Saturday, July 23

I love clouds! The clouds in our summer sky are always spectacular. I could watch them for hours if it wasn’t so durn hot outside. For at least two weeks now we have suffered with temperatures at or over 100. And no rain, that’s the worst of it. Summer is “monsoon” season here in the southwest, but the monsoons have not yet arrived. Just a few spotty showers here and there that do nothing for the dry ground. The rains should cool things off somewhat, if they ever arrive.
Anyway, here is a poem that tries to express my love of cloud-watching:

I love clouds…

they scud, they puff,
they drift and dance,
shape-shifting all day long
like restless spirits
unable to remain one thing,
unable to be ordinary or content.

On the big screen of sky
they endlessly create,
they amuse and entertain.

I love clouds
* * * * * * * * * * *

When it does rain, New Mexicans go out and stand in it rather than donning raincoats and holding umbrellas………..

Our Mountains.
they are so blue today
hiding behind storm clouds
and crying
while in the valley by
the river
there is singing and rejoicing
for the blessing of a cool day
as we stand in the rain
faces upturned
while the blue hills pout
and want the sun to
make them pink again.

* * * * * * * * *

Speaking of mountains, the mountains that rise just to the east of my city are called the “Organs”. They are an endless source of beauty, inspiring poets and photographers alike.

Mountains in the Morning                                                            img_0700

Most mornings our mountains look sharp
and rugged against a clear blue sky.
Today they are the background
in an impressionist painting,
A smudged outline of their usual selves
Behind a screen of mysterious mist.

The wind will blow the mist away later
And the mountains will shout
“See! I am here,
as I always have been.”


July 14. Bastille Day

There was another shooting in Paris as they celebrated their “independence day.” There is no end to the carnage.
Here in the USA we are suffering under a different kind of oppression. It’s called a presidential campaign. Since politics is on most of our minds (because it is impossible to escape), I shall share a poem today that tries to express my feelings about the horror that was born and still lives in the Land of Enchantment.
I went up into the mountains just east of my city a year or so ago and looked down upon a huge military facility which is the site of the first atonic bomb test. And this is what I thought:


I am sitting under a bowl of perfect blue sky
on a hillside east of the Organs.
I see a line of distant hills and a green plain,
a vista that stretches for miles, and, over all,
a blanket of blowing dust.

There is a white ribbon near the horizon,
which I know to be a mystery of shifting sands.

A cooling breeze blows over me,
trying in vain to blow away
my thoughts of what is really below.
for it is a valley of death,
a place accepted because its jobs bless the economy
while it curses mankind with weapons.

There must always be new weapons,
new ways to kill,
new ways to be top dog,
to rule the world,
to smother love and mercy.

And so the dusty mist tries to conceal reality
just as clouds of unconcern blur our minds

and the wind blows on,
moving the sands tiny grain by tiny grain,
toward oblivion.

Poets are told that they must revise, revise, revise ! Sometimes I find it difficult to do that. Words seem to flow and tho’ I try to revise, many times it just doesn’t work. Just today I wrote a poem that I shall share here, altho’ it has not been “revised”. At least, not yet.


…about growing older—
appearances are made that
were not there just yesterday—
new pains, new stiffness in the joints,
and new pills to take,

pills multiplying rapidly, mysteriously,
prescribed by doctors who weren’t
there before either. They come
out of the shadows, gravely announcing
your fate as though they were wise.

Avoid them, my child! Their tribe and
their wealth increases as mine declines.
Seek out good health, pursue it as
a pearl of great price; sacrifice all
to obtain it.

It’s a Holiday?

Blessed 4th of July to all my US friends. Since retired people don’t have holidays and I, being Canadian, am not disposed to greatly celebrate the 4th of July, my only concession this year was to wear a red and white knit top. Red and white are the colors of the Canadian flag anyway. (smile)

Anyway….here are a couple more of my poems.


I’ve broken my favorite pottery wine goblet this morning.
The base of the stem was cracked many years ago
and I glued it back together.
I guess the glue lost its purpose at last
and got tired of holding on.
I gaze at it fondly and see it as a metaphor
for my life. I’ve been cracked before;
I’ve damaged the base of my life again and again
but managed to glue it back together somehow.
Now my glue is weakening and it seems
there is no way to hold myself together anymore.
Like my old goblet, I’ve tried to be of use
as long as I could, but I think it may be time
to reinvent myself.

After my husband died in 2004, I got a part-time job with a Home Care company. I learned how to properly care for the disabled or elderly and got quite an education about who they are and the wide variety of living situations. One cute little lady whom I really enjoyed inspired this poem:

She said……

don’t you think I’m doing well
she said
as moldy leftovers she couldn’t see
Shriveled in the refrigerator.
I think I get along fine
she said
while the steps became more daunting
and the laundry went undone.
I only need a bit of help
she said,
but phantoms of the past disturbed her mind
planting fears to banish sleep.
My children care for me
she said
but they were far away and did not understand
that the one who gave them life
now struggled to maintain her own.
I’ve had a good life
….she said.