August 31, 2019

As I sit here in my cubby with my sweet little beagle snoozing softy, playing Rachmaninoff's 2nd piano concerto, I ponder about this month of sorrow. The music, is a stirring symphony of joyous celebration of a life that lived well and gave so much to our human history. How little most of us give to our human story. Alas, not having the gift of genius for an art form, we struggle onward to make what we can however little it may be.

It has been 5 years since he has passed. The days go bye and give me no solace to sooth the ache of missing of his presence. The quiet companionship of his self was the binding thread throughout our marriage. The soft sounds of my little fur friend helps, but in his blindness, he is a constant source of sadness for his loss.

I cannot feel the same source of inspiration for just about anything in this stage of existence...I feel that I'm on a merry go round with the false bells of music of my youth giving the sounds of tomorrow when I know that tomorrow is so little in time. What does it matter now? This feeling of tears on the verge of hopelessness....

The days of autumn creep ever closer, with the falling of leaves, the wilting of the rose, and the sun lowering in the sky blue now, but, the clouds of winter will come towards me with the falling of raindrops melding with my tears...I'm becoming winter.


The Gift

Joy flew into my small home yesterday.

As I was watching the March of the Penguins no. 2

The air in the other room rippled with the flutter

or wings sweeping onto the table white

with cloth of company's past

my eye caught the vibrations of

Joy, and my heart felt the newness

of Spring with the presence of this

small being whose bright eye

looked at me with glad tidings

of good earth's awakening

to bring once more my life

into the joyfulness of being on this journey

we call life.

Ruth Jameson


The Roses of Europa…

He is gone. The Gato. My love of Latin Jazz was born in the crucible of his sax love songs.

The Roses on my table, the loveliest of seven years are fading and their blossom petals are dropping like my days of these 80 years of life through the lost sunbeams on this rainy day…

Yet he lives on in the You Tube of our time. Europa, the tones of sensual love of my sweet one’s touch melding with the memories of times past.

What I ponder, are the remaining days supposed to bring to my world of art spent in a quest never to be fulfilled.

Europa plays on… 

My Steps Start to Continue . It has been a long Year full of much sadness and melancholy but,

Joy Found Me Today

It has been many long months of melancholy and sadness since my sweet one sailed away on his little boat.

The loneliness has been a constant companion. Not even the opening of my long awaited exhibition at the Museum did not bring one note of joy, for he was not there to share.

In our many years of life together the one constant was the
of sharing and memories to build new ones with each other and our daughters. This most enduring and loved element is now gone. Though the daughters are still and will always be a part of my life, the day to day companionship is not there. Unimaginable! Yet there I am, living in a vacuum of no emotional connection to my life that still has time for?

This Morning, a note of sweet Joy came to me as I went out for my morning paper. The small sweet Mother Bird which built her nest last year in the small tree next to my front door flew out of the tree on the other side of the door. It has more foliage that last year’s tree. Peering into the thicket of the leaves and branches, behold, there it was. A new little nest, waiting to bring the gift of our Springtime to my very doorstep.

The Father Bird sings his heart out in the Pear Tree, and the sunshine once more filters through the bows of the ficus tree. Do I join him in his celebration of what is to come? Yes! His invitation cannot be ignored for without his song I would not be a part of his song of life.

The Notes are sweet and penetrate my heart’s empty places, bringing a new and Joyous song for me to sing with Him once again. My memories of last years sharing with my sweet one when he too peered into the ficus tree to see the little ones of the new year are with me, and the sharing continues…

Thank You Robert…these small notes of Joy are the beginning of the New…

A Small Miracle at my Doorstep

A Step Regained

Several weeks ago when I approached my front door, a small bird flew out of the Ficus Benjamina Tree which is in a planter next to the well traveled path of our family. The Ficus Benjamina, commonly known as the weeping fig, Benjamin's fig, or ficus tree, are small trees which have long been a favorite of mine for their green leaves and hearty growth patterns. In the many years of growing and loving these little trees, I have never had the experience of a bird making a home in one of my trees.

I paid no attention to the first noticed flight of the small brown bird flying away and perching atop of the light pole by the sidewalk. She was just there, nothing more.

In the ensuing days, the same thing happened again and again. Finally my attention clicked in, and the thought occurred to me that she might be living in my tree. Looking in through the dark crowded branches I could see something that looked like a nest. A Nest ! in my tree! Wow…why would a small little bird build a nest in such a place which next to front door, a noisy place at times and next to a window box ledge that could be accessed by our neighbors cat?
The Home of Small Miracles 

Studying the tree, I concluded the dense small branches which were so closely crowded together that I could never reach in with my hand probably were to well constructed as to preclude the neighbors cat to reach in and disturb the small potential nesting of a bird family. But what about the noise factor, the front porch light going on in the early morning at 5:00 a.m. when my Beagle and I took our daily walk?

Was it possible that this little bird had the instinct to “know” that the above concerns of mine would be a protective device to prevent larger birds from coming to this well traveled and noise producing venue? Did she instinctively know that the Bird Bath next to the Pear Tree, no more than five steps away from her nest, would be a summer source of water?  

With each passing day I would look in toward the little nest to see if there were any eggs. The mother bird still flew away when I approached and seemed not to be there whenever I was near. The Father bird with his small red breast sat atop of the pear tree and sang his song of happiness with a thrill in his voice so sweet as to make tears come.
The Pear Tree where the Father Bird Sings

Then one day as I approached the Mother bird flying away as usual I peered into the nest and there was a small little furry head visible just above the edge of the nest. Was it my imagination or was there really a baby there quiet, waiting, wanting the mother to bring food?
Days pass. Now when I look into the nest, there are two small living little beings with bright eyes looking back at me. Their little black unblinking eyes are without any sign of fear or knowing that I am larger than they or that they could be in danger. Indeed, they have grown up to this stage in life of their small selves being exposed to our presence with no concern of there being danger.

Remembering the little yellow chicks of my childhood brought back the mental images of holding my hand out with a little feed and having them hop up into my hand and feed. Their little pecks when eating tickled and were a source of joy and happiness that all children feel when the nurturing instinct kicks in and you know that you are nourishing a living being.

This morning looking into the place of this small family’s existence I felt a swell of happiness and gratitude that nature had placed at my door step. A small miracle of Nature had given me a reminder that all living beings are to be honored, and revered. We as the highest form of what we consider to be intelligent life have a responsibility to protect our environment and the creatures who live here with us. How do we raise the chickens in free range with them knowing no danger from humans, and the slaughter them and eat them? How do we teach children to raise cows and heifers with the blessings of the 4 H organization and then turn around and lead these animals to be killed in the most horrible of methods? “They” do “Know” when they are lead up that ramp.

The little miracles at my door step are more than a reminder, they are living proof that they have a place in our World, and that they contribute more than they take.
The balance of life is what makes our planet special, it is a precarious balance, and we should be the caretakers of this balance. We are not given the right to destroy this balance, we, indeed are given the intelligence to keep the balance and elevate our beautiful world to it’s most productive level possible, thereby giving all life the greatest opportunity to create and survive. Human existence will only survive if we all will acknowledge the small miracles on our doorsteps.
Fledgling I saw the little tufts this morning... 

The little family will fly away in a few days and I will once again approach my doorstep without the small mother flying way at my approach. But the memory of the gift she has given me without her knowledge will remain forever imprinted in my minds eye. I will forever see the two small little birds silent, looking, and waiting for the mother’s return, and will in turn wait for next year to find out if once again the small Ficus Benjamina tree will be a home to the song of Spring and gladness in my heart of life’s continuum…       
Waiting for next Year



Putin  …

A Step backward or maybe a Thousand…

 Why is it that man has this way of stepping on Mankind for

His steps are my steps too, they take away the progress of my child

His steps trod upon the peoples of our world of the child, the woman, our

Planet Earth

Steps are built upon foundations of the terrible, the hurtful, the unmindful,

The Steps of Terror are built upon the blood of the innocent,

The Steps of Power are built upon the hearts of the guiltless

The Steps of Ego are built upon the Souls of Mankind

For every step of the Ego Boot,
We take a step backward from our ladder of the Peace…

My Climb is … full of tears, heartfelt sorrow and a great void of my ladder’s continuity of hope…

The Third Step

The Morning Star…

She runs swiftly down her side of the Universe
Her intent is for Her Children’s good.
Silently she descends the glide path of her track
I don’t see her until, the little Beau at my side
Starts to dance.

Her domain is our world
Before us she ruled
We know but don’t see
Her heritage for survival

Away Away go Silver Star of the Morning
Swift Swift before the unbelievers arise
To point weapons of death for your kind
The small lives upon you depend
Your return for their nourishment of life

I smile at my small guide by my side
He dances on his toes with sounds
Of long ago when his kind was
Wild with the morning dawn
Dancing with the Silver Stars
of the Morning Life

The little Coyote was running swiftly by this morning when I slid by her unnoticed… 

Step Two

I listen… 
Rachmaninoff Symphony Two third movement 
Melding with a universe unknown to mortals

Melody haunting my physical mind memories 
Leading me, loving me, sending me Where,

I will only know when meeting him and 
I tell him thanks for helping me learn humbleness…

Step One…

The Light on the Stairs comes
From the eyes of their inner truth
They wear this light as they
Show me the Way I used to be…

We forget where we started
Long ago when our world was
New in our child minds so
Clear and uncluttered with the digital

They come with the strength of
Childhood Precious and hold
Onto the good of each day
With laughter and eyes wide open

Oh so we could be there once
More into this World of innocence
With belief and trust of our own
Truth of the self real

It is Mine when they come
Into the Art World of my
Inner Being and see

With me what trust can bring…



Now they say we can fight in Combat. We have this privilege this equality.
Now they say we can train to pass the test to become one of the Elite to become one of the few.
Now they say we can practice our skills in combat to kill as well as They
Now they say we are Equal.

I say we have a unique ability one which is contrary to combat.
I say our physical construct, emotional mind set, is to give life
I say this instinct of protecting our kind is not given to us it is inherent.
I say our nature is one of nurture and is contrary to Combat. 

We must realize the myth of Equal.
We must treasure our true natures.
We must exalt in what we can do.
We must Exist in our Woman Self, We are Life…

To Think now we the other half of humanity can kill as well
To Know that our role models will be equal  
To Show little girls we will kill to be equal
To Keep us equal and let the Balance of Humanity wane

My Cries at my babies birth of great pain were filled with Joy
My Cries watching JFK’s killing were filled with overcoming pain
My Cries listening to the planes of “Shock and Awe” deadened my senses
My Cries for our Country’s lost high ground of being will never be heard.

I have come and lived to give life
I have been  cradle
I have been sustenance  
I have been Mother for which there is no Equal.

They cannot Give us Equal, We are the Givers of Life...


“My Name is Bushmaster …Bushmaster…Bushmaster…
I am your Right, Your Right, Your Right
My Children see me on T.V. T. V. T. V.
They Learn my name as Children, Children, Children
I am their fun and their games, their games, their games.

My Name is Bushmaster…Bushmaster…Bushmaster…
I am your Fear, your Fear, your Fear.
My Students are your Children, your Children, your Children
They Practice my skills, my skills, my skills which kill
I am their solace, and their comrade in anger and sorrow.

My Name is Bushmaster…Bushmaster…Bushmaster…
I give my Children glory, glory, glory
My children will die for me, die for me, die for me…
They hunger for the power, the power, the power
And I take their life, their life, their life…

My Name is Bushmaster…I have taken Your Name.


It fractures round me the dancing light
Moving with time it streams from the inner self
With spiritual glee, fleeing the confines of my cast
Encased by all of the forces of my creative lives
It now moves against the Wall.

Where is it going where will it be when there
Is not my Sun. My lightness will sleep within waiting
For the Dawn of my muse who resides within my golden
Shape of the original wet clay from the Earth
Now discarded.

We are many selves this shining hardness of
Bronze cast into one standing figure of “here”.
We are the many who are cast into an inborn
Truth of Solidarity, silent like light, leaping into
The abyss of our Cosmos…   

                                                                    The "Ten Points" of Life

The World of Ten Points

When I was small, My Father told me about Man. He led me to the places where our small family would be safe, and told me about the glen where you never go when it is early spring or when you hear the forest noises of the Great Hunt of deadly hurt.

When you grow up he said, Man will become your enemy and will hunt for your manhood which will be beautiful with many points. You will become a great leader of your herd and will have many great battles between your kind. But you will always win these battles when they are fought with honor and courage.

Man does not know the meaning of this kind of battle. He comes with weapons of Mass Killing and does not know the meaning of Honor of the Life Battle. They pretend they are “Hunters” and will know great joy when they take your beautiful life from the Forest.

I have fought many battles for these years of Ten. I  have had the courage of my father and his wisdom of life with honor. I am now embattled from the fierce fight of my latest season. The season of Time, the season of life’s ending flight. Tis my gift to my herd.

I heal. My Head though wounded will hold my Ten Points High once more. My One Eye sees the man coming toward me. I will try to fight. Never will my courage fail. The Hunter comes again, he raises his Weapon of Mass Killing. He ends my honor, my courage, and Kills My Heart. 
The Deer Hunter

The Voice

A Small Girl’s voice is heard once again.
A Sound of truth for her kind

Her wish to become a Physician to heal others
Has been smashed by Histories Warriors

Warriors of Terror in the Name of God
Walk up and shoot her in the Head.

Footsteps in the Hospital near her bed
Will bring to her their final threat of the end

Long ago at the stake of truth
A young Girl died in the Name of their God

Who Are The Murderers? 

We watch, we listen, we play, we learn from our Older Ones, We learn from them very Carefully. Is it a Game, is it becoming a grownup when like them we hear the Roar in our ears and “know” that we now have the Power.  

Carefully, Carefully, We teach, watch Us we say we will train you for safety with these GUNS the same as our Soldiers teach others in lands far away. Our safety will reside in any home of the sane and the insane alike for we do not discriminate in America.

The lands of other Children we pray for we send our love and our bullets. The lands of innocence in our own backyards with swings and books we by default send our guns and bullets we need to keep us safe.

We need these carefully designed unstoppable bullets for protection against the Noble Deer, against the Soaring Hawks, against Baby Seals, we teach you very carefully how to engage the mechanisms of death to Kill Living Beings. 

The Taliban walked up and shot Malala in the Head. She lives in our memories of bravery, of will to remain a force for good. She walks in all our Hearts for her freedoms and grace of  Being.

The Grownup bravery of the protectors “the good guys” without arms of force only had the self of their humanness for their collective desire to protect the Innocents. They fell like the small pawns they have become in the game of our Rights verses Common Sense, Would we do the Same?    

We hear our collective cries of despair for young lives murdered. We shed our Collective Tears of Shame for our inaction. We feel our breaking hearts pounding in our minds broken dreams and wonder who are these Murderers?

They Are Us…


A Lasting Solution

She was Thirteen years old.
Sitting on a bed reading the Gideon Bible
The Hotel was in L.A.
Skid Row

Ran away did She
Anger and Hatred of
Her perpetual life with
Hurts and punishment

There She Sat
Knowing that it could
Not Continue
What to do NOW

Walking along the
Street of bums and
Pretty girls, hunger
Starting to build

No money for her
Life to continue
Here in L.A.
She had to Go

Home again to
Deal with the Agents
Of Pain of Mind and
Body unhealed

In another World
She moved to
Home dissolved
Into the Art of Mind and Hand

Here she dwells
Now in the long
Decades of life
This World Sustains and Nourishes

The Fewer that remain, the Faster they Go…

In the realm of physics is there a foundation which would support these phenomena?

I ask this for when my friends and I ponder this; we all agree that this is so. Is it physiologically based, mentally, emotionally, or an actual occurrence of time?

In My Seventy Seventh year, it seems like there only two days in my week…Friday my task day, and Sunday the brunch day.

I see the hour glass filled with sand. When it starts a new time reference, the sands go slowly, when the sand is past the halfway measure, they start to go more quickly. Is this gravity, or perception? When the glass is full, it would seem that the more weight would make the sand flow more quickly and when less full, with less weight, less quickly…

On the other hand when in the Art Cave one hour is timeless and exploration of the possibilities endless. Time seems to expand and is seductive in its hold upon my fascination. Time in this place of mind travel stands still for the muse, as it demands its fulfillment wherever that might lead.

Your thoughts…

The Labyrinth of Art Cave

The River runs through it deeply
Washing away the pebbles of destruction
The waters become clear with blue of hue of
footprints from the Past

Sounds come from walls with the roar of beasts
Smoking with the blackness of char
My hand was there trembling with the future
We were all there wading through the blindness of
Our wants

I follow the Stream endlessly with sounds of tomorrow
Flowing within my heart of aged soul sight
The Art Cave has dwellers of my selves others
Seeing without eyes of my deceptive body… 

Benghazi and the Words We Cannot Hear

Softly, they float down through the ether channels of technology and fasten themselves onto our ears. They warm and flutter in their seeking of obsequiousness, obliterating, and diverting our attention from the obvious.

Repetition, repetition, is truth, attention diverted is absorption, as our innermost addiction for pleasure of the now rejects these soft words that come into our lives nonstop. How sweetly, now urgently my fingers find the small keys to my life in cyberspace.

Tell me; tell me, these words of comfort and safety, of goodness and righteousness and programs of Peace. When the words have meaning we know
We keep right on with our own small mindless games. We know do we not when the words we hear have meaning don’t we, for the players tell us they are the Truth.

Reiteration, the oration, the uplifting resonance of the Voice. The sounds falling on our minds ears tell us without doubt we hear our hearts desire of the Goodness of our Place, in the tiny instruments of our selves with our fingers busily pecking away the Real in front of our eyes and ears….

The Words, The Words, do we want to hear the meanings of nothing which is contained in them. How can words have no meaning, How can thoughts have no connection, How can voices have no Truth… it can only happen when the small flutterings melt like wax, shut down our brains, to the lights of gunfire.  


The Nobel Peace Prize
“The said interest shall be divided into five equal parts, which shall be apportioned as follows: /- - -/ one part to the person who shall have done the most or the best work for fraternity between nations, the abolition or reduction of standing armies and for the holding and promotion of peace congresses.”(Excerpt from the will of Alfred Nobel)

This Night the Contestants wage a confrontation of words  passionately spoken
They will determine the road to be taken

The Winner will have the prize
Of Power only for the very wise

We the Pawns of many colors
Will shoulder the moves of others

The Winner of the Words tonight
Will lead us into the fight or light

My Heart knows another way To set the Game for all to play
Is it here where “Freedom Rings” or on another Planet far away

The Children know our Colors are of truthful hues
But where are our broken glasses which we so thoughtlessly threw away?


The Bus Driver

The Ride is long and on the MobiĆ¼s Road
We have made this trip endless times
The sound of my fellow passengers roar
In my ears with impotent howling for
Our approaching cliff…

The Driver has ear buds listening to his
GPS of state and nods impatiently for
Conversation which comes to late.   
In a vacuum he sits in silence
We wonder if on waking he will
See our Fate

The Bus Driver has but one choice to make
His station is one of debate
Now is the time for taking some Heat
But he dodges the problem
For our Lady of State is no longer on our Bus

The Man who would be King

He is a young man who teaches his children to Kill deer.
I am an old woman who taught my children to revere our earth friends we call animals.

He climbs up the high tower and uses scopes to bring death to the forest.
I look up into the sky and see with eyes of age living beings of flight we can’t know

He stands upon his platform and argues for “right to life”.
I laid upon my bed and gave life

He votes for war to kill humanity from drones
I vote for no one for they are all the same…