The power of music for protest and change
Growing up, my church-going, United Methodist parents listened to what I'd call Americana music, churchy hymns and gospel, and some country music. My maternal grandmother played piano by ear and played in Grandpa’s churches where he preached. My mom was a natural alto who could harmonize with any tune, and my dad had a fine voice and for a while sang in a barber shop quartet. When they were young, they both had music in their homes—my mom played the flute and piccolo and my dad played the trumpet and coronet. My brother still has my dad’s coronet.
Writing, Art, and Music: finding meaning in a troubled world
I’ve been writing stories and essays and bad poetry for as long as I can remember. And I’ve been drawing and singing and wishing I could play guitar for just as long. I took the obligatory piano lessons, played the flute in the junior high band, sang in the choir—school and church—and learned a few chords on the Sears guitar my mom bought me when I was in the sixth grade (or thereabout).
The Acropolis: A Poem in Five Parts
THE ACROPOLIS: A Poem in Five Parts
This poem was started while sitting at the rooftop bar and finished in my room at a hotel in the Plaka. I’ve never shared it before, but today I gathered my courage and read it at an open mic event sponsored by the Arizona Writers Association at the Tucson Historic Y.
Poetry: Beach Dreams 2
Beaches are magical places, and I’ve always loved this photo taken in 2013 by my eldest, Amira, near Gythio, Greece.
Poetry: Autumn Dancer
Trees in autumn are magical shapeshifters. This is a photo of one in the yard of our very first house in Pennsylvania.