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Katie Cameron
Born in Berkeley in
l945, Katie has
puttered in the arts
for more than 60
years now, including
water color, acrylic,
charcoal drawing,
and more than
anything else, writing.
She and her husband Ken spent
most of their life in Washington State,
working in state government in Olympia.
During those years, Katie did a lot of
technical writing, and outside of work, a
good bit of poetry. After retirement in 2001,
Katie joined the board of the Olympia Poetry
Network, published two chapbooks of poetry,
and did several readings in the surrounding
area. She also did monthly free-lance writing
for a state-wide publication. She still works
closely with poets in the Olympia area,
people who share and review each others
work. However, most of her time is spent in
Alameda, enjoying a granddaughter who lives
nearby, and volunteering at Frank Bette on
Wednesdays. Katie has a special interest in
Haiku (three-line poems), Tanka (slightly
longer short poems), and Broadsides (mixing
visual arts with poetry for wall display).

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Courage
Oakland writers’ group discussion
she’s pissed about Hunter Thompson
taking his life, firing a gun at his head
living takes courage, she explains,
but I’m not convinced
if it took all that much courage to live
how come there are way too many of us,
and leaving is so hard?
doesn’t almost everything take courage?
live, not live, be happy, grieve,
run, hold the line, speak up, remain silent
all I know about courage is wearing a brimmed hat
helps me frame the infinite and keep on smiling
Katie Cameron 2005 |
The Bench on Shoreline Drive
I’m sitting on a bench
facing sand dunes and San Francisco Bay,
my clothes matching
the day’s astonishing colors -
yellow sweater, blue pants,
turquoise necklace, mostly red
recycled rainbow-color purse.
The water is a mass of jumping light
and tall grass leans in a gentle breeze.
A path of weathered wooden boards
reaches over the dunes to the beach
and cars hum behind me. One walker
strides the beach, arms swinging,
and a jet looms upward in silence
from the nearby airport.
I hear the low jet roar now,
not unpleasant, on the way
somewhere – while I just sit
with my colorful aloneness,
no lifeguard on duty,
the walker a dot far down the beach.
K. Cameron 2009 |
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