Monday, December 9, 2013

The Birdie Blog


One of the great benefits to snow and ice is the birds take a sudden and profound interest in my birdfeeders. I run out, bundled up like the Michelin man loaded up with bins and canisters of birdseed and they flit around, shrieking and calling and whistling while I load them up and feel like Cinderella in The Sound Of Music singing the The Hills are Alive with the Sound of Birdsong. For which I will receive an Oscar, weeping profusely while I cry out "You like me, you really, really like me!" to an audience of feathered creatures. Yes? No?
 
Well, they like me now when I am Source of Food Numero Uno. But I'll take it. My reward? This may be a little talked about fact, but birds Will Model for Food. So I get to tune up my camera skills and once in awhile catch something I like, really, really like.

Like this one:


I call it the The Angel and The Cardinal, which might sound kind of naughty to some, and I know who you are. Come on now, it's Christmas, clean it up! It's a hymn, don't you know?


This one:

Is Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal, which could seriously spoil everyone's fun, especially the Angels.
 
The cardinals are really fun so I have a lot of those, they are bright, active, stand out in a crowd  and can kick some serious birdie bootie:



They can also levitate, which I think is another little known fact:



Mrs. Cardinal is so over this fun party trick though once it sure sealed the deal, but if you look closely you can see that this particular ability has one little sparrow running for the statue. Scaredy cat. Yep, there he goes...

 
Now here comes a favorite - both a favorite bird, the dove, and the favorite pic so far. Because it's action and beauty with a little mystery thrown in. Or so it tells me. What does it tell you? Or do I really want to know? Hmmm...
 
 
Not to be left out, here comes another cardinal looking like the mysterious stranger who just rode into town in his many colored coat. Yes, I am mixing up characters and storylines all over the place. Why? Because I can. It's my blog. And I'm getting cabin fever and it has addled my brain, if you must know.
 
 
Now, it's almost Christmas, so let's end on that note shall we? I mean, is this photo just made for a Christmas greeting card or what???
 
 
 
Oh wait! I almost forgot. I call this one,
The One That Got Away.
And it was THIS big!
 
 

Sunday, December 8, 2013

Iced and Diced in Texas

So whew! A whirlwind fall, the weeks fly by and my poor blog has suffered extreme negligence. But now a fabulous winter storm came along and allowed me to catch up on all manner of stuff as even my arena is frozen and I have six horses left to exercise themselves as best they can, to slip and slide around frozen pastures....

So the other afternoon I wrote a little post on Facebook with a photo and had a little fun with it as a pretend commercial for a new book. I had so much fun, I continued the next morning. Then it started to get a response, and before you know it, I had photographed and written my way through a very silly, tongue in cheek romantic thriller.

So just for kicks and giggles, I thought I'd add it on here. Enjoy!

Iced and Diced in Texas
 
 



Stay tuned for my new thriller coming soon… 'Iced and Diced in Texas' !! When the north winds blow, the windows freeze over, the stew is on the stove and on the boil, anything can happen! Will the ice ever melt, the wind die down and will the stew be any good? Brace yourself and batten down the hatches - It's a fast paced thriller that will keep you guessing till the end...

 
 

The stew was fabulous but the night cold and long, and in the grey morning  light, the ice just kept coming...tap, tap, tapping on the north-facing windows like a glacial stalker begging to be let in. Dripping and draping itself in insidious icicles that rendered dreams of summer immobile and forever young, frozen in time and place...in Texas...will it ever end, she whispered, icicles clinking as they dangled from her fake eyelashes, will it ever end or will we run out of stew first!!!!?

 



The wind still howled like a thwarted witch but the stinging bite of her frozen curses (aka snow) had finally ceased it's ceaseless assault. Inside, they huddled, floor heaters blazing and PC's all fired up, their only access to the far reaches of civilization a flickering screen... But outside, in the newly minted Texas Tundra, a new subzero drama was unfolding, ruffling it's frosty feathers, readying it's sharp beak for a fresh assault. And Nature held her breath in the face of this new challenge, cloaked in glittering ice....Oh for the love of God and all his Angels, cried out the birds in the trees! Never mind the stew, will they run out of birdseed!?!!!!!
 
 
 
 
The evidence was right there in the sink, staring her in the face. He had not even bothered to cover his tracks, adding insult to injury. What had happened to their love, their promises, all their ardent oaths to share, honor and protect - forever?  Passion still burned in her veins but now it left her with a bitter and disappointed tinge... Her fake eyelashes, clotted mascara smearing and still dripping from the melting icicles, now fluttered weakly as the enormity of his betrayal hit her. There was no denying it. He had enjoyed a bowl of their precious stew without her.
 
 

Outside, Winter Storm Klingon raged but inside the little Texan Tundra farmhouse, a different storm was brewing. Within its frozen shell, a call for action had been…called . And while answering it filled her with a pain and suffering that all but blinded her as tears mixed with her cobalt mascara – his favorite, or so he had said, but now she must doubt his every word, second guess his every gesture – she knew he had left her no choice. HE had done this to them, not her. But now, though it pierced her to the very depths of her shuddering soul, it was up to her to bring this down upon them, this, their frigid, towering, turbulent hour of reckoning….


 
  Leaning on the chrysanthemum walls of their bathroom, she remembered when they picked out the color, how they had laughed, how they had loved…. Now her cobalt tears slid down the wall, a blue flood as blue as she felt…but no, this must stop. She must be strong, if not for herself then…because she had birds to feed.
She must pull herself together. She may be just a Danish mail order bride to him, but he had been her sun, her moon and stars. Ah, but words are wind, whispered her latest favorite author in her mind’s perfectly shaped little ear. Words are wind. Had all their email correspondence meant nothing to him then? She felt a migraine coming on. And God knew she could not be held responsible for her actions once a migraine clasped her in its murderous grip….



 
It was all over. She stared mutely at the glinting knife and the blood slowly coagulating on the blade, on her hands as it dripped, plink.. plink... into the creamy enameled sink. One never knows, she thought distantly, one just never knows how a day will go once you’re up and out of the feathers. The feathers, ha! Ha ha! She felt hysteria well up inside, like the bubbling cauldron of a tempestuous volcano threatening to blow. She was just so relieved it was all over. The feathers, yes, she mustn’t forget to feed the birds….the dear, freezing little things…how fragile and precious life seemed to her now, now when hers had felt all but extinguished by his callous disregard for her needs. But she was a survivor, oh yes. He knew it now, too. Oh yes. He had learned his lesson. How she loved him but he had to learn.
That hell hath no fury like a woman starved. She better get on with the stew. Confrontations made her hungry.


 It had been short but oh so sweet. Their reconciliation still sang in her blood with all the heavenly luster of a choir of angels. The Chippendale kind. Or was that Victoria’s or…oh, she was so happy, she just didn’t care. She sighed with happiness as she set the new stew to bubble on the stove, washed her hands then flopped on their bed, all but engulfed in the Texas size duvet as she clutched her stuffed, baby blue teddy bear to her chest. Her saltwater breasts rippled in ecstatic response. He had given her those, her nose and the teddy bear, too. The color of your eyes, he had whispered.
How could she ever have doubted his love? He would never leave her now, she knew that for sure, and never again would he deny her stew. They had an understanding that went bone deep and yet it reached for the heavens. Oh, the joy of it. They had crossed the bridge that spanned the gorge that had separated them, fallen into one another’s arms….He had looked so sweet on his knees, begging for reconciliation, admitting his wrongdoing…who knew the power of true love? Oh she did. Now she did. They did.

 


Smiling secretly to herself, she remembered. Her fear, her pain, her fury as she prepared to bring him to justice. She had looked her best. Texas had taught her to dress and dress big and he could never take that away from her, ice storm or no. She added a new layer of cobalt to her freshly applied eye lashes and teased her hair to new heights. She loved her new platinum blonde bangs. She slipped into her favorite fuchsia hot pants and the frilly cream blouse with all the sequins. Her favorite rhinestone bangles were next, and the belt with all the turquoise conchos. Real turquoise, mind you. After much thought, and with a nod to her distant ancestors, she slid into her lederhosen – his favorite. They fit snugly over her hot pants. It would drive him mad, she knew. And it did.
She’d clean up the mess later. Right now, she’d better go feed the birds.
The End.
 



Wednesday, September 11, 2013

So Long, Old Friend. So Long.

September 9th, 2013

I put a treasured friend to rest today. If old rules of thumb hold true, he was well over a hundred years old. You may be guessing my old friend was a dog, and you'd be right. But he wasn't just any old dog. He was my constant blessing for over 16 years and as my husband likes to say - this dog was a one in a million. Of course he was. He was my boy!

 
   When I was but a wee little girl, someone, probably my parents, gave me a floppy toy dog. I loved him dearly and well above all my other beloved toy pets, and for some strange and inexplicable reason, I named my stuffed toy Chico. Where a tow headed, blue eyed little Danish girl living in Danish suburbia came up with a Spanish word like Chico, nobody knows, least of all me. I don't even remember receiving the dog, I was so little, but I remember loving him for years and years, no matter how tattered and matted and worn he became.

Years later I was a twenty something year old woman living fancy free and footloose, travelling the country in an old Ford Econoline cargo van. I worked odd jobs at Renaissance fairs, never knowing where I was headed next, or if I'd have the money to get me there. I loved every second of it, the freedom, the leaps of faith, the solitude on long drives.

I was between fairs, visiting my dear friend Tracy. Sipping wine on the front porch of the home she shared with 3 other girls and two big dogs, we were commiserating over our useless love lives when the dogs went berserk at the back door. There on the back step, with only a screen door between him and two big dogs barking and growling ferociously, sat a calm puppy gazing up at us with warm amber eyes lined in kohl, all smiles and politely wagging tail.


Ignoring the dogs, he turned his little white and brindle head and looked directly at me as if to say: "I have arrived. Please adjust accordingly."

Tracy laughed and said " I think you just got yourself a dog!" I denied and denied. She reminded me I had often said I'd like a dog. I had no recollection of ever saying any such thing. My lifestyle allowed for no such thing. By his condition it was clear he was a stray but we made the usual rounds to no avail. Nobody knew him.

But I never knew where I was headed, never mind if they allowed dogs. No dog for me.

But I allowed we should bring him in and give him a bath and feed him and so on. He politely put up with it all, but if I moved, he moved. An hour later when I walked out behind the house to fetch something from the van, I stopped dead in my tracks when I heard an awful yelping and yapping. Seconds later came a little bundle of flapping ears and tongue and tail, tearing down the driveway to my side, where he sat down and wagged his tail happily as if to say "I thought you left without me! But I was wrong, wasn't I?"


Yes, he was wrong, and I just got myself a dog. When thinking of names, Tracy, her mind as always much quicker than mine, began reeling off names at the speed of a livestock auctioneer. "Fido, Mickey, Wooffie, Waldo, Chico, Lassie, Puppy, Fred, George, Fluffy, Bingo....." Wait, I cried! Did you just say CHICO?! And so it was my stuffed toy dog came to life and was the best living, breathing, walking, talking dog ever.

I always joked that Chico should have been a guy's dog - after all, he was a bona fide 'chick magnet'. I couldn't walk him anywhere without adoring crowds of girls and women fawning over him. All the more amusing, as he rarely let them touch him. He was a one woman kind of dog, and he didn't much care for men. It took my boyfriend-future-husband months to get on petting terms with Chico, but then they remained firm friends. Most people did not have that luck. Chico would put on his polite and friendly front, the smile and the slowly wagging tail, even sniff their hand, but should they move to pet him he'd flinch away and look at them with indignance, his meaning clear: " I didn't say you could TOUCH me."

 They loved him anyway. He was the kind of dog everyone in the neighbourhood knew, even if they didn't know me. One day I was walking him through the equestrian center where I worked and as a woman approached, I happened to call Chico to my side. "Oh!" she called to me with a friendly grin, "Are you with Chico?" Oh yes, said I, and proudly. I'm with Chico. He acquired me some time ago.


Nobody knew what Chico was though everyone wanted to know. He looked like something different to everyone. A Corgi in a Jack Russell suit. A Jack Russell in an oversized dachshund body with the paws of a mastiff. A PBGV with short ears ( yeah, I had to look that one up too). Finally I wearied of the endless discussions and opinions. If anyone asked what he was, I simply said :"He's a GOOD dog." And he was. He was always just perfect, with a sixth sense of what circumstance required of him. He was a gentleman.

If I was feeling mischievous, I'd say: "He's a French Roadrunner." When the listener looked puzzled, I'd follow up with: "Also known as a Louisiana Shrimper, or colloquially as a Cajun Swampdog." That usually did it. Chico and I would exchange conspiratorial glances and be on our way.

I considered having him DNA tested. But somehow that would have spoiled the fun and dampened his air of mystery. I left his ancestry to his ancestors and Chico to his own unique self.

In his last years, I began to take him to the groomers for a wash and then after a year of baths, we added a haircut. I had done the honors myself for years on the bathing, but now I had a second dog who required serious grooming and it was just easier. Besides, he was struggling under his many layered coat, it was starting to mat, and I was struggling to keep up with the brushing. They say he wagged his tail the entire time they buzzed off all the hair.

When I asked if the groomer had an opinion on his particular ancestral cocktail, she laughed and said "All twelve of them? He has at least 12 different types of coat in there!" I know, I said. And they all shed at the same time. Which is - all the time, as copious hairballs flitting about the house could attest to. Five minutes after a thorough vacuuming, there they'd be, teasing and tickling. And even straight from the groomers with his perky little scarf, he managed to look scruffy. (That is, until he started getting buzz cuts).


It's fun telling all these little stories, remembering my little shadow of over sixteen years. But then I remember what it means and my stomach plummets into deep, dark recesses. But that is all we who are left behind can do, isn't it? Remember and relish the memories of those who touched our hearts and souls beyond words, be they two or fourlegged..

I feel like an amputee searching for a missing limb. Oh, Chico Man. You were with me for the better part of my adult life. I grew up with you. Now, you are here but not there. You are gone, but you have not left.


So I will remember you, Chico. I will remember your beautiful amber eyes and friendly smile. The way you picked me and never let go ( unless treats were in the offering, then you became any man's best new friend for the duration), the funny trot and bouncing run and the way you'd sit and rise up, to go all melty and soft eyed when I rubbed your paws. Which was pretty much anytime you asked, how could I resist? Even if it was in the middle of teaching a lesson....


 I will remember you as a cheerful puppy bumbling through a field of blue bonnets and trotting beside my horse, your matched white paws striding out with alacrity. I have memorized every hair on your brindle ears in your white face, your glistening black nose and the comical sight of the perfect white tip on your tail waving above golden grasses like the flag of a ship on high seas.


I will remember how you'd gently bump my leg for attention, and how it felt to hold your silky head and kiss you softly in the little hollow between your eyes and how you'd lean into the kiss, ever so slightly, then pull away like, yeah, yeah, enough, woman! I will never forget the warm affection you saved just for me, the special look you'd throw my way when you knew I was paying attention, the way your eyes would squint for a second as if you were winking at me with both eyes. I will laugh at how extra funny you were when hit by bouts of playfulness, all decorum and gentlemanly demeanour put aside for leaps, bounds and excited barking.

 And how you'd do anything for a treat. After learning 5 tricks you'd try to do them all at once, perhaps thinking then you'd get all the treats at once, too.

I will remember your quiet dignity that lasted till the very end. I will remember how you slowly and quietly let me know it was time, and the gentle breeze that ruffled your many coats as I carried you to the shade of the oak tree my mother planted just after we moved here, 10 years ago. I like to think she was there to greet you when you relinquished your tired old body. I will remember how, for the first time ever, you, a dog who hated to be held and carried, simply lay softly in my arms and rested your head on my shoulder as I hugged you closer and closer, desperate to not let go, though I knew I must.

And I will never forget how you took one final, long hard look around, then looked me full in the face for a long, long moment of silent communication, your beautiful soul shining through your eyes, so warm and present for the first time in days, beaming at me one last glorious shot of pure affection. I felt your love for me then as I felt mine for you, and I knew then as I have always believed, that there is more, much more, to a dog than so many will allow, as there is so much more to every sentient being on this earth than mankind will admit.


At the end, words failed me and I can't remember the many blessings and prayers of gratitude that poured from my heart but never passed my lips as the final injection was administered. Even now, I feel like I fail to do Chico justice. He touched the heart of everyone he met. He touched them and somehow, challenged their perception of 'it's just a dog'. Chico was never, ever - just a dog.

Perhaps no one has described Chico better than my close friend Jennifer, who wrote:

Here's to you, Chico!
You returned Love with Joy. Your perky trot and upright tail will never be forgotten, you jaunty gentleman! Thank you for the laughter and comfort you brought to all who knew you.

Hear, hear, Chico, and may you find a limitless supply of treats in Heaven and may all your tricks be rewarded tenfold.




So long, old friend, so long. I'll be seeing you.
 
(While I took most of these photos, my thanks to the friends who over the years shared some of these photos with me. )

Tuesday, August 27, 2013

Sand Castles

So, I am about to take off for a week again, but thought I'd leave you with something. I took this picture, kind of liked it and was playing around with something to write about it. Then, in the far recesses of my mind, a memory stirred and it seemed to me I once wrote something called Sand Castles. Lo and behold, I went straight to the right old journal ( I mean, we are talking decades here) and found it on my first try. So here you go. From a very young, work-in-progress me.......to you. It's kinda sweet....
 
 
 
Sand Castles
 
I built us a castle
of the finest sand my love could find
I made it our kingdom
our paradise, our refuge
We were king and queen
Untouchable
Nothing could come between
you and I.
 
Monsters, demons and devils
they all passed our way
our castle held strong
weathered every gale
withstood every storm
We didn't have much
but for a spell
it was enough.
 
We lived each day as a fairytale
Cocooned in a shell
of gilded dreams
our love the finest pearl
or so I thought
 
For Time has a funny way
of changing the face of life
And what one day
seems so real
The next
can seem the strangest dream.
 
So it is
my fine castle
vanished before my eyes
In the single swell
of an oncoming tide.
 
As I sat and watched
helpless to the change
A sweet voice
whispered in my ear.....
 
It was just a sandcastle,
no more
no less real
Than your past and your future
Reality is now
It is here.

Friday, August 23, 2013

Tough Life, huh?

 
You know how sometimes you just feel like life is no fair, and why you, and why me and why does it all have to be so hard and hurt so bad? And what have I done to deserve this and why does God hate me?
 
And couldn't just one day be easier than the rest, and one piece of luck fall in my lap, and one day be my lucky one, one little bitty miracle come my way? And why do I never win the lottery or even at Bingo, not even the freaking raffle at the fair, why doesn't anyone, especially God, ever pick ME!?
 
Come on, Luck, God, Serendipity, pick ME!
 
Yeah, I have had those days. But I have a new antidote. I just think of these two videos, and Bam! I know, no matter how bad, how hard, how challenging.....I've got it good.
 
 
 Happy Friday and Happy Weekend.
 
 
 

Thursday, August 22, 2013

Does Having Birds on my Brain Mean...

...that I am a birdbrain? Actually, once that would have been an insult, but now that neuroscientists are finding out that bird's brains, while small, are so incredibly complex the scientists can't even figure out how to map them yet, I am thinking it might just as well suggest a brain that prioritizes quality over quantity.

So from now on, if someone calls you a birdbrain - say 'Thank You'.

 
So, birds on my brain. I've got them. It had to do with my practicing with that fine new camera of mine and my fancy new 400mm lens, and suddenly seeing birds up close and personal and in a whole new light. It has to do with being there and seeing just a blur, but then having that blur slowed, frame by frame, to reveal the grace and beauty hidden in the flash of movement.

 
I am left thinking about their incredibly bright and piercing eyes. Their exquisite feathers that lay perfectly or ruffle sweetly, stick out stiffly or invite a touch to their soft as cotton downiness, feathers that look so fragile and yet imbue their master with the ability, the power to take to the air. Their poetry in flight and their vulnerability when grounded. I am thinking of the astounding intelligence of nature that produced thousands of distinctly different birds with just one thing in common. They can do something our bodies alone will never be able to do and that mankind has envied them since the beginning of time - they can fly. And I think they know it. That we envy them, I mean.


So while at the beach, (in between photographing pelicans), I photographed every other damn bird I could find. They don't tend to stay still much, but I got a few. Kind of.  Allow me to introduce:

Darron the Heron. I call all herons Darron, unless I call them Aaron. That is my prerogative as a bird brain. Lately, I have been meeting lots and lots of Darrons and Aarons, I am happy to say, because they are really very handsome specimens, and I enjoy trying to catch them at their best. Darron was quite the poser.


Remember Jonathan Livingston Seagull? Good book, though my personal Richard Bach favorite was and always will be, Illusions. But I thought this fine fellow could make a splendid Jonathan. He looks so pensive and thoughtful and all...and I think he's a seagull. Isn't he?


Then there's Busy Lizzy. I call her that - though for all I know it's a he -  because I don't know the bird, but it sure was busy, and catching her at a standstill was near impossible as she ran up and down, up and down the beach on her skinny little legs. Till she had an itch. God Bless that itch.


Now this one I call 'The Alarm' - because it was very alarmed at my approach and made sure we all knew it.


I was kind of sad to leave the beach and all my newfound friends. I guess they knew and the jungledrums went out, because when I got home, look what I found in my own back yard ! A Darron, Aaron extravaganza! With a few egrets thrown in for good measure...


 
So there you go. Hope you enjoyed the show. Go forth, be happy, and remember - being a birdbrain ain't all bad....

Wednesday, August 21, 2013

Revolution!

 
 
Viva La Revolution!!!
 
 
OK, just had to get that off my chest. I hear the word revolution and I immediately feel very French. Not that I can claim a drop of French blood, though my father did spend a few years in France as a small child. Nor can I claim any Canadian blood, eh, though I have learned from a few Canadian acquaintances the pleasure of saying eh, eh?
 
Moving on. This is one film I can't wait to see. I love it when art meets fact, beauty for the sake of beauty meets purpose. Since I can't see it on the big screen, I am off to order the DVD. Thought you might like to do the same. Check it out. Looks awesome, dude. Magnifique!!! Eh?
 
 
 

Tuesday, August 20, 2013

The Pelican Blog

Not to be confused with The Pelican Brief. (Just in case you did not catch the reference.)

So, pelicans, huh? you may be thinking. Oh yes, I will respond, having read your mind with my astounding telepathic abilities. Pelicans. Allow me to introduce you to the splendors of pelicans.




See, I recently spent a week in Port Aransas on Mustang Island (not a horse in sight) off the coast of Texas, just across from the thriving and historical metropolis of  Corpus Christi. Mustang Island is the only island I know that has a name for each half. The eastern half is Mustang Island, the western half is San Padre Island (where I actually saw horses). How this came to pass, I have not the faintest idea. It was quite confusing and in the end, I was really more fascinated by the pelicans.


Yes, I repeat, pelicans. I found myself fascinated by pelicans. They are an extraordinary bird, embodying an endearing appeal of a comically ponderous dignity while exhibiting a flat out exquisite and graceful power when airborne.


I was not expecting to fall in love with pelicans. I was expecting to be on a relaxing beach holiday where I would read bad novels, go swimming and possibly work on my tan for the first time in....too many years, let's leave it at that. How white? You don't want to know. Think lilies.

However, I did pack my bad ass camera and my brand new, bad ass 70-400 mm lens. I figured it would be the perfect time to give it a whirl, pearl. It was, though I had hell getting it right, especially since I have yet to pick out the tripod that I really, really need to work with this kind of lens. Because the longer the lens, the more any teeny weeny shake shows. Apparently, I shake worse than a life long drunk on Day 3 without booze.


But I bravely ventured forth into the unknown and assigned my long suffering husband the status as honorary tripod. "Hold your breath, honey, don't move, DON'T move!! Hold it, hold it, hold it! What do you mean you had to breathe!!??? I missed that shot! You have all frigging day to breathe, and you choose THAT moment to do it???!"

It also didn't help when I realized -  belatedly -  that my early morning conviction that I had set the camera to Auto the night before so I could just worry about figuring out my new lens turned out to be erroneous. I actually had it set to Aperture while I played with the evening light. Oops. Not so great for the sunrise extravaganza.


Oh well. I will likely cringe at having shared these publicly in a few years. But what the heck. They are not perfect, but I like them anyway. Fortunately for me, my husband seems to feel the same way about me. At least, we are still married and living in the same house.


So did I play around in photoshop with these photos, you may well be asking yourself. Hell yes! I had to do SOMETHING to make up for my husband's inconvenient habit of breathing while tripodding.

P.S. Why some are showing up small and some big, I have not a clue. I am no tech goddess. But if you want a better view, just click on a picture.

Monday, August 19, 2013

Jacob's Widow

So in my last blog I promised you something totally different, and here it is. This is a piece I wrote many years ago, inspired by some little thing I saw on TV that grew into a sudden outpouring of this woman's story as if I was possessed by her ghost. God knows I was way too young to relate to her suffering and dreams, yet I felt every nuance of her story as if it was my own. I hope I managed to do her justice. You will be the judge.
 
 
       Jacob’s Widow
                                                                 
 I am yet
    a woman
My breasts mold softly, firmly
          to my chest
My hips flare under this
                   dust drenched dress
And sometimes, late in these
                              deserted nights
I dream
    and awake sighing
  to the curving of my flesh
 
 I am yet
    a woman
  although at times
            I do question this belief
    My hands knead dirt and dough
         with like determination as
      flour and dust mingle
        in stripes of warpaint on my face
 
    My children laugh
                 I laugh with them
  They are my will, my joy, my respite
 
 Jacob.
     What guise of fate met him on the trail
                            to Buffalo’s Gate
    3 years now, a mountain a piece
          I watched him ride away
                 through windhassled sheets of sleet     
 
   He was good
                     Jacob
       Salt of the earth, I whispered
          to the creases of his tanned neck
        when we lay close
                       as my mothers silver spoons
                                      in their velvet bed
 
 
                                     Jacob chuckled then                                                                                      always
   between deepening breaths of sleep
       and pulled my arms tighter
                  around his chest
          his breaths slow and deep
 
 He would have come back
               were he
                      alive
    with or without the bull and heifers
           around which we thought to ply our lives      
                     
        He was a good man
                and I
                     was a good wife
 
 At times I dream
     with my eyes open wide
  I dream of a man
              of his roughhewn hands
 
   Sometimes he wears a face
                 like Jacobs
      blond and broad and tanned
           and I -
                 am his good wife
 
 Sometimes he wears the face of a stranger
   slanted steelgray eyes resting
            in glittering danger
       over curving cheekbones
         in a countenance
                   marked, enhanced
             by the wilderness
       that surrounds us in our naked dance
 
  And I am no longer - Jacob’s good wife
 A dream alone, he is not, this stranger
 
     I saw him once
         spare and rawboned
                     astride his rustic pony
                              rolling a cigarette
          at the edge of a field, freshly sown
                   by which we passed
                           on our way
                                 to the unknown
                          A trembling passed through me                                                                          
       under his peruse
          I felt no longer
             fumbling
                towards
                     womanhood
         with innocence yet to lose
                                                     
I was there
    a womans heart pumped
         Venus blood
       through aching breasts and loins
 
  Then flushed my face with shame
             and internal strife
      for I  was newly
                    Jacob’s good wife
 
 I am yet a woman
   the young girl long outgrown
       as children outgrew
                             my womb
 
  Two now
          in the ground
     two still safe and sound
  they have Jacob’s good heart
              strong body and fair hair
          but in their faces,
     I claim the lion’s share
 
In the boy
      I see my father
   gentled by the innocence
                 of youth
 
   Yet firm as his
           in determination to be a man
                      fight nail and tooth
                             hand over hand
 
The girl-
        she is all mine, as I was
             before this ponderous demise
 
    Dark arching brows
       over almond hazel eyes
     aquiline nose
           fine and freckled by the sun
                smooth skin browned
                          around lips rich as ripe plums
 
                Her smile aches in my bones                                                                                      
       so sheer
                  and unlined
      A robustness there
              no longer reflected
                            in mine
 
 My sweat soaks this earth
           that feeds me
                  at a price
   I am still young
                             am I not?
 
 Jacob’s Widow
     the words stall, sour, in my throat
         startles me, urges me to flee
 
    Such antiquity
              they seem
                    to lay over me     
 
  At night  
      I walk under a stardusted sky
        it lifts above me
              farther and farther
     rising with the exultant cry
                        of my heart
 
  I watch with the wind
                 drawing grim tears
                      stinging my teeth
                            whipping my hair
Banishing the years
 
   I feel life
        well up in me
      like a woman stirring
                     from a deep sleep
             to her lovers touch
 
 I am yet a woman
     I remain unspayed
             by this unforgiving labour
   Alone though I am
         with my children and my soil
      This flesh slowly hardening on my bones
 
         And to Jacob
                this wilderness holds me
                        relentlessly loyal
 
               In the harsh night wind                                                                                         
    I sense the slanteyed  rider
         I tie wishes to tumbleweeds
            with bright ribbons of hope
  That he may find them in his travels
                   and know
                         I am waiting
                                    waiting
 
 For I am yet a woman
   awaiting plucking by hungry hands and mouth
       I hang full and ripe from this twisted vine
                that is my life
 
  And life flows, back and forth, surges
       between myself and this meter of  Time
    But in the whitewashed glare of day
             I feel the scales tip
                   and not
                        in my favour
 
         I watch my fullness shrivel
                 drying in the sun
            my lips pale and cracked
               where they, too, once
                        wore the richness of plums
 
   Such days, I sense with relief the
               falling of the night
        wherein I may reclaim, under it’s cover
                   it’s swelling sky and cruel winds
           that, around which in daylight
                         I dare only hover
 
 In  it’s void
        I am anywhere, anytime, anything
  I am woman
           all softly clinging shapes
                   of half and full moons
               aglow with the tingle of anticipation
                       of a lover expecting a lover soon
 
  I am no more
            Jacob’s good wife
 
 
     There is no Jacob to whom to be good
   I am Jacob’s widow
          and the dry, raspy loneliness
                     of those insipid words
                cover me like a tepid dust
                                                                                                        
from which I awake choking
                my dreams cracked and broken
                    my bones hard and poking
                under toughened skin
 
 I am Jacob’s Widow
           I am a woman yet
      Still, I awake sighing
                  to the curving
                         of my flesh.
 
P.S. A few lines objected to being copy/pasted and just won't quite behave themselves. My apologies!