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30 April, 2012

Shootin' Sassy - a Cowboy Love Poem

                 I've been known to write a fair piece of poetry. This one will get your heart racing.....

                   It's about my sexy husband...  you know, the one I paid Ten Dollars for off the Internet.... (Oh, you need to read that story if you haven't:  "The Best Ten Dollars..." and also "What Happened to that Hot Guy.....".  Then don't miss the "Wedding and Honeymoon Photos" that rounds up that herd of laughs!)

                                     Shootin' Sassy

                                             Your eyes roped me with their hunger.  
                                   Then pulled me close...
                           Sizzled me over the grill 
                       Of both our passions. Hot stuff!

            My cowgirl heart, Rustler of Love, wanted to jump
                     On mah horse, Ole  Paint.    
                          Wanted to run for the hills..    
                                 But I knew I'd lost the fight.

                                                     So, I lay, lassoed by your hot arms
                                             Helpless to run.
                                    Pressing tight against the trigger
                            Waiting for you to pull hard
                      To Kill me with your heart shot

                      You put a big hole in my willing, pumping heart. 
                             It died a happy death
                                   With those looks from your bullet eyes....  
                                             NO BLOOD!

                                            Did old outlaws of Love die so easily?
                                   Because the sleepin' up on Love's Boot Hill 
                           Was more serene than whiskey dreams unfulfilled? 
                    Maybe...  It felt so good, so right.

                   All I know is yah got me laid out flat
                            Heart-shot and happy.  
                                  Toes up, ready to be slung 
                                        Over yer saddle and bountied out.
                                         I'd even pay for the funeral
                                  If I could pick the coffin
                          With your warm arms to lie in
                      Warmed by your bullet eyes that killed me.

                 Whoever loaded that Colt .44 put all of your heart in it
                        He knew what he was gunning for.    
                              Yah got me dead to rights.

                               I could have sworn you were just some..
                         Ordinary cowpoke
                    Harmless and not much of a shot.
                                   Dead wrong and I'm happy to die.   

                            I felt your bullet eyes taking me down to ecstasy
                                  The heat and sweet behind them blasting me 
                             With the most peaceful bullet that ever hit.     
                         Dying in yer arms was easy.

                         I've died as happy as any rustler could 
                              Who was out to steal a hide or heart.  
                                      Even Ole Paint is a grinnin'. 

                            Just remember to bury me with my boots on
                                   And, Feller...
                                        Be good to mah horse.
                                              Sez me, Sassy, the Rustler

27 April, 2012

The Hole-in-the-Wall Heart

                                           THE HOLE-IN-THE-WALL-HEART
                  Pardner, once, there was a Safe place by day.  Cactus dry, dust hot, coyote lonely, windblown and grit-in-yer-teeth hard to find.
                 By starshot night t’was deep, cool, crystal pools and greenness, sprayed with the beauty and hopes of True Love and Dreams kept.

                 It was the place my Hole-in-the-Wall-Heart hid from the Outlaws of Love and the Lawmen of Passions.   My hiding place from Dreams spent.

                One day, on weary horse rode close in a tall fair stranger, looking like nothin' but the loner he was, dusty, maybe lost.    He made camp, lit a night fire, stayed a while.

                 My cowgirl heart, a dreamer, with mah guns drawn, hid out in my hide-e-hole, ready to melt into the rocks.   I watched, wary and disbelieving.

                The loner's fire cast familiar, dancing, warming shadows on the cool of my hiding place, and he seemed friendly enough.   I took a chance, stepped out into his firelight.   Dropped mah guns.

                Small talk, easy going down, sideways glances, then a wary parting.   I melted into the night and went my way.   "He'll leave, like all the rest, who come and can't find the way in,"  I thought.   But he didn't leave.

                Next thing, shots fired, ambush!!  I was roped... tied!  His steely eyes drawn down as I lay, willing, helpless to flee or fight.    Some loner!  (Knew the way in. How'd he do that?)

               My reluctant Renegade heart was bound with ropes of passion, not cold, but hot and glowing.    It felt good to be a prisoner.  How can this be?

              Slung me across his saddle.  Then, as sure as if he'd been this way before, he rode deep into my Hole-in-the-Wall-Heart, beyond cool caution, sharpshooter sentinels, to the bullet-shot middle of my Everything.

                Into the Safe place, where Dreams Kept and True love sat dusty over a bottle of stolen Whiskey Love and bet on my hide.   The loner sat down, smiling.
               They never knew what hit 'em!    He won, hands down, no gun drawn, no badge, no bounty.    Just deadly soft kisses, warm breath on my neck, heart-spoken words.  Weapons that Outlaws and Lawmen aren't supposed to use.

               The Hole-in-the-Wall-Heart was his at last and he stayed.   Beneath the starshot sky where Dreams Kept and True Love used to hide out, afraid of being killed...  but now fearless, tranquil.

               He pulled in the starshot sky, breathed in the cool night, nestled in the greenness, in the desert dreams that were my Everything.   Dreams of the love I thought I had to hide from...  In my Hole-in-the-Wall-Heart.

                               Some loner, how’d he do that?
My youngest Cowboy on Shimmers, about 15 years ago.  (Austin)

26 April, 2012


My husband's nickname was "Graywolf."  I was the "Dove".    I wrote this poem ten years ago.

            From the very first, tender kiss, when you put your hand into my hair and pulled me close to your lips at the airport, my heart has taken its own kind of flight...   A dove soaring, airborne on gossamer threads of love, careening towards joy!

            Holding me close, your hungry lips devouring my throat, my mouth, I feel it take flight, fluttering above me - that  poor dove, beating wings against the warm air...  Your breath sends it darting, here, there... trying to find a single sturdy branch upon which to land  - No chance!  Pulled earthward into your arms again...

            The sweetness of your enveloping lips, the warmth of your hands, caressing my body into ecstasy, take me higher than I ever imagined a bird could fly, soaring airborne on gossamer threads of love, careening towards immense joy! What sweetness, what heat, what dreams made real -- all you!

            The scent of your cologne, rockets my heart even higher, where my lips caress your own, your throat, your chest.... those big gentle, powerful hands, the taut muscles that pin me down to torture me more with those sensuous lips until I want to scream: free the dove, let her fly!

            What warm solitude, sweet security your arms, wrapped around me provide, just hold me forever and don’t wake me up ...  surely this is just a dream of a dove soaring, airborne on gossamer threads..... careening.... JOY!

17 April, 2012


                   I had a dream for two years before I met my husband, William.  This is the poem I wrote afterwards.

 In my night dreams you come softly to me, your handsome, crooked smile,                 
Blue denim shirt, an easy laugh, those green eyes
That nailed me still where I stood...

Reached out and put your warm fingers in my soft hair, pulled my..
Head close to your handsome face; my breath caught in my throat..
As your sensuous, warm lips relaxed into a hungry kiss on mine...

Seared through to my deepest core! I felt the sizzling heat of your hunger, as..         
Your strong arms enveloped my trembling body, cradled it so close to..
Your own, I couldn’t separate the shotgun pumping of our pounding hearts...

From deep within burned my own raw hunger, yearning for more, aching, twisting..           
My gut into helpless, blissful ropes, wanting you to go on; sighing, I..
Yielded, melting against you, swaying into your willing caresses, wrapped my arms around your belted waist ...

Pressing my softness into your tall, strong frame, unable to resist your burning touch any longer, I was consumed...
William, my dream cowboy, you’ve lassoed my cowgirl heart with your kisses, tender caresses ...  am I dreaming?

Now my own hunger for you, my aching dream hunger, lifts me high into the..
Ecstasy of your arms, the arms of the dream cowboy in the blue denim shirt........                            
                                               Don’t wake me!

Minus the glasses, this is the man I saw in my dreams for 2 years.

14 April, 2012

The Dream Kept

Another love poem about my husband of 11 years.

Long ago, 'neath fragrant pines, those scented giants in moonlight bathed,
Sat I and wondered if this life would leave my dreamer's heart unscathed.

It ached to love, to give, to sigh sweet breaths of tender yearning.
But years passed by.   I loved, I lost, I went on as Time was turning

To almost lose Love's perfect Dream, one my heart would surely claim
To shake those Carolina Pines, kiss old Moon, to never be the same.

                                      But I kept my dream....

Time moved me far from home. No fragrant pines nor misty moons to see.
Desert Oasis, flatland farms, heat, strangers, all became life for me.

Turning Time had buried my heart -  almost, where Old Dreams should not lie,
"Will a Perfect love be here for me ?" yet stubbornly wondered I.

Are there yet knights riding forth upon this desolate oasis land
Who would woo and win by chivalry my Dreamstruck maiden's hand?

                                   And I kept my dream.....

Then one day a knight dressed not in steel nor velvet, gazed upon the sky,
Saw there a rainbow, a promise, and ventured forth to woo the maiden, who was I.

He was but a Denver widower who sought virture, true honor and more
Never knowing of the maiden's dream, near lost, that had vexed her sore.

But once met, seeing her beauty, knew him his wish fulfilled, his search at end
To find the lady of his dreams, at first he'd wished only to make a friend.

                                    He too had a dream...

Now, shake Old Pines, smile Old Moon, and laugh with me this night.
I found my dream, where it always was, in prairie's desert light.

Far better dream than I had dreamed is here in my shaking hand
A knight of a man, with a gallant heart, tied with a yellow band

Who gives my Dream meaning anew, and my dreamer's heart a home
Thank you Moon for this "Denver widower", a Dream to call my own.

My husband William

07 April, 2012

Just a Little Old Art of Mine!

               One of the talents I displayed way before I started doing my creative writing, was painting and drawing at a very young age. 

                                                   (Like at four!) 

                   My mom used to gather up my tossed away, crumpled up paintings and drawings I didn't like. When she died, we found a whole drawer full of them from those early years, hidden under her underwear.  That's a mom for you.
My college art days. 
          I haven't done much since I went off to college, then to Scotland as a  married lady, returned, later remarried, had kids, remarried (seems I am always doing that till I get it right!) and somehow the rest of my life happened; the kids took over. 

             I stopped painting and drawing when I was working full time and raising my family, just no time.   I attended college in my 40s and again in my 50s graduating with top honors and two degrees, and enough credits for a doctorate, but never pursued it. 

                Art was not in my life's work program, except to work with my kids and encourage them along their own way.  My oldest son, Brad is quite an artist, musician and an inventor.   He built his own bass guitar and wrote over 40 original songs, was in a band for a while.  He has two young daughters who are artists in their own right, very talented for their ages!

Brad did this with Photo Shop in about an hour!
                 Here is one of my son Brad's digital art works from years ago.  He's a busy dad of two and has little time, just like me, to indulge his talent.

My talented son Brad.
                    Someday soon, I hope to start it up again.
             I took lots of photos and videos last summer at the Oregon coast and bought my very first set of water colors, after 67 years!    Hope to paint some small water color paintings of waves breaking and sea gulls wheeling overhead in the blue skies!    (I figured if I got small 5 by 7 inch watercolor paper I would NOT be intimidated into putting it off.) 

      Maybe I will paint one of the lighthouses we photographed.  Oregon was fodder for the creative mind and I loved going there.  My heart is still there, among the crashing, timeless waves, that have lapped up on the beaches for eons.  

One of the amazing photos my hubby took of Heceta Head  in Oregon, from the path to the Lighthouse!

My husband shot this charming photo of Heceta Head Lighthouse from below it.  See it?

Here I am soaking up the beauty of crashing, lapping waves and the cold temps -
in JULY 2010!!

Here is Seal Rock beach overlook. See that huge wave breaking on the rocks? Great for a painting someday!

Yaquina Head Lighthouse was spectacular.  That's in Newport, Oregon on the US West coast.
             Here are a few of the things I did in my teens, when I won prizes, got written up in newspapers and had art clients who commissioned my work.  Just a few sketches and some Art School projects remain.

Very seriously attending my sidewalk art show in 1960 something.

             I began selling my paintings at the age of 13.  Most of what I painted then was horses, horses and more horses!   Finally I painted some people, and they all sold better than the horses.  I was KNOWN for my unusual horse paintings, however.

I sold lots of sets of pairs of horses, in my teens, all done in India Ink.
              I couldn't afford water colors, so I used kid's poster paints, India ink and pencil.   I would paint a solid area in one color and then use a wet paint brush to remove some of the color, letting the paper shine through making a highlighted area.  My parents sent me to art lessons but soon found out I was way too advanced for my age group.

          I'd also use Indian Ink and then wet the paper and put thinned washes of Poster Paints over the wet letting it "bleed" blending the color against the wet paper, and let it dry; then I'd go back and add some brush strokes of solid colors.  Those were winners!

       This painting, which was done when I was in my late teens, I have saved over the many, MANY years, still exists, although the paper, which was not acid free, has yellowed.  It is an example of one of the India Ink and washes I did.  I sold lots of those, some very large.
This is an ink drawing with watered down poster paint washes over, then solid strokes when dry.  It is titled "Cloud Ponies."    Won first prize in high school.
        There were sketches from St. Andrews Presbyterian College in Laurinburg, North Carolina, where I learned to do ink sketches.  Here are a couple.

The St. Andrews knight and a girl studying in the library.  Quick five minute sketches!
               I had to learn not to fuss for hours over my work.  If I learned one thing there, it was to be spontaneous and it worked!    I also liked pencil sketches, done over with India Ink. 

             I even sketched my Histology equipment on notebook paper in the late 60s.  This sketch was of a now very antique old freezing Microtome used in sugery for cancer back in the 1960s!  I worked as a registered histology tech for 20 years, but not with this old stuff!

I worked with this in surgery for pathologists who were looking to remove cancers.
             Here is a sketch of my dear dad, made later than this photo of him about 15 years earlier.  

My dear father, fifteen years earlier

           Here is another college sketch from the St. Andrew's days.  This is Mary Ann Taylor, Lord knows where she is now these days.   

         This was a charcoal sketch.  I liked it but it was messy and expensive.  I had to do this at college as an art project.  Wonder what happened to my old college classmate after I left this school in the 1960s?

            My parents wanted me to be a famous fine artist.   

          I wanted to be a Histology technician!  I loved science and medical field since my dad gave me my first microscope at ten.  I also volunteered in the VA Hospital Medical Art department and got to drool over real surgeries on humans and animals, even autopsies!  (One day I was waiting around for the pathologist to cut into this dead guy, but he disappeared.  I finally got impatient and walked around the autopsy table.  He was passed out on the floor!)  

          Guess the gas gangrene got to him.  It didn't bother me.  I knew right there and then I wanted to do that kind of work.. Yes, gross, I know.

            Drew a lot of illustrations for that department.  (None of which I have.)   I learned to colorize black and white photos.  Medical illustration was a possible career but never got into it.   I wanted hands on the body parts!

            Finally, after a year at St. Andrews, a quarter at University of North Carolina, in Greensboro, NC,  I dropped out and went down to Ringling School of Art in Sarasota, Florida without my parents knowing about it.    I enrolled, held them hostage to pay for my food, rent, tuition and bus fare.   

      I learned to do Commercial Art, which I hated.  One of my instructors is the man who designed the Marlboro cigarette packs.  He was a total drunk, came to class, fell of his stool and left.   I got flunked out of a project I did as a miniature of a gallery because I did it in his LEAST favorite color!    

      After half starving, staying up too late trying to be a perfectionist, I then got sick after five months, and had to come back home to NC.   (Yeah, me and 24 boxes of art stuff, clothes and supplies, arrived in a taxi on their doorstep where I collapsed with a kidney infection.)  

          Here is one project left from those days.   A cherry pie that I half finished.   I got a B because I didn't get the bottom half of the pie finished.  This would have been a project I could have done for an Art agency doing ads for pie fillings.  Dumb, huh?

This was my first exposure to acrylic paints.  They are wonderful but I never wanted to pay the money for them.  

           At Ringling School of Art I learned that Commercial art meant working in an art agency drawing tire ads, cigarette and clothing ads and doing hand lettering, very competitive.  To be a fine artist, you had to be REALLY creative and competitive.  The talent of those guys really blew me away.  (There was NO way I could make a living much less rise to any stature in that field, so I gave up art altogether after that.)    At Ringling, I also got to draw NAKED people LIVE!   

            My folks would have died if they knew I was doing that in art school!  Pretty soon, you don't see the body of the person -- you see lights, dark, curves, and shadows.  You get caught up in the ART.   After I got over being very embarrassed at a naked person just feet away, I didn't care or notice anymore.

        Ringling School did expose me to other kinds of great art work.  I got to see Andy Warhol art, pop art, classic art, like Van Gogh and Da Vinci;   I got to see every kind of 3-D "touchy" art you can imagine.  It really opened my mind and my eyes.

       Now I have the opinion that if a guy can take car bumpers and junk yard trash and make something out of it that others will put on display or buy, it is ART!     

        I saw one very expensive painting at a gallery that was all white, a huge oil painting, totally all white from edge to edge, except.... for one tiny red dot in the off center.....   Whoever bought that, did NOT get their money's worth!  But it qualifies as ART.

                      I really appreciate really, really GOOD art.   I love Western art especially, horses and animals and Indians..  Yeah, being part Cherokee, that would be me.

       Art that is better than the camera can capture and tells a story.  My favorite (and I don't have a photo, sorry) was of a swan taking flight off the water.   You could see through the wings of the swan as it fanned them heavenward to lift itself.  The eyes looked at you, they captivated you!   The slightly parted beak with those real-looking eyes, real almost touchable painted feathers made that painting come to life!

           Well, maybe someday soon, this summer when I can sit outside under an awning by my motor home and paint will be the birth of my talent again.  It's there, buried somehow beneath my sense of humor and my sense of duty.  Maybe it's just buried!

Put out our awning, and I could sit and paint the beauty I have seen.

04 April, 2012

Sassy and the Stallion (Wild Heart)


            Nostrils flared and tail arched high, hooves pounding dust down the prairie canyons, came the black stallion.  He reigned on the precipice above his valley, tossing his great dark head.

            Obsidian black with glistening coat, rich mane of midnight hue, the stallion was ruled by his wild heart, free and alone he lived.
            He was lean, well-muscled and seasoned.  He dared the world to take him on.  None had ever captured him and none ever would.

            Free and unfettered, he lived, unspoiled by the weight of any rider, knowing no gentle hand, his wild heart yet untamed, unyielding.

            He only knew the wind and rocks and rain, the passing seasons and endless prairie grasses.  Yet he dreamed a stallion's dream:

            His being, one with sunlight and soft touches, floating above the earth, heart freely given, mastered, yet blissful.

            A stallion's dream of being possessed by one who would love him, meld with him, yet free him for his dreams and his floating.

            One day he stood, the king, straddling rocks high above his world, the wide prairie spread below him, a carpet of swaying grasses.  

           He beheld a woman, her fingertips caressing the prairie grass as she moved slowly.  She lifted her gossamer head and saw the stallion standing there.  Their eyes locked.  Sassy!

            She was the sunlight, hair of soft sparkling gold like his swaying grasses.  Her warm eyes pierced the distance between them and claimed him.    
            He pounded down the rocks toward her, challenging, shaking his black mane.  She walked slowly forward, unafraid, commanding the earth beneath her feet with gentleness, with magic as if she knew the way to his wild heart.   Sassy!

            A shiver rocked the stallion from his bannered tail to his soft nose.   He stood transfixed, watching this apparition, approaching and beckoning to him.  He was rooted to the ground, frozen by her silken steps.  Sassy.

            His great heart melted as he beheld her face.   Fear slipping away, he arched his great dark neck and minced his way to her.  

           Tossing his head and snorting, he stood, waiting for the inevitable.  She smiled an eternal, knowing smile, reaching her white arm out to him.  Sassy!

           Her voice was whispers of breezes in his canyons on a warm day.   Sassy's fingers touched his quivering nose and she spoke in musical tones.  His wild heart skipped a beat.

            The wild heart within him almost burst as she caressed him gently with her fingertips, looking into his liquid brown eyes with her own sparkling ones.  Eyes that haltered his wild heart, eyes the color of grasses and brown earth.  Sassy!

            As if she had known all along, slowly she stepped to his side, knotted fingers in his thick mane and swung up to his broad back as if a feather.  She sat stroking his arched, muscled neck.   

                      He trembled and was lost to her.  To Sassy.

            Then, slowly at first, they began to move in unison.  The stallion mincing until his step firmed, crossed the rocky ground, upward.   The weight on his back was light, strangely familiar, welcoming.  

                            He knew this was his destiny.  Sassy!

            They moved in tandem,  the warmth of their bodies burning together.   The black stallion and Sassy with golden hair, up, up to the pinnacle where he had stood and first beheld her.

            There, looking down over their world, the hearts of both stallion and Sassy swelled with emotion as they felt their destinies merge to one.  He knew his wild heart had found its match.  Sassy.

            Her magic enveloped his being, her soft words melted into his heart, her touch, gentle as warm rain, inflamed his very essence.   He knew at last the meaning of his dream.  He yielded his everything and sighed.

            The black stallion snorted, touched his nose to her soft leg.  The heat between them was like molten steel.  He knew at last he was completely free, free from his wild heart.    

                            The wild heart belonged to Sassy.