Patchwork Path Books

Patchwork Path Books

Piecing Together Our Lives

Grandma's Choice

Dad's Bow Tie

Friendship Star

Wedding Bouquet

Christmas Stocking
Treasure Box
Mother's Life

Tena Beth Thompson, Publisher

Gregory A. Kompes, Production Director
Ellen J. Dugan, Introduction & Quilt Block

Leslie E. Hoffman, Editor

Like a quilt, our lives are pieced together

with memories, stories, and experiences.

Sometimes, our lives are designed and planned,

all the colors and patterns match well.

At other times, our lives resemble crazy quilts,

pieced together from the remaining scraps.

The Patchwork Path books capture our

stories to preserve them for future generations.

To order a Patchwork Path book,

and for submission guidelines,

click on (above) link.

Mojave Palette

Thunderheads broil
above Mt. Charleston
as jagged strikes of platinum lead
roar of thunder rumbling
like a herd of wild mustangs
stampeding down canyon narrows

Vertical sheets of charcoal loom
on horizon, warning
avalanches of water rushing
down arroyos toward desert floor

long after
obsidian sky opens to reveal
a canvas of crimson and lapis

~photo & text by leh

Cloud Wisps, a Pantoum

Cloud wisps, like
Snowball garnets
Mercury retrogrades
We regret to inform you

Snowball garnets
Hot wind through mesquite
We regret to inform you
Loving daughter

Hot wind through mesquite
Sun sets behind canyon
Loving wife
We regret to inform you

Sun sets behind canyon
Scent of cut lilies
We regret to inform you
Mars at perigee

Scent of cut lilies
Mercury retrogrades
Mars at perigee
Cloud wisps

~photo & text by leh

Where Is Home

Is it white with green shutters
Does it have a picket fence
and a gnarled hooker oak
with a tree house for my son

Is there a porch at home
with a rocker and a cat
Do the neighbors ever
ask your name -- or care

You see, I must find home
before winter so I can sow
a garden full of daffodils
and stay to watch them grow

I'd raise a goat, a friend
or two, and never be alone
Then, in fifty years -- or so
I can die -- at home


~photo & text by leh

Little Sister

Not so long ago
I found you in the Poet & Patriot
drinking Guinness, laughing
under a poster of Che.
I fell in love that day
with your Che
and you
my free spirit sister
the activist
ghost dancer
catcher of dreams
seeker of illusions.

Today
I find you on a bench
in the garden at Villa Soquel
gazing out to sea
ferals rubbing against your ankles.
I sit by you
you smile into infinity.
confined, they say, for your safety
yet, still my free spirit sister
dancing with resident ghosts
weaving dreams
dwelling in illusion.

~photo & text by leh

Today, a Son of Africa

Presidential Inauguration of Barack Obama
January 20, 2009, Washington, D.C.

Sevenscore years ago
a race of people bled from the whip.
Twoscore and fourteen years ago
they sat at the back of the bus.
Today, a son of Africa
holds highest office in the land.

Yes we can...

This son of Africa
speaks of our patchwork heritage
while voices from the past
chant, We shall overcome.

Yes we can...

One generation removed from
the ground that Lucy walked
this son of Africa leads
from the house built by slaves.

Yes, we can…
sustain
The Audacity of Hope.


~photo & text by leh

Her Name Was Genia

Dolled up in red stilettos and black leather miniskirt

so tight it hikes up her cheeks, the working girl's hips

sway in time to the hustle of The Strip.

Heads turn, men's, some women's.

A prospective john cruises by in a shiny new Jag;

she takes a calculated breath to catch his eye.

Sheer silk whispers against rose petal breasts

as she leans into the car...

Hey handsome, want some of this?

Sure, sweet thing,

the john hisses through a smirk

as he reaches over and opens the door.

One long leg, stockinged only with a tan

enters the car first, followed

by a tight adolescent body.

Good evenin' hon, my name's Venus.

What do you want me to call you?

Turning away in silence, the john

drives out of the city into the desert night.

A quarter moon--crime scene investigators

ask the age-old rhetorical question...

What could be so bad as to make these kids turn tricks?

Now, in the arms of the Goddess, her answer is clear...

Because I knew nothing of intimacy

I searched for love in the arms of strangers, but

while they used Venus, I'd whisper in their ear...

My name is Genia.

(Fiction - Inspired by Genia Polischuk, murdered

Sept. 2003 prior to testifying against a serial rapist.)

~photo & text by leh