pour me one more time
green like old eyes used to be
memories aren’t real
Women Are…
“The fishermen know that the sea is dangerous and the storm terrible, but they have never found these dangers sufficient reason for remaining ashore.”
—Vincent van Gogh
“Being different isn’t a bad thing. It means you are brave enough to be yourself.”
—Tigger
For the month of August, I’m lucky to have two wonderful women to share with you—Anna and Bella. I photographed this mother/daughter pair during sunset at Dillon Beach. They had this fun idea to be old fishermen, and I absolutely loved it!
Continue readingpoetry: shadow
i, who elements shape
find myself fault lined
crackling scorched earth
barbed wired veins
mirage burned horizon
marrow splitting
ocean starved
teetering here—
shadow upon dirt
catching the wind
*61/100: For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. All photos are mine.
poetry: missed focus
it almost rained yesterday
on the house we almost bought
with money we almost had
where flowers choked the hallways
and words swung from the ceiling
where labyrinthine cats uncoiled
through endless open doors
—but it sprinkled instead
poetry: dream cat
you used to come mewing
whenever i stepped outside—
a neighbor’s cat
who claimed my space
poetry: motherhood
poetry: still.
poetry: august 25th
plucking piano keys, i picture
you, sitting on my couch.
purple sweater, chocolate cake.
your laugh, like rumbling joy,
lives in my walls.
today marks the day we said goodbye.
years ago, holding hands until cold.
i play the only song i know:
Jolene, about being chosen.
you loved Dolly.
both hard workers—
rhinestone and cleaning gloves.
she left us today, too,
splitting my grief.
out of tune, i sing,
your beauty is beyond compare.
gathering kindness into notes,
remembering.
developed.
your smile is like a breath of spring.
capture. photos. frame.
grit.
moving across the room,
i gather my camera.
holding it with two hands.
my happiness depends on
what i do next.
poetry: violets in the window
grandma was—
juniper and oranges.
wood floors and dark rosewood.
peanut butter toast on a tiny plate.
wheel of fortune.
perfectly set curls.
silk scarves.
manicured lawn.
violets in the window.
collector of Jesus plates.
absent mother.
holder of my hand.
founder at her church.
disappointed in me.
poetry: summer dream
you can tell this isn’t my dream
because it’s quiet. this person
dreams in rhythm, an even hum
under their skin. they lie naked
in thick green grass. a lover’s
hand pressed against their tan