We left the tropics at the end of March,

Lush greenness embedded in our minds.

The swaying palms and the flowering shrubs

Showing colors of all kinds.

As we traveled north the colors changed,

From Kelly Green to Forest.

Higher elevations brought changes as we drove,

We began seeing branches at their barest.

The Howler Monkey, how they cry!

With their screaming growls racing through the sky,

Like a charge from the light brigade.

The sound is very loud,

And they seem pretty proud,

Of the fact that they can be heard for miles.

We have two friends who are always ready to help,

Whenever they are needed.

Knowledgeable and direction oriented,

Their advice is always heeded.

They work tirelessly and endlessly,

Until the work is done.

And my trying to keep up with their amazing pace,

Is a battle I have not won.

It’s early Sunday morning. I am alone on my porch at my house because my husband is traveling and won’t be back for two more days.

It’s very still out here. The village we live in has not awakened.

We hopped in our golf cart and went for a ride.

Decided to see the sea since it was high tide.

When we arrived, it was windy as heck,

Which did keep the skeeters from nibbling my neck.

We brought cocktails for our beachside happy hour,

And a bowl of popcorn that we could devour.

But when we started eating our buttery delights

Before getting to our mouths, the corn took off in flight.

Some friends walked by our garden gate and stopped to exclaim,

“Come look at this spider’s web!” Their tone had no disdain.

A fascinating spectacle, of that, there was no doubt.

The spider had made a great big edge and began to fill it out.

Traveling with our RV in 2004, we found PaaMul, which was an RV park in the state of Quintana Roo, Mexico. It was located south of Playa del Carmen, a small beach town that catered to tourists on the Caribbean coast of the Yucatan Peninsula. We were looking for a place to camp that would have access to a dive shop, and PaaMul fit those needs.

Ah, the chirrups, tweets, whistles, and trills,

Which come from such tiny little bills,

That I hear each morn when I arise

The musical conversations I apprize,

And value each, and every note.

I saw a man running, early New Year’s Day.

I grinned at his determination,

to start his goals with intention,

But wondered if they would continue ‘til May.

The problems with resolutions are not the intent.

It’s when we let life get in the way

to slow down our resolve to pay

For those sins we fall back on to vent.

Mistletoe = kissing. That's how I associate the parasitic plant that is oftentimes hung above a doorway during the holidays. But what is the true history of it? Research told me that there were several theories about how mistletoe became associated with kissing.

Naked, flat on my stomach,

     Face down in a hole.

Arms at my sides,

     Anticipating the goal

Of relaxation and tensions released

            As I hear soothing sounds of flutes for more peace.

The plan was for me to text one of the guests waiting at our house to let her know we were on our way back home to get the car. That way the group would be ready for the big surprise.

Simple plan, right!? Not so much, as it turned out.

Rain, rain won’t go away,

And will be back another day.

Our roof has large leaks galore,

Especially when the heavens pour.

Its great big heart out

To give us more

Moisture,

The soil a drink,

The lakes to restore,

Levels of their normal reserves.

Perhaps it was the power of suggestion from my husband’s comment, “I’ve never seen such a ghost town as this,” or maybe it was the fact that the place was indeed, a true ‘ghost’ town, complete with its haunts that made me quiver. I’m not sure, but as we drove down street after street seeing the many empty and forlorn houses that were neglected by humans, yet overly nurtured by Mother Nature with overgrowth and decay, I couldn’t help but feel that we were more in a ‘Twilight Zone’ rather than in a town where I had once lived and enjoyed being in.

Chet and I drove into Boise City, Oklahoma, population of 1,142, yesterday afternoon with plenty of time to nap and have a nice happy hour. However, finding a campground, which showed many on the google map, turned out to be difficult. There were only two in town, both tiny, and one was full.

My favorite time is early morn,

In the hot tub before starlight fades.

The half-moon is shining bright,

As I lay back to gaze.

I see a satellite pass by the moon,

And soon the brightness showed,

A meteor shooting past,

Its long tail and embers glowed.

As I grew older, I became curious about past lives and reincarnation and became an avid reader on the subject. So, when I met Cassondra a few years ago, she was one whom I felt I had known my whole life, and the longer I was around her I sensed with certainty that I had been in one or more of her lives. But the curious aspect was the fact that I seemed to know without question that she had been a prostitute.

As I continued my research in order to glean a more definitive answer for the differences between a cult and a religion, I began to look at the topic in a different frame of mind. I had been ready to malign all organizations that seemed ‘cult-like,’ and write all the nastiness I could find out about them, which was a lot.

In my continued quest to find definitive answers about the difference between a cult and a religion, trying to piece together a pattern or a sign that would be obvious, I read more horror stories than I expected. In many instances, as with the previous written accounts, the answers were obvious that those groups would be considered cults. But why? Was it the destructive ends? Would we have known that one of those organizations was a cult instead of a religion if there were no sensational ends? Likely not.

There aren’t many people who have not heard of Jim Jones and the Peoples Temple and his horrifying execution of over 900 followers that came in the guise of a mass suicide. How could that have happened? How could anyone have that kind of power over such a large mass of people to make outsiders think they volunteered to drink the cyanide concoction? It was not voluntary. On November 18th, 1978, the people were forced at the point of a shotgun to drink the Kool-Aid. The question then becomes: how could anyone who supposedly loved his flock do that to them?