Check out my latest essay. LOL!
JP and I pull into Albuquerque airport at five a.m. We’re on our way to North Carolina to chill out on the beach, check out the waterfalls, and hang out in Asheville -- art mecca of the South. I’ve been planning this get-away for months – researching on N.C. sites, quizzing friends who lived there, and monitoring the weather daily. I pack and re-pack my carry-on a lot.
My hair was thin and I felt fat.
(Anorexia took care of that)
My breasts were tiny. I felt cheated.
Silicone was all they needed.
To prove that I was not bad-looking,
I earned cash from modeling bookings.
As a painter, I elected
to be judged and then rejected.
Escaping myself was a factor
in my choice to be an actor.
Hooked on weights and runner’s highs,
I thrashed myself with exercise.
I dated any guy who asked me –
fox or troll or hot and nasty.
Ego band-aids never last,
so I jumped on the yoga path.
A practice of self-condemnation
was my morning meditation.
I looked pale and I felt weak,
but I’d be damned if I’d eat meat.
Hoping not to feel so frightened,
I tried hard to get enlightened.
Burned out beating myself up,
but feeling stuck in my old stuff,
I bravely opened my insides
and looked at all I’d tried to hide.
And I am happy to report
that with commitment and support,
I can very clearly see
that I am not
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My yellow, pink, and purple-headed pals salute me with their fragrance like a wave of licorice, mint, and something rank that stank like rotten socks. There, laced between the phlox and yarrow, Spider weaves a silver sheathe in hopes that her tomorrow brings a wriggling string of breakfast treats. I am so blessed! A praying mantis pins my vest.
My faithful pear tree drips with nubile fruit. Around her barky leg, a squash vine twines and zigzags like a hungry cat. Fat submarine zucchini lurks half-sunken in a sea of dust and leaves. Along its leathery back, a lusty, lawn-green mantis cha-chas toward a lunchtime trove of snow-white treats. A shriek of feisty magpies – One two three four five – Piano keys against a cobalt sky. And from inside my snug adobe tucked beneath grand poplar trees, its turquoise door and windows open wide, Beethoven beckons. Bach and Brahms. Bright laundry hangs like prayer flags in the warm September breeze.
Roll the hose the way the hose goes.
How do I love thee, Pickleball?
Pray, let me count the ways.
Though fickle lover surely be,
I long your games to play.
Thy holiest of holey orbs –
Thy dainty flaxen globe –
Though being slight, it can withstand
ten thousand wicked blows.
As swift as Mercury it soars
through azure heav’ns above
and when it lands on yonder line,
my heart o’erflows with love.
O sing, O sing thy praises high!
Dispense with idle prattle.
I venture forth to face my foes
with this, my blessed paddle.
Belov’d defender, wide and flat,
hewn from the finest wood,
feels better in my moistening palm
than sword or saber could.
I parry fast. I smash. I lash out
swifter than my mind can think.
With passion only thou canst bring,
I triumph with one winning dink!
Fair Pickleball, my Pickleball
to thou, dear one, I pledge my all --
through heavy winds, monsoons, and squalls --
though tendonitis makes me bawl.
And, if I stumble. If I fall,
I’ll still be yours, sweet Pickleball.
Two of my humorous poems were selected to grace the pages of Side-Eye on the Apocalypse, a newly-published collection of works revolving around the first year of the pandemic.
It’s available on Amazon.
My Dogs of Pinyon Glen, a finalist in three categories, just fetched a FIRST PLACE in the 2021 New Mexico-Arizona Book awards contest. Arf! Arf!
KIKA AND SNIFF: ADVENTURE IN THE BELOWLANDS
by Kat Sawyer, illustrated by Brandon McKinney, independently published, 186 pages, $15
The faithful pear tree drips with nubile fruit.
Around her barky leg, a squash vine twines
and zigzags like a hungry cat.
Fat submarine zucchini lurks
half-sunken in a sea of dust and leaves.
Along its leathery back,
a lusty, lawn-green mantis cha chas
toward a trove of snow white treats.
of magpies –
One two three four five –
Piano keys against a cobalt sky.
And from inside a snug adobe tucked beneath
grand poplar trees, her turquoise door and windows open wide,
Bach and Brahms.
Bright laundry hangs like prayer flags in the warm September breeze.
The month of May's a wayward time.
We may have rain. The sun may shine.
It may be cold. The wind may blow.
We may have sleet or even snow.
If it's frigid, you can bet
your goosebumps may begin to sweat.
Picnicking brings without fail
a dump of ping-pong ball-sized hail.
Annuals you planted early
may turn limp or black and curly.
Sunbathing may not seem so wrong.
Just wear a parka with your thong.
Musing on this fickle season,
though in rhyme, there's hardly reason
to heed what weathermen might say
because it may not or it may.
My Voices from the Mat, a wise and witty exploration
of the spiritual journey, is now available on Amazon.com