Past Seventy-Six

 2025

Am I as old as I think I am?

I think I’m seventy-six 

but time can tip us 

one way or another

and turn us inside out.

Just yesterday I was twelve

and I’m still in the same body.

Aging separates us 

from imaginative reality 

leaving us in the realm

of wishful thinking and envy.

It happens imperceptibly 

and progressively 

while doing what we thought

we were supposed to be doing.

It’s not too late to look past the numb 

and blunted world into those things 

that are eternal, beautiful, and magical,

to reverse our downward slide,

to return to our natural sense

of imaginative reality,

to speak in thunder,

to write in dreams,

to wander with 

sacred intent.

From: A Preface To The Universe:

Women, Getting Older, and Other Mysteries

Unpub. MS p. 34

That Lasting Regret

For the bullied children

It hurts to love in the wild open.

It’s the clumsy fire of naked life that burns us all.

What is the difference between love and beauty?

We love what we do when we let beauty blossom.

What has been good about being 76 years old?

Seeing the truth of what was.

When roses are crying, everyone is saddened.

Earth grieves when a flower blooms alone.

Where on Earth is there a demand for tears?

Wherever the Joel Richardsons

and the Margaret Coles are.

From: Memories Of Things Left Behind:

A Non-Linear Recollection

Unpub. MS p. 51

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In A Dream, A Reminder

Dreaming about the unintelligible and the 

scary shapes my psyche gives to darkness,

makes the rational into something which it is not

and harbors imponderables for later distortions.

I have wondered, while grappling with the unformed, 

while trying to understand a world as if seen 

through rain splattered windows,

while traveling without a destination

around the next bend and over the next hill…

I have wondered if sometimes a dream 

might simply be reminding us 

to turn on the lights.

From: Stumbling Through Dreams, Memories

and the Unintelligible

Unpub. MS p. 21

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comments will not be accepted.

Roots

How is it that we, 

in some manner peculiar to us,

identify with trees that are 

the lone sentries of fields

or keepers of forests,

yards, and neighborhoods?

We love fluttering leaves and shade,

the crackle of autumn’s footsteps,

the chirp of spring’s new foliage,

the sounds of breezes through their limbs,

and how we grieve when one is lost.

And how strangely beautiful it is to walk

over the rise and fall and breakage

of old sidewalks stamped,

USA

WPA

1939

heaved by the persistent roots,

the undoing of things made by man.

It’s the nature of things that impresses.

Look again and imagine what beauty 

exists underground, bearing such lofty 

and enormous burdens.

Then sit and sip some wine,

basking in the tranquility of its shade.

From: Memories Of Things Left Behind:

A Non-linear Recollection

Unpub. MS p. 35

Night Driving

March

I-10 Burnt Well Rest Stop, Arizona

It was a delicate darkness that night,

made so by the aroma of the day’s rain

that flavored the air and settled in puddles.

At the rest stop, a chilly desert breeze 

brushed across our faces, momentarily flirtatious,

then continued twisting around the cacti,

flowing through mesquites and palo verdes 

until it finally located and swirled around

a patch of ground like a dog that walks 

in circles before lying down to fall asleep.

From: How We Wander:

Short Poems in 75 Words or Less

Unpub. MS p. 43

Things Not Far Away

Sunset glares through a slit in the clouds, 

cool air descends with a childhood memory 

of horses in Willcox…

They know things.

We stared at each other over a millennium.

They know wind, rain, and trouble.

They helped me to many 

places that were kindred to my nature,

escaping the oppressing forces,

to wander in the dreams of silent places

where kindness flourished.

There are no maps for any of that. 

It’s windy on the borderland

and rain approaches.

I opened a lovely Malbec to sip slowly

and relax while the storm treked across 

a darkly veiled sky.

Wine is poured and its fragrance

mingles with the aroma of rain

that falls from dreams and memories.

The horses know.

We all know.

Rain will soon come.

From: Getting There

Unpub. MS p.2

A Night When Wild Decides To Alter Your Reality

A quiet night at your desk— 

an owl hoots; coyotes yelp.

You look up.

The brows on your mother’s portrait wrinkle 

as if in deep thought;

she rolls her eyes, disapproving

of whatever it is you are doing.

She never liked her portrait,

though it’s one of your best portrait photos.

You blink. Rub your eyes. 

Again you blink.

Horses in the pen and ink drawings

gallop across the paper and out of the frame.

Dust falls to the floor.

A rider in another drawing turns 

his head toward you, and another man sitting

on his horse leans forward

to whisper a secret. He motions

for you to come closer.

Your voice fills with rocks 

but you can’t cough them out.

A dog sits beside you, panting, dripping saliva;

cats and lizards lie on your shoulders,

unaware of the other’s presence.

An old-time phone you don’t have grinds out 

its terrible racket.

There is a thrice hard-knuckled rap

at the front door.

Your name is called, startling, 

like a spaniel’s sharpened bark.

You step outside.

A lightning strike, the crash and roll of thunder,

and a Sonoran cloud burst fills the air 

with chilly, drenching relief.

It’s 2:00 AM.

The rain subsides,

your guests have departed,

and you to the warmth of your bed,

slipping into the comfort

of a rainy haze.

From: Getting There

Unpub. MS p. 22