A Night in the Forest

One night quite mysterious and dreary.

While I was lost and followed light,

The moon was rising wearily,

It was within my sight.

The owls were moaning slowly,

Like they do before the rain,

It was something like small groaning,

Some may have been in pain.

My friends took one path,

And I took another.

Somehow, I escaped their wrath

While searching for my brother.

I stood very still and listened,

The light seemed very near.

The tree limbs softly glistened,

There was not a sound to hear.

The pot of gold was waiting

My friends said it was theirs.

I was tired of their hating,

So I walked among the bears.

The owls and bears and other creatures

Looked at me and were amazed.

I could dimply see their features

Though their eyes were ablaze.

I walked among the rocks and leaves

While glancing left and right.

Hoping deeply as one believes

I would be rescued from my plight.

The atmosphere was ghostly,

A lantern moved real slow.

I saw one eye more closely,

It was someone I might know.

A friendly eye, two of them, in fact,

They looked just like my own,

Reminding me of our private pact,

To rescue the other when grown.

I followed, he led the way,

He turned and smiled at me.

His smile and strength welcomed a new day.

Suddenly I could see.

The Meadowlarks

An agile gentleman plowed forward in heavy snow in early March as the spring dashed over the crystal brook during the season reckoned astronomically in the southern hemisphere as extending from the September equinox to the December solstice, one of the two points on the celestial sphere where the equator intercepts the ecliptic.

Monday morning, the inquisitive baby meadowlarks descended upon the exquisite park where pine trees marked the early pathway.

The wind was writing a fine tune above a nearby goldmine and the king meadowlark zoomed over to inquire as to why the wandering baby meadowlarks arrived so soon.

The king meadowlark was urgently awakened by an electric thunderstorm as he shot to the deserted farmhouse on this misty morning.

In his concern for the anticipated loss of the wandering baby meadowlarks, he arrived at the park where the branches yielded to an abundance of yellow birds.

The birds dove through a tent fence unnoticed by the king meadowlark in the dense twilight and hid their slings, arrows and stones discovered by the king meadowlark, who placed the stones side by side creating a magnificent palace where the wandering baby meadowlarks were joined by the agile gentlemen who scooped up the birds in his fishing net and moved them to the palace accompanied by the majestic king with a banquet of marinated oysters, vanilla blossoms, crisp cabbage, baby sweet corn, turnip seeds, green string beans, radishes, celery stuffed with baked pigeon eggs, wheat sprouts, and spiced pasta trimmed with sprinkled parsley.

If I Were a Book, Which Book Would I Be?

If I were a book,

The book I would be

Would be a collection of songs from the farm

Combined with the manuscript I wrote a few years ago

And this time I would not loan it to a priest.

I would keep it to myself, to say the least.
On the cover would be photographs of butterflies,

Pink butterflies,

And a carnation,

A rose,

Blue blossoms

Lillies of the valley,

Outlined with lace.
There would be copies of hymns,

Photographs of my mother and father,

And the secretary of space.
There would be photographs of airplanes,

Bavarian castles,

Shakespeare's sonnets,

Of musical instruments,

The pages would be permanently perfumed

And would be textured to the touch.
I would want a picture of a house in the desert.
Of the Scotch countryside,

And a photograph of the Cibeles Fountain in Madrid.
It would be of about 77 pages, with removable binding

So I could add pages,

Like a diary.
Each page would be hand lettered.
There would be several photographs of gardens,

All in color,

Of country farms,

And some trees.
There would be pastel colors,

The kind that please.
I will carry the book around with me so I will not lose it.
Because it will be so beautiful,

Someone else may choose it.

When the Party Ended at Twilight

When the party ended at twilight

And cigarettes smashed in butter,

The place was alive with forgotten promises.

I was astounded by the clutter.

I said "good morning", our goodbye.

And headed for the pool.The presents

I received that night

Were sparkling like a jewel.

The wedding gifts were fancy.

I had planned a gown of lace.

Now lace was tossed and tattered,

Paper ribbons filled the place.

Because I had soon decided

To change plans and fire the band

And to remain a spinster

To me that sounded grand.

Across the room I saw him,

My love Paul from years ago,

He had since married another

Someone I used to know.

The memories were so vivid

Of our classring exchange at the prom.

But then he married my best friend

And I'm engaged to Tom.

"So here we are", I thought last night

The sparks began to fly.

I thought if Paul would look at me,

I would probably say "Hi!"

But then his wife was at his side

She said she liked Tom best

I threw my ring into the pool

And built my private nest.

Alone

Like winds in flight,

A strange delight,

My world is real and so is yours,

We hear a different tune.

I notice flutes, you notice voices

I see the moon, you count the stars,

The world is full of choices.

I stand alone, you stand alone

We enjoy our aloneness

Two people enjoying their aloneness together.

And yet we are bold to say,

We are alone.

Raining in my Heart

Rain can wash away the tears.

How do you know it is raining if you are crying?

Soft rain, dancing on the flowers,

Growing faithfully.

Sun this morning, rain at noon.

Fun this morning, until afternoon.

Raining, raining, when we are apart.

It's only raining in my heart.

Forward Through the Past on a Beautiful Afternoon

Golden threads weave through time.

We stand still.

Time stands still.

We move on.
Many

Few Choices.

One is where one has wished to be and suddenly wants to be where he was dreaming of somewhere else because the dreams were better than the place.

Fresh air feels like an angel's kiss.

When there is no place else to be pushed or pulled, we walk through the hills.

Suddenly, we are in the light again.

We walk alone in the dark.
Quiet shadows watch the feathered sky.

We awake from the dream and hear the veil of ocean on the sides of our yacht and feel the soft promise of afternoon.

Saints Before Us

Saints before us,

Calm and great

Arrive quietly,

Like Spring.

Without motive.

Career Changes

I once taught school and really liked helping students develop an ability to make their own decisions. Sometimes there was a difference of opinion in the way their parents might want them to learn, partly because sometimes parents who did not speak English insisted upon the students speaking their own native language. I left that occupation to study drama, paint, write poetry and plays and I enjoyed acting in some plays in Beverly Hills and San Francisco.

The corporate world was fascinating for awhile and I managed to survive the claustrophobic feeling of drafting specs instead of creating and so those years were void of significant creative activity.

When I hear of instances like the current case in Colorado where the geography teacher proceeded to compare our president with Hitler and the School Board allowed the teacher to return to work because of his tenure, I realize the educational process is becoming rather corrupt, and really don't know what the possible answer is to improve the situation.

Real estate is well-paying but I believe I would not like negotiating on prices.

I once thought it would be a good idea to dress up a home by placing my paintings there because artwork sometimes enhances the appearance and helps to increase the possibility of sales, but often the prospective buyer wants the artist to paint a picture in another color to match the color he intends to paint the walls or paint a specific portrait, and I prefer to paint what I like to paint.

I Like to Sing in the Morning

I like to sing in the morning,

Drives my neighbors insane.

If they are not already quarrelling,

Sometimes it is quite plain.

Walls vibrate with drums and screams,

And sounds I can't comprehend.

Not even in my wildest dreams

Could I compete with the noise they send.

To them it is fun,

Their drumrolls and gyrations,

To me, it is just not done,

A difference in our generations.

Their radios blare with vulgar sounds

By those with pants to their knees.

Who can't walk straight and waddle around

And say just what they please.

Perhaps they seek to escape some sorrow

,And sometimes appear rather civilized.

The youth of today are the hope of tomorrow,

Though some appear to be otherwise.

One morning, they inquired about my song

When I met them in he hall

Their looks were mean and very strong,

I couldn't understand them at all.

Perhaps if I learned to play their stuff,

They would begin to like mine.

But for now I think this is enough

So there is not one more line.

Quotations

True courage is like a kite; a contrary wind raises it higher. - John Petit-Senn

When we dive into the ocean, we become the sea. - Charlotte Kasl, If the Buddha Dated

Was it my conspicuousness that distressed me? Not at all. It was merely that I was not beautifully conspicuous or ugily conspicuous. It makes all the difference in the world. - Mark Twain , Eruption

When people are talking about you, they are leaving someone else alone. - Clyde Knapp, Farm (1951)

Truth has no special time of its own. Its hour is now, when most truly it seems most unsuitable to actual circumstances. - Albert Schweitzer, On the Edge of the Primeval Forest (1922)

Beauty is mysterious as well as terrible. God and devil are fighting there, and the battlefield is the heart of man. - Fedor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov (1879)

That special time caught up in its wild vortex and, in the absence of leisure to reflect on the matter, compelled me to what had to be done. - Vaclav Havel, Summer Meditations (1992)

Art and religion are two roads by which we escape from circumstance to ecstasy to reach similar states of mind. - Clive Bell, Art (1914)

Be like a headland of rock on which the waves break incessantly, but it stands fast and around it the seething of the waters sinks to rest. - Marcus Aurelius

I play on the seashore and often find a smoother pebble while the ocean of truth is undiscovered before me. - Isaac Newton, Anecdotes (1966)

There is nothing more dangerous than justice in the hands of judges and a paintbrush in the hands of a painter. Few dare to expel painters and poets from society because of refusal to admit the danger of keeping painters and poets in society. - Pablo Picasso, Theories of Modern Art (1968)

Without Saying Goodbye

WITHOUT SAYING GOODBYE

A three act play by Elizabeth Gerringer (Ceshune)
Previously titled Special Appointment - A Clown in Town
Produced by Reader's Theater in San Francisco, 1984

Whenever I see an art exhibit and someone invites the artist to explain the paintings, I am reminded of a great wise man whose name I forgot but who once remarked that the best paintings are those which the artist need not describe. The wise man also mentioned that it was not significant whether authors and artists wrote and painted from their own experience, whether the observer was aware that the work of art was real or imaginary or out of the artist’s own life or dreams and further, that knowledge about the artist or author’s own life is not necessary in understanding the work of art that was created.Without Saying Goodbye is about art, and about the consequences one faces when one paints, acts, thinks, and dreams as an individual and the art is a product thereof and the consequences of choosing life styles and acquaintances which appear to contradict the work of the artist.Therefore, since my story requires no further introduction, I shall not attempt to further introduce it.

WITHOUT SAYING GOODBYE (a synopsis)
Elizabeth Gerringer
A three-act play

Act One, Scene I

Discovery

Gretchen and the clown Bozo meet at Pier 39 on the Embarcadero in San Francisco. They discuss the girl for whom Bozo is searching and his reasons for trying to find her. Bonnie warns him the girl is difficult to find because of her various disguises.

Act One, Scene II

Inquiry

Bozo confronts Mitramb who he believes is a former friend of Gretchen, the girl he is seeking. Bozo accuses Mitramb of being jealous and is infuriated at the stubborn, selfish, attitude of the priest whom Bozo accuses of murdering Gretchen’s husband.

Act One, Scene II

Rediscovery

Gretchen appears on the wharf as a clown. She meets Bozo and begins a conversation about clowns. They discuss different kinds of clowns and their purpose in life. Bozo realizes Bonnie is the girl for whom he has been searching.

Act Two, Scene I

Revelation

Mitramb telephones his attorney, Mr. Calera to discuss his side of his story. He is afraid he is going to be discovered because of his plot to kill Gretchen’s husband and destroy Gretchen before Gretchen exposes him or brings charges against him.

Act Two, Scene II

Motivation

Bozo and Gretchen discuss Mitramb’s plot and Gretchen expresses faith in her situation. She claims her belief in astrology is important and has developed strength through reading worthwhile books and through creative arts. Bozo and Gretchen discuss the political motivations and the individual lawsuits on which they are working. Gretchen warns Bozo someone may seek revenge against him.

Act Two, Scene III

Retribution

This scene is a play within a play in which four clowns appear including Gretchen. Bozo talks to the audience and introduces the scene. Mitramb is in the audience watching the scene. Two men appear from each aisle and shoot him, then disappear out the back stage door.

Act Three, Scene I

Transition

Gretchen defends herself in court against the attempted murder of Mitramb. Mr. Calera, the prosecuting attorney, is sarcastic and rude, but later changes his attitude when he realizes Gretchen is innocent and challenges the judge’s right to hear the case based on prejudice. Mr. Calera raises several legal issues and withdraws as the attorney for Mitramb. The trial is to continue as Gretchen acts in her own behalf as her own attorney.

Act Three, Scene II

Farewell

Gretchen and Bozo discuss the trial and Gretchen expresses an interest in Bozo’s work and computers. Gretchen senses she is being betrayed by Bozo and tells him, “I love you, honey, but the season is over.”

Act Three, Scene III

An Appropriate Justice

This scene is a trial in which Gretchen anticipates she will be tried for the attempted murder of Mitramb. Instead, she is quizzed about her intent to draw a parallel between her methods of evaluating the legal field and the medical profession. She declares her right to privacy and argues with the doctor Mitramb hired to destroy her through his efforts at psychological blackmail. The doctor changes his attitude in favor of Gretchen and the judge rules in her favor.

A Good Woman

A good woman is proud of herself.
She respects herself and others.
She is aware of who she is.
She neither seeks definition from the person she is with, nor does she expect them to read her mind.
She is quite capable of articulating her needs.
A good woman is hopeful.
She is strong enough to make all her dreams come true.
She knows love, therefore she gives love.
She recognizes that her love has great value and must be reciprocated.
If her love is taken for granted, it soon disappears.
A good woman has a dash of inspiration, a dabble of endurance.
She knows that she will, at times, have to inspire others to reach the potential God gave them.
A good woman knows her past, understands her present and moves toward the future.
A good woman knows God.
She knows that with God the world is her playground, but without God she will just be played.
A good woman does not live in fear of the future because of her past. Instead, she understands that her life experiences are merely lessons, meant to bring her closer to self knowledge and unconditional self love.
_________
From a friend

To X or not to X?

I admire someone who says good things about their ex after the breakup, not to overdo it so it becomes reverse, like, "Oh, yeah, then why did you break up?", but if someone insists upon prying, just a few kind comments with a smile will do. Some insist about the details, I don't know why, just like some say rude things to a couple who have been married for quite awhile like "When are you going to have a baby?"

There appears to be is a fascination about celebrities because we identify with their on-screen portrayals and want to know if that is what they are really like in private life. For some reason, screen stars are role models so whatever they do, like take a stand on various social issues, their views become topics for conversation among the coffee clatchers. Like if Michael Jackson wasn't in the public eye, who would have cared if held his child over a balcony or whatever else he is accused of doing, not to mention the various entertainers making speeches about this politician or that one.

If Joe Smith said something like a few I could name, it would not be noticed, but let some screen star say they are going to leave the country if that one or this one is elected and it becomes front page news. I could name a famous singer who I don't listen to anymore because of her bla bla attitude about power politicians and she can't even spell right on the internet. One of my bosses said one of the reasons he hired me is because I didn't "bad-mouth" my former exployer, even though I had plenty of reasons, so that is my soap box for today.

The Fifth Season

If I could invent a season that was better than the rest,

I would include the Christmas of winter,

The lillies of spring,

And the picnics of summer.I would include fireplaces,

Beautiful birds,

Perhaps whipporwills,

Meadowlarks,

And whopping cranes.

The fifth season is the chance to say something we wish we had said.

Or not to say something when we ought not.

It is forgiveness.

It is being on your way to the dentist when your tooth stops hurting.

It is discovering and old friend's address just before Christmas.

It is being remembered on your birthday by a special friend.

It is looking up at the hills near the sea and seeing ships sailing above the treetops.

It is receiving a dozen lavender roses for no reason at all.

The fifth season is standing at the earth's edge looking up in wonderment

As the heavens gracefully acknowledge the order of the universe

And the seagulls circle

In the shape of tomorrow.

The Stranger on the Train

I looked for an answer, when I quit crying,
About why you left me, and instead of dying,
I met a stranger on the way to Alaska,
Where I was going
Since I had not been there before.
I'm feeling sad, I said, I've been betrayed.
First time it happened?, he inquired
No, I replied.
Then I stayed by his side for miles
Thinking of when I'd been blue before,
And I'd gotten over it
.When I arrived in Alaska, I remembered his words,
The stranger who detrained in Seattle.
I turned around and thought, instead of crying,
That no matter how sad I'd been yesterday,
I'd been given a gift along the way.
I thought I would find my answer in Alaska
And I found it along the way.
I returned home thinking,
Instead of crying,
I'm really over you.
Thanks to the stranger on the train.

Dust House

Ashes to ashes,

Dust, too.

Scrape off some paint

And rust,too.

Sprinkle some sawdust,

Mix with glue.

A little more fluff,

Some light stuff.

Add some water,

A thimblefull will do.

Wipe off your hands,

Throw in the towel,

Add cement,

Stir well.

Let dry for about three minutes.

Start another with the same procedure.
When you have a dozen dust stones,

Start building the wall of your dust house.

Before you know it,

You will build many dust stones

Out of carefully selected bones,

Discarded ice cream cones,

Various jewelry,

And dehydrated marshmallows.

Attach dust stones to each other

With flour paste

Or whatever might become glue.
With enough of these dust stones.

You can build quite a fancy place.

You can even build a secret hiding place.
Welcome to my house of dust

In a blue sheltered lagoon.
Tomorrow's great,

Be there at seven.
Bye, now, see you soon.

Where Do I Work?

I was raised on a farm, woke up at dawn.
There was no alarm, those days are long gone.

I then moved to town, afraid of the traffic.
People all around,theaters were fantastic.

I worked for a designer who created great clothes.
None were there finer, though I couldn't afford those.

So I sewed my own, like my mother taught me,
A blue satin gown, pretty as could be.

I placed it on the rac; there was nowhere to go
Someone brought it back, the label didn't show.

I travelled on trains, on buses, too,
Through snow and rain, deciding what to do.

Attended school here, worked sometimes frantic,
Often studied there, music was fantastic.

I think it is great to work where I like
And sometimes create or ride on my bike.

Where do I work? What do you see?
Every day is new, I like to just be.

The Role of Women in Society

I think the times when the women stayed at home to look after the family were happier times in history, but with the occurrence of wars requiring the absence of men from the homes, women began to work outside in factories and the home life was sometimes not as secure as when the father was sharing the household.

Then, with the return of the men from the armed services, women, having achieved an element of independence, were unwilling to return to the role of housekeeper when they could work and pay someone else to do the work and still enjoy their independence. The men were changed from their former youthful optimism and discovered other cultures which they wanted to pursue and when women worked side by side with the men in the military, there was an equality of ability. Although unmatched in strength, the women sometimes surpassed the men in intellect, stamina, and moral strength becoming competitors in the fields formerly exclusive to men, such as in the fields of medicine and law enforcement.

So, now there are increasing numbers of women in the offices of government and business and it appears the more accomplished women become, the more some men yearn for "the good old days", when men were the heads of the household and women obeyed the wishes of their husband or the oldest male sibling. Women are now sometimes considered one of the "guys", and although this could be a flattering term, I think most women enjoy their place of looking toward men for strength, validation, and partners in a peaceful order of existence.

The Dreaming Ravens

I know ravens were dreaming of you,

There were so many, they blocked the view.

The sky was covered, of that I'm sure.

Why ravens were dreaming,

(And I'm sure they were,)

I'm not so sure.

Harmony of the Arts

Harmony of the arts is an achievable goal.

The work of true artists is a result of their lifestyle.

It is not really necessary for the reader to know whether a work of art is real or fiction.

It is the artistic expression that is important, our desire or depth of identification with the subject.
We need to accept the highest motive of critics without explanation and acknowledge them in their aestetic beauty and for their moral power regardless of hostile traps waiting to ensnare the unprepared like one pursued by a host of demons struggling against an encircling shelf of care.
We dare to be silent, a communicating silence, as one who is unfamiliar with the song recognizes the melody when it is sung or played by one with whom we are on loving territory.

It is possible to recognize the power of nothingness and to realize it is a vital tangible source of renewed strength.

Have a Nice Blue Day

You said you were sad,
Or so I thought.
I hope you are glad.
At least you ought.
Somewhere I heard,
Perhaps from on high,
To smile at a bird
Perhaps who can't fly.
Birds like to fly,
No need to talk,
Just help them mend.

Look out your window, see, he is blue,
His feathers are indigo,
And various hues.
Enjoy your day,
With a cup of tea.
See the morning bluejay
In the pretty tree.

Diamonds in the Sky

I was sad when I lost my ring,
And suddenly decided to sing
"Where are my diamonds, precious and real
Why doesn't someone know how I feel?"
I walked in a garden so new and fine,
If I was wearing my diamonds
Of which there were nine,
I might have missed the sunlight approaching so near
And would miss the songbirds and baby deer.
I glanced at the sparkling sun
And saw my diamonds, one by one.
I looked at my wrist, which was nearly bare,
And saw that my diamonds had returned there.
The sun was now hidden and birds were all quiet.
There was something strange,
I could not deny it.
As the doves flew away,
Before I could thank them,
I stood very still, heard a lovely anthem.

Castles in the Air

Castles sailing through the air,
Someone in them who learned to care.
Some of them are green,
Some of them are white.
The castles sail on
Through bright moonlight.
We wave to them
And they are out of sight.
A halo dances quietly,
Then another,
Dissolving into shadows.
The castles keep on sailing.

The Cave

It was autumn when I found the cave.
The door was partly obscured by tumbled boards and a wrecked auto, a '29 Buick, daisies and delphiniums growing around the crankshaft.
Whoever stopped there and for whatever reason apparently moved on and abandoned the iron horse that carried him from West Virginia.
I climbed into the auto through the rusty window, hurried back to my campgrounds for a flashlight, entered into the cave and walked about three feet.
There was no sound except my pounding heart. I cautioned forward and turned off the flashlight.
It was one o'clock in the afternoon.
Through spiders of light, I saw a marble table, thick and of good quality.
Up a stairway beside an outdoor grill that I was afraid might contain bones, I saw light at the top and three small doors, one partly open, one with creaky hinges, and one unmovable.
I pushed open the one with creaky hinges and waited.
No sound except the click of my flashlight.
Out jumped a bat at then then another.
Silence. Who would hear me if I screamed?
The light behind me dashed across grey stones as I stood on the stairway.
It had just rained yesterday and the sweet perfume of flowers welcomed me as I approached a new morning.
I wanted to seek further on and walked slowly down the stairs, saving the mysteries for tomorrow.

The Moon's Agreement

The sun lends lazy fingers across the meadow,

Waits for approval,

Then invites the moon for a dance.

Birds refuse to sleep.

Especially owls and their cousins

Who converse in the moonlight

Creating a language of chance

Or by special design.

And only they hold the roadmap.

The silence becomes loud now

And creates a special tune

From inward glance.

The Dance of Life

Some may think and others speak,

Some are strong and others weak.
Those who speak another's thoughts

Are sometimes met with reasons caught.
Suddenly caught in webs of chance,

Hurried reasons expose the dance.
The dance of life the creator gave us,

Hoping our beliefs would save us.
The wind takes credit for blowing in dust,

For the simple reason that he must.
The same wind blows over sea and land

Causes the tides and moves the sand.
"See what I did", the wind seems to say,

Unmoved by the sun that starts the day.
The wind and the sun, with help from a star,

Move with the gravity from afar.
The wind claims to have created the air

And the earth moves around regardless of care.

Picnic Table

The tree was tall,

The branch was strong,

Became my morning chair.
I took my chair most everywhere,

To school and then to play.
I carried it to work one day,

The boss said it was in the way.
The cat thought it was his,

Sleeping in the sun.
I took it to the porch near the tree stump

I used for a picnic table
Because I thought the tree was in pain,

Having lost a chair.

Forward Through a Dream on a Beautiful Afternoon

Golden threads weave through time.

We stand still.Time stands still.

We move on.
Many choices,

Few Choices.
One is where one has wished to be and suddenly wants to be where he was dreaming of somewhere else because the dreams were better than the place.
Fresh air feels like an angel's kiss.
When there is no place else to be pushed or pulled, we walk through the hills.
Suddenly, we are in the light again.
We walk alone in the dark.
Quiet shadows watch the feathered sky.
We awake from the dream and hear the veil of ocean on the sides of our yacht and feel the soft promise of afternoon.

Candles

Candles glowing through the night,

Through the morning hours.

Candles gleaming very bright,

Shining through the flowers.

Candles in the window

In the evening after sunlight

Changing shadows on the walls.

The shadows move slowly,

The night is quiet and still.

Stillness grows to movement,

Softly breezes fan the flames.

Night has turned to sudden darkness now,

And there is no one else in sight.

Ghosts are creeping in the doorway slowly,

Count them, there are seven.

Seven candles for you visitors,

One for each, you light them now.

They do not speak or cannot,

Turn, and slowly walk away.

The seven candles are still waiting

For my friends some other day.

Save the Dance

Save the Dance
In June one sunny year after graduating from high school, feeling betrayed by my high school friend Julius who asked me to dance who then laughed as I stood up and said, "Do you really think I would dance with you?", I boarded a train to San Francisco at Clinton, Iowa, sailed past Treasure Island after studying postcards of movie stars and eventually visited the homes of celebrities along the green tree-lined hilltops of Santa Catalina Island.

I saved my money from weed salvaging and corn detassling to pay for my transportation.
Dad gave me a healthy allowance for my work in the farm fields.Mother and Dad saw me off on the train, waved slowly, tears of pride shining from their eyes.
Aunt Miranda couldn't join us to the station, she was in a wheel chair with a crocheted shawl drawn across her knees, but she smiled brightly and pressed a green velvet ribbon into my hand, green, she once told me for prosperity and hope.Aunt Miranda once told me the best advice she could give me was to look everyone straight in the eye, to answer truthfully, and to smile slightly. Every problem can be interpreted in terms of three, she once told me. Three primary colors, red, blue and yellow. Three in religion, father, son, and Holy Ghost, and three in ourselves, past, present, and future. Think in terms of three and you will find your way in life, she once told me.Symbols of childhood raced across my eyes, thoughts of mother as she ironed my dresses in the morning before school and prepared my lunch with great care and of Dad who took me to town for ice cream when it rained in the summer fields.
After several weeks work in my uncle's store, I returned home briefly with hat and gloves as I was trained to do after completing finishing school to be met with questions of where I might be from by local neighbors, and then when in San Francisco again, dressed as I was taught, meeting new questions of where I might be from.At fifteen, I looked nineteen, rather plain, with a mind like a many-spoked wheel and several interests, each arrow pointing outward while moving to the next as the hands of a clock marked the time as though it never began and would be in tune with the universe forever.
Years later, when I lived in Pacific Heights in California facing a lovely view of the ocean I painted pictures and wrote poetry, worked part time for an engineering firm and attended some post-graduate classes through an extension division of U.C. Berkeley.

City life in San Francisco was not like riding horseback on the farm or wandering dreamily through the meadows in springtime seeking daffodils or baby yellow meadowlarks.San Francisco, a favorite of dreaming idealists where diversified culture is accepted as casually as the brisk ocean fog, arguing seagulls and flocks of unwanted pigeons.
One must remember to respect the saints, to attend religious services, and not to be surprised to learn some churches in San Francisco teach political theories instead of religion like on the farm communities of Wisconsin.In Wisconsin, one can leave their screen door unlocked while visiting a neighbor for a cup of sugar, but in the city, one quickly learns the visitors are identified as pushovers by more experienced travelers and newcomers should try to remember their childhood training and not talk to strangers.
Based on a thesis about Watergate, I received a scholarship to the University of California at Berkeley, a prize I treasured almost more than the memories of a happy childhood on the Wisconsin farm.At Berkeley, I studied nuclear physics, was told it was a secret, but children learn fast, and there is theater in most of us.I hoped to continue to study music, paint, and create beautiful dreams for others to follow, to remember the best of the past and look forward to a bright future.My teacher at U.C. Berkeley, Miss Virginia, met me at the Faculty Club as she promised, the exclusive building sheltered in a ravine behind a bridge, just hidden from view.

The walls of the campus dormitory of Cheney Hall were brightly painted with diagonal lines. The Museum of Art was a delight to the eye with large sculptured rectangles, as though placed from above, resting on one another in perfect balance, with the sunlight gleaming through in afternoon glory. Brightly colored paintings by Hans Hoffman greeted visitors, abstracts, pen and ink drawings, and molded chairs were placed facing each other side by side, as though conversations were just completed.
Who walked these halls, where are they now, the artists, teachers, and attorneys? Are they crying, are they happy, did they learn while they were here? Will I find new friends here? Where is the bookstore? When will the campus bells ring?While I was pondering the relationships between the arts and sciences and my good fortune at winning a scholarship, I recognized the outline of someone who resembled Julius and he walked over towards me.But he was not Julius, although he resembled Julius.

I thought of Julius everywhere and eventually learned to dance professionally and taught ballet and the Latin dances.During early years in California, I met many surprising situations due to my perceived knowledge of nuclear physics, but I hoped that when the eventual opportunity presented itself, if I saw him, if he could dance, and if he asked me, I would say to Julius, "I would love to dance with you."

Artistic Interpretations

Harmony of the arts is an achievable goal.

The work of true artists is a result of their lifestyle.

It is not really necessary for the reader to know whether a work of art is real or fiction.

It is the artistic expression that is important, our desire or depth of identification with the subject.
We need to accept the highest motive of critics without explanation and acknowledge them in their aestetic beauty and for their moral power regardless of hostile traps waiting to ensnare the unprepared like one pursued by a host of demons struggling against an encircling shelf of care.
We dare to be silent, a communicating silence, as one who is unfamiliar with the song recognizes the melody when it is sung or played by one with whom we are on loving territory.

It is possible to recognize the power of nothingness and to realize it is a vital tangible source of renewed strength.

When the Party Ended at Twilight

When the party ended at twilight
And cigarettes smashed in butter,
The place was alive with forgotten promises.
I was astounded by the clutter.
I said "good morning", our goodbye.
And headed for the pool.

The presents I received that night
Were sparkling like a jewel.
The wedding gifts were fancy,
And planned a gown of lace.

Now lace was tossed and tattered,
Paper ribbons filled the place.
Because I had soon decided
To change plans and fire the band
And to remain a spinster
To me that sounded grand.

Across the pool I saw him,
My love Paul from years ago,
He had since married another
Someone I used to know.

The memories were so vivid
Of our classring exchange at the prom.
But then he married my best friend
And I'm engaged to Tom.
"So here we are", I thought last night
The sparks began to fly.
I thought if Paul would look at me,
I would probably say "Hi!"
But then his wife was at his side
She said she liked Tom best
I threw my ring into the pool
And built my private nest.

The Theory of Evolution v. Theory of Creation

Christian children are taught by their parents God created the world, God and Jesus are one, but they are not allowed to pray in school.
Young children are taught to believe in Santa Claus but later their parents admit it was a lie. So then, children begin to think maybe Jesus ws a lie, too.
Geologists teach students the earth ws created by the explosion of planets, the "Big Bang" theory, that living species were formed from water on rocks.
So, maybe God created the rocks. If God didn't create the rocks, who did?
If God didn't exist, someone would invent God to explain the rocks.
Maybe Santa Claus really exists.
There is more than one Santa Claus. Is there more than one God?
If rocks existed before Jesus existed and Jesus and God are one, did Jesus invent the rocks?
Religious theorists tell us not to question God, to accept God's grace.
Geologists tell us to question everything.

God and evolution continue to exist, whether we believe it or not.

The River is a Rock

The river is the rock's refusal to move

And I am certain that you know

The mountain is the sky's agreement to grow.
And we will be there someday.

We will all be there someday.

When all the cares of the world are away.
Away from the mountains, beyond the blue

When all our prayers are answered for you.

Someday the river will meet the sky.

And let me tell you the reason why
The river is a circle, the sky is too.

Beginning and endless, that's why it is true.
And if you don't believe it is true

Remember that someone really loves you
If you don't love someone, they still love you

And maybe then, you will love them, too.