{"id":2275,"date":"2013-04-22T20:59:10","date_gmt":"2013-04-22T20:59:10","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.wyolifestyle.com\/?p=2275"},"modified":"2013-04-22T20:59:10","modified_gmt":"2013-04-22T20:59:10","slug":"art-patricia-frolander-wyoming-poet-laureate","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/www.wyolifestyle.com\/?p=2275","title":{"rendered":"ART: Patricia Frolander, Wyoming Poet Laureate"},"content":{"rendered":"

VISIT OUR WEBSITE & READ THE CURRENT ISSUE: \u00a0www.wyolifestyle.com<\/a><\/p>\n

OUR SISTER PUBLICATIONS: \u00a0Wyoming Weddingshttp:\/\/www.wyoweddings.com\/<\/a>\u00a0Wyovore \u00a0http:\/\/www.wyovore.com\/<\/a>\u00a0WYO \u00a0XYhttp:\/\/www.wyolifestyle.com\/WYOXY\/index.html<\/a>\u00a0The Wyoming Woman\u00a0http:\/\/www.thewyomingwoman.com\/<\/a><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

April is National Poetry Month — and we wanted to take this opportunity to give a shout out to Wyoming’s amazing Poet Laureate, Patricia Frolander! Here’s a look at Patricia and how she became such a literary figure in the Cowboy State…<\/em><\/p>\n

Patricia Frolander and her husband, Robert, own his family ranch in the Black Hills of Wyoming. Ties to land & livestock have provided a wonderful variety of subjects to journal and pen. Their family includes three children, seven grandchildren, two great-grandchildren, all of whom live close to the ranch. Managing family or ranching is like trying to rope the wind. In Wyoming, the wind is either bringing a storm or ushering in sunshine. “I love the changes, although as I age, moderate weather is appreciated,” Patricia says. She has a passion for family, ranching and writing; while actively ranching, you may find her on a tractor or horse…however, at this stage of her life she prefers the chair at her writing desk. Her hobbies also include traveling and genealogy. Patricia’s volume of poetry written to reflect her upbringing and life in Wyoming ranching is titled\u00a0Married Into It<\/em>\u00a0 and is published by High Plains Press<\/a> of Glendo, WY. Patricia was selected as Wyoming’s Poet Laureate in 2011.<\/p>\n

Following, please enjoy a few entries from Patricia…<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Father When You Call<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

let me be feeding horses in the big pasture<\/span><\/p>\n

at five below zero<\/p>\n

inhaling scent of alfalfa, breath frosting eyelashes<\/p>\n

years written on my face<\/p>\n

not in my heart<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

or let me be fencing in the west pasture<\/p>\n

pulling up wire from pungent earth<\/p>\n

where snow bent its back<\/p>\n

tightening each strand against errant calf,<\/p>\n

while meadowlarks greet springtime\u2019s blush<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

or let me be gathering in the hills<\/p>\n

content to drink from a battered canteen<\/p>\n

the sweetest water inCrookCounty<\/p>\n

the Heeler quick to roust the cow from brush,<\/p>\n

my mare eager to turn a stray<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

or let me be sleeping in the old ranch house<\/p>\n

next to my partner<\/p>\n

whose gentle snores match my own,<\/p>\n

arthritic hands joined<\/p>\n

horse-miles and hay-miles behind us.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Grandma Bernice<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I am a novice, urban know-nothing.<\/p>\n

She draws me into her sun-drenched kitchen\u2014<\/p>\n

between snippets of scripture and shared recipes,<\/p>\n

I learn about ranch life on Houston Creek.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

She takes her rolling pin from a stubborn drawer,<\/p>\n

speaks of threshing bees, Mormon Crickets,<\/p>\n

and fires that raged through drought-stricken fields.<\/p>\n

Apron-draped, she throws a handful of flour,<\/p>\n

one after another, texture guides her hands.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Tales of illness and accidental death punctuate<\/p>\n

carefully cooked cornstarch, water, eggs, lemon, and sugar.<\/p>\n

Meringue turns golden as stories of shivarees,<\/p>\n

neighbors\u2019 quarrels, and all-night dances<\/p>\n

carry me to another place in time.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

.\u00a0 .\u00a0 .\u00a0 .\u00a0 .\u00a0 .\u00a0 .\u00a0 .<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Later, I hear of her first beau, the man she wed,<\/p>\n

the loss of a child, while oatmeal cookies,<\/p>\n

with plumped raisins, meet a hint of nutmeg<\/p>\n

in her chipped mixing bowl. She hums Rock of Ages <\/em><\/p>\n

as dough is spooned onto the cookie sheet.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

.\u00a0 .\u00a0 .\u00a0 .\u00a0 .\u00a0 .\u00a0 .\u00a0 .<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

She gives me a pie for Thanksgiving\u2014<\/p>\n

the pumpkin, grown in her garden,<\/p>\n

steamed soft, spooned away from its shell and blended<\/p>\n

with cinnamon, cloves, ginger, butter, sugar, and flour.<\/p>\n

So I plant pumpkin in my vegetable patch.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

.\u00a0 .\u00a0 .\u00a0 .\u00a0 .\u00a0 .\u00a0 .\u00a0 .<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Her recipe cards are faded, but I know them by heart\u2014<\/p>\n

as I do her stories, the twenty-third Psalm, and a remembrance<\/p>\n

of a sunny kitchen where I learn who I am to become.<\/p>\n

Her time-worn hands create not only food<\/p>\n

but the sweetest taste of fellowship.<\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Prairie Reclamation<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Echoes of laughter weave<\/p>\n

among bronzed stems of grass.<\/p>\n

Swings hang empty,<\/p>\n

a slide sinks in Plains dirt.<\/p>\n

A derelict lilac stands guard<\/p>\n

at the outhouse door,<\/p>\n

which creaks in a breeze<\/p>\n

the windbreak cannot catch.<\/p>\n

Shingles lie scattered.<\/p>\n

Windows and roof gape.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Inside the school, desks lie abandoned.<\/p>\n

Floorboards, burdened in dust, lean south<\/p>\n

from the shift of rock foundation.<\/p>\n

A world map is severed at the equator.<\/p>\n

South America, Africa, andAustralia<\/p>\n

droop in tatters, books strewn beside them.<\/p>\n

A cast-off alphabet hangs<\/p>\n

above the neglected blackboard.<\/p>\n

Long-ago recitations linger in prairie wind.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

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 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

VISIT OUR WEBSITE & READ THE CURRENT ISSUE: \u00a0www.wyolifestyle.com OUR SISTER PUBLICATIONS: \u00a0Wyoming Weddingshttp:\/\/www.wyoweddings.com\/\u00a0Wyovore \u00a0http:\/\/www.wyovore.com\/\u00a0WYO \u00a0XYhttp:\/\/www.wyolifestyle.com\/WYOXY\/index.html\u00a0The Wyoming Woman\u00a0http:\/\/www.thewyomingwoman.com\/ April is National Poetry Month — and we wanted to take this opportunity to give a shout out to Wyoming’s amazing Poet Laureate, Patricia Frolander! Here’s a look at Patricia and how she became such a literary figure in the Cowboy State… Patricia Frolander and her husband, Robert, own his family ranch in the Black Hills of Wyoming. Ties to land & livestock have provided a wonderful variety of subjects to journal and pen. Their family includes three children, seven grandchildren, two great-grandchildren, all of whom live close to the ranch. Managing family or ranching is like trying to rope the wind. In Wyoming, the wind is either bringing a storm or ushering in sunshine. “I love the changes, although as I age, moderate weather is appreciated,” Patricia says. She has a passion for family, ranching and writing; while actively ranching, you may find her on a tractor or horse…however, at this stage of her life she prefers the chair at her writing desk. Her hobbies also include traveling and genealogy. Patricia’s volume of poetry written to reflect her upbringing and life in Wyoming ranching is titled\u00a0Married Into It\u00a0 and is published by High Plains Press of Glendo, WY. Patricia was selected as Wyoming’s Poet Laureate in 2011. Following, please enjoy a few entries from Patricia…   Father When You Call   let me be feeding horses in the big pasture at five below zero inhaling scent of alfalfa, breath frosting eyelashes years written on my face not in my heart   or let me be fencing in the west pasture pulling up wire from pungent earth where snow bent its back tightening each strand against errant calf, while meadowlarks greet springtime\u2019s blush   or let me be gathering in the hills content to drink from a battered canteen the sweetest water inCrookCounty the Heeler quick to roust the cow from brush, my mare eager to turn a stray   or let me be sleeping in the old ranch house next to my partner whose gentle snores match my own, arthritic hands joined horse-miles and hay-miles behind us.   Grandma Bernice   I am a novice, urban know-nothing. She draws me into her sun-drenched kitchen\u2014 between snippets of scripture and shared recipes, I learn about ranch life on Houston Creek.   She takes her rolling pin from a stubborn drawer, speaks of threshing bees, Mormon Crickets, and fires that raged through drought-stricken fields. Apron-draped, she throws a handful of flour, one after another, texture guides her hands.   Tales of illness and accidental death punctuate carefully cooked cornstarch, water, eggs, lemon, and sugar. Meringue turns golden as stories of shivarees, neighbors\u2019 quarrels, and all-night dances carry me to another place in time.   .\u00a0 .\u00a0 .\u00a0 .\u00a0 .\u00a0 .\u00a0 .\u00a0 .   Later, I hear of her first beau, the man she wed, the loss of a child, while oatmeal cookies, with plumped raisins, meet a hint of nutmeg in her chipped mixing bowl. She hums Rock of Ages as dough is spooned onto the cookie sheet.   .\u00a0 .\u00a0 .\u00a0 .\u00a0 .\u00a0 .\u00a0 .\u00a0 .   She gives me a pie for Thanksgiving\u2014 the pumpkin, grown in her garden, steamed soft, spooned away from its shell and blended with cinnamon, cloves, ginger, butter, sugar, and flour. So I plant pumpkin in my vegetable patch.   .\u00a0 .\u00a0 .\u00a0 .\u00a0 .\u00a0 .\u00a0 .\u00a0 .   Her recipe cards are faded, but I know them by heart\u2014 as I do her stories, the twenty-third Psalm, and a remembrance of a sunny kitchen where I learn who I am to become. Her time-worn hands create not only food but the sweetest taste of fellowship. \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 Prairie Reclamation   Echoes of laughter weave among bronzed stems of grass. Swings hang empty, a slide sinks in Plains dirt. A derelict lilac stands guard at the outhouse door, which creaks in a breeze the windbreak cannot catch. Shingles lie scattered. Windows and roof gape.   Inside the school, desks lie abandoned. Floorboards, burdened in dust, lean south from the shift of rock foundation. A world map is severed at the equator. South America, Africa, andAustralia droop in tatters, books strewn beside them. A cast-off alphabet hangs above the neglected blackboard. Long-ago recitations linger in prairie wind.                                                        <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":2279,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[67,69,1],"tags":[78,1018,505,1019,1017,103,102,64,319,104],"class_list":["post-2275","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-art","category-most-recent","category-uncategorized","tag-art-in-wyoming","tag-bearlodge-writers","tag-high-plains-press","tag-national-poetry-month","tag-patricia-frolander-wyoming-poet-laureate","tag-www-wyolifestyle-com","tag-www-wyovore-com","tag-wyoming-lifestyle-magazine","tag-wyoming-poetry","tag-wyovore"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.wyolifestyle.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2275","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.wyolifestyle.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.wyolifestyle.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.wyolifestyle.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.wyolifestyle.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=2275"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"http:\/\/www.wyolifestyle.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2275\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2283,"href":"http:\/\/www.wyolifestyle.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2275\/revisions\/2283"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.wyolifestyle.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/2279"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.wyolifestyle.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=2275"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.wyolifestyle.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=2275"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.wyolifestyle.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=2275"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}