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This film won an Oscar last night. This 15 year-old’s life and art are awe inspiring. She is my hero.

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Finding Voice

Before the time a
forever home found
me the words took
shape drew me in
between covers
spewed forth in stories
creating who I was
am     changing as
pages turned
new leaves written on
scraps stored
loosely collected
stacked one on
another becoming
changling       were-human
shape not quite
shifted not knowing
ending nor origin
title undefined
words  spoken spurts of
ink energizing voice
sound waves swirling
ghostly visage
visible only in passing

When breeze blows

softly you envision

sandstorm,

a drop of rain

falls sharply on

your nose becomes

monsoon,

every strike

of lightening fells

a forest;

that would be you

listening to me.

I want to change the focus of this blog. I am not sure of the direction it will take, but perhaps we can decide that together (if, of course there are still people following).  I am dismayed at the political landscape in the United States, bothered by the general intellectual discourse, and yet am optimistic. Go figure!

I guess I want to move in the direction I have always been afraid to: unadulterated truth.  Whether it is contained in memoir or fiction an individual’s truth is paramount and is to be respected.  I want to “Be My Own Story” but have spent the bulk of my 60 years living someone else’s. Only in my writing have I lived fully and honestly..  I want to marry the words and the actions. Somehow, I want this blog to be the catalyst, definition? I am not sure yet…Let’s see…

 
Music of the day is
accompanied by the timpani of
jackboots hitting the pavement in the
 heel-toe, heel-toe cadence ofbrown-shirts marching ever closer

Leaders reach into the magic

hat of history twisting the

rabbit into a pigeon while the

disc-jockey assistant lies, his

hate-filled patter a clear

counterpoint to the act on the stage
.

It takes a generation to

paint the kind of picture an

artist like Hitler prefers: to

mix perfect colors on the

palette of politics,

layer canvas with deft

invocation of race,

surround it with a gilded

economic frame, and

hang it in a gallery of fear, where

heroic Wagner is background to

cocktails and conversation of

Midas and his uniformed friends.

 

 

*With thanks and apology to The Beatles

Artist’s gallery on

Spanish Land Grant

‘bought for a song’

her mosaics haphazard

stone, tile, shell,

shards of ancient

pottery, pieced:

forming portraits, landscapes,

fetish frogs.

Others’ matted photographs

lightening arced through

purple sky to

red Laguna mesas.

Petroglyph symbols

copied on pueblo

sandstone, vibrant

primary green, yellow

stolen from

reservation rainbow.

Vibrations of road

still thrum through

muscle       eardrums

one hundred miles

on old Route 66

faded neon

peeling painted letters

stranded signs

standing tall above

decayed buildings

desiccated autos

washboard road meandering

over       under I 40

knitting new and old