Pics & Poems by Ron & Nan

Our friend, Pat, insists Ron and I must do a coffee table book. We decided to create one on this website. Enjoy!

Twin Beauties by Ron DeKett

When I Am Young I Shall Wear Purple by Nan Lundeen

Peepers thrum the air.
Purple and white crocus radiant
next to mud-splashed snow.

Next to mud-splashed snow
dressed in robes fit for a queen
two crocus greet spring.

Two crocus greet spring.
A chipmunk peeks from his den.
Scent of skunk cabbage.

–Nan Lundeen

Winter Gold by Ron DeKett

Walking With the Dog In Winter by Nan Lundeen

From the rise
Joy and I
can see the woods behind our house.

The top branches
point bare fingers at the sky.

The morning sun takes them,
and they meet the light
like sea fans catching a wave.

--Nan Lundeen
Walking with the Dog was first published in The Pantyhose Declarations

Resplendent Quetzal by Ron DeKett

a bright blue feather by Nan Lundeen

I am a bright blue feather
and a water lily’s dream,

I am a fern unfurling, veiled
in waterfall mist,

your smile when I come home
carries me like a wave swooshing ashore,

you love a red horse in snow
and willows that fall through moonlight,

you are an old oak’s mother voice
among young maples,

your self, my self—
with every breath, beauty

we are the green crescendo
of a summer morning,

a walk in the fall
when Orion rises,

I am a wee child, giggling
and you are an unexpected kindness

and the taste of butterscotch,
we are a squirrel sitting on a log like Buddha,

I am scent of cinnamon in winter,
you are a tender hand, stroking,

listen, love to the moonlit pines conversing,
they free shadows released from time,

my self, your self—
with every breath, beauty

relish how light falls on orange leaves,
a sweet, gentle passing,

I am wet clay that spins a shape
and you are a brown bowl of aloe,

we are stories Earth’s bones tell,
standing stones that mark solstice,

my love, go ahead—be a hummingbird’s beak
and I shall plan a picnic in a blue barn

on a rain-trilled morning,
at night, the whip-poor-will’s song,

your self, my self—
with every breath, beauty.

–Nan Lundeen

a bright blue feather was first published at TheRavensPerch.com

Descending by Ron DeKett

Winter Solstice 2025 by Nan Lundeen

When the rabbit’s den
is redolent with fur
and juncos hop hungrily
among the hills and valleys of snow mounds
pecking for seeds
forgotten during days
when sun brought warmth—
the day short now and oh so cold—
the woodchuck settled
into his burrow a few weeks ago
won’t preen his whiskers again
until spring—
and I fear that mercy
has failed,
three fat black crows
descend into the field
across the road
to ravage corn kernels
that spilled during harvest,
and two cardinals perch
on a branch of the crabapple tree
bookends for a dark gray and white
puffed-up junco
feathers adequate. They three seem
to say—bring it!
And just for giggles
five wild turkeys
stroll across the road
toward our house,
beaks doing their thrust and parry,
cautious, alert, unaware
of themselves.

But after nightfall
the real show begins.

When bright-eyed Sirius
illumines the coyote’s howl
and pale air murmurs to the moon
Little Bear shakes himself
in the black bowl of north sky
showering Ursids into children’s dreams.

Our days are short and dark
and mercy folds into itself
like molding flannel sheets
stuck in a cupboard
excepting for millennia
the wheel has turned
and for millennia
we observe and I want to be
asleep in the rabbit den
or snuggled up with the woodchuck
or stroll with the thrusting, parrying turkeys
or dine with the crows—they are magic,
some say—and stand outside when
Little Bear shakes himself
and wonder tumbles from the sky.

    --Nan Lundeen

Organic Flame by Ron DeKett

The Flame That Cannot be Extinguished by Nan Lundeen

at Imbolc

Brigid, Great Mother Goddess
of poetry, healing, and smithcraft,
nurture, fertility, and fire
lived in the heart of ancient Ireland.

A flame she bore,
a well she drew upon;
from her well poured inspired waters,
from her flame poured passion—

passion for the little people,
for sweet-smelling earth,
for bluebells and raindrops,
emerald hills, rolling meadows,
silver birch, wild cherry
hazelnut and holly.

Savory with spring,
she birthed the bards,
she bathed the ewes, the lambs, the mare, the foal,
her flame burned at Kildare,
her hearth fires ignited peace,
justice, respect
for all things maternal;

when the womb bloomed,
when the seed sprang forth,
when stars were born in the heavens
and the moon filled the night
with light, she smiled; and her people—

her people respected the earth,
they cared for the land,
they tilled and rested and gathered and reaped,
and never forgot
to lift her bright flame aloft
on Imbolc.

They say she went dark
five hundred years ago,
snuffed with monasteries
under a hostile regime—
nothing but
a blink in the thousands of years
her fire had vanquished the darkness.

But her spark had dazzled hearts,
the virtuoso of her brilliance
could find no joy in hiding
and so once again she burst forth.
Three hundred years after
her flame was darkened
the revived Sisters of Saint Brigid
ignited her torch
once more at Kildare
blazing hope, justice, and peace.

Brigid, queen of little people,
mother of many, protector, guide
forged in fire, forgotten not,
shifted shape,
became Saint Brigid—her light
became a light of Christ,
of penance and redemption.

This Imbolc we burn
a flame for Brigid—goddess and saint—
to honor ewes, mares, sows,
mothers and grandmothers,
sorrows and hopes, earth’s hollows,
her hills and fresh rills,
the voice of poetry and song.

Sisters, put your spark to the flame,
and never, never fall silent.

        --Nan Lundeen

The Flame that Cannot Be Extinguished appeared first in Gaia’s Cry

Winter Kissed by Ron DeKett

Communion by Nan Lundeen

They are brave—
these trees
that stand
all winter
in snow and pale sun,
their only comfort
touching branches softly
when the chilly wind
bends them close for
a lover’s chaste kiss.

I do not think
   they are too lonely
though nearly alone they be—
   their roots
as in the warmth of summer
   sink on into Earth
her comforts folding round
   like a blanket, a kind word.

But trees are not human—
   they are alike
yet different. We only imagine
   their tentacled arms
reaching for each other
   through bitter cold
and wrenching wind.

Their courage gives me pause—
   to be as a tree
would lend tough bark
   against claws and piercing beaks.
I have yet to see
   a tree shiver
against wind or grief.
   Of fear, they know little,
their sharing is unseen
   underground—
it is there they commune
   away from the envious eye.

    --Nan Lundeen