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



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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Oasis in the Delta

Good Morning Darlin’


It is a usual morning. Leo sings in the bathtub arranging songs to his liking. His beautiful bass tenor rings out in the house. “Oh my darling, I love your pretty face and the way you look tonight, my baby love, ooo baby love.” He strings tunes together into one song like a Broadway overture with a flair for the unexpected. His repertoire moves from Eric Clapton to Diana Ross to Los Lobos, ” Para bailar la bamba Para bailar la bamba se necesita una poca de gracia Una poca de gracia para mí para tí yay Arriba  Arriba.”  I love how he can wake up so alive and full of energy. He gives me lots of hugs in between tunes and treasures that I am safe in bed as he takes care of taking care of us. Days go by and they all add up to how much he loves us even if he doesn’t like his job, he goes there for us.

He goes to the medicine cabinet to get his deodorant. “Good morning señor speed stick,” He says in his best Speedy Gonzales voice. It’s a show every morning beginning at 5:30 am. The kids and I have front row seats and if we can manage to not become fully conscious throughout it and just consider it as a radio in our dreams, we manage to sleep on a little more before we have to get up. It’s an art. Something I learned to do when I had children. I keep half an ear and brain open to the house while the other side of my brain sleeps. Practicing this to perfection took a few years of ears on, ears off until I could seamlessly sleep on between songs.

He doesn’t like breakfast, and as long as his clothes are where they are supposed to be. I don’t have to get up. Which is a good thing for I am a night owl and 4:30 comes pretty close to my usual 11:00 or midnight muse writings. Of all the times of the day after 10:00 is even quieter than grass growing. There is a kind of silence that only farming country offers. The toils of the field are put aside and surrendered to sleep. Even exhaustion dissipates and lifts into the air only to await the nightly trains to sweep it all down the track until morning. There is darkness everywhere with only a few scattered street lamps. The sky expands with so many stars whose splendiferous light sparkles with clarity that I can feel them. “Esplendoroso!” exclaims our Mexican field hands, their beauty not passing them by.

Daylight is different in farming country. People are up well before the earth has time to see the first glimmers of the constant sun. I wonder if the sun what it would say when it moves towards Dixie land. “Yep, I won’t have to worry about those folks getting up. They are already jumping into trucks and tractors to see if the cotton has bloomed if there is enough water running into rice fields safely within the exacting laser designed levees like chocolate licorice ribbons.

When we first farmed and Rhiannon was just a baby my favorite time was the morning. Leo would pick her up and gently lay her beside me in bed. It was like getting a Christmas present every sun up. We would sleep cozily next to each other as crop dusters and grain trucks buzzed outside. The city has nothing on this dawn activity. There are combines on the road and farmers scurrying to get to their fields from the oasis of our little town on a commute that feeds and clothes the world. As a suburban lake child growing up in the North I took for granted the food and the cotton summer dresses I wore, never knowing just what went into the making of them.

There is so much that goes into growing a crop. Those scenic pictures of endless fields of green one sees on a calendar is the romantic and idyllic vision of long hot days of hard work. The soil is tilled down to the hardpan, the rows are drawn in straight mounds, which is a feat of expertise for anyone who has ever run them. I tried to once and it looked like a tipsy trail of wiggles. Then, the seed has to put in just so, carefully calibrated so as to have moisture and just enough room between to grow. There is fertilizer, weed controls to keep it from being choked out by random mare’s tails, pesky morning glories and such. Sometimes it’s not enough and some afternoons the kids would go with Leo, while he walked through the rows pulling them out one by one by hand. Dustin and Rhiannon would play in the runoff irrigation water pools reminiscent of that scène from Woodstock, wallowing, and splashing in the muddy runoff across the turn rows. The laying of heavy aluminum pipes for irrigation along the turn row takes time and patience to hook the rusty 10-foot pipes to together. Then there is checking wells to see if they are still running at all hours of the day and night, making new sets to redirect the translucent life’s blood of any crop on a new line of irrigation. This was back before we had pivots and poly-pipe was still being invented, laying metal pipe was the only way to get water into the field. Back-breaking, dusty enough to choke the air right of your lungs.

Down yonder is the bayou, the big Bayou Bartholomew, whose good fortune for us was to run right through our land up at the Kitrel place. Days, when the rain was scarce as a month of Sundays and the sun moaned like melting wax in a cloudless sky, the only refuge for our crops depended on the relift from the bayou up it pumped noisily  through the metal cylinders, bursting forth it’s murky waters in a flush of milk chocolate through the pipes that seeped through its holes into the rows. The earth sopped it up as it took hours sometimes before you could see the water standing in the rows,  watered out and sufficiently nourished.

It was not at all the Calendar portrayal of farm life as I imagined. My sweaty Romeo covered in dirt, machine grease and water, came home every day from the fields with an appetite and a longing for a cool bed or couch. I was worried for him, I was proud of him, I missed the man I fell in love with who now worked 16 hours a day and had little time to play.



Re-blogged with Chapters two and three of the ongoing story of the Glittersmith.

  Chapter 1 ~Tattoos and Tales

Dedicated to Babe, who without his presence in my life, I would not have known how to “Trip the Light Fantastic, nor, “Dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free.”

A Glittersmith is one of those people that you meet, who offer much in the way of adventure, explores undiscovered spaces with joyous abandon, and unpredictability sit on the edge of your seat for the whole ride. They are-a fan-my-brow fabulous person who walks with angels and magnificent misfits; yes that is a Glittersmith. I have only met a few that had that kind of influence on me, where I was swept up into their personality of their childlike spirit – followed willingly in their shinning smiles, and quirky ways like a child follows a butterfly as far as she can until it flies to high to see.

I met Paul Smith…

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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 ~

Passage from Journey of Fairytales

   The Festival of Pages was an annual celebration in Milka that people all over the Galaxy attended, and shared their rhymes, their stories, and their songs. It was a joyous occasion that not only celebrated their culture, but also held the sacred space of all imagination, and creative powers. The Ancient Ones had brought their stories with them, and each generation told them to each other. Every year new stories were imagined, shared and sung in plays, and performances in the Mingli Meadow. There were high flying acrobats, and spinning Ferris wheels that lifted one above the clouds, children played with homemade toys of ribbon wands, bubble globes, and rode on elephants and giraffes. The food carriages were loaded with Tipleah ale, and fresh fruits, vegetables, lightly scented lavender short breads, and almond cakes; their succulent deliciousness readied for mouth watering savored swallows. At the circle entrance were the drummers, and cantors welcoming all to the festivities, yelling out verse, and singing old folk songs from the first passage to Emeria.

   The tribal nation harmoniously honored their people by keeping old traditions alive. The children were taught the pages from ancient days in their studies, in them all the mysteries of life that ever were known were passed down. The celebration culminated in the procession of The Tree of Leaves which was a tall tree with many branches, and on each leaf were the words from all the fairy tales and mythology ever to be written. Offerings were made of food, candles, incense of Tipleah, made from the oils of the natural flowers that grew on the Tree of Leaves, granted their exquisite scents to be embraced in the breeze.

Laura Botsford’s Music New Website

Poet . Composer . Author              New Website

I am an independent artist, that also is an Arts in Education Residency Artist with the Arkansas Arts Council, specializing in theater, books written with children and music.

  In the span of a lifetime, with all our possibilities, dreams, and accomplishments, the one true guiding star for me has been and always will be; what has heart, bliss, and interest. I do what I love, I fill time with music and writing. Along the way, I try to be one little diamond dot in that guiding star called inspiration.

   With tremendous excitement I have a new website with all my music on it, including two new, never heard before EP’s Poet Streets and Journey of Fairytales.

    Poet Street embraces a romantic theme of two lovers who are reunited after a separation that left them empty. There is magic in the night as the city that once tore them apart now brings them back together. Classical/ Ambience and Jazz/Rock blend straight from the tap with all subsuming emotions as we trace their heart lines in notes that are at once soul searching, meshed inevitably in destiny.

 Poet Streets CD Cover


   The Journey of Fairy Tales epic orchestration for the future of all intuitive tales that ever were and ever shall be is an enchanted musical path of the most splendiferous and cinematic kind. Only the purest of intention can make the passage through the Linkalee Alignment to save the Book of Leaves, and recover the lost literature of the ancient ones.  These songs are featured in part in an upcoming of Journey Fairytales in the Spring of 2018. It\ is written for all ages of make and believers in the Laws of attraction for an abundantly adventurous and cinematic read that is a guiding light uplifting read.

Saved by a Cricket

Saved by a Cricket

 a true story by Laura Botsford


   Quiet, simple is what I knew about it then. I could give you a past; I could give you today or recall the history of everyday people who meant something into my next encounter. It was my vocation just to be and see what happened.  I was traveling the streets of San Francisco, checking out stores and restaurants, writing and observing. I was revived on Market Street, cut as fresh as the yellow and white daffodils that bloomed in their gypsy garden carts.
How sweet is the bustle of 18 years of age? How new and fascinating the faces were to me, however weathered or broken. Their working days gone, old men, well beyond their present age, now sit in Union Square waiting for a hand out to buy another bottle of wine.    Above the lonely din hovered one…

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Michael Tomlinson

Michaels Banners_pe

If you were following the Seattle scene in the 80’s, you most likely and luckily were inspired and moved by the music of Michael Tomlinson. I’ve just recently discovered his songs, and had only one thing to say to him, “Where have you been all my life!? I feel so fortunate to have stumbled upon his music on Pandora.” If you want to hear the folk pop we treasured back in the day, this is as good as it gets, and his facebook page is a delight to read. Yes, there are people who write in full sentences that resonates with human warmth. Michael is one of them. His new album is filled with mellifluous melodies and uplifting, poetic lyrics that will linger in your mind and move your spirit.


camping michael.

Books of Leaves

Release Publication Fall of 2016

Cinematic track for Journey of Fairy Tales – Opening paragraph

  The journey was arduous, not even the brightest bird could follow across the stormy seas, but in Isla’s heart was a brave, and bold resolve to make it across the turbulent waters; however tumultuous the ride may become was of no matter. To be dissuaded or abandon the cause was out of the question; for she knew there was a treasure worthy of saving, if not for his kingdom but for herself, and all the children of Emeria to follow. There was a faint whisper of fragrant jasmine in the air.  She could hear the children of yesterday offering  burning incense, waved into wispy, curling prayers  upwards through the universe, their hearts one wind chime; floating their joyous callings to the heavens. Their prayers saw their way through deep space and further yet out across the sea. The waves rocked the boat, pouring it forward over the crests closer to the shore. The Books of Leaves stolen from the heart of Emeria, would be recaptured in time.

Zea and Kingston_islawd