Skip to content

My Reality

Mythologies, regardless of culture, tell the truth of the depths of being human. They are told as metaphor because words themselves are inadequate. Life is mostly intangible, though what we see is so convincing. Myths describe as well as can possibly be expressed, the very nature of this life. Every one of us on the planet is living experiences that become the stories we tell. Only one of me or you exists in this whole world, and only one of everybody else. We have our mythologies, and tell our stories however we do, and we are mostly strangers. Stories help us to make sense of things, and they make us believe we exist. Everyone has a book in them. Make art instead of war, I say.


It is April.

The street sweeper has come.


Oh, when April blows the wind through your bones

And you turn up the heat, put on a sweater,

Or wrap yourself in a shawl,

Then wish there were a little wood stove somewhere,

And the thought of it warms you up.

Shadow Girl

Shadow Girl went out for a walk one day.  The sun was shining, and everywhere she went, her shadow went too.  She walked along in her red high-healed sneakers, humming a little tune.

She and her shadow walked through a landscape that started out with more shades of green than she could count.  It was a painted landscape with breathable air, fields with trees of scented blossoms, and mountains in the distance. The road through the countryside meandered and rolled over gentle hills, with here and there a little stone bridge crossing a stream. 

As they walked, Shadow Girl noticed that her shadow had gone away.  It did that sometimes. She sat down on the rock where everybody sits, beside the little lake that quietly reflects the little mountain.  She ate blackberries she had picked from the patch nearby, and a juicy yellow apple from the orchard.

Shadow Girl started singing, and as she sang, her song echoed back to her from the little mountain and the air was filled with the sound of her voice.  It was an ancient song, made of winds and placid waters, accompanied with the sounds of birds and laughter rising from the memories of the little lake and the little mountain.

The great old pine tree still stands where it has stood for centuries, the sentinel at the gate of the woodland path that Shadow Girl took, to get to the rock where she now sat and sang. 

Some Days

Some days,

All it takes to feel better

Is a new pair of shoes.

Some days,

It just takes a little wind,

A little poem, or a little paint,

And some days,

A great adventure.

All is as illusive as wing shadows.

As far as reaches the sky in the heavens,

So the sky of the endless spirit.




It’s hard to move ahead looking backward.ROOSTER


The first pie I ever made in my life was rhubarb.

It seemed to turn out perfectly.

Mom directed me.

I remember proudly presenting it to Nana at the supper table.

She declared that it was the best rhubarb pie she ever tasted.

She was old.  I was 14.



Things just need tended to sometimes.