Apples and Adams

Apples and Adams ~ Flash Fiction

    The energy in the vacuous atmosphere is cosmic spit dots, splashing and zapping around Zemirah, pulling and splitting cells into Adam’s temptations. It crept into her vortex like an unwanted salesman beating down the door confusing her treasured peace of mind with too much information.  She tried to ignore it asking herself could you leave it where it began or is the real question is, will you leave it behind?”

   Zemirah had a full bowl of apples on her wooden farm table inviting her to a light breakfast. She plucked one, in particular, polished it on her shirt till it shined like Christmas then took a crisp bite of crunch -a-luscious, chewing it slowly to express the succulent juice to the far reaches of her tongue.  

   She looked up and saw through her window perched ever so nimbly on a thin branch was a red cardinal with its beak open beckoning her to listen.  Karuna, Karuna he sang as Zemirah stood still hardly breathing so as not to scare him into a feathered fly away.

   The breeze waved the Little Pretty Woman Orienpets to dance along to the melody. It is like that to find that just stopping to look around and within will bring one home. The cells of her body began to awaken, polishing each one in a river of oneness throughout her being into a softer harmony. She was carried away uplifted in the auspicious altered state of reverie and began to sing along.

   “Karuna, Karuna where have you been so long?”

There is Gold Within

The Gold Within

Prayers for he artist hands

  Our perspectives are uniquely attuned to interpretation. We see things differently than others. Our eyes are gathered in potential creation, what if I move this here, color this purple, arrange it a certain way, We are the shifters of form, of statement and speak in our Art expression of a story we want to tell through our piece.  This yearning, this sometimes compulsion, makes us all alike. If any united platform that we sublimely share is, the wisdom of knowing that all people are individuals, that there are no groups, no boxes, no generalities or character profiles that anyone has to fall into to make sense of our own world; that’s already understood. We all engage in the creative space. I attribute this understanding to many things, but my authentic understanding of this came from allowing myself to explore a variety of creative forms. I compose, am a songwriter, sing, paint and digital collage, write books with children and for myself, write community art grants and plays. All because it’s fun to explore, to learn something new, and feel my brain light up.

   A wandering poem, searching for the right words to tell me about itself is not any different than listening to a person speak. A melody or an image is an outstretched hand just waiting for us to take hold of as we move through the poetic atmospheres, coalescing the vapors, the gold within where everything is connected.

   We know that it is interwoven in a language of color and sound. We are simply the weavers, the writers, the interpreters from an already imagined creation.

   A simple illustration of how this is can be found in nature. Sunlight streams through clouds and prisms form on walls, even the color palette of primary colors of blending blue and yellow to make green are reflective of our illustration to the universe.

   On any given day in every present moment, the winds of imagination co-create a definitive expression not only materially but invisibly in the collective consciousness. We are connected and when we are in the creative space, we are home and it is where we belong. Art and literature are ways to feel connected not only to us but to the world. The process is vibrational and everything done or made creates a transmitting frequency that much like a radio signal is sent out.  I love seeing the encouragements fill the pages of blogs and pages on the interment. It reminds me that no matter your style, taste or artistic preference, we understand that this is more than a remark or commentary on a particular piece. It says, I see you and we are kindred spirits. I like what these Artists have to say.

     “Art is an avenue to express intense emotions and unwavering wonder.” I’m inspired by the lighter side of life. Through trying times, I have found myself coping through art and through creating things that made me happier. Brighter subjects that brought me back to life. Now, through my work, I hope to be able to do that for others. I want the viewer to feel the movement, energy, and life coming from the artwork. I want my art to force people to smile again. We all need a little sweetness, a pick-me-up when the world gets too heavy. We can’t be serious all the time.”                                                                                             ~ Natasha Wescot

       “Traditional art education says that people paint for a variety of reasons, but it is all about communication for me, not just the simple act of creating something which can be very enjoyable. The onslaughts of unconscious thoughts in the world are laid bare for others.  Art has life to it. Art is what we do when we have had enough.”                                                     ~ Linda Lane

“I am a portrait painter because of my passion for people. There is nothing more interesting to me than a new face. I search for subjects with whom I feel a connection. My portraits convey a fusion of my feelings for each subject with an intuitional use of color. In my portraits, I strive to reveal the personality of my subjects, intensifying them in a celebration of their existence.”                                                                                                                        ~ Stephen Bennett

“I am more interested in what I discover than what I invent.”                                                                        ~Paul Simon



Marilyn and the Maligned


marilynn stamp


  How did this trembling fragile mortal climb a mountain only to be overturned by the footlight? Is she only remembered in a pop culture gouache poster hung on museum walls? Did the barrage of paparazzi journey far too much along her poetic skin until her smile was only a mask?

   She sought in her need an occasional piece of invisible space from the multimedia Blitzkrieg, a gruesomely ignored request, leaving her overwhelmed and lonely.

   Fame has defamed the lives of many young wandering stars that all too quickly lose sight of the ground as they ascend in untrue expression. Party away their gifts, or anxiously tap dance trying to hold on to it all. And then there is this feeling of waning youth and lost desirability looming like a lonesome specter seeking misguided company.

   No one wants to fade away or melt down into the decline of diminished talent or simply become disfranchised has long been fodder for a gossip column.            

  The fresh pain of invisibility in a fishbowl is enough. Only to find that not having lived unencumbered by another’s unreasonable expectations of them is a missing page never to be returned to.

    I sadly watch others make a buck as they are assigned to tabloid vexing, distorted lies, framing my favorite stars in unfair craven icon images to gawk at in grocery lines.

   Somewhere there are parties where someone transparently sadly impresses someone with names purposefully dropped for a quick tainted kick as if speaking it would, or could ever bring him or her closer into their orb as a friend.

    They don’t know her. They don’t have an inkling of her true nature and worst of all they are making her forget that all she ever wanted from this was perform La Dame in Free Form.

   But fame is ecliptic, and can be dismally dark, little joy did it impart for in her desire for the respect she was madly enveloped in lights of exploitive lust, barely escaping with a clean heart. This is the plight of stars past and stars present, whose lives are twisted and assumed in caught moments off guard when the weight of their personality subjects them to scrutiny and with little absolution or discretion stills the wagging tongue to tell tales that rewrite history, a history maybe not all entirely accurate. 

   I am not so sure that I even should care and that curiosity is a mindset not always best pursued. It’s a wasted perusing on perfectly good paper that could be filled with a far better read than what the stargazers report.


Covenant Found by Laura Botsford


Journey along the wheel of life

What sadness breeds my heart into neglect?

The distraction of misdirected compassion in all too many moments that are either lost or left out in the open for a heartless thief to steal is my greatest battle
To fend off the harsh with words from wounded wings is not my desired shatel
Oh Lord, give me a steadfast heart imbued with a clear calm mind That I may not worry anxiously or fret with somberness
Rather that I am a Joy that sings from the flames.
Caress in me a gentler response made of thy words and ways to defend humanity’s greatest gift, kindness.
Remove from me all negatives, cleanse and rid my life of fire trails
For my chalice now is surely strong and tempered well by the mortar of the consecrated ages of this soul
My Lord, do not abandon this intercessor
Rescue me from the very gloom that I’ve fought so hard to eliminate.
Do away with the fortress of my self-righteousness in the name of love.
Have me remember that all who receive the morning’s first sun will rise together as one ray of golden rebirth rising out of our fallen stardust in simpatico fandangos of mellifluous melodies sung
That I may receive evenings indigo air and sleep peacefully after a day well done. Harken to me over and over again until that which I’ve denied of my soul is the very bread of life fully blended into a fine meal, ground whole, and sound

Where reason and kindness become the communion of a covenant found


She Journeys

New Stories edited with Spice – she-journeys-cover_pe

   She Journeys is a collection of short stories of the divine feminine spirit as she mysteriously appeared in the many lives of a man who sought love for centuries in search of a great love. She might be playing at Valentine’s Lounge, caught up in a reverie of romantic calling, or in a cross Atlantic night of love, tenderly unfolding in a communion kiss.

“I lay still until the next point in time
What I understand is that love is total commitment
A boy follows the call
But a man won’t waste a woman’s time”
– She Journeys by Laura Botsford
Cover Painting by Billa Bozem

Personal copies for sale with inscription ~

Healing Mantras and Prayers

The Power of Mantras and Prayers

The power of Mantras echoes through our beings and heals us and with that the world as well. As we add to the collective consciousness of our humanity into a radiant beam of light and love we can change all things for the better. From the most ancient of Sanskirt prayers and chants that date back 5,000 years ago, I find resonance in my being as if the star seed I was born of awakens from its source. These sounds vibrate in our veins and regenerate our cells.

The Gayatri Mantra is regarded as the oldest living mantra. I began listening to Deva and Miten at the beginning of the Pandemic and found solace and strength in their songs and mantras. At first, I was just drawn to the vowel sounds and melodious melodies, drinking in the vibratory nectar, inhaling and exhaling each sound into my being. Then I became interested in what they meant. Om is the sound of the universe, the seed sound, and the sacred cosmic yes.


The word “Gayatri” can be translated as “song (gaya) of freedom (tri)”


“Goddess, who protects the singer” (gaya – song and trai – to protect, the same word as the “tra” in mantra)

The divine qualities/ deities expressed in the Gayatri Mantra:


BHUR – earth

BHUVAH – atmosphere

SVAHA – beyond atmosphere/solar region

TAT – Ganesh – the remover of obstacles, revealer of possibilities

SA- Narasimha – the protector

VI – Vishnu – the sustainer

TU -Shiva – the transformer

VA – Krishna – the divine beloved

RE – Radha – the divine feminine

NI – Lakshmi – abundance

YAM – Agni – fire

BHA – Indra – the king of gods

RGO – Saraswati – learning

DE- Durga – protection

VA – Hanuman – devotion

SYA – Prithvi – earth

DHEE – Surya – sun

MA – Sriram – virtuousness, purity

HI – Seetha – feminine devotion

DHI – Chandra – moon

YO – Yama – death

YO  – Brahma – creation

NAH- Varuna – ocean

PRA – Lakshmi and Vishnu – abundance/sustaining principle

CHO – Hayagreeva – intelligence and knowledge

DA- Hamsa – swan

YAAT – Tulasi – holy basil/plant

Planetary Alignment

The day approaches of the collective clarion call

New pathway lines will move in gentle circles.

The ladies within the close atmospheres of sisterhood take hands in alignment, touching the air with strings of buoyant beams.

They loop and curl and connect with the honey of sacred trust.

Emotive voices sing out the sounds that change the orbits and move the stars into place.

I have seen the cycle repeat and ascend many times.

In amazement, my spirit sensibly coordinated the treasures of your wisdom.

My hands surrendered to God and the words we came to speak evolved into a rain of mirth and contentment upon the world.

   Space echoes my song and dearly embraces the wounded in a spiral of commitment of collective well-being that we might all benefit from.

   Meticulous Maritimes created in madrigal harmony lilt lovingly across the cosmos, unveiling new novas already in thought and chanted song.

   The flocks of the gallant light bearer gleaners gather us from within moving us out into the orbits of change. Teachers of God, Teachers of Love, and miracles of well-being willed by origination always emanate to us the ancient spiritual laws; setting a course for all to be transposed by. Our shapes are shifted by thought and intention. If I am to become thee, you must first believe in possibility, for the soul of mankind is at hand and only the Christ She will return us to the Kingdom of Heaven.

                                                          – The She

Echoes Across the Land

Echoes Across the Land

In these days of retrospect when entitlements are seeking a pass have come to be passé. The wings that carried some of us have lost feathers and the galloping of horses riding over the mountain can be heard. I cast off the old and embrace their thundering as they shake the earth with truth and uncompromising devotion to a better way of being. There on the mountain their dust can be seen descending in a holy cloud devoid of self-righteousness. I am listening. I am changing. I am opening myself to a greater understanding.

    I do not mean to be so different. I just seem so because you are not used to my ways but there is more of me than the ages have seen. My future is in the face of a child so love them well and give them strength as the endless song of the river flows through all treasured border lands touching every shore and filling every whirlpool in discovery until my presence is upon all nations.                                                                      

In the circle of wisdom where the sacred songs are sung and the light-workers pray is the resonating echo of love and kindness, respect for the experience the elders bring to the table the welcoming arms to the young to take up the torch of decency and equality. I see them as one I see them each taking a path of enlightenment for all human kind. The generation of children born to save us from ourselves.

   These radiant beams and haloed renderings of fortuitous fruition of our inherited awareness are painted on the faces moving past me on a carousel.

   Why not be simple, why not be free of worry, and ego’s image consciousness? I have not wanted anything from you except for you to know how much I love you and am pleased with your just, and pure of heart well-being.

   No criticisms, only a chat with you at the feet of God. You are important and you are blessed; anything less than that does not serve.    So that is what the books are saying and the hundreds of thousands self help audios. My pod cast is simple. Just go about your day knowing that in every moment I am there loving you and occasionally serving tea.      

Sugar Snow

I wrote a little book inspired by our Sangha and Deva and Miten’s humming mantra. I also made a pocket-size version for carrying along and gifts for loved ones. “When the town’s snow melts before its time Bedelia, and her friends all gather together in a prayer song of united imaginations. Through the power of their whispering hearts in song miraculously change the weather.

“You’re the notes in this song

Hold hands together

In this new season

We’ll learn to be all we are

Author Signed Copy ~

Trade book:

Pocket size:

The Time it Takes

Personally, I felt the shift begin when Covid first hit in March. Poets and writers alike have come alive with words of inspiration and a return to home.

August 9th~2021

    I have a bounty of inner worlds that I’ve scribed into journals. Volumes of thoughts and feelings, dreams and scenes from days well thought and dreamy that I keep in boxes that now are dusty by the years of storage. It is my last year here in this home in the delta, and I want to write another one, one page every day.


   The pandemic hit us in 2020, many of us are hanging on, trying our best to make things as normal as possible. I see my family, still don’t visit friends or travel, and though I wear a mask and am fully vaccinated I hesitate again to go out into the world because of the Covid variant.

   My cupboards and closets are slowly being downsized or packed for the anticipated move to Conway to live closer to my children, and those little adorable grandchildren that I long to be a part of their everyday life.

    I feel certain consternation though in the midst of this activity as if I am slowly letting go of the home I’ve known for 40 years. Memories are sneaky things; they appear in objects as you pack or discard. My mother is over my shoulder as I wrap the same pieces she once held to give to me. Did she feel this too, this sense of fading dream life, and excitement for a new one, a better one that isn’t so isolated?

   Rosa is helping me with all this, and my children are coming on labor day to gather and claim their things and pieces they want to claim. I feel my life becoming staged like I am in set design mode for the move. I look at wallpaper and pull up the listing on Zillow of Rhi’s old house where we will move to, adjusted in my mind where my furniture will go best. I pick out wallpaper and paint to make it our own, which right now is somewhere between a Ballard magazine and an eastern meditation space of repose and enlightening whimsy.

    I make lists and schedules to ease the transitions’, knowing full well that it will all be changed in the flow of it. Such is life. In the quake and sands shifting moment by moment I know in my heart that God is leading me home.

Path Home

Betty Gay’s Chicken and Dumplings

Her eyes were brown with an ebullient twinkle that winked occasionally when she spoke in wisdom quips. “You can only do the right thing, the next best thing is always the right thing,” Betty said breaking out in a little laugh that defied any impending difficulty. “Are you willing to let her get away with that? ” she asked.
“With what, a harsh and narrow opinion of the world at large? She doesn’t know the larger world, she’s never been there, traveled, or gone past the Greenville bridge; how could she know?” I always thought it was odd that people had such sure opinions of life-based only on their rural perceptions. Including myself, I wasn’t sure of new thoughts of places until I visited them and got to know them better. People see their lives through their own experiences and not having had many different ones how could they ever be in a place of understanding?
“One can only fit in a keyhole if one is willing to take on the shape of the key, the slight bumps and gaps that fit into the hole to turn the lock might be too big, too wide, or too new ain’t going to get it.” She folded a cup of chicken stock into the flour, careful not to overwork it, added a little salt and a bunch of pepper. She rolled it out with a floured rolling pin, on a dusted counter of all-purpose flour till it was an eighth inch thick, and began to cut it in diagonals.

“People are like dumplings, all different sizes but when they are put into the soup they make something all together tasty in the same pot.”

“So I see, people are the sum of the soup they came from?” I laughed, pleased that I got her metaphor, and happy to spend some time with this great lady who was making time to teach me the culinary tradition of chicken and dumplings.“Now we set them out to dry for ten minutes, bring the pot to a boil, then pull them apart slowly, stretching them to the max, and then drop them in one by one.” Her skill was exacting with a quick flair that rivaled Julia Child. I marveled at how they puffed as they popped up in the rolling broth. “Let them boil for 10 minutes then add the chicken.” She had cooked the chicken earlier, boned and shredded it in long strands. The succulent scent lingered in the kitchen with mouthwatering homeyness. I felt a kinship with her, a family bond growing, and for the first time a real feeling of belonging in this new world I was living in.
“Get involved, maybe a church or a club of some kind to join?” she suggested.
“Yeah, maybe so.” I was raised Lutheran, my grandparents were devoted Lutherans and my great grandfather on my Dad’s side help found the Swedish Lutheran church in Minneapolis. We went to church sometimes, Sunday school as young kids, had been baptized and confirmed, but on regular church Sundays we stayed home. Dad was a scientist by nature, quantum physics and Einstein was his go-to. Mother wasn’t comfortable in groups, she was a private person who believed faith was a personal relationship with God. It was all about how one lived their lives and treated each other.

She returned to church services when a young pastor arrived who wove everyday life with spiritual and biblical understanding, something she could resonate with that applied to her life, not ancient stories. Dad thought much of the real;y interesting things had been deleted by the churches to control the common man and institutionalize divisions; he believed that nature and life itself is where God truly lived. Their fellowship was with their neighbors and Jesus was a teacher. I felt the same and my spiritual roots were found in Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet. Leo and I had programs for our wedding and Gibran’s prose on Marriage was on the cover.
You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore.You shall be together when the white wings of death scatter your days.

Ay, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.

But let there be spaces in your togetherness,And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.
Love one another, but make not a bond of love:Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.

Fill each other’s cup but drink not from one cup.

Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf

Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,

Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.
Give your hearts, but not into each other’s keeping.For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.

And stand together yet not too near together:For the pillars of the temple stand apart,And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow.

Our music began with a hymn, We Gather Together, I wanted the community to be a part of our ceremony and I felt this was the best way to bring us all together to start our lives off together. It was a first in the Portland Methodist Church. We had a candlelight service with candles in the windows. It is the only time I remember the windows being opened a bit. The evening April air filled the room with a sweet spring fragrance and gently flickered throughout our unity candle ceremony. It was a blend of traditional and our modern-day that we treasured. Pastor Kilgore wouldn’t allow contemporary music but after some determined input by Dorothy Young as to how it was our wedding and not his, he agreed to her playing the sheet music of Longer Than by Dan Fogelberg.

Eatable Stones
How far along the stones of memories stay before they are cast away downstream, replaced with others, and become a different bank? Depending on rain, or exploring footsteps that walked their shores to kick or skip away, stones with genie lamps, stones with the fools gold of promise unrequited, stones shaped like hearts that fell at our feet. Everyone I ever met is in this, and every odd dumpling I ever made is a part of my soup. Sit down, enjoy for all are welcomed here.

*Excerpt from Northern Bell, a Memoir of living in the South in the 1980s by Laura Botsford

Sharecroppers Daughter

Now in a Kindle ebook

Delta My Home

Sharecropper’s Daughter on Amazon and Kindle

    The life and times of a young girl growing up in the rural south as the daughter of a sharecropper in 1949. Penny comes of age through hard times, her love and talent for cutting horses and taming her first love; Smith who is heir to the Silver Leaf Plantation her family works for.

         Billy also has books at home and would be happy to autograph them for you too. email:

sharecropper's Daughter Front cover

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