Exquisite Flowers 2014 Calendar and Seasonal Notecards

Written by RitaC on December 4th, 2013


EXQUISITE FLOWERS 2014  features twelve months of stunning flowers ranging from close-ups to mountain vistas.

The calendar may be ordered through this website  for $14.50 plus shipping or through www.lulu.com for 14.99 plus shipping.

A perfect gift for gardeners or anyone who loves beautiful blossoms.



Note cards are perfect for that personalized  message or as a gift for the special someones in your life. Beyond the unique photo cover, the inside of each card is blank, awaiting a personal note.The cards are available: four for $10.00; or, individually, for $3.00.


Winter Elegance


Winter Vignette

Winter Vignette

Winter Jewel

Winter Jewel

Giving You the Eye

Giving You the Eye

Hanging Loose

Hanging Loose



Summer Flowers, Biltmore Estate, Asheville, NC

Summer Flowers, Biltmore Estate, Asheville, NC


Rooster and Hen


Summer Sky Art



My Mother Suzie, Honorable Mention in Greater Cincinnati Writers League 2014 Annual Poetry Contest

Written by RitaC on November 20th, 2013

My Mother Suzie

Now I understand why my mother was like she was,

Why our house was laundry piles in the kitchen,

Dirty ashtrays and coffee cups lipsticked on the rims.


My mother ate life.

No knife and fork poised over an entree.

She gulped, ran a paper napkin over her mouth.


And talked! How she could go, a rhythm known only to her

And her girlfriends: her sister Mary, Ruby from Georgia,

And the Suzie wanna-be’s she moved into our house.


She was too busy to read and mangled words

Like some mothers sewed.

Chrystianthums. Polyurtheline. Lopers. (to trim branches)


My mother was loud. She was embarrassing–

Discussing my first bra on the streets of downtown Dayton

Where strangers were privy to the development of my breasts.


Yet when anyone needed a defender, she stepped forth

In her bold-tongued way, wearing costume jewelry that clinked

As she gestured with hands that dipped and arced like finches.


My mother ate life, spicy and grilled,

Laughing to doubled-over,

That sideways look in her eyes.


Love Lessons

Written by RitaC on September 26th, 2013

Love Lessons
Homage to Pauletta Hansel

We should have sex more often, I say, so we waltz to the
bedroom. Surrounded by candlelit walls that flicker and wave,
we touch. Our ease shows we are changing,

That we’ve not lost a rhythm that rocks back and forth like
pent-up waves rising and breaking on the shore.
Our past is a prelude to the present.

We are the Atlantic and Pacific, in conjunction tonight,
the lambent light of the moon affecting the tide,
our ebb and flow, this rise and fall. This fierce roll of ocean

Leaves us on the beach, winded and sated, our body prints
in the sand among shells and starfish, seaweed draped
around our legs, still pretzeled together.

Sheltered by craggy rocks, you rub your stiff shoulder,
and I smooth the cramp in my calf, errant body parts they are.
We lie together, toes in the foaming water, rolling in, receding.

I’m guessing we’re not the most wrinkled on this stretch, I say.
Probably not, my husband says. Still pulsing under an ancient moon
we stretch into the smooth night, a safe harbor.

Whispers of breath become the sussurus of the sea.
The poles shift back into position and the rocking of the earth gentles us
Into that easy place of old, familiar love where we rest.


Transcience: All is Change

Written by RitaC on June 29th, 2013

The maple tree has fallen. The 20-foot long trunk, still-sectioned for firewood, spans 4 feet across. The meditation room window once framed its dancing leaves and swaying branches obscuring what was beyond. Today, a slight cloud against pale blue sky drifts in subtle motions. Four red-wing blackbirds levitate, the electric cables they perch upon dim through the screen, electric pole out of sight. A flock of Canadian geese honk, announcing their vee flight. Twelve sets of wings flap in formation in a space now open. The viewpoint through the glass remains the same even though the objects of admiration have changed. Always present, they were unseen.

Relative beauty
mesmerizes, shimmers, shifts
vanishes, again.


Artist Reception – Friday, June 7

Written by RitaC on June 1st, 2013

rita postcard


Alternate Reality

Written by RitaC on May 11th, 2013

If Narcissus had gazed into the eye of a narcissus
He would have found beauty staring back at him,
Rather than the shallow reflection of his face in a pond,
A reflection, that had a wind arisen, would have blurred, then erased.



Written by RitaC on April 26th, 2013

Look up! The sky has
blossomed with winged ones, soaring.
Watch, learn, and follow.


My Uncle at 85

Written by RitaC on February 5th, 2013

You stand at the corner of Wayne and Brooklyn
outside the family tavern, still straight and tall at 6’4″.

You are my last uncle–not my favorite from childhood–
but my best-loved beyond those small parameters.

In your tan jacket and tan snap-brim hat
your hands thrust into pockets of maturity,

A familiar sway to ease your back,
you gaze past trim houses and spring lawns.

Blue eyes clear enough to swim in,
harbor no revenge for old torments–

A red hand-print on your face,
the moonshine rage of your father,

Your downy hair on end from being lifted by it
and shaken like a rat by a dog,

The bruised arms and welted back,
the fist, the strap, slaps, and punches–

Making you think it was your fault
your father’s life was all wrong.

None of it shows in your posture–
you didn’t let him or anybody suck you down.

None of it shows in your life except maybe
the nights on bar stools over the years,

And the slight stammer, sometimes–
needle in the groove, needle in the groove.

You left it behind, your hair shorn,
donning Army fatigues, dodging bullets,

Slogging across Europe like so many others,
driving Hitler to his death.

You outran it driving moonshine around
Tennessee mountains jutting into smoky skies,

Your county, dry and Baptist,
planting another seed for NASCAR.

You said No to cheap Southern acreage
and Yes to the factory-promise up north,

Coming with us to a flat land
where a drawl was foreign–and laughable.

From 7 a.m. to 4 p.m. you ran your machine,
that spat out auto parts, one after another after another.

Summer weekends, you brushed new color
on faded homes in splotched white coveralls and a painter’s hat.

You supported the parish church, your wife’s,
the fish fries, the Monte Carlo nights,

The parochial school where your two boys
learned catechism and served as altar boys.

Each Sunday you came to our house in the suburbs,
decorated with small trees and swing sets,

The four of you, to a fried chicken dinner
as good or better than the Colonel’s came to be,

A mound of peppered mashed potatoes
with a pool of butter in the middle

Green beans and ham, hot cornbread,
sliced red and yellow tomatoes, fried okra,

Seconds insisted upon, a big slice
of a fluted fruit pie, cherry, peach, or apple,

Your solemn face split wide open by a smile
eclipsing the past, inviting the future


Owl at Noon by Rita Coleman

Written by RitaC on December 5th, 2012

Barred wings of brown and white,
flap and hold, full and long,
past spring-leafed sycamores
leaning over a tumble of water.

A white moon rides high and round,
in a cornflower sky,
mid-circuit toward the horizon,
afternoon holding it up.

The glimpse from my moving car
confirms Asio flammeus,
flaming owl, in diurnal flight
soaring south in woodlands.

Telescopic, microscopic sight,
binocular hearing
guide it to a field mice explosion,
or the great blue heron’s silence.

Freedom of air, inner fire,
owl at noon circles west
flowing into a shadow
chasing subtle sight and sound.


If Trees Could Do Yoga

Written by RitaC on November 27th, 2012

If trees could do yoga would they want to align their trunks
With all the unique bends, twists, and burls?

If they could, would magnolias and pines sink their roots
Down past bedrock, magma, the core and beyond?

Would they seek even more balance in their stance,
raise their arms even higher to kiss the sun?

Would hemlocks and oaks breathe more deeply,
Adding more loveliness and fresh air, ripe and pungent?

Would their outer sheaths, beyond the bark, glow and shimmer?
Would we notice the difference, the effort?

If trees could practice yoga, I think they would.
Upward Sun Salute, brushing the sky with their branches.

Mountain Pose, digging in, growing naturally.
Tree Pose, balancing on one side, then the other,

At night when no one could see,
For groundedness, for beauty–and, yes, we would notice.