Mother’s Day 2023

“Everybody should be quiet near a little stream, and listen.” Maurice Sendak I follow the path. It’s quiet. A covey of quail stir in the undergrowth. Their mama whispers a warning. As I pass … stillness. Trees abound: oaks, maples, and dogwood. White firs, shaggy with lichen, border the trail. A lone ponderosa pine towers … More Mother’s Day 2023

Under the Dying Stars

“We are always here and always leaving. We are water, like the river, just passing through.” David Budbill I walk the waterfront. A damp wind batters me. The normal crowd is absent. Too cold. An armada of scoters dive near the shore, oblivious to the temperature and rain. Above me, convoys of geese traverse the … More Under the Dying Stars

Libra Lullaby

“… since we must always have a suffering world, we must also always have a song” David Budbill It’s said that “a Libra’s purpose is to use its unbiased and fair stance to fight for the practical cause of the world and make it become a better place. They like balance and justice.” Hmm … … More Libra Lullaby

Anatomy of a Song

“… writing a song can be like chasing a wounded bird down a road.” Lori McKenna I’ve been writing cringe worthy poetry for more than 60 years. I’m always thinking in rhythm and rhyme, listening for the music in words. I can’t stop scratching the itch to write. My last post, The Indifferent Gardener, linked … More Anatomy of a Song

The Winter of Life

It’s the winter of life. Ads for funeral services pepper my mailbox. Mortuaries stalk people my age. The implication, I suppose, is that I don’t have too many decades left. It’s nice to be wanted. Eventually, I’ll buy what they have to sell. But, for now, I’ll wait. There are more songs to write. It’s … More The Winter of Life

What Next?

In September, smoke from wildfires shut down activities in much of Oregon. An eerie mustard colored sky shrouded the community of Hood River. The burnt smell of the air created a vacancy reminiscent to March/April’s sheltering in place. Eyes itched and stung; throats seized up dry and scratchy. People were dispossessed of how to pass … More What Next?

In the Oregon Hills

I can’t remember how I learned to read. I don’t recall the teacher’s patience to help me sound out vowels and consonants. Nor the prompts to form these sounds into words. Was I encouraged at home by my parents? If so, there’s no memory. That process disappeared with time. Yet, the gradual step by step … More In the Oregon Hills