Tuesday, September 19, 2017

Cries the Sky

She dangles the bough
close enough to taste
Skirting away the moment
I almost catch it

She casts greens to golds
and shimmering stones to ice
 I glide across in surprise

She cries in uneven cadence
whispering her power and majesty
from the clouds and sea
I am spellbound

I cry
My gratidtude great and gaining
bold and splattering grains of sandy
patterns upon my lips and soul

She cries
I arise

Tuesday, May 30, 2017


Off I go on horseback chasing cacti's menancing tails and whipping dirt and sand wherever I go. Off to an high flutin adventure of intrigue and combative interactions.   Oh I spend a little time sipping  warm beer and flirting with women, all the time keeping my hands free to act on impulse or from altercation... Next day, next town, next year, same loop. Always predictable outcome, I carry my persona in my holster and never let it down.

But what if today's renegade defined itself.? What if I would want to fill them boots and archetype now!

Being over 60 years, I yearn for adventure and propulsion forward. What ?, you mean no retirement and more than one  place to lay my hat? ( I heard this from the front porch of the apothecary on Main St. in Samesights, Oklahoma.) I never imagined that I would be filled with the excitement of more change nor would welcome it at this age.  It feels like youth has given me a potion and a vibrancy I thought was long gone.   I did not realize,(until one of my daughters suggested it ) that I was still trying to create the past in a different place , different characters, but with  my renegade thoughts the same and in the same loop over and over.
I was in the backroom of the dance hall waiting for all the ruckus to be over, then emerge safe and sound.   Familiar sights and sounds, familiar problems and resolution , I could handle that.

Well, spirit has pushed me to be a renegade in whatever boots I want now or even barefeet will do.
Listening to my body over 60, not succumbing to symptoms, but inquiring if I want them as my companion, forever and reliable , or could something else push me into territory , a bit scary but propel me with ease.

My corral lately has been like minded friends,  a myriad of renegades, with common core of passion to continue to grow, see new horizons and complete this life journey with joy and acceptance.  As "they " say, what you resist, persists.   Meditation was the lucky horseshoe that brought us all together.  We seemed to put up the signpost then one by one we trickled in. The signpost has allowed us to say, "hey where are you thinking of going?" and then reflect back with the help of our own tin cup
to view our own dusty steps and blurry eyes. We know that we are all going somewhere, but have this watering hole refuge to refuel with each other and change uncertainty into a kick-ass rising spirit .

Yes, I may not win all the battles, but my renegade spirit at 62 is running me towards a more authentic self when I thought I was all I could be already. I encourage you, as my signpost friends have encouraged me, to hang outside and see who may kick up some dust your way. It just may be that that dusts helps you see more clearly and lays down an easy path on a renegade advenute outside your imagination.  

   As "they" also say, Let's keep that light on for each other.

With love,  Susan, pretending to be a cowgirl... that is imagination!

Saturday, May 27, 2017

Mandela Rising

There is repetition
casting imagination aside / black and white
Road blocks to growth
ruts in the path
Stumbling in the ridges

There is repetition
breaking anew
New found shaped / colorful
each balancing with the other
Shifting form of layers cast
designs of nature
Designs of self

There is repetition
one reaches upward
One reaches down to engage
another level
Dimensional weaving
outward extension

There is repetition
in remembering who we are
From whence we came
from where we can go
In the rising mandela

Sunday, May 21, 2017


Have seen it large 
and seen it small
Have felt its' presence
before its' vision

Now it is here
All open to slide 
into the flow
no chance of failure

All choices of value and growth
Since I placed my foot into the crossing

Saturday, November 19, 2016


A harsh and ardent word to use.  It delves into the presence of thinking that what worked is no longer present either physically or psychologically. The need of reconstruction may be laid upon us by others , being out of style within our outer or inner worlds.

It hit me like a metal bolt grazing a bright yellow construction helmet , so quiet and yet  jarring that this  is what I am,,, under construction, restricting from the framework that fed my soul and my logistics for quite a long time.  Even in my healing process from person, place or things , I have been like a sculpture adding wet clay to the already formed figure unable to pinch off pieces that no longer serve my form or effort. It hit me that my framework may be totally whole as it is and the finishing touches are already present around me…the presence of friends, books, family ties, travel or dipping into a different environment. Their presence may be in nature, in children or  ideas floating ghostlike in the universe.

This is not a time of tearing apart my body and soul in reconstruction. Lingering in thoughts of where to go, what to do, whom to be as I near the age of suggested retirement is not fruitful.

It dawned on me, this Saturday afternoon as the blistery wind tossed the crispy leaves in circles and lines across my yard, that I can start fresh now.. I am not dormant  or crinkled waiting for “something to speak to me” ,rather I can build  with  seeds already present.  I am not static but sliding on a course unknown with a changing body and fruitful presence .

Construct rather than reconstruct. Yes, Construct.  Going forward rather than feeling inadequate in one's present state.

  This is the day that the Lord has made ( is making) let us rejoice and be glad in it.

Thursday, July 21, 2016


the willow weeps for no one
laying roots
burrowing towards earth's center
leading us to water
bending gracefully
casting shadows
reflective light

no sacrifice
in its presence
abiding in its truth of stature
animals, people and soil's advantage
no giving up
rather giving
storms and thunder pierce
its sides
rampant heat curls its leaves
wearing away fresh color
into shedding piles of crushable

it feels no sacrifice
it feels its connection to all time
all conditions and withstands
in its power of giving

Thursday, June 9, 2016

Life for Sale.

His life was for sale, with an auction paddle and a promised check.

Holding the portfolio with its gray concrete pages laden with tissued drawings my heart accelerates, like pedestrians catching the flashing hand at an intersection.  Ready and fired up.

The dense well protected black leather binder, light under my fingers lept to life. Each page still vibrantly hand inked with interior designs, craftfully done.

Who was he? His portfolio, ascribed a B+. Other belongings were perched on top a splintered table and a pair of colorful and worn chairs along boxes without lids containing cufflinks brandished by wear
 and two watches catching the last breaths of bygone days.

Searching in a webbed world, unknown to him, I found him.  Mr. Watler of Gansevoort, New York and formerly of Beeker Street in New York City.

WWII honors
Bank clerk in NYC
Student of NY School of Interior Design
State Assessor, Albany, New York
Never Married
One cousin in Gansevoort, New York
All other relatives deceased

Grasping tenderly at his artwork and design, I imagine his designed life and wonder if anyone ever knew him like I do or cared so much about who he was.

His life was for sale at the auction. I held it in my hands for pennies on the dollar.