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About This Author
 Writing poetry allows me to exercise my imagination and share it with others. I strive to write for the benefit of the reader using carnival fun mirror images of my life's experiences.
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| The plane of Iowa's Great Spirit Lake, As we passed, mirrored the turquoise-blue sky, We're Seattle bound, for Aunt Sarah's sake, Her one-hundredth birthday, our reason why. Fifteen members of the O'Conner Clan, In three Conestoga-like motor homes, Fifteen hundred miles is our travel plan, The thrill penetrated everyone's bones. West, on a hot humid September day, Gold feathered fields of prairie abound, Where shadows of brush on the grassland play, Through which the Sioux River waters are wound. Then for hours, the miles looked the same, Until the Missouri River gave ease, A magnificent force with a mighty name, Like a queen that only wishes to please. Spacious, yet with claustrophobic effect, Again, the open chartreuse grasslands lay, No single one among us could detect, A difference in terrain that first long day. Then, finally, we spied the first speckled knoll, South Dakota's Black Hills, a welcomed sight, The landscape was sweet Rx for my soul, My family reacted with sheer delight. But that was only a cruel tease it seems, Turning north the eternal plains once more, Surrounded all sides, as if a bad dream, How did pioneers survive such a bore? The buttes of Montana came into view, Wild and majestic, we pondered in awe, Though our family was just passing through, We'd always remember each peak we saw. In Washington state again land turned flat, But by then we knew it wouldn't take long, For the Cascade mountains were next at bat, And we'd all be singing a brand new song. Aunt Sarah's home was below Mt. Rainier, The grandest of all sights we've seen thus far, There we marked Aunt Sarah's one-hundredth year, Singing along as she played her guitar. Travel writing - A form of creative nonfiction in which the narrator's encounters with foreign places serve as the dominant subject.
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