The Sons of Kings

Cherry Blossoms Washington DC

Photo of cherry blossoms in Washington, DC by my late son Scott Tucker

The Sons of Kings

Long ago and before that
Love was it’s own jewel;
Unto itself all things.

Not so, said the Kings;
Love is ignorance, showing nothing.
In all their gold, they claimed
To own the sum of everything.

Power, counted and subtracted
A billion gains and losses.
Kings grew old in their gatherings
Of ever growing wealth,
Losing count of what use to be;
Not missing what was never felt.

Years past

The sons of kings invented robots
To run computer towns.
Yet, man was solving nothing.


The sons of kings
Added more jewels to their crowns.
The jewels soon lost their sparkle
So the sons of kings
Asked of those around
What could be missing now?

Wondering how to answer man,
The robots ran a logic disc.
No. That wasn’t it.
They tried philosophy,
Pshchology, than poetry,
Until they agreed in print
That if man could find love,
And a heart for it to fit

Man might once again be equal
In his own equation.



Photo by my late son Scott Tucker

This poem was inspired by my Grandma Doc’s (Dr. Waterhouse Smith) tales of traveling to Europe and the Greek Islands in the 1920’s. Grandma also kept diarys of her steamship travels in the 1920’s!


Soft breezes

And the chatter of Greek tongues
Slip through my open window
As Karystos bay awakens
With the kiss of mornings sun


Over cheese and fruit
I wash and dress
Ready for Karystos loveliness;
To climb time washed steps,
To feel the sun upon my breasts.

As ships

From foreign ports
Sail along the crystal bay,
High noon tides press against
Karystos lips and mine
Wetting us with salty spray.

Like a lover

I toast you with your own wine.
Over and over I savor
The taste of you as I walk
Beneath olive trees
And blossoming grape vines.

Tell me Karystos

Just how much more pleasure
Could there ever be
Tan what lies between
Your silk blue skys
And sparkling island sea?

Snow Nets


Photo taken of myself in British Columbia, Canada 2008.

Snow Nets was inspired by a young adult romance novel I had started and am still working on. Poems come quickly while I am finding writing a novel is a very long journey!

Snow Nets

I remember the fox
That came
Last December.
He appeared
On the lakes
Frozen waves
Chasing snow birds
In the white rain.

Two solitary figures,
We remained
Part of the scene,
Equal captives
Of snow net sorcery.

On the first night
Of this year
You and I stood
In the same rain
Looking for
A crack in the sky.
The smile
Of the quarter moon
Out of sight.

You lent me mittens
By your touch,
And when we kisssed
My doubt reached
For a reason
To be left out
Of the promises
We’d never make.

I knew only
The moon
Would keep hers
With the dark
Turning light.
The January sky
Teased us
With the fires
Of Perseus above.

Can it be the stars
See us
Caught in a new
Dare we call it
Or will we, too,
Remain captives
Of snow new sorcery!


DSCN0579     Orenda

My Grandmother Wilber would tell us about the magic of Woodstock called Orenda.   I learned that it was a belief of the native Iroquois who lived in the Catskill Mts. of New York.   Orenda is believed to be a supernatural force, present in varying degrees, in all objects, animals and persons .  Early settlers of Woodstock soon called it “the magic of Woodstock”.  This attracted artists, writers, musicians and many other talented people who believed being or living in Woodstock would increase their artistic ability.   Thus Woodstock became the first official artist colony founded in America in 1906.

The inspiration for this poem happened to me as a child in Woodstock.  Photo taken in Stevensville, Montana 2010


Beneath the granite the old Indian chants.
His voice can be heard on the winds
Serenading the Catskills any day or night.

My Grandmother called the wind voices.

Alive in the whisper of trees dancing in the sunlight.
In the breath of an Iroquois breeze.

Is said to be the magic of the earth turning
In spite of man’s afflicted need
To break the light of atoms in war.

Of men
Unable to hear a green mind speak.

I lost my heart to Orenda the night I saw a deer,
Blinded by poachers’ lights, murdered for money.
Its spirit rose from the shape of it’s death

And spoke to me.

“Power is not what men think.”

If you decide to walk the Catskills
In the morning mist, you too may hear
The collected thoughts of Iroquois souls never deceived

By the blood of politics or the plagues of greed.

Whispered Light

Photo taken by her father
Scott Tucker in 2008 at dawn in Daytona Beach, FL

Whispered Light

Born in the shape
Of infinity
Comes time…
A whisper on the wind
Searching the universe
For you, for me.

Time slips on by
Called minds
And circles round
Beams of thought
While reaching past
Earth made days
And starry nights.

Time comes home
Alive in crystal spheres
Of light
Where, beyond the worlds
Of beings,
Time sees a different view
Of you, of me.


And when I’m lost
In rules and manly
When I forget
Life is more than
What it is I’m being;
Time sends to me
A whispered light
And infinity catches me
Seeing clearly.

Winter’s Hush



December in Glacier National Park.  First snow!

Winters Hush

An endless lonely row
Of city street lights glow
Casting a midnight show
Upon the sleeping snow.

Out among the naked trees,
Along the rocky ledges,
The wild Laurel leaves
Frame the winter’s edges.

As with the Evergreen
Covered in one snowy day,
Dreams rest peacefully
In the hush of winter sleep.

Rainwater Sky

Photo taken in Porcatello, Idaho September 2012

This poem was inspired by my Lakota language and history classes.

Rainwater Sky

The rainwater sky
Finds Grandmother
Weaving clouds
Of white thunder.

As her needle
Of bone
Draws the remembering,
A tear slips down
The ridge of her cheek.
Another has found
A faded bead
On her deerskin gown.

Grandmother sees
Beyond the storm
A vision of lights,
The lights of
Native Spirits
Haunting satellites.
She has lived to see
Red words turn white.

Grandmother leans
Against the wind
As it whispers
“It is too late
To repair the fabric
Of death,
Of trust misplaced.”

A tourist dollar
Falls from her hand
Like a leaf off
A dying tree.
A green bandage
Too small to cover
The pain she feels.

Still she prays,
Asking why the world
Does not see
That all bones are white
And the same
After death becomes
A memory…

The Last Apple

Fall in Stevensville, Montana

The Last Apple

Oh, to be a kid again,
Riding with Jack Frost
Through leaves of gold.

Just a kid on a bike
Stopping to pick
The last apple of summer,
Lost in the moment
Sweet with memories.

Just a kid on a bike
Not needing to know
Where the trail ends,
Surprised when it does.

Midnight Tide

Photo by my late son Scott Tucker

Midnight Tide

Steps upon the dunes.
Dark skirts along the beach
Reaching for a wave.
Sprays of ocean mist
Taste the waiting

The beach
Listens to the
Sibilant whispers
Of a long, cool breeze.
Scattered specs of coral
Slip through
Tangled hairs of grass.

Gathers in swells.
Echos of mirth sweep
Into the surf.
Shells hug the shore
Like lonely widows.

In dream sleep,
How the sun might trace
Their spiral lines,
Their minds
Curled up inside

To be taken
By the next
Midnight tide.

Lost Not

Alan and I having fun with Mark and Candy at Glacier National Park, MT in 2008

Lost Not

Slips between
The pillows
To mingle
Softly into scenes
So easily forgot.
These memories
Still seek to be
The thoughts
Of me…

Dreams come,
Strung on thread
Like beads,
Hoping to be more
Than just dreams
Of how it was,
How it can be.
Their beauty is in
The matrix
Of you, of me.

Holds tight
To the quiet.
So hush,
Make out
The lights.
Hold on to
The moment
That cannot

We have!