our porch holds the story
teaching our tale
held by circumstance
wanting understanding
seeking validation
losing the flight
where others fell
lost in the woods
grasping for what was
searching the future
finding its offer
unable to call
afraid we might fall
searching ourselves
out on our porch
thunder and lightnig
the storm is here
watching from the porch
in the darkness
flashing like a TV screen
after the movie ends
motion as we sleep
never stopping
no place to go
pictureless minds dreamimg
not reading the footnotes
no time to waste
watching from the porch
seeing yourself
before it's too late
our hopscotch fate
white winged dove
finding a path
into Gypsy's mouth
brought to me
on the cabin porch
hunting dog hunting
proud as punch
for all to see
feathers do not lie
certainty exists
she does not know
she is free to be
a bird dogs job
a good girl you see
Like me
Gypsy killed a lizard
it made a mistake
leaving its dark place
under the log
in the Angel Patch
my secret garden
near the porch
where lizards live
playing dead to survive
fooling her mind
in the secret part
where arrows don't point
and roads don't go
Where we all survive
wasps in the bedroom
on the warm windows
overlooking the porch
scratching at the glass
seeing escape
trapped in life
cinnamon and clove
leaching their effort
usurping their lives
a ryhthmic cycle
their syncope
intermediate death
like us
bees on the flowers
in pots on the porch
play around my hands
buzzing their story
we don't hear
as they disappear
where are they going?
why are they going?
chemicals to protect the crops?
For us to consume?
From deaths loom
woven in the cloth
that wrap our bodies
straight line for life
a story of doom
ringed turtle dove
California refugee
pushed by earthquakes
singed by fire
slopped by mud
leaving the searching tsunami
sure to come
for a higher perch
alone flying to
our hill country cabin
viewed from the porch
sleeping is a tree
journey exhausted
with whitewings returned
changing, surviving, searching
california dreaming
Like us
mom amd pop cardinal
going about life
not hearing the changes
muffled by alien clouds
scratching the edge
of uncertainty
against the back
of a fading blue sky
hung by clothes pins
on the line of smog
flown to us by TWA
belched from GM
we do it all for you
we watch from the porch
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Saturday, March 8, 2008
"The Point Is"
The point is, English Pointer hunting dogs have been an intregal part of my life for 30 years. It all started when my husband John showed up at the door with a pointer named Tex. Old Tex had been hunting for alot of years, but had picked up a bad habit. He had a problem when his owner tried to hunt with him. Tex would not stay out in front of the hunting truck and hunt. As soon as they turned on the engine and started to move he found his way behind it. He would only follow the truck. He was getting old and figured they might forget him and leave him in some strange, remote spot from which he couldn't find his way back. The owner was looking for hunting home for him and offered him to John. If you have hunted much or even if you haven't, you might figure the dog needs to be in front of the truck to point birds for you. John knew that being a hunting dog, Tex lived to hunt. He would have a home and a hunting place with us. We did not hunt with a truck. We hunted on foot, so we would not have this problem with Tex. I told John this was the ugliest dog I had ever seen. Tex was our first hunting dog. He had an igloo dog house on the back covered patio of our San Antonio home. The kids decorated his igloo at Christmas time. On occasion, cold nights for example, he found the sofa in the family room. Tex was sent to us for a reason. Little did we know how much a part of our lives he would become and how much he would give to us. He was one of the best hunting dogs we ever had.
He taught my husband and I how to hunt after we leased our first hunting area in South Texas. At first, we thought we had a dog that was just too old and slow to do the job. As time passed, we realized he was the one who knew what he was doing, not us. We followed him as he slowly walk across the fields in front of us sniffing and searching for birds. His tail was up waging like crazy. He was having fun. The sun was shining, the breeze and temperature were just right as he carefully walked through the 3ft high grass looking and listening. When he picked up bird scent his head would be low to the ground or up sniffing the incoming breeze. He was trying not to get too close and scare the birds. He wanted to get just close enough to point and hold them. When he accomplished this he waited for us to come and walk through his point. What a teacher. All we had to do is watch him as we followed him. Like a statue he stood with his right front foot just off the ground, his tail straight up in the air and his nose just a few feet behind the birds. He waited for us to get to him no matter how long it took. We quietly approached him from behind. As we walked past Tex, the birds flushed. John and I had to be quick to shoot. The birds were fast. If we downed a bird or two Tex would go and get them and bring them to hand. This means he actually retrieved the downed bird and put them in our hand. They don't all do that, but that's another story. We just waited for him to do this as we smiled and watched a hunting dog doing what he loves best. If we missed all the birds, we got a rather scathing look from Tex out of the corner of his eye. Do you want me to shoot them too? He taught us to follow him wherever he went. Trust me, I know where the birds are. He taught us to be quiet out of respect for his efforts and the birds. He taught us to walk softly and slowly and to be patient and have fun. He taught us to watch him closely as he might point out the danger of a nearby snake. He was snake trained. This is when trainers put live rattlesnakes on the ground and when the dog gets too close they tap him with a shock collar. The dog thinks the snake did it and stays away next time. He taught us to thank him for a job well done and to honor the birds. Around noon, we would take a break, have lunch and nap for an hour or two. About three o'clock we would start hunting again. At the end of a hunting day Tex was plum tuckered out. John would pick him up, put him around the back of his neck like a scarf, grab his paws and carry him back to camp. His nose sniffed the air all the way back to the moterhome from his perch on John's shoulders. We would then clean the birds, start cooking a few for dinner and take care of the dog. I always picked all the ticks and thorns off the dog after a day of hunting and gave him a good rubdown. He earned it. We learned alot from Tex. He said even if the hunting wasn't good, on a beautiful day it was enough just to be out in the scenic South Texas country. Most of all he taught us hunting was supposed to be fun for the dogs and the hunters. He taught us not to worry, that every so often dogs and hunters have bad days when no birds are pointed. We just smiled as he laid on the sofa in the motorhome, his nose sniffing the aroma of quail cooking on the stove. As his eyes closed, sleep took him back over the points and retrieves of the day. He was seeing the perfect day in the life of an English Pointer. Not something they have learned, but something they were born knowing how to do. Jim, a friend, who hunted with us often said that when he died he wanted to come back as one of our hunting dogs. Not a bad idea.
He taught my husband and I how to hunt after we leased our first hunting area in South Texas. At first, we thought we had a dog that was just too old and slow to do the job. As time passed, we realized he was the one who knew what he was doing, not us. We followed him as he slowly walk across the fields in front of us sniffing and searching for birds. His tail was up waging like crazy. He was having fun. The sun was shining, the breeze and temperature were just right as he carefully walked through the 3ft high grass looking and listening. When he picked up bird scent his head would be low to the ground or up sniffing the incoming breeze. He was trying not to get too close and scare the birds. He wanted to get just close enough to point and hold them. When he accomplished this he waited for us to come and walk through his point. What a teacher. All we had to do is watch him as we followed him. Like a statue he stood with his right front foot just off the ground, his tail straight up in the air and his nose just a few feet behind the birds. He waited for us to get to him no matter how long it took. We quietly approached him from behind. As we walked past Tex, the birds flushed. John and I had to be quick to shoot. The birds were fast. If we downed a bird or two Tex would go and get them and bring them to hand. This means he actually retrieved the downed bird and put them in our hand. They don't all do that, but that's another story. We just waited for him to do this as we smiled and watched a hunting dog doing what he loves best. If we missed all the birds, we got a rather scathing look from Tex out of the corner of his eye. Do you want me to shoot them too? He taught us to follow him wherever he went. Trust me, I know where the birds are. He taught us to be quiet out of respect for his efforts and the birds. He taught us to walk softly and slowly and to be patient and have fun. He taught us to watch him closely as he might point out the danger of a nearby snake. He was snake trained. This is when trainers put live rattlesnakes on the ground and when the dog gets too close they tap him with a shock collar. The dog thinks the snake did it and stays away next time. He taught us to thank him for a job well done and to honor the birds. Around noon, we would take a break, have lunch and nap for an hour or two. About three o'clock we would start hunting again. At the end of a hunting day Tex was plum tuckered out. John would pick him up, put him around the back of his neck like a scarf, grab his paws and carry him back to camp. His nose sniffed the air all the way back to the moterhome from his perch on John's shoulders. We would then clean the birds, start cooking a few for dinner and take care of the dog. I always picked all the ticks and thorns off the dog after a day of hunting and gave him a good rubdown. He earned it. We learned alot from Tex. He said even if the hunting wasn't good, on a beautiful day it was enough just to be out in the scenic South Texas country. Most of all he taught us hunting was supposed to be fun for the dogs and the hunters. He taught us not to worry, that every so often dogs and hunters have bad days when no birds are pointed. We just smiled as he laid on the sofa in the motorhome, his nose sniffing the aroma of quail cooking on the stove. As his eyes closed, sleep took him back over the points and retrieves of the day. He was seeing the perfect day in the life of an English Pointer. Not something they have learned, but something they were born knowing how to do. Jim, a friend, who hunted with us often said that when he died he wanted to come back as one of our hunting dogs. Not a bad idea.
Monday, March 3, 2008
"David"
I see a man
Near my age
Maybe white hair
amd a few wrinkles
Sitting in his room
A computer for company
Alone with his thoughts
Waiting for commas and periods
To find their way
Into his maze of memory
And life today
Writing for posterity
And me
The words surround him
Like bees on a hive
He is still
Except for his fingers
Dancing over the keys
Rolling the dough
To form words like a pies
Fine for my eyes
Good for my mind
Whenever he's done
And the oven is off
A piece of that pie
Flies through the air
To find me watching
As I open my email
For my piece of pie
To find David waiting
Near my age
Maybe white hair
amd a few wrinkles
Sitting in his room
A computer for company
Alone with his thoughts
Waiting for commas and periods
To find their way
Into his maze of memory
And life today
Writing for posterity
And me
The words surround him
Like bees on a hive
He is still
Except for his fingers
Dancing over the keys
Rolling the dough
To form words like a pies
Fine for my eyes
Good for my mind
Whenever he's done
And the oven is off
A piece of that pie
Flies through the air
To find me watching
As I open my email
For my piece of pie
To find David waiting
"Anticipation"
To anticipate is to give an event that might occur, advanced thought, discussion, or treatment. Anticipation is one of the formless elements that touches everything we do. They are what add the richness to our lives. Spawned when you cut fresh flowers and put them in your grandmothers vase on the kitchen table. Spawned when you take time to watch a rainbow or call a friend. Anticipated, done and enjoyed. They keep us in preparation for the movement of our lives through time and teach us. The process that sustains our ability to study life, often revealing answers.
Gypsy and I had anticipated the cold, rain that finally came during the night and ended our dry spell. Our eyes opened when our ears heard the drops begin to fall on the metal roof of the cabin. The wind whistled the rain story around the cabin windows. The trees in the woods tossing in the wind threw the rain message against the brown logs. As we listened, in the the total darkness, we were strangely content to have received the rain we had anticipated. It had been on our minds for weeks as we watched the dust on our gravel road rise up behind the few vehicles that use it everyday. Content, our rain drenched thoughts carried us back to sleep. With the first light Gypsy went outside to investigate the new smells that came with the rain. I followed her shortly, with my mug of hot expresso, and we both watched and listened to what the woods was telling us about the cold, wet morning.
I had anticipated this mug of coffee brewing on the stovetop in my 10 cup stainless steel Bialetta Expresso Machine. I probably thought about it yesterday. When my feet hit the floor this morning coffee was in my thoughts. The aroma of coffee brewing always finds a comfortable spot to land in the back of my mind. This is my only coffee of the day,so it has to be good. The whipping cream I add to it gives me the taste I anticipate. This is a tradition passed down to me from my mothers side of the family. My ancestors on their farms around Schaffhausen, Switzerland gathered to have their morning coffee. It was an important event. A friend just wrote a note to me in response to one of my stories. She said when she was a child and smelled the coffee and bacon her mother was cooking, she felt loved. It may seem a small thing to many, but, we choose savor all that life has to offer.
We wonder how to anticipate time. We have been alive way past half our lifetime. We don't know about the time we still have. The "Sound of the Hammer" is a book written by Carl Britsch, about my ancestors coming to this country. It contains an interesting few lines about time. "Time changes things, but does not change. Man changes, but time is constant as the sun. An hour today is the same duration as one of yesterday or a century ago; yet how slowly it drags when measured by our age or frame of mind. It is not ours to retard or accelerate the measured beat of time. We try to hold it e'er it passes, but lest we move on with it we fly in vain to catch again the moments past. Like runaway ponies, the moments ofttimes draw us where we would not go, and we find ourselves unable to retrace our steps to begin again. Time leaves its mark, and we gather up what is left and weave it into a pattern as best we can." We don't know what conclusions can be drawn about time, if any. We hope our time has been well spent. We hope we have not wasted too much of it, if that is possible. We will spend our anticipated time in some important way. Gypsy and I will sit on the porch in the morning and dream happy dreams of impossible size. She will be in a big, treeless field full of quail, squirrels and cats surrounded by her five foot high rabbit fence. I will be 100 years old, sitting on the porch of my cabin in the woods, expresso in my hand content to see her dream. Watching another story for my finger tips to find. Spending the time on my hands.
The good thing about the bad things in life we anticipate is that sometimes they are not as bad as we think they will be. Then there are the events that come into our lives consuming none of our anticipation. We have learned that worry can hide inside it before a dreaded event. All in all it brings a message with it that we can appreciate. It takes no shape beyond our thoughts that find a pattern stitched together by the eye of the needle of our mind.
Gypsy shows us the true meaning of anticipation as she holds a point on a squirrel at the feeder.
Gypsy and I had anticipated the cold, rain that finally came during the night and ended our dry spell. Our eyes opened when our ears heard the drops begin to fall on the metal roof of the cabin. The wind whistled the rain story around the cabin windows. The trees in the woods tossing in the wind threw the rain message against the brown logs. As we listened, in the the total darkness, we were strangely content to have received the rain we had anticipated. It had been on our minds for weeks as we watched the dust on our gravel road rise up behind the few vehicles that use it everyday. Content, our rain drenched thoughts carried us back to sleep. With the first light Gypsy went outside to investigate the new smells that came with the rain. I followed her shortly, with my mug of hot expresso, and we both watched and listened to what the woods was telling us about the cold, wet morning.
I had anticipated this mug of coffee brewing on the stovetop in my 10 cup stainless steel Bialetta Expresso Machine. I probably thought about it yesterday. When my feet hit the floor this morning coffee was in my thoughts. The aroma of coffee brewing always finds a comfortable spot to land in the back of my mind. This is my only coffee of the day,so it has to be good. The whipping cream I add to it gives me the taste I anticipate. This is a tradition passed down to me from my mothers side of the family. My ancestors on their farms around Schaffhausen, Switzerland gathered to have their morning coffee. It was an important event. A friend just wrote a note to me in response to one of my stories. She said when she was a child and smelled the coffee and bacon her mother was cooking, she felt loved. It may seem a small thing to many, but, we choose savor all that life has to offer.
We wonder how to anticipate time. We have been alive way past half our lifetime. We don't know about the time we still have. The "Sound of the Hammer" is a book written by Carl Britsch, about my ancestors coming to this country. It contains an interesting few lines about time. "Time changes things, but does not change. Man changes, but time is constant as the sun. An hour today is the same duration as one of yesterday or a century ago; yet how slowly it drags when measured by our age or frame of mind. It is not ours to retard or accelerate the measured beat of time. We try to hold it e'er it passes, but lest we move on with it we fly in vain to catch again the moments past. Like runaway ponies, the moments ofttimes draw us where we would not go, and we find ourselves unable to retrace our steps to begin again. Time leaves its mark, and we gather up what is left and weave it into a pattern as best we can." We don't know what conclusions can be drawn about time, if any. We hope our time has been well spent. We hope we have not wasted too much of it, if that is possible. We will spend our anticipated time in some important way. Gypsy and I will sit on the porch in the morning and dream happy dreams of impossible size. She will be in a big, treeless field full of quail, squirrels and cats surrounded by her five foot high rabbit fence. I will be 100 years old, sitting on the porch of my cabin in the woods, expresso in my hand content to see her dream. Watching another story for my finger tips to find. Spending the time on my hands.
The good thing about the bad things in life we anticipate is that sometimes they are not as bad as we think they will be. Then there are the events that come into our lives consuming none of our anticipation. We have learned that worry can hide inside it before a dreaded event. All in all it brings a message with it that we can appreciate. It takes no shape beyond our thoughts that find a pattern stitched together by the eye of the needle of our mind.
Gypsy shows us the true meaning of anticipation as she holds a point on a squirrel at the feeder.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
"Ordeal"
Writing can be an ordeal
Sometimes I just want to squeal
The house phone is ringing
What is it bringing?
My cell phone is calling
By now I am bawling
The dog is barking
Too long on her outing
My expresso is blurping
No time for slurping
Skype beeped my screen
What will that mean?
Feral cats are yowling
By now I am scowling
A squirrels in the wall
Having a ball
Twelve wild turkeys just came
The dogs back out for the game
Better get a picture
Of this fun mixture
Laundry is near
Waiting for me I fear
The cabin is dusty
My sweeper is musty
It's all a mess
I am in distress
It's a fight to write
Try as I might
A wasp just walked across my keys
Enough please
I will wait for another day
When everything will be ok
Peace and quiet will prevail
For this writer to tell her tale
Sometimes I just want to squeal
The house phone is ringing
What is it bringing?
My cell phone is calling
By now I am bawling
The dog is barking
Too long on her outing
My expresso is blurping
No time for slurping
Skype beeped my screen
What will that mean?
Feral cats are yowling
By now I am scowling
A squirrels in the wall
Having a ball
Twelve wild turkeys just came
The dogs back out for the game
Better get a picture
Of this fun mixture
Laundry is near
Waiting for me I fear
The cabin is dusty
My sweeper is musty
It's all a mess
I am in distress
It's a fight to write
Try as I might
A wasp just walked across my keys
Enough please
I will wait for another day
When everything will be ok
Peace and quiet will prevail
For this writer to tell her tale
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