What preparations do I make? / I laugh and pretend it’s a piece of cake I wash the dishes and clean the floor / What kind of survivor do…
This was very specifically written for my penpal. We met eight years ago over the internet and had never met in real-life. She called to let me know her mother was dying. My mom died two years prior. I immediately bought a bus ticket to be with her, but while I should be packing, I felt an overwhelming urge to clean. And afterwards, the urge came back, but in the form to write about it.
Their silent messages ride the wind. My sons and daughter cast their dry Royal Coachman flies the way I taught them, the way my father ta…
My mom and dad come from Anaconda and Butte, Montana, even though she was born in Fargo, North Dakota. They moved to Berkeley, California, where I grew up, but every summer we went to Montana for several weeks to visit with relatives. This song lyric describes my memories of Montana, fly fishing, and the good times that surrounded my family.
An evening snow / A crackling fire / My thoughts drift far away
I wrote this on a snowly plane flight from Ottawa to Detroit one year. I was feeling lonely, and this song lyric just popped into my mind. The next thing I knew, the flight was over, and I was flying from Detroit to my home in San Francisco.
I’ll think of you like chokecherries / skin and mealy seeds / bundled, grainy, / juicy and sweet / the hows and whats and whys and wheres / of…
9.2008 I could make this poem go on and on for a very long time…kind of like Montana does.
Snowflakes float gently to the ground as I break over a ridge, scanning the clearing in front of me for elk. The silence is so loud it a…
Written back in the 1990’s, before I moved to Pennsylvania. Though I love hunting in PA with my husband, I sure do miss hunting elk with my dad and brother!
From vegan punkers to carnivorous cowboys, I met quite a few colorful characters in that wet, beautiful month of May.
One man’s journey into the woods and back again
The trees a mystical haven / My soul knows their ancient language / I love the stories they tell
Before I knew my husband Robert, my greatest solace in this world, was to be alone in the forest. In the Thompson River country, there’s a meadow on a mountain top, where I used to go. It was a magical, mystical place. I wrote this while I was sitting at the base of a pine tree. The tree was 60 foot high, it had been living there since the beginning of the forest. When the never ending breeze came through the forest, the sound it made brought comfort to me. I spent days alone in this forest.
Your soul knows the tune, but your mind / Could never write the notes / It’s you and God and the forest and the snow
I wrote this when I was in the Thompson River country. I used to go there to spend time alone in the forest.
Little Creek tunnel / Babbbling sounds, / Elk, deer, coyote, tracks abound.
There was another place I loved to go in the Thompson River Country, I called it the “Little Creek Tunnel”. It was a wonderful, babbling creek trail, which made a sudden turn to run through trees and brush with over hanging limbs and branches. When you drove through this trail, you went through this wonderful tunnel, and you were covered by those over hanging limbs. In winter, the branches were loaded with snow. In summer they were full of singing birds. I’m going to go back to this place one of these days!
It has been quite some time since I have posted to this blog. In my last epistle I spoke of plans changing. They surely did for me. I had…
When they arrived at the bar, Robert’s dad carried the coyote in, the guy paid him for it, and put the coyote in a cooler in the back room.
Blast a dime hole / through is chest / and hes dead before his eyes close.
Poem base on a true story
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