October Newsletter


October 2018 Issue 2
From Kenya to the USA, the world is a place of wonder

A story has haunted me for years. It is about a woman’s journey from the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia to the banks of the Osage River in Missouri. Her family was frontiersmen and women. The Willian Smith Bryan family came to the American shores in 1600’s when Cromwell and the Parliamentarians forced them from Ireland. They were given a choice, fight your Irish Catholic neighbors and family or emigrate. The rebellious Bryans were transported on a ship that sailed to Gloucester Beach, Virginia. There are two versions of this story. One, they end up in Pennsylvania after a son returns to Ireland in 1650 to reclaim their lands. The other, has the family fleeing to Denmark in the years of conquest when Henry II of England was given sovereignty of Ireland. I’m a novelist. I can choose which fits the narrative.
I’ve begun, halted, researched and traveled to Rebecca Bryan Boone’s homesteads. I’ve smelled the land, viewed the rolling Virginia hills, traversed parts of her journey to the Yadkin Valley of North Carolina. What escapes me is her voice. Was she curt, soft spoken, witty? If I model her after my grandmother, a descendant, she will be gracious and long-suffering. Does she have the gift of helps, like the woman called the saint of the neighborhood in her Oregon home?
Unearthing my manuscript, I’m making another attempt at telling her journey into the unknown. The world has heard of her husband Daniel’s adventures. It has been put into story and film from the Last of The Mohicans to folk lore, but the woman whose oldest son was murdered in a Kentucky clearing has been mute. I long for her voice to sing.
Every family has a journey, with hiccups, false starts and wanderings. What makes your story, sing?


Songs From September

Ecclesiastes 3:1
There is an appointed time for everything.
And there is a time for every event under heaven


My garden dreams lie
under a blanket
of burnt pine needles
and saffron leaves.
Rain without thunder
the chilled gazebo
and poison-green grass.
Grapevines twine
hemlock trees.
We hunt for pungent fruit
in forest foliage.
A summer reprise of
deep velvet nights
tourmaline days
drive us
to trim bushes
and fill
the wood box.
September has come
too soon,
before summer’s romance
like my rose garden.

SISTERS: The Shape of Life

They came from Oregon to Chicago, traveling by coach and train over the smooth miles.
The sisters’ locks were now gray, their fingers gnarled with age. I met them in Michigan. My mother’s blue-green eyes sparkled with anticipation. She hadn’t been in Kentucky since World War II when my father was stationed at Fort Knox. My aunt had never walked the trails of her ancestors.
I had expected an unfolding of stories. The words came of their Kentucky born mother, and the tears she’d shed remembering the hollers of her Appalachian childhood.
From our days of wandering and meeting kin, grew poems.

The Kentucky River
a plaintive melody.
The blood
of past battles
dark rocks
as a woman
sips the landscape
with a dry soul.
Blue eyes
the vintage
of whitened
splatters like blood
the name of a forebearer carved
in limestone.
A lifetime
of waiting
etches the wander’s brow.
Eighty-one years,




A  homesick mother’s tears
drew her daughters to
a land where dogwood tentacles
grip gray-green cliff sides.
Mist tendrils curl
through the hollars and coves
of Owsley county.
Twisty mountain roads
rush heavenward
sky kisses limestone
and shadows play
among waterfalls.
Faerie land of
primeval forest,
where cabins cling
on the blue maze of ridges.
Deer dance free
between fragrant pine,
proud hardwood stands
and haloed dogwood.



Steel skies ease
Into cerulean
White-gold light.
Aims north
Muddy ground
Into grassy fields
Like a Disney cartoonist
With a magic brush.
We wait
The unfolding
At chartreuse shoots
Pulsing through dirt.
Life reborn
At our fingertips.

Winds dance
With the perfumed narcissus
Sending winter’s mustiness

Seeds sown in hidden places
Create vivid landscapes
Manifesting tares and fruit.
Weeds become husks
Devoid of life
While fruit,
Cultivated with tears
Grows strong,
Reseeding the earth
With hope.




Drums pulse
Through the night dark.
I close my eyes,
Feel the smoothness of cotton sheets
With bare toes,
Grieving for the woman,
Children, parents
Of the man whose heart stopped
At 5:03 a.m.
When the sun was
Still east of the mountains
And the moon hiding
Behind the monoliths
That brood over the valley.
The pulse of the drums
Concusses the night winds
Plays in my mind
Like a heartbeat
From the earth.
A matatu accident
Was the whisper
In the market.
Flipping when a tire blew
It rained people over the roadway
And into the ditches.
Sleep is elusive
As the drum’s song
Haunts the night hours,
Throbs during the day,
Will continue until
Samuel is buried
With his fathers
In the hollow of ground
Where monkeys play.
Hide and seek.

My Father Thought Sideways

My father thought sideways. It happens. Probably stemmed from the shrapnel imbedded in his head on a hillside in Italy. March. In a dismal rain. 1945 proved a momentous year for my father. Invalided home as the war was ending. Brain surgery. Newborn. A boy. Moving with wife and baby. Restarting college courtesy of the G.I Bill. I came along when the dust had settled and the poetry began to flow again.

It was the poetry that cascaded through my childhood like the rapids along the Columbia before man belted the river with concrete. My earliest memories are words rippling together. We tiptoed through the house because his ever-present headaches raged. Heads weren’t created to have metal plates inserted. I don’t know if his vibrated but first sopranos in the church choir and the concert violinist next door made him wince. I was five when an office was created in the attic on the opposite side of the house from the wild-eyed boy next door and his yappy dog. They drove Dad to Thurber and P.G. Wodehouse. By the time our Julliard trained neighbor, Mrs. Gilkey was across the fence, Dad spent his mornings marinating words in his dust-green aerie.

Beyond Dad’s office was a door leading to the real attic. Where suitcases, trunks, boxes, and pipes nestled in floaty insulation. Don’t sneeze! Don’t step off the wooden two by eights that held the house together.

We crawled on rafters to avoid falling through the ceiling to our bedrooms, terrified that each knee wobble would bring us to the edge of doom. And we showed off the space to visiting cousins who sweated with fear as they followed us to Dad’s old army trunk. The one tucked to the right of the door and wedged under an eave. The paint had faded from green to the color of mud, grass and blood stirred with silver rain. We’d lift the lid and wait. Fingers eager to explore palpated the contents. Dad’s brown officers cap usually came out first because it resided on top. Kids would put it on, oldest to youngest. In a hushed silence the boy cousins would stare at Dad’s helmet. The one with the shrapnel hole to the right of center.

“Can we touch it?” they’d always ask. My brother would gingerly roll it from the far back corner then reverently lift it for them to stick their fingers into the jagged edge. They’d turn it over, suck in their breaths and stare at the red-brown of the dried blood.

My brother has the helmet, now. I don’t want to know where he placed it. When I close my eyes I still see the attic and the shadows as if something remains hidden in the dark.

         THE HELMET

            A thin white scar
Mars my father’s
Skin, bone,
Among the cedars
In Italy
He lay
In the cold
His blood
Into a
His helmet
Dust covered
In the attic
My cousins
Stick their fingers in
The jagged-edged hole
Tears grow
In my throat.

                                               Written for Dad