Under Sonoran Skies, Prose and Poetry from the High Desert

I. Visioning the Craft

Susan Cosby-Patton

My Poetry

Susan Cosby-Patton

Music of the Soul

Patricia Noble

Jazz Joint

Bill Black

Courage, Camille

Larry Sakin

The Guitar at the Eldon Bar

Bill Black

II. Places Far and Near

Bill Black

I Cannot Find Sanctuary

Bill Black

My Patio

Susan Cosby-Patton

Pima County’s Historic Courthouses

Jeanne Burrows-Johnson

It’s Such a Tiny Patch of Green

Susan Cosby-Patton

The Place of Compassion

Patricia Noble

The Pennsylvania Spillway

Susan Cosby-Patton

III. The Changing West

Susan Cosby-Patton

Early History of Tucson and Her Cemeteries

Jeanne Burrows-Johnson

The Barn

Bill Black

While the River Flows On

Bill Black

Time’s Shadows

Jeanne Burrows-Johnson

Sunset

Susan Cosby-Patton

¿Quién Vivió Aquí?

Susan Cosby-Patton

So Long Range

Bill Black

IV. Of Men and Women

Bill Black

Mountains and Hills

Susan Cosby-Patton

A Modern Model of Motherhood

Patricia Noble

Homage to My Thighs

Susan Cosby-Patton

Adventures in Middle-Aged Dating

Larry Sakin

Body Music #1

Bill Black

Retirement

Kay Lesh

Holiday Journey Home

Susan Cosby-Patton

V. Family, Friends, and Other Loves

Susan Cosby-Patton

Labradorian Dreams

Bill Black

Mysteries of Marriage

Patricia Noble

A Small Concern

Susan Cosby-Patton

Flying Home

Kay Lesh

Dinner Promptly at Five

Susan Cosby-Patton

Cookie Time

Kay Lesh

Joshua Finds a Home

Susan Cosby-Patton

Love’s Enigma

Patricia Noble

Addled

Larry Sakin

VI. Health, Wealth, and Happiness

Patricia Noble

Pain

Susan Cosby-Patton

How to Be Really, Truly Well

Patricia Noble

Poetry Lesson

Bill Black

In Praise of Viagra

Bill Black

Father Confessor

Larry Sakin

Farewell Uterus

Susan Cosby-Patton

VII. Seasons of Life

Susan Cosby-Patton

Yuletide in Tucson: 1878

Jeanne Burrows-Johnson

A Woman At . . .

Susan Cosby-Patton

Final Wishes

Larry Sakin

Four Seasons

Bill Black

Ceremony

Kay Lesh

Garden of Memory

Bill Black

A Flowing River Gathers No Moss

Patricia Noble

Gold, Silver and Blue

Bill Black

VIII. Choice and Change

Larry Sakin

Indecisive

Bill Black

Imaging For Change

Patricia Noble

Friendly Fire

Susan Cosby-Patton

Friendly Fire

Bill Black

Bringing Home the Bacon

Kay Lesh

Everyday Heroes

Patricia Noble

A Declaration of Complete Independence

Larry Sakin

Old Eyes, Grey Souls

Bill Black

Winter Water

Susan Cosby-Patton

IX. Myth, Magic, and Inspiration

Patricia Noble

As a Jewel in the Crown

Susan Cosby-Patton

The Tao of Driving

Patricia Noble

Through God’s Eyes

Susan Cosby-Patton

Prologue to Prospect for Murder

Jeanne Burrows-Johnson

Ghost Riddle

Bill Black

Timelessness

Patricia Noble

The Bourbon Eulogy

Bill Black

Finding Lost Souls

Bill Black

The Masks

Bill Black

X. Business, Culture and Society

Susan Cosby-Patton

Bessie Lincolnfelter

Susan Cosby-Patton

Demarcation Line

Bill Black

X

Larry Sakin

Clearing the Deck for Success

Patricia Noble

Mining Our Golden Brand

Jeanne Burrows-Johnson

How to Be a Millionaire

Patricia Noble

XI. Crafting the Vision

Susan Cosby-Patton

Cowboy Poetry Spoken Here

Bill Black

Your Inner Dragon

Patricia Noble

Sketch of a Creative Mind

Bill Black

Finding Your Voice

Susan Cosby-Patton

Words

Susan Cosby-Patton

Ghost Writer

Bill Black

A Brush of Many Colors

Jeanne Burrows-Johnson

Writer in Denial

Larry Sakin

Yesterday

Susan Cosby-Patton

About the Book and Its Authors

Index of Genres

Index of Searchable Terms

Eye World, Public Domain

I.

Visioning the Craft

A poem

is like a kitten’s purr

starting deep within its throat,

bubbling up from contentment,

rumbling through despair,

until it becomes a lion's roar.

Susan Cosby-Patton

My Poetry

Susan Cosby-Patton

. . . is not obscure.

It is art,

a picture

composed with words

Similes

Metaphors

Imagery

Carefully chosen

by this artist

to evoke emotion

to give life to an idea

Never to confuse.

If you, the reader,

wish to interpret,

feel free.

If you need to ruminate . . . so be it.

But first

immerse yourself

in the poem,

luxuriate in the

warmth of the words

Relish

the tingle of the analogies,

let them titillate the senses.

Only then,

if you must call on

Freud . . .Jung. . .Erickson

are you welcome

to turn my

painting into

sophomoric rhetoric.

Music of the Soul

Patricia Noble

Are you a music lover? You may feel that your favorite kind of music seems to touch something mysterious within you and bring you great fulfillment. You could say that music touches the soul.

Music is personal. For some people today, the music of the soul is a Beethoven symphony. For others, the soul music is jazz. For still others, it is the pulsating rhythms of dance music and the movements of the dance that are deeply fulfilling. There is something inherent in the human personality that causes us to relate to certain kinds of music. Music fulfills a spiritual need. Music has been a form of spiritual and cultural expression from the beginning of time. In the Dances of Universal Peace, from the Sufi Muslim tradition, the purpose of the dance is to liberate the music of the dancer’s soul.

Where do the sounds of music come from? When we look at a musical instrument, we can’t SEE the sound. When playing, do we put the music INTO the instrument? No – we bring the music OUT of the violin or the piano, or the singer. The music is already IN the instrument or the vocalist. When we play or sing or dance, we liberate the sound. The player or the singer becomes as one with the music. In a way we ARE the sound.

I’ve been thinking that music is like prayer. Both prayer and music bring us joy, peace, and harmony, and touch our souls. We often use similar words to describe our experiences with prayer and with music. People whose musical ear is not well developed may say, I can’t sing, or I must be tone deaf, or I just don’t understand music. Those with little experience with prayer may say, I don’t know how to pray, or God never answers my prayers, or I don’t know what spirituality is all about.

The fact is, whatever our experience with music, we can learn to hear and appreciate the meaning of the music – if we are willing to learn something about it and to let ourselves respond to it. The same goes for prayer. Practice improves our experience.

Music of the soul is the Spirit within us, always ready to break free, only waiting to be liberated. In the same way, the elements of creation are already there, within us, waiting for us to use them in unique ways to express our own individual soul music. We sing and play and dance to different music for different purposes, but the objective is the same as that for prayer: joy, peace, harmony, love, deep fulfillment, and a feeling of unity with the sacred.

Do you feel the music rising and pulsating within you? YOUR soul music is ready to break free. YOUR creativity is ready to be tapped. YOUR life is ready to sing and play and dance to the music of your soul. Go for it!

Jazz Joint

Bill Black

Ya’ll come, ya’ll come.

Take the train to a Hundred Eighty Second Street,

From the stairs go two blocks east for a treat.

Ya’ll come, ya’ll come.

Go up the stairs by the candy store,

The door’s on the right on that floor.

Ya’ll come, ya’ll come.

The bar stretches along the left,

The stage is crossways in the corner cleft.

Ya’ll come, ya’ll come.

Nights of Blues and Jazz float in

The smoke and bar scent skin.

Ya’ll come, ya’ll come.

Night music dwells in this room

As we worship in this ghetto tomb.

Ya’ll come, ya’ll come.

As dawn breaks, we must retreat

But music stays in our heartbeat.

Ya’ll come, ya’ll come.

The day awakes as we are weary.

The music lives as we go bleary

To the daily grind to get the pay

That keeps us fed and lets us play.

Ya’ll come, ya’ll come.

Scotch and bourbon pick-me-ups

Discreetly fill coffee cups.

With eggs and grits as our chow,

We stir to another day somehow.

Ya’ll come, ya’ll come.

In a generation, our nights become legendary

As late night sessions and a smoky music vocabulary,

But no one will really be able to see

The worlds we created at quarter to three.

Ya’ll come, ya’ll come.

Courage, Camille

Larry Sakin

In 1993, I was tour manager for a famous rock band from the Chicago area. They had several hit songs in the seventies, eighties and nineties, but now, the boys were past their prime charts-wise, and were reduced to being an opener.

The audience heckled the band mercilessly as they blithely played their hit songs and some new material as the audience roundly ‘booed’ them and acted with ADD-like impatience for the main act to climb onto the stage. After each show, the lead singer of my intrepid band, Rodney, and the guitarist, Robert, would see the disappointment in my eyes. They surrounded me, and gave me a couple of crazed looks as they put their hands on my shoulders. Robert chortled a bit and said Relax, things are going to get better when we reach Asia.

I was not comforted by this positive affirmation. The band played twenty-five more shows in the U.S., all to the same effect. In Dallas, one idiot in the audience threw an empty bottle of Bud at Mike, the bass player, hitting him in the eye. Mike, still playing his bass with one hand, reached down, grabbed the bottle, and hurled it right back at the guy, knocking him on the temple. A fight broke out in the guy’s row. Security had to break it up and kick everyone from the row out. The show finally ended, and I was even more depressed about being involved with this tour. Robert and Robin patted me on the back as they exited the stage, Robert saying, I know what you’re thinking, but things will definitely get better in Asia.

We ended the U.S. tour at Lollapalooza LA. From there we went to Asia, and the boys continued to reassure me the crowds would be much more receptive. Our first stop was in Seoul, South Korea, where we had a three-night gig. We played at the official state theatre, which was a moribund venue with lousy acoustics.

The boys came out on stage each night, and just played their hearts out. Robin jumped and danced around on stage as did Rick the guitarist. Brad beat the hell out of his skins. The song would end, and the crowd of selected kids, mostly academic powerhouses, politely applauded. No whoops or whistles, no commentary and certainly no dancing -- just polite applause. It was disheartening. No one could tell if the kids really liked what they heard. After the show, a few very select kids got to come backstage and meet the band. They'd shake the boys' hands and say in their best English, Thank you for your most entertaining show, bow, and then move next to the door while the others had their chance. Everybody's mood dropped like a pall after the gig was over except for Robert and Rodney, who were upbeat as usual. They looked at me and before they could tell me things would get better, I just shook my head at them and said, I don’t want to hear it.

Next up was a show at the Budokan in Tokyo. In Japan, the band is equivalent to the Beatles, so we knew the concert would get a large and very appreciative crowd.

That was certainly the case. The stadium filled to capacity the night of the show, and fans screamed and yipped like rabid coyotes during the first part of the show. I was beginning to feel better about the whole tour as the boys would look at me on the sidelines, winking, or giving me the thumbs up sign, telling me they had reached a temporary Nirvana as they played.

But something told me it wouldn’t last, and I was right.

Halfway into the set, a huge monsoon visited the stadium, soaking fans and giving flight to microphone stands, monitors, several small amps and a couple of members of the road crew. The audience dispersed, while those crew members still standing flitted about the stadium, trying to salvage whatever they could of the equipment strewn to the four corners of Tokyo. The band members stayed on stage, splashing each other by stomping on the huge puddles of mud coagulating on the stage.

I met the band back at the downtown Tokyo hotel. Even with the disaster we just experienced, Robert and Rodney mugged stupid grins at me while my blackened mood used my blue eyes to stare them down, rebuking them for their childlike enthusiasm. Robert came right up to me, hugging me this time, and whispered, Courage, Camille, it’s not over yet. You’ll see -- it will get better.

The next day, Tokyo took on beautiful orange and blue hues while we packed the equipment trucks. The band and I took the Shinkansen bullet train to Narita Airport. I couldn’t help thinking what a nightmare the whole tour had been -- from Chicago to Tokyo. It was hard to imagine that this band would ever be welcomed back to play anywhere again. As much as I liked everyone in the group, I figured this was the death knell for a band that had made a