January 29, 2014

CowboyHatGirl Sigh. The muse hides itself and I am running around looking for it. Hide and Seek. Not so bad, just means I need to read more. Now that my own manuscript is done and out for blurbs from three prize winning poets, I want a new project to work on. I discovered a western poet who wrote a book called Johnny Ringo, Red Shuttleworth, so I ordered his book; it is a full length poem, not in prose, but a page by page blow of his life as an ownry outlaw, maybe just a misunderstood man who was born in the old west (Tombstone, AZ).


Something I might have to sink my own teeth into! Let the rodeo begin!

Old West Revivalist- Poet

January 22, 2014

Bison2 copy

Yeah, I like the sound of that. No real preaching, but yet reminders- of what once was.

It’s never gone when you rise it up in story. Line by line reminding others.

The Mythic West in Twentieth-Century America by Robert Athearn does it. I was very inspired by this book. Lent it to a friend, and hope I get it back.

We will never get the old west back, the wild is completely lost. It was too rugged for the folks back east. Many wanted it eradicated. The old west became a side show for them, rather than go visit. The population wanted civilized, similarity, and overly cloned society.

When  terror becomes the backbone of modernization, it disguises itself as bravery, and destroys what was once dear to many. They can live side by side. Destroy extinct madness.


January 18, 2014

Time comes and walks back out,
like an old dog waiting for his dinner.
Writing has since done the same for me
back in 08 blog writing was a new scene
I towed my own line down that river,

cold as it was to start.
Others water flowed by,
leaves caught on the wind
dropped down to take a ride.
It’s inviting even when snow falls.

A few readers drop in on conversations,
about life and love and agitation
when family was good
when things turned sour and burned
food crept in

Always on the stove of the mind
heating up the days congestion
words coursed through the throat
a life line of all things burdened.
High heat can scald milk,

but left out for two hours,
you can make yogurt, add culture.
Taste better with fresh fruit
crushed with some honey, left
in a cold dry place.

This piece just kind of came to me, not sure it will be a permanent piece for a book. I’ll let it sit for a while…

Somebody dun gone and made my life more complicated, again. Yeah, they gave me a Blake Shelton CD for Christmas, thanks Val, hubs step-mom. I listened to him singing about being country and what happened? Oh come ‘on, you know I drafted a few more poems for my book. Now I have to draw a line somewhere, the rest can go into the next book, which I even thought, yeah I think with that silly brain. How ’bout ‘Something About Being Country’. It’s settled.

The Sweet Life We’re Given

On the back porch
Momma would serve up
her famous sweet tea,
maybe a fresh squeezed lemonade
so much sugar you’d giggle.
Even the neighbors were invited.
The laundry would blow fresh
after we twisted and let the water
run down into the grass.

It was never just on Sunday
seems three kids dirty up more clothes
than our daddy could gather up
those wooden clothespins
from the garage lines.
Strung up over his old flat-bottom
we’d take down to the river
if there was energy
and time.

Was it the sitting in the sunshine
drinking up, eating everything
that came our way,
because we didn’t have much
at times— tomatoes and mayo
on cheap white bread,
sometimes melted Colby on saltines,
dodging stale cereal popped high
in the air
brought on laughs,
you just forgot what wasn’t there.

If someone told me we had nothing
there would be no argument
from my own kids,
it’s not because they aren’t grown
finding their own way
eating ramen off a hot plate
buying cheap beer
grilling hamburgers with their friends
every Saturday night.

One day they’ll remember it all;
how I squeezed ripe lemons
poured all the sugar into the pitcher
just like momma.
How even on bad days,
crisp towels hung out rock hard
to dry on cold days on the back rail;
we had more as a family, a sweet life sitting out
on the old porch
than emotionally down and out
rich folk do spreading dollar bills
off Rodeo Drive.