My Thoughts · My Writing · poetry · Travel

Poetic Topics? Take a Photo of Life in Words!

Young man taking a picture - poetic

My poetic topics vary. I love thinking about a poem being a photo of a specific time in life in words! I see something; then the poem comes!

Last week, I received the revision of the conclusion for my new poetry book. Next, I create the interior of my book in the app, Vellum, and release it within the next month or so.

Here’s a sneak preview of Chapter 6 of that book —each poem is a poetic photo shot of a specific time I wanted to capture.

1998

During the summer of 1998, my ex-husband and I traveled to Canada and the northwestern part of the United States. I played with poems, vignettes, trying to capture what I saw even if those moments were not mine but strangers!


June 1998

Mountains capped with glaciers

Turquoise blue water

      Rivers and lakes

Rock flows make them milky green.

Tall, skinny trees

      Firs and pines

German heritage

Campgrounds

      Showers

“Does the show take a loonie?”

New phrases

      Kilometers versus miles

Canadian money

      Funny money

      Exchange

Rain

Search for wildlife

      Moose clumping in the river bed

      Big brown bear besides the road

            In the rain

            Turning over rocks gingerly

                  Looking for ants

                        Brown ears and eyes

                              Turned around

                              Eating grass

River winding

Clouds hanging low on the mountains

      Like cotton candy

Vibrant green grass

      A color so different from the Southwest

      Trees

Excessive water

Maps

      Places to go

      Places we went

Sleepy mornings

      Nightly rituals

Cool, not cold

Heater kicks on—

      Thermostat

Miles passed by;

      Days did, too!

Words in silence shared.

      Laughter, too.

Safety created

      Words spill out on the page          

            Of days spent,

            Of being.

Relaxation can help.

      I don’t have to create it.

It settles in like a snug blanket.

It’s a good book, a nap, silence enjoyed,

      Word shared!

A deep side of relief

      Of faith and God’s goodness and myself.


Coeur D’Alene, Idaho

June 18, 1998

Lights on the shore

      Blue magic reflects the lights

Quiet except for a motor

Ripples in the blue velvet

      Cool breeze wraps around me.


Spokane, Washington

June 18, 1998

Ingenuity of children

Big Brother sees it as a race car

Laundromat Cart - poetic

Mom sees it as a laundry basket on wheels.

Little brother takes advantage of big brother’s imagination.

Down one aisle

      Down another

Little Brother’s eyes glisten,

      Smile and giggles filled his face.

For a moment, it was a race car—

      They raced

            And won,

But Mom interrupted the fun!

“Boys, stop that!”


Spokane, Washington

June 18, 1998

We finished a squared dance,

      And she came rushing,

            Excited,

            Glad to see my ex,

But his reception was stilted.

For one embarrassing moment,

The triangle that we were smothered

      me and her.

Finally, she squeaked out,

      “I just wanted to say hello.”

But the moment was rich with electricity

      And my heart was strangled.


Spokane, Washington

June 18, 1998

He easily walked across the street,

      A few steps in front of her.

It was a gentle motion,

      Not premeditated

            But natural.

He turned and held out his hand

      And she happily took it.

He wanted to touch her, fill her near;

      She wanted that, too!


Spokane, Washington

June 18, 1998

Timid, unlearned steps in the sand.

Dad, close at hand—

      Not too close,

            But close enough.

He was adorned with a baseball cap

      And pants

            But no shoes.

The feel of sand between his toes

      for the first time.

He wobbled and wove but kept going.

Mom videotaped the whole event—

      A chapter in his young life.

Larada Horner-Miller, Was It a Dream?: Navigating Life’s Journey Through Poetry, (Horner Publishing Company, 2024): pp. 85-99.


In my poetry, I celebrate a poetic photograph of words to capture a moment, an event, a happening. The poetic side of me comes rushing out! I grab a notebook, a sheet of paper, a napkin, whatever! What do you think? Can you see it? Feel it? That’s the whole purpose of poetry!

I had a busy week with my semi-annual teeth cleaning on Tuesday, my Wound Clinic appointment on Wednesday, and an endoscopy on Thursday that had been scheduled two months ago.

I have an appointment tomorrow with the Wound Clinic. Last week when I went to the Wound Clinic, the nurse specialist sent me to Urgent Care for a CT-Scan, because I couldn’t move my toes and foot in a smaller bandage. After a dismal Urgent Care disaster, I didn’t get the scan.

Gradually, I have gotten movement back in my toes, but the foot is still numb and clumsy, so no driving for me. Lin changed the bandage yesterday. I’m anxious to talk to the nurse specialist tomorrow and see where we are headed.


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Books · My Books · My Thoughts · poetry · Self-publishing

A Dream About George Strait or Not? – My New Poetry Book!

Dream

A dream I had of George Strait inspired me to write a poem many years ago. Finally, I am in the finally stages of publishing it in my first book in a four-book series named Navigating Life’s Journey Through Poetry. The title of this book is Was It a Dream?.

To sample the flavor of this book, here’s the introduction to it, explaining its inception.

“Instructions for living a life:

Pay attention.

Be astonished.

Tell about it.”

~Mary Oliver, “Sometimes”[1]

“A poet?” I questioned.

“Yes, you’re a poet!” Lin, my husband, responded enthusiastically.

While lounging in our hot tub one beautiful New Mexico evening last year, Lin asked me what word I’d use to describe myself in my writing. I mulled it over in my mind. Did he mean genre? Author? Writer? I don’t even remember what I said, but his answer floored me—”Poet!”

I thought, Four of my seven published books feature my poetry. I’ve written a lot of poems, but I’m not Shakespeare or Milton. I don’t rhyme and have meter in my poetry. Could I be a poet?

Even though it was something so familiar and deep-seated in me that came to light, I had needed someone else to identify it, to identify who I really was—a poet!

After this refreshing discovery, I ran to our storage shed to find all my old poems. I knew exactly where my journals were. I made a beeline to the box, and there they were! After dusting them off, I marveled at the work I hadn’t looked at in years, in decades. That joyous revelation—that I was not just a writer but also a poet—changed my life as an author.

As I mused over Mary Oliver’s poetic “Instructions for living a life,” I realized that, yes, I have “paid attention” by retelling my life’s journey through poetry for years, yet really didn’t realize it until I put this poetry series together. This first book begins with a solitary poem written in 1986 that starts with a trip to the Mayan ruin in Cobá, Mexico and ends with me in Spokane, Washington doing laundry in a laundromat, “paying attention” to a child’s first steps.

While that first poem focuses on a travel adventure, this whole book will take you on a journey through my life in the 80s and 90s, when I was in my late thirties and early forties, an unsettled time in my life. I reveal a variety of my vulnerable “heart hurts,” like being childless at forty. That was monumental for me, a big piece of my pain.

Looking back at these poems, I am astonished at how deeply vulnerable I am. When I wrote these poems, it was to process my life at that specific moment, not to share my innermost thoughts with the world.

Because of that, there are so many different key elements throughout: the pain, the celebration, the wonder, the astonishment, as Mary Oliver says. So, if you’re looking for a central theme, my collection may upset you because I share a hodgepodge of life events, but it is my story.

My first wedding was September 9, 1973, and at that point in my life, I did not see myself as a writer much less a poet. I wrote nothing—poetry or prose. I was still in pain from some past traumas, so I couldn’t see the trees for the forest.

Because of that, I struggled through that relationship, and we ended up divorcing in 1980. For eight years, I actively struggled with alcoholism. That sounds like a short span of time, but for women, the average length of their drinking years is seven years, so I was right there. During those years, I didn’t write any poetry.

From 1982 to 1986, I attended Colorado State University—forty years ago! After a false start for my freshman year in Occupational Therapy, I switched my major to English with a teaching concentration two weeks into the semester and walked into a class with the professor reading Beowulf in Old English. It felt like a foreign language, but I persevered. I was twenty-eight years old when I went to the university for the first time, so I had forgotten anything I had learned in high school, not that I had a very strong background in literature to begin with.

At the beginning of that first semester, I remember sitting in an English literature class and the professor asked a probing question about sirens. Having no clue what a siren was, I sat with my hand firmly not raised, but because of my good-student-mindset, I almost responded anyway. When a student spouted off the answer sought for, my mouth dropped! My only reference to a siren was a noisy alarm on emergency equipment. Sirens on the rocks, warning sailors. I had no idea, and apparently, I hadn’t studied the passage for the class that day enough.

From then on, I knuckled down and prepared for each class thoroughly, realizing I almost had an embarrassing moment in front of my peers ten years younger than me.

It was in those English and American literature classes that I found a poetry. I stumbled through the poetry sections of my classes, in awe of the meaning the professors gleaned from the words lined up in stanzas.

In my upper-level classes, I eagerly absorbed the Shakespeare and Milton tomes and internalized their influence, unknowingly preparing to embrace my own inner poet years later.

There at the university, I started writing for my education classes and realized through good grades and positive comments made by different professors that I certainly did have the ability to write an educational paper. Though I never thought I’d be publishing not only one, but four poetry books in this series, and more.

In 1986, I graduated in the top four percent of my class with a B.A. in Education, a minor in Spanish, and concentration in Education.

I got sober on December 22, 1988. I’ve often thought that my poetry writing paralleled my recovery, but it was in 1986 that I wrote that first poem about Cobá, which I find so rich. Writing that poem and graduating ignited something in me that year, and that was the first glimmer I had that I was a poet.

I can see now that already I was starting to see myself as a poet and noting life.  

Four of my seven published books feature poetry and prose, so it’s not a new genre for me. While teaching middle school language arts and literature, I taught a poetry unit every year, but I didn’t take myself seriously as a poet. I was a middle school teacher, but I only dabbled in poetry.

I also participated as a fellow in the Rio Grande Writing Project, an affiliate of the National Writing Project, a professional development program for teachers. It promoted writing “across the curriculum”—in math, social studies, science, and electives, as well as language arts and literature classes.

During this time, I followed the training of Nancy Atwell’s book, In the Middle, where I learned about “Writing and Reading Workshop,” her successful plan for teaching writing and reading to middle school students. This book changed my classroom. I wrote daily with my students at the beginning of class. I would write a prompt on the board before class so the students knew to sit down, open their writing notebooks, copy the prompt, and respond. Each day, I timed it for seven minutes. When I finished my daily teacher chores, like attendance, I grabbed my writing journal and a chair near a student and wrote. I wanted them to see me as a writer and often I chose poetry to express myself.

By focusing on the writing process, I grounded this writing time in Natalie Goldberg’s book, Writing Down the Bones, and introduced my students to her preferred writing practice, a timed free write. She listed seven things to consider for this time:

  • 1.  Keep your hand moving. No matter what, don’t stop . . .
  • 2.  Don’t cross out.
  • 3.  Don’t worry about spelling, punctuation, or grammar.
  • 4.  Lose control. Let it rip . . .
  • 5.  Don’t think. Don’t get logical.
  • 6.  Go for the jugular[2]
  • 7.  You are free to write the worst junk in the world (I added, “in the universe!”)

Can you imagine a writing teacher telling her students not to worry about spelling, punctuation, or grammar? My students loved it, and their writing blossomed. Then when the poetry unit came up, I guided them through haikus, free verse, and self-expression. It became a favorite of theirs and mine.

Yet at this time, it was a nominal gesture! I didn’t feel like a writer, much less a poet. That identity came years later.

Then something happened! Poetry became the genre I ran to when life tilted in ways I had no control over, good or bad—my mom’s death, the coronavirus pandemic, life!

Almost forty years after writing my first poem, I gathered all my poems together and realized I had written enough poetry to fill at least four poetry books. After taking Natalie Goldberg’s writing practice class during the pandemic and reading her book, Three Simple Lines: A Writer’s Pilgrimage into the Heart and Homeland of Haiku, I’ve currently moved to haikus to express my life, yet I still write free verse occasionally.

 Today I write poetry when I’m happy; I write poetry when I’m sad. I write about what’s important and about what’s trivial.

This collection of poetry, spanning the first fifteen years of my poetry writing, takes a peek into me and my world. From the luscious green jungles of Mexico to the beautiful purple orange sunsets of New Mexico. From losing my dad and my second and third husbands to living a life without my own child.

Today, several famous poets influence me: contemporaries Mary Oliver and Billy Collins, classics William Shakespeare and Emily Dickinson, and Native Americans Joy Harjo and Louise Erdrich.

Some of those influences are evident in my poems. Magical realism from my Spanish literature classes seeped into my poem on Cobá, for instance. George Strait, my country and western hero, shows up in the title poem (“Was it a Dream?”), doing what I love to do besides write—dance! His advice became my motto for life.

But it was when I found Mary Oliver’s “Instructions for living a life” in her poem, “Sometimes” that I realized I had followed her directions in my poetry to the tee. She was an influence without my even knowing!

So please, step into my world of poetry and walk through my journey with me in this first book as I look at personal growth, reflection, and the twists and turns life can make.

Larada Horner-Miller, Was It A Dream?: Navigating My Life Through Poetry, (Horner Publishing Company, 2024): ix-xv.

So many of my books sat for years on a shelf, in a folder on my computer, unpublished. I wrote them then put the notebooks away. As life unfolded, I faced joys and sorrows and wrote poetry. That’s how I navigated my life—with words. With Lin’s prompting, I knew I had to publish this book and this series. Let me know what you think.


[1] Mary Oliver, Devotions, (Penguin Press, 2017), 105.

[2] Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones (Shambhala Publications, Inc., 1986), 8.


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family · Grief · Memories · My Books · My Thoughts · poetry

How Did You Spend Mother’s Day?

Happy Mother's Day - Today

How did you spend Mother’s Day today? With your mom? Your grandma? With your children? With your grandchildren?  Alone, missing those gone on before you?

How did I spend Mother’s Day? I had a quiet day, starting with our Sunday tradition: blueberry pancakes and cribbage. Then I had a delightful re-connection with a square dance friend who I haven’t seen in years. After we connected, we called another mutual square dance friend who has had some heart issues and left her a “Happy Mother’s Day” greeting. Then, it was on to church and back home.

All day, my mom has hovered closely over me. Today, I miss her more than normal—maybe because I have been featuring the book I wrote about my loss of her, A Time to Grow Up: A Daughter’s Grief (and Growth) Memoir, by giving away e-book copies on Amazon for the last five days.

Also, on Friday, I read a couple of the poems from that book as leader of my meditation group. It just felt right to share them to honor her this Mother’s Day season.

So, to continue with that thought-process, here are the two poems I shared on Friday.

After Mom died on March 23, 2013, whenever, I went home to Branson, Colorado, I would travel to Trinidad, get lunch and go out the cemetery and have lunch with Dad and Mom. Mom taught me this idea after Dad died, and it helped so much. I shed lots of tears and talked and talked.

Mother-Daughter Chain - Today

October 14, 2013

Lunch with Dad and Mom

I wanted you to stay 
with me!
Part of you wanted to stay, too!

My grandma, your mother, beckoned you
to come!
Part of you wanted to go!

It was a sacred, otherworldly tug-of-war!

I witnessed your battle
that Wednesday night at
the skilled nursing facility

I tried to sleep on the floor,
but your verbal turmoil kept me
awake all night!

Ten days before your death
you wrestled with the
dilemma:

Go to your mom, my grandmother
or
stay with your daughter, me!

Grandma won;
I lost!

But someday
you will win.
You will tug on
my heart
pulling me home
to be with you!

I have no daughter
for you to battle with
on that day.

The Mother-Daughter connection runs
deep
timeless
beyond reality.

Daughter-Mother connection:
as real as it gets.

Almost a year had passed from Mom’s death, and I relief by going to Branson and remembering Mom there in her house and celebrating our memories.

Snuggle into the Memories - Today

March 20, 2014

I lost Mom,
almost one year ago!

Today I sit in her house
surrounded by her
and
snuggle into the memories!

No longer fighting the loss,
not running away
from the memories!

Not cringing at
the empty space
in my heart.

But I snuggle into the memories,
lay my head on her shoulder
like so many times before,
breathe in her body fragrance
like so many times before,
laugh with her—her blue eyes dancing
like so many times before,
dance with her around the living room,
trying to recapture Dad's special step
like so many times before.

Memories comfort me
today!
Hundreds of precious moments
shared.

I lean into them.

They brush my cheek
kiss my brow
caress my shoulder
live deep in my heart!

I can't bring her back!
I tried,
and it doesn't work!
I can't go with her,
not yet!

So today
I snuggle into the memories.
I speak her name.
I speak her joy.
I speak her laughter.
I speak her fears.
I speak her faith.

I speak Mom!

how does reading these poems again help me today on Mother’s Day, 2024? Any time I share about Mom helps me. It’s been eleven years. I still miss her terribly, but my familiar words about her continue to soothe my wounded heart!

So enjoy!


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Enjoy my interview on the podcast, The Writing Table


My Thoughts · My Writing · poetry · square dance

Meet Larada: Another Poem of Mine!

National Poetry Month - Meet

“Meet Larada” I wrote in a workshop with Natalie Goldberg in 2002. I’m rummaging through old notebooks and journals for poetry for my new poetry book, and I found this one.

Larada in Spain - Meet
Larada enjoying lunch in Spain

I am turquoise, red, hot pink

And purple, a kaleidoscope

Of color rearranging

Changing as the parts of

Me fall into place.

The turquoise reflects the

Peace and calm deep within me

Like the waters of the Mexican Caribbean.

The red in me ignites into a flame—

Passionate and energetic

but hot to touch.

The hot pink cries out

Notice me, I’m present—

You can’t ignore me

Anymore.

The purple states my power

That place inside me that has

Matured to womanhood

But still holds a girlish twinkle.

A waltz,

A jitterbug, a Swing Dance,

The Latin rhythm of rumba,

Or Bolero.

The depth of me express itself

            In dance,

The spiritual connection to

            The music,

The beat,

The magic and the sway!

Larada - Meet

The me totally revealed on

The dance floor,

Vulnerable,

Bare,

Connected to my partner

            And me

And the song.


I love this poem because it shows the many sides of me, a multi-faceted personality. If you know anything about me, you know that dancing has been a major part of my life and I capture my passion here. Meet me in all the stanzas and their descriptions.

This is a short post this week because I’m exhausted—we danced all weekend at a festival here in Albuquerque and I’m tired with a smile on my face. Lots of laughter, saw old friends and made new ones—the side-benefits of dancing!

Who are you? Have you ever thought of you as a color(s)? Your favorite activity? Hopefully in reading this you meet me in different ways. Also, take the time to describe yourself in a variety of ways.


Enjoy my interview on the podcast, The Writing Table

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