Art for another
Poetic inspiration,
Took dedication.

Dear Julia Roberts:

You and I met in 1988 when I saw you as an up-and-coming actress in a film called Mystic Pizza. I didn’t really know you, but I was intrigued by the film’s name; I grew up less than fifty miles from that little pizza place in Mystic, Connecticut. My husband used to ride his bike past the real Mystic Pizza all the time. His grandmother lived near there.
I remember watching that film, seeing a young actress with a certain twinkle in her eye thinking, boy she’s going to go far. And you did.

Pretty Woman is one of my all-time favorite movies. I used to binge watch it repeatedly, watching that Cinderella story end like every young girl thought it should; with the guy getting the girl and the girl getting the guy. Of course, having Richard Gere be the guy didn’t hurt, but that’s another letter.

After that, there was no stopping you. Every film you made, to me, was a hit. Watching you play different women, some strong, some not so strong, helped me believe I could do whatever I wanted with my life. And I did.

I lived vicariously through your characters. Notting Hill and Runaway Bride were two more of my favorites. But when you portrayed Erin Brockovich in 2000, I think that was one of your best films. It allowed me to see a more serious side of you as a strong woman with a passion for the underdog. Talk about perfection; you played it well.

As time went on you continued to impress. Taking time to have and raise a family, immersing yourself in philanthropic ventures, and speaking out about causes that are near and dear to your heart. I’ve really enjoyed watching blossom into a beautiful, passionate and talented woman that I’ve come to admire.

I know we’ve never met, and likely never will. But I wanted to know that you’ve made an impact on my life. And for that I’ll be grateful forever.

Conversation for reciprocation
But don’t follow my suggestions.
I’m self healing self medicating.
To follow this you’re gonna need
A deeper understanding.
I have a few books I recommend you read.
If you can understand it
Let me know what you think.
I was brought to the brink.
Had to broaden my prospective.
Then became empathetic,
Eccentric to the public.
With these feelings exerted
Comes exertion.
Had to explore while reciprocating
Information & understand,
“The Journey is the Destination”.

I use to hate writing
But I think it was the action.
Now, I’m writing with
My thumb, never cared for penmanship
Or my grammar & punctuation.
I liked drawing, took my time with it.
Now I’m creating different images.
Writing these words
From past experiences.
You can see this projection.
Working on a new project.
My prerogative turned poetic.
Forget the pen, man, ship. These thoughts,
You can hear & see this plot.

What is it that you seek?
What is it that you saw?
You should never listen to my wicked crystal ball.
What is it that you seek?
What is it that you saw?
You should never listen to my wicked Crystal Ball.
Have you seen the crystal ball?
Have you heard the souls scream trapped in her cloudy walls?
Everything you love gone before it even happens,
nothing left of your soul among the cold dark ashes.
They say fools wish to be free,
until they’re in a free fall…
Fools gamble time and the ball she takes it all
‘Cause the crystal is a cheat,
the crystal is a liar,
The crystal is a frozen world of ice and of fire. To live in a lie the price is the truth,
to be frozen in time the price is your youth. But you knew, it never tricked you,
You let it seduce you, left scars on your skin-as if it ever needed you.
Some always come crawling,
some may escape her call.
But you should never listen to my wicked Crystal Ball…
What is it that you seek?
What is it that you saw?
You should never listen to my wicked crystal ball…
You should never listen to my wicked crystal ball.

A young boy sits in a wooden chair
Gazing forward
A ball of crystal perched before him
Almost invisible
It warps and clouds what lay behind it
He knows there will be a price
But he must try
He wants to know,
He has to know.
He gazes into its prism chamber
And it tells.
When he lifts his head, his breath taken away
The awe of the secrets told to him
Fade
When he sees his reflection
He sees that he is no longer the same man
But old, so old.
The ball has told him what he wished to know
But he had to pay the price of time
He walks away, as many have before,
Feeling cheated
Feeling like it all went by so fast
If he could only have another chance
If he could only get that time back
But he can’t
Time is the only thing you have
And the only thing you can never have
It is yours, spent
And the crystal ball will steal your time
The crystal will steal your life.

The hot, oily aquatic liquid begin to build up in my eyes as I glanced at the night’s sky;

A moment’s glance and I saw only a single star;

Pondering for a while, more appeared before me;

How lovely this world of mines, that even in the heart’s darkest moments the light is still present

Dear Unsealers…

It’s November 1st. It’s surreal as it’s seventy degrees outside right now.

Sixty days are left in 2024. This month is an eventful one, from Election Day, all the way down to Thanksgiving.

Though it doesn’t feel like November, I wrote my welcome to this month anyway.

Remember, remeber the month of November

60 days left to go in 2024
This month has arrived through the spooky door

Honoring saints, the dearly departed and veterans
A time to give thanks for what we have
And to set the path for the next four years

With the last 30 day month here and now
The clock ticks down, the last days of 38
39 is fast approaching

With Croatia and A Poetic Journey in the distance
It’s time plot a forward course

As there’s time to remember, remember
Before the month of November, gives way

To the year end’s mad dash, known as December

Dear Betty Crocker: (My mother’s name is Betty)

I met you at an early age. You were in my mother’s kitchen long before I was born, but you were not there alone. Another woman, Fannie Farmer, graced my mother’s kitchen in her small cookbook collection.

Fannie was much older than you. Her original cookbook was published before 1896 for the Boston Cooking School. The book I inherited from my mother was last copyrighted by Wilma Lord Perkins in 1959. The binding is compromised, the cover torn, but the pages are intact, although stained from years of use.

I remember my mother using both cookbooks often. By nature, she was not a good cook. She stayed in a lane of soups and stews that left a lot of room for error without being inedible. Although, there were times when she concocted creations that left much to be desired. Like the time she “emptied the refrigerator” and decided to put shrimp cocktail sauce into my father’s homemade Sicilian gravy. Horseradish, an ingredient in cocktail sauce, gets hotter when cooked. This made the gravy so spicy it was not fit to eat for young children with delicate palates. Epic fail.

You and Fannie spent years trying to teach my mother to cook. While there were glimmers of success throughout the years, ultimately she would not master the craft.

A tradition in our family, as in many families, was that my mother would cook our favorite meal for our birthday. One of my last birthdays before she died, my mother made one of my favorite meals: galumpkis (polish cabbage rolls). She made them in the crockpot (stew-like meal) and served them over egg noodles. It was one of those comfort foods from my childhood.

The last time she made them something went terribly wrong. They were dry and burnt and not at all what I remembered from my childhood. Turns out she had forgotten to add the liquid ingredients to the crock pot. I think that was the last time she cooked for me. From there I would bring ingredients to my parent’s home on my day off and cook for them. It worked out better that way.

Betty, I gave you a bad wrap for a while. Pictures of a perfectly coiffed woman in a red dress with a white collar was what I remembered. Back in the day, there wasn’t all the information there is today, so I drew my own conclusion of who Betty Crocker was. For me, the stigma of being a stay-at-home mom cooking cobblers and pies was not what I was in for.

When I received my own copy of your cookbook for a bridal gift, I smiled the obligatory smile, feeling like I was pigeonholed into being the perfect wife. But as time went on, I learned that I needed you. My mother was not a great example and taught me little about cooking with fresh ingredients from scratch. Now I’ll admit I’ve had my fair share of mistakes, none of which I can blame on you or Fannie. Like the time I left chicken quarters on the grill unattended on low for over 30 minutes. By the time I got back to them, they were so dry that they were more like chicken dust than chicken quarters.

Or the time I made nacho pasta out of a can of nacho dip I bought to get us through a storm. Those who know me know I don’t eat much canned anything, but I don’t like to waste food either. This was my way of using something instead of throwing it away (boy, wonder where that came from).
My husband and son, who tasted it and refused to eat it, still kid me to this day. When I ask what they want for dinner, their response is anything but nacho pasta.

Betty, I am honored to call you friend, and Fannie too, but now you sit at the table with the likes of Ina Garten, Giada DeLaurentis, Joanna Gaines, and Paula Deen, just to name a few. These ladies are included in my collection of over fifty cookbooks written by various chefs, both men and women. I believe you paved the way for their success.

In closing, I’d like to thank you and Fannie for laying the foundation for woman, and men, to create an entire industry around feeding people delicious food to fill our bodies and our souls. Bon appetite (let us not forget Julia Child).

Trotting along,
without a care.
My dearest friend,
My horse named Bear.

His hair so black,
It matches the night.
Standing so tall,
In all of his might.

If you listen real close,
You can hear him run.
His hooves strike the ground
Like the beat of a drum.

I could watch him all day,
I’d stand here and stare.
My dearest friend,
My horse named Bear.

I’ve been there for you,
that’s for certain.
But let’s take a look,
behind the curtain.

You were there for me,
After I lost my Dad.
You kept me happy,
When my world seemed sad.

All of my children
have rode on your saddle.
You helped me raise them,
and that was a battle.

Through all of the hard times,
You’ve always been there.
My dearest friend,
My horse named Bear.

It’s been so hard,
to see you in pain.
I’ve cried so much,
My tears are like rain.

I know in my heart,
What I have to do.
But how on Earth,
Do I say goodbye to you?

You’re more than an animal,
You’re more than a pet.
You’re a part of our family,
that we’ll never forget.

These years with you,
Have been so great!
But its time for you to go,
to an even better place.

And I know one day,
I’ll see you there.
My dearest friend,
My horse named Bear.

-Poem written for my mother-in-law, Susan, and her horse, Bear, for his day of passing.

Time is expensive,
I’m carful who I spend it with.
If I choose to to splurge,
I’ll want to buy some time to
Spend with you.
I have an urge to purge
& surge towards you.
Now I’m submerged in your aroma.
Hot like a sauna.
Had to pause for a second,
Spend a few more minutes,
Then add up the hours we spent.

Heartfelt for love,
Optimistic about it.
Persuading the scent of it,
Ecstatic! About the expression of this.

Stepping away from everyone. I’ve
Lost temper, I cope with isolation.
My self destruction, ironically.
Helped me, come to self healing,
Self awareness, & self acceptance.
I choose to live this way,
It’s your choice to partake.
Sometimes our mistakes
Bring us closer, to our destination.
Comming to a crossroad,
These words are put together
For an explanation. Just don’t expect
It not, to come to an end.
With time, comes expiration,
Feelings are outdated.
But can be experienced from time to time
From a memory stored within the mind.
Energy flows through the Crevices
Under the cranium, through
Our central nervous system.
Can be Intensified through meditation,
Practice persistence, not perfection.

Dear Wynonna Judd:

You and I could be sisters, I would be the older one. I’ve listened to you and your mom for years. Your angelic voices heard on the airwaves of country music. With hits like Why Not Me (1984), Grandpa (1985) and Love Can Build A Bridge (1990), you were always on my radio.

Then when your mom died in 2022, I felt I’d lost something too. But my loss of hearing your mom’s beautiful voice was nothing compared to your loss of a mother and a life long singing partner. I’m sure the whole is deep, and still healing. I lost my mom in 2016 and there are still raw spots in my heart.

In 1993 you released Only Love, your second single. Your voice is so pure and vulnerable. That song moved me. That time in my life with a bit of a fog. My kids were both born and I realized that my marriage was simply my unrealistic fairy tale.

Only Love allowed me sail away from my reality to an island of green and be free. I could feel my feet on solid ground even with the waves coming crashing down. That song was my source of strength during a turbulent time. I hung on your every word.

I must go for now, knowing I can put my trust in just one thing, for me it’s God and his love. I hope you have a blessed day; one filled with only love.

I’ve trusted I’ve lusted,
I’ve loved and I’ve lost.
I’m not “Broken” I’m “Broke in”
See the difference?
There’s a separation,
The love I lost helped me lust
The reason I trusted is why I lost.
We “Broke in” because we’re “Broken”