people bring to it and bring to it, be it color or sadness.

For that is what this life is all about, anyway: the hows and whys, and effects of things.

I shall embrace the hows and whys of the world to come or what I have left of it.

I will appreciate each day, with its richness and be thankful for it all.

Crow woman with goats looking out,

she cares too much and feels the same,

from deep in her center comes a yearning,

for her deep pocketed thoughts.

From deep within her core come the dark,

worries of future generations.

She ponders all that is leaving the earth.

She grieves for all that are gone.

She clings to the beings protectively,

for they bring light and life to her spirit.

Why of Things

I might ponder the why of things

The how of things to come.

Wondering the why of things,

and we can see no reason.

But there is a reason, I suppose.

Great minds will ponder.

The world is a crazy, crazy,

Spinning mass of overpopulation.

Dirty, filthy, screaming mass.

Maybe that is why.

The planet is headed for destruction,

Of all life upon it....except the cockroaches

And a few things besides.

Who will be left...we know not.

Some say by 2040....not so far away.

So we must treasure each day we have,

Look out at nature and take pleasure.

Wondering  the why of things.

The how of things to come.

I long for a vacation out of my mind,

to visit places both far and away.

All I need is the time to go and

then money to pay, day by day.

I long for a trip outside of myself,

To places I've never been

To see city scapes and mountain views

To capture images I've never seen.

I LONG TO TRAVEL OUTSIDE AGAIN,

To see the sights that wait anew,

To smell fragrances of oders on the wind

to taste the sweetness of outside too.

I long to taste the foods out there,

the spices I have not known.

I love to feel the textures anew.

And see colors in food closeby grown.

'

I sit and can not write on this sunny day,

The peckers are drumming on my wall.

It is loud and calling the troops to meet.

I hope they are hearing its call.

I sit and can not write this day,

My mind on other, mindless stuff,

I can't bring the words to mind this day,

It is turning to bits of fluff.

Birds flying around outside, doing their daily chores.

I stare from inside while doing mine,

Wanting nothing but to be outdoors.

Back to work as the coffee is down to the grinds.

But I long to be outdoors with the birds,

Nothing else seem to enter my spring set mind.

I will end now my silly words.

Ravens

As I gaze out my view I see you fly,

Swaying gracefully in the still, blue, cloudy sky.

Above and through, dipping, gliding, swings.

As if you were a flying carpet made of wings.

You are joined by others flying high,

Each of you missing, as you own the sky,

An inconvenience you chortle and shout out loud,

"We own the sky, we own you, we own the cloud."

At last you land on one tall straight tree,

To survey the heavens and all that be.

Your words lift me up and take me along on a journey,

To a place I might not otherwise go....what a journey.

I say, Take me along, I shall be a companion in my mind when I can not be in my person.

I love to travel the wind and air,

Off somewhere with nary a care,

But the actual grounding of my thoughts.

For when I am grounded, I think not pleasant things.

But the reality of the harsh, cruel world we are becoming.

Instead of what nature has always tried to bring us, give us in its entirety.

Why can man not leave nature as it is?

Why can not woman speak out against his cruel treatment of nature.

And be heard. Some mighty men care lots. Let them be heard as well.

So you see where my thoughts lead and depressing as they are,

This is what I am thinking on a daily basis now.

Look sweetly to the good things happening, but they are far and few between.

I must look for them in the daily life of things.

I must look to the light and think positively on the people working towards that light.

I must think about what good things will happen to my friend in a hospital far away.

How her life will be yet another wonderful chapter in her creative endeavor.

I must think that there is a reason for everything,

I must become a believer in the positive posture of everything.

Each day is filled with the surprise of a new challenge.
It is ours to choose most of the time and we do.
To choose at least in how we begin and end that day.
Work fills much of it. We can choose to like the work,
Or we can choose to dislike the work.
But work It is. And it is all ours.
Each new day brings the steadiness of a new perspective.
We can see it at different angles, different degrees of separation.
Different emotions at how we approach the challenge.
Life, play whatever it be.

Front Porch

Front Porch

I am sitting on that porch of that cabin.
The night noises echo through the dark,
They are a comfort to me at my age.
They are not so to every living creature,
A coyote runs past in a flash, fluffy tail, fluffy body.
The prey animal must watch for the predator, always.
The feral cats disappear all at once in a flash.
I will not think about that this night, we are all prey to those that be.
One must grow a frog skin and repel the ugly thoughts and deeds.
One must think about the good of those that care.
Another night on the mountain of my day dreams.
A long many years spent on that mountain.
I have been fortunate in my living places.
I chose always to live near nature, in the wild places.
The wild places in both my mind and my actual.
I do not want to leave these wild places.
Ever, do I dream to stay, the wild calls, the call of the wild.

A little story:

There was once a little soul who lived in a hole in the wide old oak.

She never spoke, she never spoke, but dreamed and when she woke,

She realized that her tongue was gone.

She left the oak, and went looking for her words,

Where could they be THOUGHT she and she traveled first to the WILLOW TREE,

Near the CABIN in the WOODS and looked there, looked for the COLORFUL words.

No one lived in the OLD CABIN as it had been abandoned many YEARS.

She looked in the CHAIR, and UNDER the bed.

She looked in the MIRROR over her HEAD.

She looked with PLEASURE, she looked with DREAD.

She picked up the MANY WORDS and CARRIED them HOME.

For here were a FEW, and ENOUGH, she said.

The next morning her tongue had returned.

She breathed in deeply knowing full well what she had learned.

Hatari

I watched Hatari last night.
John Wayne not at his best....his worst.
Killing his way through the African savanna.
Decades later we see what the taking of the wild beasts,
Has done to the the animals themselves.
Put in zoos and other like places for our pleasure.
The animal psyche not considered at all.
Monkeys pulled from their families, put in cages, tested,
poked at, laughed at, torchered,
God only know what else.
All for our pleasure and expense.

What is wrong with MAN.

Ravens

Words, black on a white page.
 small words, large words, long, short, capitals.
lower case letters piling up on white page.
What are they spelling out, a spiral, a line.
Thoughts, paralyzing those who read them.
Like crows they travel together, black against the light sky.
Like ravens they are not silent. Caw, and knock, chork, caw.
Like crows, up and down on a line....caw, caw, knock, chork.
Words, cutting, smoothing, biting, stabbing, glossing.
Words, sometimes truthful, sometimes............. not.
Time. to. take. tommy. to. town. tuesday. thursday. today.
Ravens glide swiftly across the day sky, in pairs, alone,
They fly jump from pine tree to fir tree, caw, caw, knock, Chork.

The day after the longest election of the Nasty woman.

I sit and wonder the why of things......
Out of my control, out of whack........
 Nov 9, 16.....a day to get through.
Out to nowhere, tucked in bed,
Head buried under the pillow.
Sunny skies, cold blue day.
Why do some men hate women so.
They want them helpless, subservient.
They want them for their own, to control,
to own, to master over. They want them.
They hate them, and yet possess them.
A strong woman a force to reckon with.

Bonfires

Another memory of bonfires.
On the beach when young,
The salt soaked wood making that special tantalizing smell only salt water can make,
the sense of smell and taste.
The waves beating against the shore, wave after wave after wave, after wave.
The smoke from the salt water soaked wood rising and making a steamy smoke in the air. The crackling, fire spitting out little spurts of fire bursting in the air with a snap.
The smell of sand of many days and nights being beaten against the shore, and a few days of hot sun beating down, roasting it.
Those fires where just that....a fire to keep warm in the cold northern California air. To keep the night at bay and the body warm. They were wonderful.

Bonfires now are of the woods, the smell of the woods, rising to the air and giving off scents of moss, bark, rain soaked and dried leaves, and anything and everything gathered to make the fire roar, into the night. Rising in the dark, filling the animal eyed darkness with soft light from the campfire, the bonfire. They are also fire to cook the food, the steaks, chicken, toast, hamburgers, ribs and fish of many a night. Potatoes and corn wrapped in tin foil and cooked in the coals pulled away from the fire so not to burn them.

A teenage memory

A memory from when I was 13/14.
I remember the bedroom with the twin beds.
I remember the stereo playing loudly into the night, Patsy Cline, Marty Robins, singing cowboy songs. They were sad and I liked to listen to them while falling asleep.
I remember feeling safe there.
I remember the cool brown leather chair on a hot hot afternoon in the welcoming room with the books in the bookcase. My sister worked at the local bank so I was there alone most of the day except for when the guys came home for lunch. In the hot afternoons I would sit in the leather chair reading gown-up books.
I remember bologna sandwiches, with Dr Pepper and potato chips. I remember the thick slices of tomato, homemade pickles, and lettuce in the sandwiches and how they tasted with the Dr. Pepper.
I had never had bologna or Dr Pepper before.
I remember the very large house, different from the one I grew up in but similar. It was open inside and had lovely antique furniture. It also had a mother. She was nice to me. My sister didn't like her much. I didn't know why, really, except maybe she didn't get along with her son. This was the first place my sister lived with her husband after they were married. My sister's mother in law went to live with one of her daughters a year later.
I remember the big sorrel mare, so big that I had to climb up on a bale of hay to saddle her with the heavy saddle. I rode her bareback sometimes, because it was easier than putting the saddle on. I loved to ride her out in the field by the house. She was fun to ride because she was so big and she minded well. She was going to have a foal and She liked to run. Her name was Millie.
I remember the boy who used to come and work with my sister's husband. His name was Andy, he was 16, and he liked to tease me. He was a sweet boy really. He was nice to me. I had a crush on his older brother because he was so shy. They both had girlfriends.
Andy had twin sisters who would come and take me riding with them, I would ride behind either of them on their tight little mustang horses. They were wild. We would ride at breakneck speed along the canal road. I would hold on, the wind in my hair and know we would get there in one piece. It was exciting and I loved it all. Darlene and Carlene slept with their boyfriends. I was so aware of it all. No one talked about that much in my family while growing up. I was interested in hearing it all. They read National Inquirer, and teen magazines. They would leave them at the house. I had never seen them before. My mother didn't like them.
I remember a dance my other sister and I went to when she was there visiting as well. It was an outside dance and I had to wear a skirt. I didn't much want to go and I hated wearing the skirt, but I went. No one asked me to dance. I was so young. Andy made one of his friends ask me to dance. I didn't really know how to dance. It was awkward.......I was awkward. I was glad to get back home.
I remember Summertime visits with my sister were too short and I would return to my own life after a few weeks and dream about being back there even though I loved my life at home.  I would adjust again to my life at home after about 2 days but I would miss my oldest sister and her different world.

To Blog or not to Blog.

To blog or not to blog.
When one likes to write creatively, it is sometimes like pulling teeth, painful,
Or, it flows down by way of gravity to a pool of words.
One can hope for all things wonderful coming out on paper or one can ramble and have nothing but a lot of words. Incoherent at times but then it depends on the reader and the time taken to try to understand.
One must be honest with oneself but not with the audience. Honesty might be from the subconscious and not from the immediate memory. So what is really the honest memory?
Another question. I am not answering that now, here.
For this entry is about to blog or not to blog.
I will settle this by blogging that I will write creatively or not when I feel like it....or when I can remember to do it. Ah, that fleeting memory which escapes me each day.
One might think that one hides the fact that memory is escaping with the busyness of each day. With all the activities one escapes to. But if the memory is escaping how can one get anything accomplished. Exactly, one can't get everything accomplished so one ponders that for endless amounts of time. Yikes. I must get back to work.

January 1, 2015......a new year.
Blog entries should be made more often,
Life should be about painting and writing,
Life should be about husband, about family,
About my art and what makes me an artist.

Life should be smooth and pleasant and lovely,
About friends that make me feel good about myself and them,
About the time spent on community involvement,
About time spent on political and environmental issues.

Resolutions should be about all these things,
About doing what is best for me and others,
About solving the problems of the world in particular.
I am here to focus on all those things with my friends.

Rides.............

When I was younger, I always had a horse. I would ride all the time and I mean everyday. I would run the  horses or gallop fast and free, sometimes with a saddle and sometimes not. My first horse was named, Jim. He was an ex racehorse. He was a Thoroughbred and was very tall. My sister and I owned and rode him together and alone with our older sister who had her own horse.
My second horse was named Cricket. She was a little bay, part Morgan I am sure, and was a sturdy, stubborn little thing but I loved her. We did everything together. She had been my oldest sister's horse but I inherited her when I was 8 and my sister went off to high school boarding school.

Cricket would buck and jump around and would move when I tried to get on her. She would do other things as well but I grew wary and learned to deal with all of these tricks-traits. I only fell off her when riding bareback and she tripped. Otherwise I would stick to her like glue. I think, in the end, she loved me too. I took very good care of her. I groomed her and braided her tail and mane. She was my good good friend.
So I always had a ride. My little black jeep, now my younger brother's, was my like my little Cricket.

My third horse was named Jackson and he was a beautiful quarter horse that my dad bought for me from my roommate my senior year of high school. It was the year my mom died. He thought I needed a distraction and Jackson was that. My roommate was going to go into the convent when we graduated and she wanted her Jackson to have a good home and he did. He was so polished and the best horse I would ever have. I loved him dearly and he loved me. We spent lots of time together and covered many miles over the years. He moved to Idaho with us and we were happy to have him.

Now I have a smoother, new ride (like Jackson) which the mechanics took in yesterday with a promise that it will be fixed soon

Morning Ponderings

Do the leaves flip over to receive the rain? I think they do.
Does the bird realize there is a black shiny cat sitting under its little hidden nest? I think it does.
Does the deer realize the small structure in the middle of its path houses humans within? I think they do.
I sit here looking out the huge wall window at the many goings on in front of me. Do I appreciate it? I think I do.
Does the bitter, acidic taste of coffee, sweetened with honey and almond milk, improve my brain? I think it does.
Will I always be here to look out at this aliveness in front of me? I hope I will.