Wednesday, April 29, 2015

Looking out my writing window.
In my bio, to seem like an interesting writer to readers, I say that Bob and I live next to a secret pond in Omaha, NE, visited by mink, fox, grebes, a Great Blue Heron and other lurking wildlife. I thought perhaps it was time to show blog, face book visitors and readers that my magical window was real and not a figment of an imaginative mind. Called secret because not too many know about this unusual city neighborhood, we found it only because our daughter is a real estate agent. There's a handful of townhouses and three single dwellings built around four interconnected ponds. If I look over my left shoulder, I see the view above. In the future, I'll post other shots of wildlife as they stroll by. Previously I wrote two photographically illustrated nature books, so this was the perfect place to be. In Tucson, we left a house set between two washes that functioned as roadways for all kinds of desert wildlife. I was worried the move from AZ to NE would take me away from nature, but looking out inspires me to write any and everything, including a quirky mystery.    

Monday, April 20, 2015


IT'S NATIONAL POETRY MONTH and as I think of my mother, gone for many years, I remember the blank verse I wrote below and later, published in my poetry book - cover above. The book later had a different cover, but this morning, I use the one with the goose, in honor of the mother goose who lost her nest and eggs a few days ago, a nest near my writer window. I'm sure it was removed by the organization or a resident unappreciative of the wild life drawn to our ponds. Bob and I had watched her steadfast care of the nest, sitting tight during wild rainstorms and a snowfall that occurred. My heart broke the day the nest was gone, because we were going to enjoy a perfect view of her goslings and their growing up. She and the gander are still here, so we've sent our sympathy to them. Here are the words written some time ago after my mother died in a nursing home.

Sacred Datura
One day, before dawn, my blind, independent mother, died at age 94. Afterward. I walked the desert, thinking of her life, so intertwined with mine. Down the road, in a sloping ditch, I stopped by a blooming Jimson Weed, flower of mystery and power. Also called Sacred Datura, Southwestern Native Americans use it for ceremony. This day, I gathered strength from the pureness of this early morning offering of Jimson Weed.  Soon, the heat of the sun would close the flower against the intense light of the day. Back home, I wrote memorial words for my mother, as writers feel the need to do.

Fragile soul so close to sleep, so near to dreams,
Enclosed in life’s deepening shadows,
You too, become translucent in the morning light.
The sun shows hot through your thin petals.
Shines and burns through your thin skin,
Cuts through a mind uneasy
Until prayer transforms to angel song.
Like feathered wings now reaching up.
Soon it will be time to close,
A coda from the pale, white tips,
As another frail, old soul
Escapes toward the sky.

Thursday, April 16, 2015


Years ago in Tucson, three women, Joanne, Ruth and I met to talk about all sorts of things, arts, literature, music, philosophy, ideas, family and friends. One day the subject was erotica and we admitted our curiosity. The next day I dashed off to Bookman's Used Books and asked the college age clerk if they carried that category. I told her I was a author, who liked keeping up on all kinds of writing. In excitement, she grabbed another young woman to escort me to their expansive selection. The two showed me their favorites and I left with two anthologies. Above is an image of the books I bought. Imagine my surprise at home, when I opened the first one and found Emily Dickinson. In the Table of Contents, I also found Jane Austen, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Emily and Charlotte Bronte, as well as George Eliot, George Sand, Virginia Woolf, Jean Rhys, Anais Nin, and Sappho. It made me realize how the meaning of words changes through time and cultural shifts. I knew one day these volumes would be a valuable resource for a book I'd write. And though it took a decade, the words of these classical women authors kept whispering in my ear until the book was finished and the print was dry.      

Friday, April 3, 2015

Spring blossoms, SCN & a Spring Review

Tulips blooming. Forsythia too. Even a clump of William Wordsworth remembrance appeared outside my writer window. Do you remember? Daffodils - I wandered lonely a a cloud. Our 3rd grade class in Wagner, S.D. memorized it and the words echo in mind whenever I see those flowers. What poems are filed away inside your head?
Anyway, it's a beautiful spring day and one for me to be grateful to the Story Circle Network, one of the most supportive women writers' organizations I've encountered. It's a not-for-profit with international members and chapters. Dedicated to women and their stories. Posted on their website are the words of Susan Wittig Albert. "Storytelling is healing," from her  book Writing From Life. They have a newsletter, publish a Journal, feature a writer competition - the Sarton Women's Literary Awards for women's memoir, contemporary and historical fiction, have a conference. And offer reviews of books by women, for women. Yesterday, my cozy mystery was featured in the review section and you're invited to take a look.

Wednesday, April 1, 2015


Who'd guess I'd be nostalgic over prickly things? Last weekend the Omaha Branch of Pen Women, actually the American League of American Pen Women - NLAPW, visited the 4-room glass house conservatory at our city's Lauritzen Gardens. Our March monthly meeting, set around the coming of Spring, was expressly chosen to inspire the creative work of our members who are professional artists, authors and composers. What a trip to the Mediterranean and Tropical Zones it was. Rivers of vivid colored cyclamen wandered along the first pathways. Fountains sang water music along the paths. Magnolia trees and blooming bushes invited us to linger. But I was drawn to the cacti and succulents. I admired the Teddy Bear cactus, so soft and cuddly looking you wanted to reach out and touch it. But it's a cruel April Fool joke if you do, because its spines are tipped with multi-points that embed in the skin and are almost impossible to remove. I remember not being able to resist the impulse to see how it felt. Oh my! Never did that again. As I looked at the hardy examples of cactus, I remembered my first days in the Sonoran Desert, strolling the yard, then walking the wash, learning the names and nicknames of plants growing on our property. Night Blooming Cereus. Jumping Cholla. Hedgehog. Barrel. Staghorn. Bunny Ears. Pincushion. Beaver Tail. Darning Needle. Fish Hook. Horse Crippler. One thing for sure, the persons who came up with these cactus designations had a sense of humor and a most eloquent turn of phrase.