Stars like jewels seed the sky
Blooming flowers drenching the black bed of night,
Shining above creeks and rivers and dreamers
Resurrected until the sun turns them transparent.

But you can drink them while they’re fresh
On a blanket tossed on the ground,
They pour into your mouth and eyes
Universal juice to the soul.

Night after night after night…

Trains have always fascinated many. Runaway cabooses, passenger cars filled with drowsy diners, or boxcars brimming with wild hobos, transporting all far off to fragrant destinations. Yes, there’s something mysterious about a good train ride.

A few years ago, we took the famous Colorado Narrow Gauge Railroad excursion from Durango to Silverton-fifty-two miles of the San Juan scenic byway. The choices varied on how classed up you wanted to ride, but being the hillbillies we are, we chose the cheapest way, standard class, open air gondola seating. We didn’t want to miss an ounce of scenery and certainly weren’t disappointed with that choice. I can’t say I’ve ever seen such excitement in the eyes of my children. It seems everyone relishes a good train ride.

We hung our faces out open air windows and drank in wind and wild. The train whistle would bellow, black smoke blow, and the tracks twist and turn around yet another mountain, where aspen trees shimmered and rusty colored beavers flapped and swam under leafy forests without footprints of modern life. That day we walked away with soot on our faces but pure nature tattooed on our hearts.

To remember this trip,I bought a splendid watercolor of Durango Station, Engine 473, painted in watercolor by Russell Steel. Appropriate name, don’t you think? I had it framed and it now sits on the mantel, a memory of us, once upon a time, on a Colorado train. If you’re ever in that area, please don’t miss this exquisite experience.

Recently, I saw a program discussing The Chocolate Train. Please get me on that train! My mouth perked at the mention of chocolate, so I had to watch. Would you like a little chocolate with your train?

Switzerland is well loved for its scenery and chocolate. Throw in a train and you’ve got a first class experience called the Swiss Chocolate Train, which operates from June to October out of Montreux.

Running on the Montreux-Oberland-Bernois Railway, this train takes you on breathtaking views of the Swiss countryside, rolling through the medieval town of Gruyeres, also known for their fabulous cheese making.

In Gruyeres, the train stops for an excursion by bus to a local castle. Sound good so far? You’ll also get to experience a cheese factory. On board the train once again, you’ll head to Broc. The Nestle Chocolate factory is there. You can watch the production of chocolate and sample the goodies. Then buy all you want.

Nine hours later you arrive in Montreux, a sleepy resort town on Lac Leman and home to the Castle of Chillon.

Now how’s that for a train ride, eh? Let’s go, shall we? All aboard!

Testing, testing, can you guys hear me? I couldn’t think of a snappier way to present sound than a recent trip to southern Louisiana.

In New Orleans the decibel levels flew off charts, right along with history, dog ugly and gorgeous as any I’ve ever heard. Even so, I relished the whole Who Dat and Zydeco music and the waitress named Nicole but pronounced Ne-cole. Her inflection piped out like a shot of New York swirled with Louisiana Creole. I kept asking her questions, well, because I’m irritating that way, and because I adored her voice.

“Why y’all don’t vee zeet more?” she finally said, grinning.

Ne-cole, Ne-cole, Ne-cole. A charming sport if I ever met one.

The sounds of New Orleans were spicy crazy indeed. In the streets were drummers, harmonica players and clacky washboard renditions. People were chattering like squirrels, their shoes popping on sidewalks.

In Café Du Monde, we finally plopped down, legs worn and feet aching from traipsing every inch of the French Quarter and miles beyond. I figured I’d earned myself a beignet, snowed under with powdered sugar and washed down with a café-au lait. Spoons were clinking against glass coffee cups while sugar buzzy conversations exploded, and underneath that, the sigh of our pooped waitress, trying to keep up. A fat tip was in order, which made her smile.

So, two days later, I listened to Creedence Clearwater Revival in the car as we headed to St. Francisville, because it would have been a sin not to hear Born on a Bayou if one is going to hang out with gators and Cajuns. And because I’m a Creedence groupie.

Visiting here is like stepping on ancient, exotic soil. Did you know even history has sound? It wails and screams and laughs here in the wind, the birds and bayous.

Three times now I’ve come to this place, trying to grasp a tragic and mysterious chunk of history. Bits and pieces the land has absorbed and yet shouts through the live oak trees. But none makes sense, nor do I condone it. Meanwhile I fancy the people and appreciate the beauty of place. And I remember those without voices and try to honor them with my presence. My heartfelt interest.

The following poem is based on a cemetery we visited while staying on plantation grounds. It was only one visible record, but there are still many loud secrets. Listen for sound in silence.

Fallen Stars

They have gone silent and cold
yet I heard a woman’s voice
in a crows cackle
calling
suppertime…suppertime…suppertime

But that can’t be
sixteen souls long hushed
resting like whispers in black dirt beds
on loud property
they didn’t have time to praise

Days booming with tears and laughter have passed
no more spring afternoons, summer days
snappy fall breezes
or horizons
blazed with red

They lie silent atop a hill now
ringed by a stone wall
gray and chipped
shaggy cedar to ward off sun
and pine silt carpet for decoration

I traced their names with fingertips
when the sun was blooming
and remembered those I never knew
Marguret, Thomas, Mary, Edward, Sarah, Percival
and the others

Then when night turned to coffee
we walked through crispy grass
flashlights beaming
sky flushed with hot stars
now fallen icy atop the hill.

Bonjour Mes Amis- Good day, my friends. Listen well.

Something thrilling will happen soon and it has to do with nature intoxicating us once again with her charms. Right now old man winter has his white woolly blanket thrown over landscape’s bed but hang on tight and a fresh morning will soon arrive.

Covers will be flung back, the bed sun-warmed. And then, popping through a steamy mattress of soil will be vibrant pink and yellow ruffled tulips and perfumed roses and multi-colored fields shrieking with evening primrose and baby blue-eyes. Our gardens will yawn first, and then shout with bullet shaped blue bonnets and crimson clover, like bright red tubes of lipstick. The days will lengthen; night caught short, the pungent smell of roots, new leaves and lavender exploding in air.

Prepare to feast your eyes on purple fhlox and red frilly poppies and lavender colored larkspur tightly packed around stems. And those mischievous robins will be back, too, excavating backyard worms in the midst of Indian paintbrush and rain lilies which open slowly at dusk to appear in full flower the next morning. Oh, and butter yellow corn flowers, we can’t forget those loud ones, butterflies swooping around them like in air ballerinas’.

We will emerge,too, from dark winter houses, blinking and rubbing our eyes in sheer wonder at the rich, staggering beauty, scent and color surrounding us.

Here in Texas we also have many trees which riot with color and scent. Mountain Laurel, whose grape fragrance could rejuvenate a zombie and creamy tulip magnolia’s, which remind me of generous scoops of vanilla ice cream. Lest we forget ornamental pear, exotic in lace, their lusty scent driving bees and butterflies wild.

Yes, spring will arrive. Sooner in south Texas, but even in colder climates it will come. Release your grip on the white quilt and keep an eye out. You can’t miss the lacy bows and hot pink tights.

Speaking of hot pink tights, my colorful blogger friend, Ronda at rondaswonderland mentioned the 5th Annual Cyberspace Poetry Slam on her latest blog entry. She has a hothouse of ideas over there, so please pop in and say hello if you have a chance. I hope some poetry finds you as well. Here’s a wee one of mine to share.

Flower Pageant

There is a garden I know
Where opulent flowers grow
And birds rally there, lizards, too,
Perch on hems of daisy’s, that’s what they do.

They laud flowers modeling exquisite dresses,
Roses in hot pink, passion flowers red tresses,
But when it’s time to choose a winner,
Birds fly home for dinner.

The lizards with bubblegum pouches,
Linger on verbena couches,
Puzzled at what to do,
Knowing they must say who.

Flower girls hold heads tall,
Daisy, Rose and Poppy, all dolls,
In closing throw a celebration ball,
For a flower pageant has no stiff laws.

Outside my living room window something is distracting me. Miss Myrtle, who only comes round in summer, is dancing in flouncy papery skirts to a windy rendition of natural, smoky tunes.

Miss Myrtle in hot pink ruffles and green leggings seems to shout, Peek-a-boo! Yoo hoo, over here. I’m blooming now, popped like fuchsia colored popcorn. Am I not gorgeous? The least you can do is notice.

I always notice.

There are two Miss Myrtle’s in our backyard, one fuchsia, the other a tender pink. With blossoms top heavy yet papery I think of gigantic lollypops on a stick. Or ice cream. Maybe cotton candy. No matter how you look at them, the eyes get drenched. With pale thin limbs which peel and shed, they are frumpy looking most of the year. But in summer, when those pellet sized buds explode, it’s as though a million tiny butterflies have gathered for a lace profusion convention.

The given name of this tree is crepe Myrtle, which is sometimes spelled crape, which to me sounds like crap.  So I’ll continue to call them plain ole Miss Myrtle’s although they are none too plain at all.

A little flower. Some river water. Add a few shivering leaves. Lacy ferns. Herbs are nice if you see them. Small mushrooms add zest, if not shriveled by sun. There should be no trouble finding fresh ingredients. And no cooking experience necessary. Leave your chef at home.

Oh, and it’s best not to include heat. No baking, please. High humidity causes this recipe to flop. If it’s done right, the sweetness factor pops a body awake. Clears the head. Makes words and dreams and memories rise.

Now put on sneakers. Stretch those crusty limbs. Dance first if you must.

Stir.

One can eat this treat to high heaven without gaining an ounce. As a matter of fact, it’s possible to get quite fit with this luscious recipe. It will also take you places. Allow your mind to wander. Refresh your soul.

It’s called a walk.

A river is never lazy. It pretends. Meandering through, glassy water primps and prepares for summertime company. Underneath currents  fish glide and wiggle and get fat. They make room for splashing. Rock bluffs like natural metallic skyscrapers blink in sunshine, echoing shrill laughter, accommodating sun, bursts of wind, clouds and birds, gliding, passing, chattering.

Icy coolers bursting with sandwiches and soda complete the outing, along with lawn chairs lacing river banks like colored presents. If you don’t have a grand time, blame yourself. This natural  host has gone all out.

All year we wait for the river and the river waits for us.

Nothing cracks open my imagination more than floating down a crisp, lazy river. Here in Texas, specifically the Frio. On that slick, black inner-tube or puffy yellow raft, sitting under azure sky, I feel like the wealthiest woman on earth.

My happiest memories have sprung from water. Maybe yours too. As a child, Swan Creek, and Rome Creek and Rippie Creek, all complete with swinging ropes, crawdads, and family. When my dad asked mom if she wanted to go to Rome on certain weekends, she gave him a sloppy grin and said she’d love to. Then we’d pack up and head to Rome Creek.

Water is for the living, but I once saw an old man die in the Buffalo River. One minute sitting in his neon green lawn chair, dipping toes in water like chocolate to a strawberry, and the next, stiffening and face first in the water. The river seemed to shout, “Leaving so soon? Well, if you must, I’ll receive you like I always have.” I’d like to believe he died right where he’d lived the best.

Despite this, my best times have been  lived in and around water. After a day spent there, thoughts are crisp, appetite ravenous, and sleep strong. The air smells fresher, life seems deeper. Sweeter. It’s as though these things have never been experienced properly before.

Summer is here.   A lazy river awaits.