Riding tricycles on the packed dirt
In the wide driveway in front of the barn,
We acted out stories of handsome princes and
Beautiful princesses escaping monsters and
Their fathers.
An old white lace curtain, attached with bobby pins,
Trailing down my middle cousin’s long brown hair
Was the bridal veil for the “princess”
As she perched on the tricycle “marrying” my brother,
Her “prince.”

I am from buttons that change the channel,

From green slimy soap and a mushy sponge,

I am from the carefully placed wooden bridge

And cold, gray stone slabs way out in no man’s land,

I am from snow frosted trees that go on for miles.

The aging dead forest...

You were the whip cream on my ice cream sundae, the effervescence in my soda, the shine in my mirror in my seventh-grade world. You were my English teacher in 1955. Your class was my escape from an ugly life at home. You greeted us at the door each day. Your smile exuded happiness. We were spellbound by you, Miss Solomon. You cherished us, loved teaching us, and even though you were young and inexperienced, you were a natural in the classroom.

Some

dangerously

dark eyes assessed

me

a hint

of ruby

I can see

A long, long time ago, the sky was not made of color. It sat in the air, plain and white, covering the whole world as if it were a blanket. South of what is now called Albuquerque, rested the Casha people. The children were berry pickers, while the adults were hunters. This strategy of work satisfied all the community because the children adored the beautiful colors the berries produced. There were the darkest of reds and the brightest of purples.

There is nowhere to hide
in the light of day
Because even in the shadows
There are always people watching.

We go about our days
Carefully obeying the laws of light,
Performing ordinary tasks,
Keeping the peace for another day’s work

At the end of an email message
the question came:
What does it mean to be 80?
Yikes! Does she mean me?
No, it must be a rhetorical question.
I couldn’t possibly be that old.
Gone beyond senior citizen
To elderly, geriatric, an octogenarian?
Words and memories stir in my mind.

It was the first night I had not had a home. Was there any safe place for me to sleep? I knew our church was always unlocked for anyone who needed a warm place to stay at night. I curled up on a pew and thought about how I needed to fix my mess…

Are you tired of winter? Come to Hawaii with Rich and me and enjoy some warmth! My YouTube video is ready for you to live for a moment on a tropical island.

Winter is the season

That changes us the most

It cranks down the temperature to a freezing cold crisp

It drops fluffy snowflakes that sometime cancel school

It frolics in the mountains and paints them perfectly white

Black Americans with African ancestry have had an important presence in what is now the United States of America for over 400 years. Yet, there is still a faction of Americans, with a much shorter ancestral history, who want to define certain aspects of our nation’s collective culture outside the realm of African Americans, and one example is country music.

In the doctor’s office waiting room a voice called my name and said, “Your provider will see you now.” Will it be a nurse? X-ray technician, first year intern? acupuncturist? A volunteer who offers water and snacks before my appointment? A physician? It could be any of these.

Take in my Summer travels through the Atlantic Provinces with my husband and traveling companion, Rich, with a video montage.

I clock six hours a day of total time spent with my two best friends. Relatively 21 hours more than I spend with my parents and brother per week. I see my grandparents on my mom’s side for two hours each month now that I am a teenager. My uncle I haven’t seen in over five years, and my one grandpa, who I never got to meet, stayed away my whole life. My point is…

When I asked my friend Abigail Seber if she wanted to be a guest poet on my website, she was very enthusiastic. I suggested she send me a poem she had written or that she could write something new. I was surprised, pleasantly, that she decided to write a poem about me and the memoir I have written.

The science supervisor’s parting words were: “And, by the way, when you arrive at the airport make sure to hire a town car, with a driver who is willing to walk you into the school. I chose a school central to the other high schools, but unfortunately, it is not safe in the parking lot when school is over.

A woman screamed
Somewhere deep in the store
Over my left shoulder.

Everything stopped
As if turned to cement.
Frozen.

I held my breath,
Fists clenched.

I am the fire raging in Rocky Mountain National Park,

Yellowstone, and Sequoia, where our treasured giant redwoods

Now smolder in ruins while

Fire-scorched animals have nowhere to escape the

Walls of flames surrounding them.

My childhood overflowed with treasured

Memories of sounds, smells, and tastes

Bringing me back to that day, that hour,

That minute of bliss.

Thousands of years ago Cleopatra crushed beetles for a red lip potion.
Her words, coming from a red-rimmed mouth, spoke power

Suffragettes applied bold red to their lips
Symbolizing strength, daring, and grit.