Thursday, June 26, 2014


Two mourning doves perched on a fence. He fluttering his feathers, flitting his tail, doing the dance on the balance beam. She watching, stepping away in her dainty steps, turning around to look the other way. For three hours the birds performed, a live theatre under the clear blue sky and our very own sun as the spot light. They flew off with the breeze, perhaps to carry on their courting for a new audience, on a different fence, or branch of a tree, or on a poolside patio.

A cicada killer wasp, nestled between the window and the screen. Slid half-way up, the glass holds the creature back from invading the indoors. Secured on all sides, the screen keeps it from its freedom. Its waspy body crawls up and then down, right and then left unable to escape. It’s long, translucent wings, instruments to call its mate flutter in desperation, their music without any sound. Encased within two barriers through which it can see the high ceilings of the indoors or the open sky outside, the creature quivers, paces, finds an opening and takes flight. Liberated it soars and returns to its seasonal music that sounds like the rattles of the desert snake.
An innocent squirrel scurries across the fence, leaps onto a tree branch, traverses down the trunk towards the birdfeeder. Gorging down the seeds on the ground in a hurry, spent, it falls flat on its stomach. It’s mouth bulging, stomach packed, energy depleted, desire unsated. Moments later it scuttles back to its home in the tree only to be tormented by the mocking bird that calls it home as well. A Roadrunner act comes into play as the squirrel dashes across the yard with the bird hovering overhead, it scurries across the fence under the squabble of beak, and it hides in the branches only to be assaulted within their canopy. The scene plays on for hours, fusing from Act 1 into 2 and 3. The two dash through yards, front and back, between houses, across boundaries unrecognized in their world. Then suddenly, a truce is called and each go their own way, until next time.
A blackbird loiters by the pool’s edge, its chlorine blue water shimmering in the bright day. It spots a June bug floating in the center whose slim legs wave in the air. The bug drifts on its back, helpless on the cool water’s surface. The bird tilts to the left, then to the right grasping the edge with its dainty feet and in a flash its wings open up and it glides to the center of the pool, diving just a smidgen. Failed to grab the helpless bug, it flies to the other end, re-evaluates and dives again. The June bug is rescued from drowning and becomes nourishment for a little blackbird.
A rabbit treads out from under the rosemary bush, strides toward a shady patio and watches a human sitting on a chair, book in hand. It plods forward stopping to admire the scenery at every turn, its mouth moving constantly, nose sniffing incessantly. Picking up a familiar scent creeping up from its rear, it scampers forward, decides a left turn, changes its mind and turns around in a circle with the beagle close on its tail in hot pursuit. It sprints to the far end of the yard, from the side of the pool, does an eight around the two trees and runs back into the rosemary bushes. The beagle maneuvers the course as an Olympic champion, curves around the bends expertly and keeps pace with the tiny creature. His bulk around the belly, long hours of rest and comfortably secure life contributing to his handicap in this chase his breed was born to perform. The beagle buries his nose, face, half his body, in the fragrant bushes, lying in wait for a tiny movement or minute mistake by the little creature. Several minutes tick away as all that is seen is the Beagle’s tail upright like a flag, waving, wagging, wiggling, until he gives up and returns to his interrupted nap under the cool breeze of the ceiling fan.
This kingdom under the sun and moon where there is game, much romance, fight for survival and a lot of dance. Each day is new with renewed verve and vigor to stave of starvation. Each night is fearful and then thankful for not becoming the hunted. The cycle endures, theatre persists, acts performed and we the humans, sit back and watch. If the actors come too close for our comfort, encroach into our turf, we complain, shoo or whack them away.

But whose turf is it really?
Who is the one really intruding?
Who is truly wild?


Sunday, June 8, 2014


I wrote a book

in all of ten years,

guiding force a woman,

my near and dear,


it started as mourning,

to celebrate a lost life

of woman with much grit,

formidable mother, and wife


a shawl of comfort and healing

she nestled her large brood

through turmoil, nation divided,

loss, and scarce food.


In writing the book

I celebrated my grandmother,

what I learned was not just her life,

but how to be a woman and mother


I learned how to live

and tap into the mettle,

an essence of our pedigree

whether we roam or settle.


The book is not a story

of people in life, fiction, or gone,

it is an elixir, a being, breathing,

giving air for her to be reborn.


The process to script

became life lessons on verve,

raking the past to reveal

a future full of nerve,


resonating her spirit

her message to rise above it all

for the next lines in her blood,

a family together will not fall.


I am who I am, because of the book,

not just for what’s in it,

but who I became crafting it.


The milestone that defines me,

as a woman of robust pedigree!