Tuesday, December 6, 2016


My Anuja, abundant with wonder

Loves the peace of a falling rain,

Takes on a task with racing thunder,

Strong arms to embrace a special one,

“She loves just like a woman,

But she breaks like a little girl.”

(Bob Dylan lyrics, paraphrased)

Te amo te, mi pequeña hermana gemela

Feliz cumpleaños, querido amiga!

With love, from your chatterbox, older,

And above all, taller twin.

Alice dances like no one can see her,

And sings like no one will hear;

Toast a stemmed glass

Filled with dark, fruity wine,

Or, just as soon gulp a beer.

Perching Indian-style, she reads like a comet,

Not a fan of heart wrenching memoirs;

Bounding upward and onward,

She snatches down stars;

Her mantra, “forge forward,” while

Painting her world in cosmic colors.

An early rising owl by history

Easing the affliction of Native Americans

Unlearned of modern medicine, by day.

Rarely missing a scenic sunrise,

A life of passion—her victory.

And a mountain sunset, her prize!

She captures each moment, Carpe Diem,

Rarely failing to release it on time;

Enjoys clever jokes and cartooning,

Inciting children with laughter,

While reciting a catchy, Pre-K story,

With silly voice and contorted face,

“…I do not like green eggs and ham,

I do not like them, Sam-I-Am;”

A fan of nonsensical, Dr. Seuss, rhyme.

Has car, will cruise; will row or splash,

Wildly balance a hula hoop in the sand,

Bungee jump, roll a coaster, or climb;

Inhaling the beauty of vibrant wild blooms

While hiking the path of a mountainside.

She flies hither or treks, with ballerina calves,

Yon to beaches, hot springs or Rome,

Ever seeking untraveled, rugged paths,

With Little Feat; catches a Rolling Stone.

But once she’s arrived and lived it,

She aims for the tranquility

Of her lily pond garden home.

My sweet, full of grit, sorrelina,

Adventure is her adopted name,

Refusing to return blatant malice,

She looks for the best in everyone,

But when life gets too dreary, Alice

Retreats to her looking-glass palace.

ZooLady, March 21st-24th, 2016

Monday, May 25, 2015

Everybody is busy.
Life happens so fast
it's easy to believe
there is no time.
No time for the little actions
that can have big meaning
later on, when there really isn't more time.

Thursday, May 21, 2015

Yair have you gone

Yair have you gone
I fear, yet I pray you are somewhere 
And with someone who really loves you
Not gone for good

You were a fine dancer and gentle soul
Though our first encounter I took your reserved table
And you promptly corrected that

I think of you, even tried to find you

Those kidneys were failing I know
The weight was melting you off like it was stuck on like wet clay
And someone took a hose to you
The odor of sickness escaped in wisps under your cologne

You shared your stories with me
Your beautiful and brilliant Chinese daughter
Your unfaithful wife
Your refusal for dialysis

You almost died in Poland
Heart failure, you said.
I was so glad you didn’t die alone

Or did you?


Notes about Dave

The few the proud
That’s Dave

Once he walked me to safety
Away from an unruly crowd

Always the savior
Always a gentleman

He could spin his chair when you danced with him
Better watch those toes!

That’s Dave.


Wednesday, May 20, 2015

Place of the Spirit

I talked to my brother tonight. I will take him to this place of deep feeling.

The juxtaposition of opposing forces met long ago, and
Rip-stop, blasting forces became layered between clouds and earth
Majesty and power now settled in to everlasting peace
Ripples, cooled, forever molded 
While the ancient bluffs looked on through the ash
Framing the moments in time
And changing the landscape forever.

Monday, October 14, 2013

Boxcar Slideshow by MaeB

A misty-eyed hobo

watches a boxcar slideshow,

yearning for lost anonymity.

There is a still bundle near his side

left there in the snow,frozen flannel

smudged with sooty hand prints

and greasy tears.

He is mesmerized by the clacking of the cars

as they pass

Memories float by, a woman, green eyes

laughter over an open fire

His weathered hands carefully encircle the
small package and bring it to his chest.

He opens his coat, a chill passes through

him as he closes his coat around it.

Red, blue, yellow , green, orange...

The colors fade with encroaching dusk,

the motion felt, more than seen.

Westward bound, he first imagines, then 

catches the faint smell of fresh coal and he


He takes a deep breath, a soul-cleansing sigh

of other-worldly proportion, then he gently

walks toward the train along the zephyr it

has created for him, glancing back only

briefly at the man he left behind.

Wednesday, October 2, 2013

El Pueblo by MaeB

Fall chairlift ride by MaeB

I’m gliding over an aspen gold corridor

passing trees dressed up for Mardi Gras.

In the big sky a bird flies over to me,

takes a nut right out of my hand.

I watch infant ponderosas

pushing vigorously in both directions.

At this altitude Its life or death, 

come wintertime.

As I stand on this mountaintop

deafening silence engulfs me

but the tiniest nudge

an irony really,  where thoughts 

so loud just moments before

suffer stage fright in such an arena

It's not wonderland, but

                 There's no place like home.

Friday, September 13, 2013

Kenya by MaeB

Masai children outside their home

Fascination with iPad-Saikeri schoolgirls

Saikeri Villiage

Crested crane


Market day


Goats at the new clinic site-Saikeri

Saddle Shoes

don't ask me how I came upon this
but saddle shoes, I wore
hand-me-down shoes

didn't make news
but listen, I implore!
saddle shoes

worn extra loose
were weighted just SO right
that sailing them into the air
just because, I didn't care
whence they might alight
if time were stopped
you'd find my shoe
where last I
sent it flying
my schoolyard roof
the last school day
and still today
I'm sighing
you never know
where comes the blow
that wrests mortality from you
but memory is a boundless thing
and if you're lucky you'll have wings
won't you?

Friday, September 6, 2013

After the rain by MaeB

The mud came again last night.
Blades came and pushed it away.
In the dark it slithered back.

A man loses the road
as he stumbles along,
a fishing pole in his hand
a plastic sack over his head.

A car, leading a rooster-tail of
red dust curled back on itself,
solves the mystery.

Tuesday, September 3, 2013

Is It Any Wonder? by Zoo-Lady

Too often, our greatest goal as children was to get “all grown up.” We thought that meant we could do whatever we wanted to do.

There are many tragedies of being grown up: Cracking or popping bubble gum becomes rude, and blurting out with enthusiasm is an interruption. Hot dogs and bologna rolls are cast aside in favor of healthier foods, popsicles are full of sugar and artificial color, and soda-pop gives us gas. Passing gas isn’t much fun when we’re confined to small offices and it’s politically incorrect to blame or make fun of one another’s farts.

The magic of rainbows fade from our vision, fireflies lose their luster, and love bugs become a nuisance.  If that’s not enough, we lose our agility to play leap-frog, and tickle-torture only makes us pee ourselves.

Mature adults perpetually whine about the weather, the weeds, or “What coming next?” Worst of all, we can’t remember how to have fun splashing in the rain, stomping through mud puddles, or making wishes while blowing on milkweeds. Those were the things that helped us to weather the storms and stay young.

Everything that used to be fun is dangerous, reckless, cancerous or a waste of time. Is it any wonder that we grow old?

Wednesday, August 28, 2013

Grief may have stages but there are no Academy Awards.

Wednesday, August 21, 2013

A dream within a dream by Edgar Allen Poe

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow:
You are not wrong who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream. 

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand—
How few! yet how they creep 
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep--while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?